City of the Lost (29 page)

“There’s … We found … It’s a body part. Scavenged. An arm.”

He exhales hard. “Okay.” He peers into the drop, following the light from her helmet. He grunts, seeing it’s an easy passage, and starts getting in place to go down.

I touch his arm. “Eric?”

“Hmm?”

“I think…” I take a deep breath. “It’s a young woman’s arm. She’s wearing nail polish. Purple.”

His eyes close. That’s all he does. Closes his eyes, his expression emptying as he crouches there.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m so sorry.”

He opens his eyes. “Thank you. For warning me.” He takes a deep breath and heads down the chute.

It’s Abbygail. Dalton confirms she wore that nail polish for her party. Isabel gave it to her.

Dalton goes back up first. He wants to be the one to tell Mick. The second passage is probably even harder getting out than it was getting in, but he seems too numb to notice.

I hear Mick’s reaction. It’s a terrible sound. Worse than Petra’s scream. It’s animal pain, cut short quickly, and by the time I get up there, he’s gone, one of the other guys going with him to make sure he gets to Rockton safely.

I bring up the arm. I’ve looked for other parts, but this is all I find. We’ll have to conduct a more thorough search with proper lights tomorrow.

Anders examines the arm. His older sister is a doctor, and he’d had a year of medic training before the army realized his skills were better suited to policing. He knows enough to confirm what I’d fear—that this is not a part separated from the body by scavengers. Yes, a scavenger did bring it into the cave, but the separation is due to amputation. Dismemberment.

When Powys and Hastings died, people mourned. There were services. I had nothing to do with them and the mourners weren’t in my circle of new acquaintances, so the events passed with little notice on my part.

This is different. This is hell.

We aren’t telling anyone that we suspect Abbygail was murdered. We can’t panic them like that. As far as they know, she wandered into the forest, died, and her body was scavenged. That doesn’t matter. Abbygail Kemp is still dead.

Dalton said that most everyone in Rockton joined the search when she vanished. I see that now. When we return with the news, it is as if Mick’s howl of animal pain reverberates through the entire town. There’s crying in the streets. There are questions now, so many questions. Everyone wants to help. Anders and I try to leave Dalton out of it, but of course he won’t stay out of it, because however much he’s grieving, this is his town in crisis.

Petra recruits Diana and others to organize a candlelight memorial in the square. It gives people a focus for their grief. I’m still stopped at every step through town, people asking how and where and, mostly, the unanswerable why. But they are kind, too, and thoughtful. The cooks bring dinner to the station. Isabel drops off a bottle of her best Scotch. The guys at the bakery run the ovens late to make cookies for the memorial, and they bring by a dozen with a thermos of coffee. People ask what they can do to help, anything, anything at all—that’s what I hear, even more than “What happened out there?”

I’m at Beth’s clinic when she examines the arm. That is true hell, because she’s examining the partial remains of a girl she loved. Her pain is palpable and almost too much to bear, but she insists on doing it. Anders helps until she snaps at him, so uncharacteristic for her that even Dalton jumps.

The arm was cut off at the elbow. Chopped with an axe, she guesses, like Powys’s legs. She believes it was done post-mortem. I don’t know that’s possible to tell given the condition of the arm, but I don’t question. This small mercy is all they have—to hope Abbygail’s passing was painless.

I write the report for Beth as she dictates. Then I’m back at the station, compiling a full report. It’s late now. I have no idea how late. I don’t check because it doesn’t matter. I will work until the work is done.

When the door opens, I get to my feet, expecting townspeople and ready with my script.
Yes, we found Abbygail’s remains. No, we don’t know anything more. Yes, there will be a memorial service. Yes, you can help with that. Speak to Petra—

Dalton walks in.

I hover there, over my seat, and say, “Hey.”

“Saw the light on,” he says. “Figured it was you.”

He comes in and, for once, he doesn’t head straight to the back deck. He just stands inside the doorway.

“I’m sorry,” I say. Then I grimace. “I’ve said that already, haven’t I? Said it and said it and…” I inhale. “And now I’m rambling. Can I get you anything?”

He shakes his head, walks to the coffee station, and I see there’s a bottle in his hand. Tequila. He pours rough shots into two mugs.

“If there’s anything I can…” I begin. “I mean, whatever you…” I slump back into the chair. “I’m just making it worse, aren’t I?”

“You’re fine.”

“No, I’m not. I suck at this. At least, I do with people I know. I’m actually good at it with strangers. On the job, I was usually the one to break the news and stay with the families. Surprisingly.”

He brings over his mug but leaves mine on the counter. “Why surprisingly?”

I shrug. “I’m not exactly warm and cuddly, as you may have noticed.”

“Doesn’t mean you don’t care.”

My cheeks heat at that, and I rise to retrieve the tequila shot he left me.

“Hold up,” he says. “Need to ask you to do something before you drink that.”

I sink back into the chair. “Sure.”

“You sew?” he asks.

“What?” I’m sure I’ve misheard.

“Sew. Needle. Thread.” He takes both out of his pocket and sets them on the desk. Then he peels off his jacket to reveal a gaping wound on his upper arm.

“Holy shit,” I breathe.

“I nicked it coming out of that tight passage.”

“
Nicked
it? You ripped your arm open, Eric.”

He’d pulled his jacket on as soon as he came out of the passage, hiding the wound because it wasn’t the time. Now, five hours later, it is finally the time.

“You need to get that fixed,” I say. “There’s a limited window for stitching before the wound starts to heal, and it’s too late to pull it together…”

Stitching. Sewing.

I look down at the needle and thread. “You’re asking me to sew your arm.”

“Yeah. Can’t ask Beth right now. Will is busy. It’s only a few stitches. If you’d rather not, though…”

I examine the wound. It’s a couple of inches long and doesn’t go very deep. Still nasty. Still in need of stitching.

“I’ll run to the clinic and grab proper equipment,” I say. “Give me five minutes.”

I really do run. Beth is gone, thankfully, because Dalton is right—we don’t want to bother her with this. There are two emergency kits, which include sutures. Anders had carried one caving. Dalton just hadn’t asked to use it because, well, that’s Dalton.

I grab a kit, lock the door, and get back to him. As I walk in, he downs his shot of tequila.

“Smart man,” I say. “This won’t tickle.”

He grunts.

“If it’s any consolation, I actually have done this before,” I say. “When I was a kid and my stuffed animals would rip, I’d use sutures. Does that make you feel better?”

I smile as I look up, but he only nods.

I clean the wound. “I’m kidding. Well, not about stitching up my toys. I did that. There actually
was
a time when I wanted to become a doctor. Of a sort. A veterinarian.”

“Why didn’t you?”

I laugh softly as I finish cleaning. “My parents freaked. Operate on
animals
? To them that’s a waste of good medical supplies. You only become a vet if you aren’t good enough to be a ‘real’ doctor. They took away my toys so I couldn’t play animal hospital anymore.”

I prepare the suture thread, still talking, mostly to keep him distracted. “But I have sewn people. Myself, actually. When I was fourteen, I went whitewater rafting without telling my parents. Sliced up my leg. Stitched up my leg.”

“You stitched your own leg?”

I shrug. “They were teaching me a lesson.”

“Your parents
made
you stitch your leg?”

I slide the suture needle in. “It was fine. They supervised and gave me topical antiseptic, probably better than the one I just used on you. And it was a spot I could reach easily enough.”

He’s quiet, and I figure he’s gritting his teeth against the pain. When I finish the stitches, though, he says, his voice low, “That’s fucked up, Casey.”

“Hmm?”

“Your parents made you stitch your own leg to teach you a lesson? That’s fucked up.”

“Which is why I don’t usually share those stories. People get the wrong idea.”

“Wrong idea?” he says as I clean the stitched wound. “They took away your toys because you wanted to be a vet. They made you stitch up your own goddamned leg. You do realize that’s not normal, don’t you?”

“My parents had their ways. Their ways were harsh. They thought they were preparing me for a world that was equally harsh.” I pause in my cleaning. “Do I realize some of what they did was ‘fucked up’?” I meet his gaze. “I do. But they’re dead.”

He nods, as if understanding. There’s no one left to confront about it. No one to hate. So I don’t. I can’t.

I put aside the suture needle to clean and then get my shot of tequila. I lift the bottle, asking if he wants another, but he shakes his head.

“I need to get back to Beth. She shouldn’t be alone tonight.”

I nod. He gets his jacket on, wincing slightly, but makes no move to leave, just looks around the station.

“Anything you need from me?” he says. “Before I take off?”

When I say no, he looks almost disappointed.

“Okay. Guess I’ll go, then.” He eyes the door without moving, and I can tell he isn’t eager to get back to grieving, but he’s right—Beth needs someone there, and there’s really no one else who can do it.

“I know you’re the boss,” I say. “So I can’t tell you to take time off. But if that will help—”

“Hell, no. Working helps. I’ll be in tomorrow. Tonight, I just … Yeah, I should go.” He walks to the door, and as he leaves, he says, quietly, “I suck at this part, too, detective,” and before I can reply, he’s gone.

Day two of mourning. It is only now, when something goes wrong, that I realize exactly how efficiently this town usually works. Every day, I join the same neighbours walking to work. We pass the lumberyard, and it’s already abuzz with activity. At morning break, I will walk to the bakery and get my cookie. The varieties may change, but it will always be warm from the oven at 10 a.m. I can grab a coffee, too, freshly brewed, and I’ll linger a few minutes and chat with Devon and Brian, the couple who run the bakery. They’re my equivalent of the morning paper. No gossip for those guys—just the news. After I get back to the station, Kenny will pop by to check on our wood supply for the stove. And so it goes.

We don’t ever run out of wood because Kenny got busy or the local supply is low. I don’t ever miss out on my cookie because one of the guys stayed home sick or just didn’t feel like baking that morning. Everything runs perfectly and predictably.

When you think about it, that’s amazing, given all the moving parts required. Something as simple as getting a sandwich at lunch means that the greenhouse workers must bring the produce to the shop that morning and Brian must bake the bread and the butcher must fillet the salmon … the list goes on. In the city, those parts are interchangeable. No tomatoes at the usual supplier? Grab replacements from elsewhere. Employee phones in sick? Call someone else. Salmon went bad? Substitute corned beef. That isn’t possible here. Yet the town runs like clockwork.

Today, the clock is broken.

I don’t see my usual neighbours on the way to work. Kenny doesn’t come by. The bakery has cookies, but they’re peanut butter because those were Abbygail’s favourite, and I would feel like a fraud eating them. I already feel like one.

I mourn the girl in that photo. The girl who kept that dingy stuffed animal and cheap tin necklace. The girl who had a crush on the sheriff. The girl who encouraged her boyfriend to go after someone he wanted more than he wanted her. The girl who survived hell down south, came up here, and made a new life for herself.

That’s what people do in Rockton. Make new lives. But for Abbygail, it wasn’t about having fun with a new persona. It was about putting a shattered world back together. About becoming the person she should have been. To do that at such a young age takes incredible strength. She clawed back her birthright—the right to be a capable, independent young woman—and she should have left this town, gone back down south, and lived the kind of life that, in a just world, she would always have had. But someone took that away from her. The place that gave back her life also stole it away.

I’m furious for her. Outraged for her. And I mourn her. But I don’t really have that right, do I? I’m surrounded by people who knew her and are in genuine pain at her passing. All I have is a photo and a stuffed toy and a tin necklace and second-hand memories. So I have no right to mourn. But I still do. Quietly and on my own, because that’s how I spend my day.
Being
the clock. Being that one functioning piece of Rockton that keeps the rhythm and does her job. My job is solving this crime. Avenging Abbygail.

So I work. All day. Into the night.

It’s dark out now. I’m standing looking at notes I’ve tacked up—easy enough to do when the station walls are made of wood. I’m brainstorming connections when Anders comes in. He grabs a beer from the icebox, walks up behind me, and says, “You need a whiteboard.”

“I can’t imagine that’d be easy to get on the plane.”

“Ask Eric. He’ll get you one.”

I shake my head and continue mulling over the pages.

“Speaking of getting stuff from the boss, do you need anything?”

“Unless it’s urgent, I’m leaving him alone.”

“Let me rephrase that. Can you
find
something you need from him?”

I turn to Anders.

“He’s kinda stuck with Beth,” he says. “She needs the support, but…” He shrugs and eases back onto the desk. “Beth can be a bit … hover-y, if that’s a word. She’s worried about Eric, how he’s dealing with this, and for him, that’s a little…”