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Authors: Kelley Armstrong

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BOOK: City of the Lost
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He studies me again. Then he gives a grunt that I interpret to mean I can proceed.

I ask for the population and basic stats. Just over two hundred people. Seventy-five percent male. Average age thirty-five. No one under twenty-five. No one over sixty.

“No children, then,” I say.

He pauses, just a split second, but it’s enough to make me wonder why. Then he says, “No children. It’s not the environment for them, and it would raise too many issues, education and whatever.”

“How does the town run?” I ask. “Economically.”

“Seventy percent self-sustaining. Game and fish for meat. Some livestock. Lots of greenhouses. Staples like flour are flown in.”

“Flown in? It’s remote, then.”

“No, it’s in the middle of southern Ontario.” His look calls me an idiot, but I’ve already figured out that if a place like this
could
exist, it’d be up north. I’m just testing him.

“And how do you stay off the radar?”

He eyes me before answering carefully. “The location handles most of that. No one wanders by out there. Structural camouflage hides the town from the rare bush plane passing overheard. Tech covers the rest.”

“Fuel? Electricity?”

“Wood for heat and cooking. Oil lamps. Generators, but only for central food production. Fuel is strictly regulated. ATVs for my department only and, mostly, we use horses. Otherwise, it’s foot power.”

“Which keeps people from leaving.”

He says nothing. That’s another question answered. They don’t live in a walled community—it’s just too far from civilization to escape on foot.

“No Internet, obviously,” he says without prompting. “No cell service. No TVs or radios. Folks work hard. For entertainment, they socialize. Don’t like that? Got a big library.”

“Alcohol?”

It takes him a moment to say, “Yes,” and the tone suggests that if he had his way, it’d be dry. I don’t blame him. I’ve met cops from northern towns, where entertainment is limited. Booze rules, and booze causes trouble.

“Police force?”

“One deputy. He’s former military police. Militia of ten—strictly patrolling and minor enforcement.”

“Crime rates?”

“Most of what we deal with is disturbances. Drunk and disorderly. Keeping the peace.”

“Assault? Sexual assault?”

“Yes.” His expression says that’s all I’m getting.

“Murder?”

“Yes.”

“In a town of two hundred?” I say. “When’s the last time you had a—?”

“You aren’t coming to my town, detective. You don’t need this information.”

But I want it. His town is in need of a detective, and there may not be much in life I get excited about, but a new case is one of those things. A potentially unique case is enough to practically set me drooling as my mind whirs through the implications—what kind of crime would he be having trouble with, how would it be different investigating in such a distinctive setting, what could I learn, how would I tackle it. He’s right though. I’m not going to his town and so I can’t afford to be curious, or I might regret that I’m staying behind.

So I say, “I’m asking because it shows me what I’d be sending Diana into.”

“Assault is higher than it should be. So is sexual assault. So is murder. None of which I’m proud of. I’ve been sheriff for five years. It’s a work in progress, which is why I have requested a detective.”

“Five years? You’re at the end of your tenure, then? We were told it’s a minimum of two years in town and a maximum of five.”

“Doesn’t apply to me.”

“Back to the crime rates. I’m suspecting they’re higher than normal given the circumstances. People feeling hemmed in, lacking options, drinking too much.”

“Which is no excuse.”

“No,” I say. “But it’d be tricky to handle. It’s worse because you must have a mix of criminals and victims, those escaping their pasts.”

“We don’t allow stone-cold killers in our town, detective. Anyone who has committed a violent offence, it has to have extenuating circumstances, like in your case, where the council feels confident you won’t reoffend. No one running from a violent crime is…” He chews over his words. “Those running from violent crimes are prohibited from entering,” he says finally, and that chill has settled again, as if he’s reciting from the rule book. “But it’s the victims who concern me. They come to escape that.”

Being in the same room as this guy feels like standing on a shock pad. I’m on edge, waiting for the next zap, unable to settle even when those zaps stop. But he’s saying the right things, even if he doesn’t mean to.

“Last question,” I say. “Finances. I know Diana pays five grand to get in. In return, she gets lodging and earns credits for working, which means she isn’t expected to bring expense money. There’s obviously some level of communal living, but that won’t cover everything. Running a secret town has got to be expensive. Who’s paying?”

“Not everyone there’s a saint. We have white-collar criminals whose entrance fee is not five thousand dollars.”

In other words, people who made a fortune stealing from others now paid for the victims. Fittingly.

“All right,” I say. “I’m satisfied. So do we have a deal?”

He makes a motion. I won’t call it a nod. But it’s assent of some sort, however grudging. Then he escorts me out, and as I leave, I realize I never even got his name. Not that it matters. I have what I want. So does he.

TEN

The next morning, I get a call. Me, not Diana. We’re in, and they need to meet us to discuss the next steps. By “they,” I mean Valerie and the sheriff. I don’t realize that until we show up, in a local park at noon, and he’s there. He doesn’t say a word, just points at me and then at a trail path into the forest.

“Is it just me,” Diana whispers as he walks away, “or is he seriously creepy?”

He turns and fixes Diana with a look, and she gives a little squeak.

I tell her to go with Valerie, and I jog after the sheriff. Even when I catch up, he doesn’t acknowledge I’m there.

“Thank you,” I say, because I mean it. I really do. Only once we’re past the forest’s edge does he slow. His shoulders unknot just a little, and he says,

“You’re a goddamn train wreck, Detective Duncan.”

I stutter-step to a halt. “Excuse me?”

“That’s why I don’t want you in my town. Not because of what you did. I ask for a detective, and they give me one who’s hell-bent on her own destruction. I don’t need that shit. I really don’t.”

I should be outraged. This asshole presumes to know me after a background check and a twenty-minute chat?

Except I’m not outraged. I feel like I’ve found something here. Something I didn’t get in all those damned therapy sessions, pouring my guts on the floor for the professionals to pick through, like augurs.
Ah, here’s your problem, Casey Duncan.

“Runaway train,” I say.

“What?”

“A train wreck implies I’ve already crashed. If I’m hell-bent on my own destruction, I’m still heading for that crash. Which is probably worse, because the crash is still coming.”

His eyes narrow as if I’m mocking him. I push my shades onto my head so he can see I’m not. He only snorts, his all-purpose response.

“Are you warning me off in case I try to renege on the deal? I won’t. I made it; I stick to it, and I genuinely thank you for anything you did to get Diana in.”

“Six months.”

He resumes walking. Before I can speak, he leaves the path and heads into the forest. It doesn’t seem to be a conscious change of direction. He just walks that way as if the path veered.

“She can only stay six months?” I say. “Okay, that’s—”

“You. They insist on it. If you don’t show up, they’ll kick her out.”

“Who’s they? The selection committee?”

“Council.”

I nod. “The town council. Mayor and so forth. Guess you can’t escape politicians even in a town like that.”

I give him a wry half-smile, but he doesn’t notice, just mutters under his breath. Then he stops short as the shade of the forest creeps over us, and he stares as if the trees have just risen in front of him.

An abrupt turn and he heads back to the path. “The council will say it’s a two-year stay, but you get six months. That’s between us. I’ll work out an exit strategy.”

When I go silent, he says, “And this is one reason I don’t want you there. I’m offering you escape, and you don’t give a shit.”

“No, I—”

“You don’t think you deserve to escape. You killed a man, and you should pay the price.”

I tell myself there’s nobility in that, honour and justice. But in his voice, all I hear is disgust, like I’m a penitent flagellating herself.

“I’ll go,” I say and as I do, I realize I’m not all that upset at the prospect. There’s a case up there. An experience up there. A new and unique experience. I’m chomping at the bit to ask for more—is it a string of robberies, assaults, a murder?—but I know it’s not the time. Not just yet.

“You might not want me there, sheriff, but you won’t regret it. There’s one thing I’m good at, and that’s my job. I might be able to help with your problems.”

He shakes his head. “I’ve seen your record, detective. Fucking impressive. But that’s here. And where we’re going? It’s not here.”

ELEVEN

I have ninety-six hours to prepare for my disappearance. Diana has twenty-four. I expect my extra three days come courtesy of the sheriff. As a cop, he knows I shouldn’t walk away from my job.

I’m about to disappear. I’m not going to fake my death. I’m not even going to vanish in the night. The art of disappearing, it seems, is not to disappear at all. You just leave … after extensive and open preparation. Cancel all appointments. Pay your bills. Give notice at your job. Tell your friends and family. Make up a story. Lie about where you’re going, but make it clear they shouldn’t expect to hear from you for a few years. If possible, give those messages at the last moment, when it’s too late for them to argue.

The core concept is simple: give no one any cause to come after you. We’re even supposed to overpay our taxes, as painful at that might be.

There is some misdirection involved as well, because no matter how careful you are, a friend or family member might try to file a missing person’s report. So you leave hints about where you’ve gone. Calgary, Valerie recommended for us. Don’t say that outright, but run computer searches on apartment rentals and jobs in Calgary. Leave an “accidental” trail in case someone decides to hunt us down.

I tell my sister I’m going. It’s a brief conversation. We exchange duty calls at Christmas and birthdays and that’s it. She expresses no surprise that I’m moving with Diana again. It’s what she expects from her feckless little sister.

I set up my departure at work by talking to my partner about Kurt’s shooting and mention bad memories resurfacing from my own assault. I tell him about the attack on Diana and vent my frustration with the system. I’ll quit at the last moment, with an e-mail to my sergeant, cc’ing my union rep. I spend most of those four days at the station, getting my cases in order, so they’ll know, looking back, that I’d been preparing for this.

It’s the day before I’m due to leave. Kurt was released this morning, and he’s ignored the doctor’s orders to go straight to bed. “Had enough of that shit,” he said. We’re in the bar, early afternoon, the place still closed. He’s not due back to work for two days, but he’s prowling about, bitching like Martha Stewart come home to find her mansion in disarray.

“Fucking Larry,” he says, yanking near-empty bottles from the bar. “Doesn’t replace anything until the last drop’s gone, no matter how many times I tell him. You let a bottle run dry, someone’s gonna ask for a shot so they can stick their hand in the till while you’re in the back getting the replacement. And look at the bar. Idiot hasn’t wiped it down since I’ve been gone.” He reaches for a dishrag, then wrinkles his nose. “Is this the same one I left?”

I take it from him, toss it into the laundry bin under the sink, grab a fresh rag, and tell him to restock the bottles.

I clean up, though I suspect no one other than Kurt will even notice. The bar has more rings than a Beverly Hills housewife. It’s a piece of shit, but when Kurt’s here, it’s a spotless piece of shit.

He passes me on his way to the back and catches me around the waist, pulling me into a long, hungry kiss. I haven’t told him I’m taking off, but he senses something’s up.

He’s replacing the last bottle when I say, “I need to leave.”

He stands there, back to me, hand still on the bottle. “And by leave, you mean…”

“Going away. Someplace safe. Someplace” —I inhale— “permanent.”

His hand tightens on the bottle. Still he keeps his back to me, his voice level. “Can I talk you out of it?”

“No.”

He turns then, eyes meeting mine. “What if I—?”

“No.” I walk to him, and I put my hands around his neck, and I kiss him, and I pour everything I’m feeling into that kiss, everything I can’t say. How amazing I think he is. How sorry I am to get him mixed up in this.

For six months, Kurt has been my hookup. The guy I go to for a little companionship, but mostly for sex. He’s been safe. No one I’d ever fall for. But in this last week …

Could we have had something? I don’t know. I won’t think about it. I can’t.

When I pull back, he puts his hand under my chin and searches my gaze.

“You’ll be safe?” he says.

I nod.

A pause. A long one. “And there’s nothing I can say or do—”

“No. Please, no.”

“When’re you going?”

“Tomorrow.”

He swears and pulls back, looking around. Then he says, “Can I have tonight?”

“You can, though I know you’re probably not up to—”

He kisses me, even hungrier now, hands on my ass, pulling me against him. Then he takes my hand and slides it to his crotch.

“Am I up to it?” he asks.

I manage a laugh. “Yes, but that’s not what I meant. The doctor said—”

“That I should stay in bed. Which is exactly what I’m going to do. All night. I’m gonna take you someplace nice, too. Not my shitty apartment.”

“You don’t need to—”

“Too bad. I’m gonna.” He waves to the door. “Go on, then. Do what you gotta do. Come by at seven. Okay?”

BOOK: City of the Lost
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