City of the Lost

by Kelley Armstrong

She lunges at the guy. Literally dives across the table, grabbing him by the shirtfront, screeching like a banshee. As I go after her, Isabel murmurs, "Well, that's not how I expected it to go down, but the end result is the same. I'm going to have blood to clean up."

  I grab Jen. She takes a swing. I wrench her arm behind her back, and she howls. She keeps struggling, though, and I keep wrenching, until I'm about a quarter inch from breaking the bone. When she still doesn't stop, I slam her against the wall. That's when her companion decides some chivalry might be in order. He's on his feet, telling me to let her go.

  "As soon as she stops trying to hit me," I say.

  "Back off, Ted," says Mick, who is walking our way, possibly having hit a chapter break.

  "Sit and enjoy the show, Ted," says the beefy guy with the beer.

  Ted grabs for my arm. I see it coming, and a roundhouse kick puts him down without me needing to release Jen. The guy with the beer shows his appreciation by cheering while Ted dives for my leg and tries to bite it. Yes, bite. Another kick sends him flying and then beer-guy is on his feet, tackling Ted, and two other guys have come from God-knows-where, and they're getting into it, and someone outside shouts, "Bar brawl!"

  I don't know exactly what happens after that. Not because I'm caught up in the chaos, but because I'm ignoring it. I have my job, and that job is getting Jen out of the bar.

  I'm strong-arming her toward the door when the pencil-necked guy with the book decides to make a break for it. He elbows past us ... and catches a right hook from a shape filling the doorway. I'm about to use Jen to power past the newcomer when I see his face. It's Dalton. He ignores me and barrels down on book-guy, who's sprawled on the floor.

  "He's not part of it," I shout over the chaos.

  "The hell he's not," Dalton says, still bearing down on the poor guy.

  "No, really, he--"

  Someone tries to take Jen from me. I go to yank her back and then see it's Anders.

  "Ignore him," he says, waving at Dalton. "Jen? Sheriff's here and you know how he feels about rydex. You got five seconds to--"

  Jen's already running.

  "Good choice," Anders says. "Now, let's clear this mess. You know how to do it?"

  "Stomp the bullies first."

  He grins at me. "You got it. Let's have ourselves some fun."

  FIFTEEN

  We're back at the station. With the pencil-necked guy. Dalton marched him, in cuffs, all the way from the Roc. Now he's got him pinned to the cell wall, lifted clear off his feet and gasping for breath.

  Some older cops bristle at the term "police brutality." Intimidation, they call it. Or, as others would say, "speaking the only language assholes understand." But they only mean physical dominance. Shove the guy around. Grab him by the hair. Dig your fingers into his kidneys accidentally.

  That isn't what's happening here. I'm watching my new boss choke a guy half his size. A guy who wasn't part of the brawl. Who hasn't raised his voice or a finger in his own defence.

  Every time I rock forward, Anders shakes his head. Telling me to keep it cool. Promising me answers. But I don't know Anders. I don't know either of them. All I know is that I'm witnessing something that makes me very uncomfortable.

  "Butler?" Dalton says. "Empty his pockets."

  I do. There's a wallet, keys, and the worn paperback he was reading in the bar. That's it.

  "Now take his clothes." When I hesitate, Dalton turns that gaze on me. "Did I give you an order, detective?"

  I manage to get the man's shirt and trousers off. Dalton has me seal them in an evidence bag that Anders holds out.

  "I warned you the last time, Hastings," Dalton says. "I'm going over your clothes with a goddamn magnifying glass, and if I find even a speck of powder--"

  "There's always powder," Hastings says. "I'm a chemist."

  "No, here you're a lab assistant. Which means if I find powder, you'd better hope to hell the doc confirms it's from this morning's work."

  "I don't wash my clothes every day, you moron. We aren't allowed--"

  "Don't care." Dalton hauls the smaller man up to eye level. "You're the only fucking chemist in town, Hastings. Which means you're the one making rydex. And as soon as I can prove it, I'm kicking your ass out."

  "You can't. I've only been here a year, and I was promised a two-year--"

  "When I say kick you out, I mean put your ass on the back of my ATV and dump you in the forest. You know what's out there, Hastings?"

  The man glowers at him.

  "No," Dalton says. "I don't think you do. But it's your lucky day, because I have visuals. We found Harry."

  "What?" Hastings takes it down a notch. "Is he okay?"

  "For a smart man, you ask some dumb questions. He spent a week in the forest. From the looks of it, he didn't last past the first nightfall. But don't take my word for it. I'm going to escort you to the clinic, where you can see exactly what'll happen if I find out you have anything to do with the rydex. Fair warning, though? I really hope you haven't had lunch yet. Because you're about to lose it."

  Dalton hauls Hastings out the front door, still dressed in his boxers. We watch them go. Then Anders turns to me. "So, speaking of lunch, are you hungry?"

  I do not want lunch. What I want at this moment is to grab Diana and get the hell out of here. But I squelch that and tell Anders I want to see the victim.

  "Sure, I'll take you over," then "And Eric's right. Better skip lunch until afterward."

  As we walk, I resist the urge to ask Anders about the body. Better for me to see it and form my own impressions. I do ask about the drugs, though.

  "Rydex," he says. "That's the local name for it. Opiate based. Highly addictive. And one of the most serious problems we're dealing with right now."

  "One?"

  "Yep," he says. He doesn't elaborate, just goes on to explain that rydex is a homegrown drug that's been circulating for a few years, which means it predates Hastings's arrival, but it was only after Hastings got to Rockton that it became a serious problem, meaning Dalton suspects Hastings tinkered with the formula to make it more addictive.

  "Where's he getting the ingredients from?" I ask. "Presumably, if he's working at the clinic, he's using prescription drugs, but it's easy enough to monitor that. And only Dalton has access to the outside world, right?"

  He catches my look. "Hell, no. Don't even go there, detective. Eric might not have made the best impression so far, but he's the last person who'd smuggle in dope. There are other shipments. Drop-offs. The ingredients must be getting in that way. We just haven't figured out how."

  "Okay, but...?" I say. "Not to sound critical, but this is a town of two hundred people."

  "Why can't we contain it? Therein lies the real problem of Rockton, Casey. We can't control anything they don't want controlled. And by 'they,' I don't mean..." He waves at a few people on the street.

  "You mean the town council."

  He gives a humourless chuckle. "Around here, we just call them the council. Can't be a town council if they aren't actually in town."

  "What? The sheriff said..." No, I'd called them a town council--he just hadn't argued. "So the selection committee is an off-site board and the town politicians are a different local governing body."

  "There is no local governing body. There are long-term residents who have clout--Eric, Isabel, the doc. But the people in charge live down south. They're the investors. They sure as hell don't live here. They have Val here to act as their mouthpiece."

  "But what are they investing in? They can't possibly make money ... wait. Sheriff Dalton mentioned white collar criminals who pay more to get in. Not all that money goes to running the town, does it?"

  "Nope."

  "So Rockton is run by a bunch of investors who sit in an office tower and make decisions for a town they visit every year or so."

  He snorts a laugh. "Most of them have never set foot in Rockton. This town is an unholy mess, Casey, and the first thing you need to know is who giv
es a damn and who doesn't. Those who do? Really do? I can count them on one hand. Top of the list? The guy you're working for."

  I must look doubtful, because he says, "We won't debate his methods. I could, but I think you're best to just watch and draw your own conclusions. In his defence, I'll only say that no one cares as much about Rockton. Eric isn't like everyone else here. First off, he's native."

  I consider this for a few steps. I'm not wondering whether our blond-haired, grey-eyed sheriff could have First Nations blood--my sister can pass for white while I can't. What I'm wondering is what his heritage has to do with his commitment to the town.

  "So Dal--Eric is ... a Native Canadian," I say.

  Anders looks over and then laughs. "No, not like that. He acts like it, with all the time he spends in that forest or sitting on the damn porch staring at it. Though I suppose that'd be a stereotype, wouldn't it? No, I meant he's from here."

  "The North?"

  "Here." Anders waves around us. "Born and bred, never going to leave."

  "You mean he's actually from Rockton. I didn't think anyone-- Well, obviously some would be. You can't fill every position with people looking to escape, and you can't have them all leave again after five years."

  "True. Some folks are in this for the long haul, like me. But up here, 'long haul' usually means ten years tops. Eric is the only exception. His parents came here together. His dad was the former sheriff and Eric was born here."

  That's why Dalton had hesitated when I mentioned kids. Rockton used to have one: him.

  Anders continues. "When his folks retired down south, he took over as sheriff. He's not going anywhere. Which means he's the one person you can count on to have Rockton's best interests in mind. Not necessarily the best interests of every individual person, but the town as a whole, as a concept, if you know what I mean."

  "A sanctuary for those who need it."

  He nods. "Exactly. And for Eric, that sure as hell doesn't mean bringing in healthy people and sending back addicts. I was an MP in the army. I know what isolation can do to people's heads. I know what being away from home and feeling unaccountable can do, too. Add drugs to that mix, and it's ugly, Casey. Just plain ugly. This town has enough problems without that."

  SIXTEEN

  On our walk across town, I ask about the raised buildings. Anders explains that's to keep them off the permafrost, so you don't have icy floors or tilting houses.

  Every building also has lots of windows, and I ask Anders about that too, because there's obviously no place nearby to make glass. He says it's flown in, which isn't easy or cheap, especially since they're all triple-paned for the weather. But they splurge on windows to let in as much natural light as possible and keep the houses from feeling too much like prison cells in the long and dark winters. And they all have shutters to help keep out those winter blasts.

  There are plenty of decks and balconies, too, and people are making use of them, sitting outside as they work. I notice Anders isn't the only one in short sleeves, enjoying what must be a warm fall day to them. It's only September and sunny, but I'm wearing a jacket, and when that sun drops, I suspect I'll be unpacking my gloves.

  We arrive at the clinic, which looks like every other building. And, like every other one, it seems to be only as big as it needs to be. I'm guessing that's the heating issue and possibly conservation of overall space and materials.

  As we open the door, we hear Hastings.

  "--how long you'd last as a real cop, you knuckle-dragging psycho? Real cops don't get away with this shit, which is why you hide up here, where you can act like the fucking sheriff in a fucking Wild West show."

  I glance at Anders. He's paused in the reception area, making a hurry-up gesture in Hastings's direction, waiting for the tirade to end. Just another day in Rockton.

  Hastings is still going strong. "You think you can intimidate me, asshole? I've been dealing with bullies like you all my life. You might be bigger and stronger, but I'm a helluva lot smarter, and you're going to regret you ever laid a finger on me."

  Silence. Then Dalton with, "You done?"

  "No, I'm not. I'm speaking to the council, and I'm going to make sure you're disciplined, Dalton."

  "Disciplined?" Dalton says the word slowly, as if testing it out, and I can't suppress a small smile. "Sure, if that's how you want to handle this. I thought you said you were going to make me regret it, though."

  "Oh, I'll make you regret it. Using my brains. Not my fists."

  "By tattling to the council on me? Shit. I was hoping you were going to get creative."

  Anders chuckles and then walks to the doorway.

  "Hey, boss," he says. "Doc ready to talk to us yet?"

  "I am," says a woman's voice from deeper in the building. "Jerry? Take the afternoon off and cool down. Will? Come on back."

  Hastings storms past me without a sidelong glance. He strides out the door, apparently having forgotten he's still in his boxers.

  I follow Anders into what looks like an examination room. It's no bigger than the reception area--which held two chairs and the requisite table stacked with old magazines. We follow Dalton into a slightly bigger room, with another exam table and instrument trays. I resist the urge to look at the covered body and turn my attention to the doctor herself.

  She's in her late thirties. Chestnut-brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. Dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, she's pulling on a lab coat as we walk in.

  "I don't know whether I'm hoping you're right about Jerry or not, Eric," she says. "If he's making rydex, I can fire his whiny ass. But it also means I lose my lab assistant. How sure are you?"

  "Ninety percent."

  She swears under her breath. Then she sees me. "Ah, yes, sorry. First thing we lose out here? Basic manners." She extends a hand. "Beth Lowry. Harvard med school class of '01. Charged with malpractice in 2010. Guilty."

  "Charged with...?" I say, certain I didn't hear correctly.

  "I'm getting it out of the way." She flashes a humourless smile. "People come up here and meet the local doctor, the first thing they think is, 'I hope she's not fleeing a malpractice suit.' So I clear the air with an affirmative. I'd been working double shifts for a month after two surgical residents quit. Living on amphetamines. I could point out they were supplied by the chief of staff, but that would suggest I was a wimp who didn't have the guts to refuse." She purses her lips. "Not entirely untrue. Point is, a patient died in my care, due to a stupid mistake that was one hundred percent my fault. But two other patients had died that month, under mysterious circumstances, and the administration fudged the records to make it look as if I'd played a greater role in their treatment. I was willing to take the blame for the mistake I made, but not the ones I didn't. When it started looking like a criminal case on top of the malpractice, I came to Rockton."

  "Okay," I murmur, because I have no idea what else to say.

  "The good doctor believes in laying her cards on the table," Anders says.

  "You'll find that a lot up here," Lowry says. "People who just say 'screw it' and either embrace total honesty or fabricate their lives from whole cloth."

  "You done confessing?" Dalton asks.

  She shoots him a look. "It's not--"

  "Sure as hell is, doc. Now tell us what we've got here."

  "A dead man."

  Now that look comes from Dalton. Lowry smiles and turns to me. "I'm guessing you know all about the case, Detective Butler?"

  "It's Casey. And I haven't been ... fully briefed yet."

  "Really, boys? Here's a hint. If you hire a detective, you want her to detect. That requires talking to her about the cases."

  "She's smart," Dalton said. "She'll pick it up."

  "Oh, I know she's smart. IQ of 135. University GPA 4.0."

  She rattles off my stats like they're tattooed on my forehead, which is a little disconcerting. And a little weird.

  "I'm on the admittance committee," she explains. "Plus, I have a photographic memory. Yo
ur mom was a chief of pediatric surgery. Dad was a cardiologist, well-enough known that I recognized his name. Medical-field background and a near-genius IQ. So I have to ask, detective, what the hell are you doing in law enforcement?"

  I say only, "It's what I like."

  "Good answer. Bet you got used to saying it to your parents."

  I don't reply and try to conceal my discomfort with the rather blunt observation.

  "Want to know what my parents were?" she says. "Law enforcement. Never could understand why I'd want to go around cutting people up. Especially when my own IQ is barely above a hundred." The grin returns. "The photographic memory is what got me through med school."

  Anders leans over and mock-whispers, "Don't mind Beth. She's a little odd. Everyone here is. Except me, of course."

  "Are we cutting this guy up today, doc?" Dalton says. "Or is tomorrow better for you?"

  "I'm making conversation. It's not often we get new bodies in town." She looked at the covered corpse. "Dead ones, though? A dime a dozen."

  "She's kidding," Anders says.

  "Have you told her the homicide stats?" Lowry says. "I interned in Detroit. Rockton's rate is ten times that."

  "There are extenuating circumstances," Anders says.

  She shakes her head and disappears through a door in the back.

  He continues, "And ten times the rate only means we had one homicide in the past year."

  "Better make that two," she calls back.

  Anders looks down at the covered body. "Shit."

  As Dr. Lowry scrubs up, she calls for Anders to fill me in.

  "First," he says. "We weren't trying to make things tough for you. At least, I wasn't." A meaningful glance at Dalton. "It's just that everything up here is a hundred layers of complicated. Ideally, you'd have come in, and things would have been quiet, and I could have spent a few days showing you the ropes and gradually explaining--"

  "No time," Dalton says.

  "Right, so the point is--"

  "The point is there's no time for a gradual explanation," Dalton says. "Including right now. It's not going to take Beth a week to scrub in." He points to the corpse. "Harry Powys. Former doctor. He was caught doing illegal organ transplants, using illegal immigrants who weren't always dead before he started. And you can wipe that look off your face, detective. We sure as hell didn't approve a son of a bitch like that. We approved a pharmacist who'd been blackmailed by a prescription drug ring."