City of the Lost

by Kelley Armstrong

  "That was my fault," Lowry says as she walks in. "I sympathized with the blackmailing, and I wanted someone with pharmacy training."

  "Stop confessing. We all approved him. Including me. And before you think we're all fucking morons, detective, I'll point out that the paper trail was solid."

  "You mean they're fabricating records," I say. "Those in charge. The council."

  Dalton stops, mouth still open. I seem to have accomplished the impossible: I've surprised him.

  I continue. "Drugs are being smuggled in, presumably in the drop-offs handled by the council. You have Hastings, a chemist who can manufacture designer drugs. Now you have this guy. It's possible he faked his background records, but more likely the council did. They're letting in hardened criminals. Including murderers who'd woo immigrants hoping for a better life and carve them for a profit."

  "It's not the whole council," Lowry says.

  Dalton gives her a look, as if to say, And that makes it better? Then he says to me, "Good work, detective. You've earned your rep. Yeah, we believe they green-light criminals who will pay a shitload for the privilege. Unlike with the white-collar guys, none of that extra goes to running the town. The council members pocket it."

  I stare at him.

  "Back to work," Dalton says, as if we've just discussed a rather dull town bylaw. He waves at Lowry. She hesitates and glances at me, knowing I want more. I nod for her to go on. I'll deal with this later, after I've processed it.

  Lowry peels back the sheet. I see the body of Harry Powys, and my stomach churns. I'll partially blame what I've just learned--about the town and about him. But the body ...

  I've witnessed autopsies. I was always fine with taking that chore from my partners. My parents inured me to gore--via surgery videos--from an early age. That's because they wanted me to have a strong stomach for a career in medicine, but it inadvertently prepared me to be a cop, too.

  One thing you don't see on a city beat? Predation--the point at which a victim turns into meat. That's what I'm looking at here. A side of half-devoured meat wearing a human head and the tattered remains of clothing.

  I don't throw up. I'm not even tempted. But I do decide I'll skip lunch today. Anders looks green, though he stands his ground. And Dalton? He's right in there, as if this is a biology dissection sample. He's circling the body, leaning down for a better look, poking at the spots where both legs have been removed. He even grabs a blunt probe from the tray and prods aside some of the mangled flesh.

  Lowry watches while he examines the ribs. Then he looks at her. She nods.

  "Fuck," he says.

  He shakes his head and drops the probe back on the tray with a clatter.

  "You said homicide?" I begin.

  She nods. "Looks like massive blood loss."

  "We didn't see that at the scene," Anders says.

  "Because the body was moved."

  "By predators?" There's a note of hope in his voice. Please, please tell me this was a grizzly.

  "Possibly," she says. "There are signs of animal predation."

  I look at her and hope my disbelief isn't too obvious. Signs of animal predation? The body is hamburger. Half a hamburger. You don't need a medical degree to know something has eaten Harry Powys.

  "So, massive blood loss," I say. "Could be a bullet in the femoral artery, but we don't have the legs to check that. It's not the neck." The head is the one part relatively untouched, except for the eyes, which have been pecked out. "Stabbing?"

  "Cutting."

  "Cut..." I look toward the missing legs. "You mean he was..."

  "Alive, most likely."

  "A saw?" I manage to ask.

  "Hatchet."

  "At the hip?" I say. It's not an easy cut, and I'm struggling to imagine holding a man down for that.

  "The upper cut appears to be post-mortem. I'm guessing there was a lower one. Likely the knee."

  "I've seen dismembering once. But that was chopping up a corpse for disposal. Why kill him by hacking off his lower legs and then remove the thighs?"

  I walk to the tray and take the blunt probe Dalton used. I push aside tattered flesh from the ribs. As I do, I mentally process the condition of the flesh. It isn't tattered. Not the way I'd expect from a beast with teeth and claws. I'm looking for evidence of those teeth and claws on the ribs. Instead, I see knife marks.

  Harry Powys hasn't just been murdered. He's been butchered. By humans.

  SEVENTEEN

  When I tell the others what I think happened, Anders stares at me. Then he looks at Lowry and Dalton. After a moment, Dalton says, "Yeah." Anders looks at the body again. Then he's in the next room, puking in the sink. It only takes a minute, then he's storming back into the autopsy room, wiping his face on his sleeve.

  "You knew about this," he says to Dalton.

  The sheriff grunts.

  "Cannibals?" Anders stalks over and plants himself in front of Dalton. "You've got fucking cannibals in the forest and you didn't see fit to tell me?"

  "Did you read the files?"

  "What?"

  "The files I gave you. The town's background. What we have out there."

  "I went through them."

  "Flipped through them. Didn't actually read them. Or you'd have known that we've found evidence of cannibalism before. Been a few years and, yeah, it's questionable. But the possibility has always been there, in the files. Not my fault you did a half-assed job reading them."

  "Cannibals, Eric? Fucking cannibals, and you can't be bothered--"

  "--telling people everything that might be out there? Yeah, I'm just lazy that way."

  "I don't mean--"

  "Folks don't argue when we insist on escorted hikes and hunts because they know ninety percent of the danger out there. The other ten? That's the fine line between scaring people and shoving them into outright panic." He waves at the corpse. "This would be panic. So it's need-to-know, and if you didn't read the goddamn files, then I guess you don't need to know too badly."

  "Um..." I say. "Cannibals? Can we talk about--"

  "Read the files." Dalton heads for the door. "Then we'll talk."

  "Where the hell are you going?" Anders says.

  "To think. You stay for the autopsy. Beth? The report goes to Detective Butler."

  Anders mutters under his breath. Dalton gets as far as the next room. Then, "Butler?" Curt. Impatient. As if I should know I'm supposed to follow him. I take one last look at Powys, and then I leave.

  We get three steps out of the clinic and Dalton says, "Beer?"

  I jog to catch up. "What?"

  "You drink beer?"

  "Uh, no. There are a few things we need to talk about, sheriff, and beer definitely isn't on the--"

  He wordlessly turns into the Roc. There are more people there, the bar cleaned up after the fight. Isabel's at a table, talking to a patron. She says, "Sheriff," when Dalton walks in. He strides behind the bar.

  "What do you drink?" he asks me.

  "Tequila, but I don't need--"

  He pulls out two bottles. "Which one?"

  I hesitate before pointing to the cheap brand. He snorts, puts that one away, and takes the other to the door.

  Isabel blocks his exit. "Help yourself, sheriff."

  "I did."

  "From your pissier-than-usual mood, I'm guessing that you didn't find anything on Jerry. Can I bar him from my establishment now?"

  "No."

  "I'd like--"

  "Too bad. I want him to keep coming here," Dalton says. "It's the place he's most likely to screw up."

  "And what do I get in return?"

  "My grudging tolerance of your establishment."

  "You can't shut me down, Eric."

  "Not officially, but I can sure as hell find a way to make you decide to shut your doors." He moves her aside. It's not a shove, but it's not a gentle nudge, either.

  As we pass, she calls after him, "You know what, Eric? I bet you'd be a lot happier if you did more than grudgingly
tolerate my establishment. I don't believe I've ever met a man more in need of--"

  He turns on her so fast she jumps.

  "I was teasing you, Eric," she says, her voice softening.

  "You want to make me happier? Stop complaining about Hastings and help me pin something on him, so we can get this dope out of our town."

  "I know," she says. "I'm sorry." She moves closer. "About Powys ... I know you don't like answering questions on open cases, Eric, but I heard ... it was bad."

  "He'd been in the forest for a week. Course it was bad."

  She studies him. "And if anyone asks, that's what I tell them. Until you're ready to say more."

  "Yeah."

  She nods and he starts walking. She calls after him, "Keep the bottle, okay?"

  He starts walking, and she calls after him, "Keep the bottle, okay?"

  "I planned to."

  "Asshole," she says, but there's no venom in it.

  Dalton walks half a block and then lifts the bottle of tequila. "One shot."

  "I don't really need--"

  "One shot on the job. Off the job? Three max."

  "I don't drink more than two shots. Ever."

  He glances over. "You got a problem?"

  "You mean, am I an alcoholic? No. It's a personal choice."

  He studies me, in that way that makes me struggle not to squirm. Then he grunts and turns away.

  "Stick to it," he says. "I catch you drunk? Twenty-four hours in the cell. I catch you high? I'll march you down to Beth for testing, and if it comes back positive, you're on maintenance duty for the rest of your stay."

  "All right."

  He stops, eyes narrowing. Then he notices we're being watched by a half-dozen locals, and he marches silently on to the station. As soon as we get inside, he closes the door and says, "I'm serious, detective. I don't make idle threats."

  "The last time I was drunk, I wasn't even legal drinking age. The last time I got high was on pot at eighteen, and it made me throw up. I don't drink, and I don't do drugs, and I'm not going to start because the job's rough or I get bored. But if somehow I do, then you can throw me in your cell or fire me. I wouldn't say 'all right' if it wasn't, and I don't appreciate being growled at for agreeing with you."

  I expect a snapped reply, but instead he seems to contemplate this. Then he walks to the bookcase, takes a mug, and pours a rough shot of tequila in it. I consider telling him--again--that I don't want it, but after what I saw and heard at the clinic, I wouldn't mind that shot. I'm just wondering if he's testing me. After he pours my shot, though, he takes a beer from the icebox. So I down the shot before he can uncap his beer. His brows lift. I put the mug on the table.

  "Can I see those files?" I ask.

  "That's what we're here for. I thought you could use a drink while you read them."

  "It's tequila. You don't sip it."

  He grunts and, beer still in hand, unlocks a file cabinet and flips through, pulling files. Then he passes the stack to me. I look around at my choice of chairs, but before I can pick one, he says, "Weather's good," and motions me to the back deck.

  I start toward it. He says, "Grab a chair."

  "I'm fine."

  We go outside. He takes the Muskoka chair. I lower myself to the deck. He looks at me.

  "Get a chair, Butler."

  "I'm fine."

  His lips move in a "Fuck," and he shakes his head. I feel like there's some expectation here, and I keep falling short, and I'm not quite sure why. I've been in town only a few hours, and I've already held my own in a bar fight. I didn't complain when he roughed up a local. I didn't puke over a grisly corpse. I figured out that the council is taking kickbacks for letting in criminals and I determined what happened to that corpse. Yet what does make an impression--the wrong one--is when I decide I don't need a chair. There's a code here, and I can't decipher it yet, so I just settle in with the files.

  Two hours pass like that. I'm reading the files, and Dalton is thinking. Or I presume that's what he's doing. For two entire hours he sits, sips his beer, and stares--just like Anders said--into "that damned forest." At first I think he's there to answer my questions, but several times I look over expectantly, even clear my throat. He ignores me.

  I read the files. I do some thinking of my own. Then I go inside and get my notebook, and I come back out and make notes, and Dalton never even glances my way. Finally, when I'm done, I say, "Can we talk? About this?"

  He doesn't even look over, just says, "Tomorrow. It's getting late."

  While it's barely past six, the sun is dropping fast. I walk to the front railing and sit on it, not directly in front of him but no longer behind him, either.

  "I'd like to meet the council," I say. "I know they don't live here--I mean meet them by satellite phone or however Val stays in touch. I don't want to question them or confront them--I just think it'll help me get a better handle on things."

  He shifts, as if it takes genuine effort to turn and look at me. "They won't talk to you. They barely talk to me. You have to communicate through Val, who's just their hired spokesperson. Ignore her. I do."

  "Is she involved in...?"

  "Green-lighting criminals?" He shrugs. "Doubtful. Does she know about it? Maybe. But if she does, I bet she figures they've committed crimes a whole lot lighter than murder. I can't see her hanging around if she thought there were hardened killers in our midst."

  "Exactly how many murderers do you suspect are here? After everything Diana's been through, I sure as hell didn't expect her to be trapped in a town with--"

  "What about you?"

  "If you're pointing out that her best friend is also a murderer--"

  "Would you tell me you're different?"

  "No, I would not."

  That should be the right answer. But his jaw sets, as if this isn't the response he wants.

  "Your friend is safer here than she is down south," he says. "Our murderers aren't psychopaths or serial killers. Powys is the closest thing I've found, and in his case it was all about profit, and there's no illegal organ trade up here. The last two murders we had were alcohol and frustration and a basic lack of self-control ... by people who came to Rockton legitimately. That doesn't mean I want these other sons of bitches here. Anything I can do to kick their asses out, I will."

  I'm processing that when he rises and says, "Time to show you your quarters. Best to get an early night." As we walk inside, he says, "I'm going to insist on that early night. Once you're in, you're in. Someone will have dropped off basic supplies and dinner. I'll come by at eight tomorrow to collect you."

  "I'm under house arrest? What have I done to deserve that?"

  "You arrived in a town full of bored people looking for novelty. And you arrived on a day one of our residents was found murdered."

  "I'm accustomed to dealing with the press and nosy neighbours, sheriff. I've worked on high-profile cases."

  He looks at me as we walk to the front door. "Do you want to go out?"

  "I'd like to see Diana, obviously."

  "She's free to come to you. Otherwise, do you want to go out?"

  When I don't answer, annoyance crosses his face. "So you're just arguing for the sake of challenging my authority?"

  "I--"

  "This isn't how you're used to working or living," he says. "I get that. But you forfeited your civil liberties when you came up here. That was made very clear. You want to get on my bad side? Whine about your rights, like Hastings this afternoon. This isn't a democracy. It's a police state, and you're the police, so start acting like it. If you want to go out tonight, then I'll arrange something. But don't argue for the sake of arguing. We'll find plenty of real issues to fight over up here."

  He doesn't give me time to agree, just locks the front door and leaves out the back, expecting me, as usual, to follow.

  EIGHTEEN

  The forest starts about fifty feet from the rear of the buildings. That gap has been left not so much for yard space, I suspect, a
s security, making it tough for large animals to wander up unseen.

  We cut through those "backyards" from the station to the north edge of town. From what I saw in the air, houses near the core are tightly packed, the configuration loosening at the edges. All the boundary houses are identical--one-and-a-half-storey buildings with steeply pitched roofs. A rear deck and upper-level balcony add extra living space to homes that would have less than a thousand square feet inside.

  Dalton walks onto one rear deck and opens the door. We go in and it reminds me of a cottage. A nice cottage, that is, with polished wood floors and tongue-and-groove walls.

  The back door opens into the kitchen. He points out the amenities. No electricity--generators and solar power are only for food-service buildings. They can't ship in the fuel to give everyone a generator and covering the town with solar-panelled roofs would turn it into a shining beacon for planes passing overhead. As for water, an indoor water tank is filled weekly from one of the two nearby springs. The tank is elevated, allowing pressure, and there's a hand pump if needed. The stove takes wood. There's an icebox, which contains actual ice, harvested in winter and stored for warmer weather. The icebox itself is under the floor, to keep it low and cool.

  Dalton walks into the living room. I follow. There are two chairs and a sofa. All are rustic but sturdy, with wooden frames and thick cushions.

  I look around. "I'm staying here?"

  His gaze moves to my bag, which someone has left across the room. That answers my question, saving him from speaking.

  I gingerly lower myself onto the sofa. It's big and soft and wonderfully comfortable.

  "There's a fireplace," I say, and I can't fight a small smile. I've never had a fireplace. My parents turned ours into a significantly safer media cabinet.

  "Two fireplaces and a wood stove," Dalton says. "You'll need to learn how to chop wood."

  "Okay."

  He looks at me as if I'm being sarcastic. When he sees that I'm not, he nods. The front door opens, and he starts for the hall.

  "Casey?" Diana calls.

  I smile and rise from the sofa. "In here."

  She barrels past Dalton and throws herself at me in a hug. "Finally! I kept asking when you'd come in, and no one would give me a proper time, and then all of a sudden I hear that you got in this morning."

  "She was busy," Dalton says.

  "I asked to be notified--"

  "And I vetoed that. She's here to work. I had work for her."