City of the Lost

by Kelley Armstrong

  "You done talking?" Dalton asks.

  "I don't know, are you going to start talking?"

  "Sure, I'll talk. We want Hastings to hear us, right? So he can find us and spend the rest of the night tied to a goddamn tree."

  "Okay, you can stop talking now, boss. We need to be quiet and listen."

  Another flashed finger. I whisper, "Is he serious?"

  Anders nods. "Punishment for running? Spend a night out here tied to a tree. Course, we keep an eye on them, but they don't know that."

  I should be horrified. But it is a fitting punishment, one that'll teach them why they don't want to be out here, as I'm sure every whistle of the wind becomes the howl of rabid canines.

  I wouldn't mind spending the night out here. Preferably not tied to a tree. I'm remarkably at peace in these woods. Maybe that's because I'm a city girl--I don't fully comprehend the threats I'd face. I think I do, though. I've never romanticized wild places. There's danger at every footfall here, walking through dense, pitch-black forest, our lanterns kept purposely dim so our prey won't see them.

  Our prey. Interesting way of putting it.

  I'll just say that I don't feel what I expected to in these woods. I don't feel fear. I don't feel loss of control. I felt an odd exhilaration, as sharp and biting as the wind, but as refreshing, too, like whipping along on that ATV, knowing a single missed branch or rut could send me flying, but enjoying the challenge and, yes, the danger.

  Even the smells surprise me. Conifers and soil and rainwater and greenery and the occasional whiff of musk, like we're downwind of invisible woodland creatures. I hear them, too, scampering and calling and rustling and bolting. Dalton knows exactly what each sound is and whether the creature making it is big enough to be Hastings, and he stops for those but ignores the others.

  I'm fascinated watching him track. I remember Anders saying Dalton has lived here all his life, and I can see that now, his comfort in these woods, the way he moves as sure-footed as I would down a city street.

  Eventually, though, Dalton loses the trail. He backs up and double-checks, and I ask if there's anything I can do to help. He doesn't answer and Anders shakes his head, nicely telling me not to interfere.

  Five minutes pass of Dalton pacing and examining and even squinting into the treetops. Then, "Fuck."

  After a few seconds of silence, Anders says, "Can we buy a few more syllables, boss?"

  "Trail ends there," Dalton says, pointing.

  I walk to the spot and peer around.

  "I, uh, don't think he swung through the trees," Anders whispers when he sees me squinting into the dark treetops.

  "No," I say. "But I noticed Sheriff Dalton--"

  "Call him Eric," Anders says. "Please. Otherwise, you set a bad precedent."

  "Okay, well ... Eric looked up, and I realize what he was checking. The tree cover is unusually dense here. That explains why the ground cover is unusually sparse. Which means there aren't any signs to show which way Hastings went."

  "Just say that, then," Dalton says.

  "Teaching moment," Anders says. "Which I appreciate. Okay, so the solution is to split up. I know you hate that, Eric, but we're all armed and this patch isn't more than a few hundred square feet. No one's going to wander off and get lost. Right, Casey?"

  "Right."

  Dalton grumbles, but it is the efficient next step and he assigns us directions. Then he says to me, "We're looking for prints, crushed moss, broken twigs. If you see any, call me over to make sure it's not just an animal."

  We get to work. The toughest part? Checking for signs of passage without leaving them yourself. Wait! I see a footprint! It's a boot, about size six ... er, never mind.

  I move slowly and methodically. I want to impress Dalton. I won't deny that. I'm a woman and I'm a visible minority, which means when I made detective and zoomed up to major crimes, people blamed affirmative action. I'm accustomed to proving that I got my position because I deserve it.

  I find prints, but they're all animal. As for broken twigs or crushed undergrowth, my section is the barest--not by accident, I suspect. Dalton can be an ass, but he's an ass in support of the job, not against it. In other words, he isn't going to hand me a challenging segment to check, so I can screw up and let Hastings escape.

  Without vegetation to examine, I cover my strip quicker than the others, despite moving slowly. I'm near the edge when I find a spot with bent twigs, as if something large passed not long ago. I'm looking for prints when the wind flutters through the trees, and out of the corner of my eye I catch sight of something white. Too white to be natural in this forest.

  TWENTY

  My hand drops to my holstered gun. As I step to the left, squinting into the darkness, I can see a pale oval against a tree. A face? It's the right size.

  I glance back for the others. No sign of them. I'm within shouting distance, but I'm sure as hell not going to shout. Nor am I going to walk away and give my target time to escape.

  I creep forward. I've turned off my lantern. I'm dressed all in dark colours. I pull my hat down farther, and hunker low as I move. I can see the white shape now, on the other side of what looks like a clearing.

  I have to inch through the trees to get a better look. I move at a snail's pace, and the whole time I'm hoping Dalton or Anders realizes I'm out of sight. But no one comes and I can't leave my target, so I continue easing forward. Sliding my feet keeps me from crunching small twigs. It does not keep me from rustling when my foot slides straight into a pile of dead leaves. The crackle sounds as loud as a twenty-one-gun salute and I freeze, my gaze fixed on that pale oval, hand on my gun.

  The oval doesn't move. I pick up my pace, certain I'm going to realize I'm seeing moonlight reflecting off a tree or something equally innocuous, and then I'll be really glad Dalton didn't come running ...

  I stop. I see black patches where the eyes and mouth should be. The height is about right to be a person, though. It's as I'm measuring that height that my gaze drops and I see ...

  Beneath the oval is a tree trunk, maybe two feet wide. I don't see shoulders or arms--just the narrow straight line of the trunk.

  I push past the last tree, and I move too fast, stumbling into the clearing. Hand still on my gun, I catch my balance and look up and--

  I let out a curse. I don't mean to. But I see what's on that trunk, and I can't stifle an oath of surprise. At least I don't scream.

  I yank my gaze away to do a slow sweep of the clearing, making sure I haven't stumbled into a trap. There's no one else here.

  I look again. It's a human skull nailed to a tree. The remains of a pair of jeans are nailed up below it. Boots sit below the cuffs.

  The jean legs are in two pieces, bottom and top, the middle shredded and completely dark with blood. The top half of the jeans is flat against the tree. The bottom is not. I grab a stick and move closer and prod at one of the lower legs, and the fabric falls, propped up rather than nailed. I'm looking at a mangled and bloodied lower leg, hacked away at the kneecap.

  As I back up, brush crunches underfoot. I spin, hand on my gun, as Dalton strides into the clearing. His eyes are blazing, and it takes everything I can muster not to step backward.

  "Did I tell you not to take off?" he says.

  "I saw something. I thought it was a person."

  "I don't give a damn what--"

  I point at the skull. He stops. Then he mutters, "Ah, fuck." That's it. Like I'm pointing out signs of illegal campfire activity.

  "You've seen this before, I take it?" I'm struggling to keep my voice steady.

  "Yeah," he says. "It's a territorial marker for one group of hostiles. Never this close to the town, though."

  His gaze drops to the boots. And that severed leg. That's when he stares. And when he says "Fuck" this time, it's in a whole different tone.

  "That's not normal, I'm guessing."

  "Hell, no. Like I said, the skull is a territorial marker. Primitive tribes used shit like that to scare off
others. We had one of the skulls removed and tested, and it was fifty years old. Something they'd dug up and put in the sun to bleach."

  "Not an actual enemy's head, then."

  "No, no. They don't do anything like..." He trails off and his gaze returns to those amputated legs. "Fuck."

  I take a closer look with my lantern. "They don't appear fresh enough to be Hastings. Powys, I'm guessing."

  "Yeah. I recognize the boots."

  "So we keep looking for Hastings?"

  He shakes his head. "Trail's lost. We'll do a wider search in the morning. ATVs. Horses. Full militia." He turns and calls. "Will? I need you over here."

  And thus ends our hunt. With the three of us staring at a pair of amputated human legs, staged in jeans and boots, before Anders marks the tree with bright yellow tape and we return to town.

  We're back in Rockton. I'm shivering. I don't think the guys notice--everyone's lost in their thoughts--but before we separate for the night, Dalton says, "You know how to build a fire?"

  "I'll be fine."

  "Fuck," he mutters. Wrong answer, apparently.

  Anders cuts in before Dalton can continue. "I know you don't want to impose, Casey. Especially at four in the morning. Up here, though, no one's going to give you brownie points for toughing it out, and some of us"--a pointed look at Dalton--"will get pissy if you try."

  "It's a waste of time," Dalton says.

  "Right. Inefficient, to put it a nicer way. If you don't know how to build a fire, admit it. If we're both too tired to come and get one going tonight, we won't offer. I'd tell you where to find extra blankets. Eric would say, 'Then you'd better learn.' Either way, no one's going to--"

  "Speaking of wasting time..." Dalton says.

  "Go home, Eric. I'll get Casey's fireplace going."

  "No."

  "It'll take me five minutes--"

  Dalton cuts him off with a snort.

  "What's that supposed to mean?" Anders's words turn brittle.

  "Five minutes? You go over there, you won't leave again before dawn."

  Anders's eyes narrow. He murmurs for me to "Hold on a sec" and then leads Dalton aside. They walk about ten paces, not far enough for me to avoid overhearing in the stillness of the night.

  "You want to yank my chain?" Anders says. "Go ahead, but there's a fine line between needling me and insulting me, and that crossed it."

  "How?"

  "She just arrived today. Travelled all yesterday. Was trapped in a car then a bush plane with you for hours. Lands to find we have a body she can't investigate. Then discovers we have cannibals in our woods and spends her night tramping around those woods, only to find a skull and severed legs. Do you really think I'd invite myself back to her place in hopes of getting laid? Seriously?"

  "No, I think you'll go back to her place and keep talking until the sun comes up. And then neither of you will be in any shape to search tomorrow."

  "Oh."

  "Yeah, oh." Dalton shakes his head and walks back to me. "I'll get that fireplace going. Come on."

  Dalton gives no outward sign he's unsettled by what we found in the forest, but I can tell he's off his game by the simple fact that he forgets he's supposed to be an asshole. He gets my fire going and shows me how to do it. He explains where to buy wood but advises that I learn to chop instead to save credits--downed trees are hauled into the woodlot, where they're free to anyone who'll chop them. Anders might be more comfortable explaining things, but Dalton is a damned fine teacher when he's in the mood.

  Once the fire's going, I discover he's somehow transported that bottle of tequila to my house. We go into the kitchen, and it's there, and he's pouring me a shot without asking if I want it.

  He pours one for himself, too. Then he sniffs it with some suspicion, and I try not to laugh.

  "Never had tequila?" I ask.

  "Nope."

  "It's not going to taste good," I say.

  "Then what's the point?"

  I shake my head and down my shot. It burns all the way, that delicious heat that muffles my brain on contact.

  He eyes me and then takes his shot. He only gets about two-thirds in before sputtering and coughing. He squeezes his eyes shut, hands resting on the table. A moment's pause. He opens his eyes. "Not my way, but I get it." He finishes the shot, slower now.

  "Long day, huh?" I say.

  "Yeah." He pauses, glass in hand, before carefully setting it on the table and looking over, meeting my gaze as if preparing some earth-shaking pronouncement.

  "It's not usually like this," he says. "In Rockton."

  I laugh. I can't help it. I burst out laughing and he looks at me, as startled as if I'd broken into song. He watches me, that look on his face, the one I've come to think of as his dissection look. Like I'm an alien life form he's trying to understand.

  After a moment, he says, "Yeah, I guess that's obvious. At least, you'd hope so," and he smiles, and when he does, all I can think is, Goddamn, sheriff, you should do that more often. It's the tequila, of course, and the long night and the long day and feeling like I've been walking through a minefield on tiptoes. When he smiles, it is--in an odd way--reassuring, like the ground finally steadies under my feet. Things aren't so foreign here. Even Sheriff Dalton can smile.

  It only lasts a moment. He doesn't wipe it away, as if remembering he's supposed to be a jerk. It simply fades, and I realize that the "jerk" mode isn't an act. We all have our different aspects. That's one of his. So is the quiet, reflective guy who sat on the back deck with me and stared into the forest for two hours. There's a lot going on in that head, little of it simple or uncomplicated, and most of it weighed down by the responsibility of keeping the lid on this powder keg of a town. Which doesn't mean Eric Dalton is a nice guy. I don't think he can be. Not here. This is as nice as he gets, and I appreciate this glimpse, the way I appreciate the smile, and I also appreciate that he doesn't backtrack to cover it up, to be the asshole again.

  I fill our shot glasses halfway. He takes his. We drink them. Not a word exchanged for at least two minutes afterward, until he says, "I'll come by at ten. Yeah, not a lot of time to sleep..."

  "But we have a manhunt to launch. I know."

  He nods and leaves without another word. I lock the door behind him, settle on the couch in front of the blazing fire, and soon fall asleep.

  TWENTY-ONE

  I only get a few hours' sleep after our manhunt, and I'm awake by the time the sun's up. I make breakfast before I head out. It's simple fare: toast and a hard-boiled egg. Well, actually, the toast is just bread with peanut butter after I burned two slices trying to brown them on the wood stove. I planned to have a fried egg, but that seemed to be pushing my luck. Figuring out the French press coffee maker had been tough enough, so I just used the leftover water for boiling my egg.

  Fortunately, between what Anders has said and what Dalton explained on the drive, my poor camp-cook skills wouldn't be a serious drawback in Rockton. There are three restaurants plus a place that does takeout only. That's not so much a matter of convenience as conservation of resources--you'll waste less buying a precooked meal for one than cooking for one. The chefs are also more flexible and more skilled at making the substitutions necessary under these conditions.

  Anders says the restaurant food is reasonably priced. Just don't expect the menu to be vast. Or to find the same thing on it from one day to the next. Again, it's a matter of availability and conservation. Right now, blueberries are just ending their local season, so I have a box on my counter, but in another week the only way I'll be able to get them is in jam, which the local cooks are madly bottling as the picking expeditions clear all nearby patches.

  I finish my breakfast, and I'm at the office before nine. I figure Dalton will put some time in before he picks me up at ten, and I'm like the little girl who chases after her big brothers to prove she can do anything they can. I spent my youth refusing to live up to the standards set by my parents and my sister, and ironically, I spend my
adult life chasing my colleagues. At least here I have a chance, so I pursue my goals with a childhood of repressed ambition fuelling my fire.

  I'm making coffee when Dalton walks in just past nine. I get a "Fuck" for my efforts.

  "I was awake," I say, "and I figured you'd stop by here and get some work done before you picked me up."

  "When'd you arrive?"

  "Ten minutes ago."

  He grunts at that, and maybe he just doesn't want me overdoing it ... or maybe I'm not the only one with a competitive streak. Either way, he carries his coffee out onto the back deck. I pour the rest of the pot into a thermos--there's no hot plate here to keep it warm. Then I take my mug and follow.

  "Can I talk to you?" I ask as he settles into his chair.

  "What's stopping you?"

  "When you come out here, you seem to want quiet."

  He shrugs. "You can talk. If I don't want to listen, I'll tell you to go away."

  My lips twitch. "Some people might take offence at that."

  "Then let's hope you aren't one of them, or you're going to spend most of your time here being offended."

  I give him a full smile for that, and he tilts his head, as if trying to figure out exactly what prompted it.

  "If you're going to talk, talk," he says. "Once this mug's empty, we hit the trails. It'll be a full day of searching."

  I walk to the railing. I don't sit in front of him--I have a feeling that'd be a little too close for both of us. But I perch on the corner of the railing, and he looks over, assessing again. I feel as if he processes data like a computer, detecting and analyzing every nuance. She's smiling. She's sitting on the railing instead of the deck. Is that good?

  It is. It means I'm relaxing and settling in. Yet there's a wary look in Dalton's eyes, as if he accepts nothing at face value, always searching for deeper meaning, potentially negative.

  "I took a quick look through the case files this morning--" I begin.