City of the Lost

by Kelley Armstrong

  "That is your theory, then," he says as we continue.

  "It's a starting point. The problem is not knowing how many people were smuggled in. The fact that three of the four victims fit that profile might be no more significant than three having the same colour hair. That's presuming there's a connection between the victims at all."

  He's nodding. Then he stops and tilts his head, and I catch the croak of a bird.

  He motions for me to dismount. We tie the horses to trees. His gelding--Blaze--starts pulling at grass, unperturbed. Cricket looks around, as if to say, I don't want to stop. I rub her neck and pull an apple from my pack and she decides maybe a break isn't such a bad idea.

  I spot a raven then. People from the east often look at big crows and think they're ravens, but seeing one now, I don't know how we make that mistake. The raven is the size of a hawk. It's black from its beak to its feet. That beak is thick and curved. Its neck is different, too--thick with shaggy feathers.

  Dalton says, "Yukon raven." Then, "Technically, it's still a common raven, but they get bigger up here. Territorial bird."

  "So steer clear."

  He looks over as if confused, and then says, "Nah, I mean it's the Yukon Territory's symbolic bird."

  "Duh, right. I knew that."

  Dalton waves for me to fall in behind him. I unzip my jacket and push it back, exposing my holstered gun. He has his in his hand. He takes another step. Then his hand shoots up as a snarl reverberates through the forest.

  I see what he does and ... and I have no idea what I'm looking at. It's like a small bear with stunted legs. The beast bares its fangs as it stands its ground, snarling and spitting.

  "Do you see a kill?" he whispers.

  I look across the clearing. "No." Then I spot something. "There's ... I don't know what it is, but something's hanging from that tree. I think there's blood. But whatever it is, it's up high."

  Dalton grunts. Then he shouts, loud enough that I jump. The creature waddles off, throwing snarls over its shoulder.

  "What the hell was that?" I ask.

  "Wolverine," he says. "Also known as a skunk bear, carajou, quickhatch..."

  "Wolverine? Like the X-Men?"

  He frowns at me.

  "Sorry," I say. "Pop culture reference. So that's what they look like in real life. Not nearly as scary as the comic book version."

  "They're scary enough if you interrupt them at a kill. Pound for pound, they're the nastiest bastards out here. They can take on a wolf and win, no contest, because a wolverine doesn't know when to give up. They keep fighting until someone's dead."

  "Dangerous to humans, then."

  "Not lethally." He puts his gun away. "Unless you were wounded and it was really hungry. Course, most times they're really hungry. Their Latin name is Gulo gulo. Gulo means glutton."

  "Ah."

  "You don't want to mess with them. Chances are, though, that's the only one you'll see while you're here."

  Dalton peers into the clearing, and his gaze returns to that thing in the tree. He strides toward it.

  As I scan the clearing, I see the sunlight glimmer in a way it shouldn't glimmer off anything in a forest. Dalton lifts his foot over a metal bear trap, and I lunge. An eye blink later, he's on his back and I'm crouched over him.

  He says nothing. Just lifts his head to look around, as if being randomly knocked to the ground is perfectly normal. Then he spots what he almost stepped in and whispers, "Fuck." I ease off him and rise.

  Dalton crouches beside the rusty bear trap. As he's examining it, I ask, "Would that be settlers? Or do other trappers come through here?"

  "The odd hunter, trapper, miner," he says without looking up.

  "Miner?"

  "There's still gold. Mostly in the rivers. Our locals pan for fun during fishing trips."

  He glances at me then, as if expecting a response, and I'm thinking it might be fun to pan for gold. But it seems a little silly, so instead I say, "Don't you worry about these outside miners or trappers stumbling on Rockton?"

  He grunts and turns back to the trap, and I think he's not going to answer, but then he says, "There are almost five hundred thousand square kilometres of wilderness in the Yukon. Rockton is less than one square kilometre. Our patrols sometimes get wind of people passing through, but trappers and miners are like bears. If they hear us, they steer clear. Even if they did find the town, we'd pass it off as a commune. People up here mind their own business." He gets to his feet. "This trap, though? It's ours."

  "You put out unmarked--"

  "Fuck, no. I mean it's an old one of ours. Stolen. Folks out here take our stuff when they find it."

  "The hostiles?"

  "Everyone out here."

  The way he says it makes me scan the forest again, as if it's swarming with hermits and settlers and hostiles.

  He sets off the trap with a stick. "Too bad it didn't catch that wolverine. Meat tastes like shit, but the fur repels frost. Good for lining a parka."

  "You had your gun pointed at it."

  "If it attacked, sure. Otherwise, shooting it wouldn't be fair. I don't need the pelt. Just would have been nice." He looks over at me. "I should say thanks, too. Excellent reflexes. I'll admit, when you told me that, I thought you were full of crap."

  "Now you know why I don't carry my gun."

  "I'll still argue the point, but I'll accept yours. For now. We'll work on it, retrain your brain to react in a way that doesn't involve firing a gun. And I need to work on paying more attention. I usually do, but..." His gaze returns to the tree.

  "What the hell is that?" I ask.

  "No idea."

  It looks like a length of thick rope. It's been nailed to the trunk, maybe ten feet up. Claw gouges in the bark say that's what the wolverine was trying to reach, but it was too high. Presumably, it's what the ravens were after, too, but the position would have made it awkward to get at, though I see peck marks where they've tried.

  I take another step. Then I stop as my stomach lurches.

  "Intestines," I say.

  "What?"

  "It's--"

  "Fuck. Yeah. I see now."

  He moves closer, his gaze on the ground, watching every step until he's at the tree. I'm beside him, both of us looking up at about eighteen inches of intestine hanging from the trunk.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  "Could be from Powys," Dalton says as we stare at the intestine.

  I shake my head. "We found Powys's body the day I got here. This hasn't started to rot, and it still looks pliant."

  "Pliant," he repeats, and then nods as if deciding this is indeed the best word. The length of intestine isn't fresh, but it's not dried out, either, as it sways slightly in the breeze, the smell of it bringing those scavengers running.

  "Hastings, then?" he says.

  "I'll need to take it back to Beth to confirm it's even human. I'd guess it is, if they nailed it up here. But it's always possible it's..."

  I trail off. Dalton is turning, with that look on his face that tells me he's caught some noise, and sure enough, I hear it two seconds later. I could say his hearing is sharper, but I think it's just better attuned to sorting out what belongs in a peaceful forest and what does not. This does not. I have no idea what I'm actually hearing, only that it sends cold dread up my spine.

  The sound comes from the edge of the clearing. We follow it, Dalton with his gun out, and ...

  And nothing. I still can hear the sound, a cross between a groan and a mewl, and it's right here. Exactly where we're standing. Except there's nothing in sight except trees.

  The sound comes again. Dalton's gaze goes up.

  "What the hell?" I say as I follow his lead.

  It looks like a sack. It's attached to the trunk and to a limb and resting partially in the crook between two more. In other words, it's wedged up in that tree as best it can be.

  The noise comes again. And the side of the sack moves.

  "There's, uh, something in it," I say.
/>
  "Yep."

  "Something hurt."

  "Yep."

  "We should go back to town and get--"

  "Nope."

  Before I can say anything, Dalton is shimmying up the trunk. I used to be quite the climber in my tomboy youth, but scaling an evergreen is tough. He clearly has practice.

  As I watch him, I see his point in not going back to town. What would we get? A ladder? A hydraulic lift? The animal in that bag is hurt badly enough that it can't claw or bite its way out. I can tell now that the dark shadow on one side is actually blood. That's what brought the scavengers. Then, realizing they hadn't a hope in hell of getting to it, they'd tried for the nailed-up intestine.

  Dalton is up there now, examining the sack. He reaches out and gives it a tentative push. Then, "Fuck."

  "Heavy?"

  "Yeah."

  "We can switch places," I say. "I'll lower it for you to catch, but..."

  "It's too heavy. Going to be tough enough for me to do it. You stay back. We have no idea what's inside."

  "I don't think it's in any shape to attack. It isn't even reacting--"

  "Doesn't matter. I lower. You stand clear. That's an order."

  "Yes, sir."

  He takes a few more minutes to evaluate. Then he pulls out a knife and cuts one rope. I can't quite see what he's doing up there, half hidden by branches, but he gets one rope wrapped around his hand before he severs the other one. He manages to lower the sack, but the rope isn't quite long enough and it stops about a foot from the ground, swinging as Dalton groans with exertion.

  "Gotta drop it," he grunts.

  "I can--"

  "Orders, detective. Stay the hell back."

  He lets go before I can do anything except obey. The sack hits the ground, and the creature inside lets out a mewling cry of pain.

  "Stay right there," he says. "And I'd appreciate you getting your gun out while I come down."

  I train my weapon on the sack as Dalton shimmies down about halfway and then drops the rest of the way.

  The sack is bigger than it looked in the air. Clearly, it's no fox or wolverine inside. I look at Dalton. He's heading for the sack with his knife out.

  "Sheriff?" I say carefully.

  "Yeah."

  That's all he says--"Yeah"--and I know it means that whatever I'm thinking, he's already come to the same conclusion. He bends beside the sack and moves it a little, as if putting it in a better position. The thing inside doesn't react. Dalton motions for me to keep my gun ready as he flicks his blade through the canvas. Then he rips the sack open, and we see what's inside.

  Jerry Hastings.

  He's bound hand and foot and barely conscious. He doesn't even seem to notice when Dalton opens the sack. His eyes are unfocused, his lips moving over and over as if he's saying something, but we don't hear a word.

  His hands are bound in front of him. As Dalton cuts them free first, I clutch my gun. Then Dalton reaches down and gently pulls up the bloodied front of Hastings's shirt. There's more blood underneath, his skin painted in a wash of it. That doesn't disguise the thick blackened line, though. Where someone has crudely stitched him up and then cauterized the wound.

  I turn away fast, and I come closer to throwing up at a crime scene than I ever have in my life. My stomach lurches, my hand reaching to grab something, anything. It finds a brace, not a tree or sapling, but warm fingers, clenching mine and holding me steady.

  "Sorry," I say as I turn to Dalton. "I ... It's..."

  "Yeah, I know."

  He rubs his chin with his free hand, and his fingers are trembling slightly. He exhales, breath rushing through his teeth in a long, slow hiss. I look back at Hastings, lying on the ground, that terrible black scar on his stomach. It's not the blood or the wound that sickens me. It's the thought of what's happened. Of what someone has done.

  "We need to get him back to town," I say. "Fast."

  Dalton already has his radio out. He calls Anders and tells him to get the big Gator out here now. And bring Beth.

  I'm on my knees beside Hastings. He's in shock, his mouth working, making the same motions over and over, as if he's saying something, and it must be important, but when I lean in, it's just a meaningless garble, repeated as if his brain is stuck on it.

  Whatever Hastings did down south, he didn't deserve this. Someone cut out part of his intestine and sewed him back up. That's not justifiable homicide; it's sadism.

  We shuck our coats to cover him, trying to keep the shock from deepening, and I talk to him until Anders and Beth arrive. Once Beth gets past what's happened, she has to cut him open on the spot. He won't survive the bumpy trip back unless she gets a look at exactly what's happened. She sedates him and cuts and that's when the true horror hits, because whoever sliced out that length of intestine only cauterized the ends and shoved them back in. Septic shock has set in, and she does what she can, but Hastings is dead minutes after she made that first cut.

  Dusk has fallen by the time we get back with Hastings's body, but our day is far from over. First, a conference between Dalton, Anders, and me on how we'll inform people. Then over to the clinic for the autopsy. Back to the station to make notes. More talking. It's ten at night, and I'm on the station deck with Dalton as Anders does rounds, telling a few key people in town about the death. I hear a "Hello?" inside the station and I tense. Dalton does, too, his eyes narrowing.

  "I've got this," he says as he rises.

  "No, I'll handle it."

  It's Diana. She's hovering just inside the station, one hand still on the door frame. There's this look on her face, exactly like when she had to crawl back after dumping me for the popular girls in high school.

  "Can we talk?" she says.

  "Casey's busy," Dalton says behind me. "We've had a--"

  I cut him off by turning with a quiet but firm, "I'll handle this."

  Steel seeps into his gaze as it stays fixed on Diana. He looks about two seconds from throwing her back onto the street.

  "I have this," I say, firmer.

  He's still bristling, like a guard dog sensing trouble. But after a moment he turns on his heel and stalks back onto the deck, muttering something I don't catch.

  When he's gone, I turn to Diana. "We found Jerry Hastings, and it wasn't good. Dalton's right. I've had a long day."

  "A drink? That'll help you--"

  "No." I resist the urge to add an I'm sorry. I'm not doing it. Not now. "I'm going to turn in early. I'm sure I'll see you around."

  "Can I at least apologize?"

  "You don't need to." Because I don't need to hear it. "Have a good night. I'll go get some sleep."

  I turn and walk out the back door before she can respond.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Dalton didn't even shut the inside door--just the screen.

  "You should get a good night's rest," he says.

  Not even going to pretend you weren't eavesdropping, are you? I suspect he didn't mean to be rude--he was just listening, in case Diana gave me a hard time.

  I nod. "I'm going to take off. I'll see you in the morning."

  I start for the door again.

  "Hold up," he says. "I'm turning in, too, and we're going the same way. It's quieter walking the back route. No one to pester us about the case."

  I'm about to say I've never heard anyone even ask him about the case. I think they don't dare. But this is the second death, nearly on the heels of the others, and people are going to start asking questions. And demanding answers.

  We set out, taking his personal highway along the border. I ask how he's doing, given what we found earlier. He gives me a shrug and an honest, "Trying to forget it."

  "Marginally successful?"

  "Yeah," he says.

  "Same here. I know Hastings wasn't a good person..."

  "No one deserves to die like that."

  I nod, and when I go quiet, he gives me that long, cool stare.

  "Which doesn't mean some people don't deserve to die," he
says. "Just not like that."

  I squirm and veer a little to the side.

  "Did you go there planning to shoot him?" he asks.

  I realize he means Blaine. "Of course not," I say before I can stop myself. I take a deep breath. "I'd rather stick to--"

  "Blaine Saratori didn't deserve to die. He deserved to be beaten within an inch of his life and spend weeks in hospital and months in rehab, and never really get over it, not physically, not psychologically. But that wasn't going to happen. You didn't plan to shoot him, but it's bullshit to pretend you killed an innocent man. And it's bullshit to even think about that in comparison to this."

  "I don't believe I said I was thinking of it."

  "You were. But I'll shut up about it. For now."

  "How about for good?"

  His snort says Not a chance.Then he points up. "That was a great horned owl."

  I peer into the night sky.

  "It's gone now," he says. "I'm changing the conversation. But as long as you're looking up, do you see that?"

  I follow his finger to see a distant strip of swirling green through the clouds.

  "Is that...?" I begin. "The northern lights? I didn't think I'd be far enough up for them."

  "You are. It's just coming into the right season, so you won't get a lot of good views yet."

  "What causes it?"

  As we continue walking, he explains that it's electrically charged protons and electrons from the sun entering the earth's atmosphere at the poles. I'm so engrossed in looking up that I nearly bash into a tree. He gets a chuckle out of that. When we reach my yard, he says, "There's your fox," and I see it slipping from the forest edge.

  "It's not mine," I say, giving him a smile. "Because that would be wrong. A wild animal is not a pet."

  He shrugs. "Can still be yours. Just don't try domesticating it."

  We watch as the fox trots back to its den with something in its mouth.

  "Grouse," he says.

  "Which is a bird, right?"

  He sighs.

  "Hey, you promised me a book. I haven't seen it yet."

  "Been a little preoccupied. And I'm making sure you actually want it and aren't just trying to be nice."

  "I'm never nice."

  "You're always nice, Casey. Or at least you try your damnedest to fake it, because you think that's what people want from you. Don't give me that look. If you walk into it, I'm allowed to analyze."

  "Dare I invite you in for coffee?"

  "Depends. Are you asking to be polite?"