City of the Lost: Part Four

by Kelley Armstrong

  "You been drinking already, detective? I'm the designated local asshole, remember?"

  "Someone has to do it. You recognize when you're being an asshole, which means it's not like you're too inconsiderate to know better."

  "But if I recognize I'm being an asshole, and I still do it, doesn't that only make me more of one?" He rubs his face. "Fuck, I'm in a mood. You might not want to have a drink with me."

  "Too late." I set two beers on the table, and open one.

  "You got something to ask me? About the case?"

  I take a long draft of my beer and then say, "Nope."

  He chuckles. "All right. Yeah, I needed the break, so thanks. I'm just not good at the condolences shit. I want to be, but ... you know."

  "I do."

  We share a look. He nods and then says, "I'm going to Dawson City tomorrow. Get away. Clear my head. I'll be doing research, of course. You want to come with me?"

  I arch my brows. "Pretty sure that's not allowed, boss."

  "Fuck that."

  I laugh.

  "No, really, fuck that," he says, putting down his beer with a clack. "You're my detective. We have a serial killer. You need access to the Internet to do a proper job. Fuck 'em if they don't like it."

  "You don't really mean that," I say, my voice low.

  He shifts in his seat. Like a chained beast, rattling its shackles. "I'll tell Val. Tell her. Not ask. If she argues ... we'll see. But if you want to go ... No, fuck that, too, because if I give you the option, you'll worry that it'll get me in trouble. You're coming. It'll be an overnight trip. Back for the memorial. We'll leave at noon. We'll spend the morning at the station, let Will sleep, make sure nothing new comes in before we go."

  "Yes, sir."

  Dalton looks up. I see Anders walking over. When he's close enough, Dalton says, "Thought I told you not to cut out early on your shift."

  "Fuck that," Anders says as he sits.

  I glance at Dalton, and we laugh, leaving Anders looking from one to the other, saying, "What?"

  "Go get another round," Dalton says.

  Dalton tells Val I'm going with him to Dawson City. She doesn't argue. It's only when we're in the plane that I notice there's something different about Dalton today. He's shaved. To be honest, the beard scruff suits him better. Without it, he looks younger, softer, not quite himself. Hopefully, it's a temporary going-to-town change.

  When we arrive in Dawson City, the car is waiting. Apparently, there's a local guy who stores it, and the council calls and says, "Have it at the airport at 2 p.m." or "Pick it up from the airport at noon." He does, no questions asked, because the Yukon is not a place where people ask questions.

  Dalton doesn't drive directly into town. He goes down several side roads and stops along one. Then he's out of the car, grunting, "Wait here." Ten minutes later he's back, saying, "I'm going to drop you off at the inn. You get settled. I've got things to do."

  "Like call your dad on that cellphone you just picked up?"

  "What?"

  "I'm a detective, remember? You didn't drive way out here to take a piss. You were getting something you keep hidden. The only thing you wouldn't want to keep in Rockton is a secret method of communicating with the outside world. It could be a laptop, but then you wouldn't have considered buying a tablet for online research. It's also hard to hide a laptop. So it must be a phone. A cheap one, presumably without Internet access. Something that just lets you place calls. But who would you call? Not a former resident--that would be unsafe for both of you. It must be your parents. And you'd only call from a secret phone if you're saying more than 'Hey, Mom and Dad, how are you doing?' What might you need from someone down south? A partner to help you dig through the stories in your journal. Someone you trust. Someone with detecting skills. Like the former Rockton sheriff who happens to be your father."

  Dalton shakes his head, reaches into his pocket, and tosses a cheap flip phone onto the dashboard.

  "Ding-ding," I say with a grin. "What do I win? There is a prize, right?"

  He grumbles something about rewarding me by not bringing me to Dawson City with him anymore.

  "You just need to get better at subterfuge," I say. "The correct way to do it would have been to drop me off at the inn first. Then I'd have suspected you were going to talk to a local source. It was the random ten-minute walk into the forest that gave it away."

  More grumbling. Then he turns back onto the main road and says, "You got a pen and paper?"

  "I'd be a lousy cop if I didn't."

  "Write a list. Research questions you want answered. Ones we can't cover with an Internet search."

  I pull out my pad and paper. I'm jotting down questions when he says, "That guy ... The one who gave you the necklace and left that message on your phone ..."

  I tense. "Kurt."

  Dalton adjusts his grip on the wheel. "I couldn't let you return his text."

  "I understood."

  "I can do it now. Through my father. Pass along a message to let this guy know you're okay. You want that?"

  "I would appreciate it. Yes."

  "Write it down, then. With contact info. Include something so he'll know it's really you."

  "Thank you," I say.

  He nods and turns his attention back to the road.

  The first thing I do is buy a tablet for Dalton. It's not easy because, well, let's just say you aren't going to find an Apple Store or Best Buy in Dawson City. Instead, I get one at a pawnshop, which is actually just a regular store that sells second-hand goods on the side.

  When Dalton takes me to a place to use the tablet, it's the polar opposite of what I'd expect from him. Or from Dawson City. It's a coffee house. The type that offers organic, fair-trade coffee and a menu to cover gluten-free, vegetarian, vegan, and so on.

  Dalton seems as at home there as he would in a country and western bar. The guy who can morph between the rough-mannered lawman and the conservationist outdoorsman and the coffee-shop intellectual in a blink, because he is all those things, bound together in one very complicated package.

  He's already spoken to his father. He doesn't say much about that. It must be a decent relationship or he'd never trust him to do sensitive research. When I ask if his dad knew about people being smuggled in, Dalton's answer is a vague mumble and shrug. I suspect he did ... and turned a blind eye. Yet obviously he still does this research for Dalton. In other words, the relationship seems complicated, like Dalton himself.

  What his father found throws a serious wrench into my investigation. Namely, Hastings's true identity--one that suggests he's not the guy Dalton suspected he was.

  Dalton hasn't had contact with his father since Hastings disappeared, but he'd already had him investigating--because of the rydex issue--and he's just found the first hint of who Hastings might really be. He hasn't had time to dig deeper on his own. So we do now.

  I research the name Dalton's father found.

  "Fuck," Dalton says, leaning back in his seat.

  "Agreed."

  There on the tablet screen is a photo of one Jerome--Jerry--MacDonald. A pharmaceutical company chemist. Forty-three. Divorced. No kids. Worked at the same company since he graduated from university. It's Jerry Hastings. Beyond any doubt.

  According to Dalton, Hastings's entry story was that he'd been selling information on a new drug to a rival company. He'd been on the verge of getting caught when he agreed to pay a half million to hang out in Rockton until he could sneak back down south and enjoy the remainder of his ill-gotten gains. In other words, he's one of those white-collar guys whose misdeeds keep the town running. And with what I've found here, his story is true. He's a traitorous little weasel. But not a killer.

  I spend the next two hours glued to that tablet, going through two cappuccinos, a muffin, and a bowl of homemade granola. At one point, Dalton wanders off. This is too much indoor time for him. When he returns, I'm on the front patio. It's chilly, but I'll survive.

  I'm researching Iren
e Prosser now. I've compiled a list of clues to her real identity. I'm rather proud of the detective work on this one. After those X-rays suggested that her battered-woman story was bullshit, I started adding questions about her into my interviews. Subtle and casual queries that yielded someone who said Irene had mentioned two stepkids and someone else who commented that Irene's accent suggested northern Alberta.

  With these tidbits, I come up with Irene Peterson. Thirty-six. From Grande Prairie, Alberta. Attended Bow Valley College in Calgary. Formerly married to a man who has two kids. There's only a stub of a Facebook page, but I dig up a five-year-old photo. Dalton agrees it's a match.

  From what I find, Irene Peterson divorced four years ago and cleared her Facebook page shortly after that. She returned to Grande Prairie, but after a few months she moved to Edmonton. A string of addresses followed. The clues suggest a familiar story. Separate from abusive husband. Try to take refuge back home, and when that fails, flee to the city, hoping for anonymity.

  I could be completely wrong. Maybe she committed a crime post-divorce that set her on the run. But I find nothing that refutes her entry story. I must accept the possibility that--like Hastings--she is exactly what she claimed to be.

  Dalton says, "Which fucks up the theory that someone is hunting criminals who've been smuggled in."

  Yes, that had been the next logical leap. If three murderers smuggled into Rockton wound up dead, there was a strong case for vigilante justice.

  "Except Abbygail didn't fit," I say. "Which means, while this does throw a wrench in the works, her death already did that."

  At the mention of Abbygail, a shadow passes behind his eyes, but it's gone in a blink as he refocuses.

  "We need to find a new connection," he says.

  "Or accept that there isn't one. Accept that you've got the worst kind of serial killer in Rockton. One who kills for no reason other than that he likes it."

  Eight

  Before dinner, I buy gifts. Fancy pencils and a sketch pad for Petra, who'd commented that Dalton's idea of "art pencils and paper" came from a dollar store. Rose's Lime Juice for Beth, who shares my love of tequila but prefers hers in a margarita, and the dry mix they serve at the Lion doesn't cut it. Wool socks for Anders, who comes in from evening patrol and sticks his feet on the wood stove. I get hair colour for Diana. I'm not sure if I'll give it to her, but I feel as if leaving her out of the gift-buying process would be a statement I'm not ready to make. I also buy two pounds of coffee, which Dalton spots when he picks me up after his own errands.

  "For the station," I say.

  It's the kind he was drinking in the cafe. He looks from it to the bag of presents. "You pay attention."

  "That's kinda my job, boss. What's on the agenda now?"

  "Dinner. Then a side trip."

  The side trip takes us up a mountain outside Dawson City. When we reach the top ...

  "Wow," I say, my nose practically pressed to the window. Dalton puts the window down, and it seems "practically" might be an understatement. My head falls forward as the glass disappears, and he chuckles under his breath.

  The view is unbelievable. The sun has just started to drop, and there's a sliver of pink to the west, over Dawson City, which sits like a toy town nestled along the winding river. To the east ... Well, there's nothing to the east except forest. Endless forest. Somewhere in the middle of it is Rockton, our invisible town, lost among the trees and the hills and the mountains and the lakes and the rivers.

  With wilderness as far as the eye can see, it should be like the view from the plane, but it isn't. That was a spectacular painting. This is real. I know this forest now. I know what's out there--the awe-inspiring and the terrifying.

  Dalton parks, and I'm out of the car almost before it stops. There are a few lookout spots up here at the top, and I try all of them, even fighting through the bushes and brambles when I see another I want to check out. Dalton walks to the highest point and watches me from a bench there.

  When I'm finally done exploring, I hop up and stand on the back of the bench to get an even better look.

  "Okay," I say. "Time to get to work, right?"

  "No work."

  "Hmm?"

  "There's no work here. Just this." He waves at the lookout. "Thought you might like to see it."

  I grin so wide I can feel the stretch of it.

  Here, in the middle of this wilderness, I am something I've never been in my life. Free. Free not only of the guilt and the fear over Blaine, but free of expectations, too. I've lived my life in the shadow of expectations, and the certainty I will fail, as I did with my parents. Now those are lifted, and I'm happy. Unabashedly happy.

  I look down, and Dalton's staring at me. I flash another grin for him, and he looks away quickly, his hands shoved into his jacket pockets.

  "This is okay, then?" he says.

  "No, it's awful. This is my bored face. Can't you tell?"

  I'm teasing, but he drops his gaze and mumbles something I don't quite catch. I hop down and walk to a campfire ring.

  "You want one of those?" he asks.

  I look over.

  "Bonfire," he says. "I brought stuff if you do. Wood, tequila, bag of marshmallows."

  My grin returns. I'm sure I look like an idiot by now, but I can't help it. "Yes. Please and thank you."

  He pushes to his feet. "Like I said, we needed a break. I come up here most nights when I have to fly to Dawson. I've even fallen asleep on that bench. Unless it's a weekend, you don't usually get anyone else up here this time of year."

  Which is kind of unbelievable. It is truly a once-in-a-lifetime view. But like Dalton said when I first arrived, there's plenty of scenery here for those who want to see it. This is their normal. My normal now.

  "So you come up and have a bonfire?" I say.

  "By myself?" He snorts and shakes his head.

  "Ah, that's the real reason you invited me. Someone to roast marshmallows with."

  Again, I'm teasing, but again he looks away and mumbles something.

  I watch him build the fire. Soon we're settled in beside the flames, enjoying tequila in plastic cups and marshmallows on sticks. Darkness falls, and I barely notice. We're too busy talking. I remember the studies I mentioned, on lethal violence with chimpanzees, that subject I've been keeping in my back pocket for a moment just like this, when I have his attention and want to keep it.

  It's not exactly light and cheerful conversation, but it works for us, and by the time we finish, I'm stretched out on my back, staring up at the stars. Impossibly endless stars.

  "I really wish I had my phone right now," I say.

  "Huh?"

  "I have an app that identifies the constellations. You just point it, and it knows what section of the sky you're looking at and tells you what you're seeing. It's very cool."

  He shakes his head. "Which one are you looking for?"

  I smile over at him. "All of them."

  He squints up into the sky. "First you need to find the North Star. You see it up there?"

  I point.

  "That's a planet," he says.

  I try again.

  "That'd be the space station." He directs me until I have the North Star and then he says, "Polaris doesn't move--it's a fixed point, so you can use it to find your way. It's not the brightest star, despite what people think. The easiest way to find it is to locate the Big Dipper--Ursa Major, or the Great Bear--and then track it to the Little Dipper--Ursa Minor, or the Little Bear ..."

  Nine

  I may have fallen asleep on that overlook, buzzing from tequila and sugar and blissfully at peace, staring into the sky and listening as Dalton pointed out every constellation we could see. He may have carried me to the car. I may have not woken until morning. Of course, all I remember is his voice, that baritone rumble, talking about Orion, and then it was morning. The rest I'll have to infer. He doesn't mention it the next day.

  We're back in Rockton before noon. The day passes smoothly as the
clock mends itself. The service for Abbygail comes in the evening. That's difficult, and when I see Diana walking alone, I go and sit with her on my front porch, the only two who didn't know Abbygail leaving the others to their grief. While we don't say much, it's more comfortable than it's been since that night at the bar. When she leaves, I consider giving her the hair dye, but I'm afraid she'll take it as a peace offering and, for once, I admit to myself that I'm not the one who needs to make amends, and so I resist the urge to try.

  Come morning, the Rockton clock is ticking again. I see the same neighbours on my way into work. I get my mid-morning coffee, with Dalton joining me, sitting quietly as Devon gives me all the local news and I munch a rare chocolate chip cookie. Apparently, someone brought chips from Dawson City, having recalled an offhand comment that they were my favourite. I'm not the only one who pays attention. Back at the station, Kenny drops by to check the wood and hangs out for a while, giving me tips that aren't exactly earth-shattering.

  Yes, the town is back to itself, and we're back to work. I'm looking for a connection between the victims, while understanding that there may not be one. By day three, I'm entirely focused on Abbygail. She is where it started. The first one lured into the forest. The youngest and, as I see now from that memorial, the most popular. The girl everyone cared about. Or almost everyone. That's an easy place to start looking. Who had trouble with her? It's a short list. At the top of it is Pierre Lang, the pedophile who got into it with her shortly before she disappeared.

  I question Lang more thoroughly now. I haven't spoken to him since Mick told me he suspected Lang of being Abbygail's secret admirer. I hadn't been ignoring the lead--I'd been gathering more information so I could hit Lang hard. So far, I've managed to find two people who confirmed Abbygail received the gift of raspberries from an admirer, but no one can tie that back to Lang. Beth vaguely remembers something about berries, but she says it's not unusual for locals to leave little gifts at her door, in thanks for treatment, so they could have been for her.

  So I have nothing on Lang, but I need to take another run at him, because he's my best suspect, and I don't foresee getting more leverage soon. The problem is that Lang avoided serious charges for years. He knows I'm fishing, and I don't manage to do anything except scare and intimidate him. Which is a start, at least.