City of the Lost: Part Six

by Kelley Armstrong

  His gaze is on the bedspread now as he shakes his head. "Yeah, no excuse. So ..." He lifts his head and runs a hand through his hair. "How do we get past this, Casey? Maybe that's a stupid question. Maybe I should know the answer and not be asking you, but I don't, so I am, because all I can think to say is that I'm so fucking sorry, and if I could undo it, I would. It will never happen again."

  "You're right it won't happen again. Because I'm never going in the forest alone with you ever again. Not after that."

  He nods, gaze lowered. "I know. But it won't happen here, either. I won't ..." He clears his throat. "Whatever's going on with us ... I mean, for me ... It just ... won't happen again. I promise."

  Silence, as I try to make sense of that.

  "You are apologizing for taking off on me in the forest, right?" I say.

  His head shoots up. "What?"

  "For stomping off in a huff and leaving me alone out there."

  His eyes widen. "Hell, no. I didn't--I walked away, sure, but not far. I figured you could still see me. I was just ... I was getting some distance. Cooling off. Not because I was angry. Just ... cooling down. When I turned around, you were gone, and I didn't blame you, considering what I did."

  "What did you do?"

  He looks at me, part confusion and part wariness, as if I'm asking such a silly question that it must be a trick. Then he shifts his weight, looking uncomfortable, and says, "Forcing myself ... you know. The kiss and ... pushing. I didn't mean to, and I thought you were reciprocating, but clearly I misinterpreted, and when you told me to stop, I didn't."

  "You did stop."

  "Only after you said it twice and pushed me away. I heard you the first time, and I don't know why I didn't stop." He shakes his head. "Fuck, yeah, I know. I was pretending I didn't hear in case you didn't mean it, and if you did mean it, then you'd say it again, only you shouldn't need to say it again and ..." He exhales. "I fucked up, Casey. I really fucked up, and all I can say is that I'm sorry, and it'll never happen again."

  I'm quiet for a moment, considering my words, then say, carefully, "I did reciprocate, Eric. You're the one who didn't want it."

  "I--"

  "Twice you said--very clearly--that you didn't want it. I'm not going to have sex with a guy who'll regret it ten minutes later. I'm especially not going to have sex with my boss if he'll regret it ten minutes later."

  He frowns, and I can see he's honestly working through why that would be a bigger problem.

  "Oh," he says after a moment. "Yeah, I guess ... I hadn't thought--Fuck, I wasn't thinking at all."

  "You were stressed, and that was the outlet. I understand."

  "I ... No, it wasn't ..." He's working this through, too, furiously. I'm suddenly exhausted, and I want to say, Go, Eric. Just go.

  "Regardless of why you kissed me," I say, "I didn't have a problem with it. I didn't have a problem with it taking a second no to stop you. At that speed, it's harder to throw on the brakes. I did have a problem with you walking off because I thought you just got pissy at me saying no. If that's isn't the case--"

  "It's not. At all. I was angry with myself--"

  "Then I accept that, and I'd like to move on. My next interview should be here any second."

  "I wanted to kiss you," he blurts. "When I said I didn't, I ..." More hands-through-hair. Then hands-shoved-in-pockets. "What I meant is that as much as I wanted what we were doing, I know we shouldn't. It's just a really bad idea for you and me to start something, and yeah, maybe that wasn't starting something for you, maybe it was just sex, but it was different for me and--" He exhales hard. "Shit. Stop babbling. Okay. The point is that even if you were interested, there's a lot of crap in my life, and you don't need to share that."

  Silence ticks past as I mentally vacillate between saying what I want to say and keeping my mouth shut.

  Mentally vacillate? Hell, no. That makes it sound so calm and reasoned. My brain swirls, half of it screaming at me to do it, just do it, stop being such a wimp and take the leap, and the other half screaming at me to keep my mouth shut, don't go there, don't open myself up.

  I raise my gaze to his. "And what if I want to share that?"

  A one-second pause. A split second of surprise and something I can't quite catch. Then he looks away, and I feel that break like a punch. See? See? I told you to keep your damned mouth shut, Casey.

  "You tell me I need to go after what I want," I say. "But this isn't about what I want, is it? It's not about whether I'm willing to share your shit. You don't want to share it."

  "It's isn't--"

  "My next interview will be here any moment. Please go down and let him in."

  "I--"

  "Go, Eric. Now."

  Five

  Back to the case. Because there is, you know, despite all the personal drama, there's still a killer to be found. Possibly two.

  I already know Kenny had seen both Mick and a woman matching Diana's description heading into the woodshed. I question him thoroughly, but there's little more to get than that. One other person saw Mick heading toward that side of town. Another saw Diana. Again, not terribly useful, though I do glean a few more details. First, Mick and Diana were not seen together. Second, the witness who saw Diana definitely spotted her alone, meaning no one forced her there.

  I continue interviewing people all day, but I don't get much farther. I confirm that Diana had been with the people she'd claimed to be with. She'd left at the time she'd claimed to leave. She'd been alone. She'd been seen heading in the direction she'd indicated, also alone. As for Mick, those at the Roc that night had seen it play out as Isabel claimed--Mick left at eleven, about an hour after they disappeared into the backroom together.

  Dalton stays downstairs during my interviews. Whenever he has to leave, Anders stops by, and I suspect that's no accident. Dalton isn't taking chances. There's a killer in town and so his injured detective is under full-time guard.

  When my interviews are done, I nap. I have to--I'm still exhausted. I dream of the forest and of Jacob, and even asleep, my mind works the case. It's possible that paranoid delusions drove Jacob to kill Abbygail, Powys, and Hastings in the forest. Irene could be a separate case, like Mick. But Abbygail died two months ago, and Dalton says Jacob was fine a few weeks ago.

  I'm thinking of that and then dream I'm back in the forest, Jacob with the knife at my throat, and I feel his hand on my shoulder, and my eyes open, and I see his grey eyes right above mine, and I lash out, right hook catching him in the jaw, the left in the gut, and he falls onto me ... onto the bed with me, and I realize it's not Jacob I've hit. It's Dalton.

  He backs up fast, wincing.

  "And you wonder why I don't keep a gun under my pillow."

  "Yeah." He rubs his jaw. "My mistake. I thought you saw me." A strained half smile. "Well, unless you did. I probably deserve that." The smile lingers another second. Then it falters. "Or did you think I was--?"

  "I was just reacting to someone looming over me as I slept."

  "You were having a bad dream," he says, and he waits, as if for me to explain.

  I sit up and look around, blinking hard.

  "I brought dinner," he says.

  He takes a tray from the chair and brings it over and points out what he's gotten for me. Soup, because it's easy to eat if I'm not up to solid food. A sandwich if I am--peanut butter and jam, but he can get something different if he's chosen wrong. And pie. Brian at the bakery asked what he could make for me, and Dalton remembered we'd talked about apple pie. The rest of it is downstairs for later.

  I don't want him to try this hard.

  I want him to throw it off. So, yeah, it's been a shitty forty-eight hours, Butler, but what's past is past, so let's move on and I sure as hell hope you aren't planning to lounge in this bed tomorrow.

  I want Dalton's snap and his growl and his swagger. Instead, I get apple pie and "Are you sure PB&J is okay? They were making shredded venison for tomorrow's sandwiches. I could get you some of t
hat if you want."

  "What I want is for you to stop apologizing."

  "I'm not--"

  "Yeah, Eric. You are."

  He nods, settles onto the chair, and watches me eat. Then he stands abruptly and leaves without a word.

  "Well, that's more like it," I mutter under my breath, as I dig into the pie.

  Thirty seconds later, he's back with the tequila and a shot glass.

  "I don't want--" I begin.

  "Good, 'cause you can't have it with the drugs. This is for me."

  He starts to open the bottle. Then he stops, sets it aside, and walks out again. I hear the distant click of the front door lock. Then the tramp of his boots as he goes to check the back door. He comes up and closes the bedroom one, too.

  I say nothing. He pours a shot. Gulps it. Winces and shakes his head sharply, his eyes tearing at the corners.

  "Fuck," he says.

  "Yep, you really should stick to beer."

  He shakes his head and pulls the chair over to the bed. Then he pours another shot.

  "Umm," I say. "That's probably not a good--"

  He downs it, and he's hacking after that, his eyes watering. His hand, still clutching the shot glass, trembles. He notices and puts it down fast.

  "We need to talk," he says.

  "That's usually best done sober."

  "Not for this." He wipes his mouth and straightens. "Diana said I'm fucked up. She may be a bitch, but she's right. Everyone knows it. They think it's because I grew up here. That's only part of it."

  He rubs the back of his neck. "You said I don't want to share my problems with you. You're right. I don't share this with anyone. Anyone. Because if they already treat me like a freak, this isn't going to help." He looks at the shot glass, still in his hand. "So I could just keep refusing to talk about it. Be the guy with the deep, dark secret."

  He smacks the shot glass down. "Fuck it. I'm not that guy. I don't want to be that guy. Not with you. So this is your last chance. If you'd rather not hear it ..."

  "I want to."

  "Fine, but if you ever treat me differently because of this--"

  "I'd like to think you know me better than that."

  He eases back, his voice lowering. "Yeah. Okay. So, Jacob ... I was ten. He was seven. We'd wander in the woods for hours. Our parents taught us how to find our way, and we were always home by dark. Then one day we see these people. I'm curious. I make Jacob stay back while I check them out. It's a group, camping and hunting. For three days, I come back to watch them. Jacob's freaked out. He wants to tell our parents. I say no fucking way. I threaten to leave him at home next time. On the third day, he's still whining, so I tell him to get out of my damned face, and I stomp off, exactly like you thought I did yesterday. And that's when it happens."

  "They take him."

  "No." He inhales and straightens and meets my gaze. "Not him. They take me."

  "And then what? You escape and ..." I trail off. I mentally retrace his story, and I realize there's more than one way of looking at it.

  "Your parents ..." I say. "The Daltons aren't your parents. They took you. From the forest. From ..."

  "Yeah."

  I blink, and I'm trying so hard not to react, to act like this is no big deal. Huh, guess I got that backwards. Interesting.

  But it is a big deal. A huge deal, because losing a little brother would be tough, but to be the one lost himself, to be taken from his family...

  "So, yeah," he says. "That's where I come from. Out there. I was one of them. Still am, in a lot of ways. It's not as if the Daltons rescued me from parents who beat and starved me. At first, I fought like a wolverine. I kept thinking my parents would come for me. But if they tried, I never knew it, so I figured they'd given up on me. I was pissed about that, and then, well ... life was easier in Rockton. The Daltons were good people. I didn't ... I didn't have the experience or the self-awareness to really understand that what they'd done was wrong. Everyone said they did a good thing, rescuing me from the savages, and how lucky I was, and by the time I was old enough to know that wasn't true?" He shrugs. "The Daltons were my parents by then. There was no point going back, because I didn't belong there anymore. I didn't quite belong out here, either. I'm just ... somewhere in between."

  I think of all the times I've been with him in the forest, and how different he is there. All the times he's sat out on the back deck at the station, and we joke that he is an outside cat. But it isn't really a joke. He is that feral cat who'd been brought indoors, and maybe life is easier inside, but he'll never stop feeling the pull of the wild. But he'll never quite be able to live out there again, either.

  "That's why the council's threat is such a big deal, Casey. When I say I couldn't live down south, I'm not being difficult or stubborn or dramatic. I could not live there. I'd go back into the forest first. But it's not just the council. What if I meet someone here? Someone I want to be with? Someone from down south, who'll expect me to go with her after her term's up, but I can't, and if she wants me, she has to stay here and live a life that's as wrong for her as hers is for me."

  "And that's happened," I say. "In the past."

  "I met someone, fell madly in love, and then she left and broke my heart?" He snorts a genuine laugh. "Fuck no. Might make a better story. But no. When I was a kid, the women here ..." He looks at me. "Maybe this is more than you want to hear?"

  I tell him to go on, and then I shift back and motion for him to come sit on the bed with me, and that seems to surprise him, as if maybe I'd want him out of the room, across the town, somewhere far, far away. But he sits beside me, and relaxes against the pile of pillows.

  "When I was a kid--teenager, young adult--well, there are women here, obviously, and like you've seen, things are different, freer or whatever."

  "Despite the overall lack of women, I suspect there were still some who were happy to teach a young man a few things about sex."

  "Yeah. When you're a eighteen, nineteen, that's pretty much heaven. Considering my age, the women never expected more than sex. But then I got older, and they started wanting to help me. Fix me. Like the poor guy who's never been off the farm, and they're gonna give him the confidence to get out there and make his way in the world."

  "Which couldn't be further from what you wanted."

  He nods. "I'd keep it casual, but they'd still start talking about how I could go back south with them, how they'd help me adjust. A few years back, I had a rough time with a woman who misunderstood, so I said fuck this shit. I've got more important things to do anyway, with being sheriff now and ..." He scratches his chin. "And that's not what I'm trying to say at all. Where was I?"

  "Thinking that the second tequila shot was a bad idea after all?"

  A laugh. "No shit, huh? Okay, so ... Right. I can't leave, and I'm not ever going to fit anyone's definition of normal, and that's what I meant when I kissed you."

  "Uh-huh."

  He squeezes his eyes shut and gives his head a sharp shake. "Let me untangle that. When I said I didn't want that kiss to turn into sex, I didn't mean I didn't want sex." He pauses. "That didn't untangle it at all, did it?"

  "Not really." I sit up a little more. "You don't need to explain--"

  "I'm going to. It just might take some time. Sex, yes. With you, yes. But not like that. Not first-kiss-to-sex in sixty seconds flat, and then that's it and that was fun and let's get back to work. That's what I didn't want. The way it was going. Where it was leading. Not the sex part but the ..." He struggles for a word.

  "The casual part."

  "Exactly. Right. Thank you. Yes. That's not what I wanted with you, and if I start there, how do I go back and say I want more? And, fuck, I can't want more, because I can't give more, and if I can't give more, then it's not fair to say I want more and ..." He pinches the bridge of his nose. "And I really shouldn't have had that second shot."

  I rise to my knees, ignoring the pain in my leg. Then I lean in and kiss him, just a quick press of the lips.r />
  "Let's simplify this," I say when I pull back. "If you're ever forced to leave Rockton, you'll go into the forest or you'll build a new town up here. Not south. Never south. And anyone who wants to be with you has to understand that." I kiss him again. "I understand that."

  He puts his hands to my cheeks and pulls me in for the sweetest kiss, slow and gentle and hungry, that hunger growing as his arms go around me, and he eases me back onto the bed and--

  And I yelp in pain.

  Dalton jumps back so fast he drops me, and I let out a hiss, my eyes shut, wincing as pain rips through me.

  "Sorry, sorry, fuck--" he begins.

  I open my eyes and stop him as he moves in to fuss with me.

  "I'm fine," I say, through my teeth. "Just ... I may need more painkillers before we try that again."

  "Or we may need to not try that again until you don't need painkillers."

  I purse my lips. "No, I'm okay with the painkillers."

  He chuckles and adjusts my pillow, and I pull him down. He resists until he realizes I'm pulling him beside me, not on top, and he stretches out and I ease onto my side, body against his, put my arms around him, and kiss him.

  Six

  We're still kissing--very sweet, very careful kisses, keeping the temperature low--when footsteps pound up the stairs, and Dalton's on his feet, cursing and saying, "I locked the fucking door," when the bedroom one flies open and Anders stops short.

  "Uh ..." he says. "The doors ..."

  "--were locked?" Dalton says. "Suggesting I was trying to let Casey have a quiet dinner?"

  "Right. Sorry. I came by a few minutes ago, and I knocked. Then I tried the door, and when they were both locked, I kinda panicked and went back to the station for the master key."

  I look at Dalton. "There's a master key?"

  "Yeah, in the safe."

  "Can someone explain why we even bother with locks in this town?"

  "Fuck if I know. Makes folks feel better, I guess."

  I shake my head and turn to Anders. "What's the emergency?"

  "Uh ..." He takes a deck of cards from his back pocket.

  When I lift my brows, he says, "I thought you might be bored, so I was coming by to see if you wanted company and entertainment."