"Like the Tardis?" As I say it, I mentally kick myself--pop culture references make him uncomfortable--but he makes a noise suspiciously like a chuckle and says, "Yeah, except no time travelling."
He catches my expression, shakes his head, and says, "Ever heard of those amazing devices calls DVDs?"
"Sure, but what do you play them on up here?"
"Tree stumps. If you carve them out just right and get ground squirrels to run around them really fast, you can project moving pictures on a wall."
"Yeah, yeah."
"We have a DVD player," he says as he starts up the slope. "We hook it up to a screen and generator for movie nights. As sheriff, I have a laptop and access to the generator for charging. I also have an income that I can spend down south on shit like DVDs. You want to watch something? Ask me. My collection is limited, though. Right now I've got Doctor Who, The Walking Dead, and Game of Thrones."
By now I know enough not to even wonder if he's joking.
"Also have Deadwood," he says. "Makes more sense to me than most of your so-called dramas, which is why I stick more to the fantasy stuff."
My foot slides on a particularly steep part. Dalton only glances back to make sure I don't tumble to my doom.
"I might borrow The Walking Dead," I say. "I haven't seen that."
"Good show. Also reminds you that no matter what kind of shit we have in these woods, at least it's not zombies."
"Yet. And you do have cannibals."
He sighs. "I never said we definitely have them. I said the evidence suggests it's possible. Even if we do, they're not charging out of the woods like a zombie horde."
"Yet."
We reach the cave. The opening is a gash in the rock, maybe three feet wide by eighteen inches high. When I catch the smell of a woodfire, I go still and scan the area. Dalton hunkers down to the opening and yells, "Brent! You home?"
"Depends on who's asking," a voice replies.
"Your ex-wife sent me. Something about you owing her money."
"You're gonna have to be more specific than that."
"I'm coming in, and I'm bringing company." Dalton hands me his backpack. "Pass this through to me." Before I can reply, he's on his stomach and crawling through the space. Then his hands appear. I give him the bag. After another thirty seconds, grey eyes peer out.
"You need an invitation, detective? Sure as hell hope you don't need instructions, because you should have been watching."
I get down on my stomach. The gap turns out to be wider than I think. I slide through easily ... and nearly fall onto my head.
Dalton catches me and helps me get upright, and I see we're in an open area that's more like I expect from a cave. Dalton walks, hunched over, to a slope heading down into darkness.
"You gonna turn on the porch light?" Dalton yells.
The hiss of a lantern. Then a wavering light that does little to illuminate what I'm presumably about to climb into.
Dalton grabs a rope on the side and lowers himself down the slope. This time, I pay careful attention. Then I follow. At the bottom, the light is disappearing as a man carries it along a passage. Even I need to crouch to get through this one. Then the man pushes at what looks like a door. It swings open. Flickering light and the smell of woodsmoke pours out and I see a fire, the smoke rising into a hole in the top of what I'm guessing is called a cavern. It looks like one of those bomb shelters from the fifties, though. There's a bed, a table and chairs, and shelves--lots of shelves, with goods from books to canned food. Dried meat hangs from the ceiling along with dried roots and other flora that I presume is edible.
There's a man, too. And he also fits the scene perfectly, looking like a guy who retreated to his bomb shelter fifty years ago and just popped his head out now. He's about seventy, with grey hair in a ponytail, pale, wrinkled skin, and eyes that peer against the light. Right now, they're peering at me.
"Now that's a deputy," he says. "Much prettier than your last one."
"Ms. Butler is a detective."
"Really?" Brent's wire-brush brows shoot up. "Women do that nowadays?"
"Women do everything nowadays," I say.
He grins. "Except piss standing up."
"Oh, they can do that, too. It's just messy."
He laughs like this is the funniest thing he's heard in years. Then he ushers me to a chair--sorry, the chair--and pours me a glass of water from a collapsible pouch.
"Are you a police detective?" he asks. "Or a private eye?"
"Police," I say.
"I was in law enforcement, too."
"Brent was a bail bondsman," Dalton says.
"Bounty hunter, please. It sounds sexier." Brent turns to me. "Shitty job. Paid well, but do you know the problem with people who jump bail?"
"They don't want to be caught?"
He cackles a laugh. "Right you are. And they are highly motivated. Got shot three times and stabbed five, and I have the scars to prove it. Here, let me show you."
"Another time," Dalton says.
"Hey, I bet I've got the best damned body she's ever seen on a man my age. Living up here? Climbing in and out of this place a few times a day? Take a look at--" He starts pulling up his shirt.
Dalton stops him with, "Save it for a special occasion." He looks at me. "Brent chased a guy up here. Fellow ambushed him with sulphuric acid. He will not show you the scars to prove that, but it made him decide to give up chasing bad guys and just stay."
"In Rockton?" I ask.
"Fuck no," Brent says. "Pardon my French. Do you know what that place really is?"
"Brent is a conspiracy theorist," Dalton says. "He's got a dozen of them for Rockton. Next time we come out, ask him to tell you the one where it's a test facility for biological warfare. That's his best."
"You think so?" Brent says. "I like the alien ones better."
"The alien ones are shit." Dalton hefts the knapsack he brought. "Got some stuff for you, presuming you have goods and intel to trade."
"Both for you, Eric. Always. Did you bring me that Canadiens jersey?"
"Couldn't find it. Picked up a Maple Leafs one instead. That's okay, right?"
Brent spends the next minute telling Dalton why it is not okay in a diatribe only a true hockey fan could appreciate.
Dalton only shrugs. "Stupid fucking game anyway."
He gets another minute of fan ranting for that. Then he pulls out a Canadiens jersey and tosses it to Brent, who takes it and mutters, "Asshole." Then he turns to me. "I played for the Canadiens, you know."
"One season," Dalton says. "He warmed the bench."
"Asshole," Brent mutters.
"Keeping you honest." Dalton lowers himself to the floor in front of the fire and makes himself comfortable. "What do you have for me, Brent?"
Brent gives him a rundown on everything he's seen in the past week or so. The camp we'd spotted below was trappers--two men and a woman who are apparently part of a tiny community of former Rockton residents, now living about ten kilometres east. Dalton knows them and grumbles because they were supposed to "check in" when they were in the area, so his militia didn't mistake them for bears.
Speaking of bears, Brent had spotted two grizzlies, a "sow" and a young "boar," and I make a mental note of the terms. Dalton knows the female and wonders if the male is her son from a few springs back, and they debate that, rather like trying to figure out the parentage of a local kid based on whom he resembles.
Brent had also spotted a feral dog that had been giving them both trouble. He'd shot at it with his bow. "Lost the goddamn arrow," he says. He'd seen signs of a hostile, too, but that was way out, when he'd gone on an overnight hike. It was a woman, who'd only watched him. Dalton suggests she might have thought he looked like good husband material and razzes him about that, but otherwise seems unconcerned.
I listen, saying nothing, fascinated by what I'm hearing. It is all so far outside my realm of experience. And yet it isn't. Take out the details, and it sounds exactly like me deali
ng with a confidential informant. Brent lets Dalton know what is going on in the area, in return for goods like clothing and coffee and other items impossible to come by for a guy living in a cave.
When Brent finishes with the basic report, Dalton asks specific questions about Powys and Hastings. Brent never saw the former, hasn't seen the latter. He's a little annoyed by the question, too.
"If I spotted one of your people out here alone, you don't think I'd tell you?"
"Depends. Last time we had a runner, you admitted you saw him and never told me."
"I would have as soon as I saw you again."
"Could come by the town."
"I wasn't in a sociable mood."
"If you see anyone, will you come by?" Dalton pauses for at least ten seconds before adding, "Please." Brent sobers at that, as if the "please" tells him how serious this is.
"Everything okay, Eric?" he asks.
"That first guy I mentioned turned up dead with his legs cut off. There were signs he'd been butchered."
"Jesus." Brent pales. "You're serious?" He doesn't even wait for an answer before saying, "Course you are. Sorry. I just ..." He looks like he wants to sit, and I rise, but he waves me back down. "Butchered? You're sure?"
"Am I sure someone cut off parts and ate them? No. Am I sure someone wanted it to look that way? Yeah."
Brent exhales. "Okay. Right. I just ... The cannibalism thing ... I've had some damned hard winters, but no matter how bad it gets, even if I stumbled over someone ..." He shudders. "No way. No fucking way." He glances sheepishly at me. "Sorry."
"Like I said, women do everything now. Even swear."
The smile grows, just a little, and they continue talking. Then they barter goods, and I'm not sure how much use Dalton has for the fur and cured meat, but he bargains hard, as if he does.
Before we leave, Brent says, "Hold on a sec. Got something for the little cutie-pie here."
"Her name's Casey," Dalton says.
Brent grins. "Please tell me you had a dog named Finnegan."
"Sure did," I say. "When I was five. He was a brown dog, just like the one on the show. He only existed in my mind, but he was the best imaginary pet ever."
Brent lets out a whoop of laughter, and I say to Dalton, "It was a kids' show. Mr. Dressup. There was a puppet named Casey--"
"--who had a dog named Finnegan." He offers a brief smile and a nod. "Got it."
"Well, that tells me what present to pick for you, then." Brent disappears into a dark corner of the room and hunkers down by an opening into what must be like a closet for him. He rattles around inside it and brings back a fist-sized woodcarving.
"Fox," he says. "I don't have a dog, but this is close."
"It's gorgeous," I say, and it is, so intricately carved that I can feel the fur under my fingers. "Did you do this?"
He nods with a gruff, "Lots of free time in the winters."
I thank him and ask if I can come back with Dalton sometime.
"Anytime," he says, and looks genuinely pleased.
We go to leave. I climb out first. When I'm nearly at the top, I hear Brent say, in a low voice to Dalton, "You seen Jacob?"
Dalton's reply comes quickly. "No. Why?"
"We were supposed to go hunting together three days ago. He never showed."
"What?"
"Nothing to worry about, Eric. It's not like he can call my cellphone if he has to cancel. I did see him the next day. Just caught a glimpse of him as I was coming down the mountain. I tried to hail him, but he didn't seem to hear."
"But you definitely saw him."
"I did. Sorry. Didn't mean to spook you."
I continue out through the cave entrance and their voices fade behind me. A few moments later, Dalton passes out the backpack.
All the way down the side of the hill, he says nothing. Then, at the bottom, he looks over to see me admiring the woodcarving, and I can feel that laser gaze drilling into me.
"You don't need to go back," he says.
"Is that your way of telling me I shouldn't?"
Frustration flashes in his eyes. "If I was telling you not to--"
"--then you'd tell me not to. Sorry. I'm still new at this, sheriff."
He nods. Then we take a few steps before he says, "Brent has some problems. Beth says he might be mildly bipolar. You know what that is?"
"I'm a city cop. I need to know what that is."
"He's never been a threat, but he makes Will nervous. I'm not sure it's the mood swings or just the idea of someone living like that. Which is the long way of saying that if you aren't comfortable going back ..."
"Then I'd never have offered. He's interesting. His situation is interesting, too, living out there. Which isn't to say that I'm looking at him like some kind of freak, either."
"All right, then."
After a few more steps, he glances over. I'm behind him and he looks out over his shoulder rather than directly back at me.
"You were kind to him." A moment's pause. "I appreciate that."
I nod, and we continue on to the ATVs.
Nine
When we get back to the station, I take off to find Diana and try to make dinner plans. She's getting ready for a date, though, so I return to the office until seven then go home and, well, work some more. Or I do until nine, when Anders spots my lantern glowing and pops in to say he's grabbing a beer with Dalton and asks if I want to join them. I do.
We take a table in the back corner of the Red Lion. Or I should say Dalton takes it, a jerk of his thumb making the couple who'd been there move without so much as a glower. Dalton waves me to the chair against the wall, and he and Anders pull up the other two across from me. Any guy who wants to get friendly with the new girl needs to pass both of them. No one tries.
I have a tequila shot followed by an iced tea. There's no chance of ordering a Diet Coke here. They fly in liquor, but otherwise it has to be something you can brew or mix with water.
We order nachos, too. The chips are cut and baked from homemade tortillas and the salsa is freshly made from greenhouse veggies. Both are delicious. There are a half-dozen chefs in Rockton, and they're among the highest-paid residents, which means only the best get the job, and they do their damnedest to keep it.
Nearly two hours pass, eating and drinking and talking. The bar's full, but we aren't bothered for our table.
"--we go into the forest," Anders is saying, "looking for this so-called wolf and--"
"Deputy!" a voice calls behind him. "I thought you were too busy to come out and play."
He turns, and I see Diana grinning in a way that I know means she's had too much to drink.
"You've been busy a lot, William," she continues. "And I'm trying not to take it personally, but ..." She sees me and stops short. "Oh." Then with a sharp twist of sarcasm, "Well, that explains it."
"We were just grabbing after-shift drinks." I wave at Dalton, making it clear this isn't a tete-a-tete between me and Anders. "You're welcome to pull up a chair."
"Oh, am I? How generous." She walks to Dalton and leans over his shoulder to whisper loudly, "That means I get you. I always get the reject."
I freeze, certain I've misheard. Then I push to my feet. "Maybe we should step outside--"
"And settle this like men?" She lifts her fists as she sways. "Winner takes all? Or just one?" She leans to fake-whisper between the guys. "Casey doesn't do threesomes. She acts all liberal, and God knows she's not particular, but it's only one at a time, so don't get your hopes up."
I have her by the arm now. "All right, we're stepping out--"
She wrenches from my grasp and turns on Anders. "I figured this was the problem. I show up last week and you're all into me, but then less than twenty-four hours after you leave my bed, you seem to have forgotten my name. Because Casey arrived."
Anders is on his feet, sneaking glances at me as he lowers his voice to say, "We both had way too much to drink that night, Diana, and I feel like I took advantage. I said that a
fterward. I meant it."
"And I said you didn't take advantage, which means it's a bullshit excuse. I was fuckable when you were drunk. Why not just say that and--"
"Di, let's step out," I say.
"I asked if you had your eye on Will, and you brushed me off, when obviously--"
"When obviously I'm having a drink with both my co-workers--"
"But you've only got your eye on one." She turns to Dalton. "Don't bother. Casey might have lousy taste, but one thing she doesn't go for? Weird."
"Di!" I say.
"What? He is. Everyone says so. He's got more screws loose than you, which is saying a lot. No, like I told Casey, Will, you're exactly her type. Hot guys with more muscles than brains."
My fingers are locked around her arm again as I hiss, "That's enough--"
"Did she tell you boys about the guy she left behind? Ex-con bartender who could barely spell his own name. The guy was so dumb he took a bullet for her, and when she tells him she's leaving, he gives her that cheap necklace she's wearing."
I've released her arm, and I'm shouldering my way through the crowded bar.
"Hey!" Diana calls. "Where are you going? Can't take the truth, Casey ..."
She keeps talking. I walk out.
I'm in the gap between the bar and the next building, catching my breath, trembling with rage.
I'm not angry over what she said about me. An ex once said there was no use insulting me because nothing he could say was worse than what I already thought of myself. I think he was 50 percent full of shit--a frustrated psych major who couldn't get into grad school--but the other 50 percent ...? I don't know.
What I'm pissed off about is letting Diana insult two guys who sure as hell didn't deserve it. I should have wised up and realized that once her target was gone, she'd stop.
Footsteps sound behind me. I'm facing the wall. I wait to be sure they're coming my way, and it's not just some random drinker who decided he needed an outdoor piss. The booted footfalls keep coming.
"I'm sorry," I say. "That put you in a bad spot, and ..." I turn, expecting Will, and see Dalton. "Oh."
"Will's walking her home," he says. "I asked him to."
"Thank you. I'm really sorry. She's drunk and--"
"She's a bitch."
I don't stiffen. I don't leap to her defence. I feel as if I should, because I always do, and she's my friend and she's drunk. But I just say, "What she said about you was totally uncalled for--"
City of the Lost: Part Three Page 5