City of the Lost (Casey Duncan #1)(16)

“Have her? I don’t want—”

“But you don’t want me even more. So this is the deal, sheriff … I ask questions, and if I’m convinced your town is plausible, I’ll proceed with my application. You’ll throw your support behind us getting in. Once Diana is safely there, I’ll change my mind. Fair enough?”

He studies me again. Then he gives a grunt that I interpret to mean I can proceed.

I ask for the population and basic stats. Just over two hundred people. Seventy-five percent male. Average age thirty-five. No one under twenty-five. No one over sixty.

“No children, then,” I say.

He pauses, just a split second, but it’s enough to make me wonder why. Then he says, “No children. It’s not the environment for them, and it would raise too many issues, education and whatever.”

“How does the town run?” I ask. “Economically.”

“Seventy percent self-sustaining. Game and fish for meat. Some livestock. Lots of greenhouses. Staples like flour are flown in.”

“Flown in? It’s remote, then.”

“No, it’s in the middle of southern Ontario.” His look calls me an idiot, but I’ve already figured out that if a place like this could exist, it’d be up north. I’m just testing him.

“And how do you stay off the radar?”

He eyes me before answering carefully. “The location handles most of that. No one wanders by out there. Structural camouflage hides the town from the rare bush plane passing overheard. Tech covers the rest.”

“Fuel? Electricity?”

“Wood for heat and cooking. Oil lamps. Generators, but only for central food production. Fuel is strictly regulated. ATVs for my department only and, mostly, we use horses. Otherwise, it’s foot power.”

“Which keeps people from leaving.”

He says nothing. That’s another question answered. They don’t live in a walled community—it’s just too far from civilization to escape on foot.

“No Internet, obviously,” he says without prompting. “No cell service. No TVs or radios. Folks work hard. For entertainment, they socialize. Don’t like that? Got a big library.”

“Alcohol?”

It takes him a moment to say, “Yes,” and the tone suggests that if he had his way, it’d be dry. I don’t blame him. I’ve met cops from northern towns, where entertainment is limited. Booze rules, and booze causes trouble.

“Police force?”

“One deputy. He’s former military police. Militia of ten—strictly patrolling and minor enforcement.”

“Crime rates?”

“Most of what we deal with is disturbances. Drunk and disorderly. Keeping the peace.”

“Assault? Sexual assault?”

“Yes.” His expression says that’s all I’m getting.

“Murder?”

“Yes.”

“In a town of two hundred?” I say. “When’s the last time you had a—?”

“You aren’t coming to my town, detective. You don’t need this information.”

“It shows me what I’d be sending Diana into.”

“Assault is higher than it should be. So is sexual assault. So is murder. None of which I’m proud of. I’ve been sheriff for five years. It’s a work in progress, which is why I have requested a detective.”

“Five years? You’re at the end of your tenure, then? We were told it’s a minimum of two years in town and a maximum of five.”

“Doesn’t apply to me.”

“Back to the crime rates. I’m suspecting they’re higher than normal given the circumstances. People feeling hemmed in, lacking options, drinking too much.”

“Which is no excuse.”

“No,” I say. “But it’d be tricky to handle. It’s worse because you must have a mix of criminals and victims, those escaping their pasts.”

“We don’t allow stone killers in our town, detective. Anyone who has committed a violent offence, it has to have extenuating circumstances, like in your case, where the council feels confident you won’t reoffend. No one running from a violent crime is …” He chews over his words. “Those running from violent crimes are prohibited from entering,” he says finally, and that chill has settled again, as if he’s reciting from the rule book. “But it’s the victims who concern me. They come to escape that.”

Being in the same room as this guy feels like standing on a shock pad. I’m on edge, waiting for the next zap, unable to settle even when those zaps stop. But he’s saying the right things, even if he doesn’t mean to.

“Last question,” I say. “Finances. I know Diana pays five grand to get in. In return, she gets lodging and earns credits for working, which means she isn’t expected to bring expense money. There’s obviously some level of communal living, but that won’t cover everything. Running a secret town has got to be expensive. Who’s paying?”

“Not everyone there’s a saint. We have white-collar criminals whose entrance fee is not five thousand dollars.”

In other words, people who made a fortune stealing from others now paid for the victims. Fittingly.

“All right,” I say. “I’m satisfied. So do we have a deal?”