City of the Lost (Casey Duncan #1)(19)

Even if six years have passed since he went straight, Kurt still feels like a two-bit convict. He’s not. Never was. He screwed up as a kid—we all do. It was time to get past that and make a real life, for him and his son. Yes, his son. It was time for that, too. To fight for visitation rights. To stop listening to his ex tell him how wonderful her husband is, how much better a father he makes, how much better a role model. Kurt is the boy’s father. He’s supported his child since birth, and he deserves this, too. Time to take what he’s owed, as hard as that might be. He’ll be better for it. His son will be better for it. I have absolutely no doubt of that.

I put the letter on my pillow, resist the urge to risk waking him with a goodbye kiss, and then I leave.





Four

My journey starts with a rental car in the park where we’d last met, keys under the floor mat with instructions for me to drive not to my local airport but to one six hours away. Then I’m to catch a plane to Vancouver. When I land, I get the confirmation code for my second flight up to Whitehorse. That’s Whitehorse in the Yukon Territory.

Flying out of Vancouver, I saw nothing but city and mountain and sea. When we descended from the clouds? Green. At first, it looks like fields. Then we dip low enough for me to realize it’s trees. No fields in sight. No towns, either. Just trees in every direction.

I see mountain ranges, too. I only hope the snow on top of them is glacial ice and not a hint to expect winter already.

One thing I don’t see? Signs of people, not until we’re closer to the airport, where a few roads cut through the forest. They’re beige zigzags wandering through the hills, as if going nowhere in particular. There are lakes too, including one with bright green water, almost neon.

I’m so busy gawking that I barely notice we’re landing until we’re down. It’s a small airport with only a couple of baggage carousels. The sheriff meets me at one. He doesn’t ask how my flight went. His greeting is: “Got a six-hour drive ahead of us. Get your bags and then we’ll hit a drive-thru for dinner.”

“I ate earlier. I’ll just grab something at our destination.”

“Nothing will be open when we get there. You want to eat on the way? Your options are pop, chips, and whatever else you can buy at a gas station.”

“Okay, we’ll hit a drive-thru.” My bag arrives. I grab it and then ask, “How’s Diana?”

“Fine.”

That’s all I get. As we’re heading out, I say, “Do you have a name?”

“Most people do.”

We cross the road to the parking lot.

“I could just call you sheriff for six months.”

“Works for me.” He pops the back on a little SUV. “Dalton,” he says at last. “Eric Dalton.”

Then he gets into the car. It’s going to be a long six hours.



We hit a drive-thru and head out. The city fades in a blink, giving way to forest and mountain. When something black shambles onto the road, I jolt forward in my seat, saying, “Is that a … bear?”

“Yeah.”

Dalton stops the SUV and drums his fingers on the wheel as the bear ambles across, taking its sweet time. When it’s halfway over, it turns and snarls.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dalton mutters.

“Is it safe to be this close?”

He gives me a look like I’m asking if it’s safe to be this close to a dog crossing the street. “It’s a black, not a brown.”

“Okay …”

“Black bear,” he says. “Browns are twice the size. Better known as grizzlies.”

“There are grizzlies here?”

“About seven thousand of them. They usually stick to the mountains.”

“And the town isn’t near a mountain?”

“No. It’s near two.”

After that, it’s a silent drive on an empty road. We enter an area where periodic signs mark past fires with dates, and I can still see the damage, twenty years later. I catch a glimpse of what looks like a huge deer at the roadside. Dalton grunts, “Elk,” and that’s it for the next thirty minutes, until I start seeing brown rodents darting across the road and popping up along the side to watch us pass.

“Are those prairie dogs?” I ask.

“You see prairie?” Before I can answer, he says, “Arctic ground squirrels.” I think that’s all I’m getting, but after a few more kilometres he says, “Won’t see them much longer. They’ll hibernate soon, sleep for seven months.” Another pause, maybe a kilometre in length, then he says, “Body temperature goes down to near freezing.”

“How’s that possible?”

He shrugs. “Bigger question is how their brains survive on stored energy for that long. I’ve read some articles. It’s interesting. Potential applications for human brain degeneration.”

I try to prod him on that. Or I do after I recover from the shock of it, because he does not strike me as a guy who sits around reading scientific journals for fun. He ignores the prods, and I wonder if it’s because of my pause—if he offered something that could start an intelligent conversation, and I was obviously floored by the prospect, so to hell with me.

Another thirty minutes of silence. Then he does start to talk, and it’s not about the regenerative properties of the ground squirrel brain. It’s about the town—Rockton. Details on my duties there and so on.