City of the Lost (Casey Duncan #1)(20)

We’ve been on the road for about three hours when he stops for gas. When he said that would be the limit of my dining options, I thought he was exaggerating. We have passed two restaurants. One was closed. The other was not the sort of place I’d trust with my digestive health.

The “towns” we’ve passed though were no more than hamlets. When I remark on this to the store cashier, she laughs and says there are more moose than people in the Yukon. I think she’s joking, but when I ask Dalton the territorial population, he says it’s thirty-five thousand, three-quarters of whom live in Whitehorse.

“How large is the territory?”

He climbs into the car. “You could put Germany, Belgium, and the Netherlands in it and have room to spare.”

I remember dismissing the idea that you could hide a town in this day and age. I have only to look out the window to imagine how one could lose a town of two hundred in the wilds beyond this lonely highway.

When we finally reach Dawson City, Dalton says it’s too late to fly out to Rockton. We’ll stay the night and leave early.

Outside the town, I see endless piles of gravel covering the landscape—as ugly as scars after hours of forest and hills and lakes.

“Did something happen here?” I ask.

“Gold.”

“I know. The Klondike Gold Rush. A couple hundred years ago.”

“Nope, gold’s still there. Those are dredge-tailing piles, from mining the river. Stopped in the sixties and restarted a few years back. Floating excavators spit up this shit on the ground and leave it, because hell, it’s only empty land. Doesn’t matter if you dump a damned riverbed all over it.”

“They don’t have to clean it up?”

“It’s not environmentally harmful, and up here no one gives a shit about the rest. Lots of other places to look if you want scenery.”

He might brush it off, but I can tell the blight on the landscape offends him.

As we continue into town, I feel as if I’ve time-warped back to those Klondike days. Old-fashioned wooden buildings. Dirt roads. Board sidewalks. When we stop at an inn, Dalton tells me to remove my shoes inside.

“Is that a custom here?”

“When the roads are made of dirt, it’s common sense.”

“Is there a reason for the dirt roads? Construction issues? Materials? The climate?”

“Tourism.”

As I leave my sneakers in a “shoe room,” Dalton checks in. He’s clearly been here before, but he doesn’t say much to the proprietor, just tells her we’ll be having breakfast and then gives me my key and says we’re heading out at eight.



I’d been a little surprised that “eight” was Dalton’s idea of an early departure, but when I rise at seven, it’s still dark out. We’re far enough north that the days are getting short fast.

I go down for breakfast and Dalton’s there, staring out the front window at the empty street. It’s an equally empty room, and I wonder if he’ll want to enjoy his meal in peace, but he waves me over.

I chat with the owner, who’s from Switzerland and brings a plate of cold cuts, cheese, yogurt, and amazing freshly baked bread. Dalton continues staring silently out the window at the dark morning. Then, as I’m polishing off another slice of bread, he plunks my cellphone between us.

“You said you don’t have ties. Just a sister, and you aren’t close.” He gestures at the phone. “You forgot your boyfriend.”

“I said—”

“You told us the guy who got shot is someone you were hooking up with. That”—he gestures at the phone—“is not a hookup.”

Following instructions, I’d shut my phone off as soon as I left home and removed the SIM card shortly after. Once here, I turned it over to Dalton for safe disposal.

I turn on the phone. There’s a message that must have come in just before I removed the card, and I’d been too distracted to check.

Got your note. It means a lot. Means a f*cking lot, Casey. You’re right, and I’m going to stop pissing around and step up. But I want you to do the same. Wherever you go, start over and do it right. Get a life, as the saying goes. Even if you don’t think you want one. You deserve it. I know you said I won’t see you again, but if I do, I want to see you happy.

I sit there, holding the phone, staring at that message.

“I need to send—” I begin.

“No.”

“But—”

“No.” Dalton leans forward. “Is this a problem, detective?”

My hands shake a little. I clench the phone to stop them, but he plucks it from my hands. He’s right. I’ve missed my chance to reply, and that’s my fault for not checking. Any message I send now could be traced to Dawson City.

“I’ll—I’ll get my things,” I say.

I push back my chair and hurry off.





Five

When I realize we’re heading to the local airport—not a private runway—I ask Dalton how we’re going to leave without giving a flight plan. At first, he only says it’s been taken care of. Then he relents and says that flying from a private strip would only be more suspicious, and it’s better to stick close to the law as much as they can. As far as the airport authorities know, he works for a group of miners, flying people and supplies in and out of the bush. Given their occupation, they’re a little cagey about where exactly they’re working, so his flight plan is approximate.