City of the Lost (Casey Duncan #1)(25)

Every time I rock forward, Anders shakes his head. Telling me to keep it cool. Promising me answers. But I don’t know Anders. I don’t know either of them. All I know is that I’m witnessing something that makes me very uncomfortable.

“Butler?” Dalton says. “Empty his pockets.”

I do. There’s a wallet, keys, and the worn paperback he was reading in the bar. That’s it.

“Now take his clothes.” When I hesitate, Dalton turns that gaze on me. “Did I give you an order, detective?”

I manage to get the man’s shirt and trousers off. Dalton has me seal them in an evidence bag that Anders holds out.

“I warned you the last time, Hastings,” Dalton says. “I’m going over your clothes with a goddamn magnifying glass, and if I find even a speck of powder—”

“There’s always powder,” Hastings says. “I’m a chemist.”

“No, here you’re a lab assistant. Which means if I find powder, you’d better hope to hell the doc confirms it’s from this morning’s work.”

“I don’t wash my clothes every day, you moron. We aren’t allowed—”

“Don’t care.” Dalton hauls the smaller man up to eye level. “You’re the only f*cking chemist in town, Hastings. Which means you’re the one making rydex. And as soon as I can prove it, I’m kicking your ass out.”

“You can’t. I’ve only been here a year, and I was promised a two-year—”

“When I say kick you out, I mean put your ass on the back of my ATV and dump you in the forest. You know what’s out there, Hastings?”

The man glowers at him.

“No,” Dalton says. “I don’t think you do. But it’s your lucky day, because I have visuals. We found Harry.”

“What?” Hastings takes it down a notch. “Is he okay?”

“For a smart man, you ask some dumb questions. He spent a week in the forest. From the looks of it, he didn’t last past the first nightfall. But don’t take my word for it. I’m going to escort you to the clinic, where you can see exactly what’ll happen if I find out you have anything to do with the rydex. Fair warning, though? I really hope you haven’t had lunch yet. Because you’re about to lose it.”

Dalton hauls Hastings out the front door, still dressed in his boxers. We watch them go. Then Anders turns to me. “So, speaking of lunch, are you hungry?”



I do not want lunch. What I want at this moment is to grab Diana and get the hell out of here. But I squelch that and tell Anders I want to see the victim.

“Sure, I’ll take you over,” then “And Eric’s right. Better skip lunch until afterward.”

As we walk, I resist the urge to ask Anders about the body. Better for me to see it and form my own impressions. I do ask about the drugs, though.

“Rydex,” he says. “That’s the local name for it. Opiate based. Highly addictive. And one of the most serious problems we’re dealing with right now.”

“One?”

“Yep,” he says. He doesn’t elaborate, just goes on to explain that rydex is a homegrown drug that’s been circulating for a few years, which means it predates Hastings’s arrival, but it was only after Hastings got to Rockton that it became a serious problem, meaning Dalton suspects Hastings tinkered with the formula to make it more addictive.

“Where’s he getting the ingredients from?” I ask. “Presumably, if he’s working at the clinic, he’s using prescription drugs, but it’s easy enough to monitor that. And only Dalton has access to the outside world, right?”

He catches my look. “Hell, no. Don’t even go there, detective. Eric might not have made the best impression so far, but he’s the last person who’d smuggle in dope. There are other shipments. Drop-offs. The ingredients must be getting in that way. We just haven’t figured out how.”

“Okay, but …?” I say. “Not to sound critical, but this is a town of two hundred people.”

“Why can’t we contain it? Therein lies the real problem of Rockton, Casey. We can’t control anything they don’t want controlled. And by ‘they,’ I don’t mean …” He waves at a few people on the street.

“You mean those in charge.”

“Yep. This town is an unholy mess, and the first thing you need to know is who gives a damn and who doesn’t. Those who do? Really do? I can count them on one hand. Top of the list? The guy you’re working for.”

I must look doubtful, because he says, “We won’t debate his methods. I could, but I think you’re best to just watch and draw your own conclusions. In his defence, I’ll only say that no one cares as much about Rockton. Eric isn’t like everyone else here. First off, he’s native.”

I consider this for a few steps. I’m not wondering whether our blond-haired, grey-eyed sheriff could have First Nations blood—my sister can pass for white while I can’t. What I’m wondering is what his heritage has to do with his commitment to the town.

“So Dal—Eric is … a Native Canadian,” I say.

Anders looks over and then laughs. “No, not like that. He acts like it, with all the time he spends in that forest or sitting on the damn porch staring at it. Though I suppose that’d be a stereotype, wouldn’t it? No, I meant he’s from here.”