City of the Lost (Casey Duncan #1)(26)

“The North?”

“Here.” Anders waves around us. “Born and bred, never going to leave.”

“You mean he’s actually from Rockton. I didn’t think anyone— Well, obviously some would be. You can’t fill every position with people looking to escape, and you can’t have them all leave again after five years.”

“True. Some folks are in this for the long haul, like me. But up here, ‘long haul’ usually means ten years tops. Eric is the only exception. His parents came here together. His dad was the former sheriff and Eric was born here.”

That’s why Dalton had hesitated when I mentioned kids. Rockton used to have one: him.

Anders continues. “When his folks retired down south, he took over as sheriff. He’s not going anywhere. Which means he’s the one person you can count on to have Rockton’s best interests in mind. Not necessarily the best interests of every individual person, but the town as a whole, as a concept, if you know what I mean.”

“A sanctuary for those who need it.”

He nods. “Exactly. And for Eric, that sure as hell doesn’t mean bringing in healthy people and sending back addicts. I was an MP in the army. I know what isolation can do to people’s heads. I know what being away from home and feeling unaccountable can do, too. Add drugs to that mix, and it’s ugly, Casey. Just plain ugly. This town has enough problems without that.”





Eight

On our walk across town, I ask about the raised buildings. Anders explains that’s to keep them off the permafrost, so you don’t have icy floors or tilting houses.

Every building also has lots of windows, and I ask Anders about that too, because there’s obviously no place nearby to make glass. He says it’s flown in, which isn’t easy or cheap, especially since they’re all triple-paned for the weather. But they splurge on windows to let in as much natural light as possible and keep the houses from feeling too much like prison cells in the long and dark winters. And they all have shutters to help keep out those winter blasts.

There are plenty of decks and balconies, too, and people are making use of them, sitting outside as they work. I notice Anders isn’t the only one in short sleeves, enjoying what must be a warm fall day to them. It’s only September and sunny, but I’m wearing a jacket, and when that sun drops, I suspect I’ll be unpacking my gloves.

We arrive at the clinic, which looks like every other building. And, like every other one, it seems to be only as big as it needs to be. I’m guessing that’s the heating issue and possibly conservation of overall space and materials.

As we open the door, we hear Hastings.

“—how long you’d last as a real cop, you knuckle-dragging psycho? Real cops don’t get away with this shit, which is why you hide up here, where you can act like the f*cking sheriff in a f*cking Wild West show.”

I glance at Anders. He’s paused in the reception area, making a hurry-up gesture in Hastings’s direction, waiting for the tirade to end. Just another day in Rockton.

Hastings is still going strong. “You think you can intimidate me, *? I’ve been dealing with bullies like you all my life. You might be bigger and stronger, but I’m a helluva lot smarter, and you’re going to regret you ever laid a finger on me.”

Silence. Then Dalton with, “You done?”

“No, I’m not. I’m speaking to the council, and I’m going to make sure you’re disciplined, Dalton.”

“Disciplined?” Dalton says the word slowly, as if testing it out, and I can’t suppress a small smile. “Sure, if that’s how you want to handle this. I thought you said you were going to make me regret it, though.”

“Oh, I’ll make you regret it. Using my brains. Not my fists.”

“By tattling to the council on me? Shit. I was hoping you were going to get creative.”

Anders chuckles and then walks to the doorway.

“Hey, boss,” he says. “Doc ready to talk to us yet?”

“I am,” says a woman’s voice from deeper in the building. “Jerry? Take the afternoon off and cool down. Will? Come on back.”

Hastings storms past me without a sidelong glance. He strides out the door, apparently having forgotten he’s still in his boxers.

I follow Anders into what looks like an examination room. It’s no bigger than the reception area—which held two chairs and the requisite table-stacked-with-old-magazines. We follow Dalton into a slightly bigger room, with another exam table and instrument trays. I resist the urge to look at the covered body and turn my attention to the doctor herself.

She’s in her late thirties. Chestnut-brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. Dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, she’s pulling on a lab coat as we walk in.

“I don’t know whether I’m hoping you’re right about Jerry or not, Eric,” she says. “If he’s making rydex, I can fire his whiny ass. But it also means I lose my lab assistant. How sure are you?”

“Ninety percent.”

She swears under her breath. Then she sees me. “Ah, yes, sorry. First thing we lose out here? Basic manners.” She extends a hand. “Beth Lowry. Harvard med school class of ’01. Charged with malpractice in 2010. Guilty.”

“Charged with …?” I say, certain I didn’t hear correctly.