City of the Lost (Casey Duncan #1)(33)

Like the wolves, though, the hostiles aren’t exactly on our doorstep. They’re a bigger danger to the settlers, because both live deep within this seemingly endless forest, while the average Rockton citizen doesn’t go more than a half mile in, and only on escorted trips during daylight hours. The deaths occur mostly with hunting parties and the deep-woods patrols that keep an eye out for hunters, loggers, and other potential intruders.

As for cannibalism, like Dalton said, the evidence is far from conclusive. It’s just a matter-of-fact possibility. In his notes, I saw the man who’d talked about the medical implications of ground squirrel hibernation. It was like reading an article in a sociology journal, the language precise, the vocabulary wide, the text thoughtful and analytical at the same time. He doesn’t think there are mad savages in the woods intent on devouring the flesh of their enemies. Rather, if there is cannibalism, it would be a matter of survival, the need for food during harsh times.

It’s not winter now, though, meaning there was no such reason for butchering Powys. Either we were seeing signs of a more ritualistic cannibalism or Powys had been deliberately cut up as a message—a warning from those in the forest.

Like Dalton, I’m a realist. I’m not shocked by accounts of man-eating bears and tigers. If you’re on their turf, you’re a threat and potentially dinner. Fair enough. As for humans doing the same, obviously I’d like to think we’re above that, but if we’ve lost what it means to be human, would we not see people as these animals do?

What does bother me, thinking of those hostiles, is an anxiety I can’t quite nail down, so I sit on my balcony, with the wolves howling and the breeze bringing tendrils of fireplace smoke, and when I close my eyes to drink it all in, that’s the last thing I remember thinking. That I like it here. In spite of everything, I like it.





Eleven

“Butler?” The voice cuts into dreams of whipping along a forest path on an ATV.

“Butler?” Then, “Goddamn it,” and a brusque hand lands on my shoulder.

I bolt awake, blanket falling free. Dalton is on my balcony, looming over me.

“Huh? Wha—?” I shake off the confusion and start to rise, then realize I’m dressed only in my panties. I pull the blanket to my neck as I get to my feet.

“What are you doing out here?” he says.

“I …” I blink hard and look out at the still-dark forest, my brain refusing to find traction. “I couldn’t sleep. And wolves. There were …” I trail off, realizing how silly that sounds, but he nods, as if this requires no further comment.

“You’d better have your service revolver under that blanket,” he says.

I blink harder. Then I realize Dalton is standing on the balcony. My balcony. In the middle of the night.

“Wait,” I say. “Did you break into my—?”

“I have a key. You weren’t answering the door.”

I yank the blanket higher and peer into the dark night. “Tell me it’s not eight a.m. already.”

“It’s not. We have a problem. First, though, if you’re out here at night, you’d damned well better have your gun.”

“Why?” I wave over the side of the balcony. “Do we have flying monkeys in the forest, too?”

“Keep your gun at your bedside. Always. That’s an order, detective.”

I shake my head. “I’m not being difficult, sheriff. Therapists call it a hypersensitive survival instinct. If I have a gun and I see a threat, I could use it to defend myself before I fully process the extent of that threat.”

He snorts.

“And no, that’s not my excuse for what I did down south. But if I did have my gun out here, there’s a good chance I would have shot you.”

He shakes his head and walks back inside, saying, “Get dressed. Come down. Hastings is missing. Someone saw him heading into the woods two hours ago. We need to find him before he gets himself killed.”



We step outside, and Dalton hands me a lantern. A blast of bitter wind hits me, and I pull my jacket tighter.

“You want to grab something warmer?” Dalton asks.

“I’m fine.”

“Let me rephrase that: Get the hell back inside and put on something warmer, Butler.”

I obey. I’m grabbing a sweater when I remember seeing a bag of what had looked like outerwear with my supply boxes. I dump it and find gloves, a hat, and boots, all much thicker than the outerwear I brought. I scoop up the hat and gloves and hurry outside.

Anders has joined Dalton on my front porch. My first thought is, I have a front porch? Followed by, My front porch has a chair—I could haul that up to the balcony. I shake off the whim and yank on my gloves as I greet Anders. Dalton is already on the move, disappearing into the dark.

“Rule number one for working with Eric: keep up,” Anders whispers as we jog after the sheriff. “Two years later, I’m still trying.”

Dalton has headed around the rear of my house. He’s moving fast along that strip of yard, as if this is his secret road past the traffic-jammed streets of Rockton.

When we reach him, I say, “Can I make an observation?”

He snorts. “Well, that’s a f*cking stupid question. I hired a detective, not a mime.”