City of the Lost (Casey Duncan #1)(39)

I’m making coffee when Dalton walks in just past nine. I get a “Fuck” for my efforts.

“I was awake,” I say, “and I figured you’d stop by here and get some work done before you picked me up.”

“When’d you arrive?”

“Ten minutes ago.”

He grunts at that, and maybe he just doesn’t want me overdoing it … or maybe I’m not the only one with a competitive streak. Either way, he carries his coffee out onto the back deck. I pour the rest of the pot into a thermos—there’s no hot plate here to keep it warm. Then I take my mug and follow.

“Can I talk to you?” I ask as he settles into his chair.

“What’s stopping you?”

“When you come out here, you seem to want quiet.”

He shrugs. “You can talk. If I don’t want to listen, I’ll tell you to go away.”

My lips twitch. “Some people might take offence at that.”

“Then let’s hope you aren’t one of them, or you’re going to spend most of your time here being offended.”

I give him a full smile for that, and he tilts his head, as if trying to figure out exactly what prompted it.

“If you’re going to talk, talk,” he says. “Once this mug’s empty, we hit the trails. It’ll be a full day of searching.”

I walk to the railing. I don’t sit in front of him—I have a feeling that’d be a little too close for both of us. But I perch on the corner of the railing, and he looks over, assessing again. I feel as if he processes data like a computer, detecting and analyzing every nuance. She’s smiling. She’s sitting on the railing instead of the deck. Is that good?

It is. It means I’m relaxing and settling in. Yet there’s a wary look in Dalton’s eyes, as if he accepts nothing at face value, always searching for deeper meaning, potentially negative.

“I took a quick look through the case files this morning—” I begin.

“I thought you just got in.”

“At ten to nine. I started the water and then flipped through the files to check on something. I was looking at the cases of other attacks. Specifically, how close they were to the town and the level of violence involved. The other bodies were found several kilometres in. Powys was barely one, and the level of violence was a huge escalation.”

“Yep.” That’s all he says. Then he drinks more coffee.

“Have there been problems with the, uh, hostiles lately? Could this be a response to a provocation?”

I’m expecting him to snap back that no provocation would justify cutting a man off at the knees—literally. But he says, “No,” and continues drinking.

“Is it possible the death was staged?” I ask. “That someone in town did it and is trying to blame these hostiles?”

“Yes.” The answer comes without hesitation.

“You’ve already considered this,” I say. “Were you going to discuss your thoughts with your new detective?”

“Sure. If you didn’t bring it up. Gonna give you a chance to prove you aren’t an idiot first.”

“Thanks.”

He nods, accepting the gratitude without seeming to catch the sarcasm. He’s draining his coffee, and I’m struggling to pick through my thoughts and choose the best question before my window evaporates, but before I can, he says, “The thing you need to understand about the hostiles is that they’re animalistic.”

“Brutally violent, you mean.”

He swings his gaze my way; a laser beam that slices through me like I’ve misstepped in a high-tech heist.

“Do you know anything about animals, detective? Predators?”

I think fast. “Yes, they … Oh, okay. When you said animalistic, I took that colloquially. You mean literally. That they’re like predators. They kill for survival. For food, trespass, threat, and such.”

A grudging nod, and I feel as if the laser has stopped just short of cutting a major artery, but it hasn’t backed up yet.

I continue. “You mean that the hostiles are predatory. Which is what you implied in your notes on the possible cannibalism. To them, it would be about survival. Taboos don’t count. While they’d certainly kill Hastings if he posed a threat—and might even kill him if they were experiencing a severe food shortage—the actual level of violence inflicted was unnecessary. It’s sadistic. Which is human. Primate, at least. Some apes have been shown to demonstrate … Well, that’s not important.”

He hesitates, as if he’s about to say, No, explain. New data for that curious mind. But then he nods abruptly, acknowledging this isn’t the time for digressions, and I put the subject in my back pocket, as something I might be able to pull out later, to engage him in conversation.

“That’s what you meant, right?” I say.

“Yes.”

“Okay.” I sip my coffee, which is cooling quickly in the brisk morning air. “Can I ask you about—”

“Coffee’s done.” He gets to his feet. “Time to head out.”

“Okay, but can we talk about the hostiles as we walk? It’ll help if I better understand—”

“I’m getting Will. Meet me at the stables.”

“Stables?” I say as we walk through the station.