City of the Lost (Casey Duncan #1)(40)

“Your background check said you can ride.”

“From summer camp, when I was twelve.” How thorough was my background check?

“Stables. Twenty minutes. Saddle up.” He opens the front door. “Don’t take my horse.”

The door is closing. I catch it and call after him. “Which one’s yours?”

“You’re a detective,” he calls back. “Figure it out.”


I grab the coffee thermos, lock up the files, and set out. The stables are on the south edge of town. The pasture is encircled by a solid eight-foot barrier to keep predators from thinking the horses look yummy. Dalton mentioned there’s a permanent stable hand living over the barn, but she’s nowhere to be seen. The horses are up and in the pasture, though, and the stalls are mucked out.

I’d hoped Dalton was being sarcastic about figuring out which horse was his—that I’d find his name over its stall. No such luck.

The obvious choice is the black stallion. The biggest, baddest horse for the local hard-ass. But stallions are notoriously temperamental, and Dalton wouldn’t have the patience for that. Nor would he give a damn about riding the most impressive steed.

I assess the options: five horses to choose from. I saddle up three. I’m leading out a big grey gelding when Dalton and Anders come ambling along.

“That’s not my horse,” Dalton says.

“I should hope not,” I say. “Because I’ve put Will’s saddle on her.” I pass the big reins over. “Correct?”

Anders smiles. “Correct, detective. And good morning to you, Casey.”

“Good morning. The coffee thermos is inside the barn. I figured the boss might not give you time to make any.”

His smile grows to a grin. “Excellent deduction. I owe you.”

Dalton follows me inside. His saddle is on a roan gelding, a hand or so smaller than Anders’s horse. Nothing fancy, but a good sound steed. He grunts and looks over at my choice—a young black mare. He shakes his head. “Take the grey mare. That one’s not fully broke.”

“The grey mare’s too old. I’m better with spirited than plodding.”

He mutters something that sounds like “Suit yourself,” and continues out.





Two

I do fine with the horse, whose name is Cricket. I hadn’t been trying to show off. I recalled from my riding days that one of the reasons I quit was that my trainer kept putting me on the most docile steeds they had. I was too restless, she said. Too high-strung myself. I needed a patient horse.

I could see her logic, but it was flawed. I did better on the younger horses because my restlessness wasn’t the “race around the barn” type, but a quieter energy that played well off a horse’s spirits, as it does today with the black mare.

We spend the morning searching. At noon we return for lunch and to speak to the militia, who are searching on foot. Then it’s back into the woods to painstakingly work through quadrants, divided but never out of sight. That’s the rule. I swear if I so much as passed beside a large bush, Dalton would snarl, “Butler!” as if I’d made for the hills.

Back to town for dinner. Then on the horses until past dark.

I’m supposed to go out with Diana and her new friends this evening. At both the lunch and dinner breaks, I tried to track her down. When I couldn’t, there was a weird moment of panic as I realized there was no easy way to leave her a message. I’ve never considered myself a technophile, but I grew up in a world of e-mail and texts and voice messages, and to have all that stripped away is unsettling.

At the day’s end, Dalton and I head back to the station. Anders has an errand and arrives a few minutes later, saying, “I ran into Diana. She said you were going out for drinks with her and some others tonight?”

“No,” Dalton says. “You’ve got work.” He continues past me, heading for the back door.

I follow. “Um, no. My shift ended an hour ago.”

“I mean you have to work tomorrow. Early.”

Anders prods me out onto the deck with Dalton. “She’s not actually asking permission, Eric. Casey just arrived. Socializing is—”

“A f*cking bad idea for a cop.”

“Um, I do it.”

“Like I said …”

They exchange a glower.

“Socializing affects how people see you,” Dalton says. “How they relate to you. You don’t see me doing that, do you?”

“Because you’re the bad cop here. I’m the one they can relate to. The one they come to with their problems. I thought you appreciated that.”

“I do. For you. As my deputy. Butler is my detective.”

I cut in. “I’m only having a drink or two with Diana and her friends. I don’t intend to join the local party scene. I just want to meet people.”

“Fine. I’ll introduce you. To better people.”

Anders winces. “Eric …”

“You want to help your friend?” Dalton says. “Find her a higher class of drinking buddies.”

“They’re fine,” Anders says. “I hang out with them sometimes.”

“You mean you screw around with them sometimes. There’s a difference.”