City of the Lost (Casey Duncan #1)(43)

“No, nothing like that. So what was the story you wanted to tell me?”

“Story …?” It takes him a second, then he shakes his head. “Yeah, idiot, the reason you waltzed in there and barged into the conversation. Before I get talking—because God knows, once I start, I don’t stop—do you want to go straight home? Or walk a bit, so I can add to the grand welcoming tour the boss took you on yesterday.”

“Uh …”

“What? You didn’t get the tour? I did.” He points down the moonlit street. “Police station, general store, restaurants, lumberyard, and bar. No, wait, it was more like: Bar’s over there, and if I f*cking catch you ever staggering out of there, dead-ass drunk, you’ll be drying out in the cell all night.”

I give a soft laugh, and he smiles over.

“Proper tour, then?” he says. He motions at the moon. “We’ve got enough light for it.”

“I would love a tour, but do I still get the story?”

“Of course. Can’t forget the story, since it was so damned important.”

We start walking and he says, “You missed your first chance at a grizzly sighting tonight. Right on the edge of town.”

“What?” I look at him. “Dalton said they don’t—”

“—usually come this close. Always note the usually, Casey. So someone reported seeing a bear rubbing against a tree, scratching its back and grunting. I grab the rifle and every militia guy I pass on my run across town. I’m creeping up on the spot with Kenny and a couple of the others at my back. And there’s the beast. It looks a little small—maybe six foot. Wide enough for a bear, though. Definitely rubbing up against that tree with plenty of grunting. Then I see it’s got four legs, four arms, and is wearing clothing. Well, some clothing.”

“Ah, the elusive beast with two backs.”

“Not nearly so elusive around here. Yep, so that was our bear. A couple who tried to sneak twenty feet into the woods for a little privacy … and found themselves with an audience who’ll be spreading the story for days. They’ll also be slapped with chopping duty for being outside the boundary.”

“Chopping duty?”

He glances over. “Man, Eric really didn’t tell you anything, did he? It’s the main form of punishment here. We can’t keep anyone in the cell for long and we can’t impose too-strict fines—or they won’t be able to buy food. So we do what they did in Dawson City during the gold rush: sentence folks to chopping wood for the municipal buildings.”

“Smart.”

“Especially in winter, when we need a lotta wood. Now, if you look to your left, you’ll see the lumber shed and chopping circle just past those buildings, which are …”

We continue down the street and he carries on with the tour.


The next morning: more searching for Hastings. At noon, Dalton decides it’s time to scale back. The militia will stay on it, led by Anders. The sheriff will return to dealing with the local law enforcement issues that have piled up in the last forty-eight hours. I’ll get to work on the Powys case.

First, I talk to the doctor—Beth, as she insists—and get her full autopsy report. The next step would be to re-interview those connected to his disappearance—who saw him the night he took off, who might have played some role. But I have a different idea I want to pursue first.

I spend most of the afternoon reading through files on other homicides and disappearances. There aren’t many … if I don’t remind myself exactly how small this town is. When I do, that small stack makes Rockton the Bermuda Triangle of the North. Most of it, though, can be chalked up to the situation. We come here because we’ve either done bad shit or we’ve got serious baggage. The fact that almost everyone survives their stay and goes home again is actually remarkable. But every year one or two won’t be going back. Some wander off into the woods. Some die by homicide or misadventure. And some commit suicide.

That’s what Irene Prosser’s death is filed under. I read it three times to make sure I’m not missing anything. Then I wait for Sheriff Dalton to return. At five, he walks straight through, coffee already in hand. I follow him onto the deck.

“Busy,” he grunts.

“Irene Prosser.” I slap the file on the railing. “Suicide? She was found in a water cistern. With both wrists cut to the bone.”

“We don’t have bathtubs.”

“Excuse me?”

He speaks slower. “Most people who cut their wrists do it in a tub because it’s less painful, apparently.”

“Less painful? Her hands were practically cut off.”

“She left a note in her handwriting.”

“Presumably written before she nearly amputated her own hands?”

He shrugs and stares into the forest. I walk into his line of sight.

“You’re not stupid, sheriff, and I don’t think you’re corrupt, so what the hell is going on here?”

“I ruled the death a murder.”

I ease back. “Okay.”

“Beth thinks the killer intended to hack off Irene’s hands, but the blade wasn’t sharp enough. The killer then realized it could look like a suicide and faked Irene’s handwriting. Any idiot can see it’s not suicide. The council disagreed. So I am not allowed to officially investigate.”