City of the Lost (Casey Duncan #1)(54)

“Both for you, Eric. Always. Did you bring me that Canadiens jersey?”

“Couldn’t find it. Picked up a Maple Leafs one instead. That’s okay, right?”

Brent spends the next minute telling Dalton why it is not okay in a diatribe only a true hockey fan could appreciate.

Dalton only shrugs. “Stupid f*cking game anyway.”

He gets another minute of fan ranting for that. Then he pulls out a Canadiens jersey and tosses it to Brent, who takes it and mutters, “Asshole.” Then he turns to me. “I played for the Canadiens, you know.”

“One season,” Dalton says. “He warmed the bench.”

“Asshole,” Brent mutters.

“Keeping you honest.” Dalton lowers himself to the floor in front of the fire and makes himself comfortable. “What do you have for me, Brent?”

Brent gives him a rundown on everything he’s seen in the past week or so. The camp we’d spotted below was trappers—two men and a woman who are apparently part of a tiny community of former Rockton residents, now living about ten kilometres east. Dalton knows them and grumbles because they were supposed to “check in” when they were in the area, so his militia didn’t mistake them for bears.

Speaking of bears, Brent had spotted two grizzlies, a “sow” and a young “boar,” and I make a mental note of the terms. Dalton knows the female and wonders if the male is her son from a few springs back, and they debate that, rather like trying to figure out the parentage of a local kid based on whom he resembles.

Brent had also spotted a feral dog that had been giving them both trouble. He’d shot at it with his bow. “Lost the goddamn arrow,” he says. He’d seen signs of a hostile, too, but that was way out, when he’d gone on an overnight hike. It was a woman, who’d only watched him. Dalton suggests she might have thought he looked like good husband material and razzes him about that, but otherwise seems unconcerned.

I listen, saying nothing, fascinated by what I’m hearing. It is all so far outside my realm of experience. And yet it isn’t. Take out the details, and it sounds exactly like me dealing with a confidential informant. Brent lets Dalton know what is going on in the area, in return for goods like clothing and coffee and other items impossible to come by for a guy living in a cave.

When Brent finishes with the basic report, Dalton asks specific questions about Powys and Hastings. Brent never saw the former, hasn’t seen the latter. He’s a little annoyed by the question, too.

“If I spotted one of your people out here alone, you don’t think I’d tell you?”

“Depends. Last time we had a runner, you admitted you saw him and never told me.”

“I would have as soon as I saw you again.”

“Could come by the town.”

“I wasn’t in a sociable mood.”

“If you see anyone, will you come by?” Dalton pauses for at least ten seconds before adding, “Please.” Brent sobers at that, as if the “please” tells him how serious this is.

“Everything okay, Eric?” he asks.

“That first guy I mentioned turned up dead with his legs cut off. There were signs he’d been butchered.”

“Jesus.” Brent pales. “You’re serious?” He doesn’t even wait for an answer before saying, “Course you are. Sorry. I just …” He looks like he wants to sit, and I rise, but he waves me back down. “Butchered? You’re sure?”

“Am I sure someone cut off parts and ate them? No. Am I sure someone wanted it to look that way? Yeah.”

Brent exhales. “Okay. Right. I just … The cannibalism thing … I’ve had some damned hard winters, but no matter how bad it gets, even if I stumbled over someone …” He shudders. “No way. No f*cking way.” He glances sheepishly at me. “Sorry.”

“Like I said, women do everything now. Even swear.”

The smile grows, just a little, and they continue talking. Then they barter goods, and I’m not sure how much use Dalton has for the fur and cured meat, but he bargains hard, as if he does.

Before we leave, Brent says, “Hold on a sec. Got something for the little cutie-pie here.”

“Her name’s Casey,” Dalton says.

Brent grins. “Please tell me you had a dog named Finnegan.”

“Sure did,” I say. “When I was five. He was a brown dog, just like the one on the show. He only existed in my mind, but he was the best imaginary pet ever.”

Brent lets out a whoop of laughter, and I say to Dalton, “It was a kids’ show. Mr. Dressup. There was a puppet named Casey—”

“—who had a dog named Finnegan.” He offers a brief smile and a nod. “Got it.”

“Well, that tells me what present to pick for you, then.” Brent disappears into a dark corner of the room and hunkers down by an opening into what must be like a closet for him. He rattles around inside it and brings back a fist-sized woodcarving.

“Fox,” he says. “I don’t have a dog, but this is close.”

“It’s gorgeous,” I say, and it is, so intricately carved that I can feel the fur under my fingers. “Did you do this?”

He nods with a gruff, “Lots of free time in the winters.”