City of the Lost (Casey Duncan #1)(64)

“I’m not. Believe me.”

She nods. “Good. Lots of women like the bad boys … then they realize Eric’s not bad—he’s just cranky.”

I laugh.

“He’s a good-looking guy, so he gets more than his share of attention. Rumour has it that when he was young, he took full advantage. These days, though, he’s a lot more discreet. Given his position, it’s difficult to get close to anyone.” She goes quiet, her expression thoughtful, a little sad. Then she gives her head a sharp shake. “If you’re looking for company, I’d turn toward Rockton’s most eligible bachelor: Deputy Anders. Looks, personality, and a sweet, sweet guy. Who has definitely taken notice of you.”

“Thanks, but I’m not looking. I …” I finger my necklace from Kurt.

“Left someone behind?”

“Kind of. But as a friend, Will seems great.”

“He is, and if you’re happy with that, he’ll be, too. That’s the thing about nice guys. Now back to lunch. If you’re five minutes late, you’ll hear it from the boss.”





Thirteen

“We’re going for a ride,” Dalton says as I walk into the station.

“ATV?”

“Horse.”

“I’d prefer ATV.”

“Stables, Butler.”

I salute. “Yes, sir.”

We head out. He says nothing until we’re halfway to the stables. Then, “You’re happy today. Found what you wanted, I take it?”

“Maybe.”

He nods. “You can tell me on the ride.”

“Mmm, you said not to trust anyone.”

“I think I like you better when you’re not in a mood.”

“This isn’t a mood.”

“Yeah, it is. A good one. Normally, you don’t have a mood at all. You’re just there.”

“I’ll ignore that jab, since I’m in a good mood.”

“It’s not a jab; it’s an observation. And you are going to tell me what you found, because I’m your boss. That’s why we’re taking the horses, not the ATVs. So we can talk. Also, so we don’t scare off the ravens.”

“Ravens?”

“Hunting party spotted a flock of ravens.” He pauses. “Which, technically, is an unkindness.”

“What?”

“Murder of crows. Unkindness of ravens. And they can be pretty damned unkind if they’re scavenging something, which they seemed to be doing.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”


Our route takes us toward the mountain, and I ask him about a rodent that darts across the increasingly rocky path. He says it’s a pika, also known as a rock rabbit, coney, or whistling hare. He even stops, so I can hear the noise it’s making—more of a loud “meep” than a whistle. Dalton says it’s warning us off its territory. I ask what other rodents are local, and that gets him talking as we ride, about wood rats and flying squirrels and marmots and others.

“We’re in a good spot for wildlife here,” he says. “Fly another hour north and you’re into the Arctic. And you’d better not have been taking an interest to distract me from asking what new information you got from Beth.”

“I wasn’t. I am interested.”

“Good. Did you find any sign Irene’s story wasn’t legit?”

I move aside a branch. “What?”

“That’s what you were looking for, right? Evidence that she’d been abused. Skeletal evidence, I’m guessing, since the soft tissue damage would be long healed.” When I hesitate, he says, “No, Beth didn’t tell me what you talked about. It’s a deduction.”

“Remind me why you needed a detective?”

“Because I’m not the one who thought to check.”

“Did you ‘deduce’ my theory, too?”

“Yeah, but that would be showing off.”

“In other words, you didn’t.”

“Harry Powys was involved in selling illegal organs. Jerry Hastings may have murdered his mother for his inheritance. You were checking on the possibility Irene was also here under false pretences.”

“Okay, you did figure it out.”

He lifts a hand, telling me to stop, and he scans the forest. Then he waves for us to take the left fork on the path.

“That is your theory, then,” he says as we continue.

“It’s a starting point. The problem is not knowing how many people were smuggled in. The fact that three of the four victims fit that profile might be no more significant than three having the same colour hair. That’s presuming there’s a connection between the victims at all.”

He’s nodding. Then he stops and tilts his head, and I catch the croak of a bird.

He motions for me to dismount. We tie the horses to trees. His gelding—Blaze—starts pulling at grass, unperturbed. Cricket looks around, as if to say, I don’t want to stop. I rub her neck and pull an apple from my pack and she decides maybe a break isn’t such a bad idea.

I spot a raven then. People from the east often look at big crows and think they’re ravens, but seeing one now, I don’t know how we make that mistake. The raven is the size of a hawk. It’s black from its beak to its feet. That beak is thick and curved. Its neck is different, too—thick with shaggy feathers.