City of the Lost (Casey Duncan #1)(77)

“Butler!” Dalton shouts, his voice echoing through the cavern. “Casey!”

“We’re fine!” I yell back, but he just shouts again, obviously not hearing me, having only caught that terrible scream. I gently move Petra aside, crawl into the chute, stand, and yell again, but there’s no response.

I duck down and look at Petra, crouching and breathing deeply. Then I look up the chute, and I curse. I’ve got a freaked-out boss and a freaked-out friend, and there’s a cavern and two passages between them. I can’t leave Petra. Can’t leave the crime scene.

Rocks scrabble overheard as if someone is trying to make it through that narrow chute.

“We’re fine!” I shout. “Just hold on!”

“Go,” Petra whispers. “It’s Eric. Stop him before he gets stuck.”

I try yelling again. It does no good. He’s coming down, and Petra’s right: he’s going to get his damned self stuck. I tell her I’ll be right back, and I scramble up the chute, making it into the other cavern at the same time Dalton comes through the first passage. His jeans are ripped. He’s stripped off his jacket and is wearing only a T-shirt, his arms scraped and bloody.

“Goddamn it,” I say, but I mutter it under my breath. The guy heard a scream and came running, slicing himself up in the process. I can’t really fault him for that, can I?

“It’s okay,” I say. “I tried to tell you—”

“You’re all right?” he says, his breath coming hard, adrenalin setting his blood racing so hard I can see it pulsing in his neck. “Someone screamed.”

“Petra. She’s fine. She’s down there. I was, too, but came back up. We …” I hesitate. Shit, how do I say this? I can’t just blurt—

“Butler?” he says. Then, when I don’t answer, he steps toward me, his hand going to my elbow to steady me. “Casey? What’s wrong?”

“There’s … We found … It’s a body part. Scavenged. An arm.”

He exhales hard. “Okay.” He peers into the drop, following the light from her helmet. He grunts, seeing it’s an easy passage, and starts getting in place to go down.

I touch his arm. “Eric?”

“Hmm?”

“I think …” I take a deep breath. “It’s a young woman’s arm. She’s wearing nail polish. Purple.”

His eyes close. That’s all he does. Closes his eyes, his expression emptying as he crouches there.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m so sorry.”

He opens his eyes. “Thank you. For warning me.” He takes a deep breath and heads down the chute.





Six



It’s Abbygail. Dalton confirms she wore that nail polish for her party. Isabel gave it to her.

Dalton goes back up first. He wants to be the one to tell Mick. The second passage is probably even harder getting out than it was getting in, but he seems too numb to notice.

I hear Mick’s reaction. It’s a terrible sound. Worse than Petra’s scream. It’s animal pain, cut short quickly, and by the time I get up there, he’s gone, one of the other guys going with him to make sure he gets to Rockton safely.

I bring up the arm. I’ve looked for other parts, but this is all I find. We’ll have to conduct a more thorough search with proper lights tomorrow.

Anders examines the arm. His older sister is a doctor, and he’d had a year of medic training before the army realized his skills were better suited to policing. He knows enough to confirm what I’d fear—that this is not a part separated from the body by scavengers. Yes, a scavenger did bring it into the cave, but the separation is due to amputation. Dismemberment.


When Powys and Hastings died, people mourned. There were services. I had nothing to do with them and the mourners weren’t in my circle of new acquaintances, so the events passed with little notice on my part.

This is different. This is hell.

We aren’t telling anyone that we suspect Abbygail was murdered. We can’t panic them like that. As far as they know, she wandered into the forest, died, and her body was scavenged. That doesn’t matter. Abbygail Kemp is still dead.

Dalton said that most everyone in Rockton joined the search when she vanished. I see that now. When we return with the news, it is as if Mick’s howl of animal pain reverberates through the entire town. There’s crying in the streets. Everyone wants to help. Anders and I try to leave Dalton out of it, but of course he won’t stay out of it, because however much he’s grieving, this is his town in crisis.

Petra recruits Diana and others to organize a candlelight memorial in the square. It gives people a focus for their grief. I’m still stopped at every step through town, people asking how and where and, mostly, the unanswerable why. But they are kind, too, and thoughtful. The cooks bring dinner to the station. Isabel drops off a bottle of her best Scotch. The guys at the bakery run the ovens late to make cookies for the memorial, and they bring by a dozen with a Thermos of coffee. People ask what they can do to help, anything, anything at all—that’s what I hear, even more than “What happened out there?”

I’m at Beth’s clinic when she examines the arm. That is true hell, because she’s examining the partial remains of a girl she loved. Her pain is palpable and almost too much to bear, but she insists on doing it. Anders helps until she snaps at him, so uncharacteristic for her that even Dalton jumps.