City of the Lost (10 page)

As we walk down the main street, I can’t shake the feeling I’m being tailed by acrobats and a marching band. People spill out of doors to get a look at the new girl. Every half-dozen steps, a guy saunters our way. Isabel raises a hand. She doesn’t say a word. That hand goes up, and it’s like casting an invisible force field. They turn back. When one whines, “I’m just being friendly, Iz,” she says, “You want to set foot in the Roc this month? Turn your ass around.” He does.

She waves me to a building that looks as nondescript as the police station. From the end of the second-storey balcony hangs a sign announcing it as The Roc. A wooden sign under that depicts what is probably supposed to be a roc, but the artist has confused the mythical bird with a rook.

I don’t hear any trouble within. Is the fight over? Or is this some kind of local welcoming ritual? I decide to play dumb and follow Isabel inside.

The main floor is twice the size of the police station. There’s a bar along one end. Tables fill the rest. It’s not nearly as rundown as Kurt’s place, but there’s still that sense of basic utility, the one that says you’re here to drink and nothing more.

The bartender is a few years younger than me. A burly, dark-haired guy, he looks quite capable of handling any fight, but he’s currently reading a novel, as is a pencil-necked guy in the corner. Another man is drinking a beer and so engrossed in his thoughts that he doesn’t even look over when we walk in. The last two patrons are a couple in their late thirties, sharing a half pint of wine. Both are nicely dressed. Average-looking. They could be any long-married couple out for a lunchtime tipple.

“I’m not seeing the fight,” I say.

“Oh, it’s coming. Wait right there, detective. You might want to pull out your firearm. Just don’t shoot straight up. There’s a customer sleeping it off right above your head.” She nods toward the bartender. “That’s Mick. Former city cop. Former local cop, too. He’ll help out if you need it, but I’d just as soon keep him behind the bar.”

Because he’s extremely busy reading that novel. He gives me a nod, though, friendly enough.

Isabel walks to the couple. She stops beside the woman and stands there at least twenty seconds. The guy keeps glancing up, but the woman is making a concerted effort to pretend she doesn’t see Isabel.

“You aren’t welcome in here, Jen,” Isabel says finally.

“It’s a public place, bitch.”

The insult—and the venom behind it—startle me. The woman looks like she should be teaching third-graders.

“No,” Isabel says, more respectfully than I’d have managed. “My establishment is not communal property. I pay for that privilege. Now go home, get clean, and then we’ll discuss you coming back.”

Get clean? I could say Isabel meant “sober up,” but I get the feeling this lady is careful with her word choices. I walk closer and size up Jen. I notice her pallor, despite the fact summer has just ended. Her pupils are slightly constricted. Her clothing hangs as if she was two sizes larger when she got it. It’s not proof positive of drug addiction. This is a restricted community. They may choose not to prohibit alcohol, but they sure as hell should be able to control drugs.

“What are you looking at, asshole?” Jen says. I think she’s talking to me. Then I see she’s addressing the guy sitting with her, who’s staring at me like I’m covered in chocolate and sprinkles. His eyes are glazed over and my gut tells me it’s not from a half glass of Cabernet. Jen looks up at me and her eyes narrow. “Fuck, don’t tell me you’re the new cop.”

“She is,” Isabel says. “And she’s here to escort you out.”

Jen snorts. “That itty-bitty girl? Fuck, no. And you, asshole, stop gaping at her or— Hey, I’m talking to you!”

She lunges at the guy. Literally dives across the table, grabbing him by the shirtfront, screeching like a banshee. As I go after her, Isabel murmurs, “Well, that’s not how I expected it to go down, but the end result is the same. I’m going to have blood to clean up.”

I grab Jen. She takes a swing. I wrench her arm behind her back, and she howls. She keeps struggling, though, and I keep wrenching, until I’m about a quarter inch from breaking the bone. When she still doesn’t stop, I slam her against the wall. That’s when her companion decides some chivalry might be in order. He’s on his feet, telling me to let her go.

“As soon as she stops trying to hit me,” I say.

“Back off, Ted,” says Mick, who is walking our way, possibly having hit a chapter break.

“Sit and enjoy the show, Ted,” says the beefy guy with the beer.

Ted grabs for my arm. I see it coming, and a roundhouse kick puts him down without me needing to release Jen. The guy with the beer shows his appreciation by cheering while Ted dives for my leg and tries to bite it. Yes, bite. Another kick sends him flying and then beer-guy is on his feet, tackling Ted, and two other guys have come from God-knows-where, and they’re getting into it, and someone outside shouts, “Bar brawl!”

I don’t know exactly what happens after that. Not because I’m caught up in the chaos, but because I’m ignoring it. I have my job, and that job is getting Jen out of the bar.

I’m strong-arming her toward the door when the pencil-necked guy with the book decides to make a break for it. He elbows past us … and catches a right hook from a shape filling the doorway. I’m about to use Jen to power past the newcomer when I see his face. It’s Dalton. He ignores me and barrels down on book-guy, who’s sprawled on the floor.

“He’s not part of it,” I shout over the chaos.

“The hell he’s not,” Dalton says, still bearing down on the poor guy.

“No, really, he—”

Someone tries to take Jen from me. I go to yank her back and then see it’s Anders.

“Ignore him,” he says, waving at Dalton. “Jen? Sheriff’s here and you know how he feels about rydex. You got five seconds to—”

Jen’s already running.

“Good choice,” Anders says. “Now, let’s clear this mess. You know how to do it?”

“Stomp the bullies first.”

He grins at me. “You got it. Let’s have ourselves some fun.”

We’re back at the station. With the pencil-necked guy. Dalton marched him, in cuffs, all the way from the Roc. Now he’s got him pinned to the cell wall, lifted clear off his feet and gasping for breath.

Some older cops bristle at the term “police brutality.” Intimidation, they call it. Or, as others would say, “speaking the only language assholes understand.” But they only mean physical dominance. Shove the guy around. Grab him by the hair. Dig your fingers into his kidneys
accidentally
.

That isn’t what’s happening here. I’m watching my new boss choke a guy half his size. A guy who wasn’t part of the brawl. Who hasn’t raised his voice or a finger in his own defence.

Every time I rock forward, Anders shakes his head. Telling me to keep it cool. Promising me answers. But I don’t know Anders. I don’t know either of them. All I know is that I’m witnessing something that makes me very uncomfortable.

“Butler?” Dalton says. “Empty his pockets.”

I do. There’s a wallet, keys, and the worn paperback he was reading in the bar. That’s it.

“Now take his clothes.” When I hesitate, Dalton turns that gaze on me. “Did I give you an order, detective?”

I manage to get the man’s shirt and trousers off. Dalton has me seal them in an evidence bag that Anders holds out.

“I warned you the last time, Hastings,” Dalton says. “I’m going over your clothes with a goddamn magnifying glass, and if I find even a speck of powder—”

“There’s always powder,” Hastings says. “I’m a chemist.”

“No, here you’re a lab assistant. Which means if I find powder, you’d better hope to hell the doc confirms it’s from this morning’s work.”

“I don’t wash my clothes every day, you moron. We aren’t allowed—”

“Don’t care.” Dalton hauls the smaller man up to eye level. “You’re the only fucking chemist in town, Hastings. Which means you’re the one making rydex. And as soon as I can prove it, I’m kicking your ass out.”

“You can’t. I’ve only been here a year, and I was promised a two-year—”

“When I say kick you out, I mean put your ass on the back of my ATV and dump you in the forest. You know what’s out there, Hastings?”

The man glowers at him.

“No,” Dalton says. “I don’t think you do. But it’s your lucky day, because I have visuals. We found Harry.”

“What?” Hastings takes it down a notch. “Is he okay?”

“For a smart man, you ask some dumb questions. He spent a week in the forest. From the looks of it, he didn’t last past the first nightfall. But don’t take my word for it. I’m going to escort you to the clinic, where you can see exactly what’ll happen if I find out you have anything to do with the rydex. Fair warning, though? I really hope you haven’t had lunch yet. Because you’re about to lose it.”

Dalton hauls Hastings out the front door, still dressed in his boxers. We watch them go. Then Anders turns to me. “So, speaking of lunch, are you hungry?”

I do not want lunch. What I want at this moment is to grab Diana and get the hell out of here. But I squelch that and tell Anders I want to see the victim.

“Sure, I’ll take you over,” then “And Eric’s right. Better skip lunch until afterward.”

As we walk, I resist the urge to ask Anders about the body. Better for me to see it and form my own impressions. I do ask about the drugs, though.

“Rydex,” he says. “That’s the local name for it. Opiate based. Highly addictive. And one of the most serious problems we’re dealing with right now.”

“One?”

“Yep,” he says. He doesn’t elaborate, just goes on to explain that rydex is a homegrown drug that’s been circulating for a few years, which means it predates Hastings’s arrival, but it was only
after
Hastings got to Rockton that it became a serious problem, meaning Dalton suspects Hastings tinkered with the formula to make it more addictive.

“Where’s he getting the ingredients from?” I ask. “Presumably, if he’s working at the clinic, he’s using prescription drugs, but it’s easy enough to monitor that. And only Dalton has access to the outside world, right?”

He catches my look. “Hell, no. Don’t even go there, detective. Eric might not have made the best impression so far, but he’s the last person who’d smuggle in dope. There are other shipments. Drop-offs. The ingredients must be getting in that way. We just haven’t figured out how.”

“Okay, but…?” I say. “Not to sound critical, but this is a town of two hundred people.”

“Why can’t we contain it? Therein lies the real problem of Rockton, Casey. We can’t control anything they don’t want controlled. And by ‘they,’ I don’t mean…” He waves at a few people on the street.

“You mean the town council.”

He gives a humourless chuckle. “Around here, we just call them the council. Can’t be a
town
council if they aren’t actually in town.”

“What? The sheriff said…” No, I’d called them a town council—he just hadn’t argued. “So the selection committee is an off-site board and the town politicians are a different local governing body.”

“There is no local governing body. There are long-term residents who have clout—Eric, Isabel, the doc. But the people in charge live down south. They’re the investors. They sure as hell don’t live here. They have Val here to act as their mouthpiece.”

“But what are they
investing
in? They can’t possibly make money … wait. Sheriff Dalton mentioned white collar criminals who pay more to get in. Not all that money goes to running the town, does it?”

“Nope.”

“So Rockton is run by a bunch of investors who sit in an office tower and make decisions for a town they visit every year or so.”

He snorts a laugh. “Most of them have never set foot in Rockton. This town is an unholy mess, Casey, and the first thing you need to know is who gives a damn and who doesn’t. Those who do?
Really
do? I can count them on one hand. Top of the list? The guy you’re working for.”

I must look doubtful, because he says, “We won’t debate his methods. I could, but I think you’re best to just watch and draw your own conclusions. In his defence, I’ll only say that
no one
cares as much about Rockton. Eric isn’t like everyone else here. First off, he’s native.”

I consider this for a few steps. I’m not wondering whether our blond-haired, grey-eyed sheriff could have First Nations blood—my sister can pass for white while I can’t. What I’m wondering is what his heritage has to do with his commitment to the town.

“So Dal—Eric is … a Native Canadian,” I say.

Anders looks over and then laughs. “No, not like that. He acts like it, with all the time he spends in that forest or sitting on the damn porch staring at it. Though I suppose that’d be a stereotype, wouldn’t it? No, I meant he’s from here.”

“The North?”

“Here.” Anders waves around us. “Born and bred, never going to leave.”

“You mean he’s actually
from
Rockton. I didn’t think anyone— Well, obviously some would be. You can’t fill every position with people looking to escape, and you can’t have them all leave again after five years.”

“True. Some folks are in this for the long haul, like me. But up here, ‘long haul’ usually means ten years tops. Eric is the only exception. His parents came here together. His dad was the former sheriff and Eric was born here.”

That’s why Dalton had hesitated when I mentioned kids. Rockton used to have one: him.

Anders continues. “When his folks retired down south, he took over as sheriff. He’s not going anywhere. Which means he’s the one person you can count on to have Rockton’s best interests in mind. Not necessarily the best interests of every individual person, but the town as a whole, as a concept, if you know what I mean.”

“A sanctuary for those who need it.”

He nods. “Exactly. And for Eric, that sure as hell doesn’t mean bringing in healthy people and sending back addicts. I was an MP in the army. I know what isolation can do to people’s heads. I know what being away from home and feeling unaccountable can do, too. Add drugs to that mix, and it’s ugly, Casey. Just plain ugly. This town has enough problems without that.”