City of the Lost (8 page)

I agree, and I leave him there, cleaning up his bar.

Kurt takes me “someplace nice”—a touristy inn outside the city. He’s rented the best room, with a Jacuzzi tub, king-size bed, chocolate-covered strawberries, and cheap champagne. Diana would roll her eyes if I told her, so I won’t. This is ours—our last night together—and it’s damn near perfect.

We finally start to drift off to sleep around four. I’m curled up against him, and I feel him reach for something on the bed stand. He nudges me, and when I open my eyes, he’s holding out a gold chain with a tiny martini glass on the end, an emerald chip for an olive.

“Couldn’t find a shot glass,” he says.

I smile, and he fastens it around my neck.

“Just something to remember me by,” he says.

“I’m not going to forget.”

“Good.”

He kisses me, then presses something else into my hand. I look down. It’s a key to his apartment. He catches my gaze and doesn’t say a word, just nods when he knows he’s said what he needs to say, that his door’s always open. Tears prickle my eyes. I drop my gaze. He pulls me over to him, my head against his chest, and we fall asleep.

I don’t sleep for long. I can’t. I have to leave at six for my flight. So I catnap just enough to let Kurt fall into a deep, exhausted slumber. Then I slip from his grasp and tiptoe to the bathroom, where I stashed my clothing.

Before I go, I leave something for him. A letter. Saying everything I can’t.

In that note, I tell him he’s an amazing guy. That I’ll never forget him. That I’m so glad I met him. I don’t say I’m sorry for what happened—he knows that, and this is about him, not me. I tell him it’s time to stop stashing away his money. Time to quit his job at the docks and go back to college for business, to get a job running a real bar and then someday open his own. That’s his dream, and the only thing holding him back is self-doubt.

Even if six years have passed since he went straight, Kurt still feels like a two-bit convict. He’s not. Never was. He screwed up as a kid—we all do. It was time to get past that and make a real life, for him and his son. Yes, his son. It was time for that, too. To fight for visitation rights. To stop listening to his ex tell him how wonderful her husband is, how much better a father he makes, how much better a role model.
Kurt
is the boy’s father. He’s supported his child since birth, and he deserves this, too. Time to take what he’s owed, as hard as that might be. He’ll be better for it. His son will be better for it. I have absolutely no doubt of that.

I put the letter on my pillow, resist the urge to risk waking him with a goodbye kiss, and then I leave.

My journey starts with a rental car in the park where we’d last met, keys under the floor mat with instructions for me to drive not to my local airport but to one six hours away. Then I’m to catch a plane to Vancouver. When I land, I get the confirmation code for my second flight up to Whitehorse. That’s Whitehorse in the Yukon Territory.

Flying out of Vancouver, I saw nothing but city and mountain and sea. When we descended from the clouds? Green. At first, it looks like fields. Then we dip low enough for me to realize it’s trees. No fields in sight. No towns, either. Just trees in every direction.

I see mountain ranges, too. I only hope the snow on top of them is glacial ice and not a hint to expect winter already.

One thing I don’t see? Signs of people, not until we’re closer to the airport, where a few roads cut through the forest. They’re beige zigzags wandering through the hills, as if going nowhere in particular. There are lakes too, including one with bright green water, almost neon.

I’m so busy gawking that I barely notice we’re landing until we’re down. It’s a small airport with only a couple of baggage carousels. The sheriff meets me at one. He doesn’t ask how my flight went. His greeting is: “Got a six-hour drive ahead of us. Get your bags and then we’ll hit a drive-thru for dinner.”

“I ate earlier. I’ll just grab something at our destination.”

“Nothing will be open when we get there. You want to eat on the way? Your options are pop, chips, and whatever else you can buy at a gas station.”

“Okay, we’ll hit a drive-thru.” My bag arrives. I grab it and then ask, “How’s Diana?”

“Fine.”

That’s all I get. As we’re heading out, I say, “Do you have a name?”

“Most people do.”

We cross the road to the parking lot.

“I could just call you sheriff for six months.”

“Works for me.” He pops the back on a little SUV. “Dalton,” he says at last. “Eric Dalton.”

Then he gets into the car. It’s going to be a long six hours.

We pick up dinner and head out. The city fades in a blink, giving way to forest and mountain. When something black shambles onto the road, I jolt forward in my seat, saying, “Is that a … bear?”

“Yeah.”

Dalton stops the SUV and drums his fingers on the wheel as the bear ambles across, taking its sweet time. When it’s halfway over, it turns and snarls.

“Yeah, yeah,” Dalton mutters.

“Is it safe to be this close?”

He gives me a look like I’m asking if it’s safe to be this close to a dog crossing the street. “It’s a black, not a brown.”

“Okay…”

“Black bear,” he says. “Browns are twice the size. Better known as grizzlies.”

“There are grizzlies here?”

“About seven thousand of them. They usually stick to the mountains.”

“And the town isn’t near a mountain?”

“No. It’s near two.”

Great … I’m quiet for a moment, in case there’s anything pressing he needs to discuss. When he stays silent, I take the chance I’ve been waiting for.

“You have a case for me,” I say.

“What?”

“Something’s going on up there. Something that urgently requires a major crimes detective.”

“I never said that.”

“You said you needed—”

“I admitted that I’m not qualified to investigate serious crimes,” he says. “My father is in law enforcement so I grew up with it, but I don’t have any formal police training. Definitely no training as an investigator. The town needs more than a thirty-year-old sheriff. I’m making sure it gets everything it needs.”

“But there must be a case. A current one. Otherwise, you guys wouldn’t have jumped at the chance to bring me in.”

He looks at me. “How many detectives you think apply to come up here? I figured, if we were lucky, we might get some old drunk who hasn’t been off a desk in twenty years. A young homicide detective with a record that impressed even me? Of course I jumped. Same as we’d jump at someone with medical experience, even if we already have a damn fine doctor. We get too many like your friend, practically useless in a town like ours.”

“So you have absolutely no outstanding major cases?”

He shrugs. “Got a guy who went missing a week ago. Took off into the woods.”

“I’m a detective, not a bloodhound.”

“Well, then, guess you’ll have to wait for a real case. In the meantime, there’s lots of regular policing to keep you occupied.”

I want to call bullshit. Something’s going on. But Dalton’s not telling me about it. Not yet.

“All right, then,” I say. “What are my duties?”

“Take everything a small town cop would do … and double the workload.”

He spends the next half hour giving me just a taste of what I’ll be doing in the town—Rockton, as he calls it. That half hour is his limit for conversation, though I suspect we only scratched the surface. After that, it’s a silent drive on an empty road. We enter an area where periodic signs mark past fires with dates, and I can still see the damage, twenty years later. I catch a glimpse of what looks like a huge deer at the roadside. Dalton grunts, “Elk,” and that’s it for the next thirty minutes, until I start seeing brown rodents darting across the road and popping up along the side to watch us pass.

“Are those prairie dogs?” I ask.

“You see prairie?” Before I can answer, he says, “Arctic ground squirrels.” I think that’s all I’m getting, but after a few more kilometres he says, “Won’t see them much longer. They’ll hibernate soon, sleep for seven months.” Another pause, maybe a kilometre in length, then he says, “Body temperature goes down to near freezing.”

“How’s that possible?”

He shrugs. “Bigger question is how their brains survive on stored energy for that long. I’ve read some articles. It’s interesting. Potential applications for human brain degeneration.”

I try to prod him on that. Or I do after I recover from the shock of it, because he does not strike me as a guy who sits around reading scientific journals for fun. He ignores the prods, and I wonder if it’s because of my pause—if he offered something that could start an intelligent conversation, and I was obviously floored by the prospect, so to hell with me.

We’ve been on the road for about three hours when he stops for gas. When he said that would be the limit of my dining options, I thought he was exaggerating. We
have
passed two restaurants. One was closed. The other was not the sort of place I’d trust with my digestive health.

The “towns” we’ve passed though were no more than hamlets. When I remark on this to the store cashier, she laughs and says there are more moose than people in the Yukon. I think she’s joking, but when I ask Dalton the territorial population, he says it’s thirty-five thousand, three-quarters of whom live in Whitehorse.

“How large is the territory?”

He climbs into the car. “You could put Germany, Belgium, and the Netherlands in it and have room to spare.”

I remember dismissing the idea that you could hide a town in this day and age. I have only to look out the window to imagine how one could lose a town of two hundred in the wilds beyond this lonely highway.

When we finally reach Dawson City, Dalton says it’s too late to fly out to Rockton. We’ll stay the night and leave early.

Outside the town, I see endless piles of gravel covering the landscape—as ugly as scars after hours of forest and hills and lakes.

“Did something happen here?” I ask.

“Gold.”

“I know. The Klondike Gold Rush. A couple hundred years ago.”

“Nope, gold’s still there. Those are dredge-tailing piles, from mining the river. Stopped in the sixties and restarted a few years back. Floating excavators spit up this shit on the ground and leave it, because hell, it’s only empty land. Doesn’t matter if you dump a damned riverbed all over it.”

“They don’t have to clean it up?”

“It’s not environmentally harmful, and up here no one gives a shit about the rest. Lots of other places to look if you want scenery.”

He might brush it off, but I can tell the blight on the landscape offends him.

As we continue into town, I feel as if I’ve time-warped back to those Klondike days. Old-fashioned wooden buildings. Dirt roads. Board sidewalks. When we stop at an inn, Dalton tells me to remove my shoes inside.

“Is that a custom here?”

“When the roads are made of dirt, it’s common sense.”

“Is there a reason for the dirt roads? Construction issues? Materials? The climate?”

“Tourism.”

As I leave my sneakers in a “shoe room,” Dalton checks in. He’s clearly been here before, but he doesn’t say much to the proprietor, just tells her we’ll be having breakfast and then gives me my key and says we’re heading out at eight.

I’d been a little surprised that “eight” was Dalton’s idea of an early departure, but when I rise at seven, it’s still dark out. We’re far enough north that the days are getting short fast.

I go down for breakfast and Dalton’s there, staring out the front window at the empty street. It’s an equally empty room, and I wonder if he’ll want to enjoy his meal in peace, but he waves me over.

I chat with the owner, who’s from Switzerland and brings a plate of cold cuts, cheese, yogurt, and amazing freshly baked bread. Dalton continues staring silently out the window at the dark morning. Then, as I’m polishing off another slice of bread, he plunks my cellphone between us.

“You said you don’t have ties. Just a sister, and you aren’t close.” He gestures at the phone. “You forgot your boyfriend.”

“I said—”

“You told us the guy who got shot is someone you were hooking up with. That”—he gestures at the phone—“is not a hookup.”

Following instructions, I’d shut my phone off as soon as I left home and removed the SIM card shortly after. Once here, I turned it over to Dalton for safe disposal.

I turn on the phone. There’s a message that must have come in just before I removed the card, and I’d been too distracted to check.

Got your note. It means a lot. Means a fucking lot, Casey. You’re right, and I’m going to stop pissing around and step up. But I want you to do the same. Wherever you go, start over and do it right. Get a life, as the saying goes. Even if you don’t think you want one. You deserve it. I know you said I won’t see you again, but if I do, I want to see you happy.

I sit there, holding the phone, staring at that message.

“I need to send—” I begin.

“No.”

“But—”

“No.” Dalton leans forward. “Is this a problem, detective?”

My hands shake a little. I clench the phone to stop them, but he plucks it from my hands. He’s right. I’ve missed my chance to reply, and that’s my fault for not checking. Any message I send now could be traced to Dawson City.

“I’ll—I’ll get my things,” I say.

I push back my chair and hurry off.

When I realize we’re heading to the local airport—not a private runway—I ask Dalton how we’re going to leave without giving a flight plan. At first, he only says it’s been taken care of. Then he relents and says that flying from a private strip would only be more suspicious, and it’s better to stick close to the law as much as they can. As far as the airport authorities know, he works for a group of miners, flying people and supplies in and out of the bush. Given their occupation, they’re a little cagey about where exactly they’re working, so his flight plan is approximate.

It might also help that this is the smallest commercial airport I’ve ever seen. The terminal is one room with a ticket counter and a few chairs. There’s a hatch in the wall labelled Baggage. Apparently, that’s the luggage carousel.