City of the Lost (Rockton 1)

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.

THIRTEEN

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.

I presumed the car was a rental, but the terminal doesn't have a rental agency. When I ask, Dalton says that someone will pick it up. There are no rentals in Dawson City. At all.

Inside, he takes a bottle of water from his bag along with a tiny pill envelope. "From the doc. She's on the selection committee, so she sees the files, real names redacted. Given your background, she thought you might need those."

I look at him, uncomprehending.

"They're for flight anxiety or whatever."

I keep staring, and he says, "Your parents?"

My cheeks flame as I realize he means because I'm about to get into a small plane, not unlike the one my parents died in. I didn't even think of that. I suppose that's because it happened so quickly. Another couple--fellow doctors--owned the plane, and the four of them had been heading to Arizona for a golf weekend. I hadn't even known they were going.

I don't need the pills. Even as I think now of how my parents died, I don't fear the same will happen to me. Should I? Is that proper empathy? Proper grief?

I pocket the pills with thanks, say I should be fine, and follow him out.

We spend the next ninety minutes in a bush plane so noisy both of us wear earplugs and neither says a word. Below, trees stretch as far as I can see. It's as beautiful and majestic as it is haunting and terrifying.

I've often heard people talk of feeling small and lost in a city. I've never experienced that, having always lived in one. Out here, looking at those endless trees, I feel it, but it's not a bad "small" or even a bad "lost."

During the first pass over Rockton, I notice a clearing that looks like a lumber camp. The buildings ... it's hard to explain, but I don't see most of the buildings, just a big clearing with a few wooden structures. Structural camouflage, like Dalton said. He'd also mentioned yesterday that there's a blocking system that keeps passing planes from picking up the town's footprint.

When we make a lower pass, I see Rockton, and it really is what Dawson City tries to be--a Wild West town. Dirt roads. Simple wooden buildings. A clearly defined town core. Houses a fraction the size of those found in a modern city. Chicken coops and a small goat pasture. I even spot a stable with horses out for their morning feed.

When Dalton brings the plane in, there's no one around. No ground crew. No welcoming committee. Am I disappointed by that? Yes. I expect to see Diana here, eagerly awaiting my arrival. But if she's not, that must mean she's settling in, not anxiously waiting for me. Which is good.

Dalton leaves me to unload our luggage while he drives an ATV out of the hangar. A cloud of dust brings another ATV zooming our way. I start to smile, certain it's Diana. It isn't. Not unless she's turned into a black guy with bulging biceps and a US Army tattoo. The deputy, I'm guessing from the tat.

I peg him at early thirties. Seriously good-looking. When he grins, I update that to "jaw-dropping." Yet as much as I'm appreciating the view, it's a neutral appraisal, like admiring a sunset. I won't mind gazing at this guy across my desk every day. That's all.

He's off the ATV and walking over, hand extended. "Welcome to Rockton, detective."

"It's Casey," I say, and before I can add a please, Dalton says, "Butler." That's my new surname.