City of the Lost (Rockton 1)

Diana glowers as if I'd asked Anders to play escort. I want to take her outside and set her straight. But that won't change the fact that she's hurt, and the more I try to fix it, the more humiliated she'll be. So I go back to talking to Petra, who picks up where we left off. Anders joins us as he finishes his beer, and then we leave.

"You doing okay?" Anders asks when we're outside.

"Sure."

He glances over as we head into the street. "You seemed to be having a good time when I got there. Did I...?" He clears his throat. "I mean, I realized afterward that I probably shouldn't have just waltzed in and pulled up a chair and started talking like you'd been waiting for me."

"You didn't."

He walks a few feet in silence, before checking my expression and nodding. "Okay. I just ... It got a little awkward."

"No, nothing like that. So what was the story you wanted to tell me?"

"Story...?" It takes him a second, then he shakes his head. "Yeah, idiot, the reason you waltzed in there and barged into the conversation. Before I get talking--because God knows, once I start, I don't stop--do you want to go straight home? Or walk a bit, so I can add to the grand welcoming tour the boss took you on yesterday."

"Uh..."

"What? You didn't get the tour? I did." He points down the moonlit street. "Police station, general store, restaurants, lumberyard, and bar. No, wait, it was more like: Bar's over there, and if I fucking catch you ever staggering out of there, dead-ass drunk, you'll be drying out in the cell all night."

I give a soft laugh, and he smiles over.

"Proper tour, then?" he says. He motions at the moon. "We've got enough light for it."

"I would love a tour, but do I still get the story?"

"Of course. Can't forget the story, since it was so damned important."

We start walking and he says, "You missed your first chance at a grizzly sighting tonight. Right on the edge of town."

"What?" I look at him. "Dalton said they don't--"

"--usually come this close. Always note the usually, Casey. So someone reported seeing a bear rubbing against a tree, scratching its back and grunting. I grab the rifle and every militia guy I pass on my run across town. I'm creeping up on the spot with Kenny and a couple of the others at my back. And there's the beast. It looks a little small--maybe six foot. Wide enough for a bear, though. Definitely rubbing up against that tree with plenty of grunting. Then I see it's got four legs, four arms, and is wearing clothing. Well, some clothing."

"Ah, the elusive beast with two backs."

"Not nearly so elusive around here. Yep, so that was our bear. A couple who tried to sneak twenty feet into the woods for a little privacy ... and found themselves with an audience who'll be spreading the story for days. They'll also be slapped with chopping duty for being outside the boundary."

"Chopping duty?"

He glances over. "Man, Eric really didn't tell you anything, did he? It's the main form of punishment here. We can't keep anyone in the cell for long and we can't impose harsh fines--or they won't be able to buy food. So we do what they did in Dawson City during the gold rush: sentence folks to chopping wood for the municipal buildings."

"Smart."

"Especially in winter, when we need a lotta wood. Now, if you look to your left, you'll see the lumber shed and chopping circle just past those buildings, which are..."

We continue down the street and he carries on with the tour.

The next morning: more searching for Hastings. At noon, Dalton decides it's time to scale back. The militia will stay on it, led by Anders. The sheriff will return to dealing with the local law enforcement issues that have piled up in the last forty-eight hours. I'll get to work on the Powys case.

First, I talk to the doctor--Beth, as she insists--and get her full autopsy report. The next step would be to re-interview those connected to his disappearance--who saw him the night he took off, who might have played some role. But I have a different idea I want to pursue first.

I spend most of the afternoon reading through files on other homicides and disappearances. There aren't many ... if I don't remind myself exactly how small this town is. When I do, that small stack makes Rockton the Bermuda Triangle of the North. Most of it, though, can be chalked up to the situation. We come here because we've either done bad shit or we've got serious baggage. The fact that almost everyone survives their stay and goes home again is actually remarkable. But every year one or two won't be going back. Some wander off into the woods. Some die by homicide or misadventure. And some commit suicide.

That's what Irene Prosser's death is filed under. I read it three times to make sure I'm not missing anything. Then I wait for Sheriff Dalton to return. At five, he walks straight through, coffee already in hand. I follow him onto the deck.

"Busy," he grunts.

"Irene Prosser." I slap the file on the railing. "Suicide? She was found in a water cistern. With both wrists cut to the bone."