City of the Lost (Rockton 1)

He makes a noise at that. It's like a snort, but it's also akin to a laugh. Then he shakes his head and walks to the fireplace.

"Is that a no?" I ask.

Another shake of his head, and I think that's my answer until he says, "I'm not the least bit worried that Val will interfere, because that would require her to actually show up. You want to walk over and invite her? Go ahead ... if you need the exercise." He lights the fire and puts the kettle over it. "Exercise in futility, too. But go on. Coffee will be ready when you get back." He checks his watch. "Five minutes there, five minutes back. Ten seconds for her to tell you no."

Val lives on the edge of town opposite mine. As Dalton said, it's a five-minute fast walk from the station, and given how freaking cold it is these past few mornings, fast is the only way I move.

Her house is identical to mine. I climb the porch and knock, and here's where Dalton's schedule goes off track, because it takes me two full minutes of knocking--and then calling "Val?"--before she opens the door. I think I must have gotten her out of bed, but she's fully dressed, her hair brushed, a writing pad in hand.

"I know Eric updated you on the situation yesterday," I say. "We're making a public statement this morning."

There's a long moment of silence, and I begin to wonder if she even heard me. Then she says, "Is that necessary?"

"I believe it is, to keep people calm and informed."

"All right. If you think that's best, I trust your judgment."

"I'd like you to be there."

Her brows knit. "What for?"

"You're the spokesperson for the council. Your presence will reassure people."

"I don't think that's necessary, Detective Butler."

"I do."

"Unfortunately, that isn't your call to make."

She starts to close the door. I shove my foot in to stop her.

"If you don't want to say anything, that's fine," I say. "I'll do the talking. But the people of Rockton need all the reassurance they can get, and having you there will help."

Her lips curve in what can't quite be called a smile. "The people of Rockton don't give a damn whether I'm there. They rely on Sheriff Dalton for all their reassurances."

"Then just show up and stand beside him. Support him. He needs that right now."

"Sheriff Dalton doesn't need anything from anyone, Casey. The sooner you realize that, the easier your six months here will be." I must react at that, because she says, "You don't think I know about his little deal with you? As I said, Eric Dalton doesn't need anything from anyone. Let him run his little Wild West town, keep your head down, and get out of this hellhole as fast as you can. There's your statement, detective. Take it and go."

THIRTY-SIX

We give our statement at nine. Or I give it, with Dalton standing cross-armed beside me, his look daring anyone to speak when I ask if there are any questions.

I've always wondered why there isn't more dissent in police states. I'm accustomed to a world where people riot after a hockey game. Imagine what they'd do under a totalitarian authority. The answer, at least in Rockton, is "not a hell of a lot."

I guess that isn't surprising. Rockton gives them sanctuary and Dalton keeps them safe, and so whatever they might think of him, they don't seem to doubt his ability to continue doing so.

They've given him a pass on Powys, trusting that he's doing his best. With Hastings, that's shifting, and I hear grumblings, the occasional whisper that maybe Dalton and I are a little young to be handling this. It doesn't rise above whispering, though. Not yet.

The next five days pass with frustratingly little progress on the case. I work my ass off, but I feel like I'm searching for the proverbial needle in the haystack ... and I'm not even sure there is a needle. I have so little to go on. The autopsy report on Hastings didn't tell me anything new. There's no forensic evidence--Irene's crime scene is a month old, and both Hastings and Powys were found in the forest, which is a hell of a place to get evidence.

We scour the woods for footprints where we found Hastings, but it hasn't rained in over a week and the rocky ground is too hard to take an impression. We search for anything the killer might have dropped, spending two days combing an ever-increasing circle. We even hunt for the kind of trace evidence--a snagged thread or clump of hair--that you only really find in TV shows. Beth scrapes under the nails of the victims. Hell, we dig up Irene to get samples from hers. No defensive wounds or signs of a struggle on any of them.

I interview everyone remotely connected to the four victims. That count includes Abbygail because, until proved otherwise, I include her as a victim. All that leads to exactly one clue.

In Hastings's case, Kenny had seen him head toward the forest and told the sheriff, which led to the manhunt. Powys, though, had simply disappeared. With the interviews, I find out that someone had seen Powys walking into the forest. He hadn't come forward because, well, he'd spotted Powys while sneaking from the house of his long-time girlfriend to the house of someone who

was not his long-time girlfriend.