City of the Lost (20 page)

I laugh.

“People learn in different ways,” Dalton continues as he walks back to the path. “Will’s a smart guy. College educated. Pre-med before he joined the army. But reading doesn’t do it for him. Hearing it, doing it, that’s how he learns. So not much point in me writing shit down.”

We continue right past the ATVs. Soon I see why, as the path becomes so narrow that we can’t even walk side by side. When I notice a sandy patch alongside the trail, I crouch for a better look.

“Speaking of prints,” I say. “What are these?”

He barely gives them a glance. “Cat.”

“Bobcat? They seem small.”

He snorts. “No bobcats here. Lynx mostly. And one cougar.”

“One?”

“We’re a little out of their range, which runs in a swath from Whitehorse to Dawson City. There is one, though. Her prints are nearly as big as a grizzly’s. You can’t miss them. And stay out of her way, same as you would a grizzly. She’s no friendly kitty. Killed a guy on a hunting trip couple years back.”

“I didn’t see that in the files.”

“No investigation needed. She jumped from a tree. Landed on his back. Snapped his neck and dragged him off to her kittens.” He rubs his chin. “Who may also have hung around, now that they’re full-grown.”

I peer up into the treetops.

“Too dense for her here,” he says. “And she’s not likely to strike when you have company. Predators are smart. They don’t bite off more than they can chew … or haul away.”

“Lovely…”

“The guy who got killed had wandered off from the party. We only knew what happened because he screamed and someone spotted the cat dragging his body away. I suspect she only went after him because of the kittens. Spring’s when you need to be particularly careful.”

“I won’t need to worry about it, since my six months are up by then.”

He grunts in acknowledgement. And yes, that stings, because I want him to be impressed enough already to change his mind, even if I haven’t made up my own.

“Lynx, then?” I say, pointing at the tracks again.

“Too small. Lynx aren’t big cats, but like cougars, they have oversized paws. Adaptation to walking on snow. Those prints are
Felis catus
. Domestic cat.”

“Isn’t that
Felis domestica
, sheriff?”

“Nope. That would be a common but incorrect taxonomic name, detective. It can also be
Felis silvestris catus
, which combines woodland and domestic cat. And in this case, that might be more accurate.”

“So they’re former house cats?”

He motions for me to resume walking as he says, “Escaped from town when they allowed them.”

“You have feral cats in the forest?”

“And dogs. Rabbits, chickens, few hogs. All descended from escapees. Dogs were for security. Cats for mousing. The others for food. Back when there were fifty, sixty people in Rockton, raising livestock made sense. Now? Too much land needed to raise more than a few dozen chickens for eggs and goats for milk.”

“Why did they get rid of the cats and dogs?”

“No idea. They weren’t documenting things back then. I do, for the day-to-day stuff—what kind of problem we faced and how we resolved it. For the dogs and cats, I’ve heard rabies outbreak. They put them down and didn’t want to risk bringing in more. I also heard it was something as stupid as allergies—one of Val’s predecessors was allergic so he made a no-animal law and no one’s changed it.”

“Have
you
considered changing it?”

He looks surprised by the question. “Course. You can’t just say that we should keep doing a thing just because it’s always been done. Cats eat their fill of mice, so upkeep is minimal. Dogs can eat the parts of game we throw out. Fresh water is plentiful. I’ve been considering it. Getting new animals—not taming the ones out here. You don’t do that shit. Once they’re wild, they stay wild.”

“Are the feral dogs dangerous?”

“Fuck, yeah. More than wolves. They’re bigger and meaner. Lot less scared of humans, too. It’s just wrong to go from being wild to tame or vice versa. If you see a dog, I’m not saying to shoot it on sight. But if it makes any aggressive moves? Yeah, you have to put it down.”

We step out of the woods into an open area near mountain foothills. I admire the scenery for a moment before coming back with, “But the cats are fine?”

“Unless they’re rabid. Or just crazy. It happens. Fucking with nature is a problem, like I said. Worst, though, are the hogs. More dangerous than the black bears.”

“Tell me the wild chickens aren’t dangerous.”

“Unless they fly out in front of your horse, which they do sometimes. Unseated a guy years back. Broke his neck. The rabbits, though? The rabbits haven’t killed anyone.” He pauses. “So far.”

As we continue along the foothills, I drink in the scenery. Most of the trees are evergreens, but there are enough deciduous changing colour to remind me of home. It’s a perfect autumn day, crisp and clear.

“Given the many, many dangers of the forest, I’m presuming you guys don’t do a lot of activities out here.”

He shrugs. “Nah, we do. Some of us, anyway.”

“Any rock climbing?” I say, gesturing at the craggy face of the mountain.

He nods. “Anders is into it. We go out sometimes with a few of the others. Caving, too. Former resident was into that. Mapped out caves. Taught me. We go sometimes—Anders, me, few others. Only those who can handle themselves out here.”

“So that’s a no, then?”

He frowns back at me.

“You’re subtly telling me not to ask to join you.”

He snorts. “If you think I’m capable of being subtle, you aren’t very perceptive, detective.” He peers over. “You want to come out with us?”

“I might.” I shrug.

I’m trying for nonchalance. I don’t want to sound like I’m brown-nosing. Nor do I want to jump in like an eager kid. But his thoughtful look vanishes, he turns away and grunts something I don’t catch, and I’ve made a misstep.

Before I can try again, he points and says, “Gonna have to do a bit of rock climbing now. We need to get there.”

I follow his finger to see what looks like a crack high in the rock face.

“What’s up there?” I ask.

“Cave. Like I said.”

“I expected something bigger.”

“If the opening was bigger, there’d be something bigger in it. Like a bear. And it
is
bigger on the inside.”

“Like the TARDIS?” As I say it, I mentally kick myself—pop culture references make him uncomfortable—but he makes a noise suspiciously like a chuckle and says, “Yeah, except no time travelling.”

He catches my expression, shakes his head, and says, “Ever heard of those amazing devices calls DVDs?”

“Sure, but what do you play them on up here?”

“Tree stumps. If you carve them out just right and get ground squirrels to run around them really fast, you can project moving pictures on a wall.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“We have a DVD player,” he says as he starts up the slope. “We hook it up to a screen and generator for movie nights. As sheriff, I have a laptop and access to the generator for charging. I also have an income that I can spend down south on shit like DVDs. You want to watch something? Ask me. My collection is limited, though. Right now I’ve got
Doctor Who
,
The Walking Dead
, and
Game of Thrones
.”

By now I know enough not to even wonder if he’s joking.

“Also have
Deadwood
,” he says. “Makes more sense to me than most of your so-called dramas, which is why I stick more to the fantasy stuff.”

My foot slides on a particularly steep part. Dalton only glances back to make sure I don’t tumble to my doom.

“I might borrow
The Walking Dead
,” I say. “I haven’t seen that.”

“Good show. Also reminds you that no matter what kind of shit we have in these woods, at least it’s not zombies.”

“
Yet
. And you do have cannibals.”

He sighs. “I never said we definitely have them. I said the evidence suggests it’s possible. Even if we do, they’re not charging out of the woods like a zombie horde.”

“Yet.”

We reach the cave. The opening is a gash in the rock, maybe three feet wide by eighteen inches high. When I catch the smell of a wood fire, I go still and scan the area. Dalton hunkers down to the opening and yells, “Brent! You home?”

“Depends on who’s asking,” a voice replies.

“Your ex-wife sent me. Something about you owing her money.”

“You’re gonna have to be more specific than that.”

“I’m coming in, and I’m bringing company.” Dalton hands me his backpack. “Pass this through to me.” Before I can reply, he’s on his stomach and crawling through the space. Then his hands appear. I give him the bag. After another thirty seconds, grey eyes peer out.

“You need an invitation, detective? Sure as hell hope you don’t need instructions, because you should have been watching.”

I get down on my stomach. The gap turns out to be wider than I think. I slide through easily … and nearly fall onto my head.

Dalton catches me and helps me get upright, and I see we’re in an open area that’s more like I expect from a cave. Dalton walks, hunched over, to a slope heading down into darkness.

“You gonna turn on the porch light?” Dalton yells.

The hiss of a lantern. Then a wavering light that does little to illuminate what I’m presumably about to climb into.

Dalton grabs a rope on the side and lowers himself down the slope. This time, I pay careful attention. Then I follow. At the bottom, the light is disappearing as a man carries it along a passage. Even I need to crouch to get through this one. Then the man pushes at what looks like a door. It swings open. Flickering light and the smell of woodsmoke pours out and I see a fire, the smoke rising into a hole in the top of what I’m guessing is called a cavern. It looks like one of those bomb shelters from the Fifties, though. There’s a bed, a table and chairs, and shelves—lots of shelves, with goods from books to canned food. Dried meat hangs from the ceiling along with dried roots and other flora that I presume is edible.

There’s a man, too. And he also fits the scene perfectly, looking like a guy who retreated to his bomb shelter fifty years ago and just popped his head out now. He’s about seventy, with grey hair in a ponytail, pale, wrinkled skin, and eyes that peer against the light. Right now, they’re peering at me.

“Now
that’s
a deputy,” he says. “Much prettier than your last one.”

“Ms. Butler is a detective.”

“Really?” Brent’s wire-brush brows shoot up. “Women do that nowadays?”

“Women do everything nowadays,” I say.

He grins. “Except piss standing up.”

“Oh, we can do that, too. It’s just messy.”

He laughs like this is the funniest thing he’s heard in years. Then he ushers me to a chair—sorry,
the
chair—and pours me a glass of water from a collapsible pouch.

“Are you a police detective?” he asks. “Or a private eye?”

“Police,” I say.

“I was in law enforcement, too.”

“Brent was a bail bondsman,” Dalton says.

“Bounty hunter, please. It sounds sexier.” Brent turns to me. “Shitty job. Paid well, but do you know the problem with people who jump bail?”

“They don’t want to be caught?”

He cackles a laugh. “Right you are. And they are highly motivated. Got shot three times and stabbed five, and I have the scars to prove it. Here, let me show you.”

“Another time,” Dalton says.

“Hey, I bet I’ve got the best damned body she’s ever seen on a man my age. Living up here? Climbing in and out of this place? Take a look at—” He starts pulling up his shirt.

Dalton stops him with, “Save it for a special occasion.” He looks at me. “Brent chased a guy up here. Fellow ambushed him with sulphuric acid. He will
not
show you the scars to prove that, but it made him decide to give up chasing bad guys and just stay.”

“In Rockton?” I ask.

“Fuck no,” Brent says. “Pardon my French. Do you know what that place really is?”

“Brent is a conspiracy theorist,” Dalton says. “He’s got a dozen of them for Rockton. Next time we come out, ask him to tell you the one where it’s a test facility for biological warfare. That’s his best.”

“You think so?” Brent says. “I like the alien ones better.”

“The alien ones are shit.” Dalton hefts the knapsack he brought. “Got some stuff for you, presuming you have goods and intel to trade.”

“Both for you, Eric. Always. Did you bring me that Canadiens jersey?”

“Couldn’t find it. Picked up a Maple Leafs one instead. That’s okay, right?”

Brent spends the next minute telling Dalton why it is
not
okay in a diatribe only a true hockey fan could appreciate.

Dalton only shrugs. “Stupid fucking game anyway.”

He gets another minute of fan ranting for that. Then he pulls out a Canadiens jersey and tosses it to Brent, who takes it and mutters, “Asshole.” Then he turns to me. “I played for the Habs, you know.”

“One season,” Dalton says. “He warmed the bench.”

“Asshole,” Brent mutters.

“Keeping you honest.” Dalton lowers himself to the floor in front of the fire and makes himself comfortable. “What do you have for me, Brent?”

Brent gives him a rundown on everything he’s seen in the past week or so. The camp we’d spotted below was trappers—two men and a woman who are apparently part of a tiny community of former Rockton residents, now living about ten kilometres east. Dalton knows them and grumbles because they were supposed to “check in” when they were in the area, so his militia didn’t mistake them for bears.

Speaking of bears, Brent had spotted two grizzlies, a “sow” and a young “boar,” and I make a mental note of the terms. Dalton knows the female and wonders if the male is her son from a few springs back, and they debate that, rather like trying to figure out the parentage of a local kid based on whom he resembles.

Brent had also spotted a feral dog that had been giving them both trouble. He’d shot at it with his bow. “Lost the goddamn arrow,” he says. He’d seen signs of a hostile, too, but that was way out, when he’d gone on an overnight hike. It was a woman, who’d only watched him. Dalton suggests she might have thought he looked like good husband material and razzes him about that, but otherwise seems unconcerned.