"You said this was two months ago?" I say.
"Seven weeks."
He still counted it in weeks, probably only recently stopped counting it in days. That's what you do with the cases that haunt you.
"So about four weeks before Irene was murdered," I said. "Five or so weeks before Powys disappeared."
"Yep."
"You think there's a connection," I say. "That Abbygail didn't just wander into the forest. No more than Irene Prosser nearly cut off her own hands."
He reaches for his beer. Remembers it's empty and makes a face.
"Could Abbygail have been murdered?" he says. "I am not the person to make that determination. Not me. Not Will or Beth or Mick or anyone else who feels responsible for what happened."
I take the file. Before I go in, I murmur, "Thank you. For explaining." If he hears, he gives no sign of it. He's already staring into the forest again.
Night falls. I'm packing up to leave, and Anders comes in.
"Want to grab a drink?" he asks.
I don't. I'm in a funk, thinking about Irene and Abbygail, and all I want to do is go home and curl up and maybe have a shot of tequila on my own. But I get the feeling that drinking alone out here is the first step toward darkness. What I really want to do is see Diana. But she's avoiding me.
I tell myself it's temporary. Low self-confidence causes her to stay with guys like Graham, and it also means sometimes she decides she's stuck in my shadow and needs to escape for a while. She'll back off until her confidence returns.
Tonight, though, the loss of Diana just seems one more weight on the load already dragging me down. I'm in this godforsaken town with cannibals outside and a killer inside, and now the friend I've come here to help has abandoned me.
So no, I don't want to go for a drink. But there isn't any reason to take out my mood on Anders, so I say, "Okay," then, "I need to drop a few of these files at my place. I'll meet you--"
"Those files stay in that cabinet," Dalton cuts in from across the room.
"All right," I say, as evenly as I can. "I'll drop off my notes--"
"Your notes stay here, too."
I turn on him. "Excuse me?"
He's sitting at the desk, doing paperwork. He doesn't even lift his head. "It's nine o'clock at night. You're going for a drink. Work will wait."
"All right. I'll finish a couple of things and lock them in the file cabinet. Are we going to the Roc or the Red Lion?"
Silence. I look over at Anders.
"The, uh, Roc ...?" He turns to Dalton. "You explained, right? About the Roc?" When Dalton keeps working, Anders curses under his breath. "Of course not. Stupid question." He looks at me. "The, uh, Roc is for ... Well, the women there ... It's not really a bar as much as ..."
"It's a brothel," Dalton says.
I turn to him. "What?"
"You heard me."
"No, I'm pretty sure I didn't, because there's no way in hell you'd allow a house of prostitution--"
"Not my call."
"It sure as hell is your call, sheriff. You've told me this town has a problem with the lack of women. I went to see Diana last night and got hassled by three men on the way there. Then I'm knocking on her door and the next thing you know, a guy is offering me a hundred credits for sex."
"What?" Anders says.
I look at him. "You're shocked? Really?"
"Hell, yes. No one should--"
"You live in a town where women do, apparently, sell sex, and you're honestly shocked that a woman would need to deal with being offered money for sex? It's called the setting of expectation and precedent. Sure, I'm not a whore, but no harm in asking, right? You just gotta find the right price. And if you can't? Well, from the looks of your sexual assault file, I think we know what they do when they can't find the right price."
I don't wait for a reply. I scoop up my notes and the case files, and I walk out.
Five
I'm in the office at ten to eight the next morning. I don't put on the kettle for coffee, and not because I'm being pissy, but simply because I don't think to do it. With everything that's going on, I didn't exactly get a good night's sleep, and I'm distracted. I walk in, start the fire in the wood stove, and sit at the desk to work on my notes.
Dalton shows up at the stroke of eight. He takes a bound journal from his coat pocket.
"My notes," he says. "On residents."
When I look up, he shoves it back into his pocket. I struggle to keep my expression neutral. I rise and walk to the water dispenser to fill the kettle.
"I don't allow a brothel in my town," he says. "That should have been clear when you heard me arguing with Isabel. If I had a choice in the matter, I'd shut her down."
"Okay." I put the kettle on the stove.
"You think I'm full of shit," he says.
"I think if you wanted it shut down, it'd be shut down."
"Then you overestimate my influence here, detective."
I return to my seat. He's standing there, looming over me, waiting for some accusation he can deny. I resume my note taking.
"The council argues that the brothel reduces the problems we have," he says. "Before it opened, women were already selling sex. It's a market economy. The problem was that if they sold it once, men kept expecting it, and when they said no, things got ugly. Isabel's argument is that by having the brothel, she can keep the women safe and be sure it's what they really want to do."
"Okay."
Silence. He shifts his weight, making a noise not unlike a growl. He wants to debate this, to defend it or deny his culpability in it, and I'm not letting him do that.
Finally, I lift my gaze to his. "The problem is the environment it creates for other women. I spent a year in vice, working with hookers, and I'd be the first person to argue for legalizing prostitution. The sex trade isn't going away. It's better to regulate it and keep the workers safe. But that's in a large city, where the overall effect is minimal. Having a brothel in a town with such a small female population creates the kind of environment where women are going to have to deal with an expectation they should never have to deal with. Do you even understand that?"
He says nothing for about five seconds. Then he shifts his weight, backing out of looming mode. "No, I did not understand that, detective. I do now. No one's ever complained about being propositioned before."
"Well, you can sure as hell bet I'm not the first. They're being asked, and they're dealing with it on their own. It's embarrassing and humiliating to have a guy presume he can buy sex from you."
The kettle sings. He goes to make the coffee, and I think the conversation's at an end, so I pull out another file. A few minutes later, he's looming again.
"I want to know who offered you money," he says. "If you don't have a name, a description will do. I'll make an example of him and--"
"And he'll tell everyone I overreacted. That the new girl is a stuck-up prude who can't take a joke. Or that he was drunk and made a silly mistake. No matter how it's handled, I'll be a bitch and he'll be the misunderstood guy who was just trying to tell me he thinks I'm cute."
"I would like the chance to handle this, detective."
"If it happens again--or if I hear about other women being hassled--I'll take my lumps and be the bitch. But having you fix it for me only says I can't."
He stands there. Then he sets his journal on the desk. I look up to see he's left a mug of coffee there, fixed with creamer, exactly as I take it.
I watch him head out onto the back deck.
I don't understand you, sheriff. Not one bit.
Anders checks in at eleven. The last few days have been "all hands on deck" because of Hastings's disappearance, but we're back to regular shifts, which still aren't all that regular--we come in when Dalton tells us to and work ten hours, give or take.
When Anders arrives, he makes a beeline for my desk. Well, the desk. Dalton is out back. He's come and gone a few times in the last few hours, but he always ends up out there, not a
word to me on the way.
"Hey," Anders says. "About last night--"
"Good, you're here." Dalton appears from nowhere to intercept Anders. "I need you out at the airstrip. Got a delivery coming in."
"Sure, but there's no sign of the plane yet, and I wanted to talk to--"
Dalton backs him up clear out the door and closes it behind them. I can't hear their conversation, but I can pick up enough to know it's about the Roc. Anders wants to talk to me about it, and Dalton is telling him to drop it.
Anders leaves. Dalton comes in. When I look up, he's standing there. He gestures at the journal.
"Better now?" he says. "Or worse?"
"I understand your point," I say carefully.
"So I wasn't just being an asshole?" He snorts and shakes his head. Then he heads for the back door. I'm figuring that's the end of the conversation, but he gestures, as if to say, Well, come on. I scrape back my chair and follow him out.
We settle in on the deck. The temperature is dropping, and I zip my hoodie. There's no official uniform, because it's not as if anyone here doesn't know we're the local PD. Dalton wears a T-shirt and doesn't seem to notice the chill. I've noticed that's common here, as people adapt to the climate.
I take my place on the railing, and he says, "So do you think I'm a paranoid son of a bitch?"
"I think you have a reason to be. It's like ..." I rub the back of my neck. "As a city cop, you don't kid yourself about people. You walk into the suburbs, look at those nice houses, and wonder who really lives there. Addicts, abusers, pedophiles, rapists, even murderers. So when you told me criminals get smuggled in, as disconcerting as that was, I told myself it was the same thing."
"And it's not?"
I shake my head. "In my old job, it was a hypothetical. You see fifty houses and know a killer could lurk within one. But you realize part of that is a cop's misanthropy, and there's a good chance there isn't an actual killer. But here? It's a guarantee. And not just one, either."
I take the journal from my pocket and finger it. Powys is in there. So is Hastings, though only as speculation--Dalton thinks Hastings may be a man accused of murdering his mother for his inheritance. He has positively identified ten people who are here under false pretences. There are twenty more he is actively researching. That's 15 percent of the population. I'm struggling with that. I really am.
"Thank you for letting me read it," I say finally. "I'm not sorry I did. I just ..."
I trail off, and he says, "Yep," and we fade to silence.
We don't stay quiet for long. Dalton asks if I have any questions. It's an honest offer, and we discuss his methods of research. He keeps a list of things he wants to look up when he flies out, but it's not exactly a weekly trip. Dawson City does have places where he can access the Internet--the tourism office and two cafes. The problem is that he sure as hell doesn't dare snoop using the laptop the council has given him.
"You could buy a tablet," I say.
"Tablet?"
"You know, like an iPad, except I'd suggest generic to save money, since all you want is the browser, not Angry Birds and Netflix."
His look isn't confusion. It's caution, that tightening of his face that says he realizes he should know what I'm talking about. Like being asked to run when you're trying to hide a limp.
I try to think of a way to phrase an explanation that won't sound condescending. There isn't one, so I just say, "A tablet is like an oversized cellphone that doesn't make phone calls. The bigger screen means it's a lot easier to browse the Internet. And not being a phone, it's usually cheaper than one."
"I've seen people on the plane with them. Wondered what the hell they were. I don't ..." He shrugs. "Don't take commercial flights that often."
"Makes sense." I manage a smile. "Believe me, you're not missing anything--"
"Stop." His voice is low, the word barely more than a grunt.
"I'm just--"
"Will told you about me. I get it. Now drop it. I don't appreciate being made to feel like a freak, detective."
"I would never--"
"But you're curious. Everyone's curious. What's it like to grow up someplace like this? To never leave? Don't you want to leave? Do you know how to drive a car? Have you ever been to a movie theatre? No, really, tell me, what's it like?" He meets my gaze. "I'm not an anthropological study, detective, and I can't tell you what it's like because I have nothing to compare it to."
"I get that, and I won't pretend I don't think it's interesting, but I wouldn't pry. The only thing your background means to me is that you're the best source of information on this town. Right?"
A pause, like he's itching to argue. Then, "Yeah."
"About the tablet, then. I think that would help. I brought cash--yes, I know, that's not allowed, but I still did. Either I can tell you what to get or you can take me on the next trip. Which is me offering to help, not angling for a day pass. Either way, a tablet would be easy to smuggle and would let you do research whenever you have access to an open wireless router."
He agrees that makes sense, and we move back to the subject of the murders.
I say, "The near amputation of hands with Irene and amputation of legs with Powys suggests the same killer. The question is whether their romantic connection is significant."
"Powys dated about a dozen women here."
"So, not overly significant. What about drugs? Powys had a medical background and Hastings was a chemist. Did you suspect both of being involved with rydex?"
"I considered it, but they didn't move in the same circles. Also, one of the reasons I knew Powys's backstory was a lie was that Beth says he knew shit about pharmaceuticals."
"Maybe Irene and Hastings, then? Her tox screen showed she was high when she died."
"Yeah, but there were no signs of long-term use. My theory is that she was doped before she was killed. That's not in the file because I've put nothing in it that could get my ass kicked out of Rockton."
He rubs a hand over his beard shadow, the skritch of it filling the silence. "I've made it pretty damn clear I don't like to talk about my background, about me being from here, but I'm going to say this once, and only because you need to understand the stakes. The council knows I don't want to leave Rockton. Wouldn't know what to do with myself down south. I don't have a proper education. I don't have proper ID. I don't exist outside Rockton, and I don't know how to exist outside Rockton. If I wanted to, I could figure it out. But I don't want to."
"This is your home."
"It is, and I hate that they can hold it over my head, but I'm a fucking lousy actor. I've tried. A year before Will got here, I started saying maybe I wanted to try living down south. They got me solid ID and began interviewing local replacements."
"They called your bluff."
"Yeah, and I folded. So that's where we stand."
"How will that affect my investigation? Are they dead set on covering up the murders?"
"No, it's not ..." He makes a face and leans back. "The council ruled Irene a suicide because she left a note. It's not so much covering it up as turning a blind eye. But they also let me bring you in. I've told them how Powys died and they aren't trying to rule it as death by misadventure. If you make the connection to Irene?" He shrugged. "Well, you're a detective. You figured it out. I'm just the hick sheriff who didn't."
Six
I'm on the trail of Abbygail Kemp. That isn't easy. Dalton's not the only one who feels as if he failed her. Beth can barely talk about it. We're in the clinic, and she's trying to distract herself by cleaning up while I ask questions, but the memories rattle her so badly, she slices her finger on a scalpel.
She winces as she dabs it. "Sorry. It's just ..." She tries hard for a smile. "Not a subject I ought to discuss while handling sharp objects."
"I understand. The sheriff says you still have her things. Do you mind if I take a look?"
She silently leads me next door to her home. It's nearly identical to mine except there's a futon in
the living room.
"That's where she stayed," Beth says. "During the drug withdrawal, she couldn't live on her own. Later, we gave her an apartment, but ..." She tugs her gaze away from the futon and says, a little gruffly, "She'd gotten used to it here. We'd gotten used to each other." A few moments' pause. "Now, I have an appointment at the clinic in a few minutes, so I need to run. Her things are under there." She points at the futon. "If it helps to take the bag, go ahead. I don't ... I don't know what to do with it. Standard procedure is to throw out belongings. I can't do that. So ..."
"I'll take it back to the station," I say. "Her things are potential evidence. We can't dispose of them."
"You think she was ..." She pushes her hands into her lab coat pockets, wincing as she brushes her cut finger. "Of course you do. I just can't quite wrap my head around the idea that anyone in town would hurt her. But she was young and she was pretty and I guess, maybe, sometimes that's enough, isn't it?"
"Sometimes."
"Eric blames himself. He thinks he didn't try hard enough to keep her out of the forest. He's wrong, though. The fact she disappeared into it is--for me--the best proof she was murdered. She wouldn't have worried him like that. Eric was ... Eric was special. To Abbygail. The handsome young sheriff who rescued her."
"She had a crush on him."
She smiles then, her eyes brightening. "A huge crush. Not a serious interest, though. Yes, she was twenty-one, but she knew he would never see her that way. So it was a schoolgirl crush. The kind she should have had in school, but for Abbygail, that wasn't an option. She got to have it here, instead, with her white knight. She would argue with him and pretend to rebel against his rules, but it was like a twelve-year-old girl teasing the boy she likes." She looks at me. "If he said stay out of the woods, she'd never have gone in without good reason. Never."
Abbygail's belongings. Almost everything seems to have been acquired post-arrival. There are books--romance novels and nursing texts. Clothing and toiletries, all generic. An equally generic stuffed animal, the kind you get at the fair in those "everyone's a winner" games--a creature that could be a dog, a cat, or a bear. It's tattered enough to suggest it was one thing she did bring from home. There's a necklace around the animal's neck. A tin heart with a makeshift inscription. JP & AK 4ever. It looks like the sort of thing a preteen boy would give a girl, and I wonder if it's the same one who gave her the bear--a first love, long gone, relics of another life.