"I was given this number--"
"--to discuss engaging our services to assist in your move," she says.
"Yes, but--"
"That's all we need to discuss at the moment. We run a very confidential service." In other words, stop talking. Stop talking now. "I am unable to answer any questions you might have until we agree to proceed with serious consideration of you as a client. We are very selective. Do you have access to a fax machine?"
"Uh ... yes?"
"Please fax us a copy of your passport and driver's licence along with a number where we may reach you. Thank you for your interest in--"
"There are two of us," I say.
A pause. "I'm sorry. You have been misinformed. We provide services for single individuals only. We cannot assist in the moving plans of spouses, partners, children--"
"She's a friend and we both need to move."
Another pause. "All right then. Send both sets of identification." She hung up.
I fax the identification and provide the number from a prepaid cell I buy for the purpose. It's less than twelve hours before I get a call requesting our "reason for moving."
"Fax us a written note explaining the situation, along with all supporting documentation. We will require proof of your claim."
"Anything else?" I ask. "Details on us personally."
The voice takes on a slight edge of amusement. "We have your identification. That is enough for us to retrieve what we need, detective."
Okay, they've already started doing their homework.
"There is also the matter of our fee," she says. "Five thousand each to cover the costs of the transfer and integrating you into your new home. I trust that's satisfactory?"
We'd already been warned of this, and I've agreed to pay Diana's fee as well as my own. I say that's fine and sign off.
I scan and send supporting documentation from Diana's hospital visits and official complaints against Graham and newspaper articles on my attack and a copy of the police report on Kurt's shooting.
Her story is the truth. Mine is that those who attacked me in the alley years ago had mistaken me for someone else, and they continued to stalk me, culminating in the attack on Kurt. Do I expect them to believe that? Not really. If there's any chance this town is legit, I'm hoping that if these people call bullshit on me they'll still grant Diana admission. She'll be safe, and that's what counts. Then I'll transfer to a new city to protect Kurt, and then ... well, whatever. The point is they'll both be safe.
Again, it's less than twelve hours before the next call. I'm told we've passed the documentation check and are okayed for the next step: the in-person interview. She rattles off a time and an address.
"That's local?" I say.
"We come to you."
"And I'll meet what, a selection committee?"
"You will meet Valerie, our firm's representative and client liaison."
"She'll answer my questions, to verify the legitimacy of your firm?"
Silence. I say, "What I mean is--"
"Yes, I understand your meaning. You wish to make sure we are what we say we are, we can do what we say we can. Most clients don't bother." A soft sound that may even be a chuckle. "Valerie will do her best to satisfy your doubt, detective. She cannot get into details--she must put our existing clientele first. But she should be able to satisfy your concerns."
We meet Valerie at 10 p.m. in a random office building. Yes, an office building. She even looks at home there: middle management, late forties, greying hair cut in no discernible style, decade-old suit.
There's no small talk, no offer of coffee or tea. She ushers us straight into a meeting room that's as stark and impersonal as my apartment. Rent-an-office? Never knew there was such a thing. It does come with an interesting feature, though: one-way glass. I walk to the mirror and pretend to fuss with my hair. Then I wave into the mirror and take a seat.
Valerie is pulling a folder from her satchel when the door opens. A guy stands there. He's around my age with dark blond hair cut short, and a beard somewhere between shadow and scruff. Six feet or so. Rugged build. Tanned face. Steel-grey eyes with a slight squint, crow's feet already forming at the corners. A guy who spends a lot of time outdoors and doesn't wear sunglasses or sunscreen as often as he should.
"You," he says, those grey eyes fixing on me. He jerks his chin to the door.
"We've just started--" Valerie begins.
"Separate interviews."
"That's not--"
He turns that gaze on her, and she freezes like a new hire caught on an extra coffee break. He doesn't say another word. Nor does she. I follow him out.
He takes me into the room behind the one-way glass and points to a chair.
"Local law enforcement, I presume?" I say.
He just keeps pointing. Now I fidget under his stare, like I'm the misbehaving new hire.
"You're not getting in," he says.
"To your town, I presume. Because I don't take direction well?"
"No, because of Blaine Saratori."
I sit down. I don't even realize I'm doing it until it's too late. He takes the opposite chair.
"Did you really think I wouldn't figure it out?" he says. "You and Saratori get attacked, and he runs, leaving you to get the shit kicked out of you. Then, apparently, the guys who beat you up come back and shoot him ... two months after your attack. Which is also a week after you get out of the hospital. And the person who called in the shooting? A young woman. I got hold of the police report. They questioned you but, considering your condition, ruled you out. Which means they were fucking lousy detectives."
No, I was just a fucking good actor. The broken eighteen-year-old girl who could barely walk, couldn't even think straight yet, certainly couldn't plan and get away with murder.
I could deny it. He can't have proof. But I'm tired of denying it. I just say, "I understand."
I don't really. There's a little part of me that wants to say, Why? For the first time ever, I actually want to defend myself--to point out what those thugs did to me because of Blaine, to say I didn't intend to kill him, to say I've punished myself more than Leo Saratori ever could. Instead I only say, I understand.
"Good," he says. "Saves me from a bullshit interview. Now we'll sit here for twenty minutes."
I manage two. Then I glance through the one-way glass. Diana is talking to Valerie.
"Will she get in?" I ask.
"No."
I look at him, startled. "But she needs it. Her ex--"
"I don't like her story. Not enough supporting evidence. You're the detective. Would you believe her?"
"Given that I'm the one who's had to mop up her blood? Yes, I would."
"You expect me to take your word for that?" He shakes his head before I can answer. "Doesn't matter. We don't run a charity camp. Usefulness is as important as need. We don't have any use for someone in--what is it--accounting?"
"Then she'll learn a trade. She can sew--she makes most of her own clothes. You must need that."
When he doesn't answer, I think about what he's just said. Two things--that he doesn't want me in this town, and that they favour those with relevant skills. Now I understand why they rushed to grant us this interview.
"Your town needs a detective," I say. "And something tells me it's not because you're low on your visible-minority quota."
He frowns, pure incomprehension.
I continue, "Someone who outranks you wants a detective, and you don't appreciate the insinuation that you--or your force--need help."
I thought his gaze was steel before. I was wrong. It was stone. Now I get steel, sharp and cold. "No," he says, enunciating. "I am the one who requested a detective. I just don't want you."
"Wrong gender?"
Again, that look of incomprehension. It's not feigned, either, as if he genuinely doesn't know why that would be an issue.
"My age, then. I'm too young."
"You're two months older than me, and I'm the sheri
ff. So, no, it's not age. This isn't open for debate. I need a detective, but I don't want you. End of discussion."
"Is it? Someone made you go through with this meeting, meaning it's not entirely your decision to make, sheriff." I look at the one-way glass again. "How about a deal? Take Diana. She won't go without me, so tell her I'm coming. Tell her that I need training and debriefing before I arrive. After she's there, I'll change my mind."
"Bullshit."
"Not bullshit. I don't want to go; I just want her to."
He looks at me as if I'm on a dissection table and he's peeling back layer after layer. At least a minute passes, and he still doesn't answer.
"One more thing," I say.
He snorts, as if to say, "I knew it."
"I don't believe in Santa Claus," I say. "Never did. Not in Santa, not the Easter Bunny, not four-leaf clovers. Which is the long way of saying I don't believe in your town. Give me proof, and you can have Diana."
"Have her? I don't want--"
"But you don't want me even more. So this is the deal, sheriff ... I ask questions, and if I'm convinced your town is plausible, I'll proceed with my application. You'll throw your support behind us getting in. Once Diana is safely there, I'll change my mind. Fair enough?"
He studies me again. Then he gives a grunt that I interpret to mean I can proceed.
I ask for the population and basic stats. Just over two hundred people. Seventy-five percent male. Average age thirty-five. No one under twenty-five. No one over sixty.
"No children, then," I say.
He pauses, just a split second, but it's enough to make me wonder why. Then he says, "No children. It's not the environment for them, and it would raise too many issues, education and whatever."
"How does the town run?" I ask. "Economically."
"Seventy percent self-sustaining. Game and fish for meat. Some livestock. Lots of greenhouses. Staples like flour are flown in."
"Flown in? It's remote, then."
"No, it's in the middle of southern Ontario." His look calls me an idiot, but I've already figured out that if a place like this could exist, it'd be up north. I'm just testing him.
"And how do you stay off the radar?"
He eyes me before answering carefully. "The location handles most of that. No one wanders by out there. Structural camouflage hides the town from the rare bush plane passing overheard. Tech covers the rest."
"Fuel? Electricity?"
"Wood for heat and cooking. Oil lamps. Generators, but only for central food production. Fuel is strictly regulated. ATVs for my department only and, mostly, we use horses. Otherwise, it's foot power."
"Which keeps people from leaving."
He says nothing. That's another question answered. They don't live in a walled community--it's just too far from civilization to escape on foot.
"No Internet, obviously," he says without prompting. "No cell service. No TVs or radios. Folks work hard. For entertainment, they socialize. Don't like that? Got a big library."
"Alcohol?"
It takes him a moment to say, "Yes," and the tone suggests that if he had his way, it'd be dry. I don't blame him. I've met cops from northern towns, where entertainment is limited. Booze rules, and booze causes trouble.
"Police force?"
"One deputy. He's former military police. Militia of ten--strictly patrolling and minor enforcement."
"Crime rates?"
"Most of what we deal with is disturbances. Drunk and disorderly. Keeping the peace."
"Assault? Sexual assault?"
"Yes." His expression says that's all I'm getting.
"Murder?"
"Yes."
"In a town of two hundred?" I say. "When's the last time you had a--?"
"You aren't coming to my town, detective. You don't need this information."
But I want it. His town is in need of a detective, and there may not be much in life I get excited about, but a new case is one of those things. A potentially unique case is enough to practically set me drooling as my mind whirs through the implications--what kind of crime would he be having trouble with, how would it be different investigating in such a distinctive setting, what could I learn, how would I tackle it. He's right though. I'm not going to his town and so I can't afford to be curious, or I might regret that I'm staying behind.
So I say, "I'm asking because it shows me what I'd be sending Diana into."
"Assault is higher than it should be. So is sexual assault. So is murder. None of which I'm proud of. I've been sheriff for five years. It's a work in progress, which is why I have requested a detective."
"Five years? You're at the end of your tenure, then? We were told it's a minimum of two years in town and a maximum of five."
"Doesn't apply to me."
"Back to the crime rates. I'm suspecting they're higher than normal given the circumstances. People feeling hemmed in, lacking options, drinking too much."
"Which is no excuse."
"No," I say. "But it'd be tricky to handle. It's worse because you must have a mix of criminals and victims, those escaping their pasts."
"We don't allow stone-cold killers in our town, detective. Anyone who has committed a violent offence, it has to have extenuating circumstances, like in your case, where the council feels confident you won't reoffend. No one running from a violent crime is..." He chews over his words. "Those running from violent crimes are prohibited from entering," he says finally, and that chill has settled again, as if he's reciting from the rule book. "But it's the victims who concern me. They come to escape that."
Being in the same room as this guy feels like standing on a shock pad. I'm on edge, waiting for the next zap, unable to settle even when those zaps stop. But he's saying the right things, even if he doesn't mean to.
"Last question," I say. "Finances. I know Diana pays five grand to get in. In return, she gets lodging and earns credits for working, which means she isn't expected to bring expense money. There's obviously some level of communal living, but that won't cover everything. Running a secret town has got to be expensive. Who's paying?"
"Not everyone there's a saint. We have white-collar criminals whose entrance fee is not five thousand dollars."
In other words, people who made a fortune stealing from others now paid for the victims. Fittingly.
"All right," I say. "I'm satisfied. So do we have a deal?"
He makes a motion. I won't call it a nod. But it's assent of some sort, however grudging. Then he escorts me out, and as I leave, I realize I never even got his name. Not that it matters. I have what I want. So does he.
TEN
The next morning, I get a call. Me, not Diana. We're in, and they need to meet us to discuss the next steps. By "they," I mean Valerie and the sheriff. I don't realize that until we show up, in a local park at noon, and he's there. He doesn't say a word, just points at me and then at a trail path into the forest.
"Is it just me," Diana whispers as he walks away, "or is he seriously creepy?"
He turns and fixes Diana with a look, and she gives a little squeak.
I tell her to go with Valerie, and I jog after the sheriff. Even when I catch up, he doesn't acknowledge I'm there.
"Thank you," I say, because I mean it. I really do. Only once we're past the forest's edge does he slow. His shoulders unknot just a little, and he says,
"You're a goddamn train wreck, Detective Duncan."
I stutter-step to a halt. "Excuse me?"
"That's why I don't want you in my town. Not because of what you did. I ask for a detective, and they give me one who's hell-bent on her own destruction. I don't need that shit. I really don't."
I should be outraged. This asshole presumes to know me after a background check and a twenty-minute chat?
Except I'm not outraged. I feel like I've found something here. Something I didn't get in all those damned therapy sessions, pouring my guts on the floor for the professionals to pick through, like augurs. Ah, here's your problem, Case
y Duncan.
"Runaway train," I say.
"What?"
"A train wreck implies I've already crashed. If I'm hell-bent on my own destruction, I'm still heading for that crash. Which is probably worse, because the crash is still coming."
His eyes narrow as if I'm mocking him. I push my shades onto my head so he can see I'm not. He only snorts, his all-purpose response.
"Are you warning me off in case I try to renege on the deal? I won't. I made it; I stick to it, and I genuinely thank you for anything you did to get Diana in."
"Six months."
He resumes walking. Before I can speak, he leaves the path and heads into the forest. It doesn't seem to be a conscious change of direction. He just walks that way as if the path veered.
"She can only stay six months?" I say. "Okay, that's--"
"You. They insist on it. If you don't show up, they'll kick her out."
"Who's they? The selection committee?"
"Council."
I nod. "The town council. Mayor and so forth. Guess you can't escape politicians even in a town like that."
I give him a wry half-smile, but he doesn't notice, just mutters under his breath. Then he stops short as the shade of the forest creeps over us, and he stares as if the trees have just risen in front of him.
An abrupt turn and he heads back to the path. "The council will say it's a two-year stay, but you get six months. That's between us. I'll work out an exit strategy."
When I go silent, he says, "And this is one reason I don't want you there. I'm offering you escape, and you don't give a shit."
"No, I--"
"You don't think you deserve to escape. You killed a man, and you should pay the price."
I tell myself there's nobility in that, honour and justice. But in his voice, all I hear is disgust, like I'm a penitent flagellating herself.
"I'll go," I say and as I do, I realize I'm not all that upset at the prospect. There's a case up there. An experience up there. A new and unique experience. I'm chomping at the bit to ask for more--is it a string of robberies, assaults, a murder?--but I know it's not the time. Not just yet.
"You might not want me there, sheriff, but you won't regret it. There's one thing I'm good at, and that's my job. I might be able to help with your problems."
He shakes his head. "I've seen your record, detective. Fucking impressive. But that's here. And where we're going? It's not here."