City of the Lost: Part Two

  PUBLISHED BY RANDOM HOUSE CANADA Copyright (c) 2015 K.L.A. Fricke Inc.

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  Armstrong, Kelley, author City of the lost / Kelley Armstrong.

  eBook ISBN 978-0-34581616-0

  Cover design by Terri Nimmo

  Cover images: Potapov Alexander / Shutterstock

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  About the Author

  Previously, in City of the Lost...

  To cleanse her conscience--and tempt fate--Casey tells her therapist she once killed a man. Abandoned by her boyfriend, Blaine Saratori, grandson to mobster Leo Saratori, left to be beaten nearly to death by the thugs who were out to hurt him, after recovering she tracked down and shot Blaine.

  Diana's abusive ex-husband, Graham, has found her again--and he wants Diana dead. Casey threatens him with a stat rape charge, but Graham won't be deterred.

  Casey spends a passionate evening with Kurt, and when he leaves his apartment to pick up some takeout for them she follows him on a gut feeling he might be in danger. A stranger emerges from the shadows and a gun fires--a "present from Mr. Saratori." Kurt has been shot.

  After a night at the hospital with Kurt, Casey returns to her apartment to find Diana bloody and unconscious. Graham has attacked her.

  Diana insists that they need to find the mythical town she's heard about in her women's support group that will hide people like her. To save her friend, Casey agrees to disappear too.

  One

  Three days after Graham beat Diana, she and I are set to meet the people who say they can take us to this magical town where the lost can stay lost. I can't believe how fast it's happening, and that's not a pleasantly surprised disbelief--it's a growing certainty that we're walking into a trap. Twelve years of waiting for the worst means I don't just look a gift horse in the mouth--I want DNA samples and X-rays, and even with those I'll convince myself there's a bomb hidden in its Trojan gut.

  Diana had started with the woman from her support group. I don't know where it went from there, but twenty-four hours later Diana got a phone call. Then we scanned and sent 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 anyone to believe that? No. If there's any chance this town is legit, I'm hoping these people will call bullshit on me but 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 that they'll both be safe.

  We meet our contact, 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, mouth "Gotcha," 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 quot
a."

  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 sheriff. 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."

  "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 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.

  Two

  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 se
ssions, pouring my guts on the floor for the professionals to pick through, like augurs. Ah, here's your problem, Casey 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 reaction.

  "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."

  He stops short as the shade of the forest creeps over us, and he stares as if the trees have risen in our path.

  An abrupt turn and he heads back to the path. "They'll say it's two years, 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. "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."

  Three

  I have ninety-six hours to prepare for my disappearance. Diana has twenty-four. I expect my extra three days come courtesy of the sheriff. As a cop, he knows I shouldn't walk away from my job.

  I'm about to disappear. I'm not going to fake my death. I'm not even going to vanish in the night. The art of disappearing, it seems, is not to disappear at all. You just leave ... after extensive and open preparation. Cancel all appointments. Pay your bills. Give notice at your job. Tell your friends and family. Make up a story. Lie about where you're going, but make it clear they shouldn't expect to hear from you for a few years. If possible, give those messages at the last moment, when it's too late for them to argue.