He catches my look. “Hell, no. Don’t even go there, detective. Eric might not have made the best impression so far, but he’s the last person who’d smuggle in dope. There are other shipments. Drop-offs. The ingredients must be getting in that way. We just haven’t figured out how.”

“Okay, but …?” I say. “Not to sound critical, but this is a town of two hundred people.”

“Why can’t we contain it? Therein lies the real problem of Rockton, Casey. We can’t control anything they don’t want controlled. And by ‘they,’ I don’t mean …” He waves at a few people on the street.

“You mean those in charge.”

“Yep. This town is an unholy mess, and the first thing you need to know is who gives a damn and who doesn’t. Those who do? Really do? I can count them on one hand. Top of the list? The guy you’re working for.”

I must look doubtful, because he says, “We won’t debate his methods. I could, but I think you’re best to just watch and draw your own conclusions. In his defence, I’ll only say that no one cares as much about Rockton. Eric isn’t like everyone else here. First off, he’s native.”

I consider this for a few steps. I’m not wondering whether our blond-haired, grey-eyed sheriff could have First Nations blood—my sister can pass for white while I can’t. What I’m wondering is what his heritage has to do with his commitment to the town.

“So Dal—Eric is … a Native Canadian,” I say.

Anders looks over and then laughs. “No, not like that. He acts like it, with all the time he spends in that forest or sitting on the damn porch staring at it. Though I suppose that’d be a stereotype, wouldn’t it? No, I meant he’s from here.”

“The North?”

“Here.” Anders waves around us. “Born and bred, never going to leave.”

“You mean he’s actually from Rockton. I didn’t think anyone— Well, obviously some would be. You can’t fill every position with people looking to escape, and you can’t have them all leave again after five years.”

“True. Some folks are in this for the long haul, like me. But up here, ‘long haul’ usually means ten years tops. Eric is the only exception. His parents came here together. His dad was the former sheriff and Eric was born here.”

That’s why Dalton had hesitated when I mentioned kids. Rockton used to have one: him.

Anders continues. “When his folks retired down south, he took over as sheriff. He’s not going anywhere. Which means he’s the one person you can count on to have Rockton’s best interests in mind. Not necessarily the best interests of every individual person, but the town as a whole, as a concept, if you know what I mean.”

“A sanctuary for those who need it.”

He nods. “Exactly. And for Eric, that sure as hell doesn’t mean bringing in healthy people and sending back addicts. I was an MP in the army. I know what isolation can do to people’s heads. I know what being away from home and feeling unaccountable can do, too. Add drugs to that mix, and it’s ugly, Casey. Just plain ugly. This town has enough problems without that.”

Eight

On our walk across town, I ask about the raised buildings. Anders explains that’s to keep them off the permafrost, so you don’t have icy floors or tilting houses.

Every building also has lots of windows, and I ask Anders about that too, because there’s obviously no place nearby to make glass. He says it’s flown in, which isn’t easy or cheap, especially since they’re all triple-paned for the weather. But they splurge on windows to let in as much natural light as possible and keep the houses from feeling too much like prison cells in the long and dark winters. And they all have shutters to help keep out those winter blasts.

There are plenty of decks and balconies, too, and people are making use of them, sitting outside as they work. I notice Anders isn’t the only one in short sleeves, enjoying what must be a warm fall day to them. It’s only September and sunny, but I’m wearing a jacket, and when that sun drops, I suspect I’ll be unpacking my gloves.

We arrive at the clinic, which looks like every other building. And, like every other one, it seems to be only as big as it needs to be. I’m guessing that’s the heating issue and possibly conservation of overall space and materials.

As we open the door, we hear Hastings.

“—how long you’d last as a real cop, you knuckle-dragging psycho? Real cops don’t get away with this shit, which is why you hide up here, where you can act like the fucking sheriff in a fucking Wild West show.”

I glance at Anders. He’s paused in the reception area, making a hurry-up gesture in Hastings’s direction, waiting for the tirade to end. Just another day in Rockton.

Hastings is still going strong. “You think you can intimidate me, asshole? I’ve been dealing with bullies like you all my life. You might be bigger and stronger, but I’m a helluva lot smarter, and you’re going to regret you ever laid a finger on me.”

Silence. Then Dalton with, “You done?”

“No, I’m not. I’m speaking to the council, and I’m going to make sure you’re disciplined, Dalton.”

“Disciplined?” Dalton says the word slowly, as if testing it out, and I can’t suppress a small smile. “Sure, if that’s how you want to handle this. I thought you said you were going to make me regret it, though.”