Bones Are Forever (34 page)

“Nellie, promise you will do nothing until you speak to me again.”

“I don’t—”

“You own mineral claims, not land. The claims could be worth a great deal of money. Someone wants to get them from you. That person may have killed Daryl and Annaliese.”

She looked at me like I needed a shot of Prozac.

“Who?” Barely voiced.

“I don’t know. But I will find out.”

I felt distrustful eyes on my back as I ran to the car.

*  *  *

Back in the Camry, I hit a key on my speed dial.

Come on. Come on
.

“Hey, buttercup. You back in Charlotte?”

“Pete, listen to me.”

Twenty years of marriage had sensitized my ex to every nuance of mine. He caught the tension in my voice. “What is it?”

“You’re a lawyer. You know how to research corporations, right?”

“I do.”

“In Canada?”

“Mais oui.”
May we.

“Never speak French, Pete.”

“Noted.”

“How long would it take?”

“What do you need?”

“Just the names of the owners, or officers, or whatever they’d be.”

“Probably not long.”

“So you’ll do it?”

“You’ll owe me, sugar britches.”

“I’ll bake you a big batch of cookies.”

“What’s the name?”

“Fast Moving.”

“
Oh! là là
. I like that.”

“It’s not what you think.”

“Do you know if it’s a partnership, a corporation, or just an assumed name used by an individual?”

“No.”

“That makes it difficult. Do you know where it’s registered?”

“No.”

“That makes it even harder.”

“Start with Alberta.”

Ollie was coming out of G Division headquarters as I pulled in. The lot was small, and I almost ran him over.

Holding two palms high, he circled to my side of the Camry. I lowered the window. “Sorry.”

“Slow it down, sister, or I’ll have to write you up.”

“You can’t write me up. You’re out of jurisdiction.”

Ollie pointed a finger pistol in my direction.

“Haven’t seen you since Friday,” I said.

“Believe me.” He tipped his head toward the building. “I’d rather be with you than those skanks.”

“What’s happening?”

“Unka’s about to roll on Scarborough. Doesn’t matter. It was endgame when his buddy nailed him to the wall.”

“So Scar killed Castain, and Unka killed Scar.”

“Cheap method of social cleanup, eh?”

“What about Ruben?”

“No one’s owning that one.”

“Ryan’s still in there?”

“He and Rainwater will be at it awhile.”

“He said you might be leaving.”

“Flying out in two hours.” Ollie grinned, but the tightness in his jaw belied unhappiness. “Thanks for coming west. Sorry we didn’t get satisfaction on Ruben. But it’ll all come out.”

“I think her murder is unrelated to Castain and Scarborough.”

“What do you mean?”

I laid out my theory.

“Who do you like for the doer?”

“I don’t know. But Tyne has Snook convinced that her”—I hooked air quotes—“‘land’ is vital for his caribou preserve. That the opening of the Gahcho Kué mine threatens the herds. Here’s the thing. Snook’s mineral claims are way over by Ekati. They’re nowhere near Gahcho Kué.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m waiting for info on the owner of the claims adjacent to Snook’s. In the meantime, I plan to dig in to Tyne’s background.”

“Good luck.”

Our eyes held for a moment. Then Ollie reached in and stroked my cheek with one knuckle. “Do you still think I’m the most magnificent creature to ever cross your path?”

“I think you’re a narcissistic pain in the ass.” Smiling.

“I may start calling you again.”

“Keep in mind they’ve tightened the laws on stalking.”

Ollie laughed and stepped back.

*  *  *

Back at the Explorer, I booted my laptop and entered the name Horace Tyne.

Google sent me to an old photo of a Second Lieutenant Horace Algar, gazetted with the Tyne Electrical Branch of the Royal Engineers.

I tried a more detailed string. Horace Tyne. Caribou. Alberta. That bought me a link to Friends of the Tundra. Ryan was right. The site was primitive.

I decided to take a different approach. The Fifth Estate.

I started with the
Yellowknifer
but could find no link to its archives. I looped through a number of newspaper portals. The
Deh Cho Drum. Inuvik Drum. Nunavut News. Kivalliq News
. Each had interesting headlines and colorful photos. None offered access to archives.

Frustrated, I returned to the
Yellowknifer
and tried clicking through some of the drop-down menus. One presented a graphic of the newspaper’s seventy-fifth anniversary collector’s edition.

The cover displayed a black-and-white of a man in coveralls and a miner’s hat. I clicked on it and downloaded the PDF file offered.

I was studying a shot of the Con mine circa 1937 when my mobile sounded.

“I’m thinking this is worth a lot more than cookies.”

“What did you find, Pete?”

“Maybe buns?”

“Uh-huh.”

While I listened, I scrolled to a story titled “The Golden Age of the 50s and 60s.”

“Fast Moving is an LLP, a limited liability partnership. It’s registered in Quebec. Because it’s a partnership and not a corporation, this may take a bit longer.”

“OK.”

I moved on through a series of ads to a color shot of the Old Stope Hotel burning down in 1969. Prince Charles’s visit in 1975. Strikers protesting in 1992.

I kept scrolling.

My eyes fell on a photo.

I stared in disbelief.

T
HE WORLD SHRANK IN AROUND ME. NOTHING EXISTED BUT
the image on my screen.

The article was titled “Ice Road Truckers.” The black-and-white photo showed four men, all wearing parkas, fur-trimmed hats, and safety vests.

Three of the men were smiling and squinting as though facing into the sun. I recognized two of them.

The fourth man had his face turned from the camera. Though I couldn’t see his features, something about him looked familiar.

“Are you there?”

“I’m here, Pete.” Squeezing the phone between my shoulder and ear. “That’s incredibly helpful.”

“Are you OK?”

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t sound fine.”

“Really. You’re awesome.”

“I know.”

“I’m about to head out, so could you e-mail the partners’ names when you find them?”

“Will do. How about Katy’s news?”

“We’ll talk about that later.”

“Pretty ballsy move.”

“I’ve got to go, Pete.”

I clicked off, skimmed the article, then stared at the photo. The caption identified the three forward-facing subjects: Farley McLeod, Horace Tyne, and Zeb Chalker.

Facts zinged like popcorn in my head.

Charles Fipke had discovered diamonds in Canada, setting off a staking rush in the nineties. McLeod and Tyne had both worked for Fipke.

McLeod had staked claims during the rush. He had named his offspring—Nellie Snook, Daryl Beck, and Annaliese Ruben—as coowners.

Snook and Ruben possessed samples rich in diamond indicator minerals. DIMs point to kimberlite. A kimberlite pipe means diamonds. Diamonds can mean millions, even billions, of dollars.

Snook now held all of Farley McLeod’s active claims.

Horace Tyne had confused Snook into thinking that she owned land. He’d persuaded her to donate the land for a caribou preserve. A preserve necessitated by the impending opening of the Gahcho Kué mine. But Snook’s claims were nowhere near Gahcho Kué.

My ill-formed idea began to solidify.

I stared at the photo, heart pounding my ribs.

McLeod. Tyne. Chalker.

Zeb Chalker had bola’ed me at Snook’s house. Blown me off when I’d reported Ruben’s murder. Spread rumors about my drinking.

Had Chalker discredited me to divert suspicion from himself and his cronies?

McLeod. Tyne. Chalker.

McLeod died in a plane crash.

Tyne. Chalker.

One of these men wanted McLeod’s claims. Maybe both.

Ruben and Beck were dead. Snook, the sole survivor, was easily manipulated.

Had that been the strategy? Kill Beck, disappear Ruben to Montreal, after seven years have her declared dead? Then get Snook to sign over the claims? Had Ruben’s sudden reappearance spurred a change in plans?

Who had I seen in the woods the night Ruben was shot? Who had made off with her body?

Suddenly, I felt I was plunging.

I’d told Snook to do nothing. To sign no papers.

“No. Christ, no.”

I’d gotten Ruben killed. Had I put Snook in danger?

I checked the time.

Seven-ten. Ollie was already at the airport.

I grabbed my mobile.

Voice mail.

Unka be damned. I had to talk to Ryan.

I pocket-jammed my iPhone, slammed the cover of my Mac, and headed out.

*  *  *

I was unlocking the Camry when I sensed a presence behind me. Before I could turn, a gun muzzle kissed my temple.

An arm snaked around my neck and pulled me upright.

I couldn’t move or speak.

“Not a sound.” Male. Had I heard the voice before? Tyne? Chalker?

I thought of dropping fast and rolling under the car. What was the point? My assailant had a gun. He’d squat and nail me.

The arm tightened and twisted my body to the right. “Move.”

Probably wanting to avoid notice, the guy dropped the arm from my neck, stepped close, and lowered the gun to my back.

On rubber legs, I took a few very small steps.

“The truck.”

I hesitated. Every cop I know says,
If taken, never enter a vehicle. Once inside, your chance of escape plummets
.

The muzzle gouged deeper into my spine. “Don’t fuck with me.”

I walked as slowly as I dared. Two feet out, I stopped.

I felt the guy’s gun hand tense. I pictured the long dark tunnel, the bullet tearing through my bones, my heart, my lungs.

Instead, my assailant pushed me forward into the side of the pickup. With the gun back in place, he yanked my purse from my shoulder. “Get in.”

I didn’t move.

“I said get the fuck in.”

Maybe fear. Maybe boldness. I believed he would shoot me but remained frozen.

I felt his body shift. Saw movement in the corner of my eye.

A shadow crossed my face.

I heard a sound like the snap of a piano wire.

The world broke into millions of white particles.

Went black.

*  *  *

I was at the bottom of a deep, dark pit, struggling to climb out and getting nowhere. A moth flailing in sap slowly turning to amber.

The pit shifted.

A pinpoint of light appeared overhead.

I strained to reach it.

Slowly swam upward.

To consciousness.

The place I was in sounded hollow.

I smelled moisture. Ancient rock and soil. An acrid scent unfamiliar to me.

The world lurched.

My body shifted.

I was curled fetal on a cold, gritty surface.

I listened.

Heard the crunch of rubber on gravel. A soft humming.

I was in a vehicle. But not a car. The engine was wrong.

A flash image. The parking lot. The SUV.

The gun!

I lifted my head.

Almost screamed.

I lay back until the pain and dizziness passed.

The pressure on my body changed. The vehicle was moving downhill.

I tried to roll to my back.

My arms wouldn’t move. My legs wouldn’t move.

Dear God! I’m paralyzed!

My heartbeat kicked into high.

The adrenaline helped.

Sensation crept back.

I felt tingling in my cheeks and fingertips. Drought in my mouth, my eyes.

I tried to swallow. Could barely muster sufficient saliva.

I attempted to open my lids. They were crusted shut. I blinked them apart.

Inky black.

The vehicle stopped. The motor cut off.

I held my breath.

Voices. Male. Close but all around. How many?

Trickling water. A faucet? A stream?

Boots on gravel. One pair to the left, one to the right. Moving away? Approaching?

Every noise echoed back onto itself. Nothing was clear.

The voices grew louder. Ricocheted wildly. Two? Three?

Banging.

More voices.

Footsteps.

I froze.

The footsteps clomped toward me.

Continued past.

Receded.

The pounding in my chest was supersonic.

I had to do something.

Ignoring the fiery arrows shooting through my brain, I twisted my neck and looked around.

I was in the back of a golf cart.

Moving gingerly, I finger-wrapped the safety bar on one side and slowly raised my head.

Ten feet ahead and to the left, a beam cut the darkness. Behind it, I could make out a form wearing some sort of helmet. Vapor swirled in the tight cylinder of light shooting from above its brim.

For a few feet to either side of the beam, the scene was visible through a milky-white haze. The contours of a tunnel. Snaking pipes. Yellow and orange numbers and letters hand-painted on rock. Beyond that, a black void.