by Kathy Reichs
“Maybe.” I didn’t think so.
I expanded my search, slowly moving farther and farther out. Ryan and Chalker did the same.
Ten minutes later, we reconvened at the original location. My hands were shaking, and blood was fizzing in my chest.
Both men regarded me. Dubious.
“I swear. She was lying right here.” Dropping to my knees, I worked a close-up grid with my beam.
The needles appeared uniformly damp. None looked recently broken, displaced, or overturned. I spotted no blood, hair, tissue, or bone fragment.
There wasn’t a shred of evidence to indicate a person had been killed.
In shock, I stood and aimed my light in the direction from which the shots had come. “We need to check that area for casings.”
“I think we’re done here.”
“Hardly.”
Chalker exhaled up toward his eyes, the personification of patience. “Now, miss—”
I lost it. “Don’t you dare go all Trooper Murray on me. Someone fucking killed a woman out here! I saw her fucking brains blasted into tomorrow!”
“You need to calm down.”
“Calm down? Calm down?” I lunged forward and thrust my face into Chalker’s. “You think I’m some premenopausal dingbat looking for drama?”
Chalker took a step back. I felt a hand on my shoulder. No matter. I was in full rant.
“Let me tell you something, Constable Chalker. I was working crime scenes when you were still hoping for your big-boy shorts. The combined fucking genius of the RCMP and the SQ couldn’t find Annaliese Ruben. But I did.” I jammed a trembling thumb to my chest. “Ruben reached out to me. And some motherfucker put a slug through her skull!”
“We’re done here.”
Chalker brushed past me and strode out of the woods, his boots softly rustling the tangle of wet needles.
I turned to Ryan. “That guy has it in for me.”
“Let’s go,” he said gently.
“I’m not crazy.”
“I believe you.”
* * *
Back at the hotel, I stripped off my wet clothes, showered, and pulled on sweats. It was going on two, but my brain was wired on adrenaline and booze.
I was booting my laptop when I heard a knock.
As before, I hit the peephole.
Ryan was still wearing the jeans and sweatshirt. He held a flat square box in front of his chest. I opened the door. “Pizza?” he asked.
“With anchovies?”
“You’re finicky now?” Ryan’s brows floated up.
“A girl can’t be too picky.”
“No anchovies.”
“I accept.”
As we ate, I briefed Ryan on every detail I could remember, from Ruben’s call to my showing up at his room.
“How could someone launder a scene that effectively?” I was incredulous.
“The rain helped.”
“They moved fast.”
“Very.”
“Do you think Scar’s the doer?”
“I’m looking forward to asking him that.”
We each helped ourself to a second slice.
“You’ll make them put full effort into investigating Ruben’s murder?”
“I will.”
“Thank you.”
“Under one condition.”
I cocked a brow.
“You clear something up.”
I nodded.
“Who the hell is Trooper Murray?”
“What?” The question was not what I’d expected.
“You threw the name at Chalker.”
“I did?”
Ryan nodded.
“Trooper Stephen Murray of Lincoln, Maine. You’ve never seen the video of his traffic stop?”
Ryan shook his head.
“It’s been on Court TV, YouTube. The thing went viral. Murray’s been dubbed the most patient cop in America.”
Ryan reached for more pizza. Said nothing.
“Come on. Chalker’s long-suffering forbearance act didn’t make you want to puke?”
“The guy was doing his job.”
“The guy was acting like a supercilious ass,” I said.
“I doubt you’ll be topping his hit parade, either.”
We ate in silence awhile. It felt easy. Like old times.
Then I thought of something. “If Scar wanted to send a message saying he’s a badass, why take Ruben’s body? Why not leave her where she’ll be found?”
“Remember the gatecrasher from Jasper?”
“The guy with the collie?”
“Someone whacked him and his dog and hacked off their ears.”
I pictured Ruben’s face in the moonlight.
Something cold crawled my spine.
THE PHONE WOKE ME FROM A JUMBLE OF DISCONNECTED dream fragments. Ryan and I eating pasta. Ruben waving from a bus. Ollie shouting words I couldn’t understand. Tank snapping at a raven dive-bombing his head.
“Brennan.”
“Hi, Mom.”
I was thrilled to hear Katy’s voice. My happiness lasted about thirty seconds.
“How are you, sweetheart?”
“You sound sleepy. Oh my God. I forgot. It’s only seven out there.”
“I was just getting up. Have you talked to your dad? Is Birdie OK?”
“He’s great.”
Though sun filled the room, frost bordered the edges of the window glass. I closed my eyes and lay back.
“Are you sitting down?”
“Mmm.”
“I joined the army.”
“You won’t believe what I thought you just said.” Yawning.
“You heard right. I enlisted.”
My lids flew open. I sat straight up. “You what?”
“I report to Fort Jackson on July fifteenth.”
I was speechless. Katy was the little girl who liked pink and wore tutus to the dentist.
“Are you there?”
“I’m here.”
“Surprised?”
“Stunned. When did you sign up?”
“Last week.”
“Do the recruiters allow a grace period? Time to reconsider?”
“Like buyer’s remorse?”
“Yes.”
“I’m going through with this, Mom. I’ve thought about it a lot.”
“Are you doing this for Coop?”
Webster Aaron Cooperton was Katy’s boyfriend. The previous spring he’d been killed while serving as an aid worker in Afghanistan.
“Not for him. He’s dead.”
“Because of him?”
“In part. Coop lived to help people. I don’t do shit.”
“And the other part?”
“I hate my job. The army will allow me to make new friends. To travel.”
To places where people get blown up and shot. I swallowed.
“Coop wasn’t in the military,” I said.
“But I will be.” Resolute.
“Oh, Katy.”
“Please don’t fight me on this.”
“Of course I won’t.”
“It will be an adventure.”
“Just tell me you won’t do anything crazy, like volunteering for combat.”
“Women can’t go into combat.”
True. Officially. But I could think of too many ways that women ended up on the front lines. Fighter pilots. MPs. The Marine Corps Lioness program.
“You know what I mean,” I said.
“I love you, Mom.”
“Katy?”
“Gotta go.”
“I love you, sweetheart.”
I sat with the phone pressed to my chest, a million images swirling in my head. Katy at her singalong birthday party when she turned two. At a dance recital dressed as an elf. Going to prom in a wrist corsage twice the size of her arm.
I felt—what? Dubious that she’d survive boot camp? Fit in to military life? Anxious that she would? Betrayed that she hadn’t discussed her decision with me? Terrified that she’d be sent
to a war zone?
All of that. But more.
I felt guilty over my reaction to Katy’s news. The military performed an invaluable service. Provided vital defense for the country. Every branch needed capable volunteers. The sons and daughters of others were enlisting. Why not mine?
Because Katy was still my little girl.
The Irish anthem vibrated into my sternum.
I raised the phone to my ear. “Brennan.”
“I heard about your little adventure last night.”
In no mood for censure from Ollie, I said nothing.
“You’re not winning any points with the locals.”
“Is that what you called to tell me?”
“I called to tell you I need information. And I need it now. What I don’t need is a lot of crap.”
I waited, too irritated to speak.
“Describe what went down with Ruben.”
I did.
There was a long silence. I guessed Ollie was taking notes.
“I’ve got to ask you something, Tempe.”
His tone put me on alert.
“Did you knock a few back last night?”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“Why in God’s name would you ask me that?”
“Chalker says he smelled booze on your breath.”
I felt a flash of heat in my cheeks. The minibar Scotch.
“Chalker’s a jackass,” I said.
“You and I both know you’ve had your moments.”
“Which is why I don’t drink.”
“Just had to ask.”
“Has CSU finished at Sunnyvale?” I changed the subject.
“Two hours ago.”
“Have you bagged Scarborough or Unka?”
“We’ve got Unka. The locals are sweating him. Ryan and I are doubling down on Scar.”
Really? Détente?
“Do you think Scar shot Ruben?”
“He’s capable of anything.” A beat. Then, “A guy from headquarters will come to the hotel around nine. I want you to take him through your version of events.”
My version of events?
“Then I want you to return to your room and sit on your pretty little ass. Got it?”
“Gee, Sergeant Hasty, can I go buy that book about diamonds, pretty please?”
“Yeah. You can do that.”
I got dressed and grabbed a quick breakfast of French toast and bacon. Nellie Snook was not in the restaurant.
Constable Lake called up from the lobby at nine-fifteen. He was blond and freckled and obviously worked out. He walked with me across the garden and through the woods to the spot where Ruben died.
Even in daylight, I could see no trace of blood. No boot or shoe mark. Not a scrap of physical evidence. Pine needles are resilient. There were no footprints from me or Ryan or Chalker.
“Nothing but needles,” Lake said after looking around.
“That’s the point. The shooter took the body and cleaned up the scene. Why bother to do that? Why not simply haul ass?”
“Where did the shots come from?”
“Over there.” I pointed.
Lake followed me. We did another visual scan.
“No brass,” he said.
“Of course not. If he’d take the body, he’d take his casings.”
Lake nodded. “Let’s check by the road.”
Any tire tracks or footprints had long since been obliterated by rain.
Lake looked at me a very long time. Then, “Come in to headquarters and we’ll write it up.”
Message clear: further analysis of the scene would not take place.
“I’ll do that.”
Lake shrugged. “These things happen.”
Before I could ask his meaning, Lake turned and trudged off toward the hotel.
What things happen? People getting shot? Bodies disappearing?
Drunks taking cops on wild goose chases?
Face flaming, I watched Lake disappear from the trees. He didn’t question my hesitation. Didn’t look back.
A raven cawed overhead.
Triggered a synapse.
“Tank,” I shouted.
Waited.
“Here, Tank.”
I retraced my steps, calling the name.
Several squirrels skittered out of my path.
But no dog.
* * *
Back in my room, I turned on the television and booted my laptop.
Twenty minutes later, I was unaware of what was on the computer screen. Of what was being broadcast on TV.
Guilt over Ruben. Worry over Katy. Apprehension over the meaning of Lake’s odd comment. Jesus. How many people thought I’d been on a bender and imagined the shooting?
And the goddamn dog.
While I was sitting on my pretty little ass, Ollie and Ryan were running down Scar.
Screw that.
I transferred a folder to my purse, threw on a jacket, and descended to the lobby.
Through the front door, I could see the Camry parked in the lot across the driveway. Knowing Ryan’s habits, I crossed to the desk. Working it was a woman whose name tag said Nora.
“Excuse me, Nora. Detective Ryan called and asked that I deliver a file ASAP. I know it’s unusual, but I wonder if I could have a key to two-oh-seven?”
“I’m sorry, Miss Brennan. We must have explicit permission to let a guest into another guest’s room.”
“That’s just it.” I leaned in, an informant with top-secret information. “Detective Ryan is at a crime scene and can’t be disturbed.”
As I suspected, word of Castain’s murder had already fired through the Yellowknife grapevine. With a conspiratorial nod, Nora swiped and handed me a key card.
“Thanks,” I whispered.
“I hope it helps,” Nora whispered back.
We acknowledged the gravity of her act by locking eyes for a long solemn moment.
“By the way,” I said, “is Nellie Snook working today?”
Nora shook her head. “She’s off weekends.”
The keys were lying on Ryan’s bedside table.
I hurried to the Camry, fired up the engine, and swooped down the drive. Game on. It felt damn good.
When I parked on Ragged Ass, Nellie Snook was in her carport changing the litter in a cat pan. She wore a baggy black turtleneck and the same faded jeans she’d worn the day before. I got out and crossed to her.
On seeing me, Snook dropped the bag, bolted through the side door of the house, and tried to slam it. I darted forward and checked the move with one hand.
“Go away,” she shouted through the gap.
“Annaliese Ruben is dead.”
“I’ll call the police.”
“Someone shot her.”
“You’re lying.”
“I was there.”
The only response was increased pressure on the far side of the door.
“Did Annaliese come back last night?” I asked.
The silence told me my question had hit home.
“I haven’t been honest with you, Nellie. It’s time I tell you why I’ve been searching for your sister.”
One-handed, I worked the folder from my purse and slipped it through the crack. I heard it hit the floor.
“I’ll take my hand away now. Just please, look at what’s in that file.” I stepped back.
The impact of the door rattled the jamb.
A lock snicked into place.
While waiting, I finished filling the cat pan. Then I secured and set the litter bag by the wall.
Finally, the lock snicked again.
Slowly, the door swung inward.
SNOOK’S EYES WERE POOLED IN SHADOW. “WHY ARE YOU DOING this to us?”
“May I come in?”
“What is this?” She raised the manila folder containing pictures of Ruben’s dead babies.
“Can we talk about it?”
Vertical lines puckered the skin between her brows. Her gaze dri
fted past me to the cat pan, then returned to my face. “Did you take these?”
“They’re official crime scene photos.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“I’m not a police officer.”
Her chin cocked up.
“I didn’t take the pictures. But I was there when they were taken.”
I expected to be sent packing. Instead, she stepped back.
I entered a dim little room with an ancient washer/dryer combo and plastic bins lining one wall. The air smelled of chimney smoke, detergent, and household cleansers.
Snook closed and locked the door and led me into a sun-bright kitchen. Placing the folder on a counter, she offered tea. I accepted.
As Snook filled a kettle from the tap and draped bags into mugs, I looked around.
The kitchen was rimmed by knotty pine cabinets fitted with wrought-iron hardware. Affixed to each door were pictures of animals carefully cut from calendars or magazines. A hawk, an owl, a caribou, a rhino. A World Wildlife Fund calendar hung from a thumbtack on one wall. Canadian Wildlife Federation, Alberta Wilderness Association, Sierra Club, and Federation of Alberta Naturalists stickers covered the refrigerator.
A fishbowl sat on a small gate-leg table below a gingham-curtained window. An enormous tricolor cat dozed on a lattice-back chair beside it.
“I see you’re interested in conservation,” I said.
“Someone’s gotta be.”
“Yes.”
“Between farming, forestry, mining, and good old-fashioned greed, over half the species in this province are in trouble. Twenty are endangered, two are already gone.”
“I’m sorry if I damaged your koi pond.”
“That’s for frogs. They breed in the spring. I try to help them out.”
“Beautiful cat,” I said. He wasn’t. “What’s his name?”
“Murray.”
The house was silent. I wondered if Mr. Snook was in another room, straining to hear our conversation.
“I apologize for disturbing you and your husband.”
“Don’t have a husband.”
The kettle whistled.
“You said your husband gave you a key at the Gold Range yesterday.”
“I lied.”
“Why?”
“My doings are none of your business.”
Okey-dokey.
Snook poured boiling water into the mugs. “Six years ago Josiah went out to buy beer and never came back.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m not.”
Snook handed me my tea, and we took chairs at a dinette set generations younger than everything else in the room. Laminated wooden seats and tabletop, white arms and legs.