by Kathy Reichs
“He’d parked an old truck over the pull-up panels, then crawled under and down. Bastard had the place tricked out with camping gear and a battery-operated TV. I guess Mama delivered meals.”
“Where is he now?”
“Sitting in an interview room, trying to look tough.”
“Will he be charged with Scar’s murder?”
“Rainwater’s talking with the crown prosecutor.”
“Where’s Ollie?”
“Catching heat from K Division.”
“Why?”
“Not heat. They just want him to wrap it up. Guess he’ll be booking a flight out tonight.”
“Really?”
“Though Scar’s from Edmonton, he bought it on G Division turf. So did Castain and Ruben. Shithead’s boss is calling him home.”
“Ollie’s good with that?”
“He and I just don’t talk like we used to.”
I waited.
“He looks livid.”
“What about us?” I asked.
“We could try counseling.”
“Are we heading out?”
“Ruben killed babies on my patch. That’s a felony.” All levity gone. “Someone helped her flee the jurisdiction. That person is an accessory.”
“Meaning you plan to continue the case.”
“I do. Where are you?”
I told him about Skipper and Tyne. “Ryan, I think there could be more than one thing operating here.”
“Enlighten me.”
“The locals, Ollie, you—everyone thinks these murders stem from Scar’s attempt to usurp Unka’s control of the drug trade up here. Maybe that thinking is overly simplistic.”
“What are you suggesting?”
What was I suggesting? “Maybe there’s no one single motive. One single set of killers.”
“Go on.”
“There’s so much disconnect. Your informant fingering Scar and Unka but denying knowledge of Ruben. This guy wants to stay out of jail. Why hold back? The more he knows, the better his bargaining position. Why not offer everything he’s got?”
I heard Ryan exhale through his nose.
“Binny says word on the street is Ruben is different. Why make that up?”
“The kid likes pastry.”
Despite the sarcasm, I knew Ryan was listening. So was King.
“The ballistics. Ruben and Beck were shot with a hunting rifle, Scar and Castain with nine-millimeter handguns.”
“Maybe relevant, maybe not.”
“Daryl Beck was killed in 2008. There’s no indication he was involved in the drug trade.”
Ryan started to speak. I cut him off.
“A drug war can take a high toll. I get that. But maybe everyone’s making the mistake of trying to fit the evidence into a preconceived model. A model that’s wrong. That’s all I’m saying.”
“Piece of advice while you’re with Tyne?”
“What?” Wary.
“Eyes off the squeeters.”
“Aargh!” I jammed the phone into my purse.
“What?” King asked.
“Ryan thinks he’s George freakin’ Carlin.”
“Most men do.”
* * *
Tyne took his time answering the door. Today he was wearing a poncho with some sort of logo and jeans. And a look that said he was not thrilled to see us.
“You remember me, Mr. Tyne? We spoke on Friday about Annaliese Ruben,” I said.
“I’ve got to get to work.”
“I’m happy you found employment.”
“Weekend security. Pay’s shit.”
“This is Maureen King. The deputy chief coroner.”
Tyne’s eyes went empty as glass. “Someone croak?”
“Annaliese Ruben.”
Tyne slipped two fingers below the collar of his poncho and massaged his chest.
“Someone shot her,” King said.
“Seems to be a lot of that going around.”
“You know anything about that, sir?”
“Annaliese was a nice little girl, despite her troubles.”
“That wasn’t my question.” King smiled benignly.
“No, ma’am, I don’t. But I do know the whole world’s going to hell.”
Time to change the subject.
“Are you acquainted with a man named Eric Skipper?” I asked.
“No, ma’am.”
“I find that odd, Mr. Tyne. Ms. King and I uncovered a police report stating that you and Skipper went at each other in a parking lot back in 2008.”
Tyne’s fingers froze. His lips moved as though trying out the name. “You talking about that prick who came to Yellowknife preaching e-cology?” Hitting hard on the long e.
“I am.”
“That gasbag had a ton of education and not one ounce of common sense. His agenda? Write an article, get a name, score a university position. All off the back of a species that’s about to go down.”
“You disagreed philosophically?”
“Damn right we did.”
“Wasn’t Skipper’s goal the same as yours? Saving the caribou?”
“The moron thought we should fight this new mine the government’s shoving down our throats. That’s like trying to stop a train with your bare hands. I told him the only thing’s going to help the caribou is a safe place to go.”
“The guy made you mad?”
“Good thing he left town.”
EN ROUTE BACK TO YELLOWKNIFE, KING GOT A CALL. THE SPRING melt had coughed up a lady in a lake.
“Need help?” I offered, truly not enthused.
“Nah. She and her boyfriend plunged their Ski-doo through a soft spot right before last fall’s hard freeze. Up here, floaters overwinter well. The family will be able to order an open casket.”
I also got a ring.
“Bergeron confirmed the Skipper ID,” I said after disconnecting.
“Forward progress.”
“What’s your take on Tyne?”
“Sounds like he’s got a temper. But the old duck’s probably harmless.”
“You don’t see him as good for Skipper and Beck?”
“Because the two traded blows over ungulates?” She pooched air through her lips. “No.”
“What do you think of Tyne fostering a mentally impaired seventeen-year-old girl?”
“You have to understand. Kinship is viewed differently up here.”
Maybe.
I looked at my watch. One-fifteen. On cue, my stomach growled.
“Hungry?”
“Mm.”
“There’s probably a granola bar in the console.”
“I’m good.” I was starving. Regretted giving the muffin to Binny.
I settled into the seat and watched the same panoply of pines, tamaracks, poplars, and birches I’d watched when making this run with Ryan. I felt troubled, restless. Like something was hiding around a corner in my mind.
Chewing the ball of one thumb, I tried to pinpoint the source of my uneasiness. Had some clue stared me in the face and I’d missed it? What?
The feeling had started the day before. Had invaded my dreams. Had I seen or heard something on Saturday that triggered the pestering from my subconscious?
I reviewed the day in excruciating detail. The exhumation? Scar’s murder? The Skipper ID?
No reaction from the old id.
King’s voice snapped me back.
“Sorry to leave you, but I’ve got to view a body that’s thawing fast.”
“Drop me at the Explorer. I’ll be fine.”
She did.
I wasn’t.
After grabbing a takeaway salmon burger and fries from the restaurant, I returned to my room. Minutes after downing the food, I was feeling more batshit-stir-crazy than ever.
I tramped out to the woods. Called for Tank.
Nothing. Of course not. The dog was dead. Why this obsession? Was I trying to save Ruben’s dog because I’d failed to save her?
Annoyed with my pat
hetic psychobabble self-analysis, I returned to my room and opened the mining book. Too agitated to read, I glanced at pictures. A schematic of a kimberlite pipe. A shot of a panned sample. A close-up of diamond indicator minerals. An aerial view of the Diavik mine.
My subconscious nagged like an eyelash bent the wrong way.
What else happened yesterday?
Katy called.
Was that it? Was I merely worried about my daughter?
No. It was something here. Something I’d missed.
I’d also talked to Nellie Snook.
A cluster of cells sat up in my id.
Oh?
I closed my eyes and replayed the visit in my mind, bringing up every bit of minutiae I could recall.
The wildlife pictures, stickers, and calendars. Daryl Beck. Ronnie Scarborough. The photos of Ruben’s dead babies. Murray the cat. The two mismatched goldfish.
Like the two mismatched sisters, I thought glumly.
I pictured the fish staring through the glass, colossal eyes bulging, redirected sun lighting their bellies.
I froze.
Adrenaline fired through me.
Heart thumping, I dug a file from my computer case, pulled out an envelope, and shook free the five-by-sevens I’d shot during my analysis of the window-seat baby.
With jittery fingers, I chose one photo and placed it beside a page in the mining book.
I pictured rainbow light reflecting off scales.
Jesus.
Diamond indicator minerals. DIMs. Each sister owned a small collection. Snook kept hers in an aquarium. Ruben kept hers in a black velvet sack.
My brain started jumping everywhere at once. A circuit of neurons landed on something Snook had said.
An idea began to take shape.
I checked a name on Google, an address.
I raced to the bathroom sink and rinsed my little ketchup container and replaced its lid. Then I repacked the file, grabbed my laptop, shoved the container into my purse, and bolted.
* * *
While Snook didn’t slam the door, she didn’t fling it wide in joyful welcome.
“May I come in?” I asked.
“I’ve got someone stopping by.”
“I won’t take long.”
Sighing, Snook stepped back. I went directly to the kitchen.
The fish were still in their bowl. Murray was nowhere to be seen.
Either uncomfortable or genuinely hurried, Snook did not offer tea or a seat at the table.
OK. Plan B.
“Did Ms. King explain the results of the exhumation?”
“I shouldn’t have done that with Daryl.”
The change in attitude surprised me. “Why not?”
“It made people angry.”
“What people?”
“It doesn’t matter. They’re right. It’s un-Christian. The dead should rest in peace.”
“But you were right, Nellie.”
She twisted her lips to one side but said nothing.
“I’m so sorry about your brother.”
“No one will do squat.”
“I promise you. I will try my very best to find Daryl’s killer.”
Her eyes told me she didn’t believe it.
I tilted an ear as though startled by a sound. “Oh, my. Is that Murray?”
“What?”
“Sounds like a cat in trouble.”
Snook hurried to the laundry room. I heard the door open, then she called out. “Murray. Where are you, Murray? Here, kitty.”
Wasting no time, I stepped to the fishbowl and, using the ketchup container, scooped a sample of the sparkly mixture lining the bottom. The fish skittered away from my hand, clearly displeased.
“Here, kitty.”
Murray strolled in from the house’s interior.
I moved to the laundry room.
“False alarm.” I smiled. “He’s here.”
As though offering proof of his well-being, Murray joined us.
Snook picked up the cat.
I took my leave.
* * *
The Bellanca Building is Yellowknife’s answer to the skyscraper. But Burj Khalifa it’s not. Built in 1969, the eleven-story box has blue facade on its sides and LEGO-layered windows across its front.
I entered from Fiftieth Street and checked the directory. The Mineral Development Division of Indian and Northern Affairs Canada was on the sixth floor. The mining recorder’s office was on the fifth.
I hurried to the elevator and pressed the button for five. When the doors opened, the MRO was straight ahead. Surprisingly, the office was unlocked.
No tax dollars had been wasted on interior design. The reception area was Spartan, the walls decorated with framed pictures of rocks, underground shafts, large equipment, and aerial views of places probably not favored by tourists. Wooden chairs lined one wall. A desk sat at the rear. That was it. But would you really want frills at a mining recorder’s office?
I called out.
No answer.
A corridor shot from a doorway to the right of the desk. Walking down it toward the back of the building, I wondered how I’d recognize the man I was seeking.
No problem. Each office had a name plaque. Jacob Rainwater’s was at the end. His door was open.
Rainwater looked like the old professor from a Disney movie. Baggy sweater, bad haircut, wire-rimmed specs. The only thing that didn’t fit was the snazzy new Mac where he was working.
The office was a claustrophobic’s worst nightmare. An enormous desk and bulky file cabinets left only narrow passages for navigation about the small space. Every shelf and horizontal surface was covered with stacked papers and magazines, rolled maps, hunks of rock and petrified wood, and glass containers holding gravel and sand. If anything hung on a wall, it was hidden from view.
I cleared my throat.
Rainwater looked up. “Yes?”
“My name is Temperance Brennan. I have a few questions and was told you were very knowledgeable.”
“What kind of questions?”
“About prospecting.” Cautious.
“A prospector’s license is two dollars for an individual, fifty for a company. The girl out front can help you with that on Monday.”
Rainwater’s eyes returned to the screen. His fingers resumed their hunt-and-peck ballet.
“If you need a prospecting permit, you’re out of luck. Applications are accepted in December. Approved permits are issued effective February first of the following year. Permits are good for three years below the Sixty-eighth parallel, five years above. The cost is twenty-five dollars plus ten cents an acre.” Rainwater’s tone was robotic, suggesting he’d repeated the information thousands of times. “A prospecting permit gives you temporary but exclusive exploration and staking rights but not mineral rights.”
“Sir, I—”
“You need a valid prospector’s license to stake a claim but don’t need a prospecting permit. A claim requires four tagged posts. Tags cost two dollars a set. The girl out front can sell you those on Monday.”
“Mr. Rainwater—”
“It’s mandatory to check with this office before staking a claim to make sure the area is available and not already staked, claimed, or leased by someone else. The girl out front can—”
“I also want to learn about diamond indicator minerals.”
Rainwater’s eyes rolled up. He studied me through the upper portion of old-fashioned bifocal lenses. “What about them?”
I pulled the ketchup container from my purse. “I have a sample.” Lay it on. “I know this is irregular, and I know I’m being presumptuous, but your nephew says you’re a genius with these things.”
“You a friend of Joseph’s?”
“Mm.”
Rainwater hesitated, then waggled me in with upturned fingers.
As I wormed my way forward, he cleared space on his blotter, unfolded a white cloth, and spread it flat with his palms. Then he exchanged the bifocals for glasses wit
h a little microscope stuck to each lens.
I gave him the purloined sample. He poured the gravel onto the cloth, turned on and adjusted a lamp clamped to one side of his desk, and leaned in.
I waited.
Every now and then Rainwater poked at the sample, rearranging the mix with one gnarled finger.
Long minutes passed. The entire floor was absolutely still.
“Have you anything else?” No robot now. Rainwater sounded genuinely interested.
I lay the five-by-seven on his desk.
The old man’s shoulders twitched, and I heard a sharp intake of air.
Rainwater switched back to the bifocals. Stared some more at the photo. Finally, his eyes met mine.
“My nephew put you up to some kind of stunt?”
“No, sir.”
“Sweet Lord in the rushes.”
“DID YOU COLLECT THIS?”
“No, sir.”
“Who did you say you are?”
I repeated my name but offered nothing else.
“Got any idea what diamond indicator minerals are?”
“Crystals that form in the earth’s upper mantle as companions to diamonds.”
“Hm.”
“The difference is, DIMs are millions of times more numerous, so they’re worth next to nothing.” Trying to impress.
Rainwater hit a keyboard combo to save his work. “Do you know how to look through a scope, young lady?”
“I do.” Wishing Binny could have heard the appellation.
The old man swiveled and pulled the cover from a microscope I hadn’t noticed in the jumble behind his desk. The thing was primitive, probably from a student lab. “Prefer a scanning electron microscope, but this old gal will do.”
Rainwater transferred my sample to the viewing plate. Then he flicked a switch, shoved his glasses onto his forehead, peered through the eyepieces, and adjusted focus.
“Look at this.” Rolling his chair sideways.
I squeezed behind the desk and bent down.
And was amazed at the beauty of what I saw.
“That’s magnified two hundred times.”
“Wow,” I said.
“Pretty, eh? When a prospector is out panning or bagging or however he does his sampling, he’s mostly looking for hue.”
I was mesmerized by the colors and shapes of the crystals.
“See the red and orange ones? Those are from the garnet group. The green to sort of lemony-yellow ones are from the pyroxene group. Olivine is one. The black guys are ilmenites.”