The Stranger on the Ice

by Bernadette Calonego

  Clem felt anger boiling up inside him, anger because this mere cub obviously knew more than he did. And anger because Helvin had put him into another tough situation.

  He answered more aggressively than he intended. “I thought you dealt with facts and not rumors, or am I wrong?”

  Waldo’s youthful face turned red. Clem was pleased that he’d hit a sore spot.

  His triumph was short-lived, though. Waldo was ready for the grand finale.

  “I agree with you there, Clem. That’s why it would be a good thing if your boss came back soon—to clear up some speculation. We’ve already got one dead woman on our hands; we don’t need any more corpses.”

  The reporter turned on his heel, but not before scratching Meteor quickly behind the ears.

  Clem stood there as if bludgeoned on the head again.

  His mind was on Valerie Blaine, and he felt a twinge of panic.

  CHAPTER 20

  Their journey continued without any other unpleasant episodes, for the time being at least. They’d gone by the tall, sharply pointed peaks of the Tombstone Mountains, which seemed to impale the skies. A ptarmigan squatted in the middle of the highway without moving for a long time, to the group’s delight; they advanced toward the bird, brandishing their cameras. When the people got too near for its liking, it flew off with a cackle, flashing its black tail feathers.

  “Perfect camouflage,” Glenn remarked; his mustache was a similar shade of black. “They’re in the grouse family. Did everyone see those feathered feet and the red comb over its eye?”

  This revelation, completely untypical of Glenn, astounded everybody, Paula above all, who wasn’t so well versed in the fauna department. Valerie always enjoyed the knowledge her customers brought with them. She could have kissed the ptarmigan for its performance.

  A little later a snowshoe hare hopped across the road. Faye braked much too slowly for the group’s liking.

  “Hey, people, the road’s icy,” she shouted to the rear. “You don’t want a broken neck!”

  As if in response, after the next curve, a car appeared, stuck in the snow on the shoulder of the road. Faye stopped, but nobody was in the vehicle.

  On the North Fork Pass, a bare plateau opened up that stimulated a sense of vastness and forlorn fascination. There was nothing but snow and frost-covered bushes before the distant, mighty mountain ranges. Valerie could empathize with someone wanting to temporarily get lost in this silent, overpowering landscape for a while. The fog had dissipated, and the white light was as blinding as floodlights. As they neared the sixty-mile marker, marine-blue streaks appeared in the crumbling, overcast sky.

  Valerie noticed tracks in the snowbanks on the roadside.

  “Moose!” she shouted. It sounded like a battle cry.

  Faye drove back to the tracks, and a lively buzz immediately came from the seats behind her. There was the moose, in the flesh, not a hundred yards away, bearing a giant set of antlers—fourteen points, Valerie counted through her binoculars. Everyone, even Anika, scrambled out of the bus amazingly fast so they wouldn’t miss the sight.

  “Don’t scare him off!” Valerie called. She was thrilled by the sighting. And it was particularly fitting that they were near Two Moose Lake of all places, a lake she had just been describing to her group.

  “The moose come here in summer to eat the grass in the lake because it’s high in calcium,” she commented, but nobody was listening. The tourists were gawking through their zoom lenses. She was too.

  As the moose ambled off, a few of the spectators complained that their feet were cold.

  “Shove some warmers into your boots,” Valerie advised when they were back in the bus. “That’s why they were invented.”

  “Where are we?” Trish asked, a map on her knees. She looked relaxed once again.

  “In the Blackstone Uplands,” Paula responded with rocketlike speed, “and now we’re coming to the northern part of the Ogilvie Mountains.” She’d regained her status as the Omniscient One.

  Glenn spoke up more loudly than usual: “We’re not in the taiga anymore because there are no trees. Only bushes can grow in the tundra.”

  Valerie was only half listening. She knew that the Dempster crossed the path of the Dawson–Fort McPherson police patrol at milestone seventy-two. Her parents were supposed to cross here on their snowmobiles, but they never got this far.

  She never told her brothers that, just a couple of months earlier, she’d found out about some government documents concerning her parents’ tragedy. But her request for their release was denied. She was told they were classified as “Secret.” She had no idea why. Military secrets, perhaps?

  Whitewashed mountains rose straight up from the plain to the sky. Valerie knew that there were many hiking trails here to mountain valleys and small lakes. Hikers must come upon a strange, fantastic world opening up before them at those heights. Would she ever see it? Would her brief life be long enough for all her dreams?

  They took a quick lunch break at the Engineer Creek campground. After they started up again, Paula announced that they were crossing the Ogilvie Pass. At mile 160, Valerie had the Chevy stop to see Curt’s cabin, an old, rustic structure owned by a local trapper she’d met a couple of years ago.

  She led the group down a narrow path, where they found the cabin unlocked. Curt had given her permission to tour the place even when he wasn’t there, so they let themselves inside to looked around. Two places to sleep, on two old mattresses that took up nearly half the small room. Cans lined a wooden shelf on the wall: condensed milk, soup, beans. A rusty saw hung beside the shelf on a thick nail, as did an ax. A bent fork lay on a wobbly table. Carol read out a note above the woodstove: “‘There is more kindling and firewood in front of the cabin. Get ice from the river for water.’” She lifted the lid on a roasting pot on the stove and, to general merriment, found hard biscuits in it.

  “I’m going to pop back and get my camera,” Faye said. Valerie nodded. She took the opportunity to tell the group the story of the “Mad Trapper of Rat River,” one Albert Johnson. He had a habit of raiding the traps the local Indians set in the Mackenzie River valley, which had earned him a visit from the police in 1932. Johnson shot and wounded one of the policemen, then barricaded himself in his rough-hewn cabin. In spite of a police attack that included a dynamite blast, the Mad Trapper managed to escape. Following a hazardous pursuit in a snowstorm, the policemen found his camp. In the subsequent exchange of gunfire, one of the cops was killed. Afterward, the pursuers regrouped and were reinforced by a helpful bush pilot. After several days they finally found their fugitive again, but he got away once more, fleeing until his tracks were discovered and a bullet finally ended his life.

  “It took forty-eight days to catch him,” Valerie continued. “The trapper and his pursuers put one hundred and sixty miles behind them during that time, in ice-cold Arctic temperatures. In spite of everything, the stamina and powerful resistance of this man . . .”

  She stopped. Was that the sound of a motor? What was Faye doing?

  “Just a minute,” Valerie said. “I’ll be right back.”

  Breaking one of her own rules—never leave a group of clients in an unfamiliar place—she hurried back up the path they’d taken. When she got near the edge of the brush, within sight of the road, her heart nearly stopped.

  Another vehicle was parked behind their bus. A dark SUV. Two people stood beside it in black down jackets and fur hats with earflaps. Faye was talking to them; Valerie could see her gesticulating. At one point she turned to look toward the path, and Valerie could clearly make out the worry on her face.

  Valerie quickly stepped back into the brush. Her heart was beating wildly now. Were those the men who tried to take away her cell phone? If so, she’d better not show her face.

  She heard muted voices and a door slam. Then the SUV drove off in the direction of Eagle Plains, the same direction they were heading. Footsteps approached, then Faye appeared.

  Val
erie stepped out of her hiding place, causing Faye to stagger backward.

  “For God’s sake, Val! You scared the living daylights out of me!”

  Valerie ignored her complaint.

  “What was that about? What did they want from you?”

  Faye just shook her head.

  “Faye, those guys are mixed up with Helvin West!”

  “Who?”

  “Helvin West! Clem’s boss. You know—he’s been missing for several days.” Valerie’s voice sounded loud and impatient.

  Faye raised a finger to her lips. “Psst! They’re coming.”

  Valerie wheeled around. Carol and Trish were working their way up the path, their tightly locked arms leaving no space between their heavily clothed bodies.

  “I’ll explain later,” Faye whispered. “You don’t need to worry.”

  Valerie wasn’t convinced.

  She reduced her voice to a frantic whisper. “You don’t get it, Faye—they could be dangerous. You . . .”

  Faye whispered back. “Those aren’t the guys you—”

  “Hello!” A voice rang out behind them. “We thought you were never coming back.”

  Valerie gave a reassuring wave and smile in Trish and Carol’s direction before turning back to Faye.

  “I’ve got to know what—”

  Faye interrupted her once again. “Valerie, trust me, I’ll explain everything. You just have to trust me, OK?”

  Then Faye shouted to the two sisters, “C’mon, girls, I’ll open the bus for you. You look frozen through and through.”

  Valerie was rooted to the spot for several seconds. She felt anger welling up in her. Who was really responsible here? These were precisely the sorts of situations she’d dreaded. Should she insist on squeezing an answer out of Faye? If there was a screwup, then Faye wouldn’t be accountable, but she would, as tour guide.

  She watched as the rest of the group began to emerge from the brush, then went back to the cabin to make sure everything was in its proper place. As she headed back up the path toward the road, she fell in behind Glenn and Jordan, who were helping Anika through the snow. Over the next couple of hours, the landscape flew by Valerie like a blurry movie. She tried not to make her inner unrest obvious as they left the Ogilvie River behind and began their climb up to almost three thousand feet and the Continental Divide.

  “Fasten your seatbelts, we’re taking off!” Faye yelled to everyone’s delight.

  The highway cut across the high plateau of Eagle Plains, and Faye drove along it a little faster than Valerie liked; the only way to spot an oncoming vehicle was by the whirling, white cloud of snow it kicked up. Loud cries for photo ops increased. The sight of the bare Richardson Mountains—like sprinkled sugar loaves marching along the horizon—would make any amateur photographer’s pulse start hammering. The sky above was a hazy, saccharine-bright blue. Now a cascade of photo stops began as the sun grew weaker and weaker.

  All of a sudden, at mile 220, a red Silverado pickup ahead of them nearly blocked the entire roadway, but Faye braked so magnificently that the bus barely swerved as it came to a stop well behind the truck. That’s when they saw a dark SUV stuck in a snowdrift by the side of the road. A rope hung like an umbilical cord between the two vehicles, and a man beside the road signaled for them to wait.

  “Photo op!” Valerie shouted.

  A few seconds later the bus was empty, and more than a half-dozen cameras—including hers—captured the truck’s rescue of the SUV trapped in the snow. Valerie was hoping to get a good look at the occupants, but no such luck. Fortunately for the stranded SUV, there were two technicians in the truck who happened to be working on a nearby communication tower and had a strong towrope.

  Once the vehicle was freed, the tour continued on its way, but the incident was hotly debated. How did the SUV end up like that? What would have happened if that telecommunications truck hadn’t come along? Valerie listened in silence. Stories like this were legion. The snow on the roadside was soft, and if a car ended up in it, the wheels could easily sink in so that it couldn’t get out without help.

  Sometime after eight in the evening, they arrived at their hotel in Eagle Plains. After such a long day of travel, the long, flat-roofed brown building next door to a gas station was as welcome a sight as any luxury hotel. Valerie distributed room keys at the reception desk and let the group know that, because of the late hour, the kitchen was only offering lasagna. She was also able to announce that luckily it was a good night for the northern lights.

  “The best time is probably between midnight and one,” the receptionist added. “I can wake up anybody who wants to go out when it’s almost time.”

  That generated shouts of enthusiasm.

  Faye came inside after parking the bus.

  “We need to talk,” Valerie said.

  “In your room or the bar?”

  Valerie nodded toward the bar. As she turned to walk that way, her expression abruptly changed.

  Three men were coming out. Two in uniform—and one in civvies.

  Clem Hardeven. Once he saw her, he didn’t take his eyes off her, and she could see the relief in his face. But why was he here?

  She heard Faye’s words as if through a fog: “I think you’re going to want to hear this from me first: they’ve located Sedna.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Three pairs of eyes were trained on her.

  Two policemen were seated opposite her at a table in the Eagle Plains Hotel’s modest dining room. Clem was off to one side behind them, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed. One of the policemen introduced himself as John Palmer and folded his hands on the green-and-white-checked plastic tablecloth. He looked about her age, no older. Palmer was stationed with the RCMP in Inuvik. The other Mountie was from Yellowknife; a stocky, brawny man maybe in his midforties, his last name was Edwards, but she’d forgotten his first name. He appeared to be an Inuk who’d climbed the ladder in the Northwest Territories’ police. If she were still a journalist, she’d have loved to get his story. Edwards let Palmer do the talking, but he watched her closely, his stare penetrating and intimidating. Valerie imagined that he could effortlessly see right through a felon during an interrogation.

  She heard voices and music from the bar in the next room. Occasionally, she looked away from the three men facing her to the pictures on the wall. Pictures of Jack Dempster and his rescue expedition.

  “Sedna Mahrer contacted our office from Aklavik, because she’d heard that someone was asking about her in Dawson City,” Palmer said.

  Valerie frowned.

  “Aklavik? What’s she doing there?”

  “That’s none of our business. In our view, she’s a tourist.”

  “But,” she stammered, turning toward Clem, “that phone call—she begged me to help her because she feared for her life.”

  “Ms. Mahrer denied that,” Palmer replied. “She knew nothing about the call you described to Mr. Hardeven.”

  Valerie shook her head, unnerved.

  “How do you even know it was Sedna who called from Aklavik? I mean, anyone could have called your station.”

  Edwards cleared his throat.

  “She’d called her brother first, and he advised her to inform us.”

  “I . . . the reason I’m skeptical is . . . when I was in the Beringia Museum in Whitehorse, Ken Gries, the director, told me a woman by the name of Phyllis Crombe had passed herself off as a friend of mine. I don’t know anyone by that name.”

  She could see out of the corner of her eye that Clem was shifting his stance.

  “I e-mailed Mr. Gries a picture of Sedna,” she continued, “and it was obviously not her.” But the police didn’t seem interested. And Valerie couldn’t tell them that Sedna had cleaned out Faye’s bank account. Faye didn’t want that to be public knowledge. Not yet.

  “That’s all we can do for the moment,” Palmer explained. “Ms. Mahrer is free to make her own decisions. We can’t simply order her to come to the station
. I’m sure you understand.”

  It suddenly dawned on Valerie. “You’re not here because of Sedna at all, are you?”

  Edwards nodded. “No. Clem told us that you’d be here. We thought we’d take the opportunity to tell you about Ms. Mahrer’s contact with us.”

  Clem spoke up. “I told them about the package with the gold nugget, Val. I think we’d better give it to them.”

  The package. How could she forget?

  She was overcome by a feeling of confusion—so much happening and so much information that she couldn’t process.

  An hour later she was alone with Clem in her hotel room. The tour group was amusing themselves in the bar. At dinner they’d all stood in a corner of the dining room in front of a stuffed caribou decorated with a garland of artificial plants.

  “I’ve got to get this picture, or nobody will believe me,” Paula crowed, all pumped up on only one whiskey.

  “Let me keep an eye on them,” Faye had offered when Val appeared with Clem in the bar’s doorway.

  Now he sat in the chair in front of the window, while Valerie sat on one of the two beds, her back to the wall. Doors slammed in the corridor; hasty footsteps faded away.

  Clem turned the shaman’s rattle over in his hands, the one that Trish had found when she’d gotten lost on her way back from the outhouse. Valerie looked at him with an impulsive, warm feeling: his face in deep concentration, his strong hands turning the object, his dark brown hair—shorter than she’d remembered—his long arms propped on the arms of the chair, his feet firmly planted on the floor. She noticed the powerful appeal of his upper body clad in a wine-colored T-shirt under his fleece jacket.

  He raised his head. “It’s extraordinary that something like this was found in a place like that.”

  She was struck by the dark creases on the right side of his face. Of course: the assault. His head injury.

  Clem’s expression was as intent as ever. She’d once told Sedna jokingly, “Anybody with blue eyes like that will know it, and that spoils the effect.”

  Sedna feigned outrage by shaking her head. “That’s sexist. What if somebody said that about your eyes?”