Alone in the Wild

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Alone in the Wild Page 22

by Kelley Armstrong


  We introduce ourselves.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” I say, and down south, that would be a cliché, but it really does say what needs to be said, all that can be said when talking to a stranger.

  Nancy’s eyes fill. Tomas grips her hand tighter, both hands wrapping around it. She sees we aren’t touching our food, and says, “Eat, please. I won’t, but you should. It’s good stew, and the bread is even better.”

  We take a few mouthfuls, and both are indeed excellent. Once I’ve had enough to be sure my belly won’t rumble, I say, “I’m not sure how much Tomas told you. I was a homicide detective down south.”

  She frowns and glances at Tomas.

  “Nancy hasn’t been down south,” he says. “She was born in the Second Settlement.” He quickly explains what a homicide detective is, and her brows furrow, as if she’s struggling to understand the need for such a job.

  I say as much, lightly joking.

  She nods and says, “I know it’s different down there. There are so many more people. It’s good that they have people to do that job. But Tomas said Ellen was killed by accident.”

  “We hope so,” I say. “Right now, I’m trying to piece together her final days. She had something with her. Something I need to return. I’m sorry I can’t say more than that.”

  Her lips curve in a wry smile. “Because whatever this thing is, it’s valuable, and if you say what it is, people here might falsely claim it.”

  “Probably not,” I say. “But we need to be extra cautious.”

  “We understand,” Tomas says. “We’d like to do whatever we can to help Ellen.”

  Nancy hesitates at that, and her gaze drops, just a little, but then she nods and squeezes her husband’s hand. “Yes. Anything you need. She was a dear friend.”

  “She didn’t live here, though?”

  Nancy shakes her head. “We asked her to. We…” She looks up at me. “I know nothing of how a detective works down south. I realize it is a job, and therefore, you might want only the details that will help you.”

  “Just the facts, ma’am,” Tomas says, and we exchange a smile for a joke the other two won’t get.

  “Down south, we’re on a schedule,” I say. “People’s taxes pay our salaries, so we need to be efficient. Brutally efficient even. Up here, it’s different. Eric and I can’t get home tonight anyway. As long as the settlement doesn’t mind us setting up our tent nearby, we’re in no rush. Here, I have the luxury of time, and I appreciate that. It gives me a chance to get a better understanding of the victim. In other words, take your time. Anything you want to explain, I’d like to hear.”

  “All right. If I go too far off topic, please stop me, but I … I would like you to understand more about us, too. It isn’t as if we saw Ellen struggling to survive and closed our doors to her. We don’t do that.”

  “I understand.”

  “We’ve helped a few of the wild people. Some in our community disagree with that. We believe in harmony with nature—the spirits of the forest and all that live in it. We hunt, of course. But we don’t interfere with other predators, which includes the wild people. The question we disagree on is whether ‘interference’ includes helping them escape their situation.”

  She shifts, getting comfortable, and Tomas pushes blankets forward to let her lean on them. She smiles at him, and it is the smile of a long-married couple, instinctively understanding what the other needs and still able to appreciate these small acts of kindness.

  “Ellen and I spoke often of her past,” Nancy says. “I’ve taken her story to the elders, in hopes of convincing those who say we shouldn’t interfere with the wild people. Ellen herself, though, would not speak to the elders. She was … conflicted on this. I’m not sure how much you know about the wild people.”

  “We’re helping a woman who left them recently,” I say. “She’s a former Rockton resident. Eric knew her. He grew up there.”

  “Oh.” Her eyes widen as she looks at Dalton. “You’re the boy. The one Tyrone spoke of.”

  Dalton nods, his jaw set, and Nancy sees that, murmuring, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. I just remember Tyrone’s stories.”

  “Ty has plenty of those,” Dalton says. “Not all of them true, but yeah, I was born out here and … taken to Rockton.”

  She rocks back, as if stopping herself from comment. She reaches for her bowl instead and takes a spoonful of stew. Then she stops, frowns, and pulls a shotgun pellet from her mouth.

  “Thought you folks didn’t use guns,” Dalton says.

  “We don’t,” she says. “But sometimes we still find pellets in the meat. When other settlers injure large game without killing them, those end up in our food.”

  “It’s been happening more and more recently,” Tomas mutters. “Someone cracked a tooth just last month.”

  I reach to take the pellet, but Nancy tucks it aside, as if she didn’t see me reaching. I hesitate and then withdraw my hand wordlessly.

  I resume our conversation. “So we know this woman, Maryanne, and her situation. She left Rockton with a party of would-be settlers, and they were set upon by the hos—wild people. The men were killed. The women were taken.”

  “Oh!” Nancy’s hand flies to her mouth, her eyes rounding. “I’m—I’m sorry.”

  “That isn’t how they ‘recruit’ around here?” I ask.

  “Not Ellen’s group. The wild people actually rescued her. Ellen and her husband were up here mining. They were new at it—it was only their second season. They were crossing a river swollen with spring runoff when they fell. He drowned. She made it to shore, but all their supplies were gone. She was nearly dead when the wild people took her in.”

  “And she stayed with them.”

  Nancy looks at her husband, as if unsure how much to say.

  Tomas makes a face. “That’s the problem. They have these teas. They’re … like ours, but not like ours.”

  “I’ve heard about the teas. They— Wait, you said they’re like yours?”

  He nods. “We have two. There’s the peace tea. It’s…” He looks at me. “Have you ever smoked weed?”

  “Once.” I quirk a smile. “It wasn’t quite my thing. Slowed me down too much.”

  “Right. That’s what it does. Relaxes you, makes you happy and peaceful. We have a tea like that for relaxing. The same way someone might have wine with dinner. Then there’s the ritual tea. There’s this root that grows wild here. I have no idea what the real name is, but we call it the dream-root.”

  “A hallucinogen.”

  “Yes. We use it for ceremonies. To bridge the gap between us and nature.” He lifts his hands, as if warding off comment. “Yes, I know. Between that and the peace tea, it sounds very nineteen sixties. But we have our ways here, and they don’t harm anyone.”

  “I wasn’t going to question,” I say.

  Tomas chuckles. “Tyrone sure did. He thought we were all a bunch of loony hippies, dancing naked in the woods. Our ways were definitely not his.”

  “These teas, though,” I say. “I’m told the wild people have two as well. One that makes them calm and one that causes hallucinations. Are they the same?”

  “I’m no scientist—I was a truck driver down south—but from what Ellen said, I think theirs are stronger versions of ours. Much stronger. Ever tried peyote?”

  I shake my head.

  “I have,” he says. “That’s what our ritual tea is like. We drift into a dreamlike state, hence the name. What the wild people take makes them, well, wild. Increased violence. Increased sex drive. Their version of the peace tea is also stronger. Between the two brews, they seem to make the wild people stay with the group. Ellen had family down south. Parents, siblings, friends, a job. She only came to the Yukon for an adventure that was her husband’s dream. She had no interest in staying long-term, let alone permanently.”

  Nancy nods. “But the tea made her forget the rest. Her family, her job, her life. At first, she stayed with the intentio
n of getting well enough to travel back to the city. Then she just … forgot all that.”

  “How did she come out of it?” I ask.

  Nancy glances at Tomas, uncomfortable again. This time, he isn’t quite so quick to answer but rubs his beard, and looks back at his wife.

  “There are … rules,” Tomas says. “Every community has them. Ours is no different. There are laws meant to protect us, and there are laws meant to protect our way of life, to put our belief into deed.”

  “Religious prohibitions,” I say.

  He makes a face. “I wouldn’t call what we practice a religion. I guess it is, but I was raised Catholic and…” He exhales. “Call it what you will. A friend with far more education than me said it’s a belief system rather than a religion. Part of that belief system is noninterference. We don’t interfere with Rockton or the First Settlement. We don’t interfere with nature, either, any more than is needed for survival.”

  “And you don’t interfere with the wild people,” I say. “Or you’re not supposed to. But there’s some differing opinion on whether they’ve actually chosen that lifestyle. The woman we know was clearly a hostage, at least at first, and after a while, she was still hostage—to those teas. Her free will was being held hostage.”

  “Yes,” Nancy says. “Ellen stayed by choice, but at what point was it no longer a choice? If she chose to drink the tea, and it caused her to stay, does that mean she chose to stay? Some here would say yes. But drinking the tea is a requirement for staying in that group. And it isn’t as if she realized she was losing her free will and chose to keep losing it.”

  Tomas chuckles. “Nancy’s better at explaining this. It makes my head hurt. All I know is that it doesn’t seem right, leaving them out there like that, if they don’t have the … what do we call it down south? The mental capacity to choose.”

  “Like seeing an addict on the street and not getting them to a shelter because they initially chose the drugs.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So, what you’re trying to say…” I hesitate, consider their situation, and reword it. “In a case like that, someone might choose to help a person when their community says they shouldn’t. If their community learned of it, they would be in trouble.”

  Neither speaks, but both give me a look that says I’ve guessed correctly.

  “Okay,” I say. “How Ellen extricated herself from the wild people is unimportant. You say your community has helped some of them. I’m guessing that means they’ve offered assistance to wild people who have voluntarily left their tribe. That is allowed. That’s not interference.”

  Nancy nods. “If they leave on their own, we can offer food, trade goods, even shelter. Two of our members were former wild people. Ellen wanted to live on her own and, when she was ready, travel back home. She left her group the summer before last, and she hoped to return home in the spring. She was so excited…”

  Nancy’s voice catches. Tomas puts his arm around her shoulders, and she leans against it. I eat more of my now-cold stew and glance at Dalton. He’s been silent, letting me handle this. When he catches my eye, he nods, and I’m not aware that I’m communicating anything to him, but after a moment, he speaks.

  “When’s the last time you saw her?” he asks.

  Nancy starts, and it might be surprise at Dalton talking, but it’s more, too. She’s sinking into her grief, and we’ve finally reached the heart of what I really must ask her. We can’t let her drift now. That’s the message Dalton read in my look.

  This is going to be tough, and I need help.

  I need someone to push. Someone to play bad cop.

  When Nancy hesitates, Dalton says, “This is important.”

  “I know,” she says. “It was eight—” Another catch. “Eight days ago. She needed supplies.”

  “Like what?”

  Dalton grills Nancy on specifics. It isn’t easy. Speaking of Ellen in the abstract had been fine, but now Nancy must dissect what she realizes is the last time she’d ever see her friend. Tomas glances at her, concerned, but he doesn’t interfere and Nancy gives no sign she needs to stop.

  Ellen had came by on a supply run. She did that weekly. As a lone settler, without the time to build a permanent residence, she lived light, with only a tent and a pack. It was easier for her to trade weekly with the settlement, giving them her extra meat and furs in return for dried vegetables and other foodstuffs.

  Her last visit, however, had been unscheduled. She usually stopped by on what they called “the sixth day”—Saturdays. This visit came on a Tuesday, and she’d brought an entire caribou plus three hares, hoping to trade for winter blankets and scraps of leather.

  Dalton frowns. “She lived alone last winter, and this one isn’t any colder.”

  “She said she used last year’s blankets to sew summer clothing.”

  “Why now? It’s been fucking freezing for two months.”

  They both flinch at the profanity, and it takes him a moment to realize it. He nods, understanding. There are people in Rockton who take exception to his language. If they’re troublemakers or chronic complainers, he might even pile on a few “fucks” to annoy them. But if they are good people, like these, he holds back.

  Nancy admits she doesn’t know why Ellen suddenly wanted extra warm blankets. There’s hesitation, suggesting she found this odd herself, but Dalton only nods, as if accepting her explanation. Then he says, his voice casual, “A caribou and three hares. She must be a really good hunter.”

  They say nothing, but their discomfort is palpable.

  “That normal for her? Bringing so much meat, three days after her last visit?”

  Silence. Dalton’s gaze cuts my way, bouncing the ball over.

  “I know you trade with a very limited number of people,” I say. “I’m guessing Ellen was an exception because she’s a former wild person. In need of help.”

  They both nod, as if grateful for the easy answer.

  “What about others?” I say. “Regular settlers who need assistance?”

  “It would depend,” Tomas says. “We’d never turn away someone who was in desperate need, of course. We make exceptions. But only in emergencies, and then we direct them to other sources, such as the First Settlement.”

  “What if an accepted trade partner, like Ellen, brought you goods from someone else?”

  They exchange a look.

  “That would be … prohibited,” Nancy says. “By our laws.”

  “Which Ellen knows. She’d never risk your friendship by openly trading on someone else’s behalf. But if she says nothing…”

  They don’t answer.

  Dalton surges forward, clearly ready to press the matter, but I shake my head. I consider for a minute, and then I say, “Ellen was a good friend, yes? And also a good person, it seems. If she knew of someone in need, she would trade for them and not tell you. I respect that. However, given that she is dead—possibly murdered—I need to pursue this. I’m not asking you to confirm that she was trading for a third party. But did she give you any idea what she needed those leather scraps for?”

  “She said she was going to try her hand at sewing.”

  “Did she need a specific size of scrap?”

  Nancy shakes her head. “I had scraps no bigger than my hand, and I said they were useless but she took them.”

  “Did she request anything else? Anything unusual?”

  “Salve,” she says. “For her lips, she said.”

  “Were they chapped?”

  Nancy shakes her head.

  Scraps of leather, any size. When we were diapering Abby, we used fabric scraps for extra padding. That could suggest Ellen was caring for the baby herself, but she hadn’t requested anything she’d need to feed Abby. The mention of salve, however, reminds me of a colleague joking about his wife putting lip balm on her nipples during nursing. That would suggest Ellen wasn’t caring for the baby herself; she was helping Abby’s parents get supplies they needed.

  “A
bout that caribou,” Dalton says. “Did she usually bring in game that large?”

  “She said she got lucky,” Tomas explains. “We didn’t question.”

  “How did she usually hunt? With a gun?”

  “Oh, no,” Nancy says. “The wild people don’t have guns. They’re like us. And we allowed her to hunt on our territory, which means she isn’t allowed to use guns. She wouldn’t anyway. She only traps and fishes.” She hesitates, as if seeing the problem with that, given that Ellen brought in a caribou.

  “Had the caribou been shot?” I ask, trying not to glance at where Nancy tucked away the pellet.

  “She brought it partly slaughtered,” Tomas says. “She kept the head. She said she wanted the antlers, but I suppose, if someone gave her the animal, it could have been shot in the head. That’s what I figured. That someone traded the caribou to her, and she was trading it to us, which wouldn’t break our laws. I hadn’t thought of it being shot, but I suspect that’s the caribou they used for the stew today.”

  The stew with shotgun pellets.

  We run out of questions shortly after that. We know Ellen had made an unscheduled stop in the Second Settlement, trading for unusual items and using unusual payment. That supported the idea she’d been helping Abby’s mother. That might also suggest Abby’s parents were responsible for the caribou Ellen brought in.

  They’d shot it and removed the head, so it wouldn’t be obvious that someone else killed the beast. From what Tomas said, though, it wasn’t the first time they discovered pellets in their meat, and that’s been more common lately. Had Ellen been working with Abby’s parents for a while? If so, wouldn’t someone have realized the pellet-shot meat all came from her?

  I might get more answers by tracking the source of the stew meat, confirming it came from that caribou. But when I ask if I can personally thank the cooks for the meal, Nancy shuts me down. Oh, she’s polite about it, saying she’ll pass on my appreciation, but I know when I’m being blocked. She doesn’t want me speaking to them. Just like she didn’t want me having that pellet. I get the latter, though—I surreptitiously scoop it up while the children bring Storm to show their mother.

 

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