In the Barren Ground Read online

  At the top of the third column she stuck Regan Novak’s photo. Dakota Smithers’s headshot went at the top of the fourth column, and in the fifth column, she placed the photograph of Selena Apodaca and Raj Sanjit.

  She stood back a moment. Three young women. One guy. The bodies of the women all showed remarkable similarities in pattern of predation. The male body had suffered far less indignity. Was there a reason for this?

  With her marker, under the image of Smithers, and under the one of Apodaca and Sanjit, she wrote: Vanilla?

  The upcoming autopsies would show if there was indeed evidence of vanilla on the bodies of Apodaca and Sanjit, but Tana had seen traces of blackened sludge on them. It looked the same as the dark contents she’d seen in the jerry cans. And Dean Kaminsky had said the biologists had added vanilla to their lure mix, so she was guessing.

  There was no mention of vanilla or any kind of lure in the Regan Novak case, however.

  Under Smithers’s photo, Tana wrote: Stalked? She did the same under the image of Apodaca where she also pasted the scrap of paper with the hand-printed poem that Veronique had found among Selena’s things.

  For, in the Barrens of the soul

  monsters take toll …

  Wind howled under the eaves, and something thucked against the wall outside, making Tana jump. Max growled. Tana paused, marker in hand, listening. But no more bumps came in the night, just the sound of the wind.

  She stood back and studied the words, frowning. What did they mean? Where had they come from? Why had Selena had this? She turned and carefully sifted again through the images in the Dakota Smithers case, and then she came across one that made her blood run cold.

  The team that had finally gone in to investigate the area where Dakota’s body had been found had photographed the surrounding terrain. And at the top of the ravine an inukshuk had been captured on film. Quickly, Tana rummaged through her own printouts, found the one she’d taken of the inukshuk at the Apodaca-Sanjit scene.

  Dryness balled in her throat. It was almost identical in its construction, the longer of the two stone arms pointing toward the scene of death. A wayfinder of the north. Tana told herself many inukshuks looked the same—how many different ways could one build a stone man, anyway, with the flat rocks available out here? And these things were everywhere. Her mind went to the inukshuk garden in front of Crow TwoDove’s house.

  She pinned up both images. The one in the Smithers column. The other that she’d taken in the Apodaca-Sanjit column.

  Then at the top of the first column she wrote: Persons of Interest.

  In that column she wrote:

  Cameron “Crash” O’Halloran—Owns red AeroStar. Heather MacAllistair saw a red AeroStar near scene around possible time of deaths. Sturmann-Taylor alibi? O’Halloran was in the woods near Regan Novak mauling site—first on scene. In a position to compromise evidence. Where was he when Smithers was killed?

  Beneath that she wrote:

  Crow TwoDove—Investigated for possible stalking and sexual interest in school kids. Lost job. Resentment. Violently anti-cops.

  That was one thing about these deaths, Tana thought as she went back to the photos spread out on the table. Violence. Bloody chaos. Power. Raw strength.

  She found the photo she was searching for—a head shot of Sergeant Elliot Novak looking dark haired, square jawed and handsome in his official red serge and Stetson. She stuck that image up in the Persons of Interest column as well. Beside it she placed the photograph that had been taken for the coroner’s report after Novak had been rescued by O’Halloran. The contrast was shocking. In the “after” photo Novak was missing part of his nose, and two wide nasal cavities gaped at the camera. His eyes had sunken into hollows beneath the bone of his brow, his cheeks had been sucked in. Part of his lip was missing, also due to frostbite.

  There was a sense of “otherness” about him. As if he’d gone out there into the wild and returned a hollowed-out husk of the human he once was, as if he’d been changed into some kind of cadaverous monster.

  Wind gusted again, and hair prickled up the back of Tana’s neck. She didn’t want to fully articulate to herself yet the patterns she was seeing on this board. She felt surreal, as if she’d entered some strange landscape, and to admit what she was thinking would forever suck her down into that world with no avenue for return.

  She rubbed her arms, trying to get some warmth back into her body, then she reached again for her marker.

  Under Novak’s photos she wrote: Alcoholic? Blackouts? Memory issues? Mentally unstable? Possibly hurt his own daughter? Where was he when Smithers went missing? Where is he now? Where was he when Apodaca and Sanjit were killed? Could he be the man in fur that Selena Apodaca thought she’d seen from MacAllistair’s chopper on the morning of Friday, November 2?

  In the second column, Tana wrote: First week of November, consecutive dates—significance? Inukshuks—relevant? In the same column she stuck up the mystery Baffin-Arctic size-nine boot print with the rip in the lug. Just about everyone in the north owned a pair of Baffins. And size nine was common. But that ripped pattern in the tread was unique. Or a temporary anomaly caused by something stuck under the boot.

  To the first column she added: Jamie TwoDove—involved with Apodaca. Knows something about bones found with Apodaca’s body? Attacked Caleb Peters in connection with bones? Tana stuck up several photos of the old, porous bones.

  She added a few more names that had piqued her curiosity in connection with the attacks.

  Caleb Peters—what does he know about old bones? Where was he at times of attacks? Had connection to Apodaca through Jamie TwoDove. Any connection to other victims?

  Beneath his name she wrote: Marcus Van Bleek, Teevak Kino, Big Indian, Harry Blundt. Other mine crew?

  Apodaca thought she’d seen a man. He could have been any one of the above given the proximity of the camp to the attack site.

  She added the name Dean Kaminsky—Unrequited romantic interest in Selena Apodaca. Jealous? Possible stalker and threats?

  But Kaminsky was likely not around three and four years back. Still, she needed to keep an open mind. Apodaca’s stalking might have no relevance at all to the attack on her and Sanjit. Or to the possibly manufactured account of Dakota Smithers being stalked.

  And the attacks might just be wolves, or bear. It was entirely possible. And it was believable that most people had been able to accept this outcome … until now. Until Selena Apodaca and Raj Sanjit’s case, which was throwing some stark parallels into focus.

  She stood back, examining her board.

  Irrespective of how all four had actually died, the patterns of wildlife predation on the bodies of Regan Novak, Dakota Smithers, and Selena Apodaca were starkly, hauntingly, undeniably similar. The hollowed-out rib cages. Missing hearts. Ripped-out eyes. Parallel clawlike gouges. The concave depressions at the base of the skulls. Heads torn from bodies. Evisceration.

  Jamie’s words slithered back into her consciousness.

  … They scrape the soul—your heart—right out of your chest. Take your eyes so you can’t see in the afterlife …

  Tana stepped up to the board and beneath Raj Sanjit’s photo she wrote: Different predation pattern on male. Left with heart and parts of other organs. Head and eyes intact. Why? Females prime target? Male = collateral damage?

  Tana walked to the window, thinking of the two inukshuks, the vanilla—why? To lure scavengers after death, to cover something up? Frost feathered the panes, and snow stuck to the outside surface of the glass. She listened to the moaning wind. She could see it. How the isolation and darkness of this place, the sense of otherworldliness, could allow obsession—madness—to take hold. And she hadn’t even begun to face the winter yet. It was only November.

  Early November. When the clocks changed for winter. Her father used to say it was at this time that the veil between seasons—between the living and the spirit world—grew thin, at least according to his childhood Scandinavian tales.
It was when the dark things began to creep out of the woods.

  Toyon came to his feet and pressed his warm body against her leg. She smiled, bent down, and scratched his furry neck. She glanced at her watch. It was after 9:00 p.m. already, and she was famished.

  “Time to get some food, boys,” she said to her dogs as she exited the room. They followed, and she closed the door to the interview room behind her. She reached for her jacket, gloves, hat, and bundled up to face the storm on the way to the diner just down the street. She could use the company she might find there.

  CHAPTER 24

  Tana stomped snow off her boots, dusted off her jacket, and pushed open the door to the Twin Rivers General Store and Diner. A bell chinkled and warmth embraced her, along with the scent of fried food, coffee, freshly baked bread. The aura inside was convivial, the chatter loud, the tables almost all occupied. Most of the patrons looked up as she entered.

  Tana identified a huddle of old-timers seated near the counter, hands cradled around steaming mugs. She was surprised to see Van Bleek at one table, his back to her, but unmistakably him. He was talking to a round-faced, balding man with red-rimmed glasses in his late fifties, she guessed—someone she’d not seen in town before.

  A bunch of teens occupied two tables down the room to the right, Mindy among them. They conversed over glasses of pop and plates heaped with fries, and were partially cut off from the main diner area by a shelving partition stocked with chips, chocolate bars, peanuts, and other snacks. At the far back was the general store area, and a tiny section with pharmaceutical goods, as well as a small shelf of books, DVDs, and old-style videocassettes.

  Tana removed her snow-caked hat and mitts, thinking Mindy was the same age as Regan Novak and Dakota Smithers when they’d died. She placed her mitts on one of the few unoccupied tables—a small two-seater next to the door and under a window from where she could watch her dogs out on the deck.

  Mindy glanced up, stared. Tana nodded. Mindy flipped her the finger, then put her head down and laughed with the others. A bad taste filled Tana’s mouth, and an ache swelled in her chest. For Mindy. For her old self, which she recognized in the kid.

  … You were a girl just like Mindy. Men didn’t treat you very nicely, and now it’s payback time, right? Maybe you even did some of your own time at the deep, dark bottom of a bottle of liquor when you were far too young. And that is where this burr under your saddle comes from. That’s why you’re gunning for me …

  Heat burned into her face and she hated O’Halloran all over again. For reading her. For whatever he was doing with Mindy. She didn’t believe a word the bastard had said about the kid. She didn’t trust him as far as she could throw him.

  She shrugged off her jacket, hung it over the back of the chair, and made her way to the counter.

  Van Bleek looked up as she passed his table.

  “Officer,” he said, his eyes expressionless.

  “Markus,” she answered. “Harry gave his mine security the night off, then?”

  He didn’t smile. “Pretty much,” he said, rolling his Rs in his thick Afrikaans accent. “Some of the other guys are back from Yellowknife. Even us badasses get time off. This is Henry Spatt.” The round, baby-faced man nodded. “He’s a writer visiting Tchliko Lodge.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Tana said, offering her hand.

  The man half got up, and shook her hand. His skin was warm, fleshy, his grasp limp like a woman’s. She noticed a novel on the table at his side. It faced cover down.

  “First time out at the lodge?” she asked.

  “Been coming for the last five years, and will keep doing so as long as Charlie Nakehk’o can, or will, guide us.” He smiled. His incisors hung lower than the rest of his teeth and were small and pointed. “He’s the draw—one helluva tracker, that guy, best guide I’ve ever had the pleasure of hunting with. I met Markus here on our second trip four years back.”

  “Hadn’t realized you’d been in town for so long,” Tana said to Van Bleek.

  “Back and forth for the last four plus years,” he said. “Since Harry found the first kimberlite pipes. He brought me on board that same year, to check out the lay of the land, start planning.”

  “Well, enjoy your meal.” She hesitated, then said to Van Bleek, “Thanks for your help Sunday.”

  He gave a nod. But again, his eyes remained dark and unreadable.

  She made her way to the counter where Marcie worked with remarkable stamina for her seventy-eight years.

  “Good evening, Tana, how are you tonight—what can I get for you?” Marcie said in her halting, singsong voice. That she was a native North Slavey speaker was clear by her accent and cadence, the slow formalities of culture.

  Tana smiled—Marcie had that effect on one. With her wizened old face, smooth brown cheeks, deep-set tiny brown eyes, and the way she wore her colored head scarves tied under her neck, she seriously reminded Tana of her gran who’d passed right after Jim shot his brains out in her white-tiled bathroom.

  “I’m good, thanks, Marcie.” Tana studied the whiteboard menu behind Marcie. “I’ll have the chili with the bannock.”

  “Good choice. I just baked a fresh batch of the bannock,” she said.

  “And all’s well with you?” Tana said.

  She gave a slight bow of her head. “It’s been a good day.” She leaned up to the hatch that opened to the kitchen at the back, and asked the chef for one chili special. Tana figured it was going to be moose mince. In Tex-Mex disguise.

  “I’ll bring it over to your table,” Marcie said, ringing Tana’s purchase in and noting it on her tab, old style, in a ledger. Tana signed for it and made her way back to her table. She seated herself with her back to the wall so that she could observe the room, as well as her dogs outside. They lay in the snow on the porch, waiting for her. Fat flakes swirled in the wind around them. They didn’t mind. They loved the cold—were born to it with their thick coats. Her heart warmed whenever she looked at Toyon and Maximus—her true friends. Never any judgment as long as she was there with food and water for them, and plenty of exercise. Both had had a rough start in life, and she’d given them a second chance, and second chances resonated with Tana.

  It’s what she was striving for out here herself.

  Marcie brought the bowl of chili and a hunk of bannock over.

  “Terrible thing,” she said as she set the simple supper down in front of Tana along with a spoon. “Those biologists and the wolves.”

  “It is.” Tana reached for the bannock and tore off a chunk. Steam exploded with the fragrance of freshly baked bread. Hunger cramped her stomach. She delivered the bread to her mouth, closed her eyes, savoring the taste for a second. She grinned. “Reminds me of my gran,” she said.

  “She makes bannock?”

  “Used to. On the fire, outside. I lived with her a while.”

  While my mother was too drunk … and my dad did one of his disappearing tricks …

  “You did a good job, you know, with Charlie’s little nephew, and taking that alcohol away from Damien and those boys. It’s a good thing that you are here,” Marcie said in her soft, slow voice.

  Tana paused midchew, met Marcie’s eyes. “You have no idea how much that means to me—thank you.”

  “Is Jamie going to work off the damage at the Red Moose now?” she said.

  “I think so.” Tana hesitated, glancing at the other tables. All occupants were engrossed in conversation. She lowered her voice and said, “Marcie, do you know of anyone who might have gone missing, many years ago, at the north end of Ice Lake, or if there could be an old burial site out there?”

  Marcie’s body went still. Her eyes changed. Tana could literally feel the walls go up.

  “Why?” she said.

  “Just curious.”

  “The names of old burial places belong to the families of those buried,” she said. “They are not to be asked about.”

  Tana nodded, and brought a spoonful of chili to her mouth
. “What about missing people? Not just locals, but are there any old stories of missing outsiders in that area.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “This is good, Marcie,” Tana said, pointing her spoon at the chili bowl. “Tell chef.”

  “Moose,” Marcie said.

  “I guessed.” Tana smiled.

  “Well, I will go and tell chef. Let me know if I can get you anything else, Constable?”

  Tana hesitated. “There is one thing—do you know anyone who’d take me out to find Elliot Novak?”

  The whole diner seemed to suddenly go still. Faces turned to look at her. Marcie made a small sign of a cross—the visible legacy of the Catholic colonization out here decades ago. Like the small church down the street. This place was a mix of myth and religion and aboriginal tradition unique to the area.

  Crystals ticked against the windows. A gust of wind lifted a whirlwind of flakes, momentarily obliterating the porch light.

  “You want to be careful, Tana,” Marcie said, very quietly. “I don’t know why you are asking all these questions, but you should stop. Let the natural order of things—the way of nature—take its course. It has a way of doing what is right. It was this kind of thing that drove Elliot mad. Too many questions.”

  “I just want to meet him. I need a guide to help me find him.”

  “He’s in a dark place. Badlands. Not safe. You will not find a local guide who will go in there.”

  “Not even Charlie?”

  “Not Charlie.”

  The door swung open with a gust of cold. Crash O’Halloran entered, dwarfing the space, sucking the air out of it like a vacuum, right out of Tana’s chest. He froze at the sight of her.

  Shit.

  “Oh,” Marcie said. “Someone like Crash. He might take you. She will be safe with you, won’t she, Crash?”

  Safe was the last thing Tana felt when she thought about Cameron “Crash” O’Halloran.

  He palmed off his hat, bits of snow falling off him. “What are you talking about?” He didn’t look at Tana. He addressed Marcie.

  Marcie wavered. Her gaze darted to the group of old-timers who were now all openly listening, faces turned toward them. Among them Tana noted two ice road engineers she’d been seeing in town recently. A sense of tension tightened into the warm, food-scented air.