Strange Things Done (10 page)

“You know,” Jo said, “it sounds like most of the town was at Gertie’s the night of Marlo’s death.”

Sally whispered back, sharply, “
Will
you shut up? You’re like a walking megaphone.”

Jo lowered her voice. “But the murder …”

“If it was a murder …”

“… happened before closing time, right? Or, at least, the murderer likely met Marlo in the parking lot and left with her before closing time. So did you notice anyone leaving early?”

“Aside from you?”

“But obviously I didn’t …”

“Not obvious to the rest of us. We don’t know you that well.”

“Is that why Sergeant Cariboo paid me the visit? Christ.” Jo felt something in her chest tighten.

“There’s also Peter Wright.”

“The mayor?”

Sally nodded. “Yup.” Jo thought about his flushed cheeks at the roulette wheel. “And rumour has it that Jack Grikowsky left early.”

“Who’s he?”

“Manager of Claim 53, out at Sourdough Creek. It’s one of Dawson’s biggest gold mines.”

“Well, at least I’m not the only suspect.”

“True. Oh, and May Wong left before closing. I only noticed because she was wearing the most fabulous fur coat I’ve ever seen.” She added, “Wonder if she killed it herself?”

“May … wasn’t she at the town meeting?”

“Could have been. She pays pretty close attention to everything that goes on in Dawson. Owns her own business in town, a jewellery store called The Gold Digger.”

“She was staring at me during the meeting yesterday. Like she wanted to say something.”

Sally stopped walking and stooped down to examine fresh tracks, as though they were a secret language written in the snow. “Probably going to advise you to invest in a comb, dear.” Sally shot a look at Jo’s hair, which was probably sticking out at odd angles under her black toque. “And then there’s Byrnie.” Sally looked up at her. The way she was crouched there in the snow, her curious face framed in fur, suggested the appearance of something feral about to pounce.

“What about him?”

“You really don’t know?” Sally cackled a little as she stood up again, delighted with the notion of a good scandal, presumably. “Did Marlo see you get into his truck?”

“Yeah, she did. Why?”

Sally brushed snow from her legs. “What happened after that?”

“Well. Actually, I … don’t remember much of the ride.”

“No!” Sally said it in mock surprise.

“I’m not sure whether or not we went straight back to the apartment. I remember driving through a wooded area …”

“Guess you’ll cover that ground on your date.” Sally sneered, then began drawing in the snow with the toe of her boot. A heart. A childish gesture that seemed a little spiteful.

“It’s not a date.” Jo felt defensive. Was the entire town talking about her? Was it a date? The notion of being back in the public eye rankled. “Anyway, I won’t have time to go out tonight. I’ll be way too busy with my story.” Jo glanced at the sky. An egg yolk of a sun was beginning to bleed into a pan of dark cloud like a Northern fry-up. “And I need to get into the office first thing this morning, so if we’re about done here …”

“Why do you think about work so much? What happened to you?” Sally shifted the weight of the leather hunting bag on her shoulder, her green eyes bright.

“What do you mean?”

Sally gave her a look that Jo interpreted as, “
Honestly!
” but said, “Everyone knows…”

“What?” Jo felt her breath catch.

“Well. Maybe not
everyone.
A few people, anyway.

“Know what?”

“Know that you were lynched in the press over a big story. A murder case, right? The Surrey Strangler?” She folded her arms across her chest.

“Who told you that?”

“This is a small town. Things just have a way of getting out.”

“People know …?”

“Not the
details
,” Sally said, her forehead furrowing. “But really, what happened to you?” Jo felt as if a very tight cord that had been keeping her erect had suddenly been released, permitting her body to slouch forward. She tucked a strand of hair back behind her ear, wearied and irritated by all things that wouldn’t stay in their proper places.

“I guess I lost something,” Jo said. “My perspective.”

“But what happened to that woman wasn’t your fault …”

“No, it was, actually.”

Sally cocked her head, but said nothing.

Jo squeezed the ends of her fingers in a failed effort to bring back the circulation. “I’d been doing a crime blog for the
Sun
. I was following a case the press were calling ‘The Surrey Strangler.’ ”

“Catchy.”

“Uh-huh. My father was a police officer and had inside information—he told me that the first body had been found naked, with bruising at the throat. But he was worried that the violence was escalating.”

“Escalating how?”

“Well, the second victim had been strangled
and
had her ear scorched off with something. They didn’t know what. Maybe a welding torch.”

“God!”

“I know. When he told me, we were right in the middle of having crispy spring rolls at Hon’s. I may never eat spring rolls again.”

“Oh, that’s disgusting!” Sally spat the words out.

“Yup. So, not long after that, a woman escaped a third attack and called the
Sun
—and she got put through to me. She tells me that she’d parked her car near the Rowing Club and gone for a run in Stanley Park …”

“Wait, wasn’t he called the
Surrey
Strangler? Stanley Park is in Vancouver.”

“True, but only the first victim was attacked in Surrey. The name just stuck. Anyway, when the woman got back to her car, the sun was setting. She notices a flash of silver sticking out of the driver’s window. She’d left it rolled down a little to keep the car cool. It looks like a coat hanger. When she steps closer to look, this guy comes out of the bushes in front of the car. He’s a young guy, dressed like a police cyclist. You know, black helmet, black vest, black cargo shorts?”

“Let me guess …”

Jo nodded. “Yeah. He calls out ‘Police!’ and holds up what looks like a VPD badge. Then he tells her that someone tried to break into her car, but escaped in the woods. He wants her to get into the car and check to see if anything’s missing while he waits.”

“I hope she didn’t do it?”

“Nope. She said …” Jo strained to remember. It was like going back down a very dark tunnel. “… she said there was something she didn’t care for in his eyes. She said he looked too
eager
.”

Sally shuddered. “Like that isn’t disturbing.”

“Yeah, then she noticed that, although it said ‘Police’ on the tactical vest, there was no VPD badge on the sleeve of the shirt.”

“Good for her.”

“Yeah, lucky. It probably saved her life. She ran for it.”

“What happened to the guy?”

“He chased her, but gave up once she made it to the seawall. Too many joggers and bikers. She called the police, and they told her that no officer had reported vehicle damage in Stanley Park.”

“
Eeeee!
” Sally shook herself. “How does that woman sleep at night?”

“I know. Anyway, this is where my problem starts. Two officers from the VPD pay me a visit. Friends of my father’s. They don’t want me to report the story.”

“Why not?”

“Because it would let the guy know that the police are on to him. If I don’t report it, they can stake out the parks. They know who to watch for, how he dresses. They’ve got a shot at catching him. But if I report it, the guy might just change his tactics. Or do a runner.”

“So what did you do?”

“I said I’d let my editor, Kevin Kessler, decide. But they tell me that if I tell him, it’s already decided. Because Kessler would print it, and they’d lose the guy. The Strangler.”

“So you didn’t print it.”

“No. And he got another girl. Strangled her in a car and then set the whole vehicle on fire.”

“Jesus.”

“Yes. The woman who’d gotten away promised she wouldn’t talk to anyone. Promised the police. But she changed her mind after that. Can’t say I blame her.”

“No.” Sally cleared her throat and shook her head. It was snowing softly, and she lifted her face to look at the sky. “That’s a terrible story.”

“I know,” Jo said. She felt a tight knot in her throat as she swallowed. “Well anyway, I made the wrong call. My first duty should have been to warn the public.” She thought of the smoking wreck. The charred remains.

“But in warning the public, you would have warned the killer, too.”

“Yeah.”

“Damned if you do …”

“Just plain damned. Like I said, my dad was a cop. When they wanted me to kill the story, they sent over one of the guys my dad used to go drinking with after his shift.”

“Sure they did.”

“The truth is, a big part of the reason I made it as a crime reporter was because my dad’s friends were willing to trust me with an inside scoop. They trusted that I wouldn’t use the information carelessly. I would have never gotten another interview with any of them if I’d published that story.” A frozen curl of breath escaped her. “But I shoulda done it anyway.”

“Well. I’m sorry.”

Jo looked away. “So am I.”

“What happened to the guy? To the Surrey Strangler?”

“Oh. When the witness came forward, after the last victim, I guess he was tipped off, because the killings stopped. Frank thought he might have left the province, or even the country.”

“Frank?”

“Oh, that’s my dad. He says they’re still looking for the guy, but … maybe we’ll never know.”

Sally traced a line in the snow with one fur-trimmed boot. “Dawson is a small town. But a good place to find perspective.”

“Yes. I had hoped.”

Sally nodded and squinted into the distance. The snow was heavier now, silently burying the trail behind them, as though burying the past. Sally made a sudden movement, grabbing Jo’s arm, and then cocked her head toward the forest. “
Shhh!
Did you hear that?”

Jo jumped. The back of her neck tingled, that age-old sensation of being watched. She lifted the binoculars and adjusted the focus ring. He was there. There, in the darkness of the undergrowth and thick trees. A majestic bull moose with antlers that must have been as long as her arm. Probably longer. He was perfect.

The beast stared at Jo, frozen for a moment that hung there like a question. Her mouth dropped open, each grey, vaporous exhalation suspended in midair.

“See anything?” Sally was still facing away, toward the trail.

“Not a goddamned thing.”

8

Jo placed a few saline drops in each eye to lubricate her contact lenses, which felt gritty in the dry air. Her vision was blurry for a moment as she resumed peering at the
Daily
’s framed collection of archival photographs and stories that decorated the walls of her new office. The articles had titles like “Community Garden Ladies Can Carrots,” “Parade to Celebrate Miners,” and “City of Dreams Founded on Gold Dust.”

“Journalist’s Dreams Turn to Gold Dust in Ghost Town,”
she thought, then chided herself for being selfish. She should feel more fortunate for the second chance, she knew.
People know,
Sally had said. So. There could be no second chance.

Many of the old photographs pictured the haunted faces of long-dead miners, who either struck it rich or died trying. By the time the news reached the newspapers in the South that the Gold Rush had ended, it was too late for most of those faces. The majority of the luckless prospectors who had bought into the story—victims of newspaper headlines that promised “rivers filled with gold”—didn’t have the money to leave. Many of them died in Dawson their first winter. The ones who had managed to make any money at all fled then, before freeze-up, leaving everything behind to do so. And so The Rush ended as suddenly as it began. Jo blinked. A pale reflection of herself, trapped in the framed glass, stared back through the hollow eyes of bankrupt miners. She turned away.

Jo knew that what she dreaded was not freeze-up itself, but coming to terms with the choices she’d made to come to Dawson. It was all well and good back in Vancouver to imagine herself curled up next to a cosy fire with a crossword puzzle or a book of poetry, the whiteness of the snow a carte blanche. In the daydream, she’d be listening to her new favourite song, the scratchy guitar string heights making her soul ache and soar. Jo pictured herself with a husky strewn casually across her feet for warmth. Maybe she’d take up the guitar again to fill the long winter nights. She thought of other possibilities, but pushed them away. For a moment, Jo wished that she’d pursued her first love, music, and never started writing about crime. Too late. Too late for so many things.

The harsh reality of life in a small northern town was sure to be less romantic. And Jo had always been an urbanite. She’d aimed to work for one of the nationals in Toronto someday, to immerse herself in the fast-paced, crime-riddled concrete world. The only kind of world she truly understood. Those dreams, and the dreams of others, ended when the body of a young woman was found in a burning vehicle. Now she dreamed of escape, atonement, and, most of all, anonymity.

The light on the
Daily
’s archaic answering machine was flashing. She wondered why everyone in Dawson seemed to have such an aversion to modern technology. She sighed as she pressed the button, pushing aside the yellowing stack of archival newspapers on her desk as she listened to Doug’s whispery message asking her to review the old editions for content and style. Then there was a message from Frank, asking Jo to call him. Finally there was a series of staticky clicks and a long beep that somehow made her feel like a telegraph operator listening to naval distress signals.

A woman, enunciating very precisely, said that she urgently needed to speak to Jo Silver. Only Jo Silver. She instructed Jo to call her at home or come by her shop, The Gold Digger, when it opened at eleven. Her voice was high—almost musical—and confident.
May Wong.
May asked Jo to erase the message from the machine as soon as she’d heard it, and to mention the call to no one. Jo listened again and checked the time of the message before deleting it: May had rung just after midnight. Probably about the time that Jo had been holed up in the kitchen scarfing down “special” brownies. She had that slow, creeping feeling that she was on to something as she dialled, but was met with a hollow ring tone. Several more attempts yielded the same outcome. She thought it best not to leave a message.