Strange Things Done (14 page)

In the waning afternoon light, head down and hands in pockets, Doug arrived at the
Daily
, made late and irritable by parent meetings. It took only a few fleeting minutes for him to kill Jo’s story. He looked up from the article, titled, “Police Probe Suspicious Death of MLA.”

“Man, we can’t say this …”

“Can’t say what?”

“We can’t, you know, talk about the ‘controversy’ sparked by her death.” Doug pantomimed quotation marks in midair.

“Why not?”

“We have to remain unbiased. We simply report what the coroner said. ‘Death caused by the fall or by drowning after falling into the river.’ We won’t know more until the pathology report, probably not until tomorrow.”

“But the question isn’t whether she died during the fall or after hitting the water. The question is whether she ‘fell,’ ” Jo pantomimed quotation marks back at Doug, “or whether she was pushed from a very high cliff. I’m betting on the latter.”

“Look, we report only what we know absolutely to be true. Let people draw their own conclusions, eh? What we want is a simple retrospective that’s respectful to her memory. That’s what we agreed to. Not a lot of wild speculation.”

“Why can’t we just pose the question? What was Marlo McAdam doing up on the Bluffs in the middle of night? And was she alone? Because she certainly didn’t drive herself there.” Doug stared at Jo, the kind of calculated study that an opponent gives to a threat. His eyes were shifting and watery behind his glasses. Jo added, “What are you so afraid of?”

There was an uncomfortable silence. Jo had the feeling of looking at something underwater, flitting just below the surface, and not being able to make out exactly what it was. The shape of the thing distorted in the currents of their conversation.

“Were you out at the mine today?” Doug asked.

“I was. I was following a story lead.”

“I specifically, like, directed you not to do anything without clearing it with me first.”

“I didn’t include that particular angle in this piece, so it shouldn’t be an issue for you.”

“You are not to bother Mr. Grikowsky again. Are we clear?”

“Yes.”

Doug looked relieved for a moment, until she added, “We don’t ask questions. We don’t investigate the sudden death or disappearance of our citizens. And we don’t bother Mr
.
Grikowsky.”

The moment hung awkwardly. Doug appeared to stare at nothing for a moment, his pale eyes unfocused as though looking inwardly. Then his attention gravitated to something, or someone, behind her.

“Are you dating Christopher Byrne?” he asked. His voice sounded distant.

Jo turned to follow his look. Byrne’s truck had just pulled up on Front Street in front of the
Daily
. He was two hours early.

14

The glassy-eyed stare of the caribou head over the bar made Jo feel unsettled, but not as much as the company she was keeping. She avoided Byrne’s eyes as much as possible on her date that wasn’t—she reminded herself—a real date. There was something unnerving about the way he looked at her, as though they shared a secret. Jo studied the room instead, meticulously assessing the peeling, Victorian-style wallpaper and the gilded mirrors. The Sourtoe Saloon was located in the Downtown Hotel, popular with the tourists in high season, according to Byrne, but mainly a hangout for the locals in off season. Jo found herself squinting and rubbing her eyes; the room was woven with thick ropes of tobacco smoke, like a giant web. A collection of men in heavy jackets and Klondike boots sat under a string of sad Christmas lights at the bar, several staring openly at Jo. Self-conscious, she missed her shot.

“You have to account for the slope in the floorboards. Sorta like golf,” Byrne said.

“Good to know,” Jo muttered.

“The buildings here are built on permafrost. When the buildings heat up, the frost melts and the whole structure shifts.” He bent over to line up a shot and artfully dropped a ball in the corner pocket. She tried not to notice his very fine backside.

“Nice,” Jo said, and pretended she was referring to his shot.

Byrne smiled at her. It was a very charming smile. “You look great, by the way,” he said.

“Thanks. A lot of thought went into this outfit.” She was still wearing the same clothes she had worn to work: jeans, a black sweater, rubber boots, and a toque.
She felt she was on uneven terrain on more than one level. Byrne had knowledge about the night that Marlo McAdam died that Jo did not possess. He had made Jo an alibi for something she had no recollection of, and the knowledge burned. She was angry with him for using her, for not being forthcoming about what had happened, and she was a little unsettled by him. Still, she felt she couldn’t let him know it, or she’d risk losing access to any information that he did have.
During the brief drive from the
Daily,
Jo had attempted to question Byrne about the events of that night. He’d quickly hushed her to turn up the road report on the radio, leaning in close to the dashboard to listen, as though they were announcing the winning lottery numbers. Before she knew it, they were at the Sourtoe Saloon.

“So, I had an interesting talk with Sergeant Cariboo today …”

“So I heard. I suggest we talk about that later. Somewhere more private.” The faint suggestion of a smile on his lips made “private” sound lewd, but his eyes scanned the bar, looking for signs that anyone might have been listening.

“Oh.”
Where did he hear?
“Well, I have nothing to hide.”

“Are you sure?” He looked amused as he watched her reaction.

Jo doubted herself for a moment. A couple of heads turned from their Yukon Golds to listen in profile, feigning indifference.

“Then what do you recommend we talk about?”

He held his cue still, studying her in silence for a moment. “You could ask me my sign. This is a date, after all,” he said.

“Is it?” Jo asked, hoping to refute the assertion.

He allowed the question to hang there, ringed in smoke, enabling it to drift through the room. Now thick with meaning. He grinned, fanning the laugh lines around his eyes. “Isn’t it?”

Flustered, she began again. “You promised me a reenactment, remember? And today Cariboo said that we were on the Bluffs that night, which you didn’t tell me. And he said that you’d been sleeping with Marlo.” More heads at the bar turned.

“Jesus.” He said it like a fact, putting down his cue and crossing his arms. He glanced around the room, then his gaze came back to rest on her. He looked concerned, but a smile still played at his lips. “You do not want to do this now. Trust me.”

“I make a point of never trusting a person who says, ‘trust me.’” She leaned over and smacked her ball, which rolled down the tilted table and just missed knocking the green into a corner pocket. She’d grown up hearing all sorts of stories over dinner about the horrid things that happened to trusting women, so her lack of judgement on Sunday evening was something that surprised even her. She’d been drinking too much lately. Since Vancouver. Such a basic form of escapism, but usually she had more control. It couldn’t happen again. Jo straightened up. “But I guess we can talk about certain details later, if you insist.”

“Good,” he said, examining the table, a strained expression on his face.

It pained her to wait. She had to have something now. “But I was wondering …” She hoped her tone would sound casual. “The night Marlo died, you were working the poker tables, right?”

Byrne held her look. His face gave nothing away. Either he had no response, or Jo didn’t have the forbearance to wait for one. She charged ahead. “Did you talk to her at all?”
They were sleeping together.
The thought was unbidden, unwelcome, but surfaced anyway. “Before the parking lot, I mean?”

“We weren’t together anymore.” Another ball rolled into a side pocket.

“You didn’t answer the question.”

“I answered one of them. The one you implied, which I thought was more important.” He smiled.

Jo missed her next shot. “So, you’ve never had to work in any of the mines in Dawson?”

He sighed. “You are determined. No, I’ve been fortunate enough not to have to.”

“Fortunate? Why fortunate?”

Byrne lined up another shot and sank it effortlessly.
Bastard.

“I’ve done well enough with my art, and when I’ve needed to, with working the tables here. Others haven’t been so lucky.”

“Which others?” Jo asked.

“Friend of mine, Mike Cariboo.”

“Cariboo? As in Sergeant Cariboo?”

“Yeah, Johnny’s cousin. They were quite close until Johnny’s father died. I think that changed Johnny. He had responsibilities. You know, not so much time for fishing with his little cousin anymore. And then there was what happened to Johnny’s fiancée.”

“What?”

“Yeah, a girl called Alice Wolfe. Couple of years later.”

“What happened to her?”

“Nobody knows. She was hitchhiking home from a party one night and was never seen again. Mike says Johnny never got over it.”

“They never found out what happened?”

“No. That happens sometimes in the North. Especially to First Nations girls, but nobody talks about that.” He looked serious then. “Mike says that’s when he and Johnny stopped hanging out. Then Mike went to work in the mine.”

“Poor Johnny.”

“Yes, that’s the general consensus. But you didn’t come here to talk about Johnny, did you?” Jo felt their connection again. There was an emotional intelligence about Byrne that was undeniable. “At least, I hope you didn’t.”

“You said Mike was unlucky to work in the mine.”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Byrne shrugged. “He said a lot of the guys got sick working there.”

Jo set her pool cue down with a slight rattle and stared at him. “Sick with what?”

“Dunno. Mike doesn’t work there now. He works for Han Construction. A lot of his family does. In framing. He helped Johnny build his cabin. And mine.”

“I’d like to meet him.” Seeing the look of surprise on Byrne’s face, she added, “I’m serious.”

“I know. It’s unfortunate. But I’m willing to forgive you on a first date.” He grinned, then ran his cue through his fingers, back and forth, and sunk his shot. She wondered if he was trying to be provocative, or whether she just had a dirty mind.

The room was suffocating; the back of her throat burned with smoke. She rubbed her irritated eyes, as though she would not only see better, but she might also gain some greater insight. It felt as though the smoke were clouding the real issue. “Listen, it’s not that I don’t like … well, it’s just that, Sergeant Cariboo said some things today that I need to …”

“C’mon,” Byrne said. “Let’s get out of here.”

Byrne’s husky was in the back of his weathered pickup, sniffing the air as Jo approached the truck. The one ice-blue eye, one brown, made the big dog look like two beasts in one.

As though sensing her apprehension, Byrne said, “Don’t worry about Nugget. He’s part wolf and part husky, but he’s all pussycat.” Nugget’s tongue lolled out in a hungry grin. He looked part hyena. Byrne opened the door for her, then continued round the truck and got in.

Jo caught herself wondering whether Nugget slept on Byrne’s bed, and whether Byrne’s blankets would be hairy. She put one foot on the running board, then hesitated.

Byrne noticed. He leaned over from the driver’s seat. “Look, if I wanted to get you alone in a truck and kill you, I would have already done it, right? You’ve already survived my company once, though you may choose to forget the experience.” He grinned. Jo exhaled icy breath and climbed in.

The seats of his truck were cracked and had absorbed the sub-zero temperatures. As he turned the key in the ignition, a strain of moody guitar filled the cold air. Jo felt strangely enchanted by the music.

Byrne said, “The local station here is quite good. Have you found it yet? CFYT.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Doug listens to it at the
Daily
.” She couldn’t believe he was still trying to make small talk, now that they were out of earshot. She cleared her throat. “So what exactly did you say to Sergeant Cariboo? He told me you said that we were at Crocus Bluffs Sunday night. Is that true?”

Byrne gave her an enigmatic look. The windows were steaming up as they huddled in the cab, waiting for the engine to warm up. The vehicle was filled with his scent. Something warm and spicy.
His soap?

“Yes,” he said, as though he’d just read her mind.

“What did you say?”

“What did you say?” His blue-green eyes were searching hers.

“I told him the truth,” she said.

“Ah.” Byrne threw the truck into drive. Snowflakes caught in his headlights, dancing brilliantly before disappearing into darkness. The gritty voice on the radio sang,

Hangnails and coattails,

The snow sounds like crushed rails

And I have failed at leaving on time

In a frozen town. In a frozen town.