Strange Things Done (23 page)

Jo glanced toward her laptop, still open a little on the desk.

Doug followed her look. “Still working on something?”

“Nope. All done,” she said. “You got the articles?”

“Yes,” he said. “Hours ago
.
I really appreciated that you kept the tone … neutral.” He sounded surprised. And suspicious. “You need a lift?”

The SUV fishtailed toward a snow bank before correcting its path. When Jo finally exhaled, her breath was a wistful coil.

“Sorry,” Doug said, rolling down his window a little. He kept his gloves on as he drove, his posture erect, fingers tightly gripping the wheel. The heater was rattling away but the windows were still frosted, making the world appear patterned with feathery fissures. When Doug glanced at Jo, his expression was difficult to read, cold glasses clouding his eyes.

Was it his driving that was causing Jo to feel uneasy? Or something else? Maybe it was the car Doug was driving—a Volkswagen Touareg. She’d expected a VW, but an old-school campervan, not a modern SUV. It looked fresh off the lot, aside from the chipped windshield. Of course, a VW campervan would never last a Yukon winter.

She couldn’t put her finger on what was making her so jumpy, but she had the distinct feeling that something was wrong.
Instinct
, Frank would have said.
Always trust your instinct.
Perhaps she shouldn’t have taken Doug up on the offer to drive her home, but the whole misunderstanding at the office had made Jo think that she was just being paranoid. They turned off Front, but now there were no streetlights. Most of the curtains in the windows were drawn against the night, against the coming storm.

“So.” Doug’s voice, before soft and papery, now sounded snake-like to Jo. “Thank you for the articles.”

“No problem. It’s my job.” Her eyes remained on the road. It was snowing again, and the snow created an eddying effect in the headlights: each individual snowflake a minute whirling dervish assailing the vehicle.

“Yeah, well, you did a good job of keeping it upbeat. The retrospective on Marlo, I mean.” He was watching her carefully. “I know it wasn’t easy for you. I know you would have done it differently.”

“Honestly?” she said.

“Of course …” He smiled faintly.

“I think we’ve botched it. I think the
Daily
has just helped the police cover up a murder. Okay, probably ‘cover up’ is too strong. But certainly helped a murderer remain at large in the community … And I think he’s already killed again.”

“What?”

“At a time when the community is most isolated. We’ll be trapped with him all winter.”

“You know we have different opinions about the evidence, which I believe is wanting.” Doug said, his whisper-voice rising for the first time. The car slipped a little again, lurching to the left, then recovered its course.

“Yes. And I respect the title of editor.” She added, as an afterthought, “I try to.”

“I appreciate that.” He didn’t sound sincere.

“Which is why I think we should be above board with one another. You should hear what I have to say first before the rest of town hears it. To be fair.”

“What? We’ve already discussed it. You’ve sent me the story and I’m printing it tomorrow. As is.”

“After the last time, there’s just no way I can sit and watch this kind of thing happen again. I hope you’ll understand my decision.”

“Which is?” Doug said.

“I’ll be publishing a series of articles independently tomorrow. Call it a blog if you will.
The Dawson Insider
.”

“You may be in breach of contract if you do.”

“Perhaps. But I don’t believe so. And even if I am …”

“Wait a minute—series? You said ‘a series of articles.’ ”

“Yes.”

“Something about the mine? About Claim 53?” Doug licked his lips.

“By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask you. Why is it that when I went out to interview Jack Grikowsky, he asked me whether you knew I was there?”

Doug’s mouth fell open, then closed tightly. “I have no idea.” He leaned forward, as though searching for a path through the snow. For a way out.

“Interesting.” She punctuated this last comment with a silence long enough to be uncomfortable. They listened to the sound of the wipers labouring against the snow. “Anyway, I’ll let you read the articles tomorrow. With everyone else, of course. But as it is an independent publication, I hope you’ll appreciate that I’m not obliged to discuss the content in advance.”

“You can’t do this.” Doug jerked the steering wheel to avoid a gaping pothole and overcompensated into another slide.

Jo clutched at the door, now seriously concerned about Doug’s erratic driving. The fractures in the windshield—the result of Dawson’s stubborn refusal to pave the roads—now seemed to loom over her. “I already have,” she said, but she hoped her tone was gentle. She found herself feeling sorry for Doug Browning. Whatever was going on with him, it was clear to Jo that Doug was in over his head, and suffering from the stress of it. She wondered if that could be why he had resigned his position as editor of the
Daily
and was planning to retire and leave Dawson.

“I won’t let you.” He slowed the vehicle, turning into a small shared parking area behind Sally’s house, wheeling around and stopping abruptly next to a fresh bank of snow.

“You won’t
let
me?” Jo set her jaw firmly.

He took a deep breath, one gloved hand raised to his mouth. The expression on his face relaxed, but the soothing tone of his voice was unconvincing. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it to sound like that. Of course I respect your decision. I know you went through a lot in Vancouver.” He leaned over and put a hand on her shoulder, the other glove disappearing into his coat pocket.

Jo flung the door open, bumping it hard against a stubborn drift before she could finally squeeze out. She didn’t like the look on his face, or the purposefulness of the hand in the pocket. Her breath came in quick jabs of cold air, but her movements felt clumsy as she slammed the door and scraped along the side of the SUV toward the light of a second-floor window at the back of the house. If she needed to make a run for it, she’d have to sprint all the way around to the front because she didn’t have a key for the gate yet.

The headlights on the SUV winked out, though the motor was still running, throwing the back entrance to the house in shadow. Jo heard the car door open, and turned to see her editor moving stealthily through the snow toward her. Doug hesitated when he saw Jo watching him, but his face still bore a malicious expression. Maybe it was just the way his glasses fogged up in the cold, obscuring his eyes. He looked strangely faceless. Or at least eyeless. Instinctively, Jo bent at the knees a little, in preparation. “What are you doing?”

“The walk might be icy. Just wanna make sure you get home all right.”

If he’d wanted to help Jo navigate the path to the back door, surely he would have left the lights on. Jo wanted to glance up at the bedroom windows to see if she could see Sally, to know if anyone would hear her if she screamed, but she’d had it drilled into her in self-defence classes never to turn your back on anyone you didn’t trust. As a result, Jo rarely turned her back on anyone.

“I’d see better with the headlights on,” she said.

“Oh,” Doug said flatly. “My battery is weak. Need a new one.” Yet aside from the damaged windshield, his car looked new. Doug stood his ground in the snow, but his mouth fell open and he nodded his head a little, like some sightless, carnivorous worm listening for its prey.

“It’s all right, I’ve got my keys. I’ll be fine.”

“Oh,” he said again, but not as in, “Oh, I see.” More like an, “Oh!” Like he had just remembered something. He rushed back to the car and flipped on the headlights.

Now Jo was blinded. She held up one hand to shield her eyes, attempting to see if Doug had exited the car again. The vehicle began to reverse. Jo knew he was going to run her down. The car surged fiercely, and when he hit the accelerator, Jo was already moving. The truck burst forward, and then, to her surprise, spun away with a spray of snow, shooting back down the alley and disappearing into the night.

Jo listened, heart juddering, to the sound of tires on snow retreating in the distance.

23

Jo slept fitfully, plagued by fiery nightmares, but when her alarm sounded she had almost forgotten the night’s dark tapestry and was dreaming of a kiss. The Kiss. The warmth of that remembered contact saw her through to the aromatic promise of the day’s first cup of coffee.

Thursday. The world outside steamy windows was black, and the thermometer read minus twenty-five. Jo cupped a hot porcelain mug in her hands and closed her eyes. Her lips met his again.

“Morning!” Sally’s voice was too loud and cheerful for the hour, startling Jo. Sally surveyed Jo’s appearance. “Whoa. Rough night?”

“Fine. Just not a whole lot of sleep.”

“Oho! Up late with your new boyfriend?”

“Boyfriend?”

“Don’t play dumb with me. Half the town saw you and Chris playing pool together at the Sourtoe Saloon. Wonder what Johnny Cariboo thinks about that?”

“Why should he care? It’s none of his business.”

Sally shrugged. “Are you sure about that?” A knowing smile. Jo couldn’t be sure whether Sally thought Cariboo’s interest would be professional, or private. “And rumour has it you left Gertie’s with Byrnie last night.” Sally winked. “He show you his …”

Jo aimed a warning look at Sally …

“Cabin?” Sally said. “I hear it’s quite large.”

Jo shrugged and took a cautious sip of coffee. It was bitter. “Perhaps I should dedicate the front page of the
Daily
to our conversation, so I can answer the whole goddamned town’s questions in one go?”

Sally shuffled across the kitchen in her leopard-patterned bathrobe, collar turned up against the cold, one hand clutching the throat closed. She wore pink pyjamas with ruffled edges and fluffy slippers. “Might increase readership. But the headline might have to read: Big City Crime Reporter Does Time with Convicted Smuggler.”

Jo felt her insides tighten. “What?”

“Oh … Byrnie didn’t mention that? How odd.” Sally smiled and flounced away, pleased with herself.

Sometime during the night, the Yukon River had finally frozen solid. The silence of the river was disarming after days of icy furor.
So this is freeze-up.
It felt like the calm before the storm.

Jo stood listening, waiting for something intangible while the steam of her breath moistened her woollen scarf. The sky was still grey, reflected in charcoal shades in the ice beneath blowing snow, like a child’s messy chalkboard. The ferry had vanished, as though the river had claimed another victim. Jo wondered how thick the ice would have to be before it could be crossed. She pictured herself skating away on it, doing slow, graceful loops until she disappeared into the horizon line.

Jo did not go directly to the
Daily
—a fact that she was questioned about later by the RCMP. Instead, she continued northeast on Front, along the river. She stopped in front of the fire hall, which she now knew was also city hall, and there she met Glen Idlett, the town crier.
The Village Idlett,
she’d heard him called. He nodded his head to her.

“Morning.”

“Good morning.”

“So, are you and Christopher Byrne an item?”

Jo ignored the comment. “I brought your fee.”

“In cash?”

“Yes. And here are the headlines for today.” She handed him a typed list, as well as some bright strips of paper that contained the URL for the newly launched
Dawson Insider
.

He gaped a little. “Is this all true?”

“Read it and see.” Jo said.

He looked at the headlines again. “Geez …” He shrugged. “Well, looks like you’re asking for some crazy trouble to me, but it’s your money, eh?” He cleared his throat and began to ring his bell, splitting the silence of the sleepy town with a violent crack of steel on steel. “Hear ye, hear ye … Get the truth about Marlo McAdam’s death at the DawsonInsider.com. Read all about the Yukon’s silent killer: the placer mining industry … Find out about the strange disappearance of May Wong …”