Strange Things Done (33 page)

“You’re
cheechako
. A newcomer. People will talk no matter what you do.”

Jo shot him a look. “Or don’t do.” He smiled again.

The warmth of the cabin was undeniably appealing, as was the company. She had a brief, sobering bout of mistrust … thought of what Frank might say about her holing up in the woods with someone she barely knew. But then, Jo reminded herself, the police already had their man, and they had enough evidence to incarcerate. And she’d just discovered more evidence of Grikowsky’s guilt. She would share the information with Cariboo first thing in the morning.

In the meantime, it was probably something like minus thirty and dropping, and Byrne’s cabin was as good a place as any to weather the storm. Better. “So, what do you when you’re not playing games?” She took a sip of the wine he’d poured for her. He’d poured something suspiciously juice-like for himself.

“I don’t play games.” He gave her a hard look. One that made her momentarily regret the question.

“No?”

Byrne looked away, the expression on his face cryptic. “To answer your first question; nothing.”

“Define nothing.”

“Look after Nugget … keep the fire going … read.”

“Uh huh. Keep the fire going …”

“And I carve.

Jo stared at him. Christopher Byrne remained a mystery to her, and that made him intriguing. The wind picked up again with a shriek and a moan, sending a draft through the cabin that caused the flame in the hearth to leap. Jo wrapped her arms around herself.

“You’re cold. Just a second.”

He snatched up a fur throw from the bed and then wrapped it around her shoulders.

“Thanks.”

Byrne began rubbing her arms, kneading them like willing clay, radiating warmth and melting the tension from her body. When he stopped, their eyes met. It was the kind of kiss where teeth knock and lips crush, imperfect in every way but for the conviction of the moment.

Byrne hefted Jo up and carried her to the bed, stumbling a little. As he dropped her on the mattress, she bounced inelegantly and then sank into soft folds of blankets, cool to the touch, giving her gooseflesh. This time when he kissed her, he leaned into her, pressing down on her. They fumbled awkwardly with an obstacle course of winter clothing. A clunky North Face boot fell to the floor, along with one woollen sock. Jo grabbed at Byrne’s sweater and yanked it over his head, catching in his hair. Byrne unzipped her jeans, tugging hard at the denim until he’d exposed the white, waffled texture of long johns underneath. He laughed, shaking his head.

“Shut up.” She kissed him, unbuttoning his flannel shirt, the fabric brushing softly in promise against her fingertips. She clawed the shirt back, revealing a sinewy chest with a long, angry scar running down the length of it. Jo hesitated for a moment, resting her hand on the rise and fall of his chest while she decided whether or not to speak, to ask about the strange road map imprinted onto his skin. The wind waited too, seeming to hold its breath, and the heavy silence permeated the cabin and the woods beyond like the snow bearing down, muffling the world with its gentle insistence. Then, she traced the scar from the top of the line where it began, adding weight as the scar ran south, to the borderline of his belt.

36

It was well after midnight. Jo lay with Byrne in blanketed silence and leaned her head into his chest, inhaling his scent—a pleasing combination of musk and wood smoke. Her fingers traced a circular pattern on his smooth skin. The storm outside made idle threats, but the dim popping of the fire had a calming and hypnotic effect. Her eyelids fluttered, but she fought against the drowsy feeling that was spreading through her body. It wasn’t easy. Byrne’s four-poster bed was weighted with deep, soft layers of blankets and furs. Jo had the sensation of sinking, drowning, with another swell of exhaustion.

A hanging candelabra made of bone or antler lit the room softly, the branch-like arms casting a forest of flickering shadows. The elegant contours of the piece mirrored the graceful lines of the bed, which appeared at first glance to have been hand-carved. But the bed seemed more organic than that, as though each tree limb had supernaturally grown and twisted together to take on a more functional form. She raised herself on one elbow to look more closely.

“What?” His voice was a soft growl. “What is it?” Byrne turned his face toward hers.

“Nothing. This is a beautiful bed.”

“Thanks.”

“You made it, didn’t you?”

Byrne nodded, then looked at the ceiling, studying the pattern of branches that were not branches. Jo wondered what it would be like if their lives were tangled together like the head of his bed. Roots knotting and curling into one another until they were inseparable. But now she was being ridiculous.

“Can I ask you a personal question?” He didn’t turn his face toward her this time.

“Um, okay …”

“What are you doing here?”

“I like you.” Jo felt a little unsettled by the question, especially since she had just resolved not to take what had happened between them too seriously.

“No, I mean here in Dawson.”

“I got a job here.”

“Now who’s playing games?”

Jo sighed. “You answer a question first.”

“Okay.” Byrne rolled toward her, his expression open and attentive. His blue-green eyes were smiling, and now she reached out and touched the laugh lines, gently.

“Where did you get that scar?” Jo surprised herself a little with the question, but Byrne didn’t even flinch. He held her look.

“My father.”

“Oh …” Something clicked for her. “That’s why you don’t drink.”

“Oh, no. I drank plenty growing up, until I was caught smuggling liquor into a dry town up north.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a First Nations town that has agreed to alcohol prohibition.”

“Ah …” She ran her hand lightly across his chest, across the scar. She felt foolish. Christopher Byrne was a young man who’d made a mistake. Not a uranium smuggler. “What happened?”

“A First Nations court assigned community service in the town I’d supplied, so I could see the devastation I’d caused first-hand.”

“Was it …”

“Horrible. I gave up drinking after that. That, and my father. I didn’t want to be like him.” He smiled at her, and stopped the hand that was tracing the scar.

Jo watched his face. It occurred to her that she could get used to watching this face.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. My father taught me other things. Aside from being a bootlegger and an alcoholic, he was also a backcountry guide. I learned how to survive out here.”

“And you still watch the northern lights.”

“Yes.” He leaned forward and kissed her, gently. “I still watch the stars.” He was looking at her.

Nugget interrupted their pillow talk with a long, low growl. His attention was focused on something outside the window. The fur down the centre of his back bristled into a thick warning stripe.

“Nugget! Down!” Byrne said. Nugget didn’t move. “Down!” The big dog laid back down. “Animals in the woods. Sometimes they spook him a little. He’s part-wolf, so he’s not the most sociable creature by nature.” Indeed, the collarless beast was unusually dark, with but a thin streak of white about the lips, as though it had just eaten something sugary. The dog had a particularly wild look about it that made Jo’s injured thigh smart. Without thinking about it, she covered her thigh with her hand.

Nugget dropped chin to paws, but his ears continued to twitch and turn like well-tuned satellite dishes. The wolf-dog lifted its great head again, staring into space as it listened to something presumably beyond human range. Jo felt unnerved by its stare, by the one brown eye and the other ice-blue. Nugget made another deep grumbling sound, the timbre rich in meaning.

Byrne ignored the dog. “Your turn,” he said. “Why are you here?”

Jo sighed and stretched, examining the wood grain on the heavy beams above them. The wind whined and wailed at the cabin walls, searching for a point of entry. Jo imagined the drifts stretching, too, spreading long fingers of snow across highways, claiming them. Closing them. “You already know, don’t you.” It wasn’t a question.

Jo pictured her face, then. The dead girl. The smiling eyes and flawless, young skin. In the photograph that all the newspapers ran, you could see a bridge of freckles over her nose.

“We’ve never talked about it.” The comment settled over them like Byrne’s thick blankets, filling and warming what remained of the space between their bodies.

She laughed. “We’ve never talked much about anything, except on that night I don’t remember.” It was the truth, but Jo regretted it as soon as she’d said it. He’d given her an opening and she’d promptly closed it. Byrne permitted her words to resonate, without refutation. She rushed to say, “I just mean, we don’t really know each other. Yet.”

“I think I know something about you, Josephine Silver.” Byrne traced a line softly down her shoulder and arm, studying her.

Jo sighed. “Her name was Nicole Hoffman. She was a student at Vancouver Community College. Eighteen years old when she died. The worst part is, I’ll never know whether I could have made a difference. I have to live with that every day.” She thought about this for a moment.

“I’m sorry,” Byrne said.

“So am I.” Jo didn’t make eye contact with him. She couldn’t, not without crying in front of him, so instead she permitted herself to feel the hot rush of rage that pulsed through her body. She told herself that the feeling was directed against the officers she’d trusted, but deep down Jo knew that she was furious with herself. Still, better than fear or regret, which made her feel cowardly. Jo’s face burned.

“Everybody makes mistakes,” he said.

She nodded, curling into him and closing her eyes, breathing the wild scent of him. Byrne massaged the muscles in her back and neck, gently kneading out the anger. Her breathing slowed, until there was nothing but the warmth of skin on skin, the soft fur of his leg, the distant howl of wind, the spit and sputter of the fire.

“Sleep well,” Byrne said, kissing her forehead and waking her up. He smiled, fanning the lines around eyes that were the colour of the ocean. Jo’s eyelids drooped. She closed her eyes, drifting away from him.

“Sleep well,” he’d said in the truck, kissing her cheek with a brush of beard. Her head had rattled a little against the icy window, causing her to move her glove under her head. She’d heard the rattle of the handle, a thin whistle of wind, then the shock of cold metal on metal as the driver’s door shut.

Jo’s eyes flew open. Byrne was watching her. “What?” he said. “Everything okay?”

Everybody makes mistakes.

“Fine,” she said, and closed her eyes to give herself a chance to think, wondering whether he had registered the panic in her eyes, whether her eyes now looked squeezed tightly shut. He’d left her in the truck alone. They weren’t looking at the northern lights. He’d lied. And if they weren’t kissing, then Byrne was alone on the Bluffs. With Marlo.

The words came to her then. The missing lines of the poem.

I know noble accents

And lucid, inescapable rhythms;

But I know, too,

That the blackbird is involved

In what I know.

She opened her eyes slowly this time. Byrne hadn’t moved. His brow was furrowed and a frown twisted his mouth. Jo tried to smile, and then faked a yawn. She closed her eyes and moved her body closer to his, as though preparing to sleep, but now there was a sharp feeling in her stomach and all her muscles felt tense. Byrne stopped massaging her back. Perhaps he could feel the tightness there. She realized that she was breathing too quickly and forced herself to slow her lungs. Jo thought about that night, rattling around in the dark corners of her memory for anything useful. She remembered the sound of their laughter at Sally’s, but now his seemed forced. There had been a kiss, but at Sally’s. Not in the truck. Not at the Bluffs. And it had tasted of whisky.

He was still watching her.

“Could I use your bathroom?” she said.

“Sure … let me get you a flashlight. And take Nugget with you.”

Jo was caught off-guard by both suggestions. Now, doing a second survey of her surroundings, Jo realized that she might have an opportunity to escape. Byrne’s cabin was one open living space. No indoor plumbing. She layered on her long johns again, avoiding his eyes.

At the door, Byrne stooped to place a set of bear bells around her ankle. “Here,” he said. The bells clanged in warning as they were fastened. “You shouldn’t need these. The bears will probably be hibernating.” Byrne smiled grimly. “But just in case.”

Don’t let him know that you know.
“It’s the word ‘probably’ that I’m not comfortable with. I read an article that said they don’t hibernate at all anymore because of global warming.” Jo reached casually for her scarf and toque. She had to be warm if she were going to brave the elements to find help.

Byrne said nothing but the moment hung between them. The wind shrieked, as though in laughter. As though the idea of any kind of warming, given current conditions, was entirely ludicrous. A corner of Byrne’s mouth smiled, without committing to completion of the shape.

“Well,” she said. In response to nothing he had said. In response to the wind.

“Well.” He left a painful pause, exaggerating Jo’s own impatience. “Just follow the path. I’ll keep the bed warm for you.”

37

The wind lashed her face as she stepped out of the cabin, flashlight in hand, blood rushing. Jo took a sharp breath and began tromping through the snow into the distance. The bells jangled in challenge, like spurs. She wished she could have found an excuse to leave them behind.

“Nugget! Go!” Byrne called out after her. The big dog loped toward her, giving her a start as she turned to see its dark wolf shape, tongue lolling and a hungry expression in that one eye the colour of frozen sea. Jo stiffened in preparation for attack, but Nugget bounded by her and rushed ahead down the path. She exhaled a cloud of breath. The air smelled of pine and wood smoke—a familiar and reassuring scent. Jo squinted to see if Byrne were watching, but she didn’t dare risk pointing the flashlight at the cabin. She had to keep going.