In the Barren Ground (10 page)

CHAPTER 11

Heather poured a coffee and seated herself opposite Tana.

“Big Indian messing with minds again?” she asked, stirring sugar and cream into her mug. She pushed her shades onto the top of her head, exposing a puffy black eye.

“Bad night?” Tana said.

“Probably not worse than yours. What can I tell you?” She took a deep draft from her mug, cradling it with both hands.

“How’d you hurt your eye?”

“Happens when you get so shit-faced that you can’t stand up.” She held Tana’s gaze, daring the cop to say something, to pass judgment. Then she smiled. It lit her bloodshot eyes, and she still looked pretty. “Ever been in that state, officer? Where you just need to block it all out. Ever done something stupid like that?”

A memory washed into Tana’s chest. With it, shame. She took a sip of her own coffee, and said, “So, I guess you wouldn’t be up to flying me home tonight.”

“Hell no, I’m good.” MacAllistair took another hit of caffeine, leaned back in her chair, smiled again, and looked halfway normal. “I’m practiced. We work hard up here. Play harder. Keeps us busy long dark nights. I’ll take you home once you’ve wrapped up here—regular rates for the RCMP. Sky is good and clear. Won’t be for long. Besides, I need to get back to base. Only stayed ’cause you asked me to. What do you need?”

Tana removed her notebook and pen from her pocket. She flipped the book open. “Run the times, dates by me again—when did you pick Selena Apodaca and Raj Sanjit up from Twin Rivers?”

MacAllistair related her memories of Friday, from when she’d taken off with the crews in the early morning, the route she’d flown, buzzing over the camp, seeing wolves along the lake—repeating much of what she’d already told Tana the night they’d met.

While she spoke, Tana took notes, and Big Indian listened, a sullen shadow in the kitchen, stirring his pot.

“And after you dropped the K9 crew off on Friday morning, what did you do then?”

“I flew back to Twin Rivers, and ferried other folk back and forth—surveyors for the ice road. Hydro guys. Until the weather blew in.”

“You couldn’t get in all day Saturday, either?”

“I could fly a few other areas, but definitely not Headless Man. The fog sits like a soup on that lake. Cliffs hold it in like a basin. First window was Sunday afternoon. And it was hardly a break, but the wind had turned, and usually when that happens some of the fog clears off the north end of Ice Lake, so I gave it a shot. I got Dean and Veronique and their dogs first. They were farther up the valley, along the river. And then we flew in to Selena and Raj’s pickup location. They weren’t there. Like I said, we tried to raise them on radio, and via their inReach satellite texting system. No reply. So I flew back a little way along the route they would have been working, and . . .” She cleared her throat. “That’s when we saw the wolves feeding on them.” She wiped her mouth. Her hand trembled slightly.

“I heard you mention seeing a red chopper on the other side of the cliff before the weather blew in on Friday.”

Heather stilled her mug en route to her mouth, then lowered it slowly back to the table. She cupped her hands around it, a wariness entering her eyes.

“Yeah,” she said finally. “A red AeroStar. It’s a tiny two-seater thing—barely two people can squish in. You build them from a craft kit. They come out of the Balkans. I’m making one myself.”

“Do you know whose it was?”

She moistened her lips. “No.”

Tana glanced up. “Are there many around like it?”

“Could have come in from a hundred miles any direction. Illegal hunters, diamond guys, engineers, prospectors, who knows.”

“But is there anyone that
you
know in this region with one?”

Her mouth tightened. “Crash.”

Big Indian looked up sharply.

“Wasn’t his, though,” MacAllistair said.

“How do you know?”

“He said so.” A pause. “Look, why do you need to know, anyway? What difference does it make to what happened to those kids?”

“Maybe the pilot of the red AeroStar saw something that could aid with the coroner’s recommendations.”

She nodded slowly. “So . . . it’s not like it’s a police matter.”

Tana closed her book. “It’s standard procedure for police to file a report in an event like this. Thanks. You still on for the ride after I’ve checked in with Blundt?”

“For sure.” She slugged back the rest of her coffee, grabbed the packet of smokes she’d left on the table, and pushed to her feet. “I’ll be in the hangar, waiting for you.”

Tana shrugged back into her jacket. When she stepped out, an aurora pulsed high across the sky.

CHAPTER 12

Tana had barely landed back in Twin Rivers and was feeding her dogs when the call came in—
big fight at the Red Moose
. She wheeled her RCMP truck into the frozen parking lot, slammed on the brakes, sending her vehicle skidding to an angle in front of the stairs that led up to the old-style saloon. She killed her siren, left her light bar strobing, and flung open her door. Loud music, yelling reached her instantly.

“Stay here!” she commanded her dogs, and she ran toward the stairs, hand ready near her sidearm.

Pine trees swirled and swayed in the wind. Aurora borealis danced in the sky.

She took the wooden stairs two at a time. As she reached the porch of the Red Moose, the double doors swung open. A man came hurtling backward out of the doors. His arms windmilled as he flailed wildly to keep balance, and rolled down the stairs. She sidestepped him, pushed through the doors.

“Oh man, this is going to be good,” said someone bashing in through the doors behind her. “Cops are even here.”

It was hot inside. Smelled like a locker room, sour with sweat, spilled beer, and wine. Music pounded. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the light. It was all dark wood inside. The caricature of a neon red moose lit the bar area in reddish light.

The fight was centered near the bar counter. Around two big young guys in particular, one laying into another, who was trying to defend himself against the attack. Men were yelling. A chair went flying, hit the mirror behind the counter. Glass shattered. A woman shrieked.

Oh, Jesus—when was she going to cut a break?

Pulse racing, Tana shoved through the people massing around the fight. Another chair went flying. Glass tinkled. It crunched beneath her boots. The floor was slippery with spilled drink.

“Step aside, RCMP.”

No one seemed to hear her.

“Police!” she yelled. “Step aside!”

As she got deeper into the fray she recognized the two men at the center of the melee. The big young gun on the attack, his long black hair flying loose, eyes psychotic, sweat gleaming, was Jamie TwoDove—the man she reckoned had made the bracelet Selena Apodaca had been wearing when she was killed. Like a lunatic he was laying into Caleb Peters, the band chief’s son. Blood oozed from a cut on TwoDove’s brow. Peters was trying to defend himself while two guys grappled to pull TwoDove off him. A row of glasses went smashing across the bar. A woman screamed. The bartender bellowed. He was waving a baseball bat and looked red enough in the face to use it at any moment. Bar stools went crashing. A man crawled along the floor. Tana tripped over him and went down hard. She halted her fall with bare hands. A shard of glass sliced her left palm. She slipped again in beer, cursing as she shoved herself off all fours and back onto her feet, being jostled in the crowd. Several guys were now yelling:
fight, fight, fight, fight!

She heard the sickening crunch of a fist connecting with flesh and cartilage.

Adrenaline exploded through her. She grabbed the guy in front of her by the collar, yanked him aside. He spun around, and threw her a left hook. His knuckles cracked across her cheekbone before she saw it coming. She was blinded for a moment, sparks of light firing through her brain, the blow resounding against the inside of her skull. A coppery taste leaked down the back of her sinuses. She grabbed her baton, and swung it across his shoulder. “Police! Everyone stop. Stand down. Put that music off!” she yelled at the barkeep.

He didn’t seem to hear.

A guy with a massive beard got TwoDove into a stranglehold. TwoDove kicked wildly to free himself, going purple in the face. More stools went flying as his boots connected with them. Someone grabbed TwoDove’s legs. He started to howl, spittle foaming onto his lips, chin.

“He’s gonna die if you cut off his air like that—let him go,” a woman screeched.

Tana muscled into the fray, going for her pepper spray, but before she got off a blast, an explosion rocked the air. Sound slammed against her eardrums. Deafness began to ring in Tana’s ears. Her eyes watered.

Everyone fell silent in shock.

Dust, bits of wood wafted down from the ceiling where the deer-horn chandelier swung.

“Turn that music off!” she yelled, pointing at the barkeep. She spun around, heart thumping, looking for the source of the gunshot.

O’Halloran stood just inside the doorway, shotgun in hand, eyes narrowed, body stiff.

“Put that down,” she commanded him. She was shaking, blood leaking down her cheek. Everyone was silent, watching. Apart from TwoDove, who was being muffled while his legs thumped against the bar counter.

“You heard the officer,” O’Halloran said. “Everyone step back. Party’s over.” He did not put the gun down.

Tana hesitated. She didn’t trust him. Her brain raced. Civilian safety was her number-one priority. TwoDove was in medical distress. She needed to get him out of here. She swallowed, holding O’Halloran’s gaze, silently warning him to stay in check, then she turned and pushed through to TwoDove, going for her cuffs.

As she got one of his wrists cuffed, he flung her off with superhuman strength, like nothing she’d ever experienced. She went flying like a small flea, backward and into the wall. The impact punched the breath out of her lungs, and for a second she was winded, immobile.

TwoDove bent over double, and like a bull he barreled full-bore for Tana’s stomach. She went for her baton again and swung her hips sideways in an attempt to avoid the impact, but his massive shoulder connected hard with her waist. She grunted. TwoDove crashed into the wall as Tana smashed her baton down across his shoulders. He staggered, and dropped to all fours on the glass-littered floor. He panted, struggling to regain his breath, drool stringing down from his mouth. She grabbed his hair, yanking his neck back as she pulled his cuffed arm behind his back. She reached for his other arm, pushing him flat to the ground with her knee. Shoving his head to the floor, she cuffed his other wrist.

Breathing heavily, she said near his ear, “Jamie, can you hear me?”

He gasped for breath.

“Listen to me, Jamie. Focus.” She snapped her fingers in front of his eyes. “I’m not here to hurt you. I don’t want anyone to hurt you. I know about Selena, okay? I know you’re having a hard time. Jamie?”

He stilled at the sound of Selena’s name. “Jamie, can you
hear
me? Nod if you can hear me.”

He gave a small nod, started crying. “I’m Constable Larsson. I was with Selena and Raj earlier today. I was coming to find you, to talk to you. It’s okay, I know you hurt. I know you’re mad at the world that this could happen. But I’m going to help you through this, okay? Did you hear me, Jamie?”

He nodded.

“You’re coming with me. I’m going to take you where you can sleep this off. I’ll get someone to look at the eye of yours, okay?”

He began to sob deeply. His muscles, the iron-like tension in them, easing.

She got off him, helped him to his feet. She was shaking inside. Adrenaline pounding. “Okay, we’re going to my truck outside, nice and easy. You understand?”

Tana steered him toward the door. People stepped back in silence, watching. Some dude near the pool table whistled. Others laughed. She knew they were judging her. Testing her. She knew she’d made a mistake going into the fray like that on her own. But shit, what in the hell . . .

O’Halloran remained standing in the doorway, blocking her way. She reached him. His gaze locked with hers, and a smile curved slowly across his mouth. “Not bad, officer.”

“Put that thing away, understand?” she said quietly to him.

The grin tugged deeper at his lips, and his eyes danced. “That your way of saying thank you?”

“I was doing fine.”

“Were you?”

She pushed TwoDove past him, and out of the doors, started down the stairs with him. The cold air was bracing and welcome. Her dogs yipped and whined in the back of her truck.

TwoDove broke loose suddenly and ran, hands behind his back. She took off after him, slipping on ice, her dogs barking like crazy. Maximus launched out of the truck bed and chased, his teeth latching onto TwoDove’s pant leg as Tana reached and grabbed him.

TwoDove kicked at Max, who growled and shook the pant fabric. “Fucking dog—get that fucking dog off me!”

“Hey, hey, listen to me, I’m on your side. Jamie.”

“Get those fucking wolves off me. Fucking wolves . . .” He began to sob again, and Tana realized he was amped up on far more than just booze and grief. She propelled him toward the truck. The light bar on top was still pulsing red and blue into the night, chasing garish color over the snow. She yanked open the back passenger door, placed her palm at the back of his head. “Get inside. Mind your head.”

She shut him in, where he was safely behind the grid in the rear of her truck cab.

“Max, come here, you okay, bud?” She crouched down, and felt along his ribs. He squiggled and licked her face. He seemed fine. “Thank you,” she whispered. “But next time you better stay in the truck, or you’re going to get me in big trouble, okay, boy? Come, hop.” She opened the tailgate for him, hooked her arms around his belly, and hefted the big old guy into the truck bed where Toyon wiggled with glee.

She slammed the tailgate shut.

Music had started back up inside the Red Moose. Northern lights danced softly in the sky, above the speared tips of an army of black spruce. Her lights continued to strobe the night air.

Great big judders suddenly took hold of her. Then dizziness. She grasped the top of the cold tailgate with both hands, gripped hard, and rested her head on the backs of her hands for a moment, catching her breath and orientation.

“You okay?” She jumped. Her gaze shot toward the sound. O’Halloran. He stood outside the saloon, on the porch of the Red Moose. Studying her. Shotgun in hand. Her police lights throwing the craggy shape of his face into flickering relief.

No smile now. Something very still about him.

“You okay?” he said, again.

“Fine.” Angry for allowing him to have witnessed her moment of weakness, she started around her truck for the driver’s-side door.

He thumped down the stairs in his heavy boots, came crunching over ice toward her. She reached for the door handle, but he clamped his hand firmly over her wrist. She froze. Glared at his hand.

Wind caught her hair and she realized it must have come loose from the neat bun at the nape of her neck.

“You’re bleeding,” he said, so softly it threw her. “Look at me.”

She did, slowly.

He hesitated. Then cupped the side of her face, and angled her head to the light. “Needs a stitch, or five.” She felt his warmth, his breath, the cold roughness of his palm. He smelled like soap. His calloused thumb wiped a trail of blood off her cheek. He seemed to come closer, even though his body made no movement at all.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re very fine, Constable Larsson.”

“Step back.” She yanked open her door, and wavered, dizzy. She clutched onto the door for balance, wishing to hell he’d just go away. Damn him for coming out here, for zeroing in on her weak, lonely moment. For seeing her like this.

“I saw you take quite a blow to your gut. Your hand is hurt, too.”

She breathed in, deeply, then out, nice and slow, taking a moment to commandeer her balance, her focus. But a sudden raw fear sliced across her mind. A new fear. Her baby.
Was her baby all right?
Emotion burned sharp into her eyes.

He touched her elbow, and she snapped her body tight and upright, heart racing back up to speed. “Stay clear, please. Do not touch me.”

“Get into the passenger seat,” he said. “I’m driving you back—”

“Not on your life, bud.”

But his touch on her elbow remained steady. “Come.”

“You need to step back, sir. This is an RCMP vehicle. A civilian does not drive this vehicle.”

“So says the officer of the law,” he said quietly. “A strong Mountie who can stand against the wild, wild northwest all by herself. Well, let me tell you something, Constable, the rules, they don’t quite apply out here. Do they?”

Another wave of dizziness seized her. She braced her palm against the truck, feeling sick suddenly, sick as a dog. She hung her head down, trying to get the nausea to pass.

She felt his hand move to her shoulder.

“Get in. I’m taking you to the doc.”

“There is no doctor in town,” she said.

“Figure of speech. The clinic. Nurse.”

“I need to get TwoDove into lockup. He needs medical attention. You can’t drive this vehicle. You can’t—”

“Then we’ll get him into lockup, and I’ll bring the nurse to you both.”

She closed her eyes.
God help me. I need to do this—I do need to see a nurse. I need to tell someone I am pregnant.
Wind wafted the tendrils of hair that had come loose across her face. She felt her vision going. She felt the gentle touch of her gran’s hand in the soft sough of the breeze, a Dogrib elder who’d helped raise her when her father had finally taken Tana away from her mother . . .

You can’t do everything alone, Tana, my child. You need to learn how to ask for help. You need to let people help you. Everyone needs a tribe. Man is not strong without tribe . . .

But allowing a civilian to drive a police-issue vehicle? She’d be in such shit. She was already in shit. She started to pass out. Low blood sugar. She needed something sweet. Food. She’d hardly had any of Big Indian’s stew. No sleep for days, really . . .

He caught her as her knees buckled. “Come.” He took her arm, led her around the truck, helped her into the passenger seat of her own cop truck. And there she sat, with her prisoner in the back who’d fallen asleep and was snoring noisily. O’Halloran closed the passenger door. The window was open at the top and she was grateful for the cool air. He turned his back to the truck and stood a moment with his shotgun at his side. It was as though he was fighting something inside himself—a rugged, lone, northern cowboy silhouetted against the eerie pulse of red and blue light outside. And she heard him say,
“Fuck it!”