In the Barren Ground (7 page)

She drew her knees in, trying to keep out the creeping cold. At least the mounting wind would clear the fog out of the valley.

“Death by dogs,” Van Bleek said softly, staring at the small tarps Tana had draped over what was left of the bodies. “One of the worst ways to go, if you ask me, being ripped apart while alive like that. At least a lion will break your neck and kill you, quick and quiet, before it starts eating you.”

“Maybe the wolves didn’t kill them,” Tana said quietly. “Maybe something else got them first, a bear perhaps, then the wolves chased it off and took over. We’ll know more after the autopsies.”

CHAPTER 7

Monday, November 5. Day length: 7:49:11 hours.

Crash took his Beaver low, following the silvery course of the Wolverine River to Tchliko Lodge. The day had dawned cold, clear. It was 8 a.m., the sun twenty minutes out from cresting the horizon and painting the snow in shades of gold and pink and orange. Everything was fucking perfect, but even so, he struggled to get the feel of his old Zen back. He felt a niggle, a darkness closing in, something coming. And he was thinking of Tana Larsson out there in Headless Man Valley, alone with Van Bleek and those dead biologists. She—the whole attack thing—had knocked him off kilter. It was nothing he cared to articulate beyond the fact that he was just not as free to do as he pleased before she’d come bashing on his door asking for a ride.

I swear, I’ll put you away. Statutory rape . . .

He gave a snort.
That’s the least of your troubles, hon . . .

The lake stretched up ahead, gunmetal gray against the snow. Clouds of steam roiled from hot tubs set into wooden decks outside log cabins that were strung along the lakeshore. Smoke coiled from two of the main lodge building’s stone chimneys. Everything about the Tchliko estate was designer rustic. Super high-end.

Crash brought his chunky baby in, touching her wheels down neatly on the airstrip that was better maintained than most he’d landed on in the north. Prevailing winds came off the lake. And far out on the water, beyond a peninsula of forested land, he saw whitecaps. A sign of the coming weather, the first big-ass snowstorms of winter. He’d have to get the plane’s skis on soon.

As he taxied to a stop, he saw Alan Sturmann-Taylor making his way down to the strip to meet him. Sturmann-Taylor was a giant of a man with a shock of prematurely white hair atop a handsome, angular face with striking, deep-set blue eyes. He came to a halt at the edge of the strip and stood facing square into the icy wind, a colorful Nepalese scarf flapping about his neck. A trophy from one of his Everest trips, no doubt. We all had them—trophies. Whether they were stuffed animal heads, scarves, trinkets, Instagram photographs, locks of human hair, kids’ baby teeth. They all said: I was there. I did this. This is
my
Story. My triumph. My bravery. My ownership of this thing. We considered serial killers creepy when they kept mementos from their victims, like body parts, and when they touched those mementos again and again in order to relive the emotional thrill of their kills. But really, it was no different for the rest of us.

As his prop slowed to a halt, Crash removed his headset, opened the door, and jumped down onto the hard-packed snow of the runway.

Two employees in lodge uniforms came running to unload the delivery he’d brought for the lodge. Crash threw the guys a salute, and opened the cargo door for them.

“How are you, mate?” Sturmann-Taylor said as he approached, arms open wide. He hugged and backslapped Crash with manly bravado, his hands big as hams, muscles like a logger’s. His dress was “Patagucci,” as Crash liked to call it—technical designer adventure gear. Expensive.

“Good, good,” Crash lied. “Chamonix trip worth it? Decent skiing?”

“Some of the best I’ve had. Lost one of our guides to an avalanche, but Christ, what an experience. C’mon up to the lodge while the boys offload. You had breakfast?”

“Coffee would be great.”

Sturmann-Taylor led the way up to the lodge building with his hearty stride. Whether it was conquering the Amazon, fly-fishing in Patagonia, tracking with the San bushmen in the Kalahari, crossing the Sahara on camel, or racing in the Dakar, Sturmann-Taylor drummed the beat of Adventurer, and he walked the walk. He was a psychologist turned big-shot investor with a passion for all things fine, and an intellect to match his bank accounts. It didn’t hurt that he’d come from serious money to start with.

“Got a new group in, I see,” said Crash, nodding toward where he could see Charlie Nakehk’o near the shooting range with several men in keffiyehs atop their camo hunting gear.

“Two new groups, in fact. The Saudis have come for grizzly bear. The other group is here for our new cultural experience. It was a huge success last year, everything from wild cuisine, foraging in the forest with our gourmet chef, locals demonstrating traditional ways and crafts. Sweat lodges and drumming. A lot of the wives are signing up while their better halves go after the blood experience.” He chuckled and held open the big door. “Of course Charlie is our main draw for the hunts. That man makes a small fortune in tips.”

They entered the lodge, and Sturmann-Taylor ordered espressos from his “butler,” who Crash pegged as his bodyguard. The man was a cipher. Expressionless. Ex-Israeli special forces. Built like a street fighter. He had a quiet physicality, and he was carrying concealed—that much Crash had deduced some time ago. Not legal in this country—not without complicated permits, or professional reason. Like being a cop. But then, this part of the world was out of sight enough that it operated by its own rules. Or rather, it was neglected enough that it
had
to forge its own rules. Wild style.

It’s why he liked it.

It’s why a man like Sturmann-Taylor had built his lodge here. Why he flew his international clients in here—his sheiks, and businessmen and their prostitutes, his political players, actors, financiers, dealers of darker arts. Out here they could indulge their fancies—a private gentleman’s hunt club, so to speak. And discuss business. Sturmann-Taylor showed Crash into the library. A row of French doors looked out over Tchliko Lake. Most of the wall space was lined floor to ceiling with bookshelves, many of which held antique leather-bound first editions. A fire crackled in the hearth. Persian rugs in rich, red tones covered the polished wood floor, and the heads of dead animals mounted on the remaining wall space watched with glass eyes.

The butler delivered the coffees. Sturmann-Taylor closed the door behind him.

“You’ve never told me his name,” Crash said.

“Yes, well, I like my staff to remain in the background. It’s an integral part of the lodge experience. Did you manage to secure it?”

Crash opened the lapel of his jacket and removed a packet. He set it on the antique table, picked up a small espresso cup and saucer. He took a sip. It was rich and bitter. Turkish and very good. He perused the bookshelves, sipping his coffee while Sturmann-Taylor opened his packet and crushed the buds of dried cannabis between thumb and forefinger. He inhaled the aroma.

“Ah,” he said. “Perfect.”

Crash said nothing. He angled his head, reading the titles of several hardbacks. Collectors’ items. All of it had been flown in. He imagined this place was insured to the hilt. Security was top of the line, and very discreet. He’d been checking it out bit by bit on each visit, building a picture.

Sturmann-Taylor opened a drawer, took out his cigarette rolling papers. He began to fashion himself a joint, grinding the buds between his fingers and picking out stalks. He’d said before that he found this old-school process meditative, preferable to using trendy vaporizers. Crash set his cup and saucer down beneath a photo of Sturmann-Taylor and his second wife. He removed a book titled
The Minotaur
.

“Careful with the spine, don’t pull the books out by the spine.”

Crash rolled his eyes in the privacy of his turned back. He flipped through the pages.

Sturmann-Taylor licked the end of the paper, sealed his joint. He flicked his lighter and lit his joint, inhaling deeply. He held his breath.

Keeping himself busy, Crash replaced
The Minotaur
and selected a book titled
The Hunger
from the shelves. He opened the cover. On the title page was an old-fashioned ink drawing depicting a creature that looked like a man crossed with a wolf. Cadaverous body with prominent ribs and hollowed-out stomach. Huge, blackened teeth that dripped blood. Gnarled talons for fingers held a decapitated woman’s head up by the long hair. Blood dripped from the ripped neck of the head. The head’s eyes were missing from the sockets and part of the cheek had been clawed off.

He turned the page, read the poem.

In the Barren ground of the soul

nothing can grow.

For here is bitter and cold where

the sun hangs low.

Where a midnight caribou mutilation

awakens a howl of emptiness with ice

where once there was heart.

And it comes with hunger

for blood in its mouth.

For, in the Barrens of the soul

monsters take toll . . .

Crash frowned, and flipped through the rest of the pages while Sturmann-Taylor exhaled slowly, then grinned like an old movie star who’d never lost his star quality or mojo. “Really is the good shit. I’ll need more. Lots more.”

Crash snorted. “Might have to play it low-key for a while. New cop in town. She’s already been on my ass for flying in liquor. Damien, the jerk, flogged it to a kid who nearly died.”

“A female cop?”

“On a lone crusade to clean up Twin Rivers, God knows why. Few enough pleasures out here as it is for some of these guys. She’s made herself some enemies right out the gate.”

Crash read some random text in the middle of the book about a small hunting party in the Barrens with a Voyageur guide.

“This is set locally,” he said with surprise.

“It is, and it’s set in the past. A horror novel written right in this lodge, by one of my first and subsequently most regular guests. He comes each winter now, to polish his final draft-of-the-year.”

Crash glanced at the name on the spine. “Drakon Sinovski?”

“Pseudonym. His real name is Henry Spatt. Not so romantic—or
horrible
—as Drakon, eh?” He took another suck on his joint. “Just seeing him in the flesh, you’d never guess he had this dark shit in his brain. Then again, you never can tell a killer just by looking in his eyes.” He exhaled smoke around his words, pointed his joint at the book. “Sold over one million copies worldwide that one did. Next ones never took off quite so well. And those masks above the fireplace there—” He motioned to several wooden masks all painted in bold reds with black and white, gaping mouths, and reeds for hair. One was a double-headed crow with a squarish beak almost the length of a short man’s arm. Another looked as though it might be sporting real human hair.

“They’re gifts from Henry,” he said. “All from the West Coast. They depict various cannibalistic creatures of North American indigenous lore, like the
Tsonoqua
. Or the secretive
Hamatsa
cannibal society’s terrible man-eating beast with the unpronounceable name of
Baxbaxwalanuksiwe
. Interesting mythos around those, really, because there is often an element of complicity among the victims. And of course, if bitten, they become cannibals themselves. Reminiscent of the modern vampire trope, no?”

The weed was making Sturmann-Taylor loquacious.

“Yeah,” Crash said absently, replacing the book. It was not his thing, books.

Sturmann-Taylor chuckled—a kind of self-indulgent, guttural sound that was contagious, and usually made others smile. He took another deep drag, closing his eyes as he held the smoke in his lungs. He breathed out leisurely. “Sure you don’t want some?” he said, offering the joint to Crash.

“I quit sucking smoke into my lungs when I quit heroin.”

Sturmann-Taylor’s eyes turned serious. He held Crash’s gaze for several beats. The fire cracked, and a log ember fell in a powdery crash.

“Well, I like it,” he said, finally. “Reminds me of my university lecturing days. Got the best pussy during those years. Can I tempt you with another java?”

Crash glanced out of the window. The guys had finished offloading. “I still need to make another run before dark. Yellowknife and back. And one more tomorrow again. Hopefully before that series of storms sock us in. Reckon we’re going to be grounded for a week or two.”

“We should talk,” Sturmann-Taylor said, nipping the live end off his joint. His voice had changed. He was all business. “I might need transport for . . . shall we say, a more sensitive haul than usual.”

Crash’s pulse quickened. He remained outwardly cool. “Sure. Whenever you’re ready, you know where to find me.” He returned his coffee cup and saucer to the tray, made for the door. Sturmann-Taylor moved to show him out, but Crash held up his hand. “No worries. I know the way.”

The “butler,” however, emerged from the shadows outside the door and tracked him to the exit. The man stood silently watching as Crash made his way over the snow-covered lawn to his plane. Crash had walked by the open door of the lodge gym once, and seen the butler with the punching bag. Krav Maga trained, he’d deduced.

Crash readied his plane and taxied into position on the runway. As he gave his Beaver throttle, making her quiver at the seams, he saw Sturmann-Taylor watching from the library window. A sober coolness filled Crash.

It was going to require several more trips out here before he gained tacit entrance into Sturmann-Taylor’s inner circle. But he could taste it now—he was getting close.

And if he was right, the ultimate prize would be the raw blood stones heading for laundering at WestMin when the mine opened.