In the Barren Ground (9 page)

CHAPTER 9

Raj Sanjit’s cloudy eyes gazed vacantly up at Tana. His face had also been partially eaten. A section of his arm was gone. Near his thigh lay part of his left hand. His clothes had been shredded away in ribbons and strips, along with skin. One of his boots was off. He’d been disemboweled—the soft and nutritious inner organs likely instinctively eaten by animals first. Tana’s gaze followed the loops of intestine trailing away from his body. In the wilds, she knew, especially in the heat of summer, a predator’s consumption of the bowels and stomach first would naturally slow a kill from spoiling too fast. It was where the bacteria set in first.

Sanjit had the same symmetrical clawlike gouges down the side of his head, and along his thighs. Tana engaged her mic.

“The animal predation on the male is extensive,” she said. “And consistent with the possibility the biologists were killed on Friday afternoon.” Whatever had been eating him had been at it for some length of time. She described what she was seeing, and took more photos.

Then she noticed a black substance on parts of his body.

Her attention went to the ravaged jerry cans. She picked her way over to them, and gagged, quickly covering her nose and mouth with her arm before she threw up again. The black sludge appeared to be some kind of lure made of rotted fish and whatever else.

She surveyed the scene again, trying to picture it. The couple had been working with this rotted sludge, likely what they were using to coax grizzlies. It could have attracted a bear, who then stalked them. Or it could have brought in wolves that were habituated to associating humans with a food source.

The wolves might have become bold . . . going for the biologists themselves . . .

Before heading over to Apodaca’s headless torso, Tana crouched down and went through the remains of the backpacks.

There was one tent between them, some plastic bags that had been ripped apart for what seemed like nuts and granola. Clothing. Water bottles. A small portable propane burner with a pot. Two mugs. Some ready-to-eat dehydrated camping meals. Notebooks. GPS device, an inReach satellite two-way texting device. Two-way radio. Lip balm with a hint of pink. Tana inhaled, thinking of the young woman who’d brought this vanity with her into the bush. The couple also had with them bear spray and bangers. But none of these defensive tools had been used.

Near the packs lay coils of fine, barbed wire, baggies of what appeared to be bear hair with GPS locations recorded on them.

Tana documented it all, then worked her way over to Selena Apodaca’s torso under the tarp.

The first rays of sun washed over the cliff. They held no warmth, but the presence of sun was more welcome than Tana cared to admit.

She stepped over the electric fencing, and photographed the tarp in situ. Not covered by the tarp was part of an arm. A silver cuff inlaid with a jade eagle encircled the wrist.

Tana knew that jewelry. It was the distinctive work of Twin Rivers local Jamie TwoDove. She’d first seen several pieces just like it the day she’d arrived in town, on display under the glass counter at the General Store and Diner. Old Marcie Della had caught her looking, and proudly explained that the jewelry was now being sold in Yellowknife, and in Calgary and Edmonton. American tourists were also buying it in the port city of Vancouver where the big cruise ships left to sail up the inside passage to Alaska.

After documenting the silver cuff, Tana carefully slid it off the wrist. On the inside, a bloodied inscription read:
To Selena, with love, JT
.

JT. That could refer to Jamie TwoDove. She glanced at the tarp. Could he and Selena Apodaca have been romantically involved? Her chest tightened. She’d need to speak to Jamie, break this news before it reached him in other ways.

Carefully Tana drew back the tarp. Her breath caught and her stomach balled instantly.

So badly had it been ravaged, Selena Apodaca’s headless body was barely recognizable as human.

The stomach cavity was completely gutted. Pubic area eaten. Thighs had been ripped and clawed apart. Her ribs had been picked of flesh. There was some lung left.

But her heart was gone.

Tana spun around and doubled over as her stomach heaved. Thank God nothing came up—she’d had nothing to eat, barely anything to drink. It heaved again, and sweat broke out over her face. She panted lightly, straining for self-control. She waited for the sound of Van Bleek yelling to ask if she was okay, if only to highlight the fact he could see she was struggling.

To his credit he remained silent.

Taking a slow breath, Tana came erect again. She turned to face the torso. Or what was left of it. Engaging her mic, she described what she was seeing.

“. . . Signs of the same symmetrical claw rips on what remains of the body. These marks would appear to indicate a violent bear attack, rather than a bear simply feeding off bodies. It would appear to indicate that the victims fought to their death. It’s possible a bear stalked, surprised, and killed them first, then wolves, lured by the scent of the kill, chased off the bear to feed.” She was stepping over the line of pure documentation into theory, but to hell with it. There’d been no manual for this shit at depot division. She was not a trained detective. She had very little experience. She was basically a first responder, just covering all bases to the best of her ability under the remote and unusual circumstances.

As in many fatal bear maulings where there were two victims, a bear would commonly attack a first victim, while the second attempted to beat off the animal. The bear then often turned on the second victim, killing him, or her, before returning to the injured first victim.

It was possible the biologist carrying the gun had been hit first. The second tried to help, but had no gun.

A noise chopped into her thoughts. It grew louder in the sky. Her pulse jumped.
Helicopter.
Coroner and body retrieval. Thank heavens. This would become the Office of the Chief Coroner’s case now. These remains would be flown to Edmonton for autopsy. The wolves would be taken to wildlife officials for necropsy. Her eyes burned in relief. Her job here was done.

As Tana turned to make her way up the ridge to wave in the chopper, something odd caught her eye.

She bent down.

A bone. Lying partially under Selena Apodaca’s torso. Completely devoid of flesh. Porous and white, except where it had been stained with blood.

What the . . .

Tana quickly photographed it. Then, with gloved hands she tried to move the torso. More bones lay beneath it. Old bones—very old bones. Nothing to do with this attack.

The thud of the chopper grew louder.

Tana recorded her find. The bones looked human to her. Femur, tibia. A piece of pelvis?
Shit.
Had these two biologists been killed where others had died before?

The air in the valley started to reverberate with the pulse of approaching rotors, and after being stranded out in the wilderness overnight, in dark and cold, it was the most welcome and human sound in the world.

Tana left the torso and moved quickly to get up the ridge, but she stalled again near the periphery of the slaughter scene. A mottled gray wolf lay dead at her feet. Female. Stomach baggy and teats distended. A mother. Who’d recently given birth. Tana’s gaze was held transfixed. There were little pups out there somewhere, waiting in a den for this mother that she’d killed to come home. Emotion ripped through Tana’s chest. Her jaw tightened as a fierce passion to survive, to do right by her own child, by all that felt wrong here, seared through her.

Breathing hard, her blood pumping through her veins with an unarticulated anger and drive, she scrambled up the rest of the esker slope, crested the ridge, and shaded her eyes against the low-angled glare of the sun. A red bird, all shimmer and metal and polycarbonate windshield, came in. She could see the pilot in his headgear and mirrored shades, behind the controls. She waved her arm in a slow wide arc, then crouched low, downdraft pummeling her as the pilot brought his craft in. He gently set skids down on the ridge.

Rotors and engine slowed.

The door opened, and a woman jumped out onto the sugary crust of snow. She wore a down parka with fur ruff and a coroner’s office logo. Behind her were two guys—body retrieval assistance, Tana guessed.

“Constable Larsson,” Tana said, coming forward. “Thank you for coming so soon.”

CHAPTER 10

It was already dark by the time Tana and Markus Van Bleek returned to the WestMin camp. Beyond exhausted and starving, Tana hauled her gear off the back of the ATV she’d parked outside the WestMin hangar. Harry Blundt came scurrying toward them.

“How’d it go, how did it go?” Blundt said, taking a bag from her. “You must be hungry. Cook is in the mess—that big yurt over there. Got some stew going. Coffee’s on.”

“I am famished,” Tana said. “Just don’t tell me it’s moose stew.”

“It’s moose stew,” he said. “Yes, it is. Of course it is.”

She laughed in spite of herself, and felt a spurt of affection for this funny little man.

“This way, this way,” Blundt said, taking off at a trot. Tana suspected the geologist had only two speeds: High. And off. Like Toyon when he was a pup. She hefted her pack and guns up onto her shoulder, and cast a backward glance at Van Bleek. He was offloading his own ATV.

“Coming?” she said.

“No.”

She hesitated. “Thanks.”

He grunted. “Any time you need help at a slaughter, Constable, I’m your man.”

She held his gaze for a moment, disquiet rustling through her, then she turned to follow Blundt. The sky was that eerie indigo peculiar to northern nights. A green and yellow aurora pulsed softly along the horizon. Her feet ached as she walked. Her lower back felt as though it had been hit with a mallet. Her headache didn’t help.

“Your pilot left,” said Blundt as she caught up. “But Heather is still here. She’s probably sobered up enough to fly you back tonight, unless you want to bunk at camp.”

Tana crooked a brow. “Good. I need a statement from her. From you, too. I already got one from Van Bleek.” She’d taken impressions of his boots as well. “I’ll also need to talk to Teevak Kino.”

Blundt stalled in his tracks, looked up at her. “Why? It’s a natural death, an accident. Nothing criminal. Is there?”

She looked into his eyes. It was hard to read him, too. Especially in this light. He seemed to be constantly moving, agitated, even while stationary. “I need to file my police report,” she said. “Standard procedure in a death that occurs outside of a hospital or doctor’s care. The coroner’s office will investigate further. There will most likely be a set of recommendations that comes out of it, to help prevent similar attacks in the future.”

“Hmm,” he declared, then he turned and continued his crablike scuttle toward the yurt. The circular tent structure was set upon a wooden platform to accommodate the depth of the coming snows. Smoke came out a metal flue vented through the top of the yurt. Tana could smell food. Her stomach growled.

“Where is Heather now?” she said.

“One of the cabins. Sleeping. I’ll go rouse her and send her over to the mess.”

“She was on a bit of a bender?”

“Could say.”

“Regular occurrence?” Tana asked.

“Anything you want to know about Heather, you can ask her yourself.” Blundt stomped up onto the wooden deck and reached for the door. Tana followed.

“Your chef didn’t go with the rest of the crew to Yellowknife?” she said.

“Cook?” Blundt snorted. “That man thinks he’s above them all, he does. Doesn’t drink. That’s the main problem. All full of native mysticism and whatever other mumbo-jumbo stories. But he can cook, I’ll hand him that. And he holds his own as a bouncer when things get rowdy out here. Happens every now and then, when you mix a bunch of guys who’ve been in the bush too long with some good strong booze. Got a powerful left hook, that Indian.”

Blundt opened the door. Steamy warmth rushed out to meet Tana.

“Go on in,” he said, putting her bag inside the door. “I’ll go rattle Heather’s cage. When you’re done eating and interviewing her, come find me.”

It was hot inside, pots steaming away on an industrial-sized gas stove. She dumped her gear on the wood floor near the door and removed her down jacket. She needed a shower. But more than anything she needed some food and something to drink.

A man stood with his back to her, stirring a pot. He was about six two, wide shoulders. A long, skinny, black ponytail hung down the middle of his chef’s jacket.

“Hey,” Tana said.

He turned. His face was broad. Flared cheekbones. Pocked, reddish-brown skin. Black eyes. Those eyes consumed her in silence. The pot behind him bubbled noisily.

“Officer,” he said, slowly, wiping his hands across his apron.

“Tana Larsson,” she smiled. It felt weak.
Everything
about her felt weak.

He observed her a moment longer. She noted a fresh cut and bruising across his jaw. Scratches on his knuckles.

“Harry Blundt said I might be able to find a cup of coffee and something to eat in here,” she offered.

“Got moose stew warmed up. Coffee’s on the boil. You must be cold. You’ve been out a while. Take a load off—I’ll bring you some grub.”

With relief, she pulled out a metal chair and seated herself at the table closest to the counter where he worked. “Whatever you’ve got will be great.”

He reached for a bowl, started spooning in slop. Steam curled. She watched his hands, wondering whom he’d had a dustup with.

“You didn’t go with the rest of the crew to Yellowknife, then?”

He dumped the steaming bowl and a spoon in front of her, along with a mug of coffee. “Cream and sugar are on the table, there. And no, not my thing. Big piss-up. Don’t do the booze anymore.” He paused. “Bad shit, that wolf stuff.”

“Yeah.” Tana adjusted her sitting position to relieve the pinch from her vest. She shoveled a spoonful into her mouth, closed her eyes for a second, just letting the warmth fill her. “Holy crap,” she said, looking up at him. “This is actually amazing.”

“Moose.”

“Not like the moose stew that
I
make.”

He grinned. It made him look scarier.

“So what do I call you?” she asked, delivering another spoonful to her mouth.

“Indian.”

He looked serious.

“You must have a name.”

“Big Indian. That’s my name.”

Tana chewed slowly as she weighed him. “Your legal name?”

“Yup.”

“Your parents had a sense of humor, then?”

“I had it changed.”

“What was it before?”

“I don’t say the old name. It belonged to another man. The old me. This—” He prodded his considerable chest with the tips of all ten fingers. “
This
is the new me. Big Indian.”

“So . . . I should call you Big, or Indian—which do you prefer?”

“Either.” He went back behind his counter, emptied garbage, peels, bones into a pail. “Or both.”

She watched the garbage. “Where does that go?”

“Landfill.”

“Fenced?”

“Nope.”

“So, wild animals—”

“Yup. They scavenge in the dump.”

“Wolves, too?”

He swung suddenly around to face her. Intensity smoldered in his eyes. The interior of the yurt seemed to shrink. Tana stopped her spoon halfway between bowl and mouth.

“Yup,” he said slowly, quietly. Deep voice. “Wolves. Bear. Coyotes. Fox. Ferrets. Eagles. You name it—those noble creatures—they
all
eat the garbage dumped in there. The men, they been feeding those same four wolves by hand, too. Last summer, when the crew sometimes ate on the deck outside, when the bugs weren’t so bad, they’d toss scraps to the animals right from where they sat. And at night, I seen those animals slinking between the cabins and tents sniffing for more.”

“And you believe those are the same wolves that attacked those two biologists?” Her spoon remained suspended.

“Yu-up.”

“What makes you think they’re the same?”

“From what Teevak said. Matched the description. And they’ve tried to bite humans before.”

She lowered her spoon. “When?”

“’Bout a week ago. Two of Harry’s guys went to look at the old plane wreck behind the airstrip, back near the dump. It was getting dark. Wolves came out of the trees and circled them. Then the big black one moved in on one of the guys. He kicked at it. It snapped and snarled, and retreated, but then one after the other, they came, trying to bite the men, like they was testing to see if they’d be easy prey. Had to beat ’em back with broken branches and throwing rocks. The men thought it was a good laugh after they’d calmed themselves with mugs of whiskey.” He yanked open the gas-powered refrigerator, hauled out a hunk of red meat, slapped it onto a board. He reached for a carving knife, waved the tip at her. “Those wolves probably followed those biologist kids to the north end of that lake. Those kids had the stink of the lure on them to start with. And the wolves probably did the same thing as they did with those two guys looking at the plane wreck. Only this time they were bolder.”

Tana thought of the deep clawlike gouge marks on the bodies. The bear prints. She wasn’t so sure.

He sliced into the meat. “It’s like with those other two girls who were killed. Bad shit, that. Happening all over again.”

“
What
other two?”

He cubed the chunk of meat that he’d sliced, and scraped the pieces of flesh into a pot. “Three, four years ago. The Mountie’s kid was the first. Mauled to death up a tributary of the Wolverine.”

“What Mountie?”

“Elliot Novak.”

Her pulse quickened. “Wolves?”

“Maybe bear, maybe wolf. They never could tell for sure. Maybe something else—but wolves and a bear ate parts of her, for sure. They shot a female grizz and a pack of wolves nearby. There was human flesh in all their bellies. Ripped her head clean off her body.”

Tana went cold.

He started slicing off another cut of meat.

“What, exactly, happened?”

“Don’t rightly know. No one does. Elliot took his daughter, Regan, ice fishing for the weekend. Early November it was. Somehow Regan left the tent during the night. Her dad found her body the next morning, being torn apart by wolves in the forest, just upriver from where they were sleeping. He hadn’t heard a thing.”

Rosalie’s words curled through Tana’s brain.
He’s still out there, in the woods. He’s gone bush. It’s the white-man cops. This place messes with their white-man heads . . .
Jesus Christ. Is
that
what happened to him? He lost his daughter to wolves?

“You said there was another one.”

“Following year. Also just at the start of the snows—first week of November. Dakota Smithers. She was only fourteen years old.” He cubed the next slab of meat as he spoke. Tana could smell it. She pushed her bowl aside, appetite gone.

“Dakota was part of the culture camp that the Twin Rivers School used to hold every year out at Porcupine Lake, to help the kids stay in touch with their indigenous roots. She and some others went out with their dogsleds one afternoon. Dakota got separated from the group when fog rolled in. Dogs came back with the sled. No Dakota. Found her three days later. Eaten by wolves, bear, other scavengers. Couldn’t say what killed her, though.”

Tana felt ill.

“So it wasn’t the same wolves that—”

“Nope. I told you. Those wolves and the bear that fed off Regan were killed by wildlife officers. It was Regan’s DNA in their bellies.” He pointed the bloodied knife at her again. “See, now,
that
is where Elliot went truly mad. He believed some
one
had killed his kid, and left her in the forest for the animals. He got to convincing Dakota’s mother, Jennie, that the same person had gotten her daughter, too. Made him totally nuts, looking for some monster, when it was just the way of the wild. Wife left him. He went into the bush in the end.”

“And he’s still out there?” she said.

“Yup.”

“You sure?”

“So I hear.”

“From who?”

He shrugged. “Here and there.”

“Where is he?”

“Badlands. Nobody from town will go in the badlands.” His gaze locked with hers, and he fell silent. Tana had a bizarre sensation that he was transferring things, thoughts, into her head with his intensity. And she was seized by an absurd sense of time warping, as if this place had been shifted slightly. Into another realm. Where different laws of physics and logic applied. She needed sleep. Bad.

The door swung open suddenly, and in blew a bluster of ice crystals off the snow. Tana jumped.

“Sorry to spook you,” MacAllistair said, stomping her boots, and closing the door behind her. She wore shades in spite of the darkness. She stilled upon sensing the tension in the yurt. “What?” she said. “Did I interrupt something?”