Inspector Green Mysteries 9-Book Bundle (299 page)

“Who, Jim?”

“Some big mining guy from Whitehorse. I remember my mother thought it was funny. Whitehorse, Whitehead. She didn’t like him much. Indian but not interested in our traditional ways at all.”

“And the other guy? Was his name Lasalle?”

“Never got his name, just kept in the background taking notes. He was supposed to be researching the elders. Could have been the Lasalle kid, but Whitehead seemed more interested in the old family connections than he was.”

This time Chris did not bother to play the nice guy. He didn’t phone ahead for an appointment either. With Sergeant Doran in tow, he marched straight out to Victor Whitehead’s workplace, waved his badge, and demanded to speak to him.

Victor wasn’t there, the secretary informed him.

Chris checked his watch. One o’clock. He asked where Victor usually had lunch. The secretary hesitated but before she could answer, another co-worker bellowed over the top of a partition in the open office room. “He took the rest of the day off.”

Frustrated, the two officers drove to his home, a large, rambling house in one of the expensive new developments nestled in the hills west of town.

“Huh. Looks like we don’t pay our public servants enough,” Chris said as they pulled into the drive, which was empty. The three-car garage door was closed.

Doran grunted. “He’s pro-development, and those guys can be very grateful.”

Chris shot him a sharp look. “Pay-offs?”

“Did I say that?” Doran laughed. “Nothing’s been proven, but then no one is looking too closely either. Especially not with the economy in the shape it’s in. Anything that brings jobs and money to the north is a good thing, right? Can’t say I blame them.”

The two cops walked up the expensive stone path and rang the bell. No answer. They rang again. Still no answer. Because they were there, they walked around the house to peer in windows. The blinds were drawn tight on most of them, but at the rear they found a stone patio with a built-in barbeque and a seating area of rattan sofas and chairs. The patio door had no covering. Chris shielded his eyes from the sun’s glare and peered through the glass. Inside, he could make out a huge room with the latest in big-screen TV, leather furniture, and slate floors. The room had none of the scattered newspapers, clothes, or dishes he would have predicted from a bachelor’s pad, but in the middle of the slate floor was a neat stack of sweaters, socks, and rain gear. A pair of knee-high rubber boots stood beside the stack and a hooded Gore-Tex jacket was slung over a chair. Was Victor packing to go somewhere?

Chris stepped back, puzzled.

“He’s probably off running errands,” Doran said. “We could wait. These look like mighty comfy chairs.”

Chris wavered. The booze and lack of sleep were catching up with him. He knew if he sank into a chair he’d be snoring in an instant. But time was running out on his trip to Whitehorse. His tight-ass boss was expecting him back that evening. “We’ll come back. I have another inquiry to make. If you lend me the cruiser, I’ll drop you back at the office and swing by in a couple of hours.”

Doran had Chris drop him off at McDonalds instead. Chris left him ordering a bacon double cheeseburger combo and headed back onto the road. It turned out that the outfitter Scott had used was in the heart of the historic downtown, right on the edge of the Yukon River and a mere half dozen blocks from the RCMP. Feeling conspicuously official in the RCMP cruiser, Chris left it in the police lot and walked down to the river, where he joined the throngs on the waterfront walkway. Kayaks and canoes were stacked at the water’s edge and outside the outfitter’s itself. Inside, the store was packed with adventure enthusiasts browsing the aisles for the latest gadgets and space-age clothing. At the desk, every clerk was occupied, but Chris spotted a glass-fronted office at the back of the store, where a couple of men were bent over a computer screen. There was no sign on the window but Chris assumed one of them would be the manager.

He headed toward them. When he was about ten feet from the door, one of the men looked up and pointed through the window at something in the store. Chris stopped in his tracks and ducked behind a rack of life jackets. The man nodded and returned to the conversation. Chris watched from his hiding place as the two of them — outfitter and customer — worked their way through an online order form.

What the hell was Victor Whitehead doing in a wilderness outfitter’s store?

White Horse, April 14, 1944

Dear Guy,

Your letters take an eternity to arrive! Every day I wait for the post. Will this winter never end? Thirty below for days on end, without a ray of sunshine to lift the spirits! William has been sick with the grip for weeks, and I daren’t take him outside. I sent Mrs. Quinn packing, which may have been a mistake since now I can’t get out at all. But the wretched woman disagreed with every aspect of my childcare, from his feeding to his crying. He cried every night but she would not let me go to him. I admit that it was exhausting but I cannot think that such callous disregard for a crying infant is character-building.

I am counting the days until you are back home, but I am giving you fair warning. This is the last winter I spend alone in this dreary, frigid, small-minded town. Nothing but rations, secrets, drunken Americans, and horrible news of the war.

Impatient for your return, I remain,

Your loving wife, Lydia

Chapter Fifteen

Nahanni, July 19

 G
reen had intended only to rest. It was their third day on the river and they had pulled ashore for lunch. While the others inspected the equipment and unpacked the food, he had crawled onto the shore, propped himself against a boulder, and shut his eyes. His hands and feet were blistered raw and every muscle in his upper body screamed, but he was so exhausted that he promptly fell asleep. The murmur of voices blended with the soft hiss of the current as he drifted into oblivion.

He awoke with a start and blinked in confusion. Clouds had blown over the sun, bringing a chill to the air. A plate of bannock, beef jerky, and dried fruit sat on the rock beside him, along with the bear horn. The canoes were repacked and lined up at the water’s edge ready to go, but the beach was deserted. As far as he could see, there was nothing but brooding pewter skies, endless rows of jagged spruce, and the silty grey river. He was alone. An irrational fear shot through him.

He shouted, but his voice was dwarfed by the emptiness. Nothing but a faint shred of sound echoing down the valley. He gripped the bear horn and scanned the shore for grizzlies. The wolves would only come at night but the grizzlies were unpredictable. He tried to picture the lunch spot on the map. They had finally reached a lull in the rock gardens. Up ahead the river was wider and deeper, but they were still miles away from a cabin that might provide protection from either beast.

The last set of rapids had been a nightmare. He and Sullivan had hit a rock and flipped the canoe early on. Green had ridden a long, terrifying surf through the boiling foam, struggling to keep his head above water, his feet downstream, and his sights on the path ahead. He had no idea where Sullivan and the canoe were until he crashed into some rocks and scrambled to his feet in time to see his canoe sail past, miraculously upright again but sideways. Sullivan followed, hanging on to the tow rope.

Downstream, Jethro and Elliott were standing on the gravel shoreline ready to toss the rescue bags. Jethro had managed to snag the canoe and clip it before it and Sullivan disappeared around a bend. The river broadened where a small creek fed in, and the gravel bar was wide and flat.

“Well done!” Elliott had shouted, with a hint of disbelief in his laughter. “We’re almost through. A bite to eat, and then we tackle the last two class IVs.”

Now Green glanced up at the sky. The clouds were darkening to the west, skimming low over the mountaintops. Their gear had barely begun to dry out, and now it threatened to be soaked in an afternoon storm. Where were the others? They needed to get back on the river to face those rapids before the weather became impossible. Anxiously he scanned his surroundings for movement.

Just downriver, he spotted a motionless figure sitting on top of a bluff. At first he thought the man was catching a snooze until he realized he was looking through binoculars at the mountains ahead. Green gathered his lunch and picked a path down the creek bed and up the side of the bluff. As he came over the rise, he saw Sullivan and Jethro sitting on the ground with the topographical map spread out before them. Elliott sat on an adjacent rock.

Elliott put down his binoculars. “How are the blisters holding up?”

Green flexed his hands beneath the bandages and grimaced as pain shot through them.

“I’ll dress them again before we leave. And you should put on some more bug spray after that swim.” Elliott held out the spray can.

Green took the spray and eased his aching body down onto the rock beside them to apply it. “Here you go, you little buggers. Martini time.”

Elliott laughed. “You could always try bear fat, like Jethro here. Jethro’s been doing some thinking.”

Green looked at the small, quiet guide, who hadn’t joined in the laughter. “What?”

It was Elliott who spoke. “You know how there’s been no sign of them farther down the river. No one has found any trace of their camp either. No tents, tarps, canoe. That’s a lot of gear to lose. Even if the remaining canoe dumped and everything was lost —” He held up his hand to forestall Green’s protest. “Someone should have spotted something. Not everything would sink to the bottom of the river.”

Green turned to Jethro. The man’s unreadable stillness irritated him. As if he had secrets he was unwilling to share. “So what have you been thinking?”

“They have left the river,” Jethro replied quietly.

“What? And carried all that stuff inland? Over that?” Green nodded to the thick forest and steep mountains to their right.

Jethro bent his head and traced his finger over the map. “No. They set up a base camp on one of these creeks, out of sight of the main river.”

“Why?”

Jethro and Elliott exchanged looks. The Native’s face was still inscrutable, and once again he left the talking to Elliott. “Probably precisely so they wouldn’t be spotted from the river.” Elliott leaned over the map and pointed to a series of squiggly lines. “If they camped in one of these bigger creeks, they would have access to these mountains behind while at the same time being invisible to other parties passing by on the river. We’re here.” He pointed to a spot on the map. “And the coordinates of the mining claim are around here.” He traced a large circle through the mountains inland. It seemed to encompass miles.

“But we don’t even know if we have the right coordinates. What about those directions to Watson and Dawson?” Green squinted at the map. “That’s a lot of territory to cover!”

“Not all the creeks are good for setting up camp,” Jethro said. “We’re almost through the serious whitewater now. I suggest we check out each creek as we go downriver.”

Green eyed all the lines on the map with dismay. “But that will take hours.”

“Not as bad as if we canoe on past without seeing them.” Jethro folded the map and stood up. “This is our best shot. The official searchers will find them if they’re on the Nahanni somewhere. But if they’re hiding their base camp inland, the planes might not spot them.”

Green turned to Elliott. “What do you think?”

“I think Jethro is right. There are probably dozens of creeks feeding into the river through these mountains. Most are not navigable, some even dry in summer. But they can make a good pathway, and we might miss them unless we check.”

Green swivelled to Sullivan, who was seated cross-legged on the grass, stroking the dog’s shaggy fur. She lay quietly with her eyes shut, as unreadable as her master. Sullivan gave Green a long stare before he nodded. “They’re the experts, Mike.”

Reluctantly Green capitulated. But silently, he cursed. Cursed his aching body, his clumsiness, his complete ignorance. This wilderness made him feel small and weak and incompetent. Feelings he’d not had to face in a long time.

They woke up the next morning to light rain and paddled in the chilly drizzle without much conversation. Short forays into shallow creek beds yielded no signs of a camp. The mist lay low over the spruce trees and the river was as damp and gloomy as Green’s mood. It was wide and leisurely now, its slopes and bends seemed endless. Jethro and Elliott were mere specks up ahead, scouting the riverbanks for traces of camps. At each meander, Green lost sight of them altogether.

The river silt was a dull hiss below their hull, but gradually through the noise Green became aware of a louder roar. One he’d come to know.

He looked back at Sullivan nervously. “More rapids?”

Sullivan shook his head. “There aren’t supposed to be any more along here.”

They rounded the bend and saw the other two canoes pulled up on the gravel shoreline to river right. Beyond them Green could make out the white tips of churning water. His stomach clenched. Only once Sullivan had steered the canoe to shore did they see the other river pouring in from the right. A wide, flat river delta lay just beyond.

“This is the Little Nahanni,” Elliott said as Green and Sullivan hauled their canoe up beside the others. “We’ll camp just in there, grab some lunch, and then we’ll explore up here on foot.”

Green felt a surge of excitement. The Little Nahanni River was near the boundary of the mining claim. “You think they went up there?”

“It’s one possible route they could have taken up into the mountains back there. There were all sorts of mining exploration up there in the past.”

Green eyed the tumbling water dubiously. “But surely they couldn’t canoe up that.”

Elliott shrugged. “An expert could. You can paddle the easy parts and line your canoe up through the fast parts. But people canoe down it all the time. Helluva lot of fun, actually.”