Strange Things Done (22 page)

“Favourite poem?”

“ ‘Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird.’ Remember?”

“No. Favourite food?”

“A good moose steak. Medium rare. I’ll make you one sometime. You?”

“Chinese dim sum.”

“You used to go every Sunday with Frank. In East Vancouver. You thought he was avoiding Sunday dinners without your mother.”

“I talked about Frank? Wow.” She thought for a moment. “You’re a good listener.” She meant it, and the realization came as a shock. “And you have an excellent memory.”

“Only when it’s important. Have you called him yet?”

“Yes.” She stared out the window for a moment, watching the endless loop of trees. He was intuitive enough not to ask for more information. She added, “So, where are we going?”

“Somewhere to help jog your memory. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? A reconstruction? I promised you.” Said with a smile.

“The Bluffs?” The skin around his eyes crinkled, but he didn’t respond. “Well, there’s something I wanted to ask you about.”

“Yes?” he said.

“About the argument you had with Marlo a few days before she died.” Byrne stared straight ahead. Jo said, “What was the disagreement about?”

The folksy ballad harmonized with the whispered secrets of the wind. Byrne cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. “Marlo was jealous. Actually, possessive might be a better word.”

“She followed you?”

He nodded. “Marlo was … how can I say this? I don’t want to speak ill of her now.” His eyes met hers. There was an undeniable spark between them. “Let’s just say there’s a fine line between passion and obsession. She was like that in her work as well.”

“So Marlo found out something she wasn’t happy about.”

“Yes,” he said, returning his attention to the narrow tunnels of light the low-beams were casting into the darkness, twin spotlights for dancing snowflakes.

“What was it?”

He gave no answer, but slowed the truck and pulled over into a parking lot, next to a wooded trail. A snow-burdened sign read “Crocus Bluffs.” Byrne opened his door, allowing a rush of wintry air to encircle her throat, but Jo didn’t move. She inhaled the scent of pine and fir.

“You wanted to know what we were doing up here the night Marlo died,” he said. “It was awkward to explain … easier to show you.”

“Show me?”

Byrne circled the truck and opened the door for Jo, which might have seemed chivalrous at another time. “Hop out!” he said. Jo wasn’t sure whether he’d intended it as an invitation or a command, but suddenly the grinding cold seemed like the least of her problems.
I could refuse
, she thought. But if she refused, she might never know the truth.
Reluctantly, she left the relative comfort of the cab. As she slid down from the torn leather seats and landed stiffly on the icy snow, Jo noticed a large warning sign in the parking lot. “Caution: bears and wolves in area.”
Perfect.

“Come with me.” Byrne took her by the hand again. This time without removing gloves.

“This is where they think Marlo might have … fallen?” Jo already knew the answer to the question, but felt overwhelmed by the need to fill any silence between them. Her voice sounded artificially cheerful. Byrne nodded but said nothing. Jo found herself doing something that Frank had taught her: to always search an area for escape routes. She wondered whether she’d be able to find her way to the road if she darted off into the forest, or whether she’d wind up running over a cliff and washing up at Caveman’s doorstep. “Why can’t you just tell me why we were all the way up here that night? Why didn’t you just drive me home?”

Byrne’s profile looked determined. He didn’t turn to look at her when he responded. “It’s not the kind of thing you can tell someone. Particularly not you.”

Jo thought about this for a moment. If the reason were something innocent, why wouldn’t she accept it? Why couldn’t he just tell her?
Because the reason is not something innocent.
Despite the jagged breeze, she began to perspire, creating cold patches under her arms.

“You know, I have to be up early in the morning. I probably shouldn’t hang around …”

Byrne ignored the comment. “Here. This way.” His grip tightened on her hand as he led her firmly down a narrow forest trail into the darkness.

Jo heard the river long before she saw it. It sounded angry. They emerged from the woods into an icy clearing marked “Crocus Bluffs,” with an arrow clearly directing the way.

Jo focused on her feet as Byrne pulled her forward, struggling to gain her footing as her rubber boots slid here and there. At the edge of the Bluffs, a tiny, waist-high wooden fence was all that stopped a body from pitching into oblivion, into the darkness and the river below. It would be easy to fall. Easy to throw someone over, too.

“This is as good a spot as any,” Byrne said gruffly.

Jo stared down, transfixed by the black emptiness below and the sound of a rushing, watery death.

“Look up.” Byrne said.

Was this some small kindness on his part? Like blindfolding a man before you shoot him?
Jo didn’t want to die, and she sure as hell wasn’t going to make it easy for him. Frank had always told her, in a worst-case scenario, leave as much forensic evidence as possible.
Get his skin under your nails.
Jo dug her nails into Byrne’s wrist. A pointless effort since she was wearing gloves.

“No. I don’t want to.” She squeezed her fingers as hard as she could, but her fingers were so numb she wondered if he could even feel her grip. Jo had to make a decision. She wondered if she could pull off a judo throw, but he might go over the railing. She had to be certain.

“Just look up.”

“No.”

Byrne moved behind her and wrapped her in a tight bear hug. Jo tried to wriggle free, but his arms crushed hers and held her still. If only she were turned to face him, she could knee him in the crotch. She felt a rush of panic. Smelled the scent of winter in the air. Tasted snow on her tongue.

“Look.”

Jo looked. The sky was an alien shade of green, a swirling curtain that housed the strangest theatrical production she had ever seen. Playful meteors of light bounced across their celestial stage as though they were line dancing.
The northern lights.

“Omigod …” Jo said.

“Yes.”

“It’s so beautiful.” She thought for a moment. “I saw this before? This is what we were doing up here?” An intense wave of relief flooded her muscles and she felt his hold on her release. Her knees were shaking. She hoped Byrne wouldn’t notice and mistake the feeling for something else. Jo turned to look at Byrne and saw that he was smiling, but still he didn’t answer her. Jo said, “It’s so strange the way they move. Almost spooky.”

He nodded. “According to legend, it’s very dangerous to whistle at the northern lights. If you do, the lights will come and cut your head off. When we were kids, we used to stand up here and dare one another to whistle.”

“That’s ridiculous,” she said. Byrne shrugged. “Didn’t you ever do it?”

“No way.”

“Well, I’m going to do it.” Jo said.

Byrne looked worried. “Why?”

“To prove it isn’t true. Don’t you want to know the truth?”

“There are some things I don’t need to know that badly,” he said.

Jo took a deep breath, pursed her lips to whistle and watched as the lights went crazy, playing racquetball across the universe. Byrne leaned in quickly and kissed her.

It was a kiss full of promise and possibility, and when it came to a reluctant conclusion, Byrne said, “That’s what we were doing up here.”

22

She could still taste the warm kiss that Christopher Byrne had given her, still feel his mouth against hers, although the office at the
Daily
was cold and dark. Her muscles ached for bed, but Jo hadn’t trusted herself enough to let Byrne drop her at the house. She knew she’d want Byrne to come in with her, and she also knew that it wasn’t a good idea. She didn’t trust him. Not yet. She didn’t know whether or not to believe that they’d been innocently kissing under the northern lights the night Marlo died. It seemed like an awfully big coincidence that they were in the vicinity when his ex-lover was murdered. For all she knew, Byrne could have killed Marlo while Jo was sleeping it off in the truck. Jo shivered and opened her eyes.

She had used the excuse that she needed to work on her story. This was partly true. She had already finished the story for Friday publication in the
Daily
, but she’d decided to publish her own version before then. She needed to tell the truth, as she knew it, or as much of it as she knew. And now, she needed to know for herself what the truth was. It was getting uncomfortably personal.

Jo unzipped her satchel and extracted the Geiger counter, turning it thoughtfully in her hands, considering its robotic whispers. It clicked meaningfully, like a puzzle piece falling into place. If only it were that simple. She sighed and slid open the bottom drawer of her desk, dropping the thing inside. As the drawer slid to a solemn close, she thought she heard something outside. The crunch of snow.

Her hand gripped the cool metal handle, suddenly conscious of the lateness of the hour and the gaping black windows that made her feel exposed. The wind whined like a hungry husky. Jo listened for several moments until, satisfied that she was being paranoid, she turned on the radio and settled down to work. A woman’s voice rose above the wind as Jo began laying out her story—the real story, not the story she had already submitted to Doug. Not a retrospective of Citizen Marlo, Good Dawsonite. This story featured the same photograph of Marlo, offering a Mona Lisa smile for the camera, but the headline read “Police Probe Mysterious Death: Suspect Foul Play.” The article fleshed out the hypothesis that someone met Marlo McAdam in the parking lot and drove her to Crocus Bluffs, and had not come forward. That person likely knew something about what Marlo had been doing on the Bluffs that night. They may have even been involved in Marlo’s death. Jo’s piece stopped just shy of accusing the police of a cover-up. Next to the spread on Marlo McAdam, Jo laid out a story on placer mining, called “The Yukon’s Silent Killer.” While the story didn’t directly accuse Claim 53 in particular of any wrongdoing, the title, placement, and content would make certain connections in the reader’s mind. Finally, a column titled “Where Is May Wong?” linked the disappearance of the owner of Claim 53 to the murder of Marlo McAdam. This article noted that May Wong had been seen leaving Diamond Tooth Gertie’s at about the time that Marlo had accepted her fatal ride, making it clear that May was likely to have been either the driver or a witness, and had since disappeared. Jo read through the finished articles, then hit “Save.”

This is how Jo would run the story if she were the editor. It was difficult to judge what the fallout of publishing the articles independently might be, but at least this time Jo would have done her duty to warn the public.

When Jo had finished uploading the articles for her new blog,
The Dawson Insider
(which would provide editorial comment on events described—or not described—in the
Dawson Daily
), she turned out the desk light, leaving her laptop open only slightly. The eerie, greenish glow provided enough light to locate her keys in a leather shoulder bag. Jo paused, leaning back in her chair for a moment. She closed her eyes. For the first time in quite a long time, Jo felt she deserved some little reward.

That kiss. Generous. Sensual.
But he had avoided answering her questions about the argument with Marlo.

The front door handle turned, startling her. A rush of cold air swirled into the room as a man in a dark parka, black nylon gloves, and a black balaclava opened the door. He held her stare, and the moment hung strangely between them.

The figure in the ski mask hesitated, fingering something in his pocket as if trying to make a decision. His eyes were wide with surprise. Jo stood then, turning her body to the side as she had been trained to do, preparing for a fight. Her muscles were tense. Knees bent. Ready.

The man raised his hands slowly, in supplication. “Only me,” he said, and giggled nervously as he removed the black wool cover from his face. Doug Browning.

Jo didn’t smile even when the mask was lifted. Her body was still angled away from him. She nodded slightly. “What are you doing here?” She kept her tone cool. There was something about his behaviour that unnerved her. He had taken too long to speak.

“I could ask you the same question.” He took a step forward, tentatively. He slipped one hand back into his pocket. “I like to come in here and putter when I can’t sleep,” Doug continued, withdrawing a glasses case from his pocket. “Didn’t mean to scare you. Couldn’t see who it was without my glasses. They fog up.” He opened the case and gave the spectacles a polish.

“Oh,” Jo said, relaxing then. She straightened her knees.
Ridiculous. Soon I’ll be as bad as Caveman.
“That’s okay.”

Doug bent down to see the
Daily
’s small mascot. “Hello, Marshall. You keeping warm?” His voice was like two pieces of paper rubbing together. The rodent stood on his hind legs and sniffed the air curiously.