Strange Things Done (25 page)

“Are you sleeping with him?”

“None of your business.”

“How well do you know him?”

“Why do you hate him so much? What have you got on him?”

Cariboo’s bandaged fingers tightened on the arm of the sofa. “Why don’t you ask him that question?” His expression was dark.

“So. May Wong is still off hunting?”

“Now that you mention it, you were also on site at the break-in at May’s.”

“Oh please.” Jo said it with attitude, but secretly she was making her little circle chart again in her head. This time, she imagined herself in the middle, with Marlo, Doug, and May’s names in circles surrounding her, with lines drawn to her name. She felt things spiralling in.

“Look, the only thing to tie these incidents together is you,” Cariboo said, as if reading her mind.

“So I suppose I stole my own laptop.” The dog, Justice, turned his head with a jangle of tags as Jo raised her voice.

“I’m just saying …”

“And my file on Marlo McAdam.”

“He took your file?”

Jo nodded solemnly.

Cariboo’s forehead creased. He looked tired suddenly. “Why didn’t you say so?”

“You didn’t ask about the files.”

He rubbed the dark shadow of facial hair around his mouth. “Look, I’ve got a team here of five guys—good guys—working around the clock on this. But they are all young, junior officers trying to earn their stripes. We don’t have a forensics expert. For most of the guys, this is their first homicide. We’re doing a good job, by the book.” He paused. Jo could see how Cariboo had advanced so quickly in the RCMP. He took his time and thought things through. He was calm under pressure. “We don’t want anyone in town to panic.”

“Meaning, what—that they have reason to panic? That someone in this town is on a killing spree, and no one in town can get out now that freeze-up has hit?”

“Meaning that I don’t need you to create a sense of hysteria with your inflammatory articles about the RCMP handling of the investigation. It isn’t helping the situation.” Cariboo stood, his dark eyes flashing.
So he has read my blog, or at least knows about it.
“Meaning that I’ve already given you one warning about getting in the way of the investigation, and that your own involvement is being watched. Closely.”

“I see,” Jo said, just as Justice-the-dog lifted his heavy, greying head and gave her a curious look with unseeing eyes. Justice sniffed the air a little, licked his lips, and rested his chin on thick paws again. “So, the story is, a guy breaks into the
Daily
to steal some cash … or possibly some peanut butter …” Cariboo shot her a warning look, which Jo ignored. “Doug arrives on the scene. The thief attacks Doug with a Swiss army knife, then proceeds to strangle him to death. Why would he do that?” She waited for Cariboo to say, “Do what?” but he refused to take the bait, allowing the silence to linger instead. “Why would he bother strangling a guy with a telephone cord when he’s got a perfectly good knife, even if it is a bit small? Why not just drive the knife in one more time?”

“Exactly,” Cariboo said. He had a curious expression on his face. “It’s as if it were somehow important to the killer that Doug was strangled, too.” He sat back down on the arm of the sofa across from her, leaning forward.

He means me
. Jo swallowed.

Cariboo raised an eyebrow, his expression conflicted. A ripple in still waters. “It’s almost as if we’re supposed to think that it’s the Surrey Strangler.”

Jo felt something inside her icing over. “You don’t really think …” Jo realized with a cold shock that she might be the RCMP’s prime suspect.

“The victims of the Surrey Strangler—they had their ears mutilated, didn’t they?”

Jo nodded. She didn’t trust herself to speak for a moment, but Cariboo waited. “They were burned. Their ears. Then later …” Jo thought of the burning vehicle. The charred corpse. Cariboo allowed the silence settle back over the room, until she was ready. “You can’t think that he’s here? In Dawson?” she asked. She jostled her legs again, unable to find any heat in her body.
Was it possible?

Cariboo frowned. “Frankly, it’s difficult to know what to think. I’m focusing right now on what we’re
meant
to think.” He was watching Jo in that particular way of his that made Jo feel as though she were transparent.

Jo thought about the bruising at Marlo’s throat.

“One more thing,” Cariboo said, his brow furrowed. “If I were you, I wouldn’t get involved with Christopher Byrne.”

“Why not?” Jo crossed her legs and jiggled her foot, wondering if the lack of heat in the room had been strategical.

“Do you know where he was when Doug Browning was killed?” Cariboo’s eyes narrowed a little.

Jo crossed her legs the other way. She was about to say that Byrne had been at home. That’s where he had been headed when he dropped her at the
Daily
, before she left with Doug. Then it occurred to her that she had no proof that Byrne had actually gone back to his cabin and, as he lived alone, he wasn’t likely to have an alibi. She wondered why Cariboo disliked Christopher Byrne so much. Jo thought about what Sally had said—that Byrne was a known smuggler. Jo tried to stay calm, but she had that feeling she got whenever she found a hair in her mouth. First revulsion. Then panic. “No,” was all she said.

25

An antique radiator in the bathroom had been painted gold, the gilded strokes spilling over onto the wall behind. On top of the radiator perched a cherry-red radio, filling the cold room with warm strains of jazz that mingled with the beguiling scent of vanilla.

As hot water filled the peeling, claw-foot bathtub, Jo reread the letter. It was a copy of a classification statement for Claim 53 at Sourdough Creek, on Department of Fisheries and Oceans letterhead: the information that Marlo McAdam had requested before her death. Jo couldn’t see any particular importance to the correspondence. After a brief salutation to Mr. Jack Grikowsky from the inspector who had visited the mine, it confirmed the mine’s classification for the mining of gold. The document stated, “Claim 53 at Sourdough Creek—Classification: 4B (Defined as a tributary creek, no salmon or other species of fish present).”

Jo returned the letter to its envelope and placed it on the counter. She lifted a coffee cup full of warm whisky. Yukon Jack. Normally she wouldn’t drink whisky on its own, but today it was required with only a little boiling water and a slice of lemon. She swallowed a mouthful of liquid fire. The stuff tasted like rancid honey, and she felt it burn a path clear through her digestive tract.
That’s the stuff.
She turned off the tap, disrobed, and slid into the bath with a soothing squeak of skin against porcelain.

A cake of soap labelled “Wash your sins away!” rested in a wall-mounted dish.
If only.
Jo picked up her dog-eared, paperback copy of
The Name of the Rose
from the edge of the tub and began to read, letting the scalding water soothe taut muscles. She spent a few peaceful moments chanting with monks, until she stumbled on a line about seeing through a glass darkly. Distracted, she put the book down, only vaguely aware that the pages were damp. She’d lit a single tea light, housed in a Mason jar on the counter. The flickering candle was somehow comforting in its persistence, if not its strength.

Jo sank deeper into the tub, sending soft curls of fog up into the chilly air. At some point, the bath had been painted a bright pink, but the paint had bubbled and was chipping away in spots. Jo took a deep breath and submerged herself in the water, willing away the images of the day: Doug lying in a pool of blood, the tangled mess of phone cord, the bloody paw prints across the floor. She opened her eyes under the water, watching her dark hair flow out around her, like a siren. Jo released her breath slowly, following the path that the bubbles made to the surface. Then the lights went out.

She sat up abruptly, sending water sloshing over the edge of the tub. Now the candle cast eerie shadows in the room as the music on the radio died. She stood up, allowing the warm water to run off her body as she reached for a towel. Her wet skin rose in bumps at the shock of cool air.

Somewhere below, on the first floor, hushed voices were arguing. A male voice said, “Did you say anything?”

“No, don’t be dense.” Sally.

“Do you think she suspects?” The man’s voice sounded familiar.

“Of course not. Why would she? Okay, where did I just put those goddamned matches?”

“I dunno …” It wasn’t clear whether the male voice was speaking to the issue of suspicion, or whether it was referring to the location of the matches.

“She’s completely clueless about most of the stuff that goes on in this town. Ah, here …”

Jo rushed to towel off, hoping to catch the rest of the conversation. She was shivering now, but only partly from the cold.

Sally and Christopher Byrne were sitting inches apart on the sofa when Jo arrived in the living room. “That’s a good look for you,” Sally said, making Jo feel suddenly self-conscious about the ratty bathrobe, towel on her head, and gooseflesh on her pale, skinny legs.

Byrne stood, as though to increase the distance between himself and Sally. “Oh hey, Jo … didn’t see you there.”

“Evidently,” Jo said, clutching the Mason-jar candle. “Thought you might need a light.”

Sally and Byrne exchanged a look, and she felt something unsaid pass between them.

“I was just in the neighbourhood,” Byrne said. “Saw the power go out and thought I’d check in on you guys.” Jo studied his face, the fiery mask of new beard that framed his frown.

“Your cabin is forty-five minutes away on the Dempster Highway,” Jo said.

Sally chimed in, a little too brightly, “Well. I’ll just … go … do something fun, like read the obituary column.” She took a deep breath. “Again.” She sashayed off.

“You okay? I heard about Doug,” Byrne said.

“Yes. I’m fine,” she lied. “So, what are you really doing here?”

“Okay, I lied. Actually, I wanted to bring you something. I didn’t want to say in front of Sally.”

“Why not?” Jo could hear the cynicism in her voice, and thought she sounded like her father, who always made you feel like you were lying. Even when you weren’t. Frank always assumed the worst in everyone. Sometimes there was just no escaping the past.

Byrne reached inside a khaki backpack. “Here,” he said, holding out a burgundy leather book with gold embossing. “I thought you might enjoy these,” he said.

Jo turned the book over to see the spine, which read,
The Collected Poems of Wallace Stevens.
“Oh.” she said. “That’s … well, thank you.” Jo stared stupidly at the book, both flattered and apprehensive. She shoved one hand into the pocket of her bathrobe. “That’s very kind of you.” She didn’t want to accept the gift, but she couldn’t think of an appropriate reason not to.

Byrne nodded. “Looks like the power is out all over town. If it doesn’t come back on shortly, you might want to make alternative plans. It’s minus thirty or so out there already.”

“Oh! No!” A surge of dread washed over her. “It’s electric heating in here, isn’t it?” Jo could already feel a stealthy front of cold advancing, curling around her legs like a cat.

“The town does have a backup genny, but it can take a while and it’s not always a sure bet. You’re welcome to come by my place. I have a wood-burning fireplace in my cabin. Well, you know that.” He smiled.

“Thanks. I’ll call you if I run into trouble.” Jo hugged the book to her body like a shield, but refrained from inviting him to stay.

Byrne cleared his throat a little, expectantly. “It’s just that I don’t have a phone.”

“Yes, of course. I forgot.”

“Thought you might like to come back with me now.” He scuffled his feet. His expression was difficult to interpret, but looked evasive somehow. Their eyes met and Jo felt a rush of panic, and something else. She glanced away.

“I’m gonna hold out for the backup genny, but thanks for coming by.” Her mouth felt dry.

Byrne looked like he was about to say something, then changed his mind. He nodded and turned to leave, when there was a knock at the door. “Excuse me,” Jo said, but before she had a chance to escape, Sally was there, still chewing a bit of bagel with salmon, leading Johnny Cariboo into the lounge. Cariboo was carrying a Wild & Woolly bag in one hand. “Well!” Sally said, her tone bright, “This is entertaining! I didn’t know that I was going to get dinner and a show!” She took another bite of the bagel, looking expectant and amused as she glanced back and forth between Bryne and Cariboo like she was at a tennis match.

An awkward second or two passed while Cariboo registered the presence of Christopher Byrne, and vice versa. Jo could sense the tension between them. “Mr. Byrne was just leaving,” Jo said to Cariboo.

Byrne smiled at Cariboo without showing any teeth, hands shoved in pockets. “Good evening,” he said to Cariboo. His smile twisted a bit when he noticed the Wild & Woolly bag. Cariboo nodded without smiling. Byrne kissed Jo on the cheek as he passed. “Later,” he said. Sally walked him to the door.

Jo was still holding the book, which felt like stolen goods as Cariboo eyed it suspiciously. She was reminded momentarily of Frank.