Strange Things Done (4 page)

“But the sun’s not even up yet. I don’t think …”

“Nine. The Pit opens at 9 a.m.”

“What!”

“That’s the North for you.”

“Well, I guess it does have its merits,” Jo said, turning to leave. “I’ll meet the others when I get back.”

“Oh, about the others …”

There was something in the way he said it that made her turn around. “Yes?” she said. Wary. As if on cue, a papery, scurrying sound emanated from a crate next to Doug’s desk. Curious, Jo moved forward for a look, causing a flurry of activity inside the box. A sticker that read “The medium is the message” had been affixed to the lid.

“That’s Marshall,” Doug said. “He’s in charge of newspaper disposal and recycling.”

Jo leaned closer. Inside the crate, a plump, gold-coloured guinea pig perched on his haunches, sniffing the air and worrying his hands. One beady eye appraised Jo, the other was conspicuously missing.

“What happened to him?”

“I rescued him from a … well, a classroom bully who thought it would be funny to put a pencil in his eye.”

“Omigod … Poor little fella.” Jo reached out to pet him. Marshall trembled suspiciously, flaring his nostrils. “What classroom?”

Doug’s shoulders lifted, as though expecting something heavy to be placed there. “Didn’t I mention that?”

“What?”

“Well … everyone in Dawson kind of leads a double life. Has to, to make ends meet, in, uh, all honesty.” His mouth did something funny on the word “honesty,” as though he had trouble with the shape of it.

Jo studied Doug’s face, the solemn creases of his forehead, feeling somewhat apprehensive about the direction the conversation was taking. Whatever detail he had omitted in their conversations about the position, Jo felt it hadn’t been an accidental oversight.

“I teach school by day and run the paper by night. But it’s all good, right?” Doug brushed self-consciously at a smudge of chalk on the cuff of his cardigan.

“Oh. I mean, the salary is not sizeable, but surely …?”

“This is the first year the salary for this position has been supplemented by the KLA. That’s the Klondike Literary Association. Prior to that, the salary was based entirely on ad revenue, after the hard costs of running the paper were covered.”

“I see,” Jo said. “But you didn’t wish to stay on, then? Now that there’s been a salary increase? I mean, you could have …”

“No.” He said it firmly, as though trying to persuade himself. “I need to … I would like to be gone by freeze-up. I’m taking an early retirement.”

Jo found herself wanting to ask how this was possible, but thought the question would come off as being too personal. “Well, what about the other staff? I mean, there are other names credited on your site. Why make an outside hire?” Jo was now genuinely alarmed by Doug’s revelations.

“I contribute additional articles, when I can. You know, under pen names.”

Jo stared at him. She had the sense that something in her universe had just subtly shifted. She had believed that the
Daily
was made up of a team of writers, and that she would be managing them. There were no other writers on staff. At all. Just Jo.

“For this week, I can meet you here shortly after 3:30 every day, when school lets out. I’m just over at Robert Service Elementary on Third, next to the Westmark Inn.”

“By the Snake Pit?”

“Yes.”

“Convenient.”

Doug gave her a look to see if she was kidding. She wasn’t.

“RSE is a great little school. Yellow clapboard building. You can’t miss it. Also houses the town library.” His eyes crinkled a little. “You can come by at recess if you need anything. I’ll give you a schedule.” Somewhere a heater clicked on, whining under the strain of its workload.

Jo struggled to find a response that didn’t ring shrilly in accusation. The sound of the heater mocked her, imitating her own laborious mental machinations.

“Try and get some good photos out there,” he said. “Of the body, I mean.”

“I’m sure the RCMP will have the scene under some kind of lockdown by now. The place will be cordoned off. Forensic team, divers … you know.”

“Hmm. Wouldn’t be too sure about that. Johnny’s only got four guys—mostly newbies doing time in Dawson until they can get enough experience under their belts to be transferred south.” He shrugged. “Anyway. I’d go with you, but …” He patted her lightly on the shoulder. “I’ll review your work every evening, just for this first week …”

“I don’t need my work reviewed.”

“… just to give you some suggestions. Pointers. We go to print on Fridays.”

“But you
are
called the
Dawson
Daily
?”

“We were daily—at the turn of the last century. Bit of a population decline after the Gold Rush. So … uh …” He fumbled with some paperwork on his desk. “Any questions?”

Jo swallowed. Her mouth felt dry. “Have you got a map of town?”

Doug pointed to a framed map on the wall behind her, drawn in black ink, with a violin and bow in the top right quadrant marking north. The map made the town appear even more cornered, with an angry river circling the south and western shores and dark mountains walling off the north and east—the Klondike Highway the only thin ribbon of escape to the south between river and mountains. A campground and hostel in West Dawson, on the western shore of the Yukon River, was misspelled with an “i,” so that it read “hostil” instead of “hostel.” Areas outside of town disappeared into sketchy nothingness.

“And Jo?”

“Yes?” Jo already had one hand on the door handle.

“Remember, I’m still the editor for one more week, so everything goes through me. It’s still, you know, my story.” His eyes locked with hers. She thought about telling him where he could put his story, but after all, he would be gone in a week. Besides, until she knew for sure that there was a story, beyond someone drinking too much and falling into the river, it could all be wasted energy. Jo allowed Doug to mistake silence for agreement as she closed the door behind her.

Jo eyed the dark, churning surface of the Yukon River, imagining just how glacial it would be if she were suddenly pitched from the deck of Dawson’s rustic ferry. The width of the river from Dawson proper to West Dawson was probably half a mile, but it looked tumultuous. Jo tried not to think about the thousands of gold prospectors who had gambled their lives to risk these waters in 1896, arriving on roughly hewn rafts or overburdened paddle steamers. How many had lost the bet? Dawson had a long history of being the last refuge of the desperate.
Still is
, she thought. She was living proof.

Jo took a sip of lukewarm coffee and Baileys out of a chipped mug that read, “THE PIT.” No takeout cups in Dawson—she’d been given a loaner. Jo wasn’t in the habit of drinking in the morning, or even during the day, but just this once she indulged.
Hair of the dog.
She knew she’d been drinking too much since things had gone wrong for her in Vancouver. Frank had always said that alcohol wasn’t a good coping strategy.
Pot. Kettle.

Jo hadn’t needed to hang around long at The Pit. By the time the doors to “The Pink Palace” had opened at nine, everyone in town knew that a paranoid, cave-dwelling recluse by the name of Caveman Cal had found a body, which had washed up just outside his makeshift abode on the western shore.

The sun was just beginning to lift its head, burning the belly of distant cloud and sending a long claw of light across the surface of slate waters like a beckoning finger.

The ferryman misunderstood her solemn appraisal of the river. “Pretty, eh?” He was not much taller than Jo and a good forty years older. He wore a broad grin that made his face crinkle, though his raisin eyes assessed her with a certain shrewdness.

“Pretty cold,” Jo sort of agreed. “Haven’t they ever considered building a bridge?”

The man slapped his knee as though she’d just told the best pub joke in town. “A bridge over the Yukon River!” He continued chuckling, shaking his head. “Where’d be the fun in that, eh?”

“Public transportation should be fun?”

Still smiling, he said, “Lady, you don’t know Dawson. If there’s no challenge to a thing, it doesn’t belong here. Folks live in West Dawson for the sport of it. To survive after freeze-up, once they’re cut off from town. They hunt off the land and boil ice for water. Bridge! Ha. Good one.”

“Oh.”

“You’ll see.” He gave Jo a look that said he already knew who she was. “One winter and you’ll be a sourdough, too.”

“Sourdough …?”

“A survivor. Tough enough to survive, eh?”

Jo hoped the man was right. Then she hoped she wouldn’t have to find out. “But why
sourdough
?”

“The first settlers here, the miners, made sourdough bread instead of regular bread because they found that even freezing doesn’t kill sourdough starter.” When he laughed, the sound was a long, rasping smoker’s cough that made her wince.

“Ah. So when life gives you lemons …”

He shook his head and looked away, squinting into the distance at something upriver that Jo couldn’t see. “No. You don’t
make
sourdough. You become it.”

They were nearing a flat stretch of shoreline where two flags mired in stone and snow signalled the docking area. Next to the landing, a Zodiac marked “RCMP” had been dragged up onto a bare stretch of gravelly shoreline. The boat was a cheerful banana-yellow, a hot, tropical colour that seemed at odds with the austere and shadowy surroundings. Further down the rocky line of beach, a throng of black figures were milling about.

“So, what’s going on over there? Have you heard?” Jo asked.

The ferryman frowned. “Find out soon enough.”

Jo lifted her face against the wind.

Jo had her camera ready as they docked. The wind off the river was biting, carrying with it the scent of winter, pine, and mud. Many of the inhabitants of Dawson had already migrated to join a ragtag collection of neighbours on the northwestern shore, huddled together with their collars raised against the cold. Jo snapped a quick picture of the crowd, then shoved her way forward, muttering “Sorry … excuse me … press!” when she deemed it necessary. A handful of RCMP officers had already cordoned off a section of the shoreline and were in the final throes of erecting a tent over the area. The officers pushed the crowd back as Jo pressed forward.

Then she saw the body, face down in a small cove in the Yukon River. The corpse had lodged or been dragged mostly ashore, but the long, dark hair was still partially submerged and strangely beautiful as it writhed like seaweed in the water. The back of the head, though, was ruined in a way that forced Jo to look away. The woman was wearing the same quilted red parka as the woman last night. Jo took a deep breath of bracing air.

Next to the body, a young officer in hip waders was taking photographs. He was approached in long strides by Sergeant Cariboo. “Reid, what’s taking so long? Get her out of there and into the tent.” Cariboo eyed his wristwatch.

“Sorry, Johnny. Had to wait for the light. Wanted to make sure we git it right.”

Cariboo glanced at the sky, where the salmon glow of dawn was still breaking through ribs of cloud, though it was now well after
nine. He turned toward the crowd and caught Jo’s eye. A flash of recognition played across his features, followed swiftly by something else. Annoyance, perhaps.

“Sergeant Cariboo,” Jo said. “Could I have a word on behalf of the
Daily
?”

He moved forward, hands out like stop signs. “We have no comment at this time. Please step back.” He added more gently, “You shouldn’t be here, Josephine.”

“Jo. Was it an accident?”

Sergeant Cariboo blatantly ignored her, turning back to his team as though he hadn’t heard the question. “Scott, what’s our ETA on the coroner?”

Scott, gangly and still in his twenties, wore an expression that Jo interpreted as “eager to please.” He responded quickly with, “He’s got a three-hour drive from Mayo. At least, that’s three hours in good weather. We called him just after six.”

“Good. Should be here any time.” Sergeant Cariboo nodded, his brow furrowed.

Scott studied the sky with a look of apprehension. “Unless the weather turns.”