Loud crunching sounds in the snow. Then Lazarusie Uvvayuaq stepped into the light. Meteor recognized him and stopped growling. Lazarusie followed Clem into the kitchen.
“Qiqitaani,” he said. I’m freezing.
“Well now, that’s really a disgrace for an Eskimo,” Clem said. He could get away with saying that to Laz, who often called him a paleface in good fun.
Clem filled the kettle and put it on the stove.
“How long have you been hanging around out there?”
Lazarusie pulled off his hood and sat down, still wearing his parka.
“No idea.”
Clem should have known: never ask an Inuvialuk about time. He put a sugar shaker on the table.
“Why didn’t you just knock on the door?”
“I didn’t see anybody. And your pickup isn’t here.”
“It’s still at the hospital. The doc wouldn’t let me drive. Maybe in a week, he said. So you need a phone?”
Lazarusie nodded.
“Gotta call my wife.”
“Good idea. What happened anyway? More problems with Tanya?”
The kettle whistled, and Meteor lowered his ears.
“The cops wanted to talk to me, but I wasn’t home.”
“I see. You’re here.”
Clem poured black tea into two cups and plied Lazarusie with the inevitable cookies. Laz shook a huge amount of sugar into his tea.
“Why don’t you go to the station and talk to the RCMP? I bet they found boot tracks around the body. And your snowmobile tracks. It’s better if you tell them what you know.”
“No. I’ve got to talk to you first.”
Clem sat down, feeling uneasy.
“Because of the shaman’s rattle.”
Lazarusie didn’t say anything. They sipped their tea in unison. Meteor looked from one man to the other, hoping for a cookie. Lazarusie often slipped him one in spite of Clem’s protests. Not that the Inuvialuit spoiled their dogs. But Meteor wasn’t a sled dog in Lazarusie’s eyes, nor a working dog, just the pampered domestic animal belonging to his white friend.
Clem suspected what was driving Laz. He felt a touch of cold in spite of the hot tea. He stalled for time, played with a cookie. Silence wasn’t necessarily a void that the Inuvialuit had to fill with conversation. Clem had seen it often. They sometimes waited for a long time and said almost nothing. But Clem had to bring up the subject before it was too late.
“They took Pihuk Bart in for questioning. Won’t you tell the RCMP about the rattle?”
Lazarusie immediately turned his head away and pretended to be distracted. Clem knew exactly what that meant: he’d treaded on a taboo. And yet he couldn’t avoid it. This was serious business.
“Laz, I wouldn’t have asked if there wasn’t a murder investigation going on.”
“I need to call my wife,” his visitor said.
Clem handed him his cell phone. He went to the bathroom and held the door shut to fight off Meteor’s snout. Clem could hear Lazarusie’s voice and some words in Siglitun, the dialect of the Tuktoyaktuk people. He didn’t get the exact words but got the gist of what they were talking about.
Danny, Lazarusie’s son who still lived at home with Laz and his wife, was for some reason raised to be a shaman. That was why Danny—Clem knew him by his Christian name—was not allowed to play with other children in school or at home, or to watch TV or listen to music. The family insulated him from unwanted influences. When Danny was fourteen, he began to rebel. Time after time he would escape from home, get involved with drugs, and declare he wanted to sing in a band. He didn’t give up his role as shaman-in-waiting entirely because it garnered him admiration and approval. But he fooled around with it in ways that didn’t conform to tradition and certainly not to his parents’ and the Tuktoyaktuk council of elders’ beliefs. Clem guessed that Danny must be sixteen by now. He’d heard recently that he was taking part in a government job-creation program.
He went back into the kitchen. Lazarusie looked up.
“I’ll talk to the police. What am I supposed to tell them?”
Clem filled Meteor’s water bowl and took out the shaman’s rattle Lazarusie had given him for safekeeping. He held the gorgeous carving in his hands. A bird’s head with little pointed teeth in an open bill. On the elongated body, but not the handle, hung dozens of tiny bone attachments that Clem recognized as baby seals only after he’d scrutinized them. Shaking the rattle made the little bones produce a sound like the wild wind over the ice. A masterpiece—Clem appreciated that at once.
“One of your relatives carved this, didn’t they?”
Lazarusie nodded.
“My uncle made several rattles for Danny. They resembled his grandfather’s very much; he was a shaman, too. Tanya says Danny started to sell them. He’d discovered that collectors would pay a lot to own one. But that’s probably not true.”
“Laz, how did Gisèle happen to get this rattle?”
Lazarusie bent his head.
“Danny says that Tanya stole it and sold it.”
“There’s a rumor making the rounds that Gisèle was going to meet Pihuk Bart on the Ice Road that night. If that’s really so, she was evidently interested in shamans. Did she ever get in touch with Danny?”
“My wife asked Danny that, and he said no.”
Clem rubbed his tired face. He ought to get some rest and stop racking his brains.
“You must tell the police everything when you talk to them, Laz, including the business with the rattle. I don’t see any other way.”
Lazarusie clenched his fists and pressed them down on the edge of the table.
“That will make the spirits angry. Bad things happen when sacred rattles fall into the wrong hands.”
Clem looked at him in amazement. It wasn’t the police his friend was scared of; it was the power of ancient ritual. The revenge of the spirits.
“That’s why we’ve got to stop this, Laz. You’re doing exactly the right thing. And whatever happens, I’ve got your back, OK?”
Clem picked up his phone. He called John Palmer and let him know Laz was there and ready to talk.
“Have him come here; I’m in my office,” Palmer said.
“He feels safer at my place, John. Would it be possible for you to come here?”
To his surprise, Palmer agreed.
Palmer appeared in ten minutes with a second officer, who introduced himself as Franklin Edwards from the Yellowknife RCMP. Clem had a vague recollection of seeing him in Helvin’s office. Meteor couldn’t make up his mind whether to be on guard or thrilled. Clem commanded the dog to lie down on his mat in front of the stove.
Clem was amazed that the Inuvik police had brought in a man from the capital of the Northwest Territories as backup. Was Gisèle’s death behind it? Or maybe the explosion on the ice? So far there’d only been a dry press report that had downplayed it.
Palmer asked the questions and Edwards took notes. Lazarusie began to talk, haltingly, omitting nothing he’d told Clem. Edwards put on rubber gloves and dropped the rattle into a transparent bag.
Then Lazarusie said, “I found something else.”
His hand disappeared into his pants pocket. He laid something on the table, palm-sized, wrapped in a damp, tattered cloth, tied with a string.
Edwards removed the cloth. When Clem saw the box, he caught his breath.
“Where did you find this, exactly?” Palmer asked.
“Between my snowmobile and . . . the dead woman.”
“How far from the body?”
“About seven arm’s lengths.”
Edwards carefully opened the box. They all stared at the gold nugget.
It took a few seconds for Palmer to speak up again.
“Why did you pocket this?”
“I forgot to put it back. After I saw the body, I got scared. And then, later, when I remembered it, I thought it was too late.”
Edwards spoke next.
“It’s not every day that a g
old nugget is found on the Ice Road, right? A person would remember that, don’t you think?”
“I didn’t know what was in it. I never opened it. I just remembered it today.”
Clem thought it was time to get the police off Lazarusie’s back.
“Somebody’s sending me a nugget, too. Just heard about it yesterday.”
The policemen’s eyes turned toward him, as did Lazarusie’s.
“A friend called me from Dawson. A young woman gave her a package with my name on it and asked her to bring it to me. My friend is coming up the Dempster today. I told her I wasn’t expecting a package, so we decided she should open it to see what was inside. And there it was. A gold nugget in a box.”
“Where’s it now?” Edwards wanted to know.
“My friend’s bringing it.”
“Where is she?”
“She’s planning to leave Dawson today.”
“What’s her name?”
“Valerie Blaine, from Vancouver. She’s a tour guide bringing a group to Inuvik.”
It didn’t escape Clem that Edwards waited a beat before writing down the name.
“Who was the woman who gave your friend the package?”
“Grace. Grace Wilkins, if I remember correctly. She works as a waitress in the Downtown Hotel.”
Clem had the sudden feeling that the investigators knew more than they were letting on.
“What the hell’s going on with these damn nuggets, John?” Clem asked Palmer.
“That’s what we’re trying to find out.”
“Lemme guess: some more of these nifty presents have turned up, am I right?”
Edwards stood up and Palmer followed suit.
“Lazarusie, we’ll have to take down your statement officially at the station,” Palmer said. “Not today, tomorrow.”
Then he turned to Clem.
“Don’t forget to hand over the nugget to us.”
“How could I forget?”
Clem stood up and stretched his back, as if attempting to appear even more imposing than he already was, given his height.
“What’s happening around here is quite extraordinary, you might say. A massive explosion in polar-bear country; a dead woman on the Ice Road; somebody whacks me on the noggin, dammit, and now somebody’s paving the streets with lumps of gold. Helv West has vanished off the face of the earth for days now. And nobody can tell us what gives. Pretty nice state of affairs. Truly reassuring.”
He crossed his arms over his chest.
“Know anything about Helvin? He was spotted in Dawson, by the way. And what about the idiot that knocked me out?”
John Palmer adjusted his fur hat.
“We’re pleased that you’ve given us this information,” he said. “We’re doing everything in our power.”
The officer from Yellowknife nodded. He wished Clem a speedy recovery. “And call us if you hear anything.”
“What am I supposed to hear?” Clem muttered after the RCMP officers had left the house.
“From your friend on the Dempster,” Lazarusie said, spelling it out.
CHAPTER 18
They left Dawson at eight sharp. Breakfast had to wait. The Chevy took its own sweet time to warm up. A few minutes later somebody—Valerie thought she heard Carol’s voice—started shouting and others immediately joined in.
“Dempster! Dempster! Dempster! Dempster! Dempster!”
Even Faye bellowed along with them. Valerie felt like she was in a football stadium full of excited fans. The boisterous mood in the bus was irresistibly infectious. She turned around and saw a sea of happy faces despite the early hour. A tour guide’s boon. She laughed and shook her head as if to say, “You guys are really something.”
They stopped at the entrance to the Dempster Highway and studied the checklist for drivers on a bulletin board. FIRST AID KIT, WATER CANS, EMERGENCY FLARES, SPARE GAS. IN WINTER: SHOVEL, SLEEPING BAG, COLD-WEATHER CLOTHING, STOVE AND MATCHES, AND A VEHICLE IN GOOD CONDITION AND THOROUGHLY INSPECTED. Valerie had the bus pull over in front of two other boards: EAGLE LODGE 363 KM, INUVIK 735 KM. But the final board, a warning, fascinated the group: NEXT GAS 370 KM.
The minibus moved on ahead, and everybody started talking loudly at the same time.
“Do we get a danger allowance?”
“Val, did you bring enough antifreeze?”
“I’m already sweating in my thermal underwear.”
“Keep your batteries warm, people!”
“Why aren’t you wearing your Hawaiian shirt, Jordan?”
“Does a satellite phone work on batteries?”
“How cold is it outside, Val?”
“Minus twenty-two, but it’s supposed to be minus thirteen later. You’ve really lucked out.”
She didn’t tell them that the water in the canisters and the chocolate bars had turned hard as stone in the minibus overnight. They’d have to melt snow to make their coffee when they stopped for a break.
Mercifully, the frozen dirt road was almost ice free. Valerie told the group that the climate along the Dempster was surprisingly dry because the Pacific coastal mountains held back the moist air. Unlike other parts of Canada, the northern region of the Yukon Territory had not experienced prehistoric glaciers or ice sheets.
“But you already know that from the Beringia Museum,” she said. “There’s not much snow in winter, and it thaws quickly in the spring, as you can see by those deep gullies.” She pointed to the ditches running along the side of the road. “The water can run off there, and the road doesn’t get flooded. Otherwise it would freeze, and we’d be on an ice rink.”
She’d already lost her audience during that last sentence because Glenn Bliss had spotted a red fox.
“Photo stop!” he shouted.
Now Valerie saw the fox too, lying beside a fir in a hollow. When the bus stopped, it bounded off.
A fine mist had covered the landscape so that only the shoulders of the road were visible. An occasional fir rose out of the milky soup like a scrawled black-ink drawing.
Once they hit the hard gravel, they made better time. They encountered a road service SUV, the only vehicle they saw on this stretch. While the voices from the seats behind her chattered away, Valerie and Faye talked only when necessary.
Faye was focused on the road; she took her position very seriously. Valerie remembered how she’d traveled the same stretch last summer. Sedna had slept through the early morning hours. Sleeping off her hangover, Valerie supposed, because though she herself had gone to bed early, Sedna said she was going to make another pilgrimage to the Downtown Hotel. For a nightcap, she said. Valerie now knew that Sedna had spent that August night dining and dancing with Richard Melville, the gold-mine owner, at the Prospectors’ Festival.
Valerie’s thoughts turned to her brother Kosta; she’d sent him a long, detailed, newsy e-mail that morning. There was no reason not to tell him about Sedna, and Faye’s discovery at Blue Eagle. She asked him, “Why do you think Sedna is hunting down our parents?”
Valerie was suddenly struck by the thought that Sedna wanted to know more about her biological mother than she did. But why?
Peter Hardy-Blaine, your family is not what it pretends to be.
Faye interrupted her ruminations. “You look good in that jazzy jacket.”
“Oh, thanks.” Valerie turned toward her in surprise. “I want to be visible in the snow. Yellow or pink—that was the question.”
Faye had on a bright green jacket. Nobody could accuse them of not leading by example.
“Then get out into the snow so those guys up there can see you.”
“Those guys up there?”
Faye pointed with her chin toward the windshield.
Valerie leaned forward and saw a helicopter making an arc before disappearing from view.
“Somebody’s keeping an eye on us,” Faye said.
Valerie leaned back.
“Probably the highway patrol.”
“Probably,” Faye said, not ent
irely convinced.
The group behind them was discussing Jack Dempster’s life. Paula was once again in her element, plying her fellow travelers with information from a pamphlet. Valerie had been saving it for the next picnic stop but was happy to turn it over to Paula.
“The men of the North-West Mounted Police patrolled the northern part of the Yukon Territory and the Mackenzie Delta on dogsled. Their patrols maintained the links between Dawson City, Fort McPherson, Herschel Island, and Rampart House. They sometimes traveled for months on end. Inspector Fitzgerald and three men never came back from a patrol in 1910, and it was Jack Dempster who found out what had happened to them.”
Paula had barely finished the sad conclusion of the Lost Patrol’s story when a babble of voices started up.
Faye whispered something to Valerie.
“I don’t know if I’m crazy, but it’s as if I can smell Sedna. As if she’s nearby.”
“Are you psychic? Because that would be very practical. Too bad I couldn’t pay you more if you were, though.”
“You’re not taking me seriously, Val. I just have this feeling.”
Valerie put her hand on Faye’s arm.
“Sorry. I’m a little tense. And my stomach’s growling. We’re almost at the spot for our break.”
“Just one car in the last forty-four miles.” Faye whistled through pursed lips.
Valerie smiled.
“It doesn’t get any better, believe me.”
They turned into the Tombstone Mountain campground ten minutes later. In an open log lean-to, they fed the cookstove with shavings and logs. They melted snow in aluminum pots on the grill for their coffee. Everybody pitched in. They roasted little curried sausages, plus tofu for Trish. They took turns standing at the stove to warm their hands. Valerie spread out pineapple, Camembert, baguettes, potato chips, carrots, and ham slices on the wooden table. After the meal, she brought out a bottle of Baileys that she’d kept warm in her room overnight. The group’s reaction was one of delight as they waved their paper cups. Only Faye, as their driver, conscientiously refused it.
Valerie surveyed the group. A person was missing.
“Where’s Trish?”
“She was going to go out back, to the bathroom,” Trish’s sister Carol shouted.
The Stranger on the Ice Page 11
