In the Barren Ground

by Loreth Anne White

  From her pocket she produced the drawing that Jennie Smithers had given her this morning. “I believe there is an image like this in one of Mr. Spatt’s books.” She turned to Spatt. “I’d like to ask you some questions about the story, and to see a copy of the novel.”

  Spatt reached out for the drawing, forcing Tana to lean forward and hand it to him.

  The man frowned and pursed his lips as he studied it. “It’s not a fantastic rendering, but yes, there is a drawing like this in The Hunger.” He looked up. “Where did it come from? Why the questions?”

  The butler appeared with a glass of water on a tray, and she took it, sipping deeply—the ride had been long, and she was not only thirsty, she was ravenous. “It came to light in connection with a cold case,” she said, wishing Sturmann-Taylor’s shadowy manservant had brought snacks as well. “One that might be relevant to a current investigation.”

  “Is it a homicide? It must be something serious like murder that forces you out on such a long ride?”

  “It could possibly tie into a death investigation.”

  “Oh, this is exciting. Who was killed?”

  “I’m not at liberty to divulge much more than I have at this point.”

  Sturmann-Taylor glanced at Crash. Crash’s features remained indifferent.

  “Yes, yes of course. I see,” said Spatt, getting a little fidgety in his chair. “The Hunger is one of my earlier works, about a cannibalistic beast—a wolflike creature crossed with a man that craves human flesh once a year, just as the world turns toward winter. It has a heart of ice, and it can never satisfy its hunger. And it particularly loves maidens. The story is based on ancient local lore, and it’s set right in this area of the Northwest Territories, but in the past. Mid-1800s. It features an intrepid gentleman-adventurer hero with a taste for the Canadian wilderness and a curiosity for the supernatural—Cromwell is his name. It was my biggest seller—haven’t made it as big since.” He launched out of his chair, and waddled toward the shelves. “You do have a copy of The Hunger here somewhere, Alan, don’t you? Where is it, which shelf?”

  The butler stepped forward and slid a hardback out from one of the library shelves. He handed the book to Spatt.

  “This.” He reverently presented the book to Tana with both hands and a slight bow, as if an offering. His eyes glittered. “This is it. My blockbuster.”

  She opened the cover. The sketch was right there, just as Crash had described it, and there was no doubt that the drawing in Jennie’s possession was a copy of this same image—a skeletal human-beast, with a head that was part wolf, part human skull. Bared, bloodied fangs. In its blackened talons it clutched the dripping head of a woman. Four parallel gouges like claw marks ripped open half her face, and she was missing eyes. Tana breathed in slowly as she read the words on the opposite page.

  In the Barren ground of the soul

  nothing can grow.

  For here is bitter and cold where

  the sun hangs low.

  Where a midnight caribou mutilation

  awakens a howl of emptiness with ice

  where once there was heart.

  And it comes with hunger

  for blood in its mouth.

  For, in the Barrens of the soul,

  monsters take toll …

  Her heart began to slam against her ribcage as she turned the page and started the first lines of the first chapter.

  And there carried upon the night wind an odor that was both fetid and fragrant. So subtle was this scent, that had Cromwell not noticed the queer change that came suddenly upon his Voyageur guide as the draft stirred the flames to brightness, he’d not have noticed it himself. But his man, Moreau, who was squatting in his furs before the campfire smoking his pipe, abruptly snapped his eyes toward the dark forest. It was then that Cromwell became aware of the gentle but malodorous scent. Moreau’s nostrils flared, as though he might be a creature of the woods catching the carrion stink of a predator upwind. And as the flames settled back to embers, Cromwell saw a look in the Voyageur’s dark face that deeply disquieted him. His man was scared, to the very quick of his soul …

  She flicked through pages, reading random passages, her body going hotter and hotter.

  … Above the gorge in which the ravaged and decapitated body lay, stood a man of tundra stone common to the north that Cromwell knew to be called an inukshuk …

  She checked the publication date. The Hunger had first been released in hardcover five years ago. Tana flicked quickly to the acknowledgments at the back.

  Thank you to Charlie Nakehk’o, our native guide, a Twin Rivers elder, who told us the story of the hungry spirits of the wild around a campfire one hunt. And a deep debt of gratitude must also be extended to Alan Sturmann-Taylor for his gracious hospitality at his new lodge …

  Tana cleared her throat, and said quietly, without looking up, “Is Charlie Nakehk’o here at the moment?”

  “He is,” replied Sturmann-Taylor. “He’ll be with us all winter.”

  “Can I speak with him?”

  “I’ll have him brought in—”

  “In private,” she said, glancing up and meeting Sturmann-Taylor’s gaze. Her blood was racing. Someone was acting out, bringing to life, the things in this book, word for word, and had been doing so for at least four years.

  “I’ll have my butler bring him to the sunroom.” Sturmann-Taylor nodded to his man, who slipped out at his command.

  “Why—what is it?” Spatt said, his grin fading, consternation creasing his brow. Crash watched in silence from near the fire, his face giving nothing.

  “I’d like a copy of this book,” she said. “I’d like to read it.”

  “I can gift you a signed paperback, I have several copies in my—”

  “A signed copy shall be delivered to your room, Constable,” Sturmann-Taylor said calmly. “You will of course be staying for dinner, and for the night. All right with you, O’Halloran?”

  “Whatever the officer wants, or needs.”

  “We have a trip to make farther north, at first light,” Tana said.

  “No problem. Whatever time you need to leave, my staff will see you out with sustenance and any other supplies that you might require.”

  She turned to Spatt, who was now pacing the room. “Where would people generally find copies of this book—are there any available locally? In the Territories?”

  “Well, of course there are,” he said. “I got great coverage in the Yellowknife media when it was first released. And I delivered a whole box of complimentary copies to the Twin Rivers library, as small as it is. Copies were on sale in the diner store, as well, and still might be. The Hunger is available to anyone who visits the lodge. It’s sold all over the US, Canada. Germany—translated. I do very well in the Scandinavian countries. England. And you can get it online, in digital format.”

  “And where were you in early November, four winters ago?”

  He stalled his pacing. “I’ve been coming here to overwinter every year for the last five years, arriving just before Halloween. I was one of Alan’s first guests after he bought the place, and that year was the best hunt I’d had of my life. I’ve seen this lodge grow from a rundown old outfit into one of the most discreet high-end, luxury wilderness experiences around the globe. And I will only hunt with Charlie as my guide, like many others who come here.”

  “And this past Friday, November second, where were you?”

  Worry darted through his beady little eyes. “Where is this going, Constable?”

  She forced a smile. “Just covering bases.”

  “I …” He exchanged a glance with Sturmann-Taylor. “It was a hunt day, right, Alan? Friday?”

  “Correct.” Sturmann-Taylor’s demeanor, like Crash’s, belied nothing, but Tana could feel tension humming off him.

  “Where did you hunt?” she said.

  “North of Headless Man.”

  “How did you get there?”

  “Chopper. Like that one the
re.” He pointed to a photograph on an antique-looking, black wood dresser. “We use a local pilot.”

  She walked over to the set of photographs, leaned closer. “What kind of helicopter is this?” she said.

  “AS355 Eurocopter Twin Squirrel,” said Sturmann-Taylor. “Six seater. One of Boreal Air’s.”

  Tana studied the other photos—groups of hunters on excursions. Sturmann-Taylor with various women. Another picture showed a laughing group in camo gear with guns, arms around each other’s shoulders. At their feet sprawled a dead grizzly. Sturmann-Taylor’s boot rested on the grizz’s head. With him was Henry Spatt, Markus Van Bleek, Harry Blundt, and Heather MacAllistair, who must have been their Boreal Air pilot.

  “And where was this one taken?” she asked, gesturing to the picture.

  “That one?” Sturmann-Taylor said, coming to her side. “Nehako Valley. Grizzly bear hunt.”

  Tana’s pulse gave a kick.

  Nehako—where Alexa Peters had said the body of a Kelowna geologist had been found scavenged.

  “Oh, that was just a fabulous trip,” Spatt said, coming over. “I have an even better photograph than that one.” He whipped out his wallet, and flipped through it. “Here,” he said proudly. “One with the brown bear that I bagged with a bow, moreover.”

  Tana took the image from him, and her heart slowed to an erratic beat. There was an extra member of the hunting party in this photo. Trying to keep her voice level, and without looking up, she said, “Impressive. Did you hunt often with this particular group, Mr. Spatt?” Her voice came out tight, and she heard it. In her peripheral vision she saw Crash glance her way suddenly. He’d heard it, too. Which meant Sturmann-Taylor and Spatt had probably noticed as well.

  Be careful what you say now, Tana …

  “On more than one occasion, yes. That particular hunt was November three years ago, wasn’t it, Alan?”

  The geologist went missing three years ago …

  She glanced up. Sturmann-Taylor’s features had gone hard. His eyes were narrowed, sharp, assessing, like a predator. And she knew she was not supposed to have seen this photo. With this extra man in it.

  The library door opened, saving her. “Charlie is awaiting you in the sunroom, ma’am. I’ll show you the way,” said the manservant.

  CHAPTER 34

  On a table in the sunroom, Tana laid out the photographs of the Apodaca-Sanjit attack aftermath that she’d brought for Charlie. “What I’m interested in, is does this look like a wolf or bear kill to you—is this pattern of animal predation something you’ve seen before in the wild?”

  Charlie’s long braids swung forward as he bent to study the photos. He smelled of sage and wood smoke. Tana had apologized for the subject matter, but he’d said he was okay to examine the photos she’d taken at the scene. She’d also brought for him images from the Dakota Smithers and Regan Novak autopsies.

  His face went dark. The air around him seemed to grow thick. He took his time. Then his hand went slowly up to the jade talisman he always wore on a thong around his neck. It was to ward off evil, he’d once told Tana. The evil of lonely places. And his brown, gnarled hand curled around it.

  “Not wolves,” he said in his husky voice. “Not bear. Maybe they come later, but something was there before.”

  A chill ran down Tana’s back.

  “What makes you say this?” she said.

  “They don’t do it like this.”

  “But they could have?”

  He shook his head.

  “Has anyone asked for your input on the Dakota Smithers and Regan Novak attacks before?”

  “No one. I never saw the sites where these kids were killed, either. I never saw this.” He was silent for a long while as he studied the glossy black-and-whites. Then his old, rheumy eyes looked up and met hers—eyes that had witnessed many things over many years. Eyes that had absorbed the wisdom and mysteries of the wild. “You saved my nephew, Tana. Now I must save you.” He paused. “Leave this alone.”

  She weighed him for a moment, unease growing in her chest.

  “That author, Henry Spatt, said it was you, Charlie, who told him about the legends of a spirit-beast who kills and rips apart women, and who takes their hearts and their eyes.”

  His face blackened to thunder. His eyes changed. An energy surged about him that she’d not experienced in his usually calm presence. Lights almost seemed to dim inside the room. “It is the way of our culture to tell the old stories. I did not know he would put it in a book.”

  “It angers you?”

  “It is for oral history. It is to be spoken around fires in the night. It is to be interpreted by the listener—a conversation between the storyteller and the listener. The stories are to stay out here in the north, in the wild, where the spirits of our forefathers can hear, also, and so can the wind.” He shook his head in disgust, and walked toward the door, fringes of his brown leather coat swinging.

  “Charlie,” she called after him.

  He stopped, turned.

  “It’s possible that someone could be trying to act out this legend, or the story, as it’s told in Henry’s book. You are out there in the bush all the time—do you have any idea who it might be?”

  “There are things out in the bush that do not make sense in books,” he said. “But they are real.” He paused. “Do not anger this spirit, Tana. Do not let it inside you.” He formed a fist and beat it once, hard, against his chest. “It turns the heart to ice.”

  Dinner was held in a room named Wolf Hall. Or, the word “staged” might be more appropriate, thought Tana as she glanced up at the words engraved on a plaque above the door. Sturmann-Taylor followed her gaze.

  “Each room in the lodge is named after a wild animal,” he explained with a sharp smile. “This one is for the noble wolf. And I do like the historical allusions to Wolfhall, or Wulfhall, the name of the manor from whence came the third wife of Henry the Eighth, Jane Seymour. It’s also the title of a fabulous fictionalized account of the time. Please, enter.” He held out his hand, showing them in. “And of course, the psychology of the king himself is riveting.”

  The room was paneled with dark wood, and a long, narrow table ran down the middle. The table was adorned with crystal goblets, sparkling silver cutlery, white china, linen napkins. Candles in several pewter candelabras provided most of the light in the room, and the glow quavered and shimmered and danced off the silverware, the crystal, and it flickered in the glass eyes of the beast heads mounted on the walls. A fire also burned softly in a stone hearth at the far end of the table.

  Who in their right mind wanted dead animals watching them eat?

  “Some of Crow TwoDove’s work, I presume,” Tana said, nodding to the stuffed heads.

  “Yes,” Sturmann-Taylor said. He pulled out a high-backed chair for her, seating her beside fat Henry Spatt. “Crow is by far the finest taxidermist I’ve ever had the pleasure of working with. A true artiste. We had him out to the lodge earlier in the season to do a demonstration and workshop for some of our guests. It went very well. We’ve started bringing in equipment, and have set up a facility for him here. We’d love to have him on site permanently, or at least for a good part of each year. Henry was among our first taxidermy workshop guinea pigs. Went well, didn’t it, Henry?”

  “Delightful!” Henry reached across the table and clasped a bottle of red wine. He began glugging its contents into his goblet. “Markus thought so, too.” He took an immediate swig from his glass, and sighed with pleasure.

  “Equipment?” Tana said, “As in taxidermy tools?” She thought about the tool skewering the deer eyeball to her door, and how Spatt had been in town with Van Bleek at the time.

  Crash was shown the seat across the table from her. His eyes caught hers for an instant. His face was tight. It was clearly eating him to know what she’d seen in Spatt’s wallet photo. Eating her, too. She needed to get through dinner and find some time on her own to process it.

  “Yes,” Sturmann-Ta
ylor said, seating himself at the head of the table, and flicking out his linen napkin. He placed it on his lap and nodded for the server standing quietly at his side to pour wine into the remaining empty glasses. “We had a special outbuilding built to Crow’s specs. Far superior-looking to that beastly place he has in Twin Rivers. And much better suited to meeting the taxidermy needs of my clients out here. And while he is on site, we can … how shall we say … massage his style a little.” Again, a fast flash of that wolfish grin.

  An array of appetizers was brought in by silent staff. More wine was poured. Cutlery chinked as they ate, and Spatt drank copiously, becoming more loquacious with each goblet full of fine Burgundy.

  “Must be fascinating to be a Mountie,” he breathed onto Tana. “An investigator of homicide and all that.”

  She eyed him, wondering if he could be capable of the murders, the bloody violence. He’d been in town for each one. He had opportunity. He knew the scenarios in his book intimately—he’d created them. Could he be trying to bring them alive? To relive that rush of success he’d had with that first Cromwell book, and had not managed to replicate since? Was this why he came out here annually—for a human hunt?

  Was she dining arm to arm with a demented killer?

  Crash spoke very little throughout the meal. He was posing simply as her guide.

  Sturmann-Taylor was intently observant, assessing them all in turn. Tana was besieged by the sense they were his minions, his toys in a psychological game, and that he’d brought them into this room to eat dead meat while the dead heads of animals watched them as some sort of test.

  “I mean—” Spatt leaned toward her, his meaty, alcohol breath washing hot over her face. Her stomach recoiled, and she concentrated fiercely on breathing shallowly. She did not need to embarrass herself by fleeing for the bathroom right now. Spatt continued, “Murder, and the legal process that follows, it’s a kind of theatre, don’t you think? A theatre of the macabre.”

  Like this room. This lodge. This opulent malevolence.