“What the hell’s he saying?” Ollie was growing more and more vociferous.
“I’ll call you back.” I clicked off.
“I checked the bus schedule.” Ryan again waggled Mr. Phone. “To get to Yellowknife from Edmonton, you take a Greyhound to Hay River, then you transfer to a Frontier coach line.”
“There’s nothing direct?”
Ryan shook his head.
“Besides Yellowknife, where else can you go from Hay River?”
“Not many places.”
I thought a moment. It all tracked. Ruben was, in all likelihood, at least part aboriginal. Ralph Trees said Roberts/Rogers/Rodriguez spoke accented English. Phoenix Miller thought Ruben came from someplace other than Edmonton. A woman resembling Ruben had tried to board a bus to Hay River. With a dog. Trees said Roberts/Rogers/Rodriguez had a dog. There was a pet bowl in the Saint-Hyacinthe flat. A scrap probably from a Monfwi district newsletter got wrapped in with the baby found at Susan Forex’s house.
Besides, we had nothing else.
I called Ollie.
* * *
Yellowknife lies approximately fifteen hundred kilometers north of Edmonton. To go by car, one travels north to the 60th parallel to cross into the Northwest Territories near Enterprise, then west to Fort Providence to catch a ferry across the Mackenzie River. One then skirts a vast bison sanctuary, avoiding freedom-sniffing Bovinae wandering the pavement. At Behchoko one cuts back southeast to the north shore of Great Slave Lake.
The drive takes up to eighteen hours. Most travel advisory sites recommend making it while the sun shines. And bringing a whole lot of bug spray.
Unless it’s winter. Then you can brave the ice road.
Not a chance this kid was enduring that trip. Nope. Not me.
As with bus travel, airline options were limited.
Ollie booked us onto a Canadian North flight leaving at eight-thirty P.M. The bad news: we wouldn’t land at YZF until after ten. The good news: sunset would occur many hours after our arrival.
Ollie spent the rest of the afternoon and early evening re-interviewing the Greyhound ticket agent and making calls to Hay River, Yellowknife, and other places I’d never heard of. Ronnie Scarborough, the pimp, had finally surfaced, and Ollie had invited him in for a chat. Ryan and I would join them at six P.M.
Using a list that Ollie provided, Ryan and I spent our time visiting bars and hotels favored by Edmonton’s fair ladies. Some of the establishments made the Cowboy look downright chic.
We floated Ruben’s picture, asked if anyone knew or had seen her. We also asked about the big spender Ruben was to have met the night she boogied to Quebec.
We learned two things. In the underbelly, three years is way past anyone’s memory horizon. And we were as welcome in that world as a roach infestation.
Upon arriving at RCMP headquarters, we found that Ollie had learned about as much as we had. Which was zilch. Which made him surly as hell.
Ronnie “Scar” Scarborough was cooling his heels in an interview room. Which made him surly as hell.
Ollie suggested it would be best if he conducted the interrogation alone. We agreed, and he set us up for remote observation.
On-screen, we watched Ollie enter a small cubicle and take a chair opposite a guy who looked like he’d been sent from central casting to play a New Jersey wise guy. He was wiry in a ferret sort of way, with acne-pocked skin, deep-set eyes, and a hooked nose that overhung a scarred upper lip. Gold neck and wrist chains. Shiny gray jacket over a tight black tee that glorified chest hair. Pointy black shoes. The only thing off was the tattoo wrapping the back and sides of his neck. It looked like a stylized bird that had escaped a totem pole.
Scar was sitting with legs outthrust, ankles crossed, right arm draping his chair back.
“How’s it hanging, Scar?”
Scar’s eyes rolled toward Ollie.
“Nice tee. Glad to see you’re secure in your own sexuality.”
“Why the fuck am I here?”
“I thought we could discuss future career options.”
“I wanna call my lawyer.”
“You’re not under arrest.”
Scar drew in his feet and rose. “Then I’m outta here.”
“Sit down.”
Scar remained standing, contempt crimping his features.
Ollie slapped a photocopy of Annaliese Ruben’s mug shot on the table, spun it to face Scar. The rodent glare remained fixed on Ollie.
“Look at it, asshole.”
Scar’s gaze flicked down, back up. He said nothing.
“Know who that is?”
“Tell your sister I ain’t dating right now.”
“Annaliese Ruben. My intel says you pimped for her.”
“I make it a point to ignore unsubstantiated rumors.”
“Project KARE has her on our list. We think maybe Ruben got herself killed.” True enough. At least at one point.
“Life can be brutal.”
“Here’s the thing, Scar. Since we’re uncertain if Ruben’s alive or dead, we’re thinking we should take a real close look at her last known associates.”
Scar performed an impressive one-shoulder shrug.
“Starting with her pimp.”
Scar shrugged again. Same shoulder.
“Starting with a warrant for his cell phone records.”
“You can’t do that.”
“I can do that.” Ollie augured a finger into the printout.
Blowing out a sigh, Scar dropped into his chair and glanced at the photo. “OK. Yeah. Maybe it’s the fat kid used to hang around some.”
“Amazing how the mind works.”
“So I forgot. I been busy.”
“Altar-boy duties.”
“That’s it.”
“Or maybe you’ve been working the bus depots. Looking for young stuff, you know what I mean?”
This time the shoulder hitch seemed less cocksure.
“Maybe we should talk to your workforce. Check a few IDs. See how many candles these girls will be blowing out on their next cakes.”
“This is harassment.”
“How old was Ruben when you turned her out?”
Scar’s mouth curled up in a smarmy half-smirk. “It wasn’t like that.”
“What was it like?”
“I tried to help her.”
“Right. You were her mentor.”
Scar wagged his head slowly. “You’re so fucking dumb, you don’t have a clue.”
“You her baby daddy?”
“Ruben didn’t have no baby.”
“Yes. She did.”
“News to me.”
“You help her kill it?”
“You’re fucking nuts.”
The more I watched, the more repulsive I found the little weasel.
“Where is she?”
“I haven’t seen the bitch in three years.”
“That so?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“She moved on.”
“With who?”
“Tom fucking Cruise. How should I know?”
“That make you angry? Ruben taking off like that?”
“It’s a free country.”
“Did Ruben mule for you, Scar? That it? She leave you with a gap in your distribution system?”
“The dumb cunt didn’t have the brains to pick her own nose.”
“Or was it the lost revenue? One less whore paying for the right to do back-alley blow jobs?”
“The kid was a whale. Not worth piss.”
“Did you cap her? Use the hit to send a message?”
“You really are. You’re fucking crazy.”
Sensing fault lines in the tough-guy bravado, Ollie offered silence.
“Look, I hope nothing’s happened to the kid. Honest. I wish I could help.”
Ollie leaned back and folded his arms. “Tell me what you know about her.”
Scar looked as though the request confused him.
r /> “Is Ruben Francophone? Anglophone? Aboriginal?”
“She spoke English.”
“Where’s she from?”
When Scar wagged his head, I could see moisture glistening on his upper lip.
“Who’d she hang with?”
“I heard she lived with a chick named Foxy.”
“If Ruben left Edmonton, where would she go?”
Scar raised his hands and eyes to the ceiling.
“How would she travel?”
“Jesus, man. I’m telling you. I don’t know. I never get involved in the girls’ personal lives.”
That did it. My anger boiled over. “This runt-ass bastard hooks kids on drugs, makes them whore to feed their addictions, bullies them, exploits them financially, but he’s not involved in their personal lives?”
Ryan clasped the upturned palm I’d thrust toward the screen. For a moment our eyes locked. He looked away first. I disengaged and dropped my arm to my side.
It went on like that, Ollie asking questions, Scar insisting he knew nothing, me fighting the urge to reach through the monitor and throttle the little turd.
At seven, Ollie gave Scar the old saw about not leaving town. Abruptly, he rose and left the room.
Scar flung curses at Ollie’s retreating back. Before the monitor went dark, he shouted one last zinger at the door.
“You’re so fucking clueless, you might as well be working right between your cheeks.”
* * *
We spoke little during the drive to the airport, the check-in process, and the brief wait at the gate. By some fluke, our flight boarded on time. Thanks to a malicious god, I drew the seat next to Ollie.
We were buckling our belts and powering down our mobiles when the pilot’s voice came over the speakers. I knew right away that he did not have good news.
Mechanical problem. Thirty-minute delay.
“Holy Mother of God. Do these airlines ever take off on time?”
Feeling a response would be pointless, I offered none.
“If it’s not the weather, it’s something wrong with the plane, or the crew’s gone missing, or some other damn thing.”
Making no attempt at subtlety, I opened my Ian Rankin novel and began to read. Sergeant Sensitive did not take the hint.
“Scar’s a real piece of work, isn’t he?”
My eyes remained glued to my book.
“We think he’s trying to expand, run product north into the territories.”
I turned a page. Damn, I was going to miss Rebus.
“The bastard’s smarter than he looks. Keeps a layer between himself and the street. Impossible to pin shit to him.”
Nope.
Ollie gave up talking to my right ear. Several minutes passed while he flipped through the flyer on safety instructions and the on-board magazine. Then, sighing theatrically, he returned both to their pouch.
“I think Scar knows more than he’s saying about Ruben.”
That got my attention. Closing my book, I turned sideways. “Why?”
“Remember how the creep got his name?”
“He burned a girl.”
“Story goes, he tracked her all the way to Saskatoon. Wanted to send out a warning.”
“To?”
“Anyone thinking of quitting his employ.”
“Ruben left Edmonton three years ago. Why wait so long?”
“Montreal’s big. And far away. Ruben changed her name and laid low, so she was able to fly under Scar’s radar. Now she’s back on his turf. And there’s one other detail I haven’t shared.”
I waited.
“Scar’s from Yellowknife.”
“How do you know that?”
“We’ve been trying to nail the bastard for years. We know.”
“You think he might go after Ruben?”
“Word is Scar’s trying to move in on the action up there. To do that, he needs to show he plays hardball.”
A cold hollowness filled my gut. I leaned into the seat back and closed my eyes. Why such apprehension? Fear for Ruben’s safety? In all likelihood, the woman had killed her own babies. Abandoned their bodies without a backward glance.
Or had she? Had it been Ruben’s choice? Had someone else done it or forced her hand? It could not have been Scar in Montreal. Then who? Was that person helping her now?
Nothing made sense.
Forex and Scar both said Ruben wasn’t very smart. Yet she’d gotten herself to Quebec and lived incognito for three years. She’d concealed her pregnancies, delivered and murdered at least four infants. She’d eluded the Project KARE task force. She’d eluded and continued to elude both the RCMP and the QPP.
How? A complex support network? A single partner? Street smarts? Blind luck?
I turned to Ollie. “Scar said you were clueless. What did he mean by that?”
“Braggadocio.”
“Good word.”
“I downloaded an app that pops you a new one every day.”
“They ever send ‘clueless’?” I hooked quote marks. I wasn’t amused.
“It’s just trash talk. The last thing Scar wants is me shining a light up his ass.”
“He used the word twice.”
“Maybe I’ll send him a link for the app.”
Our flight finally took off at ten-fifteen. We never learned the nature of the plane’s mysterious ailment.
All I remember about the Yellowknife airport is a stuffed polar bear presiding over the baggage claim area. And a whole lot of empty. Outside the terminal, a mix of rain and snow was blowing diagonally. And it was colder than crap.
A Sergeant Rainwater drove us the short distance into town. Ryan and I sat in back. From overheard snatches of the front-seat conversation, I gathered that Rainwater had been doing some investigative work for Ollie, the sort of thing we’d tried in Edmonton, showing the mug shot, asking about Ruben. With essentially the same result.
We hit the Explorer Hotel just past midnight. I noted a hilltop location, a long sweeping drive, and an eight-foot inuksuk guarding the main entrance.
Check-in was mercifully quick. Also mercifully, Ollie was uninterested in providing escort service.
My room was on the fourth floor. It had a king bed, a minibar with microwave, a flat-screen TV, and a view of some body of water the name of which I resolved to query in the morning.
I docked my iPhone in the clock-radio and dialed up the sound of crashing waves. Sleep took me down in under five minutes.
THE BABY REACHED OUT, FINGERS SPLAYED, LITTLE LIMBS trembling, begging for help. My help.
I tried running, but my feet dug deeper and deeper into the sand.
The scene zoomed in.
The baby was sitting in the shallows on a long black beach. Behind it, over choppy waves, purple storm clouds darkened a menacing sky.
As I watched, the wispy nimbus haloing the baby’s head thickened to form a crown of blond curls. The tiny features crystallized into a familiar pattern. The irises morphed from blue to green.
Katy!
I tried calling out. Again and again.
No sound left my throat.
Desperate, I strained to get to my daughter.
My legs were lead.
The water now covered Katy’s belly.
The tide was rising!
Heart pounding, I pumped my legs harder.
The gap between us grew wider.
A figure materialized on the beach, indistinct. Face, even gender, unclear.
I struggled to call out.
The figure did not react.
I pulled with all my strength.
My efforts were futile.
The water now covered Katy’s chest.
I shouted again, tears streaming my cheeks.
The scene shimmied like a desert mirage.
The water rose to Katy’s chin.
I strained with every fiber in my body.
Screamed.
The scene popped. Evaporated like confetti in mist.
&n
bsp; I blinked, confused.
I was sitting rigid in bed, heart pounding, skin slick with perspiration. My hands clutched the sheets in tight little balls.
The digits on the clock said 5:42. A predawn gray lit the windows I’d failed to curtain five hours earlier.
Outside, the snow shower had stopped, but the nameless oval of water looked dark and frigid. Inside, the air felt cold enough to make ice.
I relaxed my fingers, lay back, and drew the quilt to my chin.
Just a dream.
Just a dream.
Following the mantra, I tried my usual post-nightmare deconstruction. Which requires no sophisticated psychoanalytical skill. My subconscious isn’t all that creative. The old id just spits out a remix of recent events.
Baby under threat. No Freudian mindbender there.
Katy. I hadn’t talked to my daughter in a week.
The beach. My iPhone was still broadcasting soothing sea sounds.
The hazy figure. That one called for some digesting.
Annaliese Ruben for murdering her children? Ronnie Scarborough for possibly threatening Ruben? Ryan for abandoning our relationship?
My mother for potty-training me too early?
Whatever.
Tossing back the covers, I tiptoe-ran to my suitcase, pulled on jeans, a long-sleeved tee, my gray lululemon hoodie, sneakers, and socks. In June. Welcome to the subarctic. Or the tundra. Or wherever the hell we were.
Water on the face. Quick brush of the teeth. Hair up in a pony.
The clock said six. Praying the hotel had a restaurant and that it was open, I headed downstairs.
Happy day! The Trader’s Grill was serving up eggs. Or preparing to do so. A woman was positioning stainless-steel servers on a stretch of skirted tables spanning one wall. On hearing my footsteps, she turned and gestured toward a two-top at the windows. Her name tag said Nellie.
Nellie’s hair was black and braided down the center of her back. Her cotton blouse and long red skirt covered a body built along the lines of a Tonka truck.
I seated myself as directed and looked for a menu. Finding none, I settled back and scanned my surroundings.
Nellie and I weren’t the only early risers. Two men occupied a table beside a circular copper-hooded fireplace, now cold. Both wore jeans, boots, and plaid shirts and had beards that badly needed trimming.
Nellie vanished and reappeared moments later bearing a steel coffeepot and a thick china mug. After topping off Paul Bunyan and his pal, she crossed to me.