In the Barren Ground (28 page)

CHAPTER 33

“Why did you bring
her
here?” Sturmann-Taylor said, voice low.

“Is it a problem?” Crash held the lodge owner’s penetrating blue gaze without a blink. It was early evening—he and Tana had ridden hard all day to reach Tchliko Lodge before nightfall, and Sturmann-Taylor had not even tried to hide his surprise—and irritation—at seeing Crash and Tana rolling up like two snow-covered yetis on their snowmobiles in the storm.

“It was just unexpected,” Sturmann-Taylor said, keeping Crash back in the hallway as his butler led Tana into the library ahead of them. “Seeing you with that cop—I thought she was on your ass for bootlegging.”

Crash had known
this
would be the risk of escorting Tana into the Tchliko lair. Because nothing, no possibility, escaped the shrewd and calculating brain of Alan Sturmann-Taylor, especially when he’d made clear that he was considering working with Crash on shipments of a more sensitive nature, and most likely highly illegal.

Having brought Tana here could derail everything. Would Crash make the decision again if he was given a second run? Yes. Things had changed, were changing. But what worried him now was not so much what might happen to his cover with Sturmann-Taylor as what could happen to Tana. He might be endangering her, because if he was correct about Sturmann-Taylor, the reach of the man’s power was limitless, and his desire to hold on to that power knew few bounds. And now that Tana was in Sturmann-Taylor’s sights, he was going to be watching her keenly.

“She’s a paying client, that’s all,” Crash countered quietly. “She came bashing on my door, asking for a flight out to Tchliko. I said ‘no-way-hosay,’ not in this shit. But she knows I’m familiar with the route out here, so when she could find no one else, she returned asking for a snowmobile guide. I wasn’t going to draw attention to myself by refusing.” He continued to meet Sturmann-Taylor’s quietly assessing stare. “Besides, I like to know what I’m up against.”

“What does she want with Spatt?”

“I don’t know. Let’s go in and find out, shall we?”

Tension whispered through Tana as she was shown into the library ahead of Crash. Sturmann-Taylor had held him back, and they were conversing quietly in the passage. She figured it was about Crash bringing her here. If Crash was correct about Sturmann-Taylor, and if Crash’s “cover” was now slipping because of his alignment with her, they could both be in serious trouble in this isolated lair.

“It’s good to see you again, Constable,” Henry Spatt said as she entered. He pushed himself up out of the deep, burgundy leather chair in which he’d been seated beside his evening cocktail. He proffered his hand. Tana shook it, and found his grip no less limp and fleshy than the last time around in the diner.

“James here”—Spatt nodded toward the butler—“tells me that you came all this way in this terrible storm to see
me
, of all people.” He chuckled, and it caught phlegm in his throat, which made him cough. “S’cuse me.” He dabbed at his lips with his hankie. “Years of tobacco.” He chuckled again. “And it’s not really ‘James,’ by the way. However, Alan likes to keep his manservant obscure, or mysterious perhaps. So I call him James, as in James the Butler, from that British show that was so popular in the seventies. You know the show?”

“Uh, no, sir, I don’t.”

“Well, of course you don’t, would you?” He tucked his hankie back into his breast pocket. “You’re far too young, and too . . . local. Please, do take a seat. And thank you, James, you may leave now.”

The manservant did not leave. He simply stepped back into shadows.

“Local?” Tana asked. She remained standing.

“Oh, and call me Henry. Much nicer to be on first-name terms. Was it . . . Tana?”

“Larsson,” she said. “Constable Larsson.”

His small round eyes met hers in silence for a few minutes, then his equally round face cracked into a smile that showed his sharp little incisors. “Of course. You’re on a job. Professional reasons are what must have brought you here.” He reseated himself in the leather chair. “Now, I am most intrigued, what can I do for you?” He reached for his cocktail.

Crash and Alan Sturmann-Taylor entered the room. It was warm inside. Fire burned in the hearth. Shelves of books covered the walls. And where there were gaps between the shelves, the heads of dead things had been mounted. Animal pelts were draped over the backs of chairs and had been fashioned into pillows as well—bear skins, leopard, zebra, antelope. The chandeliers were crafted from antlers, the side-table lampshades, she guessed, were real animal hide, too. Sumptuous and macabre, a hunter’s trophies of the murdered.

Crash did not meet her eyes as he made his way to stand beside the fire. She knew his game would be this, and she kept her distance.

“Can I get you a drink, Constable?” their host said.

“Water would be great. Been a long ride.”

“Of course.” He nodded to his butler, and the man sifted like a specter from the room.

“So, to what do we owe this honor, Constable? What is so urgent that brings the Mountie out on her mechanical steed in this foul weather?” said Sturmann-Taylor.

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.