Bones Are Forever (26 page)

Even in daylight, I could see no trace of blood. No boot or shoe mark. Not a scrap of physical evidence. Pine needles are resilient. There were no footprints from me or Ryan or Chalker.

“Nothing but needles,” Lake said after looking around.

“That’s the point. The shooter took the body and cleaned up the scene. Why bother to do that? Why not simply haul ass?”

“Where did the shots come from?”

“Over there.” I pointed.

Lake followed me. We did another visual scan.

“No brass,” he said.

“Of course not. If he’d take the body, he’d take his casings.”

Lake nodded. “Let’s check by the road.”

Any tire tracks or footprints had long since been obliterated by rain.

Lake looked at me a very long time. Then, “Come in to headquarters and we’ll write it up.”

Message clear: further analysis of the scene would not take place.

“I’ll do that.”

Lake shrugged. “These things happen.”

Before I could ask his meaning, Lake turned and trudged off toward the hotel.

What things happen? People getting shot? Bodies disappearing?

Drunks taking cops on wild goose chases?

Face flaming, I watched Lake disappear from the trees. He didn’t question my hesitation. Didn’t look back.

A raven cawed overhead.

Triggered a synapse.

“Tank,” I shouted.

Waited.

“Here, Tank.”

I retraced my steps, calling the name.

Several squirrels skittered out of my path.

But no dog.

*  *  *

Back in my room, I turned on the television and booted my laptop.

Twenty minutes later, I was unaware of what was on the computer screen. Of what was being broadcast on TV.

Guilt over Ruben. Worry over Katy. Apprehension over the meaning of Lake’s odd comment. Jesus. How many people thought I’d been on a bender and imagined the shooting?

And the goddamn dog.

While I was sitting on my pretty little ass, Ollie and Ryan were running down Scar.

Screw that.

I transferred a folder to my purse, threw on a jacket, and descended to the lobby.

Through the front door, I could see the Camry parked in the lot across the driveway. Knowing Ryan’s habits, I crossed to the desk. Working it was a woman whose name tag said Nora.

“Excuse me, Nora. Detective Ryan called and asked that I deliver a file ASAP. I know it’s unusual, but I wonder if I could have a key to two-oh-seven?”

“I’m sorry, Miss Brennan. We must have explicit permission to let a guest into another guest’s room.”

“That’s just it.” I leaned in, an informant with top-secret information. “Detective Ryan is at a crime scene and can’t be disturbed.”

As I suspected, word of Castain’s murder had already fired through the Yellowknife grapevine. With a conspiratorial nod, Nora swiped and handed me a key card.

“Thanks,” I whispered.

“I hope it helps,” Nora whispered back.

We acknowledged the gravity of her act by locking eyes for a long solemn moment.

“By the way,” I said, “is Nellie Snook working today?”

Nora shook her head. “She’s off weekends.”

The keys were lying on Ryan’s bedside table.

I hurried to the Camry, fired up the engine, and swooped down the drive. Game on. It felt damn good.

When I parked on Ragged Ass, Nellie Snook was in her carport changing the litter in a cat pan. She wore a baggy black turtleneck and the same faded jeans she’d worn the day before. I got out and crossed to her.

On seeing me, Snook dropped the bag, bolted through the side door of the house, and tried to slam it. I darted forward and checked the move with one hand.

“Go away,” she shouted through the gap.

“Annaliese Ruben is dead.”

“I’ll call the police.”

“Someone shot her.”

“You’re lying.”

“I was there.”

The only response was increased pressure on the far side of the door.

“Did Annaliese come back last night?” I asked.

The silence told me my question had hit home.

“I haven’t been honest with you, Nellie. It’s time I tell you why I’ve been searching for your sister.”

One-handed, I worked the folder from my purse and slipped it through the crack. I heard it hit the floor.

“I’ll take my hand away now. Just please, look at what’s in that file.” I stepped back.

The impact of the door rattled the jamb.

A lock snicked into place.

While waiting, I finished filling the cat pan. Then I secured and set the litter bag by the wall.

Finally, the lock snicked again.

Slowly, the door swung inward.

S
NOOK’S EYES WERE POOLED IN SHADOW. “WHY ARE YOU DOING
this to us?”

“May I come in?”

“What is this?” She raised the manila folder containing pictures of Ruben’s dead babies.

“Can we talk about it?”

Vertical lines puckered the skin between her brows. Her gaze drifted past me to the cat pan, then returned to my face. “Did you take these?”

“They’re official crime scene photos.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

“I’m not a police officer.”

Her chin cocked up.

“I didn’t take the pictures. But I was there when they were taken.”

I expected to be sent packing. Instead, she stepped back.

I entered a dim little room with an ancient washer/dryer combo and plastic bins lining one wall. The air smelled of chimney smoke, detergent, and household cleansers.

Snook closed and locked the door and led me into a sun-bright kitchen. Placing the folder on a counter, she offered tea. I accepted.

As Snook filled a kettle from the tap and draped bags into mugs, I looked around.

The kitchen was rimmed by knotty pine cabinets fitted with wrought-iron hardware. Affixed to each door were pictures of animals carefully cut from calendars or magazines. A hawk, an owl, a caribou, a rhino. A World Wildlife Fund calendar hung from a thumbtack on one wall. Canadian Wildlife Federation, Alberta Wilderness Association, Sierra Club, and Federation of Alberta Naturalists stickers covered the refrigerator.

A fishbowl sat on a small gate-leg table below a gingham-curtained window. An enormous tricolor cat dozed on a lattice-back chair beside it.

“I see you’re interested in conservation,” I said.

“Someone’s gotta be.”

“Yes.”

“Between farming, forestry, mining, and good old-fashioned greed, over half the species in this province are in trouble. Twenty are endangered, two are already gone.”

“I’m sorry if I damaged your koi pond.”

“That’s for frogs. They breed in the spring. I try to help them out.”

“Beautiful cat,” I said. He wasn’t. “What’s his name?”

“Murray.”

The house was silent. I wondered if Mr. Snook was in another room, straining to hear our conversation.

“I apologize for disturbing you and your husband.”

“Don’t have a husband.”

The kettle whistled.

“You said your husband gave you a key at the Gold Range yesterday.”

“I lied.”

“Why?”

“My doings are none of your business.”

Okey-dokey.

Snook poured boiling water into the mugs. “Six years ago Josiah went out to buy beer and never came back.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.”

Snook handed me my tea, and we took chairs at a dinette set generations younger than everything else in the room. Laminated wooden seats and tabletop, white arms and legs.

As Snook added sugar to her mug, I studied her face, trying to figure which way to go. She beat me to the punch.

“Is my sister really dead?”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Someone shot her?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why are you showing that to me?” Tipping her head toward the counter.

I got up and brought the folder to the table. “These are police and coroner’s photos.”

I flipped opened the cover. A five-by-seven glossy of the bathroom-vanity baby lay exposed. The print caught light from the window as I rotated it to face Snook.

“For the past three years, your sister lived near Montreal in a town called Saint-Hyacinthe. Six days ago she went to a hospital emergency room. Based on her symptoms, the attending physician thought she might have given birth. Since Annaliese denied having a baby or being pregnant, he reported his suspicion to the police. The next morning this newborn was found under the sink in Annaliese’s bathroom.”

Snook’s eyes stayed on her tea.

“Look at it, Nellie.”

Snook set her spoon on the table and did as I asked. She took in the sightless eyes, the maggot-filled mouth, the tiny bloated belly. Her shoulders slumped, but she made no comment.

I placed a second five-by-seven on top of the first. “This baby was found in a window seat.”

A third. “This one was in an attic.”

A fourth. “This one was hidden behind a wall in Annaliese’s apartment in Edmonton.”

I allowed Snook time to absorb the horrific reality I was dispensing. Finally, she looked at me, her face impassive.

“She doesn’t know any better.” Flat. “Didn’t.”

“I understand that now.” Gently.

Her eyes settled on a spot halfway to her spoon. Halfway to another place or time, I suspected.

Behind Snook, Murray stretched and mewed softly.

“Do you have any idea who the father or fathers might be?”

“We tried to look out for her. My brother and me. Alice was slow.” She gave a soft, mirthless snort. “Annaliese. She liked trying on new names. The doctors had a name for what was wrong with her. I couldn’t pronounce it. But she was legally adult. And she hated being told what to do.”

“Her death is not your fault,” I said.

“Never is.”

I thought it an odd comment but said nothing.

“Do the police have any leads?”

“They’re questioning one suspect, looking for another. Do you know anything that might help?”

Snook wagged her head slowly.

“Why did Annaliese leave Yellowknife?”

“She was seventeen. There was nothing for her here.”

“Was Annaliese into drugs?”

The dark eyes jumped up to mine, burning with resentment. “That’s gotta be it, right? The kid was Indian, so naturally, she was a drunk or a junkie. It’s what they said about our brother. It’s what they’ll say about me. Things never change.”

“Are you referring to Daryl Beck?”

“You are thorough. I’ll give you that.”

“You’re saying Beck wasn’t a user?”

“There was a time Daryl hit the booze and drugs pretty hard. He got off to a rough start. His mother left when he was twelve. Our father didn’t give a rat’s ass.”

“Farley McLeod.”

“Only thing Farley gave his kids was a quick shot of sperm and a worthless piece of dirt in the middle of nowhere. His way of dealing with a guilty conscience, I guess.”

“You’re saying your brother had quit drinking and doing drugs?”

“Daryl was dry the last nine months of his life. He was working on his GED.” Again the mirthless snort. “Wanted to make something of himself.”

This didn’t track. “Horace Tyne said Daryl was a doper.”

Snook’s brow puckered deeper, but she said nothing.

“I spoke to Tyne briefly after you mentioned his name,” I added.

She shook her head at the irony. “So I’m the one set you on Annaliese’s trail.”

“Actually, I’ve been on Annaliese’s trail since before I met you. You were simply a lead. Tyne said Annaliese lived in his house after Farley died.”

“I wasn’t in Yellowknife then.”

“Tyne’s quite a bit older than your sister.”

“He is.”

“You have any thoughts on that?”

“Besides my brother and me, Horace Tyne’s the only person in this town gives a hoot about other creatures. He’s a fine man and a hard worker. When he can
find
work.”

“Did Annaliese like him?”

“No. But she could be like that.”

“Like what?”

Snook hitched one shoulder. “Stubborn. The doctors said her thinking never made it past the fourth grade.”

The cat sat up, shot a leg, and began grooming its belly. Which had very little fur.

“Do you know why Annaliese came back to Yellowknife?”

“I think something scared her.”

“What?”

“I don’t know. She was so tired, mostly she slept. I didn’t press, figured we’d have plenty of time to talk.” Snook lifted her mug. Blew on it, though the tea was now cold. “Pressing didn’t work with my sister.”

“Do you know a woman named Susan Forex? Or did Annaliese ever mention her?”

“No.”

“Phoenix Miller?”

“No.”

“We believe Annaliese went from Edmonton to Montreal with a man named Smith. Signed a lease for an apartment with him.”

“Know about two dozen of those.”

Good point.

“What about Ralph Trees? Goes by Rocky.”

“No.”

“Ronnie Scarborough?”

“Why are you asking about these people?”

“They’re known associates of your sister.” I said the next as gently as possible. “Ronnie Scarborough was her pimp.”

Snook set her mug on the table. Held it tight.