Inspector Green Mysteries 9-Book Bundle (281 page)

“Bodies?” she squeaked. But as soon as the word was out, she knew it was wrong. The pile was too small to hide a body. Even so, she held her breath as he lifted the last rock.

Underneath was a glass jar. Miraculously intact. Inside she could see a folded square of paper. “Ohmigod!” she whispered. “Someone left a note!”

His hands were shaking so hard now that he had trouble unscrewing the lid. Weather and rust had sealed the threads. He picked up a small rock and smashed it against the jar, cracking it into pieces. Oblivious to the sharp glass, he reached inside to pull the folded paper out. It looked as crisp and white as the day it was placed inside.

She forgot her headache, her dizziness, and her exhaustion. She leaned over his shoulder as he carefully unfolded the paper to reveal a sketch of a landscape. Mountains, valleys, distances, and a little arrow in the corner marked
N
.

Nahanni, July 7

Constable Christian Tymko eased up on the throttle and dropped down two hundred feet. Billows of dark cloud buffeted the little plane but Chris wasn’t concerned. The storm had blown over earlier in the morning and now sun was streaming through ragged holes in the clouds.

He was still well above the blunt tops of the Nahanni Range, but the braided strands of the South Nahanni River valley were visible on his left. They shimmered silver and misty green in the fresh sunlight, but looks could be deceiving. He knew the river was swollen and angry as it raged over gravel bars and swept through canyons. He dropped down still further to take a closer look. Last night’s storm had rampaged across the mountains, dumping almost ninety millimetres of rain, which ran off the mountains into the creeks and rivers, causing potential flash floods.

The Nahanni was legendary for its sudden storms. There were always campers and canoeists who ignored the advisories and found themselves stranded on gravel bars or fighting dangerous currents. Chris was on a weekend’s leave from the RCMP detachment at Fort Simpson, and he was flying up to join some buddies at a fishing camp on O’Grady Lake. But like most bush pilots, he was always on the lookout for trouble. Floating debris, stranded campers, or dangerous water levels.

Today the turbulent river worried him. On any given day during July and August there might be up to a hundred visitors in the park. Although some were only on day trips to Virginia Falls and others were backpacking in the mountains, the vast majority came to the Nahanni for the spectacular wilderness river trip. Chris knew the tour company guides were skilled at reading the river and the skies, and would keep their charges safe. It was the self-guided adventurers and thrill-seekers who worried him, especially the Europeans and Japanese who had no idea of the vastness, isolation, and sheer savagery of the land.

He stayed low over the river and followed its wandering course between the mountain ranges on either side. He wished he’d invited a friend along on the trip to provide another pair of eyes on the ground. The sun was gradually heating up the valley and burning off the mist as he flew northwest above the stunning canyons carved eons ago through the limestone rock. He slowed over the eddies at the end of rapids, scanning the shore for dumped or damaged canoes.

Even from five hundred feet, Hell’s Gate looked scary. A red canoe was bucking down the middle of the channel, its solo paddler frantically trying to keep it on course and away from the canyon wall. Chris watched until he reached the end of the stretch and paddled gratefully for shore.

Chris passed one other group, but no signs of distress as he flew past Virginia Falls toward the park warden’s cabin at Sunblood Mountain just above. Mists from the swollen falls plumed high into the air, blurring his view of the river. He spotted a massive spruce tree swirling in the Sluice Box Rapids just above the falls, and farther inland a thin column of smoke rose up from the forest floor. On impulse, he radioed the park warden. Reggie Fontaine would have reported any major difficulties to the Fort Simpson RCMP, but what the hell. Chris was here.

“Just coming up on you now, Reggie. There’s a small fire about one kilometre inland below you, looks like it’s just starting up. Everything all right? Need some backup?”

Reggie’s familiar voice came through the airwaves, gravelly from forty years of cigars and bad whisky. “Yeah, we’re watching it. Lightning strike in last night’s storm, probably. Blew that big old tree right out of her boots. I’ve got a couple of kids keeping an eye on the wind, just in case it spreads this way, but it looks okay so far.”

“Anyone in trouble? Any ‘failures to report?’”

“So far no one’s phoned in. But I’m guessing a couple of groups will be late, waiting out the high water.”

Chris could just see the warden’s cabin through the trees as he flew overhead. He raised his hand in a salute that he knew Reggie couldn’t see. “Okay, I’m off fishing. I’ll keep you posted if I see anything.”

“Okay, have a good one.” Reggie said cheerfully. The man had been a warden for over twenty years and Chris had never seen him in bad humour. Scared once or twice, when a storm or a rogue animal threatened the park, but never out of sorts.

“Maybe I’ll drop off a couple of sunfish for you on my way back Sunday,” he said.

Reggie snorted. “Make that two bull trout, you stingy bastard.”

Chris signed off with that promise and continued upriver toward Rabbitkettle Lake. On this stretch the river lazed along a slow, meandering course. Mud and debris from the storm cluttered the shore and tree branches drifted in the slow current. They would wash ashore on the next gravel bar and eventually bleach to the greyish white of perfect firewood. Nature recycled.

The midday sun beat down on the white river stones, forcing him to squint. Up past Rabbitkettle Lake he spotted an odd shape drifting downstream. Ragged and red against the muddy grey of the water. He dropped down farther to peer at it as he flew overhead. It looked like a tarp or a tent. Some camper will be unhappy tonight, he thought. He continued on, searching the banks more carefully now. Up ahead was a sharp bend in the river and as he rounded it he saw a bright turquoise canoe washed up in the shallows. It lay deep in the reeds as if tossed up on shore by a mighty force. As indeed it had. How long had it been there? Its shiny colour suggested it was fairly new, not yet weathered by sun or sandpapered by the silt in the river.

A tent and a canoe, but no people signalling from the riverbank. Not a good sign.

He reached for his radio to let Reggie know.

Reggie was his typical unflappable self, but suggested Chris double back to check the Rabbitkettle campground and warden’s cabin there.

“That’s where they’ll likely go if they’re stranded,” he said. “But Lord knows how long that canoe’s been there. The storm could have taken it from anywheres and thrown it up there.”

Chris banked the Cessna low as he circled back. “Still no reports?”

“Well, to lose a canoe on that stretch, they might be coming from up above the park. There’s four guided parties coming down from Moose Ponds and one from the Broken Skull River. The next group’s expected in Rabbitkettle tomorrow. Could be them.”

“Most likely. Any unguided parties?”

“Not on my books, but you can check with your buddies in Fort Simpson. Of course, that don’t mean squat.”

Reggie didn’t need to explain. Visitors entering the park itself were required to get a permit and register with the park office. Those who started at the Nahanni headwaters outside the park boundaries were advised to register their planned itinerary with the Fort Simpson RCMP, but it was not mandatory. The official airways flying visitors in and out of the Nahanni kept careful records and encouraged reporting, but there were always enterprising bush pilots eager to make a buck or two without asking too many questions.

Chris said goodbye as he spotted Rabbitkettle Lake spread out before him, rippling gently in the afternoon breeze. There was no sign of people, but a cow moose and her calf were down at the water’s edge, nibbling the tender reeds. As he circled to line up the landing, they looked up and bolted for the trees. A pair of Mallards took flight. A Prairie farm boy from southern Manitoba, he’d been raised on wide open skies and endless fields of golden wheat. When he’d first been posted to the north five years ago, he’d found the trees and mountains claustrophobic, but then his partner invited him to climb Mount Wilson. Changed his life. With a view of mountains peaks and glaciers that stretched for miles, he’d felt if he reached up, he could touch heaven. There wasn’t much for a young single guy to do in Fort Simpson, and certainly few enough women to choose from, but he dreaded the day he’d be posted away.

He splashed down and taxied toward the dock and warden’s cabin at the end of the lake. The small wooden cabin was unmanned these days but served as a base and emergency way station for park staff and visitors alike. It was stocked with emergency supplies and equipment, including satellite radio and personal locator beacons. Chris patrolled the perimeter but saw no signs of occupation. The door was locked, the windows intact, and the emergency key covered in dust. He peered through the windows. Porcupines were making some headway chewing their way inside, but otherwise the cabin looked untouched. Chris made a mental note to warn Reggie about the prickly invaders.

Chris hiked the path through the woods to the river to check the camping spots on the shore. He was pleased to see not a single residue of human habitation, not even a pop-can tab. People came and went like whispers in the wind, leaving no trace of their stay. He unlatched the information kiosk and took out the logbook, where all visitors were encouraged to record their passing. Besides the park staff, who had checked out the site that spring, the only entry was a group from Moose Ponds, which had come through three days earlier.

The damaged canoe was becoming something of a mystery to him. The RCMP and the park office had no record of any other parties, and none of the guided trips coming down from the headwaters had radioed in to report a party in distress. Yet some group was without at least one of their canoes and quite possibly the gear and food that went with it.

The next float plane landing site was at Island Lake, nearly a hundred kilometres farther upriver to the west. It was extremely unlikely that the canoeists would have dumped that far up. The meandering stretch of water between Island Lake and Rabbitkettle was the most likely place. The river was peaceful but full of islands and twists. Chris was betting on Elbow Rapids, the only substantial bit of whitewater on the stretch. Its sharp bend and series of tiny islands took many an unwary boater by surprise.

Back in the air he flew low over the abandoned outfitter’s cabin at the mouth of Broken Skull River, about twenty kilometres downstream from the rapids. He examined the gravel shore carefully. Anyone who dumped at Elbow Rapids might very well regroup here, but there were no beacons, fires, or SOS signals in the sand. No piles of bright-coloured gear. He circled and did another pass, with the same result. A little farther up he spotted a canoeing party paddling lazily down the river, likely one of the guided trips from Moose Ponds. The leader waved cheerfully but made no signal to suggest he was concerned about stranded boaters farther upstream. With increasing puzzlement, Chris flew on, reaching the cabins and hot springs of the Island Lakes at two o’clock.

On his first pass he saw a group lounging in the hot springs by the creek and more sunning on the river’s edge. Colourful gear was spread out on the upturned canoes to dry. Must have got a soaking in the storm, Chris figured. The sunbathers shielded their eyes and waved. This crowd has no worries either. Even so, he banked north to land on the largest lake and hiked across to the river. For a moment he felt a schoolboy flush as he recognized one of the tour leaders, Olivia Manning, walking toward him. In shorts and tank top she glided with the fluid elegance of a long-limbed colt. Her skin was a riot of freckles and her hair was bleached almost white from the sun.

She pushed it out of her eyes as she smiled up at him. “Hello, fly boy.”

He returned the grin. “Still the river rat, I see. Couldn’t resist the bugs and the bears?”

She gave him a teasing nudge. “Or the other local wildlife. I had a job at the university, but at the last minute Ian Elliott called. How could I say no? I dread the day I finish grad school and have to get a real job. Want a drink? A Kool-Aid special?”

He shook his head. Much as he would have loved to spend time with Olivia, the mystery of the canoe, not to mention his fishing buddies, took priority. “Your group get wet in the storm?”

She laughed. “Did we ever! Blew one tent right over and soaked everything inside. Plus four went swimming in the Sequel yesterday. We’re taking today off to hike until the water drops.” She touched his arm and led him farther out of earshot. “We’ve got some inexperienced paddlers this time. A history prof and his wife, and some mining tycoon from Utah. They shouldn’t have booked Moose Ponds. We had to repair two canoes yesterday.”

“Any get away from you?”

She looked surprised. “No, why?”

“There’s a turquoise one on the rocks just above Broken Skull River. Did you see anyone? Here or farther up?”

“Does a grizzly count?” She gave a light laugh. “We haven’t seen a soul since we started. Usually we don’t, this far up. Yesterday we had to stop early just above the Little Nahanni, because of the storm. We just got here.” Her blue eyes narrowed. “Are you worried, Chris? Is there a group missing?”

He liked the way she looked at him, as if she too knew the implications of the damaged canoe. “Well, you know,” he said, “there’s no one unaccounted for, but it’s a long swim down the river without a canoe. I’m just checking things out. Unofficially.”

“Okay. If I see anything or hear any news, I’ll call it in to Reggie Fontaine.”

“Thanks, Olivia.” He paused. “Maybe … Well …”

“Well what?”

“Drop by to say hi next time you’re in town.”

She grinned, that gorgeous, toothy grin that had first tied his tongue in knots the summer before. “I’ll even buy you a proper drink,” she said