Inspector Green Mysteries 9-Book Bundle (309 page)

It was close to noon by the time Chris made it down through his inbox to a pile of faxed documents from Yellowknife RCMP headquarters. He glanced at the first page and his excitement shot up. It was dated September 13, 1945, and labelled S
ummary report,
I
nvestigation into
M
issing
P
erson
G
uy
L
asalle
.

He waved the papers under Nihls’s nose. “When did this come in?”

Nihls’s eyes strayed briefly from his computer to the papers. “Oh, they came in while you were in Whitehorse. More Ottawa cops sticking their oar in, requisitioning old files. HQ decided it should go through us, and since you’re the one most familiar with this Lasalle file it’s all yours. Not much there or I would have told you. The Ottawa officer’s contact info is on the cover letter there, if you want to follow up.”

Chris glanced at the name. Detective Bob Gibbs, not the woman he had dealt with. He returned to his desk and began to decipher the faded and uneven typing of the original report, made even more illegible by the fax. It appeared that the disappearance of Guy Lasalle had remained unsolved, and the case was still technically open. Two officers had flown up to the cabin in June when Lasalle’s wife reported him missing and it became clear he had not shown up at the trading post as arranged. They had found the cabin empty. There was no sign of violence, animal or human, and no sign of Lasalle himself. However, the cabin had not been cleaned up, let alone closed up for the season. His food and furs were still in the cache. His coffee pot was on the stove top, his bedding was still on the bunk, all his clothing and gear were stored in the cabin, and even his breakfast dishes were unwashed, as if he had intended to return at any moment.

Letters to and from his wife sat in a neat pile on the little kitchen table along with other mail, sacks of rock samples were stacked outside the door, and his dogsled was propped against the cabin. The two officers noted that his parka and mukluks were missing, however, as were his axe, shovel, and rifle. The officers had searched his trapline and the area around the cabin, including the creek, to a radius of one kilometre, but without success. His two dogs were long gone, of course, but the remains of their gnawed harnesses were still attached to the tree outside.

The fur trader and various Indians in Nahanni Butte had been interviewed, but the last confirmed sighting of the missing man was in February, when an Indian trapper had come by the cabin. Lasalle was reportedly in good health at that time, but suffering from loneliness and anxiety about the poor haul of furs he had made so far. Lasalle had also asked numerous questions about the activities and whereabouts of his brother Gaetan.

For lack of evidence, the officers ruled out suicide, but left the results inconclusive. The officers speculated that perhaps Lasalle had gone hunting and had fallen prey to a surprise storm, an animal attack, or the treacherous ice on the creek. In either eventuality, his carcass could have been carried off by wolves. In the absence of clear leads the officers had concluded their investigation and packed up all Lasalle’s effects from the cabin, including the letters and the sacks of rocks, to be sent off to his wife in Vancouver.

Chris reread the report twice. No wonder rumours had been rampant. The man had disappeared, apparently almost in the middle of breakfast, and had never been heard from again. The facts seemed to rule out death by misadventure during his return from the bush. Lasalle had simply walked out of his cabin one morning and never returned. No wonder the wife had cried foul. No wonder speculation about murder had run wild.

Chris was about to phone the Detective Gibbs listed on the cover page when he caught the faint drone of a small aircraft coming from the west. He looked up. Listened. It was a Twin Otter, possibly Hunter Kerry. Shoving aside the file, he grabbed his keys and utility belt and raced out of the station. Hunter Kerry was as slippery as an eel and he had no intention of letting him disappear.

He intercepted Hunt just as the man was unloading his overnight gear from the plane. Chris skidded the Jeep to a stop in a cloud of dust. Hunt raised his head, bemused and wary. He said nothing as he watched Chris approach.

“Welcome back, Hunt. Enjoy your trip around the world?”

Hunt scowled. “Just dropping off customers, picking up supplies. Busy.”

“In Whitehorse? A little out of your territory, isn’t it?”

Hunt tried to hide his surprise. “I offer services all across the Southwest. Didn’t know there was a law against that.”

“As long as you file all the proper flight plans and passenger manifests. Which you always do, right?”

Hunt’s expression shuttered. He glared through narrowed eyes. “I’ll get to it. What’s it to you, anyway?”

“That missing Lasalle group you flew in early in the month? One of them has turned up dead.”

The pilot’s eyes widened briefly before he could hide his shock. “Sorry to hear that.”

“So I need to know who you flew into the area. I’ve got all the tour groups covered, but it’s the private parties that might get in our way.” It was a ludicrous explanation but he hoped Hunt was too rattled to question it.

But Hunt merely shrugged. “They weren’t going into the park, so it’s not an issue.”

“Then where were they going?”

“I don’t see how —”

“Let me explain.” Chris thought fast. He didn’t want to mention Victor Whitehead and Olivia, in case Hunt tipped them off that Chris was on their trail. He took a guess. “You’ve got to know who your friends are, Hunt. Your clients, who asked you not to register the flight or their names? Or us, who watch out over your pilot’s licence, your income tax, and your nice little, private, energy-guzzling bungalow in the country?”

Hunter Kerry blinked. Three times. As if his mind was having trouble weighing the odds. Finally he slumped. “I dropped them at Flat Lake. A celebrity honeymoon couple. They said they wanted the privacy and the whitewater challenge of canoeing the Little Nahanni.”

Chris drove straight to the Parks Office, where he found Bugden in his office in animated conversation on the phone. With a free hand, he beckoned Chris to enter. Chris went immediately to study the map of the park and surroundings. The locations of the turquoise canoe, the flooded campsite, and Daniel Rothman’s body were all marked with red pins. Daniel Rothman’s body was inside the current park boundaries but near the southwest boundary.

Still on the phone, Bugden walked over to peer at the map and picked up another red pin. With his finger he traced coordinate lines and stuck the pin into the map just southwest outside the park boundary.

“Got it. Huh. What do you know, the mystery Lasalle cabin. Yeah, it’s outside the park as it stands now, but who knows what the new boundaries will be, once the government is through twiddling its thumbs? Looks like your party is heading pretty well due southwest but they’ll run into the Little Nahanni. Unless they have a boat, they’ll be pinned down. I’ll let the Mounties know. Tymko just walked in. And keep me posted on when you get the body out.”

Bugden signed off and turned to Chris. “SAR’s just relayed the latest report from Inspector Green. He and Jethro found a cabin in this region here. It’s empty, the Lasalle party are gone, but the cabin shows signs of recent use.”

Chris studied the location of the latest pin. It looked as if the Lasalle party was continuing its southwest trek, over rugged, rarely travelled backcountry. They were now outside the park boundary, but Chris was interested to note that since his last visit Bugden had pencilled in the three possible boundaries of the new section of park being planned by the Canadian government. That park would protect almost all the South Nahanni watershed from development, all the way up to Moose Ponds. The final boundary was in hot dispute. The mountains were rich in mineral resources and there were already a number of mining operations in various stages of development.

It was also home to possibly the most stunning, varied, and fragile ecosystem on the planet. Chris knew the arguments well. On the one side, invasive roads, acidic waste rock dumps, chemical spills, tailing ponds, and waste water contaminating all the creeks and rivers downstream. On the other, prosperity and growth in a largely uninhabited land. With all the environmental protection measures in place and the royalties and jobs flowing to the local First Nations, mining was not always the exploitive and destructive force it once was. Whatever the government’s decision, the final boundary would be a compromise. For now, it was still caught up in consultation and red tape, although Chris suspected the conservationists would not be pleased. In recent years the government had shown a decided bias in favour of industry and jobs over environmental protection.

As a Parks Canada employee, Bugden had to stay neutral but his decision to pencil in all three boundary possibilities was telling. Chris studied the map, the pins, and then Bugden’s face, which was deadpan.

“Hmm,” Chris said, “if the ruby mine is near the cabin, which makes sense, and the government goes with the most protective boundary for the new park, it looks like this ruby mine will be inside the park.”

Bugden said nothing.

“But if the government chooses the more limited boundary, which leaves lots of land for further mining development, this mine might actually be viable.”

“Yes.”

“Assuming it even has rubies.”

“It doesn’t. But there are other valuable red stones, there’s gold, copper, silver, and zinc. Not to mention the hot new rare earth metals. No end of riches are possible. And if they rebuild this old mining road up from Cantung, it will be easy to get them out.”

Chris followed the man’s finger and his pulse quickened. The little red pin marking the cabin was maybe six kilometres away from the old road, although over very rough terrain. But more importantly it was even closer to the Little Nahanni River, which at this very moment Victor Whitehead and Olivia Manning were preparing to descend. In less than two days they would pass within a few kilometres of Green, Jethro, and the mythical ruby mine.

Little Nahanni, January 8, 1945

Dear Lydia,

This is a difficult winter. I have not seen a human being since November, when Albert visited on his way to a new trapline. I don’t know when this letter will get to you, and I despair with no letters from you. I will walk down to Albert’s when it warms up. I think it will never stop snowing. It is now as high as the window ledge, and new snow falls every day. Every day I dig the traps out and start again. Many days I have no meat for myself or the dogs. Even the wolves have trouble finding food, and I hear them at night around the cabin. I sleep on the top bunk, with the rifle and the axe nearby. I am reading
Twelfth Night
, a silly play that takes my mind off things. Your
Macbeth
is too hard.

I am happy you are in Vancouver with your family. I know Whitehorse is difficult in winter, but don’t forget it’s our home. Don’t forget the rivers and the mountains purple with fireweed in summer. I hope you will be back in our home when I come out in the spring. Who is watching out for the house, and the bank? There is still no news from Gaetan. I don’t think he’s putting money in the bank.

Embrace my son for me, and don’t let him forget me.

Your Guy

In less than ten minutes Chris was back at the station, making preparations to fly up to the Little Nahanni. He had a bad feeling about this. One group of people hiking in overland, another coming down by river. The motives of both were unclear, but he was pretty sure Scott and Victor were not on the same side. And with potentially millions of dollars in play, the stakes and the danger were high. Caught up in the middle of this, with her own motives the most unclear of all, was the woman he’d spent two perfect nights with.

It didn’t bear thinking about.

It was a seven hundred kilometre round trip from Fort Simpson to the headwaters of the Little Nahanni. In case he had to get down on the river, he needed a boat and camping supplies for at least one night. It would be a reconnaissance mission to see where they were and what they might be up to. If he spotted the Lasalle or Green party as well, all the better.

Neither Bugden nor Nihls were happy about his solo venture, but they couldn’t argue with his reasons. Even Nihls admitted the advantage of having more eyes in the sky over the search area.

At first light he was airborne, watching the town drop away as the Cessna’s nose lifted into the pale pink clouds. He flew high, hoping to make maximum speed. By seven o’clock he was flying over the ragged, snow-capped peak of Mount Nirvana poking through the mantle of cloud. He dropped back down as he approached the Flat Lakes and was startled when jagged scars of waste rock, roads, and buildings emerged out of the wilderness. Cantung Mine.

From this height, he could see nothing but trucks and loaders beetling back and forth, and smoke belching from the flat concrete buildings at the edge of the mine. He circled to give it another pass, but could see nothing unusual. Men glanced up, shielded their eyes, and waved at him before carrying on.

He flew on, following the path of the river up toward Flat Lake, where Victor and Olivia would have started their journey. There was no sign of them. High above sea level in the cradle of snow-capped mountains, the vegetation was sparse and the land desolate. Beyond the perimeter of the mine lay nothing but wilderness. He could just make out a thin, faint scar running alongside the water, all that was left of the mining road that had once brought prospectors and speculators deep into the core of the Mackenzie Mountains. Nowadays only backpackers and adventurers, along with the occasional mountain biker, used it.

Chris planned to follow the Little Nahanni River but didn’t want to fly directly overhead because Olivia would recognize his plane. The very thought of her brought a surge of very unprofessional anger. He didn’t want to tip her off that he was searching. She and Victor would hear the plane, of course, but might think it was mining personnel or even a commercial pilot bringing in a party of canoeists. The presence of his plane would mean only one thing to them; that he — and perhaps the RCMP — was suspicious of their activities.