Inspector Green Mysteries 9-Book Bundle (310 page)

He edged the plane left to fly over the gravel road, keeping one eye on the river and another on the ragged terrain below. He had covered less than ten kilometres before a flash of metal on the road below caught his eye. Had he imagined it? A mere wink of water through the trees? Or something else, something manmade where there should be nothing at all?

Curious, he banked and flew back over for a second look. This time he caught a glimpse of a shape before the canopy of trees shielded it from view. It was shiny, solid, and black, larger than a bicycle but too wide for a canoe.

It was impossible to know how long the object had been there, but its shiny exterior suggested that it might be recent. It could mean nothing. It could be an old piece of mining equipment junked long ago. Or it could be a sign that someone was in trouble. Chris had worked in the wilderness too long to ignore even the smallest irregularity.

He headed back toward the mine, landed in the lake closest to it, and taxied up to the dock. By the time he had secured his plane a truck was pulling up. A man climbed out and introduced himself as the site supervisor. He was wearing a hard hat with mosquito netting and a heavy jacket. Chris was in civilian clothes and immediately regretted his bare arms and head. The air was cold but still the mosquitoes descended.

“Have you got a vehicle stranded up on the track about thirty K north of your mine?” he asked once he’d identified himself.

The site supervisor looked astonished. “What kind of vehicle?”

“Can’t tell, but big enough to be a truck.”

“That road’s not passable, at least not yet. There are beaver dams, washed out culverts, and trees down all along it. We get adventurers on ATVs and dirt bikes sometimes, but anything bigger … Maybe a modified Land Rover, if you don’t mind taking the bottom out of her.”

“Have you seen any vehicles or other visitors in the vicinity in recent weeks?”

The supervisor frowned. He was a large, beefy man and his jacket buttons strained against his gut. “This is a private facility with a valuable product, so we keep a close eye. I’ll check with security but I don’t think so. Of course, we’ve heard about that man dead in the Nahanni. That why you’re here?”

Chris nodded, letting the explanation ride. The supervisor gestured him toward his pickup and Chris climbed in, grateful to escape the mosquitoes. Back at the mine, a check with the chief of security revealed no unusual sightings.

Chris consulted the large topographical map on the wall and tried to pinpoint the location of the mystery vehicle. “Do you guys have a couple of ATVs that can handle that road?”

The two men nodded simultaneously. “We both have one. Other guys too.”

“How long would it take to get up there?”

The supervisor grimaced. “Thirty K on that road? At least three hours, maybe more. And that’s if the bridges aren’t washed out or the road swamped. We had a hell of a rainstorm a couple of weeks ago.”

Chris hesitated. The trip there and back would take the rest of the day. On the one hand he wanted to pursue his original goal of checking up on Olivia and Victor. On the other, the presence of that vehicle was very odd indeed, especially if the road was nearly impassable. Cantung Mine itself was at least a hundred kilometres from the nearest civilization, and this road was more remote still. No one drove up that road by accident, or just to take in the scenery. If the truck had broken down, they would be in serious trouble.

“How soon can we get started?” he asked.

Half an hour later, three ATVs drove out the gates of the mine and headed up Nahanni Range Road. The security chief and site supervisor had both chosen to come along and the ATVs were loaded up with winch, pulleys, ropes, and chains as well as emergency and medical supplies. Chris said nothing when the men secured a couple of big-game rifles on top.

Initially the going was smooth, but once they left the mine entrance the ruts and boulders grew bigger. Soon the road became nothing but an overgrown track, bone-jarring and mosquito-infested. Chris was glad he’d put on his helmet with mosquito netting. The three men didn’t talk as they slogged up the road, powering through ditches, over broken culverts and massive stones.

Faint tire tracks carved ruts into the marshy sections, but when Chris dismounted for a closer look he could see they were not fresh. They were nearly obliterated by weeks of weather and rain.

They were nearing the three-hour mark when Chris drove around a curve and came upon a big, black, late-model Yukon SUV pulled to the edge of the track under partial cover of overhanging pine boughs. He skidded to a stop. The Yukon was mud-splattered and speckled with debris but a quick visual inspection revealed no obvious damage. No flat tires or broken axles. The windows were tinted, making it difficult to see inside. Chris signalled the others to stay back while he scanned the ground around it. Rain and erosion had wiped out all prints to his inexperienced eye. He circled the vehicle and cupped his hands to peer inside. There was no one inside, but he spotted some waterproof containers, blankets, and small packs, along with chains, axe, and shovel. This vehicle was well equipped for trouble. He wiped the mud from the plates. Yukon plates. He pulled out his notebook and jotted down the number.

In full investigative mode, he used his glove and tested the door handles, careful not to smudge any prints. All the doors were locked. He attempted to phone the plate in, but his sat phone registered no signal. The group was halfway back to the mine, driving through open scrub, before his phone finally came to life.

He called the detachment, relieved to hear a cheerful young voice instead of Nihls. He waited while the constable ran the plate.

“It’s registered to Enterprise Rent-A-Car in Whitehorse.”

Chris grinned. Enterprise would be thrilled to see the condition and location of their expensive new vehicle now. He asked the constable to find out who had rented it, when, and for how long. The constable called back in less than ten minutes. He sounded excited.

“It was rented on June 15 by a company, Northern Rubicom, on a long-term rental due back August 15.”

Chris’s pulse spiked. Northern Rubicom was the company to which Olivia’s professor consulted.

The constable was rushing on. “It was charged to the corporate account, but get this! Guess who the designated driver is?”

Chris could think of a few possibilities. Scott Lasalle himself had been in Whitehorse in the middle of June, buying his trip equipment. “Scott Lasalle?”

“No, but close. His travelling buddy, Peter Carlyle.”

Chapter Twenty-One

 C
hris and the mine employees had just arrived back at the mine when the call came in from Sergeant Nihls. After six bone-jarring hours on the ATV, Chris was exhausted, sore, and starving. The mine supervisor had offered beer, a hot meal, and a soft bed for the night. With that temptation, Chris had already decided to wait until morning to check out Victor and Olivia. It was nearly 7:00 p.m., and although there were several hours of daylight left Chris suspected the two would have set up camp for the night.

The sergeant’s call changed all that. He brought Chris up-to-date on Green’s encounter with Pete and the likely route taken by Scott and Hannah. “They’re on the run. If they hold that direction, they’re going to intersect the Little Nahanni, probably just south of Crooked Canyon. Your location is ideal so we need you to conduct aerial searches up that way.” Nihls’s parting shot was almost an afterthought. “Surveillance only, Constable. The male subject is armed, mentally unstable, and should be considered extremely dangerous. Report any sightings but do not, under any circumstances, engage either subject, is that clear?”

Chris couldn’t see how he could possibly engage the subjects from a hundred metres up in the sky, but he dutifully agreed. The sun was a ball of flame suspended over the western mountaintops by the time he’d fuelled up and become airborne again. His flight path took him almost directly into its glare, and his visibility was further hampered by the deep purple shadows in the valley below.

He flew over the lakes quickly before edging over to the west side of the river valley and dropping altitude as much as he dared. The surface of the meandering Little Nahanni became ruffled as the river gradually picked up speed, and the shoreline of willows and reeds gave way to rocky twists. He was still at least fifty miles south of Crooked Canyon when he started to search in earnest for a single canoe and a couple of tents tucked onto shore. He spotted the camp on a broad, flat gravel bar just below a particularly scary stretch of whitewater. Two figures were sitting on a tarp by the fire. He peeled away, but not before he saw one of them glance up and shield his eyes. Chris knew his plane would be almost invisible against the sun. The two would know they’d been spotted, but not by whom.

He continued downriver until he saw the steep canyon walls and foaming water of the Crooked Canyon. From this height, it looked unnavigable, and many paddlers did portage around it, but the true thrill-seekers went right down the middle on the tongue of rushing water.

The canyon was deep in shadow at this time of the evening. Chris dropped his plane lower and his eyes strained to penetrate the gloom. The canyon and the cliffside looked untouched. He banked the plane inland toward the east, flying low over the ridges and up the creeks that rushed between them. The forests huddled black and impenetrable in the valleys, the alpine slopes gleamed almost blood red in the sunset. He suspected this assignment was a waste of time. If Scott and Hannah were really on the run, they would not be standing out in the open waiting to be spotted. They would be hunkered down under the dense, dark canopy of trees. At most, he might glimpse a pinpoint of light from their fire.

After circling the area in ever-widening spirals three times without success, he called in his report and headed back to the mine. As he flew back over Victor and Olivia’s camp, he saw no lights or signs of activity. The busy pair had gone to bed.

The next morning, after a hearty breakfast with the mining staff, he checked in with Sergeant Nihls again. Continue your aerial sorties, he was told. He raised the question of Peter Carlyle and Northern Rubicom.

“We need to check out the company, sir, and find out who set it up. Who else is a director.”

“Not now, Constable. We have our hands full.”

“But it could be Scott Lasalle, sir. If so, he’s got some pretty heavy-duty consulting and lobbying help all lined up. Victor Whitehead and Professor Anil Elatar, who is on half a dozen mining companies’ boards.”

“Let’s concentrate on apprehending Mr. Lasalle without loss of life, Constable. All the rest can wait.”

Chris could hear the edge to Nihls’s voice, picture the tight line of his lips. He changed tactics. “Agreed, but what about the abandoned Yukon SUV, sir? It appears functional. It could provide an escape route for him. We need to keep it under surveillance.”

“Negative, Constable. No manpower. Can it be towed to the mine?”

“Negative, sir” was on the tip of Chris’s tongue but he stopped himself. “The terrain is too rough, sir.”

“Then disable it,” Nihls snapped before hanging up.

Chris considered asking the mine personnel to puncture the Yukon’s tires but it was a long trek not without risk. Instead, he asked them to block the exit road with boulders.

Fog had rolled in overnight, blanketing the ground in a damp, chilly mist. It was nearly nine o’clock by the time the shroud had lifted enough for him to get into the sky again. He stayed low as he flew along the abandoned road, spotting the SUV at exactly the same spot he had the previous day. It was still too early for Scott and Hannah to have reached it, assuming that was their goal. The slog up the creeks, through the mountain pass and across the Little Nahanni itself, would likely take several days.

He returned his attention to the Little Nahanni River valley, flying across the broad flatlands and down over the first rapids. The cloud cover was thick and low, blocking the glare of the sun and washing the landscape in a pale, moody glow. He banked away from the gravel bar where Victor and Olivia had camped, hoping to avoid detection this time. The shore was empty. He flew on downriver, expecting to spot them in the wide gentle valley. Nothing but stands of silent spruce and a couple of startled moose.

After half an hour he saw the Crooked Canyon up ahead, where the placid river churned white as it hurtled through the narrow funnel. He banked, flew across it, circled downriver, and flew back. Wind and mist buffeted the plane as his eyes combed the landscape below.

Nothing.

He flew further downstream, puzzled. How could Victor and Olivia have travelled this far downstream in a few short hours, unless they’d left camp at four in the morning? He flew on until he was convinced they were not further downstream, before he circled back up to the canyon. Maybe they’d taken the portage. Olivia was a daredevil who loved every boil and wave, but Victor was a city boy. Perhaps she had played it safe for him.

If they had been hidden by the trees on the portage during his first pass, they would have emerged by now. But the river flowed beneath him, empty. No sign even of a capsized boat or a figure stranded on the shore.

Fear began to crawl its way into his belly. Olivia was an experienced guide, but this was dangerous territory. Besides the lethal class IV rapids on the river itself, there were grizzlies and wolves, used to prowling the land unchallenged.

And there was Victor Whitehead.

The liar, the schemer, the unknown factor in this expedition. Olivia’s words from the week before came back to him. “Sometimes if you want to do some small bit of good, you have to wade into the crap where the game is being played.”

What if Victor was using her? Using her knowledge and contacts as a mining engineer and as a wilderness guide for his own ends? What if she was not his willing partner but his dupe? She was alone with the man, hundreds of kilometres from safety.

At that thought, he gave up all attempts to go undetected. Fighting back fear, he dropped still lower over the wide valley above the canyon. His eyes raked the treeline, looking for any sign of them.