Kathy Reichs - Bones Are Forever

“When?”

“Yesterday.”

“Where’s Hay River?”

“The south shore of Great Slave Lake.”

“In the Northwest Territories.”

“Gold star for geography.”

“Was the agent sure it was Ruben?”

“No. But get this. At first he refused to sell her a ticket because of the pooch.”

“The woman had a dog?” I felt my heart skip a beat.

“Yeah. Greyhound has a no-pet policy. The only exception is a service animal.”

“So she didn’t get on?”

“The guy finally took pity and let her ride.”

I thought a minute. It made sense. The NWT has a large Dene population. I was about to say that when Ryan surprised me.

“I know where Ruben’s gone.”

OKEKE AND I BOTH EYED RYAN SKEPTICALLY.

“She’s trying to get to Yellowknife.”

“What’s he saying?”

Ignoring Ollie, I gestured with my free hand for Ryan to explain.

“The last string of letters forms a complete word.”

I reconsidered the scrap.

“Monfwi is an electoral district for the Legislative Assembly of the Northwest Territories.”

“And you know this because?” Without looking up.

“Two years ago I busted a kid from Monfwi for dealing crack out of the Guy-Concordia metro station in Montreal. Turned out the little twerp had juice. Twenty minutes after I let him phone Daddy, I got a call from his MLA.” Ryan used the abbreviation for Member of Legislative Assembly.

“What’s he saying?”

Ignoring the sputtering coming from my mobile, Ryan read from the screen of his iPhone. “‘The Monfwi district consists of Behchoko, Gamèti, Wekwèeti, and Whatì.’”

“Dene communities.”

“The Tlicho people, to be exact. There are five main Dene groups. The Chipewyan, living east of Great Slave Lake; the Yellowknives to the north; the Slavey along the Mackenzie River to the southwest; the Tlicho between Great Slave and Great Bear lakes; and the Sahtu living in the central part of the NWT.”

“Gold star for ethnography.” Stealing a line from Ollie.

“Google.” Ryan waggled his phone. “Ya gotta love it.”

I refocused on the scrap. “You’re thinking LA is the end part of MLA?”

“The fragment probably got torn from a constituency newsletter. Politicians distribute them so voters will think they’re earning their pay. The rags all look alike.”

“The Monfwi district is near Yellowknife?”

Ryan nodded. “And the Legislative Assembly sits in Yellowknife.”

“That doesn’t mean Ruben went there.”

“What the hell’s he saying?” Ollie was growing more and more vociferous.

“I’ll call you back.” I clicked off.

“I checked the bus schedule.” Ryan again waggled Mr. Phone. “To get to Yellowknife from Edmonton, you take a Greyhound to Hay River, then you transfer to a Frontier coach line.”

“There’s nothing direct?”

Ryan shook his head.

“Besides Yellowknife, where else can you go from Hay River?”

“Not many places.”

I thought a moment. It all tracked. Ruben was, in all likelihood, at least part aboriginal. Ralph Trees said Roberts/Rogers/Rodriguez spoke accented English. Phoenix Miller thought Ruben came from someplace other than Edmonton. A woman resembling Ruben had tried to board a bus to Hay River. With a dog. Trees said Roberts/Rogers/Rodriguez had a dog. There was a pet bowl in the Saint-Hyacinthe flat. A scrap probably from a Monfwi district newsletter got wrapped in with the baby found at Susan Forex’s house.

Besides, we had nothing else.

I called Ollie.

* * *

Yellowknife lies approximately fifteen hundred kilometers north of Edmonton. To go by car, one travels north to the 60th parallel to cross into the Northwest Territories near Enterprise, then west to Fort Providence to catch a ferry across the Mackenzie River. One then skirts a vast bison sanctuary, avoiding freedom-sniffing Bovinae wandering the pavement. At Behchoko one cuts back southeast to the north shore of Great Slave Lake.

The drive takes up to eighteen hours. Most travel advisory sites recommend making it while the sun shines. And bringing a whole lot of bug spray.

Unless it’s winter. Then you can brave the ice road.

Not a chance this kid was enduring that trip. Nope. Not me.

As with bus travel, airline options were limited.

Ollie booked us onto a Canadian North flight leaving at eight-thirty P.M. The bad news: we wouldn’t land at YZF until after ten. The good news: sunset would occur many hours after our arrival.

Ollie spent the rest of the afternoon and early evening re-interviewing the Greyhound ticket agent and making calls to Hay River, Yellowknife, and other places I’d never heard of. Ronnie Scarborough, the pimp, had finally surfaced, and Ollie had invited him in for a chat. Ryan and I would join them at six P.M.

Using a list that Ollie provided, Ryan and I spent our time visiting bars and hotels favored by Edmonton’s fair ladies. Some of the establishments made the Cowboy look downright chic.

We floated Ruben’s picture, asked if anyone knew or had seen her. We also asked about the big spender Ruben was to have met the night she boogied to Quebec.

We learned two things. In the underbelly, three years is way past anyone’s memory horizon. And we were as welcome in that world as a roach infestation.

Upon arriving at RCMP headquarters, we found that Ollie had learned about as much as we had. Which was zilch. Which made him surly as hell.

Ronnie “Scar” Scarborough was cooling his heels in an interview room. Which made him surly as hell.

Ollie suggested it would be best if he conducted the interrogation alone. We agreed, and he set us up for remote observation.

On-screen, we watched Ollie enter a small cubicle and take a chair opposite a guy who looked like he’d been sent from central casting to play a New Jersey wise guy. He was wiry in a ferret sort of way, with acne-pocked skin, deep-set eyes, and a hooked nose that overhung a scarred upper lip. Gold neck and wrist chains. Shiny gray jacket over a tight black tee that glorified chest hair. Pointy black shoes. The only thing off was the tattoo wrapping the back and sides of his neck. It looked like a stylized bird that had escaped a totem pole.

Scar was sitting with legs outthrust, ankles crossed, right arm draping his chair back.

“How’s it hanging, Scar?”

Scar’s eyes rolled toward Ollie.

“Nice tee. Glad to see you’re secure in your own sexuality.”

“Why the fuck am I here?”

“I thought we could discuss future career options.”

“I wanna call my lawyer.”

“You’re not under arrest.”

Scar drew in his feet and rose. “Then I’m outta here.”

“Sit down.”

Scar remained standing, contempt crimping his features.

Ollie slapped a photocopy of Annaliese Ruben’s mug shot on the table, spun it to face Scar. The rodent glare remained fixed on Ollie.

“Look at it, asshole.”

Scar’s gaze flicked down, back up. He said nothing.

“Know who that is?”

“Tell your sister I ain’t dating right now.”

“Annaliese Ruben. My intel says you pimped for her.”

“I make it a point to ignore unsubstantiated rumors.”

“Project KARE has her on our list. We think maybe Ruben got herself killed.” True enough. At least at one point.

“Life can be brutal.”

“Here’s the thing, Scar. Since we’re uncertain if Ruben’s alive or dead, we’re thinking we should take a real close look at her last known associates.”

Scar performed an impressive one-shoulder shrug.