Kathy Reichs - Bones Are Forever

Ryan parked in front of a small log cabin displaying an RCMP sign in French and English. We both got out.

The office held a desk and chair, a few file cabinets, and little else. The desk was occupied by a corporal whose name tag said Schultz.

Schultz looked up when we entered but said nothing. He was in his late twenties, short and stocky, with chipmunk cheeks that made him look soft.

Since Schultz was locked on Ryan and ignoring me, I let the captain do the talking.

“Good afternoon, Corporal.” Removing his sunglasses.

“Good afternoon.” If Schultz was surprised to see us, he didn’t let on.

“We’re looking for Friends of the Tundra.”

Schultz tipped his head and scratched the back of his neck.

“Horace Tyne?”

“Right. Brain freeze.” Schultz pointed four fingers toward the door at our backs. “Go to the end of the main road. Turn left at the blue house with the green shed. Four doors down is a red number with a white door and a fence. That’s the one.”

“You acquainted with Tyne?’

“I see him around.”

We waited, but Schultz offered nothing further. We turned to leave.

“You up from Yellowknife?”

“Yes.”

“Family?” I recognized the “casual cop” tone.

“Nope.”

“You Greenpeacers?”

“You know anything about Tyne’s organization?”

“Not really. Guess it keeps him busy.”

“Meaning?”

“The guy’s been underemployed since the gold mines shut down.”

“When was that?” I asked.

“Early nineties. Before my time.”

“He seem pretty solid?”

Schultz shrugged one shoulder. “Doesn’t get drunk and start throwing punches.”

“What more could you ask?” Ryan slipped on his shades. “Thanks for your help.”

The corporal’s directions were good. We found the house without difficulty. It was small, with cranberry siding and a pair of metal pipes jutting from the roof. The fence was made of unfinished boards nailed vertically with two-inch gaps in between. A scraggly birch threw fingers of shadow across the dirt yard. A gray pickup sat in the drive.

“Not quite the panache of Trump Tower.” Ryan was eyeballing the property.

“Maybe all Tyne needs is a computer.”

“Keeps the overhead low.”

“Leaving more for the caribou.”

Ryan pulled open the gate. We crossed to the stoop, and he knocked on the door.

Nothing.

He knocked again. Harder.

A voice barked, then the door swung in.

I searched my memory archives.

Nope. It was a first.

TYNE WAS WEARING A LEOPARD-SKIN LOINCLOTH, BEADS, AND an elastic hair binder. That’s it.

His bald pate gleamed like copper. His ponytail, which contained perhaps twelve hairs, was long and black and started from fringe wrapping the south end of his head. Both fringe and pony glistened with either grease or moisture. I wasn’t sure whether the guy was honoring the ancestors or just out of the shower.

“How are you, Mr. Tyne?” Ryan extended a hand. “I hope we aren’t intruding.”

“I never buy nothing I don’t go looking for. If you’re not looking, you probably don’t need it.”

“We’re not salesmen.”

“Church?”

“No, sir.”

Tyne shook Ryan’s hand, mine, then slapped a palm to his bare chest. “I was about to do my sweating. Helps the circulation.”

Ryan launched in, using a tactic that implied more familiarity than we actually possessed. “I’m Andy. This is Tempe. We got your name from Nellie Snook. We’re associates of Annaliese Ruben.”

For several beats Tyne said nothing. I thought he was about to tell us to hit the road when he grinned ever so slightly.

“Annaliese. OK. We’ll go with that.”

“Sorry?”

“Nice girls, those two. Known them all their lives. And their kin. Used to get themselves into some mischief. Annaliese left here some years back. Wouldn’t mind hearing how she’s doing.”

“We think she’s returned to Yellowknife.”

“Seriously?”

Did I imagine it, or did Tyne’s eyes narrow ever so slightly?

“Annaliese was living in Edmonton. We’ve come from there. We know her former landlady. When Ms. Forex heard we were headed to Yellowknife, she gave us some belongings Annaliese left behind. We’d like to find her before we leave town.”

Each sentence, taken by itself, was absolutely true.

“Come on in.” Tyne stepped back. “You tell me what you know, and I’ll tell you what I know.”

We trailed Tyne through a dimly lit foyer to a living room furnished in standard-issue Sears. The flooring was linoleum trying to be brick. The air smelled of onions and bacon.

Tyne gestured to the couch. Ryan and I sat. He offered coffee. We declined.

When Tyne dropped into an armchair opposite us his bony knees V’ed out, providing an all-too-clear view of Mr. Happy and the Bong Bongs.

I was glad I had not eaten lunch.

“Please feel free to put on warmer clothing.” Ryan smiled. “We don’t mind waiting.”

“Don’t want the lady distracted by my squeeters.” Tyne winked.

Ryan smiled.

I smiled.

Tyne left, returned moments later in a sweatshirt and jeans. “So. Let’s put our heads together.”

That image was almost as revolting as the prospect of the squeeters.

“First off, thanks for talking with us,” Ryan began. “We won’t take up a lot of your time.”

“One thing I’ve got, it’s time.”

“That’s a luxury.”

“Not when the bills roll in.”

“You’re unemployed, sir?”

“Worked fifteen years at Giant. One day they up and shut her down. ‘Sorry, buddy. You’re shitcanned.’ Did some staking for a while. Some trucking. Not a lot of opportunities around here.”

“Giant is a gold mine?” I asked.

“Was. For decades gold was the lifeblood of this region.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“’Course you didn’t. Everyone’s heard of the Klondike gold rush. Well, Yellowknife had her own day in the sun.”

“Is that so?” Ryan had no interest in gold. I knew he was trying to loosen Tyne up.

“Eighteen ninety-eight. A prospector on his way to the Yukon got lucky. Overnight this place was a boomtown.” Tyne laughed. It sounded like a hiccup. “Meaning the population soared to a whole one thousand. Wasn’t until this century that mining had any real economic impact.”

“How many mines operated here?”

“Con opened in ’36, shut down in 2003. Giant opened in ’48, shut down in 2004. Depleted reserves, high production costs. Same old corporate bullshit. ‘Profits are down, so, chump, you’re out of a job.’”

“I’m sorry,” Ryan said.

“Me, too.” Tyne wagged his head. “Con was really something. Her workings go down a hundred and sixty meters and extend under most of Yellowknife and Yellowknife Bay, almost to Dettah. And Giant wasn’t no slouch. In 1986 she was one of only a handful of mines churned out ten thousand gold bricks. I’m talking worldwide.”

I recalled another of the Giant mine’s claims to fame. In 1992 a disgruntled miner murdered nine men, six of them scabs who’d crossed the picket line. His bomb demolished their cart while two hundred meters underground. The crime was the worst in Canadian labor history.

“We understand you’re involved in environmental conservation,” I said.

“Someone’s got to take a stand.”

“For the caribou.”

“The caribou. The lakes. The fish. Diamond mining is going to destroy the whole damn ecosystem.”

That threw me. “Diamonds?”