“Fine. I was just heading back.”
She stood watching him, scanning for some kind of information he couldn’t supply. Her hood was fur-fringed, and the fur was lashing about, along with a stray lock of gold hair. Her cheeks were rosy, her eyes gleaming as she maybe saw through him, saw that he wasn’t fine, that he was cold and confused, just a step away from petrified. “First days are always rough,” she said kindly. “But it’ll get better, promise.”
The words stung, first days, but worse was the sympathy. He nodded and tried to sound grateful. “Good to know.”
She laughed and reached out to knock him playfully on the shoulder, the punch slowed by too many layers of clothing. She said, “It’s getting onto eight thirty. Big meeting at the Catalina Cafe. Did you book accommodations yet? You’re just an hour away, Smithers, right? Most staff just day-trip it, but the boss says there’ll be no commuting on this one right now. Waste of time, she says. And makes no sense moneywise. She gets a deal at the Super 8, cheaper than manpower miles, even with the per diem. If you like, I’ll take you out later, show you the town, all two minutes’ worth of it. You won’t fall in love, but at least you’ll have a map in your mind.”
He’d lost most of what she said, except the time. He angled his flashlight to see the hands of his wristwatch, and she was right, it was only half past eight, nowhere near midnight as he’d thought. “Meeting?” he said.
“Basic briefing, not mandatory for you, but you’d better come along, familiarize yourself with our reign of terror called Renee Giroux. I have to tell you, she’s nothing like that nice white-haired NCO you got running the show at Smithers. He treating you right?”
Spacey’s voice was young but husky, like she’d been a heavy smoker for years. Her speech patterns were snaky and hard to track, almost as bad as Penny McKenzie’s, but she seemed nice, and if he was lucky he’d be shadowing her for however long he was stuck here, three days, four, before they found the missing girl, the singer whose name he’d already forgotten. He almost forgot the name of his NCO too, but it came to him now, as they hiked downslope toward the portable lights. “Willoughby, yeah,” he said. “He’s great.”
Back in the brightly lit clearing, Spacey spoke with some members from the Terrace Ident section who stood by awaiting instructions. There was nothing left to do here tonight, Dion heard. They’d pack up and go, with a reduced crew to return in the morning light. Packing up everything but the crime-scene tape to mark the spot, the team carted out gear bags and went about powering down the lights. The generator grumbled to silence, and the last halogen faded to black. Flashlights came on, and all members prepared to leave the site, leaving only Dion kneeling in the snow, struggling with his designated task, packing a set of mattocks and spades into something like an oversized hockey bag. The task took him longer than it should, because his hands were numb, and the tools had to be laid just so or the zip wouldn’t close.
Finally, he bullied the thing into shape and got it half-closed, then stood with it hoisted over his shoulder and gave the darkened scene a final scan, and it struck him with a wash of horror: they’d all leave, and she’d be left alone, if by some freak chance she remained trapped in some hidden nook or cranny. He imagined her reviving, crawling out into these terrifying woods, crying out, being met by silence.
Strange how he’d seen her in person, just a few months ago, at the Smithers Fall Fair. He pictured her now, the pretty girl dancing about the stage, singing her heart out. Kiera, that was her name. As it turned out, it was Kiera who needed help, not the black-haired girl in the bleachers he’d fixed on so pointlessly. If he’d been looking at the stage, not the crowd, maybe he’d have seen something that would lead to some conclusion now that would save the day.
He snorted at the idea and dug at the trampled snow with the heel of his boot, testing it for give. The ground below was hard as iron, so she couldn’t be buried deep anywhere hereabouts. And the mountainside had been combed by dozens of searchers, so she wasn’t buried shallow either. She’d been taken away then. He knew it. Maybe on foot, but likely in a vehicle. From what he knew, which wasn’t much, he believed she was dead.
Somebody shouted, and he listened, but was distracted by the forest noises, almost voice-like, wordless mutters and whispers, and a low, demented whistling. The flashlight beam guttered again, and distantly, up on the logging road, he heard car doors slam shut and an engine turn over. He could imagine them forgetting to do a head count and departing without him. He saw himself alone in the woods, following Kiera’s footsteps into the wildest mystery of all. A moment longer he hesitated, and then shifted the gear bag to his other shoulder and headed up the trodden path, almost at a run, to join the departing team.
* * *
Leith and Bosko arrived at the Catalina Cafe, its big yellow sign a blazing landmark on the highway cutting through town. Leith was tired, hungry, and aggravated. He had spent the last hour in conference calls from his new desk at the New Hazelton detachment, and his vocal cords were strained raw. He wanted to return to Terrace and dive straight into the Pickup lead, now that they had a solid link to the Pickup Killer. Phil Prentice thought otherwise, reminding Leith that holding back information could be a valuable tool, but it could also cause havoc. Leaks happened, and supposedly confidential clues could be used and abused, and nothing should be taken for granted at this point. For now, pink glitter be damned, Leith was to remain in the Hazeltons and explore all the other myriad avenues, keeping in regular contact, of course, with the Terrace task force that would be chasing down the Pickup Killer full-tilt, headed up by Corporal Mel Stoner. Furthermore, the glitter angle was to remain, at Stoner’s discretion, held back from the press and disseminated only to the core team.
The back room at the Catalina was too warm, and Leith shed his several layers of coats, jackets, and sweaters, hung them up, and took a seat. He had missed lunch and was glad the briefing would be bracketed around food. Hardly gourmet grub in a place like this, but he didn’t care so long as it was greasily rich in salt and starch. Giroux said the food was great as she sat across from him, but she had to say that, knowing the owners; she knew everybody here. That was the advantage and disadvantage of running a village in the middle of nowhere: familiarity.
They were a party of ten, a few faces Leith didn’t know. Giroux said she’d used this room often for meetings such as this. It was also used for weddings and whatnot. Sound-wise, it was well insulated, private, and the staff knew all about discretion. The one long table they sat at was draped in white. The walls were panelled in fake wood and hung about with genuine mounted animal heads, which in turn were hung about with cobwebs. Swing doors separated this room from the kitchen, but the kitchen sounds were distant enough when the doors clicked shut. Music from a local pop station played, but barely audible.
Coffee was served and orders were taken, and Giroux made introductions, naming herself in charge of New Hazelton. She would be dealing with issues in her community but would be at hand to lend assistance to the team when possible. She introduced Leith as lead investigator, the one who’d assign tasks, make all procedural decisions, and liaise with Sergeant Phil Prentice in Prince Rupert.
She introduced Sergeant Mike Bosko, the brass from the Lower Mainland who was joining the team in a sort of unofficial advisory capacity until further notice. A few brows went up, and Corporal Fairchild from Terrace asked jokingly, “What, just happened to be passing by?” the joke being that nobody just passed by the lonely Hazeltons in mid-February.
Leith watched Bosko for reaction to the jibe and saw the irony had gone right past him. “Pretty well,” Bosko said. “Dave was heading this way, so I hitched a ride.”
Giroux charged through the remaining introductions and then gave the floor to Jayne Spacey, who had opened the file and knew it best. Spacey stood to talk, skimming fast over Kiera Rilkoff’s particulars, since they were all there on her stat sheet: age, height, weight, the colour of her hair and eyes, address, identifying marks. She went on from there. “At twenty-two she still lives with her parents and her sister