Strange Things Done Read Online Free Page A

blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and his greying goatee accented his face like an exclamation point. Jo found herself betting that he owned, or had once owned, a VW camper van.
    Jo cleared her throat. “He wouldn’t say.”
    When Doug had shaken Jo’s hand, he’d said, “I’m, uh, man I’m sorry about what happened in Vancouver, eh?” His soft, earnest tone of voice had caused Jo to break eye contact. “An emotional bleeder,” her mother would have said in one of her snap judgements. Not someone who would survive life in a hospital emergency ward. Jo generally wasn’t good with Doug Browning’s brand of touchy-feely softness. At least she would only be working with Doug for a week, until she officially took over as editor.
    Doug was swinging back and forth in a peeling, faux-leather swivel chair: a pendulum that measured discomfort. Jo wondered whether she was the source of his unease, or whether it was the news that Jo had just conveyed. Probably Doug had realized that he would know the deceased Dawsonite, which might explain his look of alarm. Still, there was something about his reaction that expressed shock, but not surprise, a fact that Jo decided to file away for later.
    Doug licked his lips. “Ah. What part of the river, did Johnny say?”
    “Johnny?”
    “Sergeant Cariboo,” Doug said, tugging at a stray bit of wool on his curling sweater.
    “Ah. No, he didn’t say.” Jo was already zipping her parka back up. “What’s he like?”
    “Who? Johnny?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Different.”
    “Meaning?” Jo had left her black toque on, hoping that it might stifle the scent of stale smoke in her hair. It didn’t seem to be working.
    “Different from when he was a kid. Everyone thought he’d be a rock star. He was that good.”
    “What happened?”
    “His old man had a gig one night. Uh, he was a musician, too, you see. Taught Johnny to play guitar. Anyway, James—his old man—went out in a snowstorm after the gig. Never made it home.”
    “Oh no,” she said .
    “Yeah. Johnny had to support his family. He started working the front desk at the Dawson RCMP office one summer and has been there ever since. Smart kid, at least.”
    “I see.” Jo looked at her boots for a moment, thinking about her old guitar, about strumming it on the back porch. She’d never been all that good, but she’d once dreamed of writing for Rolling Stone . “Well. Better get out there. Any tips?”
    “Yeah, don’t eat yellow snow.” Doug sniggered.
    Jo shot him a look that she hoped would read as, “ Seriously? ”
    “Okay, um, you could talk to people at the Riverside Café on Front Street. I think it’s still open. Or try the Snake Pit—that’s the pub in the basement of the Westminster Hotel. Pink building on Third. Locals go there for a little somethin’ in their coffee to start the day right.” A litany of weary smile lines framed his eyes.
    “But the sun’s not even up yet. I don’t think …”
    “Nine. The Pit opens at 9 a.m.”
    “What!”
    “That’s the North for you.”
    “Well, I guess it does have its merits,” Jo said, turning to leave. “I’ll meet the others when I get back.”
    “Oh, about the others …”
    There was something in the way he said it that made her turn around. “Yes?” she said. Wary. As if on cue, a papery, scurrying sound emanated from a crate next to Doug’s desk. Curious, Jo moved forward for a look, causing a flurry of activity inside the box. A sticker that read “The medium is the message” had been affixed to the lid.
    “That’s Marshall,” Doug said. “He’s in charge of newspaper disposal and recycling.”
    Jo leaned closer. Inside the crate, a plump, gold-coloured guinea pig perched on his haunches, sniffing the air and worrying his hands. One beady eye appraised Jo, the other was conspicuously missing.
    “What happened to him?”
    “I rescued him from a … well, a classroom bully who thought it would be funny to put a pencil in his