In the Barren Ground Read Online Free

up her phone. The call had been routed through the emergency dispatch number downstairs, part of an automated phone tree system if someone needed a cop outside regular office hours. Even at full staff complement, Twin Rivers RCMP did not offer twenty-four-hour policing.
    “Constable Larsson,” she said.
    “This . . . Markus Van . . . security manager at West . . . camp.”
    “Can you speak up?” she said loudly. “You’re cutting out.”
    The voice came louder, slower. “Marcus Van Bleek. There’s been a wolf mauling. North end of Ice Lake.” The accent was thick and guttural. Afrikaans. It had become a common sound in Yellowknife ever since De Beers arrived. She’d heard it here in Twin Rivers, too—De Beers prospectors snooping around the WestMin claim and staking out adjacent land, no doubt.
    “One victim?” she said.
    “Two. Biologists. Both dead. Pilot found them, but couldn’t land . . . thick fog in Headless Man Valley. Bodies . . . still out there.”
    “And he’s certain there were no survivors?”
    “She. Pilot is a she. And Jesus, not a chance. I went in there myself on ATV with one of our camp guys. Four wolves were scavenging what was left. We shot the wolves dead. But the place . . . like a slaughterhouse. Bodies eviscerated. Head torn off the female—face half eaten. I reckon the attack happened at least a day ago, if not two. The kids had been forced to overnight because of the fog.”
    Her stomach lurched again. She eyed the bathroom, beads of perspiration pricking on her forehead. “Did you leave anyone out there to guard the bodies, protect them from further predation?”
    “All due respect, ma’am, there’s nothing left to protect.”
    Shit.
    There was always something left to protect. Her brain raced. She was going to need a coroner. That would take hours from Yellowknife. Even longer if the fog held up. While she waited she’d have to secure what was left of the remains herself, assess the scene, file her own police report.
    “You got a GPS location for the site?” she said.
    Van Bleek gave the coordinates. Tana managed to reach for a pen and paper and jot the details down without throwing up again.
    “Look,” Van Bleek said, “you might be able to fly into camp tonight. Cloud cover is high, and we can light up the airstrip for you, but no pilot is going to fly you into Headless Man Valley. Fog is socked in there like frozen pea soup.”
    She glanced at the window. Black outside—the kind of complete darkness that could only come in wilderness miles away from any urban lighting. “What about ATV? You said that you got in there on quads?” she said.
    “Ja, we can get you partway in on ATV, but the last couple of miles you’ll need to hike. Too steep, rocky, narrow for wheels. Slick with ice, new snow. I can have some four-wheelers gassed up and ready to go. I’ll guide you in myself. But you better bring backup firepower because that gore is going to bring in more animals. We’ve been having a problem with some of those wolf bastards getting aggressive with guys at our camp.”
    Probably because you’ve been feeding them . . .
    Tana signed off and dialed Oskar Jankoski, a local pilot under contract to fly for the RCMP.
    No answer.
    She cursed, killed the call. She’d have to go out to his place and find him. There was only one other fixed-wing pilot in town, Cameron “Crash” O’Halloran, a rough, commando-style bush cowboy whom she suspected was behind the booze smuggling and all other manner of minor legal transgressions. Possibly major, too—local rumor had it he’d once killed a man, and that’s why he was hiding up north. He wasn’t even her last resort.
    Her heart thumped a steady drumbeat as she buckled on her duty belt and strapped on her bullet-suppression vest. She retrieved her sidearm from the small gun safe in the adjoining bedroom, checked her rounds, and holstered it. Never again would she leave her sidearm unsecured. She’d