“Chrome diopside?” Calm.
“Crystals that form deep within the earth, then get carried to the surface in a rock called kimberlite, which is softer. Over the eons the kimberlite erodes away, leaving the crystals intact.”
“So this came from a site near a kimberlite pipe?” Calm.
“I’d say there’s a mighty good chance. I’d look for an infill lake or some similar formation.” Rainwater steepled his fingers and eyed me over them. “You seem quite knowledgeable yourself.”
“No, sir. Not really. But there’s one other thing. I wonder if you can tell me how to research a claim.”
“A mineral claim?”
I must have looked confused.
“A mineral claim must be recorded with this office within sixty days of the date it was staked. To do that, a staker files paperwork and a sketch of the claim and pays his fees.”
“A mineral claim does what?”
“Gives the owner rights to the subsurface minerals for up to ten years if a specific amount of work is done on the claim each year.”
I could hear Rainwater retreating into robot mode.
“If the required amount of work is done on the claim, a person or company can apply to lease the claim anytime before the thirtieth day after the tenth anniversary date of the claim. A mineral lease is good for twenty-one years and may be extended for another twenty-one years if the rental payments are up-to-date and the renewal fees are paid. If a person or company is going to begin production—meaning construction, mining, milling, etc.—then the claim must be taken to lease.”
“Could we start with mineral claims?” I asked.
“You’d better pull up a chair.”
As I did that, Rainwater tapped the keyboard. A new page appeared. The header said Indian and Northern Affairs Canada in French and English. A red sidebar offered a choice of links.
“I’m going into the SID viewer.” Rainwater was entering a username and password. “SID contains a number of spatially integrated datasets.”
A map filled the screen. I recognized the NWT and Nunavut. Hudson Bay. The places I’d viewed on the inside cover of the mining book. Rivers appeared in deep blue, lakes in turquoise, boundary lines and community names in black.
“Got to zoom to a scale of under a thousand. Otherwise, the mineral claims data won’t appear on the table of contents. For now let’s stick to NWT.”
A red rectangle formed on the screen. Rainwater clicked an icon, and the area inside expanded.
A sidebar with choices ran vertically down the map’s right edge. Rainwater chose to display two layers by placing dots in the selection boxes beside the categories. Active mineral claims. Prospecting permits.
He refreshed the map, and gray, green, and chartreuse boxes appeared superimposed on the topography. Each box had a number. Rainwater chose an icon from a panel on the left, and a query box appeared at the bottom of the screen. On a scroll bar under “field,” he chose “C_Owners.owner_Nam1.” Under “operator,” he chose “=.”
His fingers paused at the “value” field. “Name?”
“McLeod,” I said.
He typed the letters, hit “add to query string,” then “enter.”
A pulsating silver bar said the system was searching.
Seconds later, a spreadsheet appeared below the map. It contained about twenty columns of data.
I skimmed the headers. Claim number. Claim status. Date claim was recorded. Acreage. Shape. Some abbreviations I lacked the expertise to interpret.
“McLeod was a busy boy.” Rainwater was scrolling down through the rows. “Ninety-seven claims. Most recorded in the nineties. All withdrawn or lapsed, save three.”
“Can you pull up information on the active claims?”
Rainwater hit some keys. “Looks like there are coowners on all three. Nellie M. Snook. Daryl G. Beck. Alice A. Ruben.”
Pulse galloping, I forced myself calm. “McLeod died in 2008. How would that affect his claims?”
“Unless the deceased party left instructions otherwise, I assume the claims would belong wholly to the coregistrants as long as all fees were paid and use requirements met.”
“Can you pull up one of the active claims?”
Rainwater tapped, and a block of green squares appeared on the map. They were dead north of Yellowknife, northwest of the Ekati mine, just below the border with Nunavut.
I stared at the cluster. Worlds were colliding. More accurately, separating.
Snook said it. I just didn’t hear.
The only thing Farley McLeod gave his kids was a quick shot of sperm and a worthless piece of dirt in the middle of nowhere.
Farley McLeod had left his children mineral rights on land he’d staked. Ruben and Snook each possessed samples rich in diamond indicator minerals, probably given with the warning that they be safeguarded.
The samples probably came from the land McLeod had staked.
Sweet baby Jesus.
Beck and Ruben hadn’t been killed in a battle over drugs. They owned mineral claims potentially worth millions. Someone wanted those claims.
But who?
A cluster of adjacent squares glowed the same bright green as those owned by Snook and her siblings. I pointed to them. “Are those active?”
“They are. Looks like someone snatched up the claims that McLeod let lapse.” Rainwater clicked on a square. Then another. And another. “All owned by an entity called Fast Moving.” He clucked his tongue. “The outfit’s not moving all that fast. It’s met the requirements for maintaining the claim but done nothing else.”
“Is it some sort of corporation?”
Rainwater chuckled. “Sorry. Not my skill set.”
The id cells had the band back together.
Fast Moving.
The name meant nothing to me.
While I was poking at my subconscious, my cortex conjured a terrible thought. Was Snook in danger?
“Thank you so much, Professor Rainwater.” I rose. “This has been very educational.”
Rainwater poured the sample back into the ketchup container. Handed it to me. “You are most welcome.”
I maneuvered around the desk. I was at the door when Rainwater spoke again.
“Dr. Brennan.”
I turned, surprised at the old man’s use of the title.
“Your secret is safe with me.”
“What?”
“Catch the bastards.”
I WAS BECOMING A REGULAR ON RAGGED ASS. STILL, THE atmosphere felt hostile.
As I pulled to my usual spot on the shoulder, I noticed a gray pickup in Snook’s drive. It had a rusting tailpipe and a bumper sticker saying Give Wildlife a Brake. I’d seen it before, couldn’t recall where. Rusty pickups were all the rage in Yellowknife.
I decided to hold tight.
Good call.
Ten minutes later, the side door opened, and a man stepped from the house to the carport. His face was in shadow, but his form looked familiar.
The man got into the truck and backed toward the street. While shifting gears, he glanced my way.
We registered mutual expressions of shock.
Horace Tyne.
Without a word, Tyne gunned it up Ragged Ass. Pebbles spit by his wheels ticked the side of the Camry.
What was Horace Tyne doing with Nellie Snook?
I got out, crossed to the house, and banged on the door.
Snook answered right away, holding a ball cap in one hand. “Don’t worry. I’ve got it.”
Realizing I wasn’t Tyne, she frowned. “You’re like a bad rash. You just keep coming back.”
“Was that Horace Tyne?”
“What do you want?”
“You told me your father left land to you and your brother.”
“Don’t remember saying that, but so what?”
“Did the land also belong to Annaliese?”
“He did it to salve his conscience for ignoring us all our lives. That’s my opinion, and I’ll never chang
e it.”
“Think a minute. Do you own the land outright or the mineral claims?”
Snook’s brows winged farther down. “What’s the difference?”
“Where is the land?”
“All I know is it’s not here in Yellowknife. A town lot might have value. This is a worthless hunk of nothing so far out on the tundra no one would buy it.”
“Have you tried to sell?”
“Right.” She snorted. “That’d happen. Now that the deeds belong to me outright, I’m going to offload the land to charity. I’m tired of shelling out for all three of us. Annaliese and Daryl never had a nickel to spare.”
“You plan to donate the property to Horace Tyne?”
“Yes.” Defensive. “I sign a few papers, I’m out from under the taxes, or the fees, or whatever it is I’ve been paying.”
“For his preserve.”
“When they open the new mine, the caribou won’t have no place to go. Their migration routes will be shattered.”
Something cold clammed into my gut. “Which new mine?”
“Gahcho Kué.”
I grasped each of Snook’s upper arms and locked my eyes onto hers. She stiffened but did not pull back.
“Nellie, promise you will do nothing until you speak to me again.”
“I don’t—”
“You own mineral claims, not land. The claims could be worth a great deal of money. Someone wants to get them from you. That person may have killed Daryl and Annaliese.”
She looked at me like I needed a shot of Prozac.
“Who?” Barely voiced.
“I don’t know. But I will find out.”
I felt distrustful eyes on my back as I ran to the car.
* * *
Back in the Camry, I hit a key on my speed dial.
Come on. Come on.
“Hey, buttercup. You back in Charlotte?”
“Pete, listen to me.”
Twenty years of marriage had sensitized my ex to every nuance of mine. He caught the tension in my voice. “What is it?”
“You’re a lawyer. You know how to research corporations, right?”
“I do.”
“In Canada?”
“Mais oui.” May we.
“Never speak French, Pete.”
“Noted.”
“How long would it take?”
“What do you need?”
“Just the names of the owners, or officers, or whatever they’d be.”
“Probably not long.”
“So you’ll do it?”
“You’ll owe me, sugar britches.”
“I’ll bake you a big batch of cookies.”
“What’s the name?”
“Fast Moving.”
“Oh! là là. I like that.”
“It’s not what you think.”
“Do you know if it’s a partnership, a corporation, or just an assumed name used by an individual?”
“No.”
“That makes it difficult. Do you know where it’s registered?”
“No.”
“That makes it even harder.”
“Start with Alberta.”
Ollie was coming out of G Division headquarters as I pulled in. The lot was small, and I almost ran him over.
Holding two palms high, he circled to my side of the Camry. I lowered the window. “Sorry.”
“Slow it down, sister, or I’ll have to write you up.”
“You can’t write me up. You’re out of jurisdiction.”
Ollie pointed a finger pistol in my direction.
“Haven’t seen you since Friday,” I said.
“Believe me.” He tipped his head toward the building. “I’d rather be with you than those skanks.”
“What’s happening?”
“Unka’s about to roll on Scarborough. Doesn’t matter. It was endgame when his buddy nailed him to the wall.”
“So Scar killed Castain, and Unka killed Scar.”
“Cheap method of social cleanup, eh?”
“What about Ruben?”
“No one’s owning that one.”
“Ryan’s still in there?”
“He and Rainwater will be at it awhile.”
“He said you might be leaving.”
“Flying out in two hours.” Ollie grinned, but the tightness in his jaw belied unhappiness. “Thanks for coming west. Sorry we didn’t get satisfaction on Ruben. But it’ll all come out.”
“I think her murder is unrelated to Castain and Scarborough.”
“What do you mean?”
I laid out my theory.
“Who do you like for the doer?”
“I don’t know. But Tyne has Snook convinced that her”—I hooked air quotes—“‘land’ is vital for his caribou preserve. That the opening of the Gahcho Kué mine threatens the herds. Here’s the thing. Snook’s mineral claims are way over by Ekati. They’re nowhere near Gahcho Kué.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m waiting for info on the owner of the claims adjacent to Snook’s. In the meantime, I plan to dig in to Tyne’s background.”
“Good luck.”
Our eyes held for a moment. Then Ollie reached in and stroked my cheek with one knuckle. “Do you still think I’m the most magnificent creature to ever cross your path?”
“I think you’re a narcissistic pain in the ass.” Smiling.
“I may start calling you again.”
“Keep in mind they’ve tightened the laws on stalking.”
Ollie laughed and stepped back.
* * *
Back at the Explorer, I booted my laptop and entered the name Horace Tyne.
Google sent me to an old photo of a Second Lieutenant Horace Algar, gazetted with the Tyne Electrical Branch of the Royal Engineers.
I tried a more detailed string. Horace Tyne. Caribou. Alberta. That bought me a link to Friends of the Tundra. Ryan was right. The site was primitive.
I decided to take a different approach. The Fifth Estate.
I started with the Yellowknifer but could find no link to its archives. I looped through a number of newspaper portals. The Deh Cho Drum. Inuvik Drum. Nunavut News. Kivalliq News. Each had interesting headlines and colorful photos. None offered access to archives.
Frustrated, I returned to the Yellowknifer and tried clicking through some of the drop-down menus. One presented a graphic of the newspaper’s seventy-fifth anniversary collector’s edition.
The cover displayed a black-and-white of a man in coveralls and a miner’s hat. I clicked on it and downloaded the PDF file offered.
I was studying a shot of the Con mine circa 1937 when my mobile sounded.
“I’m thinking this is worth a lot more than cookies.”
“What did you find, Pete?”
“Maybe buns?”
“Uh-huh.”
While I listened, I scrolled to a story titled “The Golden Age of the 50s and 60s.”
“Fast Moving is an LLP, a limited liability partnership. It’s registered in Quebec. Because it’s a partnership and not a corporation, this may take a bit longer.”
“OK.”
I moved on through a series of ads to a color shot of the Old Stope Hotel burning down in 1969. Prince Charles’s visit in 1975. Strikers protesting in 1992.
I kept scrolling.
My eyes fell on a photo.
I stared in disbelief.
THE WORLD SHRANK IN AROUND ME. NOTHING EXISTED BUT the image on my screen.
The article was titled “Ice Road Truckers.” The black-and-white photo showed four men, all wearing parkas, fur-trimmed hats, and safety vests.
Three of the men were smiling and squinting as though facing into the sun. I recognized two of them.
The fourth man had his face turned from the camera. Though I couldn’t see his features, something about him looked familiar.
“Are you there?”
“I’m here, Pete.” Squeezing the phone between my shoulder and ear. “That?
??s incredibly helpful.”
“Are you OK?”
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t sound fine.”
“Really. You’re awesome.”
“I know.”
“I’m about to head out, so could you e-mail the partners’ names when you find them?”
“Will do. How about Katy’s news?”
“We’ll talk about that later.”
“Pretty ballsy move.”
“I’ve got to go, Pete.”
I clicked off, skimmed the article, then stared at the photo. The caption identified the three forward-facing subjects: Farley McLeod, Horace Tyne, and Zeb Chalker.
Facts zinged like popcorn in my head.
Charles Fipke had discovered diamonds in Canada, setting off a staking rush in the nineties. McLeod and Tyne had both worked for Fipke.
McLeod had staked claims during the rush. He had named his offspring—Nellie Snook, Daryl Beck, and Annaliese Ruben—as coowners.
Snook and Ruben possessed samples rich in diamond indicator minerals. DIMs point to kimberlite. A kimberlite pipe means diamonds. Diamonds can mean millions, even billions, of dollars.
Snook now held all of Farley McLeod’s active claims.
Horace Tyne had confused Snook into thinking that she owned land. He’d persuaded her to donate the land for a caribou preserve. A preserve necessitated by the impending opening of the Gahcho Kué mine. But Snook’s claims were nowhere near Gahcho Kué.
My ill-formed idea began to solidify.
I stared at the photo, heart pounding my ribs.
McLeod. Tyne. Chalker.
Zeb Chalker had bola’ed me at Snook’s house. Blown me off when I’d reported Ruben’s murder. Spread rumors about my drinking.
Had Chalker discredited me to divert suspicion from himself and his cronies?
McLeod. Tyne. Chalker.
McLeod died in a plane crash.
Tyne. Chalker.
One of these men wanted McLeod’s claims. Maybe both.
Ruben and Beck were dead. Snook, the sole survivor, was easily manipulated.
Had that been the strategy? Kill Beck, disappear Ruben to Montreal, after seven years have her declared dead? Then get Snook to sign over the claims? Had Ruben’s sudden reappearance spurred a change in plans?