“Stables, Butler.”

I salute. “Yes, sir.”

We head out. He says nothing until we’re halfway to the stables. Then, “You’re happy today. Found what you wanted, I take it?”

“Maybe.”

He nods. “You can tell me on the ride.”

“Mmm, you said not to trust anyone.”

“I think I like you better when you’re not in a mood.”

“This isn’t a mood.”

“Yeah, it is. A good one. Normally, you don’t have a mood at all. You’re just there.”

“I’ll ignore that jab, since I’m in a good mood.”

“It’s not a jab; it’s an observation. And you are going to tell me what you found, because I’m your boss. That’s why we’re taking the horses, not the ATVs. So we can talk. Also, so we don’t scare off the ravens.”

“Ravens?”

“Hunting party spotted a flock of ravens.” He pauses. “Which, technically, is an unkindness.”

“What?”

“Murder of crows. Unkindness of ravens. And they can be pretty damned unkind if they’re scavenging something, which they seemed to be doing.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah.”

Our route takes us toward the mountain, and I ask him about a rodent that darts across the increasingly rocky path. He says it’s a pika, also known as a rock rabbit, coney, or whistling hare. He even stops, so I can hear the noise it’s making—more of a loud “meep” than a whistle. Dalton says it’s warning us off its territory. I ask what other rodents are local, and that gets him talking as we ride, about wood rats and flying squirrels and marmots and others.

“We’re in a good spot for wildlife here,” he says. “Fly another hour north and you’re into the Arctic. And you’d better not have been taking an interest to distract me from asking what new information you got from Beth.”

“I wasn’t. I am interested.”

“Good. Did you find any sign Irene’s story wasn’t legit?”

I move aside a branch. “What?”

“That’s what you were looking for, right? Evidence that she’d been abused. Skeletal evidence, I’m guessing, since the soft tissue damage would be long healed.” When I hesitate, he says, “No, Beth didn’t tell me what you talked about. It’s a deduction.”

“Remind me why you needed a detective?”

“Because I’m not the one who thought to check.”

“Did you ‘deduce’ my theory, too?”

“Yeah, but that would be showing off.”

“In other words, you didn’t.”

“Harry Powys was involved in selling illegal organs. Jerry Hastings may have murdered his mother for his inheritance. You were checking on the possibility Irene was also here under false pretences.”

“Okay, you did figure it out.”

He lifts a hand, telling me to stop, and he scans the forest. Then he waves for us to take the left fork on the path.

“That is your theory, then,” he says as we continue.

“It’s a starting point. The problem is not knowing how many people were smuggled in. The fact that three of the four victims fit that profile might be no more significant than three having the same colour hair. That’s presuming there’s a connection between the victims at all.”

He’s nodding. Then he stops and tilts his head, and I catch the croak of a bird.

He motions for me to dismount. We tie the horses to trees. His gelding—Blaze—starts pulling at grass, unperturbed. Cricket looks around, as if to say, I don’t want to stop. I rub her neck and pull an apple from my pack and she decides maybe a break isn’t such a bad idea.

I spot a raven then. People from the east often look at big crows and think they’re ravens, but seeing one now, I don’t know how we make that mistake. The raven is the size of a hawk. It’s black from its beak to its feet. That beak is thick and curved. Its neck is different, too—thick with shaggy feathers.

Dalton says, “Yukon raven.” Then, “Technically, it’s still a common raven, but they get bigger up here. Territorial bird.”

“So steer clear.”

He looks over as if confused, and then says, “Nah, I mean it’s the Yukon Territory’s symbolic bird.”

“Duh, right. I knew that.”

Dalton waves for me to fall in behind him. I unzip my jacket and push it back, exposing my holstered gun. He has his in his hand. He takes another step. Then his hand shoots up as a snarl reverberates through the forest.

I see what he does and … and I have no idea what I’m looking at. It’s like a small bear with stunted legs. The beast bares its fangs as it stands its ground, snarling and spitting.

“Do you see a kill?” he whispers.

I look across the clearing. “No.” Then I spot something. “There’s … I don’t know what it is, but something’s hanging from that tree. I think there’s blood. But whatever it is, it’s up high.”

Dalton grunts. Then he shouts, loud enough that I jump. The creature waddles off, throwing snarls over its shoulder.

“What the hell was that?” I ask.

“Wolverine,” he says. “Also known as a skunk bear, carajou, quickhatch …”

“Wolverine? Like the X-Men?”

He frowns at me.