Phil looks from me to Dalton. Then he straightens. “Is that how you handle law enforcement in this town? I fail to turn over my gun, so you’re going to accuse me of firing it at you?”
“I have reason to believe this gun was used in a crime,” I say. “I knew if I said that, you’d never hand it over.” I lift the gun. “A three-eighty. The same caliber as the bullet that killed Mark Garcia.”
Phil blusters and then straightens again. “That only means a similar gun was used. I’m sure one of you has such a weapon.”
“A three-eighty?” I say. “This is the kind of handgun they sell guys like you. Inferior firepower, but cheap and easy to handle. An amateur’s self-defense weapon. I’ll do the ballistics, of course, but if you want to lay bets…”
I open the chamber and lift it to show two rounds missing. “Didn’t you say it was fully loaded?”
“I have not fired that gun in weeks.”
“Two rounds were fired at Marshal Garcia. Two rounds are missing from this gun. It’s a shame you kept it secured, too. Otherwise, we’d think someone borrowed it without your knowledge.”
“I keep it in my bag. Someone could very easily—”
“Now the story changes,” I say.
“Phil?” Dalton says. “You are under arrest for the murder—”
“What?” Phil squeaks. Then he clears his throat and speaks a few octaves lower. “Do you think I’m an idiot, Eric? I minored in law. I know that you cannot arrest me for murder based on rounds missing from my gun.”
“Fuck.” Dalton looks at me. “Have I been doing this wrong all along?”
“You have,” I say. “Sorry. You need to speak to the crown attorney’s office first and see whether we have enough to charge him.”
“Crown what?” Dalton says.
“Ah, right,” I say. “Sorry, Phil. The council hasn’t sent us prosecutors. Or attorneys. Or a judge. As soon as we get back from Dawson, we’ll talk to the council and see how they want to proceed. I’m glad we caught the killer, though. Now we just need to figure out who the marshal came for.”
THIRTY-THREE
Dalton leads Phil away. Once they’re gone, April says, “Phil shot the marshal?”
“Nah,” I say. “Well, it’s possible, but I doubt it.”
“So you’re locking him up because he’s a jerk?”
“Pretty much.”
“That seems wrong,” she says. “But also, oddly fair. Pulling a gun on Eric was unnecessary and dangerous. Phil should have turned it over as an act of good faith. He also shouldn’t have lied about keeping it secured.”
“Yep. We’ll let him go as soon as we’re back. Honestly, though, the reason we’re putting him into the cell isn’t to teach him a lesson. It’s to keep him from running to the council and giving them his version of events. Now, if you want to leave, there’s no gun-toting stockbroker blocking the way.”
She shakes her head. “I have considered my commitments in Vancouver and realized that none of them vitally requires my presence. The most pressing is the surgery I was consulting on tomorrow, but I’d already given my recommendations, and the surgeon doesn’t need me to hold her hand. I should see Kenny further into his recovery. The swelling is finally receding. Once it does, I can properly assess his condition.”
“All right. Phil gave his word that you’ll be allowed to leave on the weekend. At worst, we toss him in the cell again until you’re gone. At least now he doesn’t have a gun.”
* * *
If asked to choose between Whitehorse and Dawson City, I’d say it’s like choosing between tequila and chocolate chip cookies. I love both, and they serve very different purposes. If I take that comparison literally, Dawson is the tequila. It’s the fun sister. The town where you can watch a dance-hall revue and play the slots and drink a cocktail with a dried toe in it.
The streets of Dawson are paved with nothing. They’re dirt, with wooden sidewalks, and the first time I came, I thought that was for the weather—because concrete and asphalt might buckle over the permafrost. A perfectly sensible answer. The answer, though, is tourism. Dawson City made its reputation in the Klondike Gold Rush, and apparently people expect that six-hour drive from Whitehorse to launch them back in time.
Yet Dawson also serves as a supply town. It’s the second-biggest city in the Yukon, clocking in at a whopping fourteen hundred souls. This time of year, it’s bursting with tourists but also miners, of the professional and amateur variety. Last month, I met a miner who looked like he walked straight out of the Klondike, with a grizzled long beard and fewer teeth than fingers—he was also missing a few of the latter. On the trip before that, I met a geology professor from California who’d been bitten by the gold bug as a child and returned every summer, finding just enough to justify her trip.
We arrive at the airport, which is fifteen kilometers outside town. It is the smallest airport I’ve ever seen. There’s no baggage carousel—they push your luggage through a trapdoor into the tiny terminal. We land, and Dalton checks in and gets our car. Dalton hasn’t arrived with a flight plan. Most of the air traffic is bush planes like ours trucking people in and out of the wilderness. Dalton radios with plenty of notice, and when he does that, if it’s a controller he knows, he can have the car summoned and waiting when we arrive.
There are no taxis in Dawson. No car rentals. No buses. There’s a “guy,” whom the council apparently pays well enough to come at a moment’s notice, bringing a vehicle and then finding his own way home.