17

The trip to Fort Erie, the repairs and the flight home took nine days. Dalziel phoned Snyder from the airport.

“It’s about time. Let’s go.”

The group arrived just as the ground crew was gassing up the Fairchild. Jim Ross, Snyder’s regular guide, and the young driver emptied the Packard, stuffing everything into the cargo hold. There were deliveries from various stores, some obviously connected more with Snyder’s hunting party than with his pitchblende mine. A fair amount of booze went on, for example. Also, a cook turned up.

Dalziel remembered that Snyder seldom went without his apple pie, even when he was hunting.

Ross got Dalziel to one side.

“The guns are in with the mining equipment bound for Eldorado. Mostly they’re Snyder’s, and there’s enough of them to arm a platoon. The heads will come out bagged with ore samples.”

“Our customers don’t look that happy.”

“Price of radium’s dropping.”

“Good news for the cancer patients. Lavergne seems okay.”

“Got a sense of humour, too. He was joking about taking lots of booze in case you left us stranded.”

“Ha ha. Would you turn me in if you had to walk out?”

Ross laughed. “You could turn me in for taking hunters where we’re going.”

“Then maybe we should do the world a favour. I’ll fly out by myself, you walk out by yourself. Where’s the daughter?”

“Staying home, thank God. She’s been bad, writing letters to some Yellowknife prospector. Evidently it’s all my fault. I was supposed to be watching her.”

“What happened?”

“It was last November, and we were heading north to bag a musk-ox for daddy’s room. At Yellowknife, she was running around town in her snug fur coat and leggings, blonde hair bouncing, filming everything. The boys were going nuts. While daddy was busy at a meeting, that lunatic McMeekan used his pet raven to tempt her into his sled and out onto the lake with him and a pal. She said it was so she could film the town from out on the ice. Daddy was furious. McMeekan’s pal got her address, it seems, and God knows what all else. McMeekan would love to write about that little joke in his stupid newspaper, but he’s scared of Snyder.”

As soon as they were airborne, Snyder produced a flask and started passing it around. Dalziel refused.

“Against regulations.”

“Oh, come on, Dal.”

“Dal’s got to keep this thing flying, Harry,” said McNabb. “And going in the right direction.”

“One ain’t gonna hurt.”

“Lay off. I gotta be back in Washington next week. No time for stupid accidents.”

Snyder sulked but was soon asleep, an activity that, Dalziel knew, usually sweetened his disposition. In an hour, they were above the Peace River, heading for the Finlay.

Ross nudged Snyder, who jerked his head up and stared out the window.

“Where the hell are we?”