The same goes for the Yukon. In Whitehorse, I've heard people joke that the most common question asked of newcomers is "So, what are you running from?" The answer for most is "Nothing." People run to places like Whitehorse. They come on a job placement or a vacation and fall in love, like I have. Whitehorse is a city of transplants. Willing transplants. But yes, everyone knows there are people in the wilderness who are hiding. Asking questions is frowned upon, both for safety and as a courtesy.
We don't know what--or who--might be in these woods. And we don't really care to find out, because the point is moot. Modern tracking equipment can't reliably locate hikers who wander off the Appalachian Trail. It sure as hell won't locate fugitives up here.
We must find lodgings for our unexpected guests.
"I will take Casey's old house," Phil says. "I know it's vacant."
"Yeah, no," Dalton says. "The guy paying the bills gets the house. Casey just needs to move something out first."
"No need," Wallace says. "I won't disturb any of her belongings."
"Thanks," I say. "But there's one item you'll definitely want relocated."
We take Phil and Wallace to my house with their luggage. I open the door and slip inside with a quick, "Give me a sec."
A few minutes later, I emerge with a duffel bag and a sleepy cub.
Phil sees the wolf-dog and turns on Dalton. "We allowed special dispensation for a single canine. Casey's dog, which is a working--"
"This isn't a pet," I say. "It's the remaining cub from the wolf-dog we had to put down."
"And so you brought it here? This isn't a wildlife refuge, Detective."
"This cub bit Eric. We feared it was rabid, and I needed to monitor it."
Phil steps back so fast I have the very childish urge to dump the cub into his arms. I do hold it out toward him. I can't resist that.
"It's fine, see?" I say.
"Then why is it still here?"
"As opposed to dumping it in the forest? Or killing it?"
As he opens his mouth, I spot a familiar figure passing and shout, "Yo! Mathias!"
Mathias makes his way over and arches a brow. "Did you actually hail me with 'yo'?" He speaks in French as his gaze touches on our guests, testing their comprehension. Wallace gives no sign of understanding. Phil squints, as if he recognizes French from long-ago classes.
"We have guests," I say in English. "I'm sure you've already heard that."
"Our illustrious council liaison, and the poor man who married into the family of a serial killer."
Wallace blinks, but then chuckles. "That's one way of putting it." He shakes Mathias's hand as I introduce them properly.
Then I say, "Your timing is perfect. I was just about to tell Phil that you've volunteered to take and train this cub as a guard and hunting dog. But I'm afraid he's going to tell you no."
"No?" Mathias says, as if he doesn't recognize the word. He turns to Phil and fixes him with a smile that has sent many a resident skittering from the butcher shop. "You wish to tell me I cannot have this cub, Philip? That is unfortunate. I was very much looking forward to it."
"I never said--"
"Excellent. Then we are agreed. I will quarantine and then train it properly, as a working beast." He hefts the cub from my arms. "The next serial killer must es
cape the jaws of a wolf if he wishes to flee." He pauses. "Or she. I would not wish to be sexist."
"Let's just hope we don't have to guard more serial killers, okay? Now Mr. Wallace is taking my old house while he's here, so you'll need to care for the cub."
Mathias says in French, "You realize you cannot take it back now. You have committed to the course. All for the sake of tweaking poor Philip."
"I couldn't resist."