“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?

Who had I seen in the woods the night Ruben was shot? Who had made off with her body?

Suddenly, I felt I was plunging.

I’d told Snook to do nothing. To sign no papers.

“No. Christ, no.”

I’d gotten Ruben killed. Had I put Snook in danger?

I checked the time.

Seven-ten. Ollie was already at the airport.

I grabbed my mobile.

Voice mail.

Unka be damned. I had to talk to Ryan.

I pocket-jammed my iPhone, slammed the cover of my Mac, and headed out.

*  *  *

I was unlocking the Camry when I sensed a presence behind me. Before I could turn, a gun muzzle kissed my temple.

An arm snaked around my neck and pulled me upright.

I couldn’t move or speak.

“Not a sound.” Male. Had I heard the voice before? Tyne? Chalker?

I thought of dropping fast and rolling under the car. What was the point? My assailant had a gun. He’d squat and nail me.

The arm tightened and twisted my body to the right. “Move.”