The truck was burned beyond recognition, but it was in better condition than its occupants. The two bodies inside the pickup truck were little more than piles of ash. Constable Bennett made retching sounds at the sight of them, and he had seen some pretty grotesque stuff last year. Tanguay felt a little sick herself.

“The truck was spotted by a skier earlier this evening,” explained Bennett, after he had regained his composure and wiped his thick moustache with the back of his uniform sleeve.

“A skier?” Marie-Ann asked. “In May?”

“Well, you know, one of those weirdos with the roller skis and the poles.” Bennett made motions with his arms as if he was skiing. Or was he dancing? Marie-Ann suspected the man had never skied in his life. She supposed people did worse things than roller skiing, but it wasn’t particularly safe on a dark road outside of town. There were no streetlights or buildings of any kind for several kilometres in either direction. The truck was in the ditch off the side of the road, partially obstructed by trees and brush. “Any ID?”

“The truck was rented in Halifax a week ago by a German tourist named Hans Meier. Meier and the truck came across on the ferry with another man, Klaus Fischer, last Wednesday, but no one saw them since they arrived in Port-aux-Basques.”

Port-aux-Basques was the landing point of the ferry from Nova Scotia, about two hours from Gale Harbour. “That’s random. Two Germans show up in Newfoundland and mysteriously explode?”

“Maybe they were listening to that European techno music and went off the road?” Now Bennett made different arm motions that Tanguay figured were supposed to be dancing, but it looked like he was trying to shake off a wet shirt that was sticking to his flabby arms.

“They didn’t go off the road.” She shook her head. “Not while they were alive.”

“No, I know. There are no tire marks.”

“And no scorch marks on the trees. The car was burned before it was dumped here.”

“So, our Germans were burned, and then someone dumped their bodies here?” Bennett walked around the truck to the passenger side. He reached out and touched the door handle. “Why the hell would someone…”

“Bennett, don’t touch—”

But the constable had already pulled the handle, and the door popped open. The body in the passenger seat flopped out onto the ground; the burned flesh ripping and tearing like the steaks that time someone burned and dropped the BBQ at the RCMP picnic. Coincidentally, it had been Bennett operating the grill that day, too.

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