Читать книгу Meg Harris Mysteries 7-Book Bundle - R.J. Harlick - Страница 58

Next morning, I awoke to the kind of pounding headache I hadn’t felt in two years. I cursed myself for finishing the remaining half bottle of wine and vowed never again. I trudged into the kitchen to make a pot of extra strong coffee. Without thinking, I reached into the cupboard for the cognac to add the final touch to my tried-and-true hangover remedy. When I saw the empty shelf, I swore again for slipping back so readily into the old alcoholic groove.

Outside, another winter storm raged. I sat slumped over my coffee watching the last of the visible stalks in my flower garden disappear under a growing snowdrift. A steady flight of chickadees, for the moment free of tormenting jays, ferried seeds from the feeder to neighbouring trees.

I thought about Yves, so like his sister in appearance, yet so unlike in character that it was as if they hadn’t grown up in the same family. It was this polished manner that appealed to me. I’d forgotten what it was like to be involved with a worldly, sophisticated man, who knew how to treat a woman.

I was wondering if it would be too forward of me to use a visit to Yvette as an excuse to see her brother when the phone suddenly rang.

“Bonjour, Marguerite,” flowed the voice of Yves through the static I’d come to associate with the Gagnon phone line.

I sat up, smoothed my uncombed hair and said in my best high school French, “Bonjour. C’est une vrai bonne journée.”

“Oui, it is indeed a good day, especially when I hear your smiling voice.”

Thankful he couldn’t see my blushing face, I quickly changed the topic. “How is Yvette? Would it be possible for me to visit her today?”

“I know she would very much like to see you, but unfortunately, I am driving her to the doctor in Somerset for a check-up. Perhaps you are able to come tomorrow?”

“Love to,” I replied, hoping he would be there also.

“I believe you had another young woman helping you with the marathon trails.”

I stiffened. “You mean Chantal?” Had she trapped Yves too?

“Oui, Chantal Bergeron. She is the daughter of a business associate.”

I breathed more easily. “I didn’t know Yvette knew her. She never let on.”

“Non, they never met before. In fact, I myself didn’t know she was working here until her father phoned me this morning.”

“Why are you asking?”

“I hope you can assist me. Her father is worried. It is five days since he expected her to return to her home in Montreal, but she did not return, nor has she contacted him. His daughter is not, how you say, reliable. He was not concerned until her friend telephoned last night. This friend and Chantal had tickets for a rock concert, but Chantal did not come. Her father asked me to find out if she is still in this area.”

Remembering who had the nerve to assign her to my team in the first place, I said, “Call Eric Odjik, the organizer. He should know.”

“But wasn’t she one of the persons helping you clear the trails?”

The image of Chantal’s contorted face screeching a French insult jumped to mind. “She was. However, last time I saw her was on the trail. Eric said he saw her later at the Forgotten Bay Fishing Camp.”

“You are certain?”

“Yes… No, wait a minute. Eric said something about Pierre finding her. Try him. Or even John-Joe.” From the way she’d been pawing both of them, I could see her deciding that unzipping either guy’s pants, or even both of them, would be more fun than any rock concert.

“Pierre? John-Joe? How do I contact these men?”

“Eric should know where to find them.”

“I do not mean to disturb your good morning with such a trivial concern. Unfortunately, she is like too many young Québécoise, in a hurry to leave the protection of her father’s house. Probably I will find her with one of these young men. When I do, I think it will be necessary to invent a story for her father, non?”

He laughed with complicity while I thought about the chauvinism underlying his words. But I shouldn’t have been surprised. He was, after all, the son of a man who kept another young Quebec woman, his own sister, firmly bound to the parental home.

After a brief hesitation, I accepted his invitation to join him Saturday night for dinner at Auberge du Somerset. If Eric could spend a night out, why not I?

I hung up the phone and continued watching the snow through the kitchen window. It seemed to enclose me inside a moving white prison from which I had only fleeting glimpses of the broader world beyond. I felt that no matter how hard I tried to penetrate the veil, it would slip back into place before I had a chance to identify what lay ahead.

Finally I shook myself, sure that this was nonsense, and left the kitchen to put on sufficiently warm clothing to survive the blustery day ahead, checking the marathon trails with Eric and the other trail leaders.

Eric greeted my arrival at the Fishing Camp with a broad, dimpled grin. “So the old man came through.”

“Yes,” I said, waiting for him to come up with an excuse for not returning my call last night. When he didn’t, I continued, “Why didn’t you tell me about this feud with Papa Gagnon?”

He put on his innocent little boy look.

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. It has to do with a dispute over ancestral burial grounds. That’s why the old man wouldn’t let you use his land.”

“Oh, that,” he grinned sheepishly. “It was my predecessor, Joe Tenesco. He and Gagnon got into a fight over some illegal logging the old man did on our land. To get back at him, Joe threatened to take some of his land away by claiming sacred grounds. They hashed it out for a number of years, but I let it drop. Wasn’t really anything in the claim. Besides, the old man has stayed on his own property.”

“And you didn’t think it would cause you problems with this marathon?”

“To tell you the truth, I forgot.”

“Papa Gagnon hasn’t. He’s only doing this because I saved his daughter. So you can thank me for saving your marathon.”

“Ornery old buzzard, isn’t he?”

We continued to stare at each other as if not quite certain what to say next. Then Eric ran his hand through his thick mane and glanced down at his boots, almost as if he were trying to avoid my eyes. For a second I thought he was going to say something, but when he didn’t, I felt I had to escape this awkwardness.

I started to walk away. “Meg, look, I…” I stopped. “There’s something I’ve been mean—” He stopped when he saw Gerry approaching.

My heart lurched, then I panicked. I wasn’t ready, not yet, to find out what this woman meant to him. I quickened my pace and joined the other crew leaders by their snowmobiles and pretended all was well.

I generally avoided skidoos like the plague. Their engines drowned out the subtle voices of the forest, their gas fumes the cleansing scents of winter. But sometimes, like this day, when speed was important, I was prepared to accept their polluting noise and smell.

The blizzard had diminished to scattered flakes by the time our four skidoos headed out from the Fishing Camp a little after ten o’clock. Our initial plan had been to check out the entire sixty-five kilometre marathon circuit in one day and remove, if possible, any remaining obstacles.

However, the fresh powder left behind by the storm, combined with the previous snowfall, meant it would be slow going. As a result, we’d probably still be on the trail when the late November night closed in. Eric suggested we head in the direction of Papa Gagnon’s land to make sure we had more than enough daylight to assess the amount of work required to complete the remaining section.

With Eric’s unspoken words still loud in my ear, I’d wanted to go with Gerry or one of the other crew leaders, but Eric was so insistent, I felt I couldn’t turn him down. We took the lead, followed by the three other trail leaders. Starting with the first section, the one cleared by Gerry Whiteduck’s crew, we spread the skidoos across the three-metre-wide trail to make sure we didn’t miss any buried obstructions. The machines growled and groaned through the powdery whiteness. Without the benefit of a helmet and its protective visor—few men on the reserve bothered with such citified gear—the wind soon whipped my face numb, while my view of the trail became framed by the ice crystals coating my eyelashes.

Whenever a skidoo howled with the friction of a hidden object, we would stop to determine if it would impede the eventual packed smoothness of the course after another two months of snow. If too high, we’d remove the offending object, which invariably proved to be a felled tree that hadn’t been properly removed from the trail. With Eric casting exasperated glances at Gerry over his laxity, we’d all struggle to carry, push or roll it through the half-metre deep snow to the side of the trail. Then we would pile back onto our respective machines and continue. It made for slow going.

A couple of times Eric, looking none too pleased, was forced to use his chainsaw to remove a stump that hadn’t been shortened to ground level. The third time it happened, he flung a stream of ungentlemanly curses at Gerry, who tried to apologize as best he could. I began to worry over how bad my section would be. Given the less than committed work ethic of Chantal and John-Joe, there would no doubt be a few surprises.

Eventually we reached the summit of Champlain’s Nose, where we halted for a brief break. Not wanting to be alone with Eric, I joined the others, while Gerry poured each of us a cup of steaming coffee. Eric remained by his machine, fiddling with his chainsaw.

After a few minutes of polite conversation, I retreated with my coffee to the snow-washed pimple of Champlain’s Nose and looked out over what could best be described as a black and white Ansel Adams photograph of winter, undulating white hills with trees ribbed in black. Although it wasn’t snowing where I stood, a whiteout beyond the partially frozen plane of Echo Lake forewarned of its arrival, and the icy prickle to the brusque wind said it would be soon.

I heard the crunch of footsteps and turned to see Eric climbing up to join me. Neither of us said a word. Eric leaned into the wind, with his open lumberman’s jacket flapping wildly, while I yanked my jacket’s zipper up until it touched my chin and pulled my hat firmly over my ears.

Figuring I might as well make the opening gambit, I said, “Trying to get pneumonia?”

Eric grinned. “Nothing like a good dose of winter to make a man feel alive.” And he removed his cast-off Mountie fur hat to let his grey-streaked mane fly, as if he were daring the spirits to make him cold.

“Okay, I get the point, macho man,” I said. Placing his hat back on his head, he said in a more serious tone, “Lucky you found those kids yesterday. Hate to think what would’ve happened if you hadn’t.”

“You and me both,” I replied. “What’s John-Joe’s excuse for leaving them?”

“Haven’t talked to him yet.”

“Do you think he could be the instigator? At twenty-six, he must be at least eight years older than the oldest teen in that group.”

“I’ve been having trouble accepting his involvement since you first told me. Four years ago, John-Joe almost died because of a drug overdose. As far as I know, he’s been clean since.”

“Maybe not. Something’s sure influencing him these days. He’s not the same responsible young man he was a few months ago.”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed the change too,” Eric said. “In fact, the reason I haven’t talked to him yet is because he hasn’t been at work for the last five days. Haven’t been able to get hold of him at home either.”

“He’s probably with Chantal, then.”

Eric’s brow creased with annoyance. “The dumb jerk. He’s obsessed with the girl. I told him she wasn’t for him.”

“What did you tell Yves this morning when he called?”

“Yves who?”

“Gagnon. Yvette’s brother. He said he was going to call.”

“Nope. Hasn’t yet. What’s he got to do with Chantal?”

“Her father, a business associate of Yves, called him to find out if she was still in the area.” I answered, while thinking the only reason Eric hadn’t received Yves’s call was because he wasn’t home. And I didn’t need to be a detective to guess what or, more correctly, who was keeping him away.

“You saying she didn’t go home after the last day of trail clearing?” Eric asked.

“Yup. Five days ago. Which curiously happens to be the same length of time as John-Joe’s been gone.”

“That bastard. I’ll set the hounds on him,” Eric said with such force that I wondered if a degree of jealousy wasn’t behind his anger. He sure was having fun with the young ladies these days, wasn’t he? Served him right if Chantal had rejected him for someone more her age.

Flakes started flying around us. Eric buttoned up his jacket and flipped up the collar, then mumbled, “Even macho man gets cold sometimes. Come on, let’s get out of here.”

And he started down the slippery granite incline, back to the trail.

“Something you should know, Meg,” Eric said, as we approached the others huddled around their skidoos.

I froze and waited for the fateful words. Instead, Eric said, “Police found more marijuana last night at a party of older kids.”

I slowly let out my breath. “Hope it wasn’t laced like the stuff found at my shack.”

“We won’t know until the results of the analysis on both samples come in. Needless to say this has me very worried. I thought we’d cleaned up our drug problem. Haven’t seen any on the reserve in over a year. And now suddenly, twice in one day. Obviously a dealer has moved in. We’ve got to get this guy before it gets out of hand.”

“Maybe you should put John-Joe at the top of your suspect list. Might explain why he was with those kids yesterday.”

Eric’s lips firmed in anger as he straddled his snowmobile. I jumped on behind.

By the time we’d passed beyond the shelter of Kamikaze Pass, the snow squall was venting its full fury. I glanced over the edge of the trail to where Yvette had fallen onto the bare rocks and saw only cushioning white. Too bad the accident had happened when it did. A few days later, and she would’ve fallen into this soft powder and incurred bruises, not broken bones. But then again, she shouldn’t have been on this trail in the first place.

We continued churning along my section of the marathon course and, much to my surprise, didn’t find as many obstacles as we’d encountered on Gerry’s. And the few stumps and logs we did uncover were easily removed. My crew hadn’t done such a bad job after all.

We reached the gnarled maple where Yvette’s father had stopped us from continuing to clear the trail on his land. I looked around, half-expecting to see the old man glowering at us with his shotgun cocked, but the only thing moving was the snow swirling around the silent, massive hardwood.

In front of us fluttered the red tape used by the designer to mark the marathon course. Eric set the skidoo’s trip odometer to measure the distance while I pencilled the start point on the map. Following the line of red tape, we wove in and out of the crowded trees. Thankfully most were young trees, so we’d be able to remove them without incurring more of Papa Gagnon’s dreadful temper. Occasionally, the skidoo would grind up and over some buried deadfall. At one point we hit too large an obstacle and had to back up and go around.

The terrain was relatively flat, resulting in a reasonably straight trail that would require minimal effort to complete. The map indicated we were running parallel to the Gagnon farm buildings, a good kilometre or so away. We crossed a couple of existing trails, no doubt logging roads, a conclusion further substantiated by the sight of a number of mature trees marked with bright orange dabs of paint, a marker generally used by foresters to identify trees intended for harvesting. This must be the area where Papa Gagnon planned to log.

To avoid a deep ravine, the new trail veered sharply left in the direction of the farm. A hundred metres later I noticed a clearing with a grove of birch at one end, beyond which I spied the white expanse of a roof. It probably belonged to an old timber shack, no doubt abandoned like the ones on my property when the reason for its existence had disappeared. Most of these simple structures had been built to support fur trapping or sugar bush operations, but sometimes they were the homesteads of the original settlers and had been left to rot, either because the family had died out or later generations had moved to a more accessible location.

We crossed a narrow wooden bridge spanning the ravine and headed back towards Migiskan land. Another half kilometre and we were over the boundary and linked up to the next cleared section of the marathon trail.

In total, the unfinished section amounted to a little less than four kilometres, which wasn’t as bad as we’d thought. Despite the deep snow, a professional work crew with the right equipment could have it cleared within a couple of days. Eric relaxed, and so did I. The future of the Migiskan Ski Marathon had taken an upswing. And even if our relationship was about to disintegrate, my twenty-thousand-dollar investment would still be safe.

We set out along this back section of the cross-country skiing course, which traversed the dense, scrubby middle part of the reserve’s nine thousand hectares. The spindly newness of this second growth forest of softwoods suggested that clear-cut logging of the mature hardwoods had occurred within the last couple of decades.

We slipped through a whiteout, along the side of a partially frozen beaver swamp and headed up a steep hill thick with balsam and poplar. At the top, Eric stopped at the intersection of what looked to be a narrow path leading north, off to the left.

“Guys, you go on ahead,” he said to the others. “Meg and I’ll catch up when we’re finished here.”

Watching the three skidoos disappear down the trail, I decided not to keep pushing aside the inevitable. So with my heart pounding, I said, “Eric, you started to say something back at the start of our trip.”

He arched his brow in confusion, then firmed his lips as he remembered. He gave me a penetrating stare, as if trying to determine my state of mind. Finally, he shook his head and said, “I thought we should check out John-Joe’s hunting camp at the end of this trail.”

I started to ask again, but he hushed me with the words, “Please, Meg, not now.” He gave my mitten a firm squeeze, which left me feeling more confused.

Then, as if nothing had gone on between us, he continued, “It looks as if someone’s been through here since the last snowfall.” He pointed to some very faint indentations in the snow just as a gust of wind filled them in with fresh powder.

It took a few seconds for me to rein in my uncertainties and pretend everything was okay. “Moose tracks?” I finally said.

Eric shook his head. “Too big. More like snowshoe.”

He drove the snowmobile slowly down the narrow path, which was little more than a channel cut through dense, snowshrouded balsam. We churned over more of these depressions, following the path until it descended into another valley lined with the spiked remnants of drowned trees.

We sped through this dead forest, along the frozen edge of the beaver swamp that had killed them. We passed under a great blue heron nest wedged at the top of a skeletal snag. Made from twigs, this massive plate-like nest looked as if it would never survive the harsh winds of winter, but in fact it had probably served as the summer home for many a growing family.

With the surrounding hills closing in, we passed under several more nests until the trees ended at an enormous beaver dam, which spanned the valley floor. Then we jogged right and plunged through a snowdrift to a smaller swamp below. Still following the faint tracks, we zigzagged around withered clumps of marsh grasses and bullrushes until we stopped at another dam, this one much narrower. Below it burbled the stream, whose black water raced towards the canyon of the converging valley walls.

“Looks pretty quiet,” Eric said, getting off the snowmobile.

Perched partway up a slope was a small hut made from round, narrow logs, hibernating under an overhang of snow. A single, dark window stared blankly back at us.

Faint snowshoe tracks stopped at the bottom of a set of steep stairs and smaller, more like boot-size depressions continued up to the door.

“Yeah, but the tracks say someone is here.”

“Maybe, but I don’t see any snowshoes. Given how these tracks have been filled in by the snow, I’d say these were made a couple of hours ago.” Eric tramped up the stairs and flung open the door.

“What the…?” Eric’s voiced died. Alarmed, I scrambled up the stairs behind him and stepped into the muffled stillness of the hut.

“Go back, Meg. Better you don’t see this,” Eric’s voice came from the darkness on the far side of the room.

It took my eyes a few minutes to adjust to the low light. A narrow wooden table with a couple of chairs stood next to the window. Beyond it, in what looked to be a kitchen area, Eric was attempting to light a Coleman lamp hanging from a hook in the ceiling.

I could just make out a narrow bed against the back wall. Something appeared to be lying on it. I stepped towards it. The room burst into light, and I saw Chantal lying as if she were asleep on the bed. But she wasn’t. Blood caked her mouth. And between two perfectly round breasts were several gapping slits, their edges puckered in blood. Many more covered her stomach, leading in a path down to her pubic hair, where it looked as if a thousand birds had pecked away her genitals.