Читать книгу Meg Harris Mysteries 7-Book Bundle - R.J. Harlick - Страница 69

I arrived home in a light snowfall, half expecting my truck’s headlights to shine on John-Joe’s lanky shape. I said “expecting”. It was more like hoping that he’d managed to elude police and had come seeking sanctuary. Still, my hope was only halfhearted, for I wasn’t sure if I could go completely against my Sunday school upbringing and commit what was effectively a criminal act. But I was saved from having to make the decision. He wasn’t waiting in the shelter of the verandah, nor did he answer my repeated shouts. And the undisturbed snow confirmed that he hadn’t arrived, then taken off upon finding the house empty.

A call to Tommy told me John-Joe was still on the run. But more than fifteen hours had passed since his escape, more than enough time to cover the thirty-odd kilometre distance from Somerset. Although the possibility of his coming hadn’t completely disappeared, I figured it was more than likely he’d already found haven on the Migiskan Reserve.

I didn’t want to think of the alternative, especially with the increased intensity of the snow pelting against the kitchen window. It promised to be a long, cold night. Not a time to be without shelter, even if you had been brought up to survive in the bush.

* * *

In the morning, the blurred white outside my window did little to diminish my worry. The blizzard had dumped another twenty-five centimetres overnight and didn’t look to be stopping any time soon. The thermometer read minus fifteen Celsius, which by normal standards wasn’t especially frigid, but could be deathly cold for someone dressed only in prison clothes. I left a message on Tommy’s answering machine asking him to call back with the latest on John-Joe. Despite the fact that Eric hadn’t bothered to return my calls of the day before, I was worried enough about John-Joe to try him again. I even called his home. With a mixed sense of relief, I heard his answering machine click in.

Tommy was the first to return my call. “No word, yet,” he said. “John-Joe’s tough, spent many a winter on his father’s trap line. But unless he was able to get himself proper clothing, he’d be hard pressed to keep warm.”

“Do you think he could be hiding out on the reserve?”

“If he is, no one’s telling me.”

“Is that so surprising? They’d be worried that you, as his lawyer, would be obligated to turn him in.”

“True. Why don’t you call Eric and see what you can learn?” He paused, as if debating his next sentence. “If I don’t hear from you any more on this topic, I’ll take it he’s safe, okay? Last thing I want is my friend to freeze to death.”

“I understand. Are there any other developments?”

“Yes, an important one. It looks as if John-Joe’s story might have some truth to it. Tests reveal the presence of gamma hydroxybutyrate, otherwise known as GHB, in the scotch. It’s commonly used in date rape situations to knock out the rape victim. Leaves her with no memory of the incident.”

“But Chantal wasn’t raped, was she?”

“Hard to tell. The coroner’s report reveals the presence of semen, but because of the damage done to her genital area, the pathologist cannot prove rape.”

“But surely John-Joe wouldn’t have raped her. There was no need. I’m sure she was more than willing. Besides, he was knocked out by the drug, too.”

“Unfortunately, there is only his word for it. Even if he were to be tested now, it’s too late. This type of drug metabolizes very quickly into the body, leaving no trace. That’s why the tox report on Chantal didn’t reveal anything.”

“And I guess that’s why the killer used it. But at least the scotch proves it was used.”

“But it can also point to John-Joe being the perpetrator. The police are already considering this angle. They’ve asked for a DNA sample. If the semen proves to be his, as it no doubt will be, since he admits the purpose of the rendezvous was sex, they will say he gave her the drug in order to rape her, things got out of hand and he killed her. Without evidence to the contrary, it’s going to be difficult to prove otherwise.”

I groaned. Tommy’s theory sounded just too plausible. “But he was the one who brought up the possibility of being drugged. Why bring it up, if he did it?”

“To mislead the police. Remember, he could’ve drunk the drugged scotch after the murder.”

“No. I refuse to believe that of John-Joe. It requires a degree of cold, premeditated reasoning. At no time in my dealings with him have I seen anything other than genuine shock and distress at her murder. Besides, whose side are you on?”

“You forget, as his defense lawyer, I have to look at all possibilities.”

A sudden thump from the front of the house startled me. “Can you hold the line a minute, Tommy?”

I hurried to the front door, expecting to see John-Joe’s snow-encrusted head, but saw only empty white. I stepped out into the penetrating cold of the verandah.

“John-Joe, you there?” I shouted into the storm’s relentless stream of snow. But only the wind-whipped trees answered. I called again. Nothing.

But something had made the noise. Then I noticed the dark line of a newly fallen tree branch on the stairs below me and relaxed.

I returned to the phone. “God, what a dreadful morning out there, Tommy. I sure hope John-Joe is safely inside somewhere.”

“Stupid bastard. If he’d had the sense to stay in jail, he wouldn’t be out there playing with death.” Despite his harsh words, I could hear the worry in his voice.

“Yes, but maybe there was a very good reason why he fled.”

“Yeah, I’ve got Decontie looking into it. But his escape combined with the rest of the damning evidence is making a joke of his defense. The only way I’m going to succeed in keeping him out of jail is by pointing the finger at someone else. And my list of possible suspects is very empty at the moment. In fact, I’m beginning to believe that John-Joe’s name is the only one that should be on that list.”

“Well, you can put Pierre Fournier on your list?”

“He was a friend of the victim’s, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, and the police must suspect him too. According to his girlfriend, they are looking for him.”

“Might have nothing to do with the case. I did a background check on Chantal’s friends, at least the ones John-Joe could name. Everyone came up clean except for Pierre. This guy has two drug dealing charges as a juvenile. The first was knocked out of court because of insufficient evidence. And although he was convicted of the second charge, he was placed on probation because it was his first offence. Since then, he’s kept his nose clean, but that doesn’t mean he gave it up. Just got smarter. So more likely the cops are looking for him for some drug-related offence.”

“That’s certainly possible.” And I recounted what I’d learned last night. “So you see, given Thérèse’s evasive response, this business pays Pierre enough money to buy her a diamond bracelet, and in cash, no less. And also has him frequently on the road. It could very well have to do with drugs.”

“You’re probably right, but it certainly doesn’t make him Chantal’s murderer.”

“What if there is a drug angle to this murder? Remember the guy I saw wearing John-Joe’s orange cap could’ve been the dealer who sold those kids the marijuana. Pierre was on the same trails as John-Joe the day he lost his cap. He could’ve found it and used it to frame John-Joe. He could also have supplied the stuff found at John-Joe’s cabin.”

“Yeah, so what? These days no one kills for a soft drug like marijuana.”

“But they do over money. What if money is at the root of her death? Say a fight over territory or whatever drug dealers fight about?”

“I suppose it’s possible, but there is no evidence to suggest that the victim was in any way connected to drug dealing.”

My breath caught as I thought of one person who had been linked to drugs. “There’s something you should know.” I finally told him what I’d learned from Yves; the possibility that John-Joe was also involved in dealing.

“I’m really sorry to hear this,” Tommy said. “I thought John Joe was made of better stuff. But regardless, there is nothing to link Chantal’s killing to a drug war.”

“I know, I was wondering about that myself. The only answer I can come up with is that Pierre was more interested in getting John-Joe out of the way by having him jailed for her murder than killing him.”

“Rather weak. Most drug dealers would rather get rid of their competition permanently.”

“But say jealousy was also involved? Pierre’s girlfriend hinted that Pierre might have had an affair with Chantal. Say he killed her in a jealous rage, then made John-Joe pay for it by framing him?”

“At this point, all conjecture, and without evidence it gets us nowhere. Look, I’ve got a lot of work to do, I’ve got to—”

“Wait, what if I told you I saw a motorcycle helmet in his girlfriend’s apartment, that is almost identical to the one described by John-Joe. This could help prove that Pierre was the new man in Chantal’s life.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll check to see if he owns a motorcycle.”

“Do you know when Chantal was killed?”

“Unfortunately, because of the cold temperature, the coroner isn’t able to pinpoint the exact time of death, other than to say she’d probably been dead for about four or five days. This puts it at any time between the time John-Joe and Chantal arrived on Thursday afternoon and the following Friday night.”

“Well, I can definitely place Pierre in the area on the Thursday at around five p.m. I saw him myself. In fact, one could ask the question, ‘Why?’ We’d stopped doing trail work a good four hours earlier, after Yvette’s father kicked us off his land. So why was Pierre still hanging around?”

“But it doesn’t place him at the crime scene.” The sound of rustling papers came loud and clear through the telephone line.

“No, but that four hours would’ve given him more than enough time to go the five or six kilometres to John-Joe’s cabin. Or he could’ve gone later, after letting Eric know about Yvette’s accident. He didn’t come back with Eric. In fact, his girlfriend hasn’t seen him since that day.”

“Doesn’t necessarily mean anything. They could’ve had a fight. He could be staying with friends or off on a trip.”

In the background, I heard the sudden beep of a watch alarm.

“A client’s here. I’ve got to go, Meg. You’ve raised some interesting points. I’ll see what I can do to have them followed up. Bye.”

And he hung up, leaving me wondering if he really were interested in keeping his friend out of jail.

At least I could be assured of Eric’s help, I thought as I called his office again without success. I even got up the nerve to phone him at home. I left messages at both places, hoping he would recognize the urgency and get back to me quickly. In the meantime, I decided to have my lunch, and if no word came from him by the time I’d finished, I’d go looking for him. I’d no sooner put the soup on the cookstove than a roar outside warned me of a visitor. It was Eric.

I stepped outside and braced myself as he turned off the skidoo engine.

“You okay, Meg?” he said removing his helmet. Worried grey eyes stared back at me. “Sorry I didn’t come earlier, but I just got in from an overnight trip to Ottawa. I came as fast as I could, figuring something must be up.”

I tried to banish the image of that woman’s beautiful face from my mind and couldn’t. So rather than attempting to go through social niceties, I said, “I need to talk to John-Joe. I’m hoping you can tell me where he is?”

His concern changed to annoyance. “John-Joe? Who says I know where he is?”

“Please, Eric, don’t play coy with me. I know he must be hiding out somewhere on the reserve. Just tell me how I can reach him, and you can go back to doing whatever you were doing.”

“Is this the reason for all those phone calls, even the ones to my home?” His glance shifted away from me as he said these last words.

I held my breath, waiting for him to say something about his house guest, but when he didn’t, I continued as if she didn’t exist. “It’s urgent that I talk to John-Joe.”

“Meg, I’m surprised at your stupidity. Do you honestly think I would put my people at risk by helping an escaped criminal? If I catch one whiff of his presence on the reserve, I’ll have Decontie after him so fast the snow would melt under his cruiser’s tires.”

“Hey, now it’s my turn to ask what’s going on with you. Why the about-face? Only a couple of days ago, you were defending John-Joe. Now you’ve tried and convicted him.”

“The bastard’s been selling drugs.”

My worst fears were finally confirmed.

“How do you know?”

“One of the kids found in your shack ID ’d him. And the most despicable thing about this, is apart from his betrayal of his own people, the stuff was laced with heroin, so the kids would become addicts.”

“Heroin? How do you know that? Surely John-Joe wouldn’t be involved with such a hardcore drug.”

“Decontie told me. I’ll crucify the bastard if he sets one foot on the reserve.”

“I don’t believe it. John-Joe likes the kids too much. He’d never do anything to hurt them, particularly his nephew.”

“Maybe so, but you said yourself you noticed the drastic change in John-Joe’s character these past few months. I think it’s because he’s back on the hard stuff.”

I thought of the pristine condition of his cabin that no addict would bother to maintain, and his calm, stoic behaviour after his first escape, when he would’ve been several hours without drugs. “No, he isn’t,” I said. “Why is this child so certain it was John-Joe?”

“His orange cap, what else? Remember, you saw him too, leaving your shack.”

“He says it wasn’t him. I think it was someone trying to frame him.”

Eric rolled his eyes. “And we’re going to have a green Christmas, too. Look, I want to believe in John-Joe’s innocence as much as you do, but this time he’s gone too far. Until I know for certain that John-Joe did not supply the kids with heroin, I’m going to track him down until he’s back where he belongs, behind bars. Think seriously, Meg, before you smoke his pipe. If he’s supposed to be so innocent, why has he escaped a second time? Try and answer that one, my miskowàbigonens.”

Although I wasn’t yet prepared to draw the obvious conclusion, I could tell from the steel shutter that had dropped down over Eric’s face that it would be useless to press further the young man’s innocence. Unfortunately, it looked as if I’d have to find John-Joe on my own.

I had become so engrossed in my thoughts that Eric’s last words almost passed unnoticed. “You called me something,” I said. “I hope it wasn’t rude.”

He chuckled in that deep throated manner I’d come to know as his way of dealing with life’s challenges, except on this occasion I didn’t think my question posed much of a challenge.

“It’s nothing,” he said. “Just an Algonquin phrase. Look, I’ve got to be going.”

“What was the word again? Mishagabigan?”

“Not bad. Miskowàbigonens.”

He hoped onto his snowmobile, then as if having second thoughts, he said, “It means Little Red Flower.”

For a moment I thought I detected a softening in his eyes before the shutter clamped down again. He started the engine, and as he plunged down the back route towards the lake, left his final words in a cloud of flying snow. “Say hi to your new boyfriend for me.”

“What about your stupid girlfriend?” I shouted to his disappearing back. I went indoors and slammed the door behind me.