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

I’d almost given in to Gareth when I found myself hugging a pillow instead. Frantic, I looked around my bedroom searching for his glistening male body. I didn’t find it. I heaved a sigh of relief. My body didn’t. It continued to tingle in anticipation of the rest of the dream.

It was another second before I realized the phone was ringing. I scrambled to answer and knocked it off the table. A disembodied voice called out from the receiver lying on the floor.

“Hello. Megs, you there?”

My heart stopped when I heard Gareth’s voice. I almost slammed the receiver back on the cradle. Instead, with the feel of his naked body still rousing my senses, I shot back, “What do you want, calling me at this hour of the morning?”

“Something’s come up. I can’t make it Saturday.”

I relaxed. “That’s okay. I don’t really want the painting.”

“I’m bringing it, but it’ll have to be Sunday.”

I hesitated. I should end this now.

“Okay with you?” Gareth continued.

I tried to shake away the dream of our lovemaking—the one place that had always brought us both pleasure—and failed.

“Yeah, I guess so,” I replied. Today was Wednesday. Five days should provide enough time to prepare myself for his visit.

“Good, I’ll be at your place sometime late afternoon.”

“No, wait, come in the morning.” But he’d hung up.

I cursed. I knew what was going to happen. Pleading it was too late to return to Ottawa, he’d want to stay the night.

I dialled his home number. It was busy. I tried again. Still busy. Next time, I got the answering machine. I left a message telling him to come early Sunday morning.

I decided to leave another message at his office and was surprised to be informed that the number was no longer in service. Surely, he hadn’t given up his law practice? He’d always said he’d never share the spoils with a partner. I wondered who’d managed to come up with the right price.

My head pounded from another night of drinking myself to sleep. With my day starting so dismally, I grabbed a hot coffee and a warm blanket and retreated to the verandah and Aunt Aggie’s chair.

I sat down just as the rising sun burst over the lake. I watched the glow streak across to Whispers Island, which seemed to hover like some mythical kingdom above the flat water. Mist rose from the lake in the cold morning air, while the lonely putt-putt of a boat echoed off the surrounding hills.

The island’s yellowing birch trees glimmered like molten gold, almost as if they were beckoning. I decided I’d banish my headache and Gareth with a canoe paddle and explore Whispers Island while I was at it. I might by chance find some connection to Aunt Aggie. And I’d look for the gold. I was curious to see where the discovery was located.

I pointed my canoe towards Whispers Island. It had become one of those glorious fall mornings that seem to occur only in the Canadian Shield, one filled with the crystal brilliance that makes everything sparkle in sharp relief. I paddled slowly across the wide mouth of Forgotten Bay to the Migiskan Reserve side of the lake. The canoe cut a knife edge through a mirror shimmering with the reflected neon of autumn. I drifted along the uninhabited shore towards the cliffs of Indian Point.

I surprised a stray flock of merganser ducks, long overdue on their flight south. Feeling somewhat devilish, I decided to chase after them, to see how close I could get before they fled into the air. I dug the paddle into the water. The canoe picked up speed. The ducks raced splashing across the water towards Whispers Island, their large crested heads stretched far out in front. I began to gain on them. I was almost upon them, when suddenly, one after another, they spread their wings, and up into the blue they fled.

I found myself exactly where I wanted to be, at the spit of land where the boats had beached the other day. And it seemed I wasn’t the only one paying a visit to Whispers Island.

A battered aluminum boat lay on the sand, half in, half out of the water, its motor raised, its propeller still dripping. I dragged my canoe onto the beach and overturned it beside the motorboat, which looked to be one from the Fishing Camp. I noticed a red tackle box jammed under the stern seat and recognized it as belonging to Eric.

Thinking he couldn’t have gone far, I shouted, “Eric! Wait for me.”

I’d tag along with him. He knew the island. I didn’t. Aunt Aggie had scared me away with her warning of bears, which was another reason for not believing Eric. If Aunt Aggie did own this land, why would she want to keep her family away from its rocky shores?

I called again, but the only answer was a blue jay squawking his annoyance at my presence. I followed a path through the dense thickets that separated the spit from the rest of the island, and within thirty metres found myself on a slab of lichen-covered granite in a grove of silver birch. Three trails led from the clearing; one followed the shoreline, one pointed uphill towards the forest of old growth pine, and the other disappeared into a tangle of scrub.

It was impossible to tell which trail Eric had taken. I called again without success. It looked as if I’d have to search for this gold on my own. Just one small glitch, though. I had no idea what a gold discovery looked like.

My only knowledge of gold strikes had been gleaned from photographs of panhandlers sifting for gold nuggets during the Klondike Gold Rush. But I was certain if nuggets ever existed on the island, I and everyone else around here would have been out panhandling. That meant the gold was buried under the surface of the island’s Precambrian rock. Without the faintest idea of the type of geological formation to look for, I could only hope that I’d stumble across markers left by CanacGold, or eventually find Eric.

Right now, I had to decide which trail to take. I tried to remember where I’d seen the CanacGold men, but only had an image of them scrambling out of their boats. A jay flew from a birch and disappeared in a fury of blue and outraged squawks down the shoreline trail. I let him decide.

Within a few feet, I came across a dirty Styrofoam cup tossed into the underbrush. While it annoyed me that others could be so careless, it at least told me someone had used this path. Further along, I spied two fresh boot prints embedded in a small patch of wet mud.

I’d found Eric. “It’s me. Meg,” I called out. “Wait up.”

No response, but the freshening wind made it difficult to hear anything above the restless trees. Hoping he was just beyond the next bend, I picked up my pace and followed the trail over the shore’s uneven and rocky terrain. Although I encountered another footprint, I didn’t see Eric. The path rose as the shoreline rose until a wall of rock forced me to turn inland. I headed deeper into the forest. I’d just reached the top of a steep incline when I was startled by a sudden noise, sharp and distinct, like the sound of a branch breaking.

“Eric, that you?”

Another sharp crack was my answer. Wondering why Eric would go off the trail, I wove my way through the densely packed trees towards the sound. A squirrel started chattering like the nervous twanging of a guitar stuck on high “C” and was quickly joined by another.

“Eric, you there?”

I peered through the dense foliage. A sudden gust of wind sent the overhead canopy into an uproar as a shower of dead needles dropped like tiny missiles onto my bare head. For a second I thought I saw a flash of yellow, but it vanished so quickly that I put it down to an overactive imagination.

I gave up and returned to the trail. I heard another brittle snap, then a dull thump on the ground. I decided it was most likely a deer and not Eric. Still, in case it was one of Aunt Aggie’s bears, I walked faster.

I soon reached another decision point, where one fork of the trail disappeared further into the gloom of the forest and the other headed towards daylight. I felt nervous. I turned to the light.

Within minutes, I stood at the edge of a steep drop-off and looked across a wide channel to the uninhabited western shore of Echo Lake. Below me curved a narrow beach littered with deadfall and a few scraggly pine. Cut off from the rest of the island by the shear granite wall, it had a feeling of forgotten loneliness. An enormous dead pine severed it into two almost equal sections. Its weathered trunk stretched far into the still water of the cove, while the massive root ball seemed to be propping up the cliff wall.

I hesitated. It was a fair drop to the beach, maybe ten feet or so. At least it was closer at this end than the far one, which was probably double the drop. Then I thought, why not, it would get me out of the forest. I edged myself slowly over the ledge and jumped down onto the hard packed sand.

I landed almost directly over a set of footprints. Eric’s? I called out.

But again the only answer was the moaning forest. I followed the footprints until they stopped at the dead pine’s root ball, which hovered like an octopus frozen in motion. I was about to turn away when I noticed a gap where some lower roots had been broken-off. Beyond it yawned a large hole in the rock face.

I crouched down and stuck my head inside. The air smelt dank, with a whiff of decay. I held my breath and crawled inside, crunching over bits of twigs and dead leaves. Much of this debris was shoved to the sides of the cave as if something had been dragged through it.

“Eric? You in there?” I whispered, despite thinking it was unlikely he would remain in such an uninviting place.

The hair bristled on the back of my neck. I didn’t like it. Too dark. Too still. An eerie sense of anticipation seemed to hang in the damp air. A slow, steady drip echoed from deep within the cave.

I backed out, my legs and hands pushing the debris further up the cave wall. I was about to stand up when a strange fleck of colour caught my attention. Curious, I reached into the shrivelled leaves and brought out a piece of brilliant fuchsia nylon. I chuckled. It was the shade I was thinking of painting my kitchen chairs. I zipped it into the pocket of my fleece jacket.

Scattered elsewhere amongst the debris were cigarette butts and, amazingly, a used condom. I laughed. The cave was a secret hideaway for clandestine lovers. Mind you, they’d have to be pretty desperate.

However, aside from this lovers’ cave, it was evident this beach wasn’t going to offer anything. It was clear Eric wasn’t here, if he ever had been. And it certainly didn’t look to be the kind of place where gold would be found.