He shows me how to lure fish with my line. A few little tugs, then a yank upward. I lean on my Ski-Doo, because I find standing especially difficult. My right leg hurts from the cold. Other ice fishermen and women are sitting on plastic buckets or folding chairs.
“I’m going to see what the kids are doing,” Rick says, handing me a plastic bag. “For the fish. Good fishing!”
“Thanks, but don’t get your hopes up. What do you catch here anyway?”
The heckling comes instantly.
“Sharks.”
“Twelve-armed squid.”
“Moby Dick.”
I seem to really inspire mockery.
“Trout and smelt.” Rick throws up his arms briefly in feigned despair and leaves without turning around.
“It’ll be okay,” the young man who’d spoken up earlier yells. His ski outfit resembles a motorcycle rider’s.
I wiggle my rod around the way Rick showed me. The group watches me for a while, constantly making comments, then scatters, because I get no bites. My felt-lined boots keep my feet warm, but the cold creeps into the rest of my body. Quickly and relentlessly. I’ll certainly not be able to get any relevant information from these people. I’d have to wander around and talk to them one by one. Nobody will say a thing in front of other people.
I look over the frozen lake. Fishing men, women, and children everywhere, patiently sitting beside their hole in the ice. Many are alone, others have company. Bright dots in the black-and-white landscape. People don’t feel lost in this vast expanse; I can see that in their behavior. They probably feel a freedom that’s important to them. Nothing but nature and an infinite horizon. No fencing them in, no prohibitive signs, no crowding. Only vastness and a wonderful, empty space.
I can see Rick and his kids with a couple, probably his brother and his wife. Meeka’s sitting at home, weeping over Dr. Perrell. The doctor who was so vital for Dulcie’s well-being. Maybe Meeka did more than revere him, like Georgina. Maybe more women did, too. Did one of his worshippers go crazy with jealousy, like Closs’s wife? Did one of them reach for a pistol in her rage? But Bakie’s murder doesn’t feel right for a woman. Unless she’s very strong and has no fear of knives.
“Caught anything?” A clear, high voice startles me. A little boy, maybe seven. He’s on a mini-Ski-Doo and is watching me. I didn’t hear him coming. I pull hard on the line out of surprise. Something’s hanging from the hook. It flops around on the ice. A trout?
“It’s big,” the boy says in admiration.
I look at the floundering fish.
“What do I do with it now?”
“Take out the hook.”
Since I do nothing, the boy jumps off his Ski-Doo, grabs the fish, and pulls out the hook. I hold out the plastic bag for him.
“Do you want the fish?”
“You could win with that one, it’s real big,” he says knowledgeably.
“I don’t care. I’m really not in the competition. I’ll give it to you. Do you want it?”
The boy beams and nods. He climbs onto his little Ski-Doo with the fish in the bag and roars away. If only the group that was here had seen that fish, I think, feeling a bit proud.
But I bet they’d hold it against me if I won. As a bloody beginner. And a Mountie on top of it.
I’m all by myself again. Abandoned to the cold. It doesn’t seem to bother the others. Just as I’m about to give up fishing and wander around, two snowmobiles come roaring up.
The drivers shout something.
“Polar bear! A mile away.” Two teenagers, judging by their voices.
Before I can respond, they drive on. I hear them shout, and people start getting up from their buckets and folding chairs. They climb onto their snowmobiles. Children protest and whine.
I leave the fishing rod on the ice and hop onto my Ski-Doo. Just as I get my helmet on, Rick appears.
He puts up his visor.
“It’s best for us to go back. My buddies do have a rifle, but it’s better to be safe.”
I feel my heart beating.
“Can I follow behind? I don’t think I could find the way back.”
“Sure. My brother’s taking the kids.”
He picks my fishing rod up off the ice.
“Ready?”
The polar bear scares me, but I’m also happy to escape the cold. Rick revs his motor and tears ahead. This time noticeably faster than before. I go faster, too, not letting him out of my sight. Not until after a rather long stretch do I realize that he’s taking a different trail back. We’re the only ones on this part of the trail. Maybe he knows a shortcut. The trails must be connected by loops. He probably wants to avoid the traffic on the other path.
The ground feels wavier. The snow cover over the bushes is not as thick. It’s not as easy to stay on your seat. Rick’s body oscillates up and down. Suddenly his Ski-Doo jumps sideways and tips over. Rick can just get off in time before he and the machine land on their side in the snow. I cut the motor as fast as I can and slide off the seat.
“Rick, are you hurt?” I help him stand up.
He takes a few steps. “No, don’t think so.”
He stomps around and investigates the ground.
“A goddamn root,” he curses. “Couldn’t see it.”
He goes back to his Ski-Doo. The bench seat has popped open. Things that have fallen out of the storage compartment under the seat are lying in the snow. I pick up a black plastic bag. Feels heavy. I glance inside. I almost have a stroke. A flashlight. A SureFire R1 Lawman. Quick as a flash, I close up the bag. My eyes wander automatically to Rick’s snow boots. Then to his face. He saw me. I hand him the bag.
“This fell out,” is all I say. Sounding as normally as possible.
He stuffs the bag under the seat. Then he tries to right the machine. He can’t do it. I go at it with him. We groan as we push together and get the heavy vehicle upright. We’re both out of breath.
“Don’t go that way,” he says, pointing to the spot where his machine tipped over. “Who knows what’s hidden under the snow.” He looks around. “We’ll go that way.”
He means a wide dip running between bushes sticking out of the snow.
“Isn’t that a creek?”
“Never fear, it’s frozen. And there’s deep snow over it. It will hold.”
I don’t feel afraid. Cautious, rather. And not only on account of the creek.
It’s best not to confront Rick now about the SureFire Lawman, I figure. I’m not going to ask him here whether he stole it from the Viking house. Where Bakie’s dead body was lying. I won’t ask about the white pocketknife either. First I must safely escape from this icy labyrinth on the tundra and get back to Port Brendan. Maybe I wouldn’t make it without Rick. I might keep going around in an endless circle. And freeze to death while doing it.
He must have picked up on my hesitation.
“I’ve got to turn around. Your machine’s in the way. Just move it over the creek, and then I’ll lead again.”
It all seems logical. Rick sounds the same as always. The helpful neighbor. I didn’t see a gun under the Ski-Doo seat. My revolver’s in its holster under my jacket. He knows that. He watched me when I put on my winter clothing.
I climb onto my Ski-Doo and head for the broad snow bridge over the creek. I’d prefer to fly over it at high speed, but the bumpy terrain doesn’t allow it. I wish I were safely traveling in a column with all the other ice fishermen and women and their children. Too late: I’m already crossing the frozen creek. Suddenly a crackling sound, then splintering. I scream. My Ski-Doo falls in, tips to the right. Falls on top of me. Buries my legs and pelvis beneath it.
I don’t scream anymore. The shock silences me.
I’m shaking as I raise my head. The helmet makes it heavy. Everything’s okay. My arms, too. When I move my back, the ice under me begins to crack.
I immediately stay completely still.
Then I hear a motor. Rick’s coming.
But
his snowmobile’s going away.
“Rick! Rick! Help me!” My voice is muted by the helmet.
I’m still calling when I realize nobody can hear me.
50
Fred can’t say what annoys him more: that he can’t go to the ice fishing event with Calista or that Bernard Closs is keeping her out of the investigation on some pretense or another. He strongly suspects that the sarge is again making allowances for people in Port Brendan, and he takes great delight in throwing a stumbling block in his way. Displeased, he opens the station door.
Closs intercepts him before he goes into the meeting room; Delgado and Sullivan are already in there.
“How’s it going with the newspaper clippings?” he asks immediately.
Without a word, Fred hands over the file with the articles and takes a seat beside his teammates, who are staring at a laptop and ignoring him. Closs comes in seconds later. He lays a writing pad on the table, but not the articles Fred has just given him.
“We’ve got a new lead in the Perrell case,” the boss announces when he’s seated. “A witness contacted me to tell me she heard how someone from Port Brendan attacked Dr. Perrell verbally. We’re talking about Rick Stout. The incident happened about seven weeks ago. Stout accused Perrell of performing an unnecessary operation on his wife Meeka. It was apparently to remove her Fallopian tubes and uterus. According to the lady who’s our witness, Stout yelled at the doctor and alleged the surgery was not necessary—a second doctor advised against it, he said, according to the witness. Perrell seems to have carried out the intervention anyway, and now Meeka can’t have children as a result, the witness said. Stout behaved very aggressively, she added. The witness remembers one sentence in particular: Stout shouted that he’d see to it that one of Perrell’s body parts was cut off so he couldn’t have children, either.
“Who’s the witness?” Sullivan interrupts him. “Is she credible?”
“Paula Keyton. A former nurse in the clinic who retired two months ago. The incident occurred in the parking lot in front of the Golden Anchor. She had just driven up to pick up her husband from the pub. She opened the car door to get out when the confrontation started. Afterward Rick Stout went back inside the pub, and Keyton talked for a bit with Dr. Perrell. He said she shouldn’t worry about it, situations like this happen to a doctor now and then, you have to understand people, an operation like that one is a drastic matter for a married couple. And, he concluded, the parents are already hard-pressed with Dulcie.”
“Is the witness credible?” Sullivan repeats. “I don’t know the lady, but we all know how much the people in Port Brendan love gossip.”
Fred thinks differently. It speaks for the witness that she contacted the police. The witness has got guts. She’s running a risk.
Sullivan doesn’t admit defeat. “Sure there are a lot of people who don’t agree with doctors’ decisions. That doesn’t make them potential murderers. Rick Stout was probably a little tipsy and vented his anger.”
Delgado goes even further. “Sarge, with all due respect, I can’t imagine that Rick Stout’s a murderer. Everything I know about him tells me he’s a friendly guy who loves his family and is a model father to Dulcie. He sometimes drinks a little too much and gets loud—but who doesn’t do that in this town?”
Closs writes on the pad in front of him. “Maybe. We still have to pursue the matter, making as little noise as possible. We don’t want people to think we believe they’re all suspects.”
Aha, Fred thinks to himself, here we go again. Just don’t step on anyone’s toes.
“Fred?” Closs looks his way.
“I can talk to Rick’s wife. He’s gone to the ice fishing contest with Gates, and the kids are there as well. Meeka’s probably at home alone. That’s convenient. Has anybody checked out Rick’s alibis at the times of the murders?”
Calista had texted him that Rick Stout was taking her to the lake. Nothing she wrote indicates she might have distrusted Rick.
“Alibis? I thought we weren’t supposed to make waves,” Sullivan sneers. “Why is Gates out ice fishing? I’d love a fresh trout.”
“She’s keeping her ear to the ground with the people there,” Closs explains.
He sent her. Why doesn’t he say so? Fred’s mood is getting blacker.
“Can somebody tell me how Rick got Perrell’s pistol,” Delgado pipes up.
Closs turns to Sullivan.
“Perrell reported the theft of the gun to you. What are the details?”
Sullivan slithers back and forth on his chair. The question appears to make him nervous. He didn’t report the theft to the boss right away. Fred knows that much.
“Perrell kept the pistol in the glove compartment of his car. He always kept it locked, he claimed.”
“Yes, we know that,” Closs mutters, “but how often do people here not lock the glove compartment or even their car. As we found out with Ernie Butt, for instance.”
“Has Ernie’s guilt been confirmed?” Sullivan exclaims to those around the table. “Or is Gates looking for more evidence at the ice fishing contest?”
Fred sees through Sullivan’s demand: he’s trying to distract them from the fact that he messed up the report about Perrell’s pistol.
“One thing at a time,” Closs orders. “Fred, you talk to Meeka Stout. If Rick’s done nothing, we’ll exclude him as quickly as possible.”
“And what about us? Can we go ice fishing?” Sullivan asks.
Delgado shows he’s more serious than his teammate. “Ann Smith should be questioned again. I’d like to know why she pointed the gun barrel at Perrell. And I’d like to know what Perrell and Shannon Wilkey were arguing about.”
Well roared, old lion, Fred thinks.
Closs gets up.
“We’ll review Rick’s alibi.”
Fred heads to Meeka’s. As he’s driving along the main street, he ponders how to proceed. He has to act cautiously, or Meeka will clam right up. Something Calista told him comes to mind. The obscene emails on Meeka’s cell phone. That furnishes him with a good pretext for his visit.
Five minutes later he drives by Calista’s place. He sees a car parked in front of the Stouts’ house. That’s good; Meeka’s at home.
She must see him arrive since she opens the door at once.
“Rick’s not here,” she says. “He’s gone ice fishing.”
“I’d like to have a few words with you,” he explains. “Some women have received salacious emails, and we’re following up. Constable Gates reported that you were one of them.”
When she hesitates, he adds: “It won’t take long. Just a few minutes.”
“Okay.”
She goes to the kitchen; he takes off his boots and follows.
Meeka’s face is swollen, her eyes puffy. As if she hasn’t gotten any sleep.
Since she stays standing, he doesn’t sit down, either.
“You’re not the only one someone harassed with those emails,” he begins. “We want to put the man who wrote them out of business.”
She furrows her brow. “You’ve got time to do this? Aren’t you busy enough with the two murders? Dr. Perrell is dead and Kris Bakie is dead. Who’s next?”
Careful, now, Fred van Heisen!
“We believe we’ll be able to figure out who’s behind the emails pretty quickly using the sender’s IP address. Can I take a look at your cell phone?”
To his relief she picks up the device that’s lying on the table and goes to her messages.
He scans the email she shows him. It’s explicit, but not obscene or threatening. Something that lovers would write out of sexual passion.
“Can I forward this email to myself so we can determine the sender?”
She hesitates.
“I’ve already had enough trouble with them. Rick discovered the messages.”
“That’s unpleasant,” Fred says, “for both of you. Tell him that other women in Port Brendan received emails like these.”
“Who?
”
“I can’t tell you that. We treat all information confidentially. Also, what you tell me in confidence goes no further.”
She nods. “I’ll be really happy when this is over. Rick was very worked up.”
“Well, he’s probably not the only one. I’m sure it makes other husbands furious, too.”
“Creeps who do something like that . . . maybe they want to create . . . an argument in some families.”
“I’m sorry that it’s led to disagreements. You really can’t do anything about it. If you want, I can explain it to your husband.”
Her eyes go damp.
“Rick . . . he thinks it was Dr. Perrell. I told him Dr. Perrell would never do a thing like that. But Rick’s convinced of it. Because I’m at the hospital so often. He certainly regrets it now . . . that Dr. Perrell’s dead. It’s just awful.”
Tears run down her cheeks. She quickly brushes them away and leans on the counter.
Fred spies a chink in her armor.
“Believe me, his death shook us all. We’re doing everything we can to solve the murder.” He scratches his head. “I have to beg your pardon. We should have let you know earlier that you aren’t the only woman to get those emails. Your husband might have understood the situation better. When did he accuse you?”
“Three days ago, perhaps. He knew about the emails for a long time, but he never said anything to me. So stupid. Bottled everything up inside. And when he finally came out with it, it was much worse.” Her face was agitated. “That’s Rick. He thinks because I’m pleasing to him that I’m pleasing to other men as well.”
Fred feels something simmering inside him. Does she realize what she’s revealing to him? A strong motive. Raging jealousy toward Dr. Perrell. First the operation preventing Rick from having children with Meeka. Then the erotic emails to his wife. Fred looks at her. No, she doesn’t know. She’s vulnerable, in turmoil, concerned about how things will go now with Dulcie. And he exploits her fragile state. He must. It’s a question of murder.
CRIES FROM THE COLD: A bone-chilling mystery thriller. (Detective Calista Gates 1) Page 34
