Fire Lake

by J C Paulson

  “For God’s sake, Adam,” Grace whimpered around his kiss, gripped in his embrace. “Please. I need you inside me.”

  “Or what, Grace?”

  “Or you,” she panted, hands raking his hair, “will have to move out.”

  *****

  “Adam?” Grace said tentatively, after his loving had yet again moved her, body and soul.

  “Babe,” Adam answered, cuddling her against his chest.

  “I have to head up to the cabin next weekend. Have I told you about the lake yet?”

  “Not much. It’s up near Meadow Lake, right?”

  “Yes. My grandmother is getting a hip replaced, and Mom and Dad are heading down to Regina for a couple of weeks.”

  “Is this your namesake grandmother?”

  “No, this is my mother’s mother, Margaret. Honor is Dad’s mother’s name.”

  Grace was known by her middle name. Her parents had thought it was an excellent plan to give her two names to live up to.

  “Dad called to see if I could go up and close the cabin, since it often snows at Thanksgiving and he won’t get there for a few weeks. Last year, we couldn’t get within miles of the place — do you remember that October blizzard? Thirty centimetres, I think we got, and even more up north. We had to hire someone to plow his way in and winterize it.”

  Adam groaned at the memory. “Oh, yeah. Hell of a storm. Made policing super easy, too.”

  “I bet. I was wondering . . . do you think there’s any chance you could come with me? I’d love to show you the place. It’s beautiful. I’ve practically grown up there, and I’d like you to see it. Or maybe you’ve been up that way before?”

  “We went up to Lac Des Isles once, when I was a little kid. That’s nearby, right?”

  “Fairly. Lac Des Isles is quite different, though; more of a prairie lake. Ours is a remnant of glacial retreat, surrounded by forest. But yes, it’s maybe half an hour from there.” Grace paused. “Is there any hope you could come? I’d really like to go for three or four days, but two will work if necessary.”

  Grace held her breath, thinking there was nowhere on Earth she’d rather be than up north in a cabin with Adam. Alone, by a lake, in the pristine wilderness.

  “I’ll check with the chief on Monday, but I’m pretty sure I can figure it out,” Adam said. “I don’t know if I can manage four days, but I’ll try.”

  “I’ll take what I can get.” Grace burrowed into him. “It will be so quiet, so peaceful. You’ll love it. I promise.

  Chapter Three

  Grace and Adam had become a three-vehicle household: one small, older Honda sedan; one rather ancient but otherwise perfect BMW; and one big, black, fairly new truck. The truck seemed the right choice for the lake trip, higher gas bills notwithstanding.

  Adam worked like hell all week, justifying two extra days off to create a four-day long weekend. The trial for the man who killed the city’s Catholic bishop in March was a month away, and he was still finalizing documents and answering the Crown prosecutor’s constant questions. Adam did not resent the seemingly endless case, even as he did resent murder. It had brought Grace into his life.

  Working on a late-breaking story for the daily newspaper, the StarPhoenix, she had stumbled over Bishop Howard Halkitt in the cathedral and alerted police to his gory corpse. Adam and Grace met, literally, over his dead body. And Adam’s life changed in that moment. He would never forget seeing Grace for the first time, emerging from her hiding place between two pews, her wild auburn hair, gleaming brown eyes and pale face followed by the long, elegant rest of her.

  He was also completing the horrific details of the case against a serial murderer of at least five women, also the perpetrator of vehicular manslaughter and a dog killer. The violent man almost succeeded in ending the life of Grace’s friend Suzanne Genereux. Looking back, it had been an unusually crime-ridden spring and summer.

  Grace wheedled an extra two days out of her boss, Mark Williams, the managing editor of the StarPhoenix. Mark tended to give Grace anything she wanted. She had almost left the paper, and Saskatoon, for good two and a half years ago when her Australian boyfriend talked her into following him to Canberra. But Mick Shaw turned out to be a jerk and a bounder, and Grace, self-esteem in shreds, came home. Mark often told her not to ever try that again; she was one of his best reporters.

  The hell she would now. Wherever Adam lived, there she would remain. If he left Saskatoon, she would follow; but he showed no interest in moving away. Indeed, Grace had a feeling that Police Chief Dan McIvor would do his best to keep Adam in Saskatoon, even if it meant promotion.

  On Friday morning, Adam and Grace quickly packed a large cooler of food, wine and beer, clothing and sundry other items into the truck’s box.

  “It’s four hours,” Grace warned.

  “Bullshit,” Adam said, grinning.

  “No, really,” Grace protested.

  “We’ll see, Babe.”

  Adam managed to maintain one hundred and twenty kilometres an hour most of the way to North Battleford, but had to admit defeat between the small city and the resort town of Cochin. One lane of bumper-to-bumper traffic, facing a similar snake of vehicles coming south, almost drove him mad. Grace could tell.

  But Adam relaxed into clear sailing, or rather speeding, after that. Few vehicles traversed the closely-treed highway from Glaslyn to Meadow Lake, in large part because it wasn’t a summer long weekend. They made it to the lake in three hours and forty minutes, despite the slower speeds demanded by the winding, narrow trail that led to the lake from the Waterhen River crossing.

  “I see why it’s so tough to get in here after a blizzard,” Adam said, after a few kilometres on the gravel road. “You’d need a good plowing first, for sure.”

  “It’s also very safe and easy to navigate after three days of rain.”

  Adam laughed at her sarcasm. “I can see that, too. But this truck will take most roads, in most conditions. We’re good, even if it does rain.”

  The truck easily wound around curves that suddenly gave way to vistas of blue water sparkling in the fall sun; this part of Saskatchewan was known for its countless rivers, streams and lakes. Deer nibbled grass in the narrow ditches, and yellow leaves swirled in the soft breeze. The weather was fine for September, sunny and dazzling.

  Grace watched Adam as he drove, wondering if the wild beauty of the place had the same effect on him that it always had on her. She placed a hand lightly on his thigh, feeling the muscles tense slightly as he changed speeds on the winding trail.

  “Almost there.”

  “I hope so,” Adam said, in the deepening voice that always betrayed his arousal. “Oh,” he added, as her hand slipped higher. “I do have to drive, love. Unless you want me to pull over and ravish you right here.”

  Grace simply smiled, and pointed to a sign that read Ferguson Lake, one kilometre. First came the turnoff to the campground and store; then another five hundred metres, and they turned into the peaceful crescent of cabins nestled among pine and aspen.

  “We’re halfway down the front road. Here. To your left. The greyish brown one.”

  He backed in the truck, braked and turned to Grace.

  “Wow,” he said. “I can’t wait to see the lake. So what’s the protocol?”

  “I love that you know there’s a protocol. First, we unpack and turn on the power. Plug in the fridge. Then we grab a drink and head down to the lake. Once at the shore, we exclaim about the water level. Oh, the water’s so high! Or, of course, low. Ready?”

  “Very.” Adam kissed her and jumped out of the truck.

  Grace slipped down from the high vehicle, grabbed her suitcase and unlocked the cottage door, flinging it open to let the breeze blow fresh air into the rather stuffy space. Adam followed her, bearing the cooler and the beer.

  “It’s not, you know, fancy or anything,” Grace said seconds later, flicking on the electricity in the little bedroom that housed the breakers. “Feels like home to me,
though.”

  Adam seemed not to hear her. He strode to the front door, swung it open and stepped onto the expansive deck.

  The lake glittered a few metres ahead of him, waves softly susurrating on the shore, just beyond a narrow, sandy path and a thick copse of mixed trees. Late in the season as it was, no power boats marred the quiet; only a sailboat and a kayak could be seen in the distance.

  Grace came up behind him, slipped her arms around his waist and laid her cheek on his warm back. She didn’t ask. Finally, Adam spoke.

  “God, Grace, really? This is spectacular. No wonder you love it so much.”

  “I hope you will, too.”

  “Already do. Let’s grab those drinks and go down to the water.”

  “Nope. We have to get the rest of the stuff inside first. I’m way too superstitious to break with tradition now.”

  Loading in the food and luggage took only a few minutes. Drinks in hand, they wandered single file down the skinny, shaded path and the little incline that led to the beach. The lake wasn’t a huge body of water but contained a couple of small islands to the west, near the opposite shore. Beyond the islands, although it could not be seen, was a little bay thickly populated with Northern Pike. White sand covering the public beach stretched along the eastern shore. Directly across the lake there was nothing, or so it appeared, but dense forest.

  Grace shielded her eyes against the blazing sun and looked around, as caught in wonderment by the sight of her lake as always.

  “Is the water up, or down?” Adam asked.

  “Up. About two feet from last year. There’s been a lot of rain here, and the lake refills from little underground springs that come off the river system.”

  “That’s why it’s so clean.”

  “Yes. It’s rare that it becomes weedy or murky.”

  “Even this summer? It was so damned hot.”

  “Apparently. But it is September. The cool nights and the lack of boat traffic help.”

  “Hey! Grace!”

  Grace’s head snapped around to see who was calling her from the path above.

  “Hi, Gord,” she responded, with warmth.

  The older man’s face lit up with a welcoming smile as he approached Grace, and he greeted her again with a hug.

  “Nice to see you. Haven’t been around much this summer, hey?”

  “No, I’m afraid it’s been very busy. Gordon Allbright, I’d like you to meet Adam Davis. Adam, this is Gord, from over there,” she said, pointing west to a log cabin.

  “Nice to meet you, sir,” Adam said, offering his hand.

  “And you, Adam Davis. Tell me, do you have designs on our Grace?”

  Grace blushed. Gordon was a favourite neighbour of hers — indeed, she had known him all her life — but he did like to discomfit whenever possible.

  “I do,” Adam replied.

  The older man scanned Adam with frank appraisal and nodded.

  “Good. Very good. How long are you up for, Grace?”

  “Four days. And you?”

  “Another week, I hope. Been up since harvest. Can’t beat the weather for September, and who knows what’ll happen in October? Make hay while the sun shines, I always say.”

  As does everyone else, Grace thought, but smiled. The farmer had earned the right to use the cliché as if it were his own until the cows came home.

  “Well, come for a drink later, once you’re settled,” he said. “Tillie’ll be glad to see you.”

  “We will, Gord, thank you. See you later. Give my love to Tillie for now.”

  The older man wandered off, waving over his head.

  “I think you passed muster,” Grace told Adam, once Gord was out of earshot.

  “Thank God for that.”

  Grace sighed. “I’d rather stay at the cabin tonight. Maybe we could get away with a quick drink? Do you mind very much?”

  “Not at all. Looking forward to getting to know the neighbours.”

  *****

  After dinner, they wandered in the gloom of dusk toward the little log cabin, twinkling with tiny lights. Gord and Tillie saw them coming up the path and met them on the porch.

  “Grace!” Tillie said, throwing ample arms around Grace’s slim shoulders. “We haven’t seen you in over a year. How have you been? And who is this?”

  “Tillie, this is Adam. Adam, Tillie.” Grace didn’t think she needed to elaborate on who, exactly, Adam was.

  “Nice to meet you,” said the tall, greying older woman. “Come in, come in. What can we get you? Beer? Scotch? Wine?”

  “A little wine, please. Adam? Scotch?”

  “That’d be great, thank you.”

  As Gord poured the drinks, Tillie settled into her corner chair beside the glowing fireplace and Grace could sense a storm of questions brewing.

  “What’s new around here?” she asked quickly, forestalling them.

  “Well,” said Tillie, and launched into a long gossip about who had birthed babies, who had been divorced, and who was making too much noise on the lake.

  “And a strange thing happened about a week ago,” she went on. “A man who said he was selling satellite dishes came on by. It was so strange. That never happens way up here — people soliciting door to door.”

  “No,” Grace said, brow furrowing. “That’s never happened at our cabin. That is weird.”

  “Well, at first I believed him,” Tillie said. “He had all the right pamphlets and such like. I told him we had satellite already, and we weren’t interested, but he did go on. This service was better. The Roughrider games would be so clear, it would seem like they were in the room with us. And on and on.

  “But then he began asking questions about who was up at the lake, and did we know anyone who didn’t have a satellite dish, and what were their names, and did anyone have cabins across the lake.”

  Tillie finally took a breath, and Grace jumped in.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said no.” The two women exchanged meaningful glances.

  “What did he look like? Did you call the RCMP, or the satellite company?”

  “He was tall, very straight shoulders — I noticed that, particularly — and he had a tattoo peeking out of his shirtsleeve. Couldn’t tell much about it. I told him to get away, and I did call the police.”

  “What did they say?”

  “Thanked me for letting them know. I haven’t heard anything back.”

  “I wonder what he was up to,” Grace mused. “Anything else you remember? In case I see him around?”

  “He wore a ball cap. Wouldn’t take it off. That really annoyed me, because I couldn’t see his eyes very well.”

  Grace’s own eyes opened wide, and she looked quickly at Adam.

  “Well, I’m glad you mentioned it, Tillie. If he comes around, I’ll consider myself forewarned, and not let him in the door. How are Tom and Pat?”

  Tom and Pat were the Allbrights’ children. Grace still remembered the night Tommy went missing in the dark when she was a child of six. Tom, about ten at the time, had not come home at curfew after playing with the other pre-pubescent boys on the crescent. Searchers gathered at her cabin instead of at the Allbrights’ because it was much larger. She lay shivering with delicious fear in her bunk bed, little sister Hope below her; baby brother David was in a crib in the other room, shared with big brother Paul. Had a bear eaten Tommy? she remembered wondering. Had a moose dragged him off into the forest, to be consumed later? Had a very big fish gripped him in his teeth, and taken him away into the bay?

  At midnight, a man had appeared out of the thick, velvet darkness — there were no outdoor lights around the cabins in those days — with Tommy in tow. He delivered the terrified boy to the cabin, turned and walked away without a word. The incident forever after was the mystery of Ferguson Lake. Who had found, and probably saved, Tommy Allbright? Tommy himself had no idea; the man came from nowhere, grasped him by the collar, and silently marched him home.

  Ten years lat
er, a similar thing happened to Grace. But that turned out to be quite a different story.

  She shivered again at the childhood memories, shook her curls and brought her attention back to the present. Tillie had been saying something about how Tom and Pat were doing, but Grace missed most of it.

  “We should go,” she said to Tillie. “It’s getting late. See you tomorrow?”

  “For sure. So good to see you again, honey.”

  Adam paused at the door.

  “Mrs. Allbright, did that satellite salesman give you a name or a business card?”

  “Call me Tillie. And no, I don’t believe he did. Now, isn’t that strange?”

  *****

  Curled on the sectional couch in the cabin, Grace leaned against Adam, internally purring with contentment. She was at her favourite place, with a man she loved like no other, safe in his strong arms.

  She did, however, find herself wondering if Adam would dream tonight. His nightmares, born of post-traumatic stress disorder after being shot six years ago, often surfaced when he was in a new environment. Usually, Grace would climb on top of him, soothe him, make love to him and send his demons back to hell.

  Sometimes, that didn’t work. A few weeks ago, he had lurched out of sleep, pushed her forcefully onto the floor, and crouched on the bed like an animal ready to spring. He had awakened, then, but had been so disturbed by the event he had refused to sleep with Grace on several nights when he sensed the horrors rising.

  It wasn’t the event itself but his refusal to spend the night with her that sent Grace running to the confidential confines of Dr. Anne Blake’s office. Anne was both friend and psychologist, and Grace craved her expertise on PTSD.

  “I love him, Anne. I want to live with him. But he thinks he will hurt me one night,” Grace told her, after explaining what had happened. “I need your help to help him. And me.”

  “Well, he’s right, you know. He could hurt you. He did, actually, when he flung you to the floor and you bruised your hip.”

  “It was nothing.”

  “No. It wasn’t. But yes, I can help you. It’ll mean you’ll have to change your tactics, though. You might not like it.”