Fire Lake

by J C Paulson

  “Don’t worry,” said the Elder, with a small smile. “There’s nothing mind-altering in my tea. It is simply nature’s medicine. Now I will tell you a story.”

  Elijah Starblanket closed his eyes, folded his hands, and began to speak. He told them how he had adopted Elias: Elijah’s sister had married a man of the surname Crow, moved south, had a child and died a few years later. The father was clearly uninterested in the boy, so Elijah took Elias in and raised him, along with his own four children.

  Elias joined his uncle on the trap lines, on fishing excursions, and learned the ways of the Nation and of the forest. But he also wanted to follow Elijah into the Canadian Army.

  “I tried to talk him out of it,” said Elijah, a small choking noise escaping from his throat. “I loved my son; I wanted him to stay here with us. But I had gone overseas and served as a peacekeeper in Cyprus, and Elias thought it was a noble thing to do. So, he signed up. It turned out he was right; it was a noble thing to do. At least, for himself.”

  Early in his army days, Elijah continued, Elias made a name for himself. He was tall, strong, agile and kept his mouth shut. He did well in basic training, and ultimately ended up with the Canadian Airborne Regiment in Petawawa, Ontario. An elite soldier.

  His company was shipped to Somalia, ostensibly for peacekeeping during the country’s civil war, in 1993.

  “One night, when Elias was on patrol, he came upon a small group of children trying to sneak into the supply tent,” Elijah said softly, in his measured speech. “He was very worried about it, because there were some sick men in his unit; he wasn’t sure what they might do to the kids. Elias grabbed the oldest of the group by his shirt collar and told him to run away and not come back.”

  “Much like you did with Tom,” Tillie said, “when you brought him home that night.”

  “Yes. I had done it to Elias, too, when he needed a little march toward home,” he said.

  “The boy did run away. The others, of course, were scared out of their wits and had already vanished. But a couple of the soldiers saw Elias letting the little ones go. They reported him to the brass.”

  Elijah swallowed. Grace could see he was struggling for control.

  “What happened then, sir?” she prompted, gently.

  “They followed the children into the village, and unleashed hell,” Elijah said. A single tear tracked down his left cheek, but he did not wipe it away. “They set fires to the homes, shot their weapons into the air, beat some of the people and demanded that the boys be brought forward.

  “Of course, the villagers wouldn’t hand over their little boys, so the night went on and on. Finally, the boy Elias had spoken with stepped forward and took responsibility. They beat the hell out of him, dragged him away. Elias saw the beating, but he never found out what happened to the boy. Whether he lived or died.

  “Elias witnessed some of that night of terror but was taken back to camp before it was over. Some of the soldiers felt he couldn’t be trusted, and of course, from their perspective, that was true. Afterward, he was ostracized. And you know the rest. He came back a different man. A broken one.”

  “Were any of the soldiers disciplined for the attack on the village?” Grace asked.

  “I heard that one of the men went to trial a couple of years later and was sentenced to a few years. I’m not sure how many. Army proceedings are not always made public.”

  “I know. I’ve been searching for information about something, anything, that happened in Somalia or Rwanda, apart from the two incidents that were covered by the foreign press. I couldn’t find anything on this. How did you know there was a trial?”

  “Army grapevine. But very little information came out. They were trying to keep it quiet.”

  “And Elias never found out what happened to the boy?”

  “No.”

  “It didn’t come up at the trial?”

  “It may have. But I don’t know. I assume they dealt with it through a summary, since no details have ever come to light.”

  “Is that legal?”

  “Might be, if barely so. If no deaths among the Somalis were proven, they might have wiggled it through a summary as disgraceful behaviour.”

  “And Elias, not knowing if anyone died, couldn’t have done anything else about it.”

  “No. He was too far gone in the first few years, anyway. No one would have believed him, and maybe rightly so. It’s hard to say how accurate his memory was.”

  “Just from the PTSD?” Grace asked, frowning. “I don’t know much about it, really. Can PTSD cause memory blackout?”

  “It can,” said Elijah, slowly, “but that wasn’t the only problem.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The Airborne soldiers all had to take an anti-malarial drug before they shipped out. Mefloquine. Nastiest dope on the planet. It makes you see things you never thought could exist. Because they don’t.”

  “They saw monsters,” Grace said. “Elias told me, ‘they followed them. They saw monsters.’ Is that what you mean, sir?”

  The Elder nodded.

  “Just like Clayton Matchee. Why didn’t I think of that sooner?” Grace asked aloud, more of herself than of the Elder.

  “That wasn’t all,” Elijah said. “They were also chugging cough medicine. Codeine. It kept the patrols from coughing in the dry air, to avoid giving their positions away. They must have been severely strung out. I don’t know if there were any other drugs in the camp; there may have been. But mefloquine and codeine? That would be enough to scramble anyone’s brain. And it did a number on Elias. He just didn’t have it in him, I guess, to hurt little children.”

  No, he didn’t, Grace thought. She remembered how gentle Elias had been when he found her in the dark forest. How kind.

  “How did he get home?” she asked.

  “His tour was almost over, thank God. I wonder what would have happened to him if he’d stayed. As soon as he hit the ground at the air force base, he went AWOL. A month later, he showed up here; took him a long time to figure out his way back.

  “Once I dragged the story out of him, and it took a while, I knew we had to hide him. But where? If anyone was looking for him, he’d be a sitting duck on the reserve, or in Meadow Lake, or anywhere else in a nearby community.

  “So, I took him to my shack south of Ferguson. I’d built it after I got back from overseas. I needed a place to rest and recover, too, and it was peaceful there — especially then. I roamed around the area, fished and hunted, and finally built that hut, too. That’s why I found Tom that night. I was often around your lake. Still am, although less so.”

  “Who killed Elias, sir?” Grace breathed. “Do you know?”

  “A cabal,” said the Elder. “It was mefloquine. It was codeine. It was the commanding officer. It was the soldiers. It was the Armed Forces. And the government, which allowed it all to happen and turned the other way.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Adam inhaled deeply before walking through the doors of the long, low brick building that housed the Meadow Lake RCMP detachment. He liked Al Simpson. As far as Adam knew, he was a hell of a cop, or at least had been.

  The only other police officer Adam had ever been forced to confront was his direct superior, Inspector Terry Pearson; but Adam loathed the man, and knew the feeling was returned. Getting into Pearson’s face was not a problem. Asking Al if he had something to do with the death of a human being was another thing altogether.

  James felt more than heard Adam’s intake of breath.

  “Sucks,” he said.

  “Yeah,” Adam agreed, exhaling. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Swinging the door open, they approached the desk, announced themselves, and Adam asked for Sergeant Al Simpson. He had called during the forty-minute trip from Ferguson to make sure the man was in.

  “One moment, please, Sergeant,” said the woman at reception, giving both men a surreptitious and approving once-over with her big hazel eyes. Adam, head down, di
dn’t notice, but James gave her a smile. The occasional ego boost wasn’t such a bad thing.

  There was a delay. Adam wondered if Al smelled something amiss and was preparing himself either with lies or truth. Too many little things were adding up in Adam’s brain. He didn’t like the sums.

  Finally, Al emerged through a set of doors to the right of the lobby.

  “Detective Sergeant Adam Davis,” he said, with a little smirk. “Didn’t expect you back on my turf so soon. How the hell are you?”

  “I’m fine, thanks,” Adam replied, wondering if Al was trying to make a point about the Saskatoon police trampling on his territory. “Al, this is Detective Constable James Weatherall.”

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

  “And you,” James said, shaking it.

  “So, what brings you back to the north?”

  “As you know, Al, we’ve had a second death in Saskatoon that I think might be related to Elias Crow’s murder. Is there somewhere private we could go?”

  Was that a shadow passing over Al Simpson’s face? Certainly, his expression changed.

  “Come to my office. Just down here. Coffee?”

  “Sure, I could use a cup. James?”

  “That’d be great.”

  They paused at a tiny kitchen set up with a microwave, coffee pot and small refrigerator, poured mugs of black coffee, and proceeded to Al’s office; but not before a few drops of hot liquid met Al’s shirt and brogans.

  “Shit,” he said, wiping at his stomach. “Sit down, sit down. How can I help?”

  Adam cleared his throat. His brain screamed to give Al fair warning, but he couldn’t do it. He did give him another chance.

  “We’re working on identifying the victim in Saskatoon,” Adam began. “Do you have the photo handy?”

  “Uh, no. It’s on my computer . . . do you want me to bring it up?”

  “No. I have it right here.” Adam pulled out his constant companion and placed it in front of Al, watching the other man’s face intently.

  Al’s brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed, as anyone’s would when taking a careful look. Then his cheek twitched, and he looked up.

  “Right. And so?”

  “No one around here recognized him, you said, the last time we talked. Anyone weigh in since then?”

  “No.”

  Damn it, thought Adam, running a hand through his hair. Come on, Al.

  One more time.

  “You’re sure.”

  “What the hell is this about, Adam?” Al’s voice betrayed anger and impatience. Did it also betray fear? Adam wasn’t sure, but he felt James tense beside him.

  “I think you know this man, Al. Want to give him another look?”

  “What d’you mean, I know him?”

  “He was found dead in your mother’s house.” Adam let that sink in for a moment.

  “Oh, my God.” Al paused, and a second later, realization sparked in his eyes. “How the fuck?”

  “Come on, Al. We’re not complete idiots. We searched for and found the owner of the house, and it was a Mrs. Margaret Muriel Robertson. She was kind enough to host us in her room, and to show us the picture of the son she’s so proud of. You.”

  Adam could see the blood rising in Al’s face from throat to forehead. The RCMP officer took a deep and clearly difficult swallow and wrestled visibly with his self-control as he shifted in his chair and gripped the desk.

  “Who was he, Al? Why did he die on your mother’s property?” Adam kept his voice low and level.

  “I . . . don’t know him.”

  “You mean you don’t know his name?”

  “I mean I don’t know him.”

  “Do you know why he died?”

  “I’m not saying anything more.”

  “Come on, Al. This could go badly.”

  “It will go badly anyway.”

  Before Adam could respond, Al violently shoved his chair back from his desk, lurched to his feet and lunged for the door, pulling it open and dashing out before James, who was closer, could react.

  But James sprung to his feet in a flash, darting after Al on legs that Adam thought, for the thousandth time, seemed spring-loaded. He was right behind his constable a second later, running at top speed down the narrow hallway.

  “Fuck, Al, stop!” Adam yelled. But he didn’t.

  James caught up to Al first, launching himself at the heavier, less-fit sergeant and knocking him to the floor. RCMP officers emerged from office doors to see what the commotion was about and threw themselves at James, who was wrestling with the by-now screaming Al, punching his fists in all directions. One punch landed on James’s cheek, eliciting a loud “oof” as an RCMP constable reached down and grabbed him by the shoulders.

  “Stop!” Adam bellowed. His big baritone froze the officers in a strange tableau of lifted arms, clenched fists and bemused faces.

  “Al Simpson,” he continued, still yelling. “I’m arresting you on suspicion of conspiracy to commit murder. Now quit fighting. Everyone else, please back away. Right now.”

  “On whose authority?” one of the officers asked.

  “Mine. And by now, your superiors.” Adam, flashing his badge, hoped Chief McIvor had fulfilled his promise of split-second timing, and had reached the RCMP commander.

  “I’m not saying anything!” Al yelled.

  “Shut up, Al,” James told him. “Just be quiet for now and calm the hell down. Okay?”

  Stunned, the RCMP officers backed off. James and Adam rolled Al Simpson over and cuffed him. What else can we do? Adam thought. He’s obviously not coming quietly.

  Dragged to his feet, Al stood swaying slightly, his face a mask of shock and fear. Adam and James each took an arm, pulled him out to the Saskatoon Police SUV, and drove him to the correctional centre for booking. James drove, and Adam called the chief.

  “We have him in the car, sir,” he said, when McIvor answered. “He’s not talking.”

  “Okay, Adam. I’ve informed the commanding officer. Call me later.”

  An appalled expression on the face of the booking sergeant told Adam that he had been informed of Simpson’s imminent arrival.

  “We’ll be back to talk to him later,” Adam said, giving up custody. “Can we talk to Tom Allbright, please, while we’re here?”

  “Uh, ah, yeah, sure, Sergeant,” said the desk man. “I’ll just get someone to take you into the interview room. One sec.”

  “Take care, Al,” Adam said, as two burly constables drew him into the back for processing. “I’ll see you later.”

  Al didn’t answer.

  *****

  A few minutes later, Adam and James found themselves across a table from Tom Allbright, who, to Adam’s eyes, looked very slightly better than on the night he had attacked Grace. Adam looked down at his still-bandaged hand, remembering.

  “Hello, Tom.”

  “Why are you here, again?” Tom asked, sounding more puzzled than anything.

  “First of all, how are you feeling?”

  “Like shit. But they give me something to help me sleep.”

  “We have to ask you some questions. I know you’ve been asked before, but as far as I can tell by these reports, you haven’t answered them.”

  “I have nothing to say. I told you that at the lake.”

  “We’re going to try again,” Adam said. “I highly recommend co-operating. We have two dead men, Tom. And you are involved.”

  Tom’s hooded eyes flew open. “Two?”

  “Yes. Two. Elias Crow and a second man who was found dead in Saskatoon. These two deaths are related and . . . are you all right?”

  Tom had gone paper-white, his red eyes huge, his mouth open in a horrified circle. He stared at Adam, unseeing and saying nothing.

  “Tom, do you need something? Water?”

  “I need some fucking dope, man,” he finally said.

  “Not happening.”

  The prisoner’s head went down in abject mise
ry. “Come on, just a little bit. I’ll feel better.”

  “We can’t go out and score you some meth, Tom, for God’s sake. If you’re hurting that much, we’ll check with the doctor. But first, questions.” And the photo came out, again. “Do you know this man?”

  Tom looked and shook his head. “He looks more like shit than I do.”

  “That’s because he’s dead. Are you sure you don’t know him?”

  “I — I’m pretty sure. Maybe he looks a little bit familiar, but I don’t think I know him.”

  “A little bit familiar. How?”

  “Like maybe I’d seen him a long, long time ago. But I don’t know.”

  “What do you know about Elias Crow’s death, Tom?”

  “Nothing. I don’t know nothing.”

  “Tom. If you know nothing, why were you hiding at the lake when he died?”

  “Just happened to be in the wrong place, that’s all.”

  “That’s bullshit. You hadn’t been up there in years. Why, then, on that weekend? And why the hell were you carrying a knife, if you were just up for a happy little holiday? Why did you attack Grace? And why didn’t you tell your folks you were there? You know something. I know it. You know it. You’re going to tell me, right now.”

  Something Adam said seemed to click with the junkie before him. Maybe Tom Allbright, now off meth for several days, caught his logic — that it was obvious he was connected to at least one murder.

  “I can’t talk to you,” he whispered. “I can’t. Please, leave me alone. I didn’t shoot Elias. You have to believe me.”

  A chink. Adam jumped through.

  “How did you know he was shot?”

  The police had carefully and purposely left the details of Elias’s death out of all correspondence with the media, and everyone else. Adam now knew for certain that Tom had played a role in the veteran’s death. But Tom was silent.

  “Tom. How did you know?”

  “Please, Sergeant. I can’t say anything. Even if I have to stay in here. It’s safer.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? Tom, fucking talk to me.”