by P W Ross
It was astounding how many there were. The odds of seeing a satellite overhead far outweighs meteors or falling stars. Since Sputnik, there have been thousands of launchings and there are over 2,550 still up there, some static, some orbiting. Average the launch rate, and one of these units is going up every week. Some are scientific, others military. Some spy, a few research, and more than one photographs. Most today are communications satellites, transmitting the worlds’ insatiable thirst for information. Most of it useless but saleable in the dream world of the on-demand economy and cellphone addiction. Many interfaced with the wireless software that had made Jack an extremely wealthy man. He had no right to complain about space litter and he didn't, but he still couldn't get used to the idea of all that terrestrial iron floating around the planet.
The following day, Jack was towelling off after his morning swim when the police launch swept by at nine thirty. Two officers stood in the cockpit; hats off, sunglasses on, hair blown back and leaning over the windshield. The craft created little wake running full out as it did now, and Jill Parsons, seeing him on the dock, gave him ‘the wave’. Returning it silently, he wished them luck and turned up the wooden stairs rising from the dock to the cabin. The railing was loose and needed repair. Another item for an already overflowing job jar.
After a breakfast of back bacon, three eggs and toast, he donned a pair of old grey walking shorts, a tattered sweatshirt with the sleeves raggedly cut off, thick wool socks and his leather work boots. The dock that ran out from his workshop in the back bay was in need of repair. Several of the cedar logs that made up the supporting crib were rotten and had shifted in the winter ice and the dock’s deck was twisted and upturned. The first task was to pull all of the two by six-inch planks comprising the deck top. He worked with both a crow and pry bar, carefully and slowly so that most of the planks could be reused. On occasion he required a small, one-hand sledge in order to wedge the crowbar under a reluctant plank. The task took two hours in a bright, seventy-five degrees, but finally all of the planks had been removed to reveal the stringers below, one of which was also rotting and needed to be replaced. Although he enjoyed this simple labour, it was enough for the day and he was satisfied with the workout.
Mid-afternoon found him on the front dock, with a beer and the Jack Russell doing an outstanding rendition of Labrador retriever. Duff had originally been living proof that the old expression ‘all animals can swim’ was a falsehood. As a pup, Duff just flat out couldn't swim. When Jack had initially taken him gently into the water and lowered the juvenile canine, the trembling body, upon release, had immediately tilted from the horizontal to the perpendicular. Panicked and thrashing furiously but aimlessly until tiring, only the pup’s nose would be visible above the surface. It made some sense. The smooth coated breed is compact, with almost no body fat and certainly not buoyant. Bred in the late nineteenth century to hunt small game, Duff would be more at home digging out a fox den than retrieving waterfowl.
Over the years however, Duff had become a superb swimmer. The secret was a tennis ball. On land he was quite the athlete, endlessly and acrobatically retrieving. In fact, he became obsessive about tennis balls. Jack started tossing the ball into shallow depths that required not swimming but wading. Then it was simply a matter of patience. He gradually extended the length of the toss (and the depth of the water) until swimming became mandatory if Duff wanted that damn ball, and want it he did. The dog was fearless, he just didn't have aquatic genes.
Eventually he learned to plane his body and he swam now with the speed of most bona fide water dogs, his short tail erect out of the water. He would not leap off the dock and he would not chase ducks, loons or the odd turtle that cruised nearby. But, if you wanted to play ball, he was always game.
Jack had exercised Duff for fifteen minutes when a small flotilla appeared out of the south heading for town. The lead craft was a 17-foot fibreglass runabout, powered by an inboard/outboard engine, Bambi Lodge Houseboats blazoned across its hull. Fred Jackson was at the wheel and with her back to him, looking over the stern, stood Jill Parsons. Twenty-five yards to the rear was one of Fred's houseboats being towed dead slow. Unlike the larger fibreglass or aluminium houseboats liveried on the lake, Fred built them himself. Comfortable green cabins, with decks on the roof surrounded by white railings and buoyed by wooden floats encasing blocks of Styrofoam. The floats were simple, ingenious and inexpensive. Tethered to the houseboat and following along were a fishing boat and a red canoe not properly harnessed, zigzagging through the wake. Yellow ribbon was wrapped around the entire houseboat. The sun reflected brightly off the glass globe of a gently swinging Coleman lantern hung from the corner.
Eugene, following in the launch, played the role of escort, keeping the slow pace. Setting down the binoculars, Jack knew immediately that this parade was obviously linked to the events of yesterday and the puzzle was starting to come together. The dog was at his ankles with a ball.
“Duff, no more!” he called sharply.
Rising from the chair, and standing at the edge of the dock, left hand shading his eyes, he watched the procession come through the channel. Over the quarter mile of water, Jill and Fred looked to him. No ‘wave’. He pulled the binoculars up and saw that the yellow ribbon was in fact the plastic ‘Stay Back’ tape that police used at a crime scene. Eugene motioned, shouted and broke from the group to swing toward Jack’s dock.
“Have I got enough depth here,” he shouted, “or should I go round the point and come in at the back?”
“No, you're good, just pull her in easy and toss me a line.”
Killing the engine was Eugene's way of letting him know that he was staying awhile.
“Quite a little fleet you've got out there. I presume the yellow tape is not a good omen.”
“You presume correctly, Jack.”
“Gonna tell me what's up?”
“That's why I'm here. Put coffee on while I get the bumpers out and finish tying up.”
Eugene scanned the landscape.
“Jack, great spot. Wonderful view. How long you been here?”
“All my life.”
“So I've heard.”
He wondered what else the Inspector had heard. As he pressed the coffee, he saw Rummell through the casement windows walking around the cabin.
Rummell guessed it was about fourteen hundred square feet and its’ footprint was on a solid granite outcrop overlooking the main channel. Quality and pride of workmanship showed everywhere. The exterior was clad in grey painted lapstrake, or “clinker built” overlapping planks like an old sailing vessel. The corrugated steel roof was forest green, as was the trim. The shutters reflected a bright yellow. Jack came out with two mugs.
“Jack, whoever built this place sure as hell knew what they were doing.”
“Guy named Wakely built it. Before the army he was a cabinet maker and after the war he used the Veteran's Land Act to put this place up. Except for a wonky chimney, it’s a pretty tight package, all I need.”
Whiskey-laced coffee in hand, they sat facing the lake in two deck chairs on a ten foot bluff just outside the cabin’s front door.
“Cheers Eugene,” Jack offered, hoisting his mug toward the Inspector who gave him an exaggerated, pained grimace.
“Do me a favour will you Jack?”
“What?”
“Don't call me Eugene. I hate that fucking name!”
Chapter Eleven
“What’s wrong with Eugene?” Jack asked.
“Hate it, always fucking have. Just make it Gene.”
“Gene it is.”
“We got two calls this morning. The first came from a family that awoke to find a houseboat bobbing up and down on a small shoal not more than forty yards off their campsite. Probably halfway up the North Arm off Sharp Rock Bay. Got there somehow during the night. Said they never heard a thing.”
“Which way had the wind been blowing?”
“North. Anyway, the father tells me his young
boy paddled over to take a look and went around the boat a few times, calling out. Got no response and I think he was a little scared. Went back to his folks and thankfully didn't try to go aboard. The father called and described the boat. We notified Fred, told him what we knew and to meet us up there.”
“Well, Jill and I arrive, and sure 'nough it's one of Fred’s and it's hung up on the rocks. I took a look inside through the windows and there was no one aboard, no sign of any damage inside or out and no indication of a struggle.”
“And the family saw nothing?”
“Nope. Anyway, Fred finally motors in and comes barrelling up excited as all hell.”
“Sure now, that's one of my houseboats, but where's the fishing boat? Where's the canoe?”
“He still hadn't put two and two together?”
“You kidding? Thick as a brick.”
“Took me a couple of minutes to get him calmed down but I got some information out of him. The pair that rented the boat lived in Oslo, Norway. They booked last year over the Net and the man told Fred he came here to canoe camp when he was a boy. The girl was his fiancée, Scandinavian. He was Italian. They rented it for ten days along with a fishing boat and canoe. He's a photographer and she's a model, Anthony Angellini and Birgit Anderson. Not due back for five or six days. Fred heard nothing from them saying anything was amiss. Even if they didn't have a cell with them, the boats have ship-to-shore radios to the lodge.”
“Any idea where they were moored?”
“How? As usual he told them to take a look at Sandy Inlet, but who knows where they ended up.”
“Probably wouldn't stay there.”
“Why not?”
“Think about it. Young couple, lovers, no kids, too busy at Sandy Inlet, no privacy. It’ll be easy enough for you to check up there. Somebody would have seen them if they overnighted.”
“First thing Fred wanted to do was to go aboard and see what was missing. I tell him, ‘Christ Fred, it's the fucking people who are missing!’”
That's when I had Jill wrap it up with tape and told Fred the boat was a potential crime scene. No one's going aboard until the coroner has a look. All he could do was give me that ‘Oh shit; please not on my boat look!’”
He says to me, “Jeez, Eugene they'll probably show up somewhere, they've got to!”
“Fred, I think they already have. When his lights finally came on, he got very quiet.”
“You don't think he's got anything to do with it, do you?
“Doubt it.”
“There was a second call?”
“Right, Avril calls to say that two canoers had portaged in from Red Bark Lake to Granny Bay and found an abandoned fishing boat and red canoe drifted up against the shore with nobody around. That's about three miles north of where we were sitting with the houseboat. Jill stayed with the camper family to take their statement and I took Fred with me to Granny Bay to take a look. The paddlers had left, but sure 'nough, they were Fred's boats and were supposed to be with the houseboat.”
“What condition?”
“Perfect. Ready to fish, ready to paddle. Other than normal wear and tear, I couldn't see anything out of the ordinary. Towed ‘em back to the houseboat and since then we've just been dragging everything down the lake. Christ Jesus, what a day!”
Jack stared out over the lake. Eugene yawned, the story wearing him out, and extended his arms high over his head and then pulled his hands down with a slow wiping motion over his face.
“So, what do you want from me Gene? You didn't just stop by for coffee to tell me more than I need to know.”
“Hell, Jack, doesn't matter what you know. Temagami is like any small place and this part of the story will be all over town an hour after Fred gets back.”
“Give it up Gene, what are you so worried about?”
“Not really sure. Can't get a handle on it. I've already called the coroner and he's coming back up at nine tomorrow morning to look over boats and give me whatever he's got on the stiffs. I'd like you to be there.”
“Why me?”
“Brautigan says he's got more questions for you and Bob. And, I'd like you to go over the boats with me. Jill's smart but she's a greenhorn and I've been off this lake a long time. You know every inch of this water. You hunt, you fish and know how these folks think. Maybe you'll see something I won't. I haven't exactly got a lot of resources to work with here.”
“Gene, I've got no problem answering a few more questions but everything I know is in the report I gave you and I don't want to get involved with this shit. I'm flattered you think I can help, but I'm just a happily semi-retired businessman, not an aspiring sleuth.”
“Jack, you're too young to be retired, semi or otherwise. You know that.”
A ruby-throated hummingbird helicoptered to the feeding bottle suspended from the cedar in front of them and hovered while it drew out the sugar water. Jack wondered if it had traveled up from its’ second home in Mexico about the same time he had. Watching it dart back and forth to the feeder and listening to the pulsating hum of its wings, he took time to contemplate the request.
Finally, he turned his head to Eugene and reluctantly nodded. “Okay, I'll see you in the morning.”
“Thanks Jack,” he said, rising from his chair with the knowledge that he could have compelled Jack to attend but not necessarily to cooperate. “Come on down and help me cast off.”
Descending the stairs, he gave the rail a shake and told Jack he should tighten it up. Just as he started away, over the rumble of the engine, he looked over grimly and said, “I've got a bad feeling about this Jack.”
No shit Dick Tracey, Jack thought.
Chapter Twelve
Reluctantly, Jack swivelled out of the Mexican string hammock, his afternoon abbreviated. He fed the dog, splashed some water over his face, shaved, gave his head a shake and dressed for town. The eyes were still puffy but looking in the mirror he was satisfied that at fifty, even though the lines emanating from the corners of his eyes and on his forehead were deepening, he appeared to be holding up pretty well. As for the wardrobe, he had either developed what the kids like to call ‘a look’ or he was in a rut. Most likely the latter. Blue denim shirt and bush jacket over a pair of loose khakis. Feet clad in leather slip-on deck shoes in a questionable state of repair.
The terrier tagged along to the boathouse and informed that he would not be coming this evening, jumped down into the cedar strip and nestled into the old sleeping bag. Pulling up the garage-style door at the end of the slip, Jack stepped into the 20-foot aluminium Lund bow- rider. Powered by a one hundred and fifty horsepower four stroke, Japanese built outboard, it would top out at fifty miles-per-hour and take him to any destination on the lake in an hour. Tilted up beside it was a deep thrust, eight horse four stroke engaged when trolling. The down riggers swivelled inwards, barely allowing him to shoehorn the vessel into the slip. When the water was up, the height of the vinyl top was such that it barely cleared the sill. Rods, reels and tackle boxes were stored in sidewall compartments and rear hatches, while the bow stored emergency gear and additional clothing. He had towed many a stranded boater off the lake with the lower units of their motors sheared off on a shoal or in the spring, a barely submerged deadhead.
In town, he throttled down at the 'no-wake' zone to discover every slip and foot of mooring space at the town dock occupied. Taking a liberty, he swung to the dock at Obabika Airways. Over the police dock he saw Jill sitting in a folding chair in front of the houseboat. Yellow tape flapped in the breeze.
The faded wooden sign swinging from the porch roof proclaimed the Miniwassa to be established in 1906. Not quite true. A fire had razed the original structure built by the towns’ founder and this incarnation had been built over the ashes in 1945. The town once boasted three hotels and three churches. He was uncertain of the significance, but the congregation now shepherded by circuit priests and ministers all had survived while the Miniwassa remained the last watering hole in town. The
power of the Word over the whiskey?
For a small town, it was an imposing two-storey white frame building with a striking red barn roof. Entrance was via a Victorian screen door on a tight spring that snapped quickly shut against mosquitoes and black flies. Well-worn stairs rose to the right of the small foyer, leading to six spartan rooms off a centre hall, three on each side. Each room was equipped with a thick, rough twisted hemp rope, knotted, looped and well secured to the cast iron radiator by the window. Unknowing patrons, most of them 'first nighters', failed to recognise their means of escape in case of fire.
Bob saw Jack enter and poured him a tall, light draft, placing it in his favourite place at the far of the bar.
“Hey Bob... the old place is gonna rock tonight.”
“For sure. Lots of tourists in town and the locals are all coming out to catch the latest skinny on the continuing saga of our fishing drama. Biggest criminal news in town since poachers shot two bears at the dump for their gall bladders.”
“Eugene came by the cabin today. Not a social visit.”
“So I heard. Was in here earlier giving me the scoop and wants me to join the show at nine tomorrow. Left with take-out for Jill, who's babysitting the floating crime scene tonight. That'll be a fun shift. Can't talk right now, got some thirsty throats to quench. Catch you later. Want anything to eat?”
“Not yet. You go to it. I live to see you work. Live band tonight?”
“Nope, jukebox is on duty.” Bob offered a toothy smile. “Cheaper, doesn't get drunk and doesn’t have beer bottles thrown at it.”
For a big man, probably six three and two hundred and fifty pounds, Bob was remarkably agile behind the bar. His head was shaved bald, his face full and ruddy, with a meaty nose and the ever-present smile of the innkeeper. He looked like the former college linebacker he was. This was his domain, with every bottle, glass and tray in its place for easy access and prompt service. He could pour anything form a Boilermaker to a Golden Cadillac and was very capable as his own bouncer. Thirty feet long and solid oak, the bar would have been right at home in any saloon of the late nineteenth century. The mirrored wall behind was tiered with three levels of spirits; bottles of every size, shape and colour, many unrecognisable to Jack.
