by P W Ross
“You’re a lucky man Jack. Just remember what I said.”
“I don’t think anybody ‘round here has been feeling particularly lucky lately Will.”
“Jack, you got wealth, power, well-connected, my beautiful sister at your side and still in pretty good shape for a guy approaching middle age.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“Most of all Jack, you’re mobile. This lake’s been struggling for years now and these murders could well finish it off. You can just pull up stakes whenever you want and bail, head for that place they say you’ve got in Mexico. Rest of us, we’re here for the haul and for a while I don’t think it’s gonna be much fun from here on in.”
“Will, I’ve been on this lake all my life and I won’t be leaving any time soon. Somehow this guy will get caught and we’ll all carry on.”
“Even so, the tourist business will take a beating for at least a couple of years and there’s just not enough happening up here to create jobs. This town needs a plan Jack, a business plan and someone to lead it. You’re the big-business shooter. Maybe you ’otta think on it some time.”
Will was right. The town was adrift in a maze of different and mostly competing interest groups. If they didn’t get their act together and learn to operate in concert, the scenario would remain grim.
“One thing at time Will. Let’s get back to it.”
Pony dragged a chair into the middle of the shop and with her hands locked behind her neck leaned back, speculating on the notes.
“Mind if I sit in?”
“Thought we’d have to ask.”
The trio sat staring blankly at charts, Jack having difficulty getting back into it. He was tired, his mind clouded. The scotch and beer did not help. Will couldn’t take his eyes off the X that marked the spot where his nephew had been lost. Mercifully, Pony’s question snapped them out of it.
“What’s with the circle in the middle of the lake?”
Jack nodded to Will.
“We figured that maybe our guy lives or is working out of somewhere inside the radius of the murder sites. Less distance to travel, less chance of detection.”
“How about the triangle pointing north?”
“Nothing really. I just joined the dots of the sites. Thought it might be an indicator of some sort, but Walleye’s not going to telegraph anything for us.”
“Or is he? Hmmm... looking for a pattern?”
“Hell, I’m not sure what we’re looking for.”
She leaned forward, elbows on knees as if in prayer, and squinted at the map. A few minutes later she rose slowly, went to the bench for the black marker and approached the map.
Starting with the houseboat location she penned the number one and put a small arrow pointing toward the next site where she indicated two and another dart pointing toward the third site. Then the number three and yet another arrow pointing toward the last location where she scribbled a four.
Silent, she returned to the chair.
Jack and Will turned to each other simultaneously, both with brows arched.
“Counter-clockwise?” questioned Will.
“Around the lake?” countered Jack.
“Maybe,” she added cautiously.
Jack added ‘Lake Pattern’ to the Assumptions chart.
“Keep going, what else do you see?”
“Will, callous as this might sound, I think this is about who got killed and the why of it, not necessarily the how of it. I see the notes about theatrical and brutal, but how he’s killed these folks has been for effect and it’s working but other than the fact they’re all horrific, it’s a red herring. I think the answers are with the victims.”
She tore a new sheet of paper from the pad and tacked it next to ‘Victims’, then fronted the chart like a school ma’am, pen in hand.
“So, once again, who were the first victims?”
“Tourists.”
“And what we’re they doing?”
“Holidaying.”
“And what do they bring to the town?”
“Money.”
“And if you wanted to bring this town to its knees, what would it take?”
“Kill the tourist trade.”
“And it doesn’t really matter which tourists you kill. The fact they’re tourists is enough.”
She wrote a $ sign beside tourist.
“Tell me about Wainright.”
“We’ve been over this ground,” interjected Jack.
“Don’t patronise me, humour me.”
“Okay, lawyer, resident, PA President, generally well respected.”
“Prime objective of the TLA?”
Will enjoyed seeing her take Jack to school.
“Uh… mainly NIMBYs. Latest big involvement is with the land claim. How it affects their members; property values, land and lake access restrictions.”
“What else?”
“Well, guess they’re always put into the context of the environment.”
She wrote lawyer, PA, land claim, environment and resident.
“Sawchuck?” she asked. “Logger all his life?”
“Far as I know.”
“And what does he do?”
“Cuts tree.”
“The logging companies.”
“And who else?”
“The environmentalists.”
“And the natives Jack, no land claim resolution, no timber rights.”
She added resident, $, and the environment to ‘Sawchuck’.
On a roll, she was not about to slow down.
“The native boy?”
“Poaching.”
“And what does that speak to?”
“The environment.”
“And where does he live?”
“Bear Island resident.”
“Biggest issue?”
“The land claim.”
“And what do they get over and above the land? I believe its twenty-five or thirty million, right?”
“Correct.”
Beside ‘native’ she quilled environment, $ and land claim.
She paused a moment to catch her breath and started back in.
“How many times you see the word money?”
“Three.”
“Environment?”
“Four.”
“Land claim?”
“Three.”
“Resident?”
“Three.”
She sat down and they stared at the chart, hushed. Moments later Anna abruptly rose, announced she was going to bed and left them to their work.
They stared after her with admiring eyes.
Chapter Fifty-Six
“Might be getting somewhere here,” Will pondered. “If we’re on the right track, we’re looking for someone in that circle who’s linked or involved with the land claim, the environmental issues and the financial part of the puzzle. As for the resident piece, forget it, he’s here, I know it.”
“Walleye’s not just involved with those issues Will, he’s crazy over them, terrorist crazy. Maybe those three pieces roll up and are part of a bigger issue. Or, maybe like Friscolanti said, he’s one of those guys that gets overwhelmed by too many things going sour. What do you think about the counter-clockwise around the lake idea?”
“I think it’s a strong maybe.” He stood, stretched and approached the map, pointing with his right hand. “If she’s right, the next stop is either Cross Lake or the Northeast Arm.”
“What if he doesn’t think Cross Lake is really part of the lake?”
“Hmmm, if you’re right, means the next incident will be in the Northeast Arm.”
“Your best guess?”
“Shit... I don’t know.”
From the South Arm it was a four-mile run down the river into Cross Lake. It could be a dangerous trip in for the careless or uninitiated. Halfway in, the river narrowed at a spot where you had to navigate a severe S-turn. If you misread the markers or ran at high speed, especially at night, you ran the risk
of taking a false channel and running aground. Three miles in, the river again tightened up to the point where only one boat could pass through a shallow gap with a current that seemed to run in the opposite direction than it should. Most tourists didn’t try it. However, it was popular with campers and canoe trippers, remote, quiet and good fishing. The lake had four distinct arms and was nine miles long, North to South.
Although there were supposed to be none, there was one cabin on the lake that was grandfathered prior to current environmental legislation.
“If I was looking for the quietest spot, it would be Cross Lake. On the other hand, because it’s remote, you tend to notice things more. If ten boats pass you in an afternoon, you don’t pay much attention. But if only one does, you do. I’d be nervous about having only one way out.”
“Jack, that’s assuming someone’s looking for you down there.”
“So, does that make my arm of the lake any different? It’s sixteen miles from the hub to town. Pull anything down here and you’d have to escape the same way you came in.”
“That’s true, but the arm is open water and the river out of Cross narrows to a point where you only need one boat to block it. Anyway, even if we did know where he’s going to strike next, there’s no way we could cover both. Don’t have the manpower. Maybe we should be concentrating on who, not where. If we’re right about the circle in the Hub, then everyone in there is a suspect and that’s where to start. Braxton’s nail in a haystack becomes a donkey. Rummell can get his guys to focus in that circle.”
“Assuming he buys any of this.”
“Why wouldn’t he? What the hell else has he got to go on? His buddy Braxton’s not exactly a theory guy, just figures to plug it out the old-fashioned way.”
“Will, let’s assume for now that Rummell buys it. If he does, we’ll be able to set some patrols around Cross Lake and the Northeast Arm. Might at least shake Walleye enough so that we keep a few extra folks alive while we try and catch him. Got any other sterling ideas?”
“Yup.”
“Want to share it with me?”
“George MacKenzie.”
“Chief MacKenzie?”
“The same. He’s eighty-five now, but he knows more about this lake and the people on it than you and I combined will ever know. Like I said, I’m adopted. I’ll talk to him.”
“How about, we talk to him?”
“Don’t think so Jack. That’s a conversation that’s best left to us ‘injuns’.”
“What? You going to pull a Rummell on me?”
“What the fuck are you talking about?” Will snapped back.
“Don’t cut me out on this. You’re the one that said, ‘Jack, I need you, don’t take your ass back to Mexico’. I told you I was in on this and I am.” He said it with quiet conviction.
Will was reluctantly unsure. Would the Chief be less forthcoming with Jack along, or was he embarrassed at the thought of bringing a white man onto the reserve to speak with one of its revered, legendary leaders?
Jack got up and shut down the Coleman. “I’ll leave it with you.”
“That’s alright, I don’t need to think about it. I’ll speak with the Chief and if he’s okay with it, so am I. But the first thing we better do is get to Rummell and his crew and let them know what we’ve come up with.”
“More like what we think we’ve come up with. I’ll call him in the morning. Better see him and the Chief tomorrow. Let’s meet in the station at nine and ask the Chief if he can see us some time in the afternoon.”
It was one o’clock before Jack closed the workshop and when he got to the cabin, Pony was asleep. He reluctantly called Rummell at his home.
“Rummell here and whoever this is, it better be fucking good... Alexander! Haven’t you got anything better to do?”
“Yes Gene, matter of fact I do, but I’m stuck with you.”
Truth was, Rummell had not been asleep but was reviewing reports and getting the press release ready.
“Look, I think Will and I have stumbled onto something. Need to talk to you first thing. How about nine?”
With nothing to lose what could Rummell say except, “Like I said a minute ago Jack, it better be fucking good.”
It had been a huge day and Jack was exhausted but still went down to swim the lake. Duff came along to relieve himself and stand guard.
Back in the cabin, the two dry logs he tossed on the embers flared immediately and he sank deep into the leather armchair, staring at the coals, B&B in hand. When Pony awoke at first light, she found him dead asleep in the chair, covered him with a Hudson Bay blanket and put on the coffee. Duff joined her on the front porch where she stood in Jack’s robe, peering into the mist rising ten feet off the lake and pondered what the day would bring.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Jack entered the station to find Rummell again with boots on the desk, sipping a bourbon and looking like a man at his last round up. Braxton, out of uniform, was no longer assured that old-fashioned police work was going to triumph. He was the one who looked like he needed a drink.
“So, Jack, what have you got that we don’t? Which isn’t much.”
He pulled up a chair opposite them.
“Long couple of days. Not gonna tell you how I got here, so just listen.”
“Shoot, our quiver’s empty.”
“This guy, Walleye we call him, is local. He’s on the lake.”
“Jack, let me remind... ”
“Gene, don’t interrupt. I’m burnt out. Humour me and politely shut the fuck up.”
“He’s here. The murders are theatrical to elicit horror and shock. He’s a terrorist. Pick any category or psych profile you want. He’s got a message he wants to deliver that’s embodied in the murders.”
Then Jack recounted the whole enchilada.
Rummell said, “You really believe all that shit or you just lookin’ to pull a rabbit out of the hat?”
“In short order, we’re gonna find out and yeah, I do believe he has a plan. Look, what scheme you got and what have you got for the press conference? Nada. What’s to lose?”
Rummell didn’t waste anytime mulling it over. Between a rock and a hard place, you gotta fish or cut bait.
“Okay, I’ll buy the pattern and the hub radius ‘cause it makes the haystack a lot smaller, but as to Cross Lake or the Northeast Arm, it’s a toss up.
“We’ll focus all patrols in the radius and beef up aerial patrols over Cross Lake but I don’t have the resources for a water stakeout down there. There’s only one cabin on Cross, old man Sherwood and he went hermit years ago. Was wealthy and powerful in the mining heydays.”
Braxton piped in. “Eugene... ”
“What ever it is Sam, forget it. Those are not federal resources, they’re provincial. Mine. Keep your bunch plugging away. Never know, you might beat us to the punch.”
Rummell watched Jack slowly exit and Braxton nodded.
Bullshit or not, it was a theory with some edge-definition. It gave them fodder for the press conference.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
The train station parking lot held five media vans, four Ontario, one Quebec. Maybe fifty media types and a hundred onlookers. Not to be missed were two chip wagons, a t-shirt stand and northern chatzky vendors. Need a pair of moccasins you can hang on the wall with a thermometer in one and a barometer in the other?
Rummell provided scant detail on the murder of the native teen and spent most time on the terrorist proposition and floating the half of Jack’s balloons that he thought would fly. After dodging most of the usual questions, he concluded with, “I believe we’re closing in. It’s just a matter of time.”
Nice sentiment.
Parker caught up with Jack as it wrapped.
“Is Rummell blowin’ smoke or do you guys really have something?”
“What do you think?”
“Let’s say I’m dubious. I’ve got two out-standing chits. What have you got for me that isn’t scripted?”
> Reluctantly Jack spilled the grisly, unreleased details of the native boy’s murder and more on the terrorist angle.
“Jesus Alexander, you’re up to your eyeballs in this. What’s next? Closing in? What the hell does that mean?”
“I’ll keep you posted, but don’t hold your breath... and... ”
“What?”
“Remember, a reliable but anonymous source. Like I said to Rummell, Walleye’s looking for a big finale. Keep your pencil sharpened.”
At four in the afternoon, Jack pulled the Lund to the dock in front of the Canoe House on Bear Island. Perched on a bench were Will MacKenzie and Chief George MacKenzie. He was a spry eighty-six-year-old. Although retired as Chief he was eldest of the elders, and his council held great sway over all reserve issues. He was of the clan Nebane’gwune, or Loon, and possessed the wisdom to bridge old and new indigenous realities. As a youth he had fallen into ‘the bad ways’ and difficult times, but with the guidance of the elders had come around to be one of the most respected native business men in the territory. Cottages, cabins, docks, boathouses, logging, dynamiting. He could do it all.
Jack contemplated how long they had been conversing and about what? How much to reveal to him? Trust him? Jack hadn’t told Will that he had met the man many years before. Will helped him tie-up.
“Jack, Chief George MacKenzie.”
A crooked smile and he shook hands.
“Jack, you’re all grow’d up. Remind me of your father... that’s a good thing.”
At the cabin, MacKenzie’s crew had re-roofed the cabin, boathouse and workshop, and logged an ancient but dangerously leaning two hundred foot white pine.
“So, how are things at Tall Pines? How many of those giants have you got left?”
“Ten still looking pretty straight. Gonna outlive me.”
“If we leave them alone they’ll outlive all of us. Let’s get some shade.”
The Canoe House was once the Boat House of the Hudson Bay Company Post. Now restored, the elders instructed indigenous youth in the crafting of birch bark canoes. They sat around a work bench and savoured the blended aroma of spruce roots, cedar logs, strips of birch bark or wiigwass and spruce gum compounded with bear fat.
