by P W Ross
“Want the lecture, Jack?”
“You bet.”
“Humour me Will.”
Will nodded. “After a lapse of two generations, communal canoe building provides a medium for us to reclaim and revitalise own cultural heritage, help us revive our language and old teachings. We have educational conversations as a way of passing on traditions and indigenous knowledge. We need to get past our emotional and historical trauma. Can’t afford to wallow. It gets in the way of accepting not just who we were, but who we are now. As with others, our world view going forward must change, but we have to be the people that forge that new view and promote traditional indigenous ways that can help save this planet Earth.”
Jack was about to comment but MacKenzie lifted his hand, signalling him that the mantra was over and as he ran his hands through his long grey hair, he asked quietly,
“As if I don’t know, what can I help you boys with?”
He inclined his head toward Will.
Although he assumed his grandfather knew all the details and perhaps more, Will recounted all the murder details, one by one.
Going clockwise around the lake murder sites, he started with his nephew and ended with the couple in the bay across from the Devil Mountain Tower. MacKenzie sat motionless, silently listening. Impassive. He had known they would come and had wondered what took them so long. He wanted Will to be the one to administer justice.
“Devil Mountain. You went up the tower”
Not a question.
“What did you see?”
“The killer used it as a towering hunt-stand.”
Resting his hands on his knees the elder lifted his eyes.
“Do you know the tale of that tower? Probably not, you been away.”
“There have been towers there since I was a boy. Abandoned thirty years ago when the ranger fire service was terminated in favour of aerial scans and satellite detection. On his final day of service, the last ranger manning that tower committed suicide.”
Will was surprised he didn’t know.
“Jack, know that story?”
“No, seem to recall something like that but I was just a kid.”
“He was a first-rate bushman. A loner. Had one son. The women came and went. Lived in the hub. Out of ranger season he guided.”
“How?”
“He dove off the tower. Full uniform. The son found him later that day.”
“Christ Jesus, what happened to the son?”
“He’s still here.”
“The father, what was his name?”
The Chief, like the sage he was, quietly murmured, “Jean... Jean Norval.”
All silent as it sank in.
Straightaway Will rose. “Thanks Grandfather, we gotta to go, no time to lose.”
As Jack and Will retreated from the Canoe House, MacKenzie called to Will, “Cross Lake. Next.”
And to Jack, “Say hello to Pony for me.”
What didn’t this elder know?
Will retrieved from his boat; water and an emergency kit bag along with a sawed-off Remington 870, 12 gauge.
Joining Jack in the Lund. They headed south.
No words needed as to the destination.
Will called Rummell.
“Eugene... Eugene!... Listen up. It’s Norval!... Ami Norval!”
“What are you talkin’ about?”
“Norval, he’s our man. Norval is Walleye.”
Chapter Fifty-Nine
“Bullshit!” Eugene spat.
“Trust me, no doubt about it. Get a warrant to search his camp.”
“Based on what?”
“Never mind, we’ll do it ourselves:”
“We? Is Alexander with you?”
“You know what? Forget it. See if you can locate Norval and we’ll talk later. We never had this conversation,” he declared and disconnected.
Tossing on a pair of thin blue rubber gloves, he said, “Jack, if anyone ever asks, we were never here.”
Norval’s steel boat was docked, the canoe missing.
A rifle cleaning kit had been left on the kitchen table.
“After the Wainright killing?” he proffered.
“Probably and now oiled for the next. Hey, have a look a this.”
They examined a freshly-cut roll of sash cord.
“The House Boat?”
Jack was analysing the fifteen inch spool of an ancient trolling rig loaded with copper wire, freshly snipped.
“The trap loop?”
“We don’t need more Jack, take a gander at this.”
The north wall was all bookcase.
Packed. History, ecology, geology, politics, biographies, and on an adjacent rickety desk was a dirty, tattered pink pamphlet.
“Who woulda guessed?”
The cover read ELFPO. The Earth Liberation Front Press Office.
Heading, FAQs About the Earth Liberation Front (ELF).
“Listen to this. ELFPO was founded to work to explain the importance and the necessity of clandestine guerrilla action in a revolutionary movement to liberate the earth from the strangle hold of the system.”
Beside it lay the Kaczynski Manifesto.
Together, “Cross Lake!”
At the narrow entrance to Cross Lake, they roped to an overhanging birch for an all-nighter under a full moon. Nothing could pass them.
Attempts to escape the tension with mindless small talk failed and both fell soundly into stupor.
A beaver’s slap of the tail woke them at daybreak and as they prepared to pack it in, both caught the smell of smoke and saw a glowing halo of a fire over distant tree tops.
“Shit!”
Will rammed the throttle forward and raced into Cross Lake. Sherwood’s cabin was engulfed in flames and there was nothing to do except sit on the dock and watch it burn.
They called it in to Rummell and because they had none, provided no details. Three hours later he arrived via floatplane with Brautigan and they began the search.
Rummell, Will and Brautigan circled the scorched cabin and Jack wandered the island toward a miniature log cabin, the ice house. Large blocks of ice sawed from the lake and insulated with sawdust easily last through the summer.
He opened the door to see old man Sherwood’s open eyes lifelessly peering at him from behind a crystal clear, two foot thick block of ice.
“Over here boys! Cold storage!”
Brautigan craned in for a peek.
Rummell eyed Jack and offered, “Are you following death around or is it following you?”
Two hours later Jack was on the screened porch of the Miniwassa devouring a burger, facing Pony and Bob. He grimly recounted discovering Sherwood.
Pony was bewildered, Bob distraught.
“Damn, he didn’t come to town much but I had a soft spot for that old coot.”
“Jack, how’s this going to end? We’ve got more media here every hour and hundreds of ghouls coming in to see how this shakes out.”
“It’s ending soon. Gonna finish somehow here in town and it’ll be dangerous.”
“How?”
“I don’t know, it’s... ”
They were interrupted by the arrival of Jill and Rene.
Rene was matter of fact.
“Hard to believe but Sherwood was throttled before the houseboat killings.”
“Walleye returned and torched the place so... ”
“... so we would find Sherwood,”
Jack finished the statement.
Parker was watching intently from the far corner.
“Pony, give Will a call and ask him to come up for dinner. We gotta try and figure what’s next. Gonna be the Northeast Arm and that means town.”
He told Parker the entire story on Sherwood and saw the enthralment in her eyes. She loved this. Bring it on. I’m heading for the big time.
“Why so candid now Jack?”
“This will be over soon and I want to get even-steven. You’re on your own from now on. Do me one more favou
r and hold this one day to give Rummell a chance to finish this off.”
Chapter Sixty
While the spaghetti sauce simmered, Will and Jack sat on the dock with serious cocktails.
“This is crazier than any movie I’ve ever seen.”
“You just can’t make this shit up.”
“Come on up boys, sauce is ready.”
After dinner Jack and Will retired to the workshop while Pony tried in vain to review some of the land claim documents.
Jack lit the Coleman, opened the shop doors wide and they surveyed the bay, sipping scotch on the rocks. Rain had started.
“Will, how’d he get by us?”
“He didn’t. He paddled in through the back door. He came off the lake into Cross Bay, short portage into a small lake, another portage of about seven hundred meters and he’s into Cross Lake. Two miles later, he’s at Sherwood’s.”
“Shit. He... is... crafty.”
In the steady rain, Norval released the safety on his 30:06. The Coleman was an easy shot. He squeezed off a round and the Browning roared. The Coleman exploded like a star burst and fell to the floor, igniting the spilled Naphtha. Stunned, dazed and barely able to function, Jack crawled the floor to extinguish the flames. Another brilliant muzzle flash and the incandescent bulb shattered.
They were plunged into darkness. Three more rounds from the semi-automatic poured into the shop while Will returned fire, emptying his pistol clip but knowing at that range it was futile.
With a resounding and deranged “Fuck you, Jack!” Norval careened his craft around the point and raced south down the lake.
“Jack!... my boat, front dock. Shotgun’s in the bow.”
They leapt in and gave chase. Rain pelted their faces as they closed.
There was a treacherous shortcut to the hub four miles down.
“Will, he’s going for the gap. If he makes it, this boat won’t have enough water to get through,” Jack hollered.
“Watch me,” he retorted. The gap was only a few feet deep, twenty feet wide with ten foot granite walls on each side.
Norval careened through with his pursuers a hundred yards behind and closing fast at fifty miles-per-hour.
Both were standing in the bow clutching the windscreen.
Will drove possessed.
“Whoaaa... shiiiit... were not gonna make... ”
Too late. The prop caught submerged rocks and the engine screamed as the lower unit kicked up violently and was torn off. The craft was launched six feet out of the water, sailed fifty feet though the gap, lurched to the left and nosedived fiercely into the lake. Jack was hurtled over the bow.
Surfacing in shock he called out, “Will! Will! Will!”
The boat was overturned, bow in the air and its submerged engine hissing from steam and smoke.
Jack frantically circled and finally exhausted, floated on his back staring at the moon.
He rolled over and breast-stroked toward the vessel and miraculously, like an otter popping up to the surface, Will appeared, a long gash on his right forehead. With a crazed smile he calmly remarked,
“Guess we didn’t make it.”
They bobbed in the water for two hours, clinging to the wreck, amazed it hadn’t sunk.
After the shoot out, Pony had frantically called Rummell.
Out of the dark they could make out a red/green bow light and a three-sixty degree stern light approaching. Rummell unhurriedly circled and peered over the side with a devilish smile.
“You boys need a lift?”
He dropped Jack at the front dock.
“Will, let’s go get you stitched up.”
We’ll be back early morning, then we’re headin’ south to cuff that sonofabitch. Jack, you get some sleep boy. You look mighty tuckered.”
The police launch returned just before down.
“Lookin’ a little rugged Jack.”
“Every bone in my body aches.”
“You’re not alone.”
“Jack, bin’ thinkin’. This is not exactly a civilian undertaking. Not really sure you should... ”
“You got me into this Gene and one way or another I’m gonna be in at the wire.”
Will piped in. “Hell with it Eugene. He’s coming along for the ride.”
Rummell turned to the sun just emerging from the treeline.
“Jack, you’re gonna scupper my career, what’s left of it. Fuck, let’s get to it.”
One hand on the gunwale, Jack boarded the boat and they were off.
As they powered off Pony offered an apprehensive,
“Careful, boys.”
Chapter Sixty-One
There was no way to approach Norval’s cabin stealthily unless they tied up to the shore and traversed dense bush for an hour.
Rummell decided to make a slow run by the dock and reconnoitre. If Norval saw them, so be it.
“Will, the canoe’s gone again. What do you think?”
“No chimney smoke. He’s long gone.”
“Well, were gonna find out.”
Rummell went up the stairs rising to the cabin while Jack and Will flanked the sides and stood at each corner of the structure. Will with the sawed-off, Jack with his 30:30.
Rummell hammered the door three times. “Norval, Ami Norval!”, he bellowed.”
Nothing.
“Norval, it’s Rummell. Come on out. Now!”
A thirty-second pause.
He moved to the side of the door, a 38 Police Special in his right hand. Gingerly, he reached with his left and tried the latch. It engaged and he pushed the door open.
He motioned for Jack and Will to check the side windows.
“Clear,” shouted Will.
“Nothing,” Jack croaked.
Hearts hammering, they entered the dark, deserted cabin. Will lit a lamp and felt the coffee pot.
“Old and cold. Left last night.”
“What do ya think, Jack?”
“Headed for town, maybe already there.”
“Check this. Two empty boxes of shells and a wooden dynamite box, half full.”
They eyed each other ominously.
Jack looked toward the gun rack. As before the 30:06 was absent.
“Let’s motor.”
At noon, Pony was waiting in the same chair as Rummell dropped off Jack.
“Gonna hustle back and see if we can ferret him out.”
“You won’t find him until he wants to be found.”
“Maybe, but gotta try something.”
An aching Jack dragged himself up to the cabin and dropped straight into the brass bed, falling into a deep, impenetrable sleep.
He remained there all day and night.
Chapter Sixty-Two
The previous night, hugging the shoreline, Norval stroked eight miles up a calm Northeast Arm, slipped through a narrow opening into the North Tetapaga River and holed up under a dense pine canopy for the night.
The crowds at the festival would make it worth the wait. Regardless, he’d had to move. They were on to him and his nemesis, Jack fucking Alexander, was dogging his heels.
“He’s one smart son of a bitch,” Ami ruminated.
They had not sparred since they were kids and Norval, relishing a worthy adversary, had not really targeted him. Come to think of it, he would have rather shot the injun. That and the realisation that he bore a grudging, resentful regard for Alexander, touched with envy. Only once had he bested Jack at the pow wows and he savoured that distant memory. Reaching into a pocket he extracted a small drawstring buckskin pouch. Opened, it revealed a gold-plated medal, the obverse displaying a canoe and the reverse a loon. He caressed it through his fingers circumspectly.
“Whooped your ass that day, eh Jack? Gonna get me this time? We’ll see about that.” His head dropped forward and he nodded off.
At twelve thirty Pony and Jack arrived as the festival was in full swing and they were fortunate to find a slip. They lugged a beer and snack-filled cooler along with a couple of
camp chairs to a vantage point on a rise that would provide a good sightline for the music, events and fireworks. They set up and scanned the landscape. He guessed the crowd at a thousand and knew it could swell to perhaps double.
“Jack, I’m mortified but these folks are not going to be intimidated.”
“Bravado is one thing. Common sense another. Anyway, this,” he said, arching his arm over the scene, “is their response to a terror that they will not allow to cow them or break their spirit.”
He brushed his lips against her forehead.
“I gotta go up to the station and meet with the boys. Hold the fort.”
At the station, he found Will reclining against a desk while Rummell and Braxton scrutinised a local top map.
“Jack, you ever spent a night in one of those cells?”
“Not recently. No stars on Trip Advisor.”
Rummell and Braxton didn’t look up.
“We’ve got all available manpower scouring a three-mile radius, got more coming and four planes in the air like a mini-airshow.”
‘Airshow’ fleetingly sparked Jack’s attention but he tucked it away and joined the pair at the map.
“Anything?”
Rummell squinted over his glasses.
“Nothing... but he’s here... and he’s close.”
“Done with the map?”
“Yeah.”
He rolled the map and tucked it under his arm.
“I’ll keep an eye on the waterfront.”
It was alive with activity. A waterside country-fair and a flea market was underway.
Booths had been erected to sell indigenous crafts, jewellery leatherwork, custom knives and paddles. An immense white tipi, thirty-feet in diameter, had been erected displaying tanned furs of beaver, coyote, lynx, marten, mink and one large black bear.
Pony shook her head, poked Jack in the arm and pointed.
“We lived in permanent wiigiwaams made of birch bark sheets. Plains families, wanderers, used portable tipis but the tipi cliché now endures for all tribes.”
She wandered off, leaving Jack to appraise the map. One food truck offered the usual burgers, dogs and poutine along with fish (pickerel) and chips.
