by John Wilson
“Perhaps,” I say. “I’ll ask him. Thank you.”
The man nods and wanders off toward the trees.
I push my way through the undergrowth and to the road. I’m halfway back to the cabin when it strikes me—the man suggested that Grandfather might let me go over to the island, but how did he know I’m here with Grandfather? I’m certain I didn’t mention that.
I stop and stare into the trees. A light breeze is rustling the leaves as things begin to fall into place in my head. It’s strange that the guy showed up as soon as I got to the clearing where Davis’s cabin used to be. It was almost as if he was waiting for me. He was aggressive to begin with but then volunteered the information about Davis’s favorite spot on the island. Had the guy just given me the second clue—or advice on how to get the clue? Was this all a setup by Grandfather? My first impression of the guy in the clearing was that he was familiar, but I didn’t recognize his face. Was it Carl from Grandfather’s cabin? I had seen him, but only as a figure in the trees. If Grandfather was setting up a game of real-life Clue, might he be using people to create the story? It was the sort of thing he would do, and it would explain his conversation with Sophie that I had stumbled upon.
Feeling sure I have cracked a piece of the puzzle Grandfather has given me and excited to take the next step, I run the rest of the way to the cabin.
EIGHT
“Grandfather!” I shout as I burst through the cabin door. I’m met by a wall of silence. The place is exactly as I left it. Grandfather isn’t back from his walk yet.
I grab a couple of chocolate-chip cookies from the kitchen and head down to the lake to wait. I eat the cookies and toss stones in the water. It’s tough—I’m desperate to tell Grandfather that I’ve worked out the first clue and am ready to move on to the next stage, but he’s off wandering around somewhere.
I stare over at the nearby island. Like the rest of the park, it’s tree covered, but a rocky point juts out into the lake. At the end of the promontory, a single pine tree clings to the rock. It’s small and twisted and bent back as if struggling to rejoin its companions on the island. I wish Grandfather would return so we could canoe over to the island. Then I think back to what Carl (or whoever he was) said in the clearing. He said that maybe Grandfather would let me canoe over to the island, not take me over. If Grandfather is setting this whole thing up, maybe he’s deliberately staying away to force me to do things on my own. He said as much when he told me why he brought me up here. He said I would have to do some strange things but that he would be looking out for me. Now I know that Carl will be looking out for me as well.
It’s not far over to the island, and I’ve done a fair amount of canoeing at Grandfather’s cottage. There’s no wind, and the water’s calm. I doubt there are strong currents in Canoe Lake. I scan the sky. It’s clear, and there’s no sign of a storm coming in. I make my decision, jump up and hurry to the overturned canoe in the trees.
The canoe’s not very fancy, but it’s light and has two paddles and two life vests stored under it. I put on one of the vests and drag the canoe down to the shore and into the water. Before I step in, I make one final check of the lake. It’s smooth and flat, like a mirror, but the thought that somewhere just out there something terrible happened to Tom Thomson, and his body wasn’t found for eight days, sends a shudder down my spine. But I’ve made up my mind. I push the thought away, step into the canoe and propel it away from the shore.
At first the paddling is awkward. I’m used to having someone else paddling at the front of the canoe, so the boat seems light and the prow swings from side to side with each stroke. After a while I settle into a rhythm, and the canoe carves more cleanly through the water.
I feel wonderful. Here I am on my own, without DJ telling me what I should be doing, and well on my way to solving the mystery Grandfather has set me. I love the warm air brushing my cheeks as I move forward and the sound of the water lapping against the side of the canoe as I paddle. I let my eyes slide over the tree-covered island and along the rocky shore. I can see why an artist would love to come here to paint: it’s beautiful and peaceful.
There’s nowhere to land on the rocky point, so I paddle along the shore until I find a spot where I can clamber onto the rocks. There’s a rope attached to the bow of the canoe, which I tie to a jutting piece of rock.
The trees on the island are close together and the underbrush is dense, so I scramble along the narrow, rocky strip between the trees and the water. Apart from the lone tree, the point is barren, but there’s an open, flat, triangular mossy area between the trees and the rocks of the point. Circles of blackened stones show where people have built fires. I wonder if this is where Jim Davis used to cook his fish and where he told Grandfather the story about Tom Thomson’s skull.
I wander around, but I can’t see anything that could be another clue. I work my way over the rocks to the lone tree, hoping to find a note pinned to the trunk, but there’s nothing, just an old plastic bottle wedged between two rocks. It annoys me that people can be so thoughtless and just throw their garbage away in such a beautiful spot. I check out the bottle in case it’s the next clue, but unless there’s a coded message in CocaCola Classic, it’s not.
I move back to the mossy area and look around. I’m disappointed. I’d gotten cocky after I discovered the first clue and thought the mystery would be easy to solve. I’d figured there would be an obvious clue here pointing me toward the next one and so on, but there’s nothing. I kick at the old fire pits but only succeed in getting my runners dirty. I hear birds calling in the trees and get the feeling they’re mocking my failure. In the distance an outboard motor roars—the inhabitants of a holiday cabin, setting out to enjoy the day. Then I notice the path. It’s not much more than an animal trail, but it runs off through the trees toward the center of the island. Maybe I’m supposed to follow it. I certainly don’t have any other options besides paddling back to the cabin.
I head down the path. In places I have to duck down below branches, and soon my feet and clothes are soaked from walking through the wet grass and brushing against the leaves. I’m about to turn back when the path widens into a clearing. There’s nothing in it, but a wider path leads off to my right. I figure it probably leads back to the shore and my canoe, so I head in that direction.
As I turn, I hear a rustling noise off to my left. I spin around but can see nothing between the trees. Inevitably, I think, bear. Hurrying down the path, I make as much noise as possible, whistling and singing what I can remember of the Foo Fighters’ latest album.
I can see the shore through the thinning trees and am beginning to relax when someone grabs me from behind, pinning my arms to my sides.
NINE
“Don’t do anything silly,” a voice I recognize from the ruined cabin says.
My heart rate slows down. This is all a setup. It was dumb of me to think that all of Grandfather’s clues would be the same or as easy as the first one. My admiration for Grandfather’s plan is growing all the time. “Carl?” I say.
“Who’s Carl?”
“Of course, you have to say that,” I tell him. “Okay, where do we go now?”
The grip on my arms relaxes. “Down to the shore.” Carl transfers his grip to only my left arm and moves beside me. I turn and give him a smile. I get a frosty stare in return. This guy’s either miserable in real life or he went to acting classes.
Carl leads me along the last stretch of trail to the shore, where the red aluminum boat that I saw at the resort beside our cabin is tied to a fallen tree. “In,” Carl orders, pushing me toward the boat.
“Why did you send me over here just to take me back?” I ask. “And what about my canoe?”
“Never mind the canoe,” Carl says, ignoring my first question.
With Carl supporting me, I clamber into the small boat and sit down. Carl unties the mooring rope from the tree, tosses it into the boat and climbs in. I have to hold on to the sides as the boat lurches and the bot
tom scrapes against the rocks. Carl takes an aluminum paddle from beside his feet and uses it to push the boat away from shore. When we’re clear of the rocks, he starts the outboard motor, and we move off.
We cross the water to the mainland much faster than I did in the canoe. Carl runs it aground on the narrow beach by our cabin and helps me out. I guess I’m supposed to be feeling scared at this point in the game, but I’m quite calm. Although I have no idea what’s going to happen next, I’m confident that I have worked out at least part of Grandfather’s plan. It would be scary to be abducted by a stranger, but I know who Carl is, and he’s not very threatening, helping me in and out of the boat.
As we head up to the cabin, I wonder if Grandfather’s going to be there, but it’s just as silent and deserted as when I left.
“Sit down,” Carl says, pointing to the loveseat by the fireplace.
I do as I’m told and ask, “What now?”
“We wait,” Carl answers. He’s standing in front of me, but his eyes are scanning the cabin, taking in every detail.
“Are you looking for something?” I ask.
“Just be quiet,” Carl orders without looking at me. Conversation’s obviously not a part of the role he’s playing.
I let my gaze wander around the room. It’s just as compulsively neat and tidy as Grandfather left it. The only difference I notice is that he has inserted the book he brought from his cottage among the others on the mantel. Oddly, it’s not placed in alphabetical order. George Orwell should be in about the middle. Instead, it’s third from the left, between Dan Brown and Stephen King. I begin to stand to correct the error, but then the thought pops into my mind that I’m becoming as obsessively tidy as Grandfather is, and I sit back down.
Boredom is beginning to creep over me when I hear footsteps on the porch. I think it might be Grandfather, but when the door opens, Sophie and Carl from Grandfather’s cottage are standing there.
I suppose it makes sense that Grandfather would involve both Carl and Sophie in his plan, but I’ve seen her already, so doesn’t her appearance give it all away?
“Hello, Steve,” Sophie says with a smile as she steps toward me. “Good to see you again.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to find something, and I’m hoping you can help me.”
“Tom Thomson’s skull?” I ask.
A frown flashes across Sophie’s face, but the smile’s quickly back in place. “I’m looking for something your grandfather brought up here. I’ve searched the cottage at Port Carling and it’s not there, so he must have brought it with him.”
“Why don’t you ask him?”
“He won’t say, and I don’t want to get… unpleasant…just yet.”
I can’t help but let out a small laugh. If someone in Grandfather’s plot is going to get unpleasant, Carl seems like a much more convincing candidate than Sophie.
Sophie’s reaction shocks me. Without any warning, she violently sweeps the collection of books off the mantel. They crash onto the loveseat beside me in a disordered pile, making me jump. “What did you do that for?” I shout. “They were in order.” I know the last statement’s dumb, but it’s what pops into my surprised brain.
Sophie takes a step forward and leans over me. If it was Carl doing this, it would be threatening, but Sophie’s not much taller than me and probably weighs less. “Either your grandfather brought up a lot of money or something small and very valuable, and I need to find it. You can help us or not. It’s up to you, but I would strongly recommend helping.”
“I can’t help,” I say. “We didn’t bring a suitcase of money up with us.”
“What about something small and valuable. Any ideas?”
Immediately an image of the envelope Grandfather quickly stuffed into his pocket when I surprised him at the cottage springs into my mind. I open my mouth to say something, but what should I say? This has all become too complicated. What has happened to a simple trail of clues?
Sophie notices my confused hesitation. “You know something, don’t you?”
“I don’t know anything,” I say, thinking denial is the safest course.
“Search the place,” Sophie orders Carl.
With a nod, the big man starts going around the room, systematically opening cupboards and pulling the contents onto the floor and sweeping things off countertops.
“Hey!” I shout, getting to my feet. “What are you doing? Stop it. This is crazy. Grandfather doesn’t want you to do this.”
I take a step forward, convinced that I can push past Sophie. My confidence evaporates as I find myself staring at a small pistol in Sophie’s hand. It must be a fake, but it’s a very good one.
I hesitate, and Sophie pushes me back onto the loveseat. She’s stronger than she looks. “Don’t be stupid,” she says.
My shock at the sight of the gun is fading and my anger is returning. “I’m not the one being stupid. You’re the ones wrecking this place. This has gone too far. You’re wrecking Grandfather’s game. You can’t scare me with a fake gun.”
I make a move to stand up again, but I freeze at the sound of the explosion close to my head. Sophie has her right arm raised, and the gun in her hand is pointing at the roof beams. A thin stream of gray smoke is swirling out of the barrel. “I warned you,” Sophie says.
TEN
“What…what’s going on?” My heart is racing, my hands are sweaty, and I’m stumbling over my words. “Grandfather would never allow guns.”
“I really don’t care what your grandfather would or would not allow,” Sophie says. She seems satisfied that the gunshot has had the desired effect on me and has tucked the pistol into the belt of her pants. “All I want is what your grandfather brought up here, so tell me where it is or we’ll rip this place apart to find it.”
“Maybe he has it with him,” I suggest. I’m gradually calming down, and my mind is beginning to work once more. “If it’s something small you’re looking for, he could be keeping it with him, in a pocket.”
Sophie shakes her head. “It has to be in here somewhere.”
“How can you be certain?”
“Because I’ve searched him and he doesn’t have anything in his pockets.”
Now I’m really confused. How could Sophie have searched Grandfather’s pockets? Either she’s lying and this is all still part of the complex fantasy game created by Grandfather, or…or what? She’s really as sinister as she’s playing it, and she’s kidnapped Grandfather and is holding him hostage somewhere? Or he’s lying beaten up—or worse—in the woods somewhere?
Oddly, my confusion helps calm me down. I’m suddenly thinking very clearly, as if my brain knows it needs to focus to work out what is going on and can’t afford to let emotions get in the way. Unfortunately, my brain doesn’t get much chance to work.
“Hurry up, Jason,” Sophie shouts. “Have you found it yet?”
Jason? Carl? Which is his real name? I twist around and see Jason/Carl coming out of Grandfather’s bedroom. Looking past him, I see that Grandfather’s suitcase is overturned in the corner and his clothes are scattered all over the floor. The room looks as messy as my room at home. The only place left to search is my room, and I know he won’t find anything in there. What’ll happen then? I need to think, but too much is happening. I need to get away.
“There’s nothing in the kid’s room,” Jason/ Carl says.
“I have an idea where Grandfather might have hidden something,” I blurt out. I actually don’t have any idea—I’m simply making stuff up as I go along. “Back at the cottage, he had an envelope that he didn’t want me to see. Maybe that’s what you’re looking for.”
Sophie looks interested in what I’m saying, so I go on. “When we got here, he spent a long time at the woodpile outside. Maybe he hid something there.”
I’m hoping this will draw them outside and give me a chance to escape.
“That’s a good idea,” Sophie agrees. “Jason, go outside and check the w
oodpile.”
This isn’t what I’d hoped for. “It’s a big woodpile,” I say hurriedly. “It’ll take a long time to search it all for an envelope. I could show you where Grandfather was working.”
Sophie stares hard at me, and I force myself to keep meeting her eyes, hoping I look innocent and eager to be helpful. “Okay,” she says. “Show us.”
I jump up, wanting to get to the door first, but Sophie grabs my shoulder. “I don’t want any nonsense,” she says. “You’re just a dumb kid. You don’t understand what’s going on. Just do as you’re told.”
Now I’m angry. Just a dumb kid who doesn’t understand anything! I’ve been solving mysteries in my head forever. This is Steve McLean the Super Sleuth she’s dealing with. I grunt a reply, shrug her hand off my shoulder and continue to the door.
The door opens outward onto the porch. I open it, walk out, then turn and stand as if I’m a polite kid holding the door open for my elders and betters. Jason/Carl is leading the way. He’s saying something over his shoulder to Sophie. As he gets to the door, I throw all my weight against it. It slams shut with a crash. I hear a cry of pain from the other side, but I’m already off the porch and sprinting for the trees.
As I run, I feel an itch in the middle of my back where I know Sophie’s bullet will hit. I vaguely wonder if you hear the bullet that kills you, and then I’m in the trees. I keep going, weaving around the trunks and tearing through the underbrush. At last, bent over and gasping for breath, I stop, hoping I’ve come far enough. I stand still until my breathing slows and my heart stops hammering around inside my chest. I hear nothing. No sounds of pursuit.
I wait until I’m certain no one has followed me and my heartbeat is normal again, and then I work my way slowly back toward the cabin. I feel like one of the trappers or explorers I used to pretend to be in the woods around Grandfather’s cottage. I am hyper-aware of everything. Every tree trunk, branch and leaf is sharp and vivid, like a hi-def, 3-D movie, and I’m certain I could hear a butterfly cough six meters away.
