by John Wilson
Eventually, I reach the edge of the clearing, crouch down and peer at the cabin. I almost give everything away by bursting out laughing. Jason/ Carl is awkwardly pulling the woodpile apart with one hand while the other holds a bloodstained rag to his nose. Part of me feels a bit bad. What if this is a game after all, and I’ve broken an actor’s nose? Then Jason/Carl helps me overcome my guilt.
“There’s nothing here,” he says, grunting in pain. “When I catch that little brat, I’ll teach him a lesson.”
“Maybe, Jason, if you had paid more attention to the little brat, he wouldn’t have had the chance to slam the door in your face,” Sophie says without a trace of sympathy in her voice. “And sending him over to the island at this stage was dumb. We had to check this place out first.”
“I brought him back,” Jason/Carl says defensively.
“And then you let him run away. This is a waste of time. Let’s go back and see if McLean will tell us.”
“We’ll need to put some pressure on him” is the last thing I hear Sophie say as the pair moves around the cabin and down to the shore. They clamber into the red boat and head off along the shore until I lose sight of them behind the trees. For the first time in a while I relax, but so many questions are whirling around my head. Is this a game? If so, it’s incredibly elaborate and doesn’t seem to be going according to plan. If it’s not a game, what is it? Who are Sophie and Jason/Carl? Where’s Grandfather? The final question is worrying. Why isn’t he a part of this story, and what did Sophie mean by put some pressure on him? Is Grandfather in danger?
ELEVEN
I sit in the shadows of the trees for a long time, staring at the empty cabin. A wind is getting up, and the open front door of the cabin swings mournfully back and forth. It’s like my mind swinging between happily working out Grandfather’s clues and being totally confused by events that seem to make no sense.
I close my eyes to force back the tears I feel coming. Partly they are tears of frustration, but, if I’m honest with myself, they’re also tears of fear. I’m scared. The possibility that Sophie and Jason/ Carl are not part of Grandfather’s plan and that Sophie would actually use the gun she fired in the cabin is terrifying.
The whole thing’s made more scary by not knowing why anything is happening and not seeing any way that I can find an answer. It’s like someone in a spy story being tortured for vital information. How does the torturer know whether the person being tortured is just strong and refusing to give the information up or genuinely does not know? How does the person being tortured convince the person torturing them that they don’t know the information?
James Bond would know what to do. He would find out what’s going on, defeat the bad guys, rescue Grandfather and have a happy ending. But I’m not James Bond. I’m just a confused, scared, lonely kid. I would give everything to see Grandfather stroll around the corner of the cabin, walk over to me and explain what is happening.
I open my eyes and wipe the tears away. The clearing’s still empty. The door’s still swinging in the wind. Grandfather’s not going to come and help me. Neither is James Bond. If I’m not going to sit here feeling sorry for myself, I have to do something—but what?
Like all good detectives, before I do anything else I have to think. I sit with my back against a tree trunk, take a deep breath to calm myself and go over what I know.
Grandfather brought me up here and told me the story of Tom Thomson.
He told me he had a mystery for me to solve and that he had prepared clues for me to follow to find Tom Thomson’s lost skull.
I discovered and followed the first clue and met Jason/Carl, who gave me the second clue that led me to the island.
Jason/Carl brought me back to the cabin, where Sophie met us.
Sophie was at Grandfather’s cottage, apparently discussing arrangements with Grandfather.
Sophie is looking for something valuable, probably the envelope I saw Grandfather put in his pocket at the cottage.
Sophie has a gun!
Sophie implied that they are holding Grandfather somewhere and that they are going to force him to tell them where the valuable package is.
Set out in a list in my head, I know these eight things. They don’t all fit together, and some don’t seem to make much sense, but they might be parts of two stories. The first three things seem to form one story—the next five seem to form another, although the fifth thing could be a part of the first story. So there are two possibilities.
Possibility one. It’s all the same story, and I don’t know it. Grandfather has created a much more complicated mystery for me to solve and hasn’t told me much about it because he wants me to work it all out myself. This is the sort of thing he would do. He’s always saying you can’t rely on other people, so the only person you can trust totally in any situation is yourself.
Possibility two. The stories are different, and around the third or fourth thing that happened, I slipped from one story into the other. This is the scenario that scares me—the possibility that there are sinister people running around with guns who have kidnapped and possibly tortured Grandfather and I have no idea why.
I really want to dismiss possibility two. If it’s true, there are just too many questions. Who are these people? Why are they trying to steal something valuable from Grandfather? What sort of things led Grandfather to get involved with these people?
But there are some things that just don’t fit with possibility one. Why did Grandfather say I was going to get clues to lead me to an answer when all the clues seem to have stopped? What do Sophie and Jason/Carl have to do with Tom Thomson’s skull? Would Grandfather allow Sophie to have a real gun as part of the story?
Okay, I’ve listed everything I know and I’m still as confused as ever. Maybe I should go and find some help. If there is some ominous plot that hasn’t been arranged by Grandfather, the police or at least the park rangers should be told. But what would I tell them? I have no evidence except a messy cabin. Even if they were to find the bullet Sophie fired into the roof beams in the cabin, it proves nothing. As soon as I mention that Grandfather brought me up here to give me a mystery to solve, I’ll be dismissed as an overly imaginative kid.
My only other choice is to do something on my own. The idea’s frightening, but maybe if I take it slowly I’ll be able to collect enough information to convince someone else that something disturbing is going on. Of course, if it’s possibility one, I have nothing to worry about whatever I do.
Okay, I’m going to do something, but what? The only clue I can follow is that Sophie and Jason/Carl left in the red boat belonging to the resort. Thinking back, the sound of the outboard motor didn’t last long, so I’d put money on them simply using the boat to get back to the resort, which means that they are not that far away. I like the idea. In a resort there’ll be other people around—it’ll be safe.
I stand up and step out of the trees. Nothing happens. I edge slowly across the clearing, looking all around. Out on the lake, the wind is picking up and small waves are forming. There’s a canoe tossing around about halfway to the island. I peer hard. The canoe’s empty. It’s my canoe, the one I took over to the island. It must have come loose, and the wind is pushing it back toward the shore. I watch the way it’s drifting. The canoe’s getting closer, but it’s also moving along the shore. I guess it will end up grounding somewhere behind me.
I toy with the idea of following it along the shore and bringing it back, but I know that’s just delaying what I have to do. I watch it for a moment or two longer and then continue across the clearing toward the resort.
TWELVE
The gate in the fence around the resort is as firmly locked as it was when I wandered through the trees earlier. I could go around to the main gate on the road, but then what? I could ring the bell and say, I think there are two people here who have kidnapped my grandfather and are torturing him. I can’t see that getting me inside.
I walk to the shore, hoping the fence doesn�
�t extend right into the water. It does, but it’s lower here and fairly beat-up from winter storms on the lake. At one place a large log has come to rest against the fence, bending it over. It’s fairly easy to scramble up the log, over the fence and down onto the rocks on the other side. The wind’s gotten higher, and the waves are splashing the rocks, making them slippery, but I get onto the resort lawn with only wet feet.
I feel horribly exposed on this side of the fence. There are only a few scattered trees between me and the main resort building. I work my way along the fence and then across the lawn, darting from tree to tree.
The resort is less impressive close up than it is from the road. On the side of the building, there are few windows and only a couple of small doors, which lead, I presume, to the kitchen or service areas. Since a grubby kid in shorts and a T-shirt wouldn’t last five seconds walking through the front door of a place like this, the service doors look like my best bet. One door doesn’t have a handle on the outside, so I head for the one beside a fenced area containing large garbage and recycling bins. I grab the handle and pull—nothing. I try to turn the handle—still nothing. Then I see the security guard coming around the corner.
I flatten myself against the wall. Fortunately, the guard isn’t looking my way. He’s scanning the trees I’ve just passed through. I wonder if I showed up on a security camera and he’s been sent out to check. Whether that’s the case or not, pretty soon he’s going to look along the side of the building, and that’ll be it for me.
My only chance is to dash past the garbage bins and around to the back of the building and hope I can get in that way. The trouble is, the guard will almost certainly see me. Maybe I should just walk out into the open and give myself up. The worst that can happen is I get thrown out for trespassing. After all, I don’t even have a clear idea of what I am looking for inside.
Then the door beside me opens. Someone carrying a pile of large crushed cardboard boxes staggers out. I freeze, but the person is busy trying to kick a rock over to wedge the door open while not dropping the load of cardboard. I doubt he would see me if I began dancing. Eventually the rock is kicked into place to hold the door open a few inches, and the bundle of cardboard moves off to the recycling bin. I glance at the security guard. He’s turning my way. I slide my fingers into the gap, haul the door open and push through. Even if the security guy sees me, I’m hoping he’ll think I’m helping take the garbage out.
It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the gloom. I’m in a long corridor with bare concrete walls and pipes and cables running along the ceiling. I can’t stay here and wait for cardboard guy to return or the security guard to come and investigate, so I head off down the corridor.
There’s light at the far end, and I can hear voices and the noise of pots banging. I assume it’s the kitchen. I try a door on my right, but it’s a storeroom. The next door’s an empty office. The third is a walk-in cooler. I reach the fourth door just as the outside door is pulled open. I push against the fourth door and find myself at the bottom of a stairwell.
I sigh with relief and lean against the wall as footsteps pass outside the door. I have to go up the stairs, but my legs feel too weak to do anything. So much for the movies where the cool hero wanders casually through the enemy headquarters surrounded by heavily armed soldiers intent on killing him. I’ve come close to getting caught trespassing in a fancy resort by the guy who takes out the garbage, and my heart feels as if it’s about to explode out of my chest.
I close my eyes and breathe deeply until I calm down. This is insane. This can’t possibly be a part of Grandfather’s game—can it? All I can do is continue and see what happens. I creep up the stairs and slowly open the door on the first landing I come to.
I’m in another corridor. This one’s much fancier than the one I just left. It has plush carpeting, nice paint on the walls and no pipes running along the ceiling. Doors with fancy scrolled numbers line both sides. I presume these are guest rooms. Short of barging into one at random and destroying the holiday someone has probably paid a lot of money for, there’s not much I can do except keep going.
I’m calm now, but that only makes me feel more stupid with every step. What do I think I’m going to find out? What seemed like a good idea when I was sitting against a tree having just escaped from a woman with a gun now seems dumb. My plan was to get in here—and then what? All I’m doing is walking aimlessly along a corridor, leaving wet, muddy footprints on the deep pile carpet. I should just give myself up, get thrown out and head back to the cabin. Grandfather’s probably sitting at the table, ready to give me a hard time about being a lousy detective.
I notice a door with no number on it. I’m wondering what it leads to when the next door along, number 135, opens and I hear voices. I grab the handle of the unmarked door. It turns easily, the door opens, and I step through. The old man sitting by the fireplace looks up from the book he’s reading. “Have you come to rescue me?” he asks.
THIRTEEN
“What?” I ask.
“Have you come to rescue me?” the old man repeats. He speaks good English but with a heavy accent that I guess is eastern European.
“I don’t know,” I mumble. Barging into someone’s room is bad enough, but then being asked weird questions is unsettling. The idea crosses my mind that the resort sign at the front is old and the place is now being used as an asylum for crazy wealthy people. I turn to leave, but the noise of several people talking in the corridor makes me hesitate.
I look back at the old man. He’s grinning. “I think you’d better stay,” he says. I push the door closed and inch my way over to the fireplace.
“Sit down. Sit down,” the old man says, indicating the other chair by the fire.
I perch on the edge and ask, “What did you mean when you asked if I had come to rescue you? Do you need to be rescued?”
The old man’s grin broadens, revealing teeth that are too perfect and white to be real. “We all need rescuing in one way or another. But you are right—I was probably a bit dramatic in the way I phrased my question. I’m waiting for someone to bring me some money so that I can leave this place. I don’t suppose that would be you?”
“I’m afraid not,” I reply. “Why do you need money to leave this place? It seems to me that you would need money to stay here.”
The old man laughs. “A very good point, my young friend, but not all things are always as they seem. And I am being rude.” With considerable effort, he hauls himself out of his chair and holds out his hand. “My name is Yuri, Yuri Koval.” He looks at me as if the name should mean something.
I stand up and shake his hand. His skin is wrinkled and dry, but his grip is firm. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Koval,” I say. “My name’s Steven McLean, but everyone calls me Steve.”
“Then you must call me Yuri,” the old man says. He tilts his head to one side and stares at me thoughtfully. “Steven McLean,” he says as he releases my hand and sits back down. “A good Scottish name, if I am not mistaken. Is that where you are from? Perhaps on a holiday here?”
“My family came over from Scotland several generations ago,” I explain, thinking back to a family tree I had to draw in grade five. “I’m here on holiday for a few days with my grandfather.”
“Ah,” Koval says. “Your grandfather must be quite an old man.”
“He’s old,” I say, “but he keeps himself in good shape.”
“I’m sure he does,” Koval says. “And you and he are having a good holiday?”
“We’ve just been here a couple of days,” I explain, not certain yet whether my holiday is good or bad.
Koval nods. “But you are not staying in this expensive resort? You are not the type one sees around here.”
“We’re staying in a cabin on the next lot over.” I feel a bit like I’m being interrogated, so I decide to ask a question of my own. “Are you here on holiday?”
Koval laughs out loud, a harsh croaking sound that degenerates into a rough co
ugh. When he recovers, he says, “In a sense, yes, I am here on holiday, but it is a holiday I began many years ago.”
His next question takes me completely by surprise. “Is your grandfather’s name David McLean?”
“Yes,” I say. “How did you know that?”
Koval fixes me with an unblinking stare, a half smile turning up the corners of his lips. The stare drags out so long that I’m feeling quite uncomfortable when Koval finally breaks the silence. “If we ask the right questions and pay attention to the answers, we can learn many things. But now I am thirsty. If you would be so kind, young Steve McLean, would you go through to the kitchen? It is small, but it has a refrigerator below the window within which you will find some of your Canadian beer, for which I have developed a fondness. If you bring me one and a glass from the shelf above, you may help yourself to a soft drink—I think you will find a good selection—and I shall tell you a story that I suspect you will find interesting.”
I head through to the tiny kitchen. The window has a view across the lawn to the dock and out over the lake to the island I visited earlier. The wind is still creating waves, and I peer to the right, but there’s no sign of the canoe. By now it must have grounded on the shore somewhere. I grab a beer and a can of Coke from the fridge and return to the main room.
Koval pours his beer and takes a long drink. I pop the can of Coke and take a sip. All the confusion I felt before is back. How did I end up in this suite with a mysterious old man who seems to know my grandfather? I must admit that I’m impatient for the story Koval has to tell, but he seems content to sit and stare at the bubbles rising in his beer glass. “Are you Russian?” I ask in an attempt to get Koval started. It works.
“I am not Russian,” Koval says sharply. “I am from Ukraine. You’ve heard of that place?” I nod, although I know almost nothing about it. “A thousand years ago, Ukraine was the most powerful nation in Europe, and Kiev was a wonder of the world. But we are on a crossroads; armies marching east or west passed through Ukraine. We have been conquered in turn by Mongols, Poles, Russians and Germans. We have been slaughtered in wars and starved in famines. Even here in Canada, we were put in internment camps because we were not trusted.
