by Vicki Delany
“Well, I’m willing to take that chance.” Jeremy was on his feet. “We should have left yesterday, like I wanted to. We would be safe by now.”
“We’d be at the bottom of the lake by now.” Craig stirred the oatmeal with thoughtful, careful strokes. This would be one creamy batch of cereal.
“Let’s go, Craig, please.” Rachel was almost pleading. “We can’t stay here.”
Craig stopped stirring and looked at us, all in turn. “We can’t go onto the water in this weather,” he said firmly. “Now, it can’t last forever. As soon as the storm breaks, I’ll take Leanne and head back to the main lakes. If we’re lucky we can meet up with a ranger or a group with a couple of leaders and someone can go for help.”
They all looked at me. I smiled back, unsure of why I was suddenly the chosen one.
They were close to breaking into an all out fight. Joe and Jeremy looked like they were about to take Craig on and Barb was wavering between choosing sides. Only Rachel and I were prepared to take the guide’s advice. Yesterday’s responsibility of setting up camp over, Dianne had sunk onto a log, ignored us, retreated back into herself, and wept silently into her towel.
Joe advanced toward the canoes, Jeremy seconds behind him. Craig held the oatmeal spoon high (not quite the strangest weapon I have ever seen, but getting there).
Jagged and angry, a bolt of lightening flashed through the night-dark sky, an ancient god hurling bolts of fire down from above. In the same heartbeat a crack of thunder had us all gasping in shock. Rachel screamed and fairly leapt into the air. The skies opened like a faucet turned to “ON”.
Joe and Jeremy were drenched in seconds; they turned pale and stopped in their tracks. Meekly the two rebels returned to the circle, attempting to look as if that was part of the plan all along. Craig dipped his spoon back into the pot, stirred some more and casually announced that breakfast was ready.
Chapter 16
Day 9: Afternoon
The rest of the day passed in a blur of wet misery. I was torn between the feeling that I should be keeping an eye on all the suspects and the overwhelming desire to retreat into my own little shell. For a while I shut myself in the tent, attempting to return to the world of Victorian London where tendrils of fog wrapped itself around gaslights and murders were committed by scoundrels with evil eyes, black capes and twirling moustaches. I doubt I managed five pages in an hour and kept getting up to step outside and check the sky.
We were visited several times by a family of happy ducks. The children poked enthusiastically around the campsite, while mother and father paddled nearby, beaming proudly. Barb and Rachel were so happy for the diversion that they scattered a goodly portion of our remaining loaf of bread for the visitors. Huddling under the tarp, they tossed their offerings into the winds. Ducks scrambled up over the rocks and dove for the feast.
We had been told at the beginning of the trip not to feed the wildlife. It gets them used to coming around the campsites, makes them dependent on people and then they have trouble fending for themselves. All that wise stuff.
But right now it gave us something to do. And it was nice to watch them waddling and diving and fighting amongst themselves for the offerings. At last, stuffed to the gills and thoroughly enjoying the weather, the family sailed off without so much as a backward glance of thank-you.
At some point during my futile attempts to keep focused on my book, it occurred to me that if the killer really had intended to attack someone other than Richard, it might well suit said murderer to make another attempt upon the object of their attention. I pulled myself out of the tent and sat on a patch of barely dry earth under the tarp.
Unfortunately no one looked the least bit guilty. In fact they all looked like I felt, cold and wet and thoroughly miserable. I stared out over the lake and then turned hopefully to look one more time at the sky above the woods behind us. Nothing but rain-engorged clouds, thick, dark and heavy.
Both Dianne and the heavens themselves continued to cry, as if moisture was an endless resource and the world would never be dry again.
Rachel and Joe kept a frosty distance from each other. He lay in his tent most of the day and she sat huddled over the miserable fire, at least dry under the tarpaulin. I sincerely hoped she had finally decided to be rid of the jerk. Whether she knew it or not, she was a smart woman and didn’t need to pretend to be the bimbo to get on. They hadn’t been married for long and he was already controlling, threatening and verbally abusive. I had been a cop and I had been an emotionally abused wife: I wanted Rachel to get out in time.
Barb and Jeremy, on the other hand, had arrived at some sort of truce. Barb fished around in Dianne’s daypack for the playing cards, and they made a rough table out of a chunk of firewood and sat over the game for hours. Craig was first to join them and then Joe and Rachel and I sat down to play peacefully.
The endless day dragged on, and the rain refused to let up. It fell into muddy puddles and into clear lakes, splashing up in little circles of its own making, the drops spotting the water’s surface like tiny volcanoes.
Sheets of lightening flashed overhead, and every clap of thunder had us quivering in our skins. The storm appeared to have settled directly over our little camp, apparently with no intention of moving on. I had never known weather in this part of the world to behave like this before.
The lone tent on the barren bit of rock loomed larger and ever larger, in my imagination at any rate. I found myself peeking at it constantly, as if expecting to see a shadowy figure slip out of the tent, trying return to the physical world.
And I wasn’t the only one; the others were casting surreptitious glances, full of primitive superstition and awe in the all-encompassing presence of the Grim Reaper himself. Only Joe studied his hand and tossed down his cards with a calm single-mindedness that excluded all else.
At first the women struggled through the storm to the “treasure chest” in groups, as apparently we are prone to do, whether in the most elegant of restaurants or trapped in a storm of unparalleled fury, but eventually we tired of accompanying each and everyone to answer the call of nature, and a single figure would detach herself from the camp, huddle into her rain coat and slip off into the forest.
The card game lasted for a long time, but eventually it did break up and we all went their separate ways. People wandered off into their tent or even for a walk into the woods, if they were totally stir crazy (as was I, but lacking rain gear, and even dry clothes, I dared not venture far from the protection of the tarp or my little tent).
“This rain will do wonders for the mushrooms,” Craig announced. “I’ll collect some for dinner. Coming, Leanne?”
I shrugged and indicated my damp sweatshirt. “Too wet out there for me.” No one offered to lend me anything, so I sat idly on my patch of log and watched Craig pull plastic bags out of the rubbish container and disappear into the rain soaked forest.
He wasn’t gone for long, but returned with bags bulging with his haul. He smiled at me proudly and laid the offering down at my feet. An abundance of clean, plump, white oyster mushrooms overwhelmed the bags and spilled out onto the ground. I picked a particularly fat one up to admire.
“This should be a nice addition to dinner.” I smiled back at him. The lines were still there, deep between his eyes and around the corners of his mouth. He had aged about ten years in a couple of days - but it was a good sign that he made a bit of an effort with the mushrooms.
Forced inactivity in uncomfortable surroundings played havoc on the niceties of civilization. If this continued for much longer we were going to be in trouble with tensions simmering so closely to the surface.
In fact, I reflected, we were heading for trouble even before this storm. Was I the only normal person on this trip, or were the others totally normal and I the strange one? Maybe there was something in the water. You’d have a hard time imagining a group of people with shorter tempers, everyone of them ready to fly off the handle at the slightest provocation
or more than eager to provide said provocation themselves.
Joe and Rachel’s short-lived marriage was heading directly for the rocks, thanks to the simple fact that all the arguing and their response to hardship showed them both something they didn’t much like in the other.
“Might as well eat soon,” Craig said. “Nothing much else to do here.”
I left him digging around in the kitchen pack, laying out vegetables and potatoes and stirring the fire and went in search of Dianne.
She was asleep in her tent, curled up in a little ball, tiny blow-up pillow clutched in her arms. I backed out of the tent silently. Leave her be. She would have to wake up soon enough.
Barb had strolled over to help Craig with the cooking and was peeling carrots and potatoes with a calm determination as they spoke in low voices. She was helping just for something to keep her busy - all the flirtatiousness and look-at-me-now gestures were gone. Much better. A guy like Craig would prefer quiet competence in a woman to flamboyant attempts to attract attention any day.
Or maybe not. He grinned up at me and winked broadly. My cheeks flushed and I glanced away, with an embarrassing degree of haste.
Rachel crouched at the lake’s edge, trailing her fingers in the water. A few ducks were paddling lazily off shore, watching her, waiting for more handouts. The rain streamed off her coat-hood and slithered in a little river down her back. Her feet were almost buried in mud, but she didn’t seem to mind.
Of Joe and Jeremy, I could see no sign, and didn’t much care.
I watched the dinner preparations with little interest; Craig did what he could with the mushrooms, but supplies were getting low and not many ingredients remained. Eventually the fungi were coated with a touch of oil and the last of the soy sauce and grilling nicely. The cooking surface of the pot resting over the little propane stove was so small he could only cook a handful of mushrooms at a time. But they smelt delightful and I was almost content for the first time since we started the horrible portage to Lost Dog Lake.
Barb called us for dinner and one-by-one we settled around the fire. I checked on Dianne who was still sleeping soundly, and left her in peace.
Craig served the first batch of mushrooms and Barb passed around the plates. “Where’s Joe?” She stood with one extra plate in hand, looking around the circle.
“Who cares?” Rachel picked up a delicate oyster mushroom, dripping with juices and oil, in her well-manicured fingers. “These are good.”
We broke into a chorus of “Joe, dinner.” Only the wind and the rain bothered to reply.
Craig kept cooking and we kept eating, munching our way through the through the piles of mushrooms in silence. It was still early, although hard to judge daylight in the thick pall cast by the continuously raging storm. The solitary little tent on the rock was only occasionally visible between sheets of pelting rain and barely perceptible variations in the cloud cover.
“Perhaps someone should go and check on Joe,” I said. “He wasn’t in our tent when I looked in on Dianne.”
The others stared at me vacantly, not showing much interest. Except for Craig, no one made a move to get up and he only went as far as to stir the lentil stew, which he had placed on the stove to reheat.
Barb collected the plates and carried them back to Craig for the second course. How quickly the trappings of civilization fall away: we didn’t even care that the plates weren’t washed between courses, or whether we got the same plate back again, or someone else’s entirely.
“He’s not in our tent,” Jeremy said.
“Craig, don’t you think maybe we should go looking for Joe?” I said.
The guide looked up from the stew pot. “He’s probably visiting the box. Let the poor guy be.”
“He’s been gone a long time.”
“He’s off sulking in the woods.” Rachel sighed theatrically. “Like the little boy he still is. Who cares anymore?” She shrugged. “Is that stew ready yet? I’m hungry.”
I looked at Craig. “If Joe has gone off for a pleasant little walk in the sun-drenched woods, someone should go after him, wouldn’t you agree? Before he succumbs to a serious case of sunstroke.”
Craig stared into the pot. If serious glances could cook a meal this would be a fabulous dish.
“I guess you’re right.” He tossed the wooden spoon to one side with a sigh to rival Rachel’s. “I’ll go and look for him. The rest of you stay here. Barb, serve up the dinner. Please.”
He pulled the hood of his purple coat over his hair, set off up the path toward the “treasure chest”.
Barb dished up the stew, a glutinous mass of brown lentils, underdone chunks of boiled potatoes, carrots and a few button mushrooms, all congealing into a thick brown guk the minute it left the heat.
We were staring into our bowls when Craig returned, alone. “He’s not up there. I guess we’d better organize a search.”
Jeremy was eager, but he was the only one. Rachel dug happily into her lentil stew, while Barb picked at it with a look of pure disgust.
Dianne emerged from her tent, rubbing sleep filled eyes. “What’s all the noise? What’s going on? Why didn’t anyone call me for dinner?” Her eyes and nose were still red and swollen but the crying had stopped.
“Joe seems to have wandered off,” Jeremy said. “Someone’s going to have to go looking for him.”
I dished up another bowl of the unappetizing stew and offered it apologetically to Dianne. “At least it’s hot, if nothing else.” She smiled at me, merely a turning up of the edges of her mouth but a smile, nonetheless. “Thank you for your kindness, Leanne.” She took her meal to a vacant patch of log and tentatively lifted the fork to her mouth.
“We can’t all be running though the woods,” Craig said. “Or we’ll all be lost.” Almost the exact words that he had said yesterday. Was it only yesterday? I pushed aside the remembrance of what we found then.
“Jeremy, you walk along the lake to the left. It looks like a good path and we can’t see how far it goes. Keep the lake in clear view at all times. If you can’t go any further and have to turn inland, come back. Understand?”
Jeremy nodded.
“Do you have your whistle?” Craig held up the bright, plastic orange whistle that, like all of us, he wore on a string around his neck.
Jeremy showed his in acknowledgement.
“Everyone have a whistle?”
We fumbled under shirts and pulled up the desired object. Dianne ate her dinner.
“Leanne, I want you to take the trail back down the portage. Stay on the path and don’t move off it. Blow your whistle if you think there’s a need to leave the trail, and I’ll come running and go with you. Understood?”
It was as if Craig had forgotten that we had gone through practically the exact same routine yesterday, but I nodded anyway.
“I’m going to cut through the woods past the box. He might have kept going up that way.”
“What about me?” Barb asked, pushing her untouched supper bowl to one side. “I want to help.”
“You take the rocks on the other side of… Richard’s tent. Can you do that?”
Barb gulped, but nodded.
“I’ll go with her,” Dianne spoke up. “It might be a bit spooky over there.”
Barb flashed her a grateful smile.
“Okay,” Craig said, “but like I told Jeremy, make sure the lake is always beside you. Don’t wander inland. If the trail ends you stop walking with it.
“Keep your eyes open for anything that Joe might have dropped. Even if you don’t find him, if we can determine which way he went then we can concentrate our search in that direction. Got it?”
We nodded in unison.
“No one is to blow the whistle unless you need help. If you hear a whistle, return to camp immediately, then we can go to the aid of the whistler. Understand?”
We all nodded again.
“Then let’s go.”
They moved out with a chorus of “Joe, Joe!”
I looked at Rachel as she scraped the last few lentils off the sides of her bowl. “Do you think anyone wants that?” She gestured towards an untouched plate, untouched and unwanted.
“No, I guess you can have it. Uh, Rachel, can I borrow your rain coat?”
“Then what would I use?”
“Well, it doesn’t look as if you’re going on the search, does it? And it’s reasonably dry here under the tarp. And I don’t have one right now, so can I please borrow your rain coat?”
She shrugged again but pulled the yellow mac over her head. I accepted it gratefully and left her helping herself to the remains of my dinner.
I walked away contemplating the strange nature of human relationships.
Chapter 17
Day 9: Early Evening.
As bad as yesterday’s search for Richard had been this one could only be worse, in more ways than one. It continued to rain - steady, relentless torrents falling from the night-dark sky, the flashes of lightening directly overhead accompanied by an immediate bark of thunder. The forest floor was a sea of mud. Every little crevice had turned into a raging torrent, eagerly rushing downhill to go for a swim in the greedy, churning lake. Moss and stones were slick traps offering dangerous footing for every inattentive step.
Yesterday I called for Richard, today for Joe and the irony of it didn’t escape me: we found Richard, soon enough, but he was quite dead. I watched my feet as I walked and cast around for the slightest clue while considering the implications of Joe’s disappearance.
There was a murderer in our little number, and only that person, Craig and I knew so. It wasn’t much of a stretch to consider that the killer might have struck again. Was Richard killed in mistake? Was Joe, not Richard, the intended target all along and did the killer now take the opportunity to correct his (or her) error?
