Innocent Murderer

by Suzanne F. Kingsmill

  “Are you coming? You’re going to miss the last boat!” yelled Martha.

  I waved and started moving for the gangway.

  It was a relief to be in a Zodiac that didn’t bounce and grind. As we motored in, some harp seals came swimming alongside us, their sleek, shiny backs glinting in the sun as they porpoised along. Every now and then they would dive and when they surfaced their curious whiskered little faces bobbed up and down out of the water as they tried to place us. Thousands of seabirds skimmed the waters and soared overhead. A small herd of walrus was lazing about on the ice floes, their huge slug-like bodies and delicate whiskers in soft contrast to their long, white, dagger-like tusks. I remembered learn–ing that those selfsame tusks were used to break through a breathing hole that had frozen over and it gave me shivers imagining swimming up to a hole and finding it blocked. They looked so out of shape with their rolls of fat, but it was all a mirage. The blubber in those rolls of skin provides heavy-duty insulation to see them through a long, hard Arctic winter. As I thought about being a big fat, almost hairless human, just like the walrus, except with no chance in hell of surviving even a second of minus fifty, we landed on a gravel spit that led gently up a whaleback and into a secluded cove.

  Martha and Duncan strolled over. Martha said, “This is unreal. Nothing grows here, Cordi. It’s dead, sterile, barren, stark, cold, hard, rocky.”

  “What’s this then?” I asked as I pointed at something at my feet.

  “What? I can’t see anything. You mean that little red thing?”

  “Yeah. That’s a prickly saxifrage.”

  “How do you know that? You’re not a botanist.”

  “I read the brochure. And this one,” I crouched down and touched a golden yellow plant, “is an Arctic willow.

  They’ve already changed colours. The Arctic summer is ending.”

  “What summer? I don’t see a summer,” said Mar–tha. “Ooooo, look! There’s a big ball of fluff galloping up the hill.” And she pointed up the whaleback beneath a cliff. We all whipped out our binoculars, but I already knew what it was, I’d just never seen one before: a mus–kox, its hair so long as to hide its legs even in flight. But take away the insulating hair and like a grape to a raisin the animal shrinks. We watched it run by two unsuspect–ing tourists who visibly jumped as it careened over the whaleback and disappeared.

  Duncan and Martha moved off and I continued climbing until the cove came into view. Backed by a cliff were four or five deserted wooden buildings, aban–doned by the RCMP many, many years ago. The biggest one was built in the shape of an L and had a rusted old stovepipe poking up through the roof. I went and looked inside. It was little more than a one-storey shack and all the windows had long since ceased to function as win–dows, merrily letting the weather in instead of keeping it out. There was a jumble of old stuff on the floor, books, a coffee pot, some plates, all left behind long ago. As I snooped about I heard a footfall and looked up to see LuEllen enter the building. I looked behind her expecting to see Scruffy, but there was no little dog in sight.

  “Where’s Scruffy?” I asked. She started and then stared in my direction, her eyes getting accustomed to the dark.

  “Is that you, Cordi? They won’t let Scruffy ashore in case he harasses the polar bears.” I wasn’t sure if she was joking or not, but the image of tiny little Scruffy harassing a polar bear was comical. It suddenly occurred to me that maybe Scruffy had wakened LuEl–len the night of the deaths — he was quite the little yap–per. I asked her.

  “We slept right through it all. Poor sweet Sally.”

  I took note of her not mentioning Terry and didn’t want to let it slide by this time. “I’m sure you’re going to miss Terry too?”

  “Why would I miss Terry?” Her voice was cold and lifeless.

  “Because she was your teacher?”

  “That doesn’t mean I had to like her.”

  “I gather you didn’t.”

  “Would you like someone who …” she stopped abruptly, turned on her heel, and left, leaving me with my mouth wide open, wondering how that sentence was meant to finish.

  I went back outside to see if she had maybe changed her mind and saw her standing by an old handmade wooden ladder that was leaning against the outside of the building. But she had her back to me so I went and looked at the little graveyard. It had a little white picket fence around it that looked so brave and so forlorn guard–ing its graves. There were three graves. I walked over to the farthest one: Constable William Robert Stephens, RCMP 1902–1927. He was only twenty-five years old when he died. I shivered. It seemed so benign here, the sun warm on my back. But it hadn’t been for William. I wondered if he had died alone with no one to hear his final words. Such a lonely, lonely place. As I was leaving the little graveyard, feeling forlorn, I bumped into Tracey and her husband, George.

  “Sad thing about Sally and Terry,” I said.

  George scowled at me. “Sad about Sally, yes, but that bitch Terry deserved everything she got.” I was taken aback by his vehemence and Tracey plucked him on the sleeve, trying to stop him. He ignored her.

  “You were there,” he said. “You saw what she did to Tracey. Totally humiliated her, trampling every vestige of her self-respect. I wasn’t there, but if I had been I’d have killed her.”

  I looked at Tracey, who refused to meet my eyes, and then back at George. Was he the right size to be Bala–clava? Possibly. We turned to a safer topic and after five minutes of discussing the weather I escaped and walked down near the shore.

  I was feeling very sleepy from the bucket loads of Gravol that I’d been taking, so when I saw a nice piece of grass in front of a fairly smooth rock I sat down and leaned back, face to the warmth of the sun, and in an instant I was asleep.

  When I woke up the sun had moved. I stood up and looked around. There were no people milling about any of the buildings, no people around the gravesite, and no one on the beach. I was alone. Uneasily I checked my watch. It was 4:30, half an hour after I was supposed to meet the last Zodiac. I felt a moment of panic as I picked up my binoculars and headed up toward the shack and the path over the whaleback to the beach.

  I don’t know what it was that made me turn and look back, but what I saw froze me: a polar bear stand–ing some distance behind me, sniffing the wind. Every–thing I knew about polar bears told me it had seen me and was interested. And then I saw movement off to my right. Two small cubs came gambolling over to the female and I knew I had to do something. I felt caught in a dream, on some gigantic treadmill of time where I could not get away, no matter what. I’d been here before, facing a black bear in the wilds of West Quebec and I couldn’t believe it was happening again. I knew one thing for sure: I’d pick the black bear over a polar bear any day. I glanced quickly over my shoulder to look at the building where LuEllen had become tongue-tied. I’d have very little time — polar bears can outrun a man so it could certainly outrun me. She made up my mind for me by starting to amble towards me.

  I bolted, dodging old oil barrels and rocky outcrops, forcing myself not to waste time by looking back. I took the ladder on the run and began to climb it. One of the rungs broke and I found myself hanging from my hands, wildly searching for another rung. I could hear the bear now. Frantically I reached for the next rung and pulled my body up until I found my footing. I clambered up and onto the roof; only then did I turn around. The bear was ten feet away and coming fast. A large white slash against the drab grey browns and greens of the rocks and grass. White. The colour of purity. How can purity be so fierce?

  I pushed out the ladder and the bear ran into it, slowing its pace, as I scrambled backwards up towards the middle of the gently sloping roof, all the while watching the bear. It came up to the shed and disap–peared from view. I held my breath and suddenly there she was, all nine feet of her, her head and shoulders rearing above the shack as if it was a doll’s house. Her front paws and forearms made contact with the roof and she slowly pulled herself up until
she was on all fours and gaining purchase to make the final lunge. I scrambled back over the ridge, avoiding the holes and trying to think up some fantastic getaway plan. But my mind was not co-operating and the bear was barrelling down on me. And then, just as suddenly, she wasn’t there anymore. A huge rending of splintering wood and she was gone. I peered down through one of the holes, but I couldn’t see her. Worse, I couldn’t hear her. Maybe she’d knocked herself out.

  It was so fast that I had no warning: an enormous white paw at least ten inches long and ten inches wide came flailing up through the hole beside me and caught my leg a glancing blow before I could move away. As I scrambled back the bear’s head came through the hole, her paws gripping the roof, and we just stared at each other. It went on like that for what seemed like a long time, until suddenly she dropped from view and I could hear her muddling around inside the shack.

  I sat and waited — for her to get me, or for the expe–dition guys to realize I was gone and come rescue me. I wondered what had happened to the young constable and shuddered. I wouldn’t want to die here, I thought, hugging my knees in fear. And then I saw her, fifteen feet from the shack, looking back at me. I could see the cubs some distance away and thought about the power of every female’s dedication to her offspring. It’s scary how violent and vicious it can be.

  Suddenly a gunshot reverberated off the cliffs and the polar bear began loping towards her cubs. I looked behind me and saw three men up on the whaleback — all wearing crew uniforms. I felt devoid of emotion. Almost as if it were an anticlimax to still be alive. It was a weird and ugly feeling. I wondered if this was what Terry and Sally had felt.

  I waited on the roof until they came, afraid the bear would double back. As they approached I could see that they were handling their guns casually as if there was no longer any threat. I slowly crawled down the roof as Peter came around the corner, the shock on his face vis–ible even through the beard. He seemed to be struggling with finding the right thing to say to me.

  Finally, he said, “You were lucky you weren’t killed.” He was wrestling with the ladder, finally leaning it up against the roof. I climbed down just as the other two men arrived. “How did you manage to miss the rendez–vous time?” His voice wasn’t giving anything away.

  “I fell asleep.”

  He looked out to sea. “Where?”

  I pointed to the group of boulders. He followed my arm and then looked at the two men at his side.

  One of them shifted his gun and said, “I checked the boulders.”

  “Yourself?” asked Peter.

  The man took the cap off his head and ruffled his dark brown hair. “Well, not exactly” he said.

  “What, exactly?”

  “There was someone in a grey parka over in the area so I yelled at them to check for anyone in among the boulders.” He put his cap back on. “I didn’t see any harm in it. I guess they missed this lady though.”

  “Evidently they did,” said Peter. I looked down at my bright orange jacket and shivered.

  My last night on board turned into a repeat of my first night as the sea whipped itself into a frenzy and the ship struggled toward Nanisivik. Even Martha didn’t come calling and I wondered if maybe she had finally suc–cumbed. I spent a fitful night and was wakened by Jason, who came on over the PA system to announce that we had docked at Nanisivik and disembarkation would com–mence in an hour. I looked out the porthole and the sea had calmed down quite a bit, but my stomach wouldn’t follow its lead. I spent a miserable half hour packing my things. Just as I was finishing there was a knock on the door and in flew Martha.

  “All set to go?” She stood in my door with little bits of luggage hanging from every conceivable spot. Defi–nitely had not succumbed. Duncan was right behind her, carrying more than his own luggage, judging by the pink flight bag in his massive paw.

  “Looking forward to dry land?” he asked. It was a question unworthy of an answer judging by the green tinge I saw in my face when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Half an hour later we disembarked down the gangway into Nanisivik, a desolate mining town on the shores of the Hall Peninsula, Baffin Island. When I first touched land with my feet, as barren and cold as it was, I felt like I’d won the lottery by regaining owner–ship of my stomach. Or so I thought. The flight back was long and bumpy — their definition — mine would have touched on words like major turbulence and jaw-drop–ping altitude changes. I spent the time dreaming about my polar bear and wondering how someone could have missed my bright orange jacket.

  Ottawa International Airport was a tangled mess of people trying to get where they were not allowed to go because some diplomat had arrived in town and security took priority over the rest of us. I scanned the crowd, hoping to see Patrick, but why would he be there? I’d driven myself to the airport and tonight was the night he usually taught a course at the university. All the same, it was disappointing. We hadn’t seen each other in nearly three weeks. I guess I’d have to wait until tomorrow.

  We’d arrived during rush hour. It took me more than half an hour to get to the Champlain Bridge and cross over into Quebec. I live under the eye of the Eardley Escarpment, in a lovely corner of rural West Quebec. It’s a bit of a commute into work every day, but worth it. I came over the rise in Highway 148 and the Ottawa River lay below me, the setting sun spreading a red orange sheen down its length. Eventually I turned right, onto the dirt road that leads to my log cabin.

  August. Glorious August, with the fields full of rip–ening hay and the dairy cows out to pasture in the back forty. My brother Ryan and his wife, Rose, live in the old farmhouse. My cabin is further down the lane, beyond the barns. I pulled my car up by the barn, behind Ryan’s car, and got out. As I was about to go inside to look for him, a voice floated out at me from underneath the car. “Welcome back, Sis.”

  I turned and watched as Ryan came gliding out from underneath the car on a little trolley, all six feet of him. I didn’t even bother to ask how he knew it was me — he could identify the sound of any car he’d ever worked on and even ones he hadn’t. His red-blond hair was all askelter, as usual, and there were a few dabs of oil trying to obscure the thousand freckles on his face.

  “How’d it go?” he asked before he’d even looked at me. He eyed me critically. “You look like you’ve been through hell.”

  I laughed and began to fill him in when he stopped me. “Go get settled. Come for dinner, 7:30.”

  I wondered why he was trying to get rid of me. I looked at my watch. Only 5:30 and I did feel like having a shower. “Sounds good,” I said and took my leave.

  My little log cabin, hidden in the woods on three sides, with a view from the front over the endless fields of hay, looked friendly and cozy. The curtains were open and I figured Ryan or Rose had come in and opened things up for me. I took my bag out of the car and went up the stairs to the wraparound porch — my prize pos–session. I’d spent all of one summer building it and now, in the summer months, it was the space I used most often.

  I’d even screened in a section of it so that I could enjoy the nighttime without the bugs enjoying me.

  I dumped my bag in order to unlock the natural oak front door. I walked in, breathing in the wood smell of the logs and scent of fresh flowers. Without warning something suddenly whipped around my chest and held me tight. Visions of Balaclava darted through my mind. I squirmed around to face the intruder and brought up my knee with a vicious jerk as I looked up at my attacker, and felt the blood drain from my face. Patrick. I couldn’t stop the momentum of my leg in time. The roar of pain that came out of his mouth felt like a physical blow. He was doubled over and twirling in little circles, then he suddenly slumped to the floor and writhed on the ground. I didn’t quite know what to do. Fortunately, after about five agonizing minutes the writhing slowly abated and he gasped. “Jesus Christ, Cordi!”

  That wasn’t very informative. Or maybe it was. But what else should I have done under the circumstances? I couldn’t thin
k of any other route that my reflexes could have taken.

  I made little mumbly noises and tried to put a pillow under his head, but he pushed it away and got up on all fours, his head down so I couldn’t see his face. What a homecoming, I thought. He just stayed that way for a long time. He wouldn’t let me help him get up, but when he did he stood there, bent over, hands on his knees. I said nothing, just listened to the crickets and the robin that used one of my trees to blast out its song. When Patrick finally straightened up, sort of, his face was pale and wincing.

  “Remind me never to surprise you again.” His voice was stiff and guttural. I put my arm around his shoul–ders and he put both arms around mine and kissed me. But when I moved against him he quickly pulled away. “Sorry, Cordi. I think I have to lie down.”

  I helped him to the sofa and went and got an icepack.

  That’s when I knew it was really bad because he wouldn’t let me help him with it. I got him a painkiller and cov–ered him with a blanket and then began to unpack. This was not quite how I’d envisioned my first night back with Patrick. I felt like an idiot and I kind of wanted to cry at having messed up his plans. In racing around to find him a painkiller and blanket I saw that he had set the dining room table and there was a single red rose in a vase as the centrepiece. In the kitchen there were some half unpacked bags of groceries and when I looked in the fridge I saw two T-bone steaks. Patrick was asleep when I went back to check on him and I puttered around, glad to be home, but angry at myself for letting my imagina–tion knee Patrick in the groin. I mean, what was that? I was home. I was safe.

  Chapter Twelve

  The next morning I woke to the song of a cardinal, intermingled with the sweet gurgle of a bobolink. I tried to imagine what the notes would look like on a sono–gram — a magical musical sheet of paper where the musical notes of birds are translated. Some of my current research was working with bird song and how it devel–oped. My thoughts came back to Patrick. The sun was flooding through my bedroom window and flinging itself across my bed, across Patrick’s face. His thick blond hair had flopped over his left eye and he was breathing deeply. All the pain lines from the night before were gone. I snug–gled up against him and he shuffled the covers and sud–denly opened his eyes and smiled at me.