by Ted Wood
"The best move would be to capture their camp. You can starve them out. They only have one working boat; it would take weeks for them to get out in that, and they don't have any rations with them. If you can head off their air support as well, you've got them."
He nodded. "Okay. I'm gonna need formal statements from all of you, including the charges you want laid. But like I said, that should be done after conferring with the Crown."
"Right, no sweat. Only my reason for tangling with them was to bring out Jason Michaels. I want to pass him back to his family and collect my pay. Until then, please don't separate us out. I don't want him running out on me."
"He likely to do that?"
I shrugged. "He was flaky enough to join that crowd; he could be flaky enough to run. And he comes into a mess of money in a couple of weeks' time, so he could keep on running."
"Crazy prick." The detective shook his head. "Why would a rich kid do anything's dumb as joining a cockamamy outfit like that?"
"For kicks, I guess. Anyway, please, don't split us up."
"You got it." He reached out and rapped me on the arm with his fingertips. "Meantime, I figure you should all get a doctor to look at those burns. You're kind of marked up."
"Thanks, and if you need anything from me, count on it."
He walked back to the others and said, "You guys need looking at. I'll have an officer drive you to the clinic, get something on those burns. Meantime, I'd appreciate it if you don't say anything to the press. Last thing we need is a bunch of TV cameras up there while we're trying to subdue these guys."
George nodded. Michaels said nothing, but he stood up obediently. For the first time I checked his outfit. Up until that moment he had been only a thing to be moved. Now I saw him as the TV audience would that evening, young, singed, dressed in combat gear like everyone wore in Vietnam. In the eyes of Joe Citizen he was a soldier. I had to disguise him for his own good. "Listen, Jason," I told him. "There's a boiler suit behind the door; slip it on."
"Why?" He was truculent now. Dunphy and Wallace were miles away, his money was back within reach, and he didn't have to take advice from anybody. I started to wonder if I'd done anybody any favors by getting him out.
"Because your ex-buddies are going to be the bad guys in tonight's news, and the fewer people know you were involved, the better off you'll be."
He sneered, his peeling face drawn up tight. "What the hell would you know about it?"
"I've already been where you're headed," I said. "And it took most of the last seventeen years to live it down."
The detective spoke. "It's good advice, kid."
Jason whirled to look at him. "Who're you calling kid?" The detective laughed. "I got daughters bigger than you."
George grinned, and Jason bristled, but he slipped the coveralls over his uniform, and we all went out, Sam at our heels. The reporters clustered around, shooting more pictures, shouting questions. A cluster of them had formed around the two fliers, who were giving them a blow-by-blow of their war story, but that didn't stop the reporters from diving for us as soon as we came out. There seemed to be more of them than there had been, but maybe I was being more observant now that the action was over. We got into an OPP car, George in front, Jason and I in the back, with Sam between us. Then the constable gunned the motor away while another uniformed officer struggled to stop the press from following.
He didn't succeed, but we reached the clinic in Fayette and left the driver of the car at the door to keep the press out while a doctor checked us over. He gave us salve for our burns, tutting over us like an anxious mother. None of us had anything to say except me. I asked him what to do for Sam, and he smeared a little of the salve on Sam's nose and told me to put oil with his food for the next few weeks. That would bring his coat back to life. It was half an hour later that we got back to the car. In the meantime, the townspeople had turned out to see what was going on. Maybe they saw the reporters and figured Tom Selleck was in town. In any case, they were disappointed when three scorched-looking guys got back into the scout car, along with Sam, and the OPP man drove us away, back to rejoin the detectives.
Jason was annoyed. "Look, I don't need this," he said angrily. "Take me to the nearest hire-car place and I'll go home."
"Can't do that," the constable said easily. "Sergeant Tracy said I was to take you to the office. He wants statements."
Jason swore and settled back in his seat, arms folded across his chest. I ignored him and asked the constable, "What's been happening while we were inside?"
"The sergeant'll say." The OPP man didn't even lift his eyes to check me in the mirror. He just drove carefully, ignoring me. Jason blustered at him, but I didn't bother. He was smart enough to do his job as requested, and dumb enough to enjoy it.
We were all famished. I wanted to stop at a greasy spoon to get some burgers—half a dozen for Sam—but it wasn't possible with the reporters along.
We got to the nearest OPP post, a one-story wooden shack on the highway, trailing our kite tail of reporters. The constable spun us to a stop next to the door, and we went inside.
Tracy and his partner were in the front office, talking to the duty corporal. They looked up when we got in, and Tracy said, "All fixed up? Good."
"Listen, I'm a citizen," Michaels said, and Tracy waved him down.
"There's a lot of that going around, son. I need some more information from you guys."
"What's been happening?" I asked him.
"Good news, bad news, I guess," Tracy said. "The good news is that most of the guys surrendered with no trouble. The bad news is that their leaders, Wallace and Dunphy, have disappeared."
THIRTEEN
Jason was the only one to react. He gasped. Dunphy and Wallace scared him. He wanted them in jail while he got his inheritance and jetted off to Fiji or somewhere.
"When were they last seen?"
"Just after Dunphy set the fire." The other detective spoke now. He was younger than Tracy and tense. His delivery was staccato, and he jerked his finger in his collar when he spoke, lifting his chin as if it gave him more authority.
"They all claimed that Dunphy did that, of course," I said.
"Waddya expect?" Tracy said. "They're in enough Dutch without an extra attempted murder charge. They say that the supply plane arrived and Dunphy waited there. Told them to go after you; four of them were to bring Wallace back if they found him. The others were to stop you three, any way they could."
"They sure tried," George said.
The young detective looked at him condescendingly. What did an Indian know about anything? He ignored him and spoke to me. "Four of them took Wallace back. The plane was waiting. Wallace told them to follow you; he was going to hospital. Dunphy must've been on board. Anyways, the guys didn't argue; they went back, and when they didn't have a boat to use, they went all around the lake. The whole bunch of them was together close to the place where they fired on the plane."
"Like sheep," Tracy said. "The chopper has a PA system, and as soon as they heard the order to lay down their guns, they did it."
"Well, that's good. But how about the other two? Does anybody know where their supply plane is based?"
"From what I hear, they don't know anything." Tracy gave a quick chomp on his chewing gum. "Buncha dummies."
"I guess you've already alerted hospitals about Wallace's wound."
"Of course." The younger detective almost sneered. "An' we also evacuated the casualties. One hit in the thigh, one in the top of the arm. The other one got a bullet through the chest. Y'ask me, it's you guys we should be investigating. None of you's got a scratch."
Tracy made peace. "Okay, so skip it, Lloyd. These guys were defending themselves, that's all." He sighed and turned to me. "I'll have to ask you all for formal statements, please. Plus you'll have to appear when they come to trial, but you can go for now."
"Right. Jason, you go first." I nodded to the young detective, and he led Jason off to a side office.
/> Tracy said, "Okay, Reid, isn't it? I'll take your statement; then you can stay with the kid until we're through with Mr. Horn."
George grinned and sat on the bench, patting Sam's head. I winked at him and went and told my tale for the record.
When I got back out, Jason was waiting, with George. The young detective took George away, and Jason turned to me. "We can go now, right, they're through with us here?"
"We'll all go together. Maybe the officers will take us back to North Bay. My car's there, and we can drive home."
He shook his head. "No, that'll take hours. I'll call my father. He'll send the company jet."
I looked at him, weighing up whether he could run out on me. He met my eyes boldly. Maybe he would run, maybe not. But he had taken his fill of orders. He was back in his own world now, a world most of us never know, where company jets are laid on at the snap of a finger. He didn't need me anymore.
"Who'll come up to meet you?" I asked.
"Meet me? What is this? You think I'm a lost kid. You have to turn me over to my mommie?"
"The contract I took was to get you home. If you decide to zip down to New Orleans for some crawfish, then disappear again, I haven't completed my deal."
He thrust out his arms angrily. "What am I? A package? You don't have to deliver me anyplace. I'm my own man."
"Okay. Just have your daddy's private pilot bring a receipt for one Jason Michaels, alive and well. After that you can fly down to Rio."
He tried to outstare me but broke off eye contact and turned away. "Don't you trust me?" he asked over his shoulder.
"After this morning? Would you?"
He turned back with an attempt at a laugh, and I knew he was planning to vanish. "You can talk to my father. I don't deal in pieces of paper." He turned away, to the counter, and asked the constable behind it if he could use the phone. The officer handed it to him, and he called a Toronto number, collect.
When it rang, he didn't wait for the operator to inquire about the charges. "It's Jason, Margaret. Put my father on."
There was a twenty-second pause, and he spoke. "Don't worry. I'm fine. We got away, no trouble." His father must have heard the news, but Jason overrode him. "No trouble. I told you. I'm up in the sticks north of North Bay. Can you send the plane there for me? Yeah, North Bay." No please, I noticed. As rich as he was, he didn't have to ask for favors; he just ordered. I wondered again why he had joined up with Freedom for Hire. Dunphy must be a hell of a salesman.
He listened a moment longer, then said, "Good. And there's someone here wants to speak to you." He turned and beckoned me with one finger. I picked up the phone.
"My name is Reid Bennett. Is this Mr. Michaels Senior?"
"Yes. What's up, Bennett?"
"I was approached by a woman who said she was your wife. She gave me a check for services rendered in finding and bringing out your son. Jason tells me I could have been mistaken about her identity. I just wanted to know whether my agreement with her is complete upon delivering your son to North Bay."
"I heard about that," he said. "Yes, that will be enough. Put Jason back on." Bad manners apparently ran in the family.
I handed the phone back to Jason, who listened for a few moments, then said, "Good. And have him bring some clothes for me, would you?" He nodded into the phone and said, "Good," and finally, "Thanks," and hung up.
When the detective was finished with George, Tracy got the same uniformed man to drive us to North Bay. None of us talked, and after a while I dozed, stiff and itchy in my dried-out clothes. George nudged me when we reached the airport. It's a tiny place, and as we drove up, I could see a Lear jet with some kind of company logotype on it waiting on the tarmac. I glanced around behind our car. Two others were trailing us, and I leaned over and told the OPP man, "Can you stop at the front and try to keep those reporters back for a minute?"
"It's a free country," he said. "I don't want no hassles with the press." He sounded jocular, the cutup of the lunchroom, I figured, having a much more exciting day than usual, when he would be out on the highway flagging down speeders.
"Try, please, this case is complicated."
"Do my best." It wasn't a promise, just noise.
He wheeled in, and we ducked out of the car and inside, twenty yards ahead of the reporters. The small concourse was empty except for a fit-looking young guy in a flight suit with the same crest on it that I'd seen on the jet. He took a couple of quick steps toward us and stuck out his hand. "Hey, Jay. Good to see you. Got some threads on board for you."
"Thanks, Brian, let's go." Jason shook his hand briefly and went with him, not looking back until he reached the outer door. Then he checked himself and turned to lift a hand to George and me. "See ya," he said, and was gone.
The reporters were crowding into the building, and they ran to follow Jason, but an elderly Corps de Commissionaires man with Second World War medal ribbons stopped them at the door. Some of them argued, but the others turned back and followed us. "Sir, excuse me, who was that?" one of them asked, and then they were all clamoring questions at us. There wasn't going to be any peace, so I bought them off with a quick piece of fiction. "Didn't get his name. My buddy and I were up in the area where the fire started, and we met him. Then the water bomber took us out. I guess he's some kind of wheel. That's all I know."
They wanted our names, but George fielded that one.
"Lookit, we've been off work two days with this fire. We gotta get home while we still got jobs."
After that we were free to ignore their questions as we retrieved our rifles and George's pack from the trunk of the OPP car. "Were you hunting?" one of them shouted. "It's not hunting season."
"We're Indians," George said.
They dropped away then, running to the side of the airfield fence to take long shots of the company jet that was taxiing downwind to the end of the runway.
"Alone at last," I said, and George laughed.
"I don't need publicity," he said. "Wouldn't sit too good with my professors. They figure students should be seen but not heard."
"Okay, let's get home." I whistled Sam into the car and we drove back down Highway 11 toward the Harbour.
As we drove, I asked, "What will the rental place charge you for the lost canoe? Any idea?" George shrugged.
"Whatever the traffic'll bear, I guess. Maybe you can call them from the Harbour, tell them to claim it on insurance and I'll pay whatever's necessary."
"Fine. Shouldn't be much, and I'll split the blood money with you, twenty-five grand between us."
"Big bucks, but we earned it." George grinned. "Now I know what it's like to be in a war."
"Not like television. You can't switch off and go to bed," I said. "Anyway, first thing I'll do at the Harbour is cash the check this woman gave me in advance, then clean up the guns, then sack out."
"God, you palefaces sure love your sleep," George said. "You sacked out in the airplane, then in the car.
"So what're you gonna do after that? You've still got three weeks before you have to make your mind up about coming back full-time." George's conversation pleased me. Normally he was like most Indians, not talking much about anything. Now we were chatting like any couple of guys in a bar. And another thing, he wasn't reliving the escape, polishing up the story, making the most of his exploits the way most guys his age would have done. I was proud to know him.
"Well, Fred's off on the prairies playing schoolmarm in some movie, so I figure I'll come back up here and fish. If the weather gets a little cooler, the pickerel will start running below the dam. Could stick a few of them in the freezer."
He nodded. "Yeah. My uncle tells me he's gotta new black-and-yellow jig, works like a charm. I'll get him to make you up a couple."
"Great." I grinned and drove in silence until we came to a highway diner. "Hungry?" I asked.
"Thought you'd never ask."
We went in and had a couple of burgers each, and I brought out some beef patties for Sam. Then we dro
ve the rest of the way to the Harbour, and I dropped George at his mother's neat little house on the reserve and went into town, to the bank.
We're a very small community, and our bank is a converted frame house on Main Street, opposite the Lakeside Tavern and the Marina. I parked and went in and presented the check. Millie van Kirk, the teller, made a little moue of surprise at the amount. "Won the sweep, Chief?"
I knew from previous investigations that she liked to gossip, but I had to tell her something. Policemen who come into big windfalls are always suspect. "Payment for services rendered," I said cheerfully. "I found somebody's missing kid."
"Good," she said, beaming. She loved happy endings. "I'll have to clear it before I can credit it to your account. Tomorrow be okay?"
"Fine, take your time," I said, and went back to the car and home. My house seemed extra quiet now that it had known Fred's laughter, and my voice seemed loud when I called Sam in and settled him in the kitchen. Then I had myself a good long shower and cracked a beer while I got the gun-cleaning kit out and worked on the rifle, then my .38. It was mindless, cheerful work, and I was whistling to myself when the phone rang.
It was Millie. She sounded apologetic. "I'm sorry to trouble you at home, Chief," she said.
"That's okay, Millie. What's on your mind?"
"Well, it's your check." She hesitated and then blurted it all out. "Looks like whoever wrote it has stopped payment."
"Oh." I felt my anger starting to boil, but it wasn't Millie's fault, so I kept it in. "Thanks for the phone call, Millie. I might have started using it to pay bills with."
"Sorry, Chief. I've got it here for you if you'd like to pick it up."
"Thank you. And if you could find out when the stop-payment order went through, I'd appreciate it. Like the time as well as the date."
"No problem," she said cheerfully. Sure she was cheerful. She had two pieces of gossip now for the price of one. First the big check, then the turndown. What would the rumor mill make of that one? I wondered.
