by Wood, Ted
Tettlinger licked his lips and said nothing. I smiled again and said, "Now, I've heard all the crap I'm gonna take from you. Who sent you to shoot us?"
The words poured out of him. "I don't know his name. It was some Frog. I never even saw him. I just got the message."
"By radio?" It was starting to make sense. Tettlinger was already in the bush. Laval hadn't needed to fly in and shoot Prudhomme, he had simply delegated.
"Yeah. By radio."
"And where were you when this happened?" I knew the answer before he told me. He had entered the country the same way the Indians had always traveled it, by canoe, up Trout River.
"I was in camp, up the river, across the other end of the portage."
I switched my line of questioning. I needed to know where the portage was, otherwise I'd spend the whole day covering those four or five klicks to the river. "Where is it?"
He nodded behind him. "Up the shore a piece, maybe a quarter mile."
"Okay. So what was the message?"
Again the words poured out, fearfully. "It was all in a code. The guy told me to net the salmon."
"So he had set this up. You were in the bush waiting for a signal to kill me, right?"
He lowered his head. "Is that right?" I repeated, and he looked up again, his eyes brilliant with hatred. "If that goddamn gun didn't fire low and left you'd be a dead man."
"Where'd you get the gun?" I'd saved this one, because I didn't really want to know the truth. I respected Misquadis too much.
"Bought it offa Jack Misquadis for a jug."
"He doesn't drink," I said. "And if he did he wouldn't sell his gun. He was up here looking for a bear. You can't catch them in a leg-hold trap."
"He sold it to me." Tettlinger repeated it with the despair that told me he was lying. "Lousy piece a' junk. Jammed first round."
"And where is he now?"
"Back up the portage, pissed, I guess. You know what Indians are like, eh?" He flashed me a quick grin but swallowed it when he saw my expression.
"Now, here's the hard part. Why did you murder Jim Prudhomme?" I asked the question quietly and he looked at me in genuine surprise.
"How d'you mean?" I said nothing and he rushed on, anxious to please, aware of his vulnerability. "Ain' he the guy got mauled by a bear here, few weeks back?"
"That was a ringer. I found Prudhomme's body in this lake yesterday," I said, and Tettlinger's mouth gaped.
"He's dead," he protested stupidly. I stared at him and he shifted his eyes and said, "He's dead, eh? They had the inquest in town. His buddy from Montreal was there, identified him."
He stopped speaking and I heard the buzz of a plane approaching, coming up out of the sun from the south. I told Sam "Easy." Then I beckoned to Tettlinger. "Come up on the shore and sit down. And pull your pants up."
He stooped and found the back of his pants, then shuffled onto the shore and sat facing the water. I went to Onyschuk and unwound my sleeping bag from him. It's a bush bag, waterproof green on the outside but bright orange in the lining. I shook it out and stood at the water's edge waving the orange side toward the aircraft.
It waggled its wings and made a straight, sweet descent, kicking up a white plume of spray, then settling onto its floats with a gentle rocking motion. It was a four-seater, a pleasure plane, not the flying ambulance I wanted for Onyschuk. I swore, then shrugged. It would lift him out somehow.
It taxied in and I saw there were three people aboard. In the copilot's seat was Gallagher. I waved to them, indicating a path to the rock where I was standing. The last thing we needed now was a float puncturing on one of the rocks in the shallows. The pilot crept in with his engine barely ticking over, then cut it and bobbed up to the shoreline.
Gallagher jumped down into six inches of water and splashed up the beach. He saw Tettlinger and asked, "He do it?" but rushed by to where Onyschuk lay.
I followed him. He was stooping over the wounded man, talking to him urgently. "Mike. Mike. You okay?"
Onyschuk opened his eyes and nodded "Yeah," then closed them again. Gallagher turned and bellowed over his shoulder at the big nurse from the hospital who was wading through the shallows, carrying a bag. Millie was wearing a parka over her uniform and the crisp white skirt stuck out beneath it incongruously.
She ran up the rock, opening the bag as she came. "Where's he hit?" she asked me angrily, as if it were my fault he was lying there.
"Compound fracture of the shoulder. I put Mercurochrome on it and stopped the bleeding. It's a bullet wound."
She pulled out a syringe and a little bottle. "Okay, Mike. I'm going to give you a needle for the pain. Then we'll get you back home and fix you up properly."
Onyschuk was at the end of his strength. He blinked slowly and said, "Good." She took out a pair of scissors and made a quick cut in the sleeve of his good arm, exposing the shoulder.
"The chief's going to owe you a new parka," she said as she swabbed the flesh and pushed the needle home. He didn't even wince.
Gallagher straightened up. "Let's get him in the plane."
We lifted him gently, and he groaned. "I can walk," he protested.
"Yeah, sure, son. An' I can fly," Gallagher said. "Don't take any weight, we got you." We supported him between us, out through the chilly water, knee-deep into the aircraft. The rock under our feet was slippery and we inched along until Gallagher could reach the float with his right hand and haul the plane around with a slow pull that had the power of an ox in it. I stood until the float reached me, then grabbed it with my left hand and helped Onyschuk up into the hands of the pilot. He pulled him into the seat behind him and strapped him in. Onyschuk groaned once as the pilot fastened the shoulder straps tight over his wound, then bit his lip and sat silent, head lolling forward.
"Pull," Gallagher instructed me, and we heaved the aircraft sideways until the float was resting on the rock. "Good. Let's get that other bastard," he said, and we sloshed up to Tettlinger.
Gallagher unsnapped the handcuffs from their pouch on his Sam Browne and spun Tettlinger around. He saw my lashing job and laughed. "Hell, you don't need cuffs, do you?"
"Cuff him and leave the other ties in place," I said. "He's a murderous swine. I want him nailed down."
"Me too," Gallagher said. He pulled outward on Tettlinger's arms, making him double up and his pants slip down. He didn't comment, just clicked the cuffs over his wrists and pulled him straight again. "If you can't reach your pants to pull 'em up, kick 'em off," he said, and Tettlinger squatted and felt with his fingers for the back of his trousers again. He straightened up and Gallagher steered him to the plane, handling him gently. He shoved him up and the pilot strapped him in. I heard Tettlinger swear.
"Ignore him," Gallagher told the pilot. "My policeman has a gun in his holster, right side. Take it out."
The pilot did and handed it to Gallagher. He turned and gave it to the nurse. "Here you are, Millie," he said. "If he makes a move, shoot him."
He winked at her, but she didn't acknowledge it. "Right, Chief," she said. "What are you going to do?"
He laughed. "Me? I'm going hunting with young Reid, here," he said.
17
We helped Millie into the plane and handed her the medical bag. She took it, plumped the gun inside it, and set it down between her big, practical shoes. The pilot leaned past her. He was dressed in a business suit with a leather jacket over the top of it. I guessed he was an amateur Gallagher had press-ganged.
"Any instructions, Chief?"
"Yeah. Sergeant Jackaman will be waiting at the dock. Tell him to put Tettlinger in the cells and keep him there. Hold off on a bail hearing until I get back."
The pilot nodded. "What about you guys?"
"Arrange for the chopper to come for us tonight if he can, with a couple of my men to help in the search. We'll see him on the river where the portage comes out—that's due west of here. If nobody can make it tonight, tell 'em first light tomorrow. And one last thing, tell Jackaman
to take care of this. Don't touch it except to take prints." He laid the Lee Enfield rifle across the feet of the two men in the backseat, holding it carefully in his handkerchief. I noticed he set the butt end over Onyschuk's feet. That was the part that would be printed, the end Tettlinger might work to wipe with his feet as he flew.
The pilot nodded. "Will do. Now if you'll shove me off and point me offshore, I'll go."
Gallagher nodded and shut the door. Then we both leaned against the fuselage until the float was clear of the rock and the aircraft was pointing toward the island. The pilot started the engine in a crackle of sound and a blast of the slipstream that made us turn away with watering eyes. He moved majestically out into the open channel and turned north, into the light wind. We watched until he lifted off, turning as he climbed to head south again, down to Olympia.
I stooped then and began repacking my backback. Gallagher followed me, shoving Onyschuk's gear back into his bag. As we worked he asked me, "What happened?"
I filled him in and he said, "That'll be his defense for sure, accidental discharge of the weapon."
"It won't stick," I promised. "He's going inside for a long stretch."
"Hopefully until I'm through with this job," Gallagher said. He pulled the drawstring on Onyschuk's bag. "I figure we'll leave this here. You can't carry a thing like this and a gun and a canoe."
"You figure to take the canoe over the portage?"
"We'll be stuck without it if the chopper doesn't get in. Otherwise we could make it back to the highway in two days."
I nodded. "Okay. I guess I put more faith in choppers than most people. I'm just leery about having one of us looking like a turtle if there's anyone else with Tettlinger and he stands off to drill us."
Gallagher took the bag and dropped it in the canoe. "With your dog along he won't get the chance," he promised. "I've covered the portage before. There's nowhere for him to get a clear shot. He'd have to be close up and Sam would flush him out."
"Okay, let's do it." I whistled Sam back from the bush and set him in the canoe. Then we launched it, stern first, and swung it parallel to the shore. "You take the bow," I told Gallagher. "I want to be where I can see Sam."
He clambered in, bearlike in his heavy parka, and took up the paddle at that end. Then I did the same and we pushed off.
"It's up the shore," he said over his shoulder. "Let's stick close in, 'case any other bastard is around."
We stayed in the shallows, only a canoe-length from the shore where Sam could sniff the wind. He sat up, rigid except for the swings of his handsome head as he tasted the air. But he got no scents and in a couple of minutes we beached the canoe on a tiny patch of sand where somebody had tied a piece of geologist's orange marking tape around a tree trunk.
We prepared carefully for the portage. While I kept watch, Gallagher lashed the paddles inside the canoe. Next he hung Onyschuk's backpack from the branch of a tree.
I reloaded my rifle, putting an extra round up the spout this time. Then Gallagher slung Onyschuk's Winchester over his shoulder, muzzle down, and crouched so I could turn the canoe and lift it onto his back.
I slung my own pack on my back and told Sam "Seek," and we advanced up the narrow trail someone had slashed through the brush. I held my rifle at the ready but I knew that Gallagher was right. Sam would flush any ambusher out before he could aim at us. I concentrated on listening and checking the trail itself as well as looking for anybody who might be hiding there.
The woods were quiet, except for the occasional clank of the canoe and Gallagher's snorting breathing. An aluminum canoe weighs around seventy pounds, and it's awkward to carry. It was a solid load for a man in his late fifties, but Gallagher didn't falter.
When we'd walked for fifteen minutes I stopped and spoke to him, softly. "You want to change?"
He canted the canoe prow up so he could look at me. "No, I'd rather you walked point, I haven't had to for thirty years. But I'd like a breather."
We set the canoe down and he straightened and arched his back gratefully. "You gotta remember, I'm closer to shuffleboard age than humpin' canoes up mountains."
"It's flat here," I reminded him, and he humphed. "That's what you think," he said.
We waited ten minutes, while Sam ranged ahead, then Gallagher said, "When we get another twenty minutes, let's dump our loads and go on to the river and scout around. Any camp'll be this side for sure, on the portage. Okay?"
"Right. I'll call Sam close so he won't warn anybody off."
Gallagher nodded. "If there's anyone still up there they'll have heard the activity in the air, so we won't be much of a surprise. But it wouldn't hurt to sneak a little."
I let Sam run ahead for another ten minutes, then whistled him back and let him lead us, only a few yards ahead. The bush was still dense. Nobody could have taken a long shot at us and I knew that Sam would give me notice of anybody close in.
Gallagher was tiring. Twice in as many minutes he shifted the weight of the canoe on his shoulders, setting up a hollow echoing clank that seemed to ring like a bell through the silent bush.
I felt for him. This was work. But at least we could be glad it was cool and there were no flies. In spring the blackflies would have been so thick we couldn't have breathed without swallowing them. Gallagher would have been in misery by now.
I checked my watch. We had walked twenty minutes so I stopped, and when Gallagher saw my feet under the rim of his burden he said "Good" and crouched so I could lift the canoe off his back. We set it aside, leaving so little room on the trail that we had to push branches out of the way as we moved ahead of it in Indian file.
I heard Gallagher work the action of the Winchester, the classic k-clack that every John Wayne Western fan would recognize in the dark. I kept Sam almost at my feet, sniffing and probing the air as we moved on, silently now. Ahead I could hear the muffled rush of rapids on the river. It's the same sound you get from a highway—even, ceaseless. It grew louder as we approached, and suddenly we were on the edge of a clearing against the river's edge, just downstream of the rapids, the last possible spot to pull out a canoe before you headed into white water.
I kept Sam with me as I scanned the clearing and as much of the far shore as I could see. It took a moment to notice the drab green tarpaulin strung like an open-ended tent between two trees on the edge of the clearing. I turned and beckoned to Gallagher. He came up beside me and I pointed to the tent.
"That'll be Tettlinger's," he whispered. "Misquadis wouldn't bother with a shelter on a short trip."
"Then some other guy could be around," I whispered back, "Stay here, I'll check it out." I urged Sam forward, silently, and moved ahead around the edge of the open space, checking constantly as I walked. There was nothing in the clearing itself to hide a man, but he could be back in the trees a short way, or across the river, where Sam would not be so likely to scent him.
I watched Sam and suddenly his muzzle lifted and his neck began to bristle. He'd picked up a heavy scent. I touched him on the back and he remained silent as we covered the last fifteen paces. Then I dropped to one knee, rifle covering the interior of the shelter while Sam hurled himself into it.
He worked all through the space, head down, sniffing at something I couldn't identify at first. Then I realized it was a sleeping bag, probably Tettlinger's.
I told Sam "Easy," and he backed off while I searched the shelter. There was only one bag and one set of utensils. I turned to Gallagher who was coming out of the bush behind me. "Looks like Tettlinger was on his own."
"Good," he said. "Last thing we need is some other bastard sniping at us from the bush."
18
Finding Tettlinger's camp had taken the pressure off. The terrain became ordinary bush once more, instead of hostile territory. We sat and talked and rested, like soldiers after a dangerous patrol.
"It's beginning to look systematic," I said. "First of all Prudhomme kills some guy. Then we find him killed in turn. Then we find Tettlinge
r up here, skulking around shooting at policemen. This isn't random killing, there's a pattern to it, if only we could see it."
I waited, but Gallagher said nothing. He held up one hand, then began to dig into the pocket of his parka. He came out with a pack of Export cigarettes and a book of restaurant matches. Almost sensually he pushed his chewing gum out of his mouth with his tongue. He took out a cigarette and lit it, holding up his head as he inhaled, like a priest elevating the Host at mass. "First in two days," he said, as he breathed out a column of smoke.
"When you're through with your orgasm, I was talking about the case," I said.
He took a quicker, more practiced drag, coughing and recovering. "Yeah, I'm still with you. You're wondering why people are getting murdered left and right." He scowled at me and coughed again. "It hadn't slipped my notice, you know."
"So what's your theory? Here we've had a killing and an attempted murder of a pair of coppers in a couple of days. That's premeditated. My question is, What's behind it all?"
Gallagher nodded patiently. "The obvious answer is money. My guess is, it's about those gold claims we talked about. I mean, if Prudhomme was a shareholder and now he's dead, that's a bigger piece of pie for the rest of the guys, right?"
I nodded. "That makes the most sense yet. I think that the lawyer, Laval, has Mob connections. It must have been him who set me up in Montreal—then torched the dentist. That smells like organized crime to me. So they could be involved here. Now if your buddy McKenzie was right, we're talking big money, maybe billions of honest, legal dollars. All they have to do is eliminate anybody who can connect them with the finding of the mine."
Gallagher exhaled smoke, coughed quickly, and recovered. "Those bastards would kill a guy for a thousand dollars. For the kind of money we're thinking about, they'd wipe out the whole of Olympia."
"Right. That's my reading. I guess they used Tettlinger early on to provide some muscle. Now they got him involved, to kill Prudhomme. Next step is to kill the pair of them."
