Belle Palmer Mysteries 5-Book Bundle

by Lou Allin

  “Len’s the one that kept me alive. He keeps telling Dave everything has to be perfect, something about crossing ‘t’s and dotting ‘i’s. They feel pretty confident, because the police think a ped . . . pedo—”

  “Pedophile, a child molester.”

  “That’s the word. See, when I disappeared, Dave got on a computer somewhere and—”

  “He sent the e-mail?” Belle sat up and tugged at her bonds. Often people twisted their wrists and presto. She got rope burns.

  “Jean-Paul laughed about it. Said Dave plans to drop a few more clues. Then I’ll be found, my bike, too, somewhere far away.” He pounded the back of his head against the wall. “I helped him set it up. If I hadn’t run off—”

  “Stop blaming yourself. Sure, it was a dumb idea. I could have told you living in the bush on your own was impossible.” At the word “dumb”, his sweet face fell, and she apologized for her lecture. As thoughts of their captors returned, she hoped Jean-Paul’s date with the bottle included the others and would leave them all running on empty. She told Micro one plan. There wouldn’t be time for another.

  Belle’s restive sleep was a series of troublesome naps that long night’s journey into day, cramped and aching from the awkward position. She had no access to her watch, and when light slithered through the grimy windows, shining grate marks across the floor, she woke up to what might well be her last morning on the set of 20,000 Years in Sing Sing with Spencer and Bette. She wouldn’t go without a fight, and she knew that Micro would battle at her side. They had nothing to lose.

  Soon after she and Micro had reviewed their roles in their command performance, Jean-Paul walked unsteadily into the room, bracing himself against a wall. “One at a time to the toilets. You first, girlie. Hustle!”

  She made eye contact with the boy. Step one. Despite her fear about the next critical moments, she almost laughed out loud at the archaic term. This girlie has a big surprise for you, J-P. He had no gun, trusting his bulk to easily overpower her. As he fumbled with her ropes, a stale, sweet alcohol smell seeped from his large pores. His face was unshaven and flaccid, the bulbous nose sprouting hairs and his bulging eyes beeswinged with red veins. “Tabernac on toast. Granny knots are a bitch. You’ve been pulling at them.”

  Belle knelt, moaning in her best theatrical fashion and taking time to rub her wrists and knees. Nine hours without motion made the charade easy. She shot another glance at Micro, and he winked. “Dépêche-toi. Ain’t got all friggin’ day,” Jean-Paul said, reaching for her arm.

  “No! Please! I have to go first!” Micro yelled on cue with a pitiful wail. Jean-Paul frowned as he looked at the boy, his ox brain pondering the logistics. Belle reached under the cabinet, seized the Maglite, and hid it behind her as she stood.

  “Wait your turn, you.” As Jean-Paul shook his hammy fist at the boy, she brought the heavy light down on his head, hitting him once more for good measure after he fell. Blood spatter splashed her pants. In a minute, Micro was free, and they tied the man, gagging him quickly with his own shirt before he came to.

  She plucked up the ceramic bear, kissed its nose, and asked Micro, “Perfect so far, but we can’t afford one mistake. What’s the safest way out?”

  He snapped his fingers. “The loading ramp. They bring in supplies there. It leads out back.”

  Moving with speed and caution, they made their way to the vat room, slipped out a door and down the metal stairs. Belle scanned the parking lot, knowing too well what she’d find. The van was gone, probably on its way to a chop shop in Cornwall. An old Honda sat there, probably Allan’s. They ran over and checked the ignition. No keys. Frantic, Belle didn’t need to examine the topo in her pocket. There were only three ways out. The road, the railroad spur or the bush. Allan said that men were on their way. It was sixty klicks back to town on the road. Could they hide in the bush if they sighted a car? Door number two, the railway spur led to the main CN line along the Vermilion River. On such an exposed route, they’d be easy targets.

  “Belle, look!” Micro pointed to the far end of the lot, where a panel truck crunched gravel, followed by Dave’s Santa Fe. Suddenly the vehicles increased their speed, heading towards the frozen pair. A window opened on the passenger side of the SUV, and shots rang out, dinging the rocky ground. More bursts echoed from a shotgun in the truck, shattering the bushes.

  A familiar voice, revealing the iron fist inside the velvet glove, yelled, “Cover the rail line! They’re trapped.” Two hundred feet away, she imagined she could see Dave’s contorted face behind the windshield, an icon of trust, now a gargoyle.

  “Into the woods!” Belle grabbed Micro’s hand, and they zigzagged to the perimeter, shielded by clumps of willows and faded goldenrod.

  They leaped the remains of a rusty wire fence and soon disappeared into the thick forest, following a game trail, then a ridge, the paths of least resistance. With at least three men, Dave was close behind, directing their pursuit with hoarse calls. They splashed through a stream, climbed on all fours to a hill of lustrous sugar maples. These venerable trees, a greedy species, blanketed the ground with their wares, leaving little undergrowth for concealment. She urged Micro to veer left to where a landscape of bushy striped maples helped their camouflage. Suddenly she tripped over a root, and her glasses flew off. As she struggled to her feet, she reeled in her nearsightedness at the vivid fall colours, a kaleidoscope of red, yellow, orange and green. Frantically she scanned the ground, a disorienting blur. Then a voice said, “I have them, Belle” and handed her the life-saving lenses.

  Ten minutes later, they stopped behind a large granite outcrop to catch their breath. Luck and brains had been on their side. Running had caught the men by surprise. Dave probably thought she’d beg for her life, a foolish action. To set up and protect a project like this, what did a few people mean against millions of dollars? Had it all been set in motion when Dave had seen the opportunity for a copycat killing? How Len must have laughed when he’d talked about Broughton hiring a drifter for vandalism at the bakery, just like he’d engaged Allan. And the sauna incident. Len himself, skulking along the shoreline? With Dave rushing to the rescue from an attack he’d orchestrated. That fish smell on the wedges. Hadn’t he and Ed been down at the dock? Angling for bass, he’d had scales on his hands when he pulled out the pieces of wood and tossed them into the grass. What a twisted mind lay inside his charming exterior.

  They set off again, ducking their heads and scrambling forward. Belle tried to keep a bead on distant trees for directions, fearing that in the well-known phenomenon, they might circle back towards the group. Micro was panting, but gamely keeping pace despite the weakening confinement. His heavy basketball shoes slowed him, but they were warmer and sturdier than runners. The waterproof jacket over his sweatsuit had a hood, which he’d soon appreciate. She was glad she had zipped in her coat liner and added the gloves and toque. Hiking boots would have helped, but she’d changed to sneakers at the motel.

  Suddenly they heard a distant barking. Micro turned, his face creased with stress as he bent over, his chest heaving. “It’s Buffalo. I’d recognize him anywhere.”

  Through the capricious nature of sound through leaves, they heard Dave yell, “I’ve got the dog, and he’ll find you. Stay where you are. You’ll die out there anyway.” At least he hadn’t thought them stupid enough to believe a promise that they wouldn’t be hurt, that the lucrative enterprise would be shut down, and everyone would fold tent and go home, crossing fingers and promising not to snitch.

  Micro opened his mouth, but Belle closed it with her hand. “Is it a bluff? Could your dog lead him here?”

  Micro gulped, then nodded. “He’s my friend, but Dave took him to obedience school. He’ll do what he’s told.”

  She pointed downhill to a brook, and they splashed along a few hundred feet in the time-honoured method of eluding captors. Buffalo wasn’t a tracking dog, and a leash would slow Dave. Still, it was a matter of attrition. A boy and a woman in her fort
ies were no match for the strength and speed of men. Behind them came distorted cries and the crashing of branches.

  After countless minutes of breakneck bushwhacking, with dead reckoning serving as compass, Belle and Micro took refuge in the embrace of a hollow cedar sarcophagus, blackened by a lightning strike. Her nose inches from the trunk, she could trace the regular patterns of scorch, smell the dry resin of the wood. The dog’s yelps came closer and closer. Her heart drilled into her ribs as she held Micro in her arms, but she knew they could go no farther. His eyes were wild with fear as he pressed his cheek against her chest. She held her breath, praying to all the forest gods, when a grey and white bundle of fur bounded out of the bush with a woof.

  TWENTY-TWO

  He broke his leash. Good dog,” Belle whispered as the animal placed his massive paws on Micro’s shoulders and covered his face with loving licks. A frayed piece of cheap cord hung around the animal’s neck. She stilled the boy with a hand gesture to listen for the crunch of feet on dry leaves. Only silence as deafening as the bush can be, punctuated by the twitter of chickadees. Then the rollicking animal sat quietly, expressing his happiness groin-first in the sincerest form of flattery.

  She had few worries about Dave tracking them now. Even she couldn’t have retraced their steps in the errant leafmeal and fall debris. She patted her chest to make sure of their one tool, the precious topo map. They had to find a safe place to study its whorls of hills and maze of watercourses, locate a landmark, make a plan to stay far enough away from the gang and eventually walk out. But without a compass? From the middle of nowhere? Maybe it happened in fiction, but such a feat pushed optimism to fantasy. Soon, judging from the sky darkening to pewter, they’d need shelter. The Weather Channel at the motel had predicted freezing rain turning to flurries, an evil combination in either order.

  As they headed for a hill with heavy conifer coverage, somewhere to get their bearings yet stay hidden, she was glad that their coats melted into the surroundings. Hers was green, his tan. That protection also meant that hunters could mistake them for game, perhaps the dog, too. Meeting someone could save their lives . . . if they weren’t shot first. Was it too much to hope that in all these thousands of hectares that they would blunder on a party chowing down around a campfire? She licked sweat from her lips.

  Convinced that they were out of range of their pursuers, she spread out the map, starting at the brewery cluster. Her eyes swam with contour lines, trickles of creeks, height numbers on hilltops. All she knew was that Dave and his men blocked the way north towards Shining Tree and west to the tracks. East was a large chunk of swampland. Her mind working like an overcaffeinated chipmunk’s, she scanned the horizon for a landmark. No sense taking one step without knowing exactly where they were.

  “Did you miss me, Buffy? Give me five. Give me ten.” Micro and the dog patted paws. Did he really understand the present danger?

  Then, across a far ridge, she saw the tips of metal towers marching south like friendly giants. The pole line. Land would be rough-cleared for a hundred feet to facilitate access for repairs with Hydro’s tracked vehicles. Wasn’t it about time that Ontario’s white elephant did her a favour?

  Under a spruce, they huddled against a cruel wind which pummelled the heights. As she pored over the map, Micro looked at her with such clear and perfect trust that she steadied her voice, swallowing a lump of fear. “We might have a chance. That’s the pole line three hills over. Once we get there, it’s . . .” She counted the squares, each one kilometre according to the scale. “About twenty-five kilometres to Thor Lake. See those dots at McKee’s Camp?”

  His eyes widened, and he nodded with enthusiasm. “Lots of dots.”

  “Lots of dots are good. It means people and safety.”

  “Then can we catch a ride home?”

  She forced a gentle smile. “It’s only a railroad stop. No roads. But I know a trapper who should be there, and even if he isn’t, we can flag down a train.” Or could they? Surely in a matter of life and death . . .

  “We studied Thor in mythology last year. He was a cool guy. Is the lake named after him?”

  It took them a punishing hour to negotiate the heavy bush across the steep hills, hung up by deadfalls and scrabbling through alder groves which tugged at their clothes. Over, under, or around, three simple but time-consuming actions. Their faces and hands were scratched when they finally reached the pole line and stared down its interminable path toward the horizon. Twenty-five kilometres. No walk in the park. The land was cleared, but it was hilly country carved through rocks, and from her hiking experience, they might make fewer than two kilometres an hour. McKee’s Camp was too far for tonight.

  At least they couldn’t lose the trail, a critical advantage. Each fall brought bulletins about missing hunters. Some survived, some didn’t. Her arm ached from carrying the heavy flashlight. When darkness came . . . She didn’t want to think of that, nor would she tell him that they’d spend a night outdoors. “Let’s go, Micro.”

  “I’m hungry,” he said later as they crossed the meandering trickles of the Wapiti River. In a rich irony, the tiny canoe in Paddle to the Sea could reach her lake faster than she could. Her mother had read to her at bedtime from that timeless children’s book, and she’d imagined the little carved man bobbing his way across thousands of miles.

  “Me, too.” Her empty stomach churned acid on the burning reserves that were fuelling their flight. His face was flushed with effort, as was hers. Fall was a bad time to forage. In spring they could have nibbled raw fiddleheads or tender cattails. Summer would have provided blueberries, raspberries and blackberries. Thinking about the juicy fruit reminded her that the bruins should be in their dens by now, storing brown fat for the winter. That didn’t mean that they didn’t stretch their legs now and then, another worry, especially with a cub, which denned with its mother the first winter to learn its trade. She shook off the image, preferring a bruin over Dave, the Dark Man, and his rat pack. Humans had more on their minds than a meal, a hidden agenda with the basest intentions.

  The wind buffeted them in the exposure of the pole line, and she pulled her toque over her ears. She noticed that Micro’s hands were shaking. “Take my gloves until the next rest, and put up your hood even if you’re sweating. Heat loss will drain you faster than hunger.”

  Her watch read four p.m. in the waning fall light. They would have to stop soon and make shelter. Under a fir tree perhaps, the branches bolstered with overlapping birch bark strips, an impromptu hut. An uprooted cedar with a snug rootball hole might do the job if a bear hadn’t commandeered it. No fire would warm them. Her matches stayed with the emergency kit in the van, wherever it was now, a cherry of a deal at only twelve thousand klicks. For a moment, she wished she were a chain-smoker with a ready Bic to flick. But Allan would have discovered that item in his groping.

  As they walked, she’d been scanning the area for edibles, but the barren land offered nothing. On a rest break, she led him into the nearby forest. Even a token mouthful would give them heart. “Look for berries or mushrooms.” She told him about boletes, an edible fungi with a spongy base instead of gills. As they passed a rotten clump, melting into the peat, her stomach lurched.

  “Gross,” Micro said. Nearby were a few young ones, which she pocketed.

  She knelt to gather a handful of reliable teaberries, which wintered over and were more palatable in spring. Her old friend Anni had said that they gave strength and energy. But they were scant, only one or two per bush. “Taste these,” she said, waving him over. “There used to be a chewing gum with this flavour.”

  His eyes wavered, but he ate them in confidence, then presented a yellow mushroom with telltale white encrustations of the fatal fly agaric. She tossed it into the dried ferns and grabbed his collar. “You didn’t eat any of that, did you? It’s poison.”

  His face bore traces of hurt and confusion, a wicked scratch on one cheek. “No, I wanted to ask—”

  “Sorry for
panicking, my friend. I should have known you were too smart.” She placed an arm around his shoulder and squeezed. “Wash your hands in the next creek.”

  “Hope we get there soon. I’m thirsty,” he added.

  Drinking from a lake or stream would be a crapshoot in all definitions. Even dogs could contract giardia. In their fast-collapsing time frame, though, beaver fever would be the least of their worries. The painful but non-life-threatening condition took several weeks to emerge. Dehydration would stop them with the power of a sledgehammer. It was all a matter of calculated risks.

  At the next sizable stream, she gave reluctant permission, and they knelt and slurped along with Buffalo, beasts of the field. Belle sluiced water over her hot face. She could smell rank sweat oozing from her underarms. “Our ancestors didn’t have bottled water, and they survived. We’ll have to trust our genes and pray that the microbes are swimming the other way.”

  He swiped his mouth with his sleeve and smiled, fast to forgive her recent alarm. “Nanny of the Maroons used to hide in the hills when she led the freedom fighters in Jamaica. She was Ashanti. That’s African. Some say she had magic, but I think her troops were using guerrilla warfare. They disguised themselves as bushes and trees.”

  Her eyebrow rose in interest. “A female general. I’ll second that. What does ‘maroon’ mean?”

  “It’s another name for a runaway slave.”

  A slave. Like her great-great-grandfather might have been. She explained the recent discovery in her genealogy.

  “Really? How can you find out for sure?”

  “Some records from that period have been computerized, but most have to be searched on-site. The Ontario Archives in Toronto is a good source. I have my great-grandfather’s birthdate, so I can send away for his birth certificate, learning more information about his parents. Until then, it’s a family mystery.”

  “Ooooooooo.” He made a creepy universal sound for the paranormal and waved his hands. The casual conversation had lifted their spirits. Refreshed, they set on with a collective will. Even Buffalo ran circles like Freya did when excited and happy.