“You stay here, Cassel. Keep the meter running. Waldren and I will check it out.”
I wait as the Mounties disembark, run in a crouch below the whirring rotor and approach the cabin. Waldren pulls his gun and flashlight and they position themselves on either side of the cabin door. At a nod from MacFarlane, Waldren goes in, gun ready. A few seconds later MacFarlane follows. A moment later they come back out. Waldren’s gun is holstered. They confer, then walk back to the helicopter. I was expecting they would signal the all clear so I could take a look, but they climb in behind me, don their headsets.
“What?” I ask, as soon as I know they’re online.
“Nothing,” says MacFarlane. “Rat shit and cobwebs.”
“There was nothing there at all?”
“Zip,” says Waldren. “No one’s used that place for years.”
I frown, thinking. MacFarlane asks if there’s anything else I’d like to look at.
“The moose kill,” I tell them. “And I’d like to find my boat.”
The helicopter rises from the clearing, follows the small river. We cruise at about a thousand feet. I’m certain I can find the moose kill but after a few passes along the river I have to concede defeat. The kill was under the forest canopy, and by the time I was picked up by the old couple in the boat I had no idea where I was relative to the kill. Nothing below us looks familiar.
“What now?” says MacFarlane.
“Let’s swing north along the Roche, see if we can find my boat.”
If my assailant cut loose my boat, it would float north with the current. We fly for another ten minutes, following the lazy meanders of the river. A moose standing on a sandbar seems oblivious as we pass overhead. In the distance it appears the river is blocked by an oversized beaver dam. As we draw closer, it becomes apparent the dam is manmade.
“What’s that thing across the river?”
“That’s the weir,” says Waldren. “The river can flow both ways.”
“How can it do that?”
“Depends on the water level in the delta.”
Today the river flows visibly north. Something white bobs next to the weir.
MacFarlane peers over my shoulder. “Is that your boat?”
As we approach I recognize the Forest Service boat. Good thing there was a weir or the boat would have floated all the way to Fort Fitzgerald, where it would have been ground up by the twenty-five miles of rapids between there and Fort Smith. The helicopter touches down on the narrow weir, where the Mounties and I get out, then departs for a superior landing site where it can shut down and await our signal. It gets very quiet as we walk along the narrow weir.
“An itsy-bitsy spider went down the water spout,” sings Waldren. On one end of the dam is a winch with a boat cradle and short stretch of rail to allow boats to pass over. It’s against this cradle that the Forest Service boat has drifted, scratching up the side. Middel will not be pleased. I stand on my toes on the edge of the track, manage to reach the boat and pull it close enough to climb aboard.
“Anything unusual?” says MacFarlane.
I do a quick inventory. “Looks fine.”
Waldren uses a stick to fish the bow rope from the water, holds up the end.
“Wasn’t cut,” he says.
“Whoever jumped me could have just untied it.”
“Or it wasn’t properly tied to start with,” he says.
“No — I tied it securely. I didn’t want to get stranded.”
Waldren looks at MacFarlane. Something subtle passes between them.
“What?” I say.
“Nothing,” says Waldren. “Can you take the boat back?”
I check for gas, start the motor.
It runs as though nothing unusual happened.
WALDREN AND MACFARLANE take the helicopter back, leaving me with the boat and my thoughts. I get the impression that the Mounties have become skeptical of my story. I can work alone, but it’s far better to have the RCMP on my side. I brood as I ride the boat back up river, motor roaring, wind ruffling my hair. It bothers me that there was no sign the cabin had been used. Why would someone be out here, waiting for me, unless it was a trap? This would mean I’m making someone nervous enough to try to take me out. It would also mean that Collette Whiteknife is part of whatever is going on.
Ahead on the left bank of the river, a large spruce tree juts horizontally over the flowing water, it’s tip curved upward, still growing as it surrenders to gravity and the collapsing river bank. Branches along the length of the trunk reach like a green wall into the water, creating what canoeists call a sweeper — a dangerous obstacle that can entangle a boater and hold them in the water against the current. As I pass I notice something floating, caught against the branches. A rag or some bit of debris. Something about the way the rag is floating, the sway and tremble of the branches that have caught it, suggests there may be more density to the debris than mere cloth and I slow the boat, allow the current to tack me closer.
A mass of dark fur — a dead animal. Not fur. Hair.
The wake coming from my boat rocks the floating debris and I see the curve of a head, the whiteness of scalp beneath the black hair, the edge of an ear. Dear God — this is a person. My first reaction is to panic that the person is drowning and I have only a moment to turn them over, but this quickly fades, replaced by horror and revulsion. It’s far too late for a rescue. This will be a body retrieval. I reach for my radio, to call dispatch and the RCMP, remember I lost my radio the night before, or my assailant stole it. I hold the boat under low power in the current next to the end of the sweeper, wonder what to do. It would be tricky and dangerous to get in front of the sweeper as I can’t control the boat and retrieve the body at the same time. I could leave the body where it is and return for help but the body might slip loose, sink into the river and be lost. I owe it to whoever that is to at least try to bring them in.
I manoeuvre the boat to the downstream side of the sweeper, opposite the body, and use a hatchet to chop away troublesome branches so I can tie the bow rope to the trunk of the tree. Chopped branches float away in the brown water. Once the boat is secure, I lay belly-down on the narrow covered bow and reach more rope through the screen of branches, feeling in the cold water for the body. Branches press against my face, needles prickling against my cheek. I grab what I think is an upper arm, cold and firm, and shudder. With my other hand, careful not to fall forward into the river, I tie the rope around the dead arm, then scramble back, breathing hard, as the boat rocks. I take a moment to allow the boat to settle, as well as my nerves, then whack off more branches so the body can pass through the sweeper and under the tree. With the body loose, I pull it alongside the boat and turn it over.
Bernice Mercredi’s pale dead face stares vacantly at me from the cold water.
“Damn,” I swear softly, thinking of her mother’s pleading look.
Thanks for doing this. For looking for my Bernie.
I push the thought aside, focus on the business at hand. The body is stiff and awkward, the weight causing the boat to lean and rock dangerously. I give up trying to pull her in over the side, float the body to the back of the boat, tug her up over the stern, past the outboard motor. The cuff of her jeans catches on the propeller and it takes an awkward moment of leaning over the warm shroud of the motor, intimate with the musty organic stench of her river-soaked clothes, to free her. She tumbles into the boat, arms flopping, head thumping on the bottom of the boat. “Sorry,” I mumble.
Her position, so unnatural, drives home the situation.
I prop her against the side of the boat, brush long black hair away from her face. It’s hard to accept this is the same girl who was at the fire, serving up platters of sandwich meat, smiling shyly at my recycled joke. She was so young and full of life. Now her eyes are cloudy, skin pale, lips parted and slightly blue. I suppress a boil of emotion and focus on a closer examination, looking for any indication of how she came to be in the river. The coroner will con
duct an autopsy, but I’m here now and I want to ensure I note anything unusual. I do a basic first-aid body examination to feel for injuries, run my hands over her head and neck, then down her arms, legs and torso, check for physical injuries such as broken bones or the bulges and swellings of pre-mortem trauma. I find nothing unusual. A quick look at her hands and fingernails for evidence of a defensive struggle reveals skin that is pale, wrinkled and slightly bloated, as though she were washing dishes for a long time, but nothing more.
I look up river, lined on both sides with dense forest. What would a young, fully clothed woman be doing floating in the river? Did she really have a secret lover? Was he simply tired of her and tossed her into the icy water? Or would he have to hold her under while she struggled for air, wondering how her lover could have suddenly turned so cruelly against her? Or is this about something altogether different? I look again at Bernice Mercredi, lifeless in the bottom of my boat, and sigh. I have no answers for her.
THE TRIP TO town seems inordinately long. The corpse behind me in the boat causes a prickling on the back of my neck as I steer upriver. I look over my shoulder sporadically, to remind myself this really is happening and isn’t a morbid product of my imagination. Close to the lake I kill the engine and allow the boat to be taken slowly and silently by the river as I rummage under the covered bow. I don’t want to tie up at the dock with an exposed body in my boat, or to leave her like that while I dash to the ranger station to call the RCMP. Fortunately, there’s a small blue plastic tarp and some rope, which I use to wrap Bernice Mercredi in a makeshift body bag. When I’m done, it’s hard to tell that it’s a body in my boat and I putter toward the government wharf, not looking forward to breaking the news to the community. Luke Middel stands at the end of the dock, fishing rod in hand.
“Hiya, Porter,” he says, casting in my direction.
“Put that thing away,” I tell him as the lure splashes close to the boat.
He frowns, reeling in, then helps tie the boat up at the dock, gazing curiously at the blue package in the bottom. “You get a monster lake trout?”
“Go get your dad, Luke. And tell him to bring the RCMP.” Luke stands uncertainly on the dock, gazing into the boat. “Now, dammit.”
He looks at me, startled, then turns and runs down the dock, boots clomping. I stand on the dock, gaze across the lake. In the past few days life seems to have become tenuous and unpredictable. I shift my gaze to a hump of rock, focus on the stone pillar of the historical monument that marks the original location of the trading post. I want to look anywhere but back into the boat; want to think about anything but what lies ahead. My thoughts are broken by the gun of an engine, the crunch of gravel under tires, and the patter of more boots on the dock.
“What’s going on?” says Middel, striding toward me.
Luke runs to catch up with him, joining Waldren and MacFarlane.
“What’s the big emergency?” says Waldren.
“I found something,” I say, pointing into the boat.
MacFarlane frowns. “Is that what I think it is?”
“You may not want to open it here.”
“Good call,” says MacFarlane, looking around. On the high rock next to the harbour several kids watch the action on the dock. “We’ll take it to the station, in the garage, call ident.” He looks at Waldren. “Pull the Suburban as close as you can. Porter, give me a hand when the truck is ready.”
“What’s going on?” asks Luke.
“Go home,” says Middel.
Luke wanders reluctantly down the wharf, glancing over his shoulder. Waldren pulls the RCMP Suburban tight against the edge of the road while MacFarlane and I step into the boat. Even soaking wet, the bundle seems light between the two of us and I wonder fleetingly why it seemed so hard to lift her into the boat. MacFarlane crouches in the open back of the Suburban and we set her down, the blue tarp crinkling. He steps out, closes the back doors.
“You’re with us, Porter.”
I sit in the back seat of the Suburban, where prisoners are transported, watch the two Mounties in front of me through the black steel mesh as we turn away from the harbour, pass the ranger station. Mark Middel and his son stand by the side of the road, their expressions questioning, and watch us pass. The Mounties have their own questions as we drive.
“Who is it?” says MacFarlane.
“Bernice Mercredi.”
“Jesus,” says Waldren. “Where did you find her?”
“A few miles upstream of the weir, caught in a sweeper.”
MacFarlane shifts to look back at me. “Why’d you move her?”
“I thought we might lose her.”
We pull into the RCMP compound, past the faded blue staff houses, to the back where MacFarlane opens the bay door of a metal-clad garage. Waldren backs the Suburban in, closes the door. The garage is windowless and it’s suddenly dim as our eyes adjust to the weaker artificial light. The two Mounties open the back doors of the Suburban.
“Where do you want to put her?” asks Waldren.
MacFarlane looks around, points to some folding wooden tables tucked next to a shelf. We set them up and the Mounties lift the package from the back of the Suburban, lay it across the tables. MacFarlane carefully unwraps the bundle until Bernice Mercredi lays exposed, face up, the tarp trailing to the floor around her.
“Christ almighty,” says Waldren. He’s sweating profusely.
“You go call HQ,” says MacFarlane. “Fill them in. Request ident.”
Waldren hesitates, staring at the dead woman, then leaves.
MacFarlane takes off his leather jacket, walks around the body on the table, looking but not touching. “So, Cassel,” he says, not taking his eyes from the body, “tell me this theory of yours again.”
“Like I told you at the briefing yesterday, this girl was the cook’s helper at the fire where Hallendry died. She left the same night I discovered the under-burned floorboards, complaining that she felt ill. My first thought was that she had casually mentioned to someone that I’d found the floorboards, and what that meant, and word travelled to Hallendry’s killer, who returned during the night and disposed of the evidence by lighting up what remained of the floorboards. He also must have gone to the IA base and accessed my camera, in my kit in the truck, and deleted my photos of the floorboards. Now I have to wonder if maybe she had a more direct role. Maybe she left the fire specifically to tell someone that I had found evidence that the fire was deliberately set.”
“Why would she do that?” says MacFarlane, peering in the dead girl’s open mouth.
“I don’t know,” I say, rubbing the back of my head, still sore from being clobbered the night before. “Maybe she knew whoever started the fire. Maybe she was at the cabin the night Hallendry died, drinking with him. You should check her prints against any you find on those drinking glasses. In fact, you should also check them against Collette Whiteknife.”
“You think she’s involved?” MacFarlane says, looking at me sharply.
“She told me where to look for Mercredi. Then I was attacked.”
MacFarlane stands up from his bent position over the body, thinking.
Water seeps off the dead girl’s clothes, running across the blue tarp and dribbling onto the floor. In the enclosed space the faint odour coming from the body is stronger. Musky and aquatic. “You think both girls were at Hallendry’s cabin?” says MacFarlane.
“It’s the only connection I can think of.”
“Interesting,” he says, scratching his chin.
“How long do you think she’s been in the water?”
“It’s hard to tell in rivers this far north, especially at this time of year. Water is so cold. Based on the degree of wrinkling on the extremities and the odour, I’d guess two or three days. Coroner will have a better estimate.”
“She was dead before I started looking for her.”
“About that,” says MacFarlane. “You could have come to us first.”
“It was just
a hunch.”
MacFarlane sighs. “Communication is a wonderful thing, Cassel.” There’s an awkward silence. We’re faced off across Bernice Mercredi’s dead body. Fortunately, Waldren comes in, breaks the silence. “HQ are briefed in McMurray. Ident is on the way, eta about an hour,” he says a little breathlessly. “They also wanted to know if you need more resources.”
MacFarlane nods, eyes resting on me a moment longer. I get the impression he’s sizing me up, assessing how he might handle me. It makes me nervous. He shifts his attention to Waldren, asks him a few questions involving people in the RCMP I do not know. Then he looks at me again, his expression guarded.
“What are you going to do now, Cassel?”
“I’m not sure. I’d like to talk to Collette Whiteknife.”
“We’ll take care of that. I’ve got a few questions for her.”
“Can I sit in on that interview?”
Waldren and MacFarlane exchange glances.
“We’ll let you know,” says MacFarlane.
It seems they’re done with me, so I excuse myself. MacFarlane stops me at the door of the garage, calling out from where he stands by the body. “Just one more thing, Cassel, so there’s no misunderstanding. You stay in town or you tell us before you go anywhere. And you discuss any potential lines of investigation that may affect what the rest of the team is doing before you take action. Are we clear on that?”
I nod, glancing one last time at the dead girl I barely knew.
9
•
AFTER I LEAVE the RCMP compound I’m not sure what to do and drive to the government dock, sit in my truck for a few minutes and watch the lake. Small humped islands covered with trees look like something from a postcard. The undulating water looks serene and indifferent. I could use a bit of calm — Bernice Mercredi is dead and I don’t know why. I’d like to talk with her mother and find out if Bernice had been acting strange lately — if she’d made any comments to her mother before heading to the Whiskey Creek fire. What she told her mother when she arrived home the next night. I’d have to clear it with MacFarlane, who still has to break the news to her of her daughter’s death. I’d also like to corner Collette Whiteknife and ask her a few pointed questions about why she sent me to the tiny cabin along the river, but that too is out of bounds.
Whiskey Creek Page 18
