by Ron Corbett
“Thank you, gentlemen,” said Yakabuski, closing up his steno pad. “That will be all for tonight.”
. . .
Yakabuski held the government cheque in his hand. He looked at the name one more time. “Four days ago?”
“That’s right.”
“Just him?”
“No, she was here as well. The little girl, too.”
“Most people don’t remember the little girl. Or her.”
“They didn’t come into town all that often. Hardly ever during the winter. I was surprised to see them.”
Yakabuski wondered why the cook had not mentioned this.
“Do you know their names?”
“No. Well, his. It’s on the cheque.”
The waitress pushed back a strand of hair that had fallen from her ponytail and looked at Yakabuski. The nametag pinned to her bright yellow shirt, next to the white piping, said Marie Picard.
“They’re all dead?” she said.
“Yes.”
She gave a long exhale of breath and pushed another strand of hair from her face then reached back with her left hand to straighten the ponytail. She would have been the same age as the tree-marker and seemed to have little awareness of her body, how her breasts stretched the stiff polyurethane fabric of the uniform when she moved, how her eyes looked when framed by a strand of hair, where to position herself when leaning in to whisper to a stranger.
“Who would kill a little girl?” she asked.
“I’m not sure. We’re going to find out, though.”
“It’s someone here at the lodge, isn’t it?”
“We don’t know that.”
“It could be that.”
“Could be many things.”
“It’s likely that.”
“Miss, we don’t—”
“Are we safe?”
Yakabuski had finished a complete round of interviews and she was the first one to ask. The question he was sure they all had. Everyone except one, perhaps. “You’re safe,” he said. “We’re here and we’ll stay here until we’ve completed our investigation. You won’t ever be alone.”
“How will that work?”
“I’ll explain in the bar. You live in the bunkie next door, is that right?”
He had seen an old O’Hearn bunkhouse next to the lodge, two storeys, plank-wood exterior, windows frosted from the inside. Unless you burned one of them down, there was never enough heat in a lumber company bunkhouse.
“That’s right.”
“You’ll be staying in the lodge tonight. Try to get a good night’s sleep. Is there a fax machine in the office?”
CHAPTER NINE
“So what do we have, Yak?”
“It looks like murder.”
Springfield police chief Bernard O’Toole was as big, fit, and combative as Yakabuski. He was a legendary figure in the city, sixth generation on the force. His great-great grandfather had been the one to arrest Patrick Aylin, king of the Shiners, an Irish street gang. Aylin was executed after the arrest, found guilty of throwing a business competitor over Kettle Falls, the competitor being a Frenchman from Val des Monts who didn’t like Aylin burning down his lumberyards. The O’Tooles had been treated like royalty along the French Line ever since the execution. In certain other parts of the city — Cork’s Town, the Nosoto Projects — the family was still reviled for what was seen as its betrayal of an Irish patriot.
“A man and a woman?”
“Little girl, too. Just a toddler.”
“Gawdamm.”
“Yep.”
“I don’t want to insult you, Yak, but—”
“No gun. New tracks in the snow leading to Ragged Lake. No other tracks.”
“I see. So, what do we have in the village?”
“It’s a ghost town. I have nine people in the Lodge and that’s about the entire town. I’ve done a first round of interviews. Nothing obvious. There’s some sort of survival school that’s probably closed for the season. It’s called Northern Divide Expeditions. We need to have someone run that.”
“Will do. So, what’s your plan?”
“We’ll lock down the lodge and stay here for the night. We’ll check out the survival school in the morning. There’s one other person we’ll bring in, an old Cree woman living outside town. We’ll start the workup on the cabin. We’re going to need some more bodies.”
“What do you figure?”
“Another Ident team. A couple of detectives. I don’t think you need to send anyone from George’s office unless he wants to. We can photograph everything. Bring the bodies to him.”
“You’re thinking the train?”
“We can send them to High River. Transport them back to Springfield from there.”
“The train will be there day after tomorrow. You’re good until then?”
“We’re good.”
“Glad to hear that. We’re down to one sled. Anything else?”
“We have a name for the man who was killed. He was getting a government cheque mailed to him at the Mattamy.”
“You can do that?”
“They’ve been doing it for years. I think I have an uncle who still gets mail here.”
“So we have a name.”
“We do. It’s a bit odd, though. You’ll need to contact the Department of National Defence.”
“National Defence? I was expecting some social agency.”
“I know. And it isn’t a veteran’s cheque. It’s the sort of cheque you send to someone still serving.”
“In Ragged Lake?”
“That’s what it seems to be. I’m faxing it to you right now. National Defence has public affairs people working ’round the clock. We should put in a request tonight.”
“Will do. How’s your satphone working?”
“Hit and miss. If you have trouble reaching me, try the landline at the Mattamy. Here’s the number.” Yakabuski read the number on the faceplate of the rotary phone. He picked up the cheque lying in the out-tray of the fax machine.
“You have it?” he asked.
“Guillaume Roy.”
“That’s our man. I need to know everything about him. His wife’s name would probably help. I think she’s from here.”
. . .
When Yakabuski returned to the bar, he saw no one had moved. Not so much as a degree, it seemed. They sat exactly as they had been when he left to make his phone call. He rolled up the sleeve of his sweater and looked at his watch: 1:34 a.m.
“It’s been a long day, so I’ll keep this short,” he said. “Everyone is staying at the Mattamy tonight. No one is going home or going to the bunkie. Does anyone here take prescription medication?”
John Holly and the Tremblays put up their hands.
“Is this medication you need tonight, or can it wait until the morning?”
Almost silently, the Tremblays mouthed the word morning. Holly reached into his parka and held up a pill container.
“Good. We’re going to put you up in the east wing tonight. I’m going to ask each of you to stay in your room once you are there. A police officer will come for you in the morning. Any questions?” Yakabuski stared around the room. They would have a hundred questions. Once again, no one said a word. He nodded and said, “Constables Downey and Buckham will start bringing you to your rooms.”
CHAPTER TEN
The one time Yakabuski had been in Ragged Lake, he was a boy and it was late spring with every river and creek running high — so much water on the Northern Divide he could hear it wherever he went. Water running north. Water running south. Water turning back on itself and running in circles, not sure which watershed to head for. It had been disorienting, the sound of all that water, as though he was always walking past a running shower.
In the winter, all that water was frozen. Yakabuski
stood in his room looking out over the lake and could hear the ice expanding and contracting in the cold. It made him think of a cell-block prisoner just brought in, handcuffed and twisting on the ground, not understanding yet that he was caught and no amount of physical exertion was going to change anything. It was the natural order of things.
Who worried him most? Yakabuski stared out over the lake and considered it. An old military police officer told him once that was how he started every investigation. By clearing his mind and asking himself who worried him most. Who didn’t seem quite right? Who had he noticed? Didn’t matter the reason. Forget about evidence right then. Just be honest with yourself and ask: Who am I thinking about?
The Sports? They definitely worried him. The one unknown variable. The Sports show up. People get killed. People like that always worried him. And most times there was a connection between the two events; a stranger arrives on the scene and someone is killed? You’d better find that stranger right quick. Even though, and here was evidence entering his thoughts when he was trying to think it away, it was difficult to envision either of those men being a triple murderer.
The bartender? There was something vain and foolish about William Forest, some sort of entitlement a bartender at a fishing lodge on the Northern Divide shouldn’t rightly possess. The dead woman in that cabin had been a good-looking woman. There probably weren’t a lot of good-looking women around Ragged Lake, even during the height of muskie season. Did the bartender think he had some sort of right?
The cook? Yakabuski didn’t know what to think of the cook. He stared out over the lake and almost laughed. The man’s kitchen was a mess. He didn’t have the wit to use a dry towel. Maybe he was just a sloppy man. A poor cook. Although, there was something about him that didn’t seem right, that didn’t add up, that left you thinking he was somewhere he didn’t belong.
The Tremblays and John Holly? Nothing struck Yakabuski as out of place about the old couple and the guide, although he wondered why anyone would stay in a place like Ragged Lake if they had options in life, if they were free to do as they pleased. People who lacked free will, even when they managed to keep it well hidden, always worried Yakabuski.
But he was being dishonest with himself, and he knew the old soldier’s trick would not work this time out. The tree-marker was the one that worried him most. And not because the boy was a suspect. Everything about the tree-marker told Yakabuski he didn’t do it, right down to the dream the boy was having, thinking that squatter family was killed at night, because he was a boy from Buckham’s Bay who couldn’t imagine anything that hateful and evil happening at any other time of day.
Yakabuski had told the tree-marker his dream would go away soon enough, and until it did there was nothing wrong with drinking himself stupid. He should do that. It would help. He didn’t bother telling the boy there was a good chance the dreams would return years later, fifty-fifty maybe; they’d come when he wasn’t expecting it, because being party to some poor soul’s last painful moments on earth, people shot down and butchered like that family had been, imagining them screaming in terror, the pain and surprise — those were memories life bestowed upon you sometimes for no good or obvious reason. Like a bad inheritance. So go ahead and drink when it was easy. This omission — for reasons unknown to Yakabuski just then — worried him most.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Cambio did not have a home. He tried not to be anywhere for three nights running. His grandfather, a trench fighter from the first Great War, had taught him that trick, told his grandson slow-witted men were routinely killed in the trenches for being third on a match. The flash of a match would be seen by an enemy sniper. The sniper would take sight as the match was passed to the second smoker. The sniper would shoot and kill the third man.
“Avoid threes of all kind,” the old man told his grandson. “Never give a man three steps. Never give a man a third chance. Family members and some others you must give a second chance, but no man should be given a third.
“Three is bad luck. In the trenches you could pluck cigarettes from the mouths of every third man and smoke for free. All you needed were matches.”
Now Cambio was in a hotel room in Panama City. His IT man had been working on the phones for nearly an hour and now stood back from the coffee table and nodded. Cambio looked at the array of cellular phones.
“¿Se han creado con los viejos códigos?”
“Sí.”
“¿Los mismos números?”
“Sí.”
Cambio waved the IT man out of the room and reached for a phone. There were several clicking sounds after he punched in a number, and nearly ten seconds passed before the phone started to ring. Several seconds more passed until it was answered.
“Hello, my friend,” he heard a man say.
“Buenas noches. You are well, I hope?”
“Always.”
“Good. I wanted to talk to you about the situation in Ragged Lake. I have put a crew on standby, in case we need to go there.”
“That is wise.”
“It is in your backyard, so I wanted to call.”
“There was no need. You are right to get a crew ready. The man you have contacted is the best man for the job.”
“He works for you.”
“He works for all of us.”
“Sí. You have a good man there. You are lucky to have him. We may need the full op. Depending on what happens tomorrow. Again, it is your parish. Do you have any problem with that?”
“No.”
They fell silent. A woman had come to the hotel room door, and after being frisked she had been taken to a glassed solarium on the terrace. She sat between rows of geraniums, twirling her hair and looking at Cambio. One of his security men sat with her.
“It may be nothing,” he said. “It sounds like a family matter.”
“I think so, too.”
“It would not be easy, living in a place like Ragged Lake. They were squatters?”
“That’s what I’m told.”
“Well, I thought I should call.”
“Again, there was no need. Have a good night, my friend.”
The line went dead, neither man quite sure who had hung up first.
CHAPTER TWELVE
When Yakabuski was in Ragged Lake fishing with his father, he would have been a boy of around ten. There had been just the two of them, and they had taken his dad’s Ford Galaxy up to the Goyette Reservoir then over to Ragged, travelling beside rail lines for most of the trip because there were no roads after you passed the Goyette. They put their boat in at a municipal dock swarming with guide boats and logging tugs. Smoke belched from all six stacks of a nearby pulp and paper mill, and men in dark-green factory clothes seemed everywhere.
It was a big lake and they were gone more than an hour before starting to troll. Cliffs of gneiss and granite covered by great swaths of coniferous trees lined the shores. Only once was the shoreline any different, shortly after leaving the dock, when they passed a clear-cut valley of blackened stumps and glacier-deposited rocks.
“Shame they have to cut so close to town,” his father had said, one hand on the tiller of the outboard motor, the other rolling a cigarette. “They never used to come in this close before.”
“Where did they get the trees before?”
“The main camp was on the north shore.” His father spit tobacco flakes into the wake of the boat. “In the spring, when they started hauling logs out of the bush, there were probably more people in the camp than there were in town. They ran the logs in booms. That’s how big this lake is.”
“Will we see the bush camp?”
“Maybe what’s left of her. They abandoned that camp years ago.”
They caught no muskie that day but spincast for pickerel before setting up camp and quickly caught their supper. His dad cooked the fish over a good bed of embers made from split
maple they’d brought, a heavy weight they would not normally have bothered with, but there were no hardwood trees this far north, and they were not portaging. They made camp on an island, and from their fire Yakabuski could see the remains of the bush camp his father had been talking about. Several large bunkhouses. Some outbuildings. A wooden wharf, sagging and slipping into the lake on the starboard side.
After supper he had sat in his father’s lap and stared out at the abandoned camp. Before long darkness fell and he could no longer see the camp, although he kept staring. That night was the bush-dark you get sometimes when you are miles from any town or village and the sky is clouded over, the wind still. It is a darkness as complete as God ever put upon this earth.
“How long has the camp been abandoned?” he remembered asking his father.
“A lot of years,” his dad had answered. “There’s another camp the other side of town that’s still running. It’s all Cree, that one, most of ’em mill hands.”
“Where did the people go when they left?”
“Wherever people go when they have to leave a place, Frankie.”
“Where is that?”
“Around here, it’s probably Springfield.”
“They all went to Springfield?”
“I’m not sure, Frankie. I’m just saying. They went somewhere and started over again. People have to do that sometimes.”
“Will they come back?”
“I doubt it. When something is gone, it’s gone. I’ve never seen anything come back in this world, Frankie.”
. . .
Yakabuski lay in bed looking at the thin red line that had appeared over the trees on the eastern shore of Ragged Lake. Nothing more than an eyeliner sweep of colour. Not moving. Not growing. Not rising and becoming a sun. He knew the sky was filled that morning with heavy, low-hanging clouds.
He sat upright in the bed and stretched his back. Rolled it from the first vertebra to the last and counted the popping sounds. Four. That was something he wished would go away and never come back — although, for three hours’ sleep in a strange bed, four pops wasn’t bad. He stretched his legs and stood. More creaking and popping sounds. There were advantages to being a big man. Later in life, the disadvantages tried to catch up.
