The Fundy Vault

by Linda Moore

  “All right, Roz, you win,” McBride said. “Send me directions. I can be there in an hour.” He hung up. I quickly pulled up the instructions for getting to the cottage and emailed them to him.

  “McBride’s on his way,” I said, grinning at my cat, who was sitting by the porch door, keyed up, peering out and hoping for a miracle. She swished her fluffy tail and shot me a look of disdain. We’d only arrived the evening before and I wasn’t ready to let her out, but she was determined and I couldn’t blame her. It was a paradise out there—teeming with birds and shrews, and myriad insects and other creatures.

  I crouched down to scratch her ears as I looked out across the basin, where the helicopter had begun the process of dropping a man down. I stood and tried to see clearly as he found his footing on the sandbar. “Why don’t I have fantastic binoculars like those cops had?” I asked the cat. She twitched her tail, and looked out through the glass again.

  “Oh for heaven’s sake—stunned or what? I’ve got my fancy new phone right here in my hand,” I said, realizing that I could record what I was seeing to show McBride when he arrived. I moved the cat away from the door, stepped outside, and hurried across the grass to the cliff’s edge, focusing on the distant action.

  The lower section of the gnarled tree trunk was now well up on a pebbled sandbar and I recorded the progress as the fellow began to disentangle the girl’s pale limbs from the dark roots. After several minutes, he had freed her and laid her carefully on the shingle. He walked a few steps away to pick up the rescue frame.

  She was still wrapped in the flag. He had placed her on her side, her body turned towards the basin, her cheek cupped in the pebbles. I zoomed in, trying to get a clearer image of her, and was startled to see that her eyes were open, as though she was staring across the vast distance of the rapidly emptying basin—looking right at me. Yet so deathly still, her red hair strewn. But then the worker’s legs and arms blocked my view as he knelt in front of her to secure her to the frame.

  Within a half an hour, the whole of this remarkable undertaking was completed. Her body had been disengaged from the tangle of roots, tied onto the frame, and hauled up into the helicopter. Then the operator himself was smoothly hoisted back up. The chopper hovered for another moment, circled the basin, came directly overhead, and flew low along the bank following the strip of cottages. Then it abruptly turned right and I filmed it as it flew across the farmers’ fields and disappeared over North Mountain. I stood stock still on the cliff’s edge. I looked out again, across the basin. The girl was gone. I had the sensation of waking from a vivid dream.

  What had sparked the RCMP’s change in plans? They had no obligation to me, but I was irked at not being kept in the loop. I retrieved the card the corporal had given me and called.

  “Corporal Monaghan,” she answered.

  “Hi, it’s Roz. You were just out at my place on Longspell Road.”

  “Yup. What’s up?” she asked.

  “I’m curious about that recovery,” I said. “Where do they plan to take her?”

  “Once we get her into the Zodiac we’ll take her into Wolfville and have her transported to the medical examiner’s for an autopsy.”

  I was silent for a beat. “The Zodiac?” I said.

  “Constable Cudmore’s at the Wolfville detachment arranging to have one delivered to the Kingsport wharf ASAP.” She took the tone of indulging me with information I already had and should recall. “But as we explained to you earlier, we’ll have to wait for the tide before we can put it in the water.”

  “Tell Constable Cudmore he can scratch that arrangement,” I said. “She was just removed from the Minas Basin in a helicopter.”

  Corporal Monaghan was silent. I proceeded to describe what I had seen in as much detail as I could muster. “I took pictures,” I said, finishing my story.

  There was a pause and then, “Why don’t you forward those pix to my phone. There’s something else I have to do out your way this morning. In the meantime I’ll check this out.” She hung up abruptly.

  It was clear the RCMP were in the dark about the helicopter. Was this some kind of crossed-wire mix-up? If not, then who on earth had swooped in without informing the police?

  This event called for a cup of tea—as the unexpected often does. I returned to the cottage and went through to the narrow kitchen and plugged in the kettle. It had now been the better part of an hour since my call to McBride and he’d probably take a cup himself when he arrived. He had been on the wagon for years and I worried that this recent upheaval with Sophie might drive him back to the bottle.

  I paced around waiting for the water to boil, and then took my phone out of my pocket and sank into an old upholstered armchair in the enclosed porch and began to review the images I had captured. I had no idea how to forward photos from my new phone, but it was high time I figured out what most eight-year-olds could do in their sleep. The cat jumped up and settled herself on the arm, purring vigorously and watching me.

  “Your charm and good looks will get you nowhere,” I said. “You’re not going out!” I was searching for identifying marks on the helicopter or the rescuer’s outfit—logos, names, colours—but could see nothing on either the clothing or the gear. I was preparing to forward the pictures when the kettle finally whistled. I set the phone down on the arm of the chair and got up. The cat immediately batted at the phone and it slipped down between the seat cushion and the side of the chair and disappeared. “I saw that,” I said to her, “and the answer is still no—cheeky!”

  I poured the boiling water into the pot. It was a relief that the girl’s body had been retrieved, but I felt anxious and out of sorts. I paced around the kitchen while the tea steeped. I stared at the mugs in the old wooden dish cupboard, and selected one.

  I had been looking forward to going out by boat and examining how she was tied to the tree, having a close look at the flag and any other evidence that might have been overlooked and would now be lost forever. Not to mention getting the answers to questions like how long had she been dead, was she dead when she was first tied into the tree, and how exactly had she died?

  I poured the tea, stirred in a little milk and a spoonful of the honey I had bought on the drive out the evening before. I moved through the porch and sat down on the wooden stoop, watching two hummingbirds argue as they hovered over a blossoming weigela by the corner of the house. I stared across the basin recalling what I’d witnessed.

  I set the mug down as I heard the sound of a vehicle turning into the driveway at the front of the cottage. McBride had made good time. I was relieved that he was here—someone to share this surreal event with. I turned and looked at the cat, who was eyeing me intently through the panes of the porch door. “Molly’s arrived,” I said, teasing her. She blinked. Her scorn for the lab was evident. She looked up abruptly and I glanced around to greet McBride—but the two men in suits approaching me were strangers and they were moving fast. I got to my feet.

  “No need to ask any questions, ma’am. Just know that we’re here on official business, and to avoid trouble I would advise you to co-operate. You were observed taking pictures from this property this morning. We’d like you to hand over the camera or the device you were using.”

  “Sorry, did I miss the part where you identify yourselves?” I said.

  “As I said, no questions.” His tone was a little sharper. I looked at him curiously. Why, if this was official business, would he not show me his ID? I pushed back.

  “Explain who you are and why I should hand my personal device over to you. It’s legal to photograph the Minas Basin.”

  “Those pictures are now part of an investigation, so it would be wise for you to do as we tell you and hand it over. You can take this as a warning.”

  A warning? His lack of protocol and brusque manner brought out the devil, as my father used to say. Remembering that my phone had disappeared into
the chair, courtesy of the cat, I decided to brazen my way through.

  “When I was standing on the edge of the cliff taking those pictures, did whoever was observing me notice that I dropped my device? I’m afraid it may have fallen all the way down to the beach. I’m planning to look for it as soon as I finish my tea, but you’re welcome to go on down now and start searching.”

  “Sure. We’ll do that,” he responded, “but we’ll search the house first.” He gestured to his silent associate who took a step towards me.

  “Whoa! Not without a warrant, which you don’t appear to have,” I said. “And before you enter my house, I do have a right to have my lawyer present.”

  “Have it your way. We either take the device—or we take you,” he said.

  They moved in sync like lightning bolts, one to each side of me, and hauled me off the stoop. My foot knocked against the mug and my tea spilled over the step. I started hollering, but a hand was clapped over my mouth as they dragged me along the side of the cottage towards their dark-windowed Range Rover. I looked frantically around, but the road was deserted. The silent one got behind the wheel while the other shoved me into the back seat, got in, and forced my wrists together with plastic restraints.

  “Don’t speak,” he said as the vehicle began to move along Longspell Road towards the highway.

  We were almost as far as Longspell Farm’s driveway when I recognized the red Subaru coming towards us. It was Ruby Sube—McBride’s old wagon. I held myself back from a desperate attempt to yell or even to turn my head as it passed, for fear of giving away the fact that I had an ally in the neighbourhood.

  We crossed Medford Road and continued on downhill to the junction, where Longspell met the main road coming out of Kingsport. Without warning, an RCMP car pulled directly in front of us, blocking our entrance to the highway.

  “What the hell!” the driver said, rolling down his window.

  I held my breath. What was this? Was I about to be rescued? But no—on the road coming out of town there appeared a bright red and yellow 1930s tractor followed by another, and then another. I watched the RCMP officer step out of the cruiser and give them the thumbs up. It was Corporal Riley Monaghan, grinning broadly as a long line of vintage tractors, driven by gleeful octogenarian collectors, pulled past her and began rolling in a proud cavalcade along the highway.

  There were now three cars waiting behind us on Longspell Road. Our annoyed driver leaned on his horn and then abruptly got out of the SUV. Corporal Monaghan, keeping her eye on the slowly moving tractors, approached the SUV driver. “Sorry, sir. This highway is now blocked at all intersections while the Tractor Club’s annual parade takes place. You’ll have to wait.”

  “Let us through!” he said. “We’re on important business here.”

  “This is important business too. You can easily turn around, go back to the Medford Road, and then cut over to Canning from further up. My guess is you’ll likely beat the tractors into town—but no speeding now!”

  The driver scoffed and turned back to the SUV. As he opened his door to get in, I lurched forward and shouted, “Riley!”

  She turned as though she had heard something over the din of the tractors, but we were already on the move, screeching back up Longspell Road. My backseat companion grabbed me by the shoulders. “Another stunt like that and you’ll be gagged!” he said pulling me roughly back into place.

  “Look, who are you and what’s going on?” I said. “What do you want with me?”

  He was silent.

  “This obviously has something to do with the helicopter,” I continued. “Otherwise, why would you want the pictures?”

  Still no response.

  My mind was racing through my options. “Okay, you know what, I just remembered where my device is.”

  “About time,” he said. Though he maintained a cold demeanor, I could sense his relief. He leaned forward and spoke to the driver: “She’s decided to hand over the phone. We’re halfway there—let’s head back and get it.”

  I was banking on this. It would get me out of the vehicle, and with any luck McBride would be waiting at the cottage wondering where I was. Unless he had taken Molly for a walk. As we moved from pavement to gravel, I crossed my fingers.

  Chapter 3

  My backseat minder removed the wrist restraints and we got out of the car. He stared at McBride’s station wagon. “Whose is this?”

  “That belongs to the farm up the road,” I lied impulsively, attempting to keep McBride a secret. “They park here when they’re doing work at different places.”

  We walked around to the cliff side of the cottage. Molly stood and greeted me, wagging her tail vigorously. “Your dog?” the driver asked.

  “No, no—she’s from the farm, too,” I answered. “She just runs free—runs around all over the place.” I glanced through the large-paned windows. McBride was not in sight. But if Molly was here, he must be nearby. I opened the door and we stepped inside the porch—and they stood there, one looking at me expectantly and the other, the driver, looking out towards the basin.

  “Okay, I’m going to track down that phone for you,” I said, trying to sound contrite. I walked into the living room and slipped through the archway into the kitchen. Standing at the far end by the roadside door was McBride. I put my finger to my lips, walked right past him, and quietly pushed open the exterior door. “Let’s go,” I whispered.

  McBride and I moved silently out of the house and ran across the grass to his car. I got in on the passenger side. “Hold on. Don’t close your door yet,” he said. He opened the back door behind me and bird-whistled softly for Molly, who came racing around the house and leapt into the backseat. He closed both doors at the same time, then jumped into the driver’s seat and started the engine. With the enormous Range Rover blocking him in, he backed up a few inches, turned hard to his right, and drove rapidly across the yard, around a spindly red maple, and onto the driveway of the next cottage over.

  Then we were out on Longspell Road and moving fast, McBride constantly checking his rear-view mirror. We were a couple of hundred yards down the road when I saw that incorrigible grin on his face. “There they are now,” he said.

  I turned to look. The suits were running along the side of the cottage towards their SUV. They didn’t look happy. The road ahead of us curved to the left and I lost sight of them. Without warning, McBride abruptly turned right onto the driveway to the farm. At the top, he pulled in on the far side of an old grey Mazda truck, which served to mask us from the road below.

  We got out and stood between Ruby Sube and the cab of the truck. There were three large barns, a farmhouse, several outbuildings, and plenty of laundry on the line, but there was no one around.

  “So who are those characters?” he asked as we stared across the top of the cab and down to the road.

  “You got me,” I said, trying to steady my breathing. “They’re not saying. They’re after my phone—the pictures I took. They say its ‘official’ but they’re behaving like thugs.” I held out my wrists, which were bruised and scraped from the restraints.

  “That’s not your typical thug car. I think we’re playing with the big boys.”

  “Speaking of…” I said, spotting the Range Rover as it came into view. We watched as it moved at a clip past the farm’s driveway.

  “Good thing farmers keep keys in their vehicles, eh, Roz? I’m guessing this one won’t mind exchanging this little old Mazda truck for Ruby Sube.”

  “McBride!”

  “Just for the morning.” He was already around to the driver’s side and getting behind the wheel.

  “For God’s sake, McBride, I’m renting a cottage from these people!”

  “Don’t just stand there with your mouth open, Roz. Get Molly and hop to it! No time to waste. Let’s see what we can find out.” He started the engine and put the truck in gear. I di
d as I was told. What else could I do?

  Molly sat between us as we sped down the driveway and onto Longspell. Almost immediately we were at the intersection with Medford Road. “Turn right here,” I said. “They’ll assume we turned up this way to avoid the tractor parade—you must have just missed it, because you passed us when we were heading down towards the highway.”

  “Yup. The tractors were just lining up by the turn-off when I got here and I did see that SUV. Took a good look when I passed it because it seemed so out of place.”

  “Well, after the driver was turned back because of the parade, I told them I remembered where my phone was, hoping they would take me back to the cottage, which they did. I was counting on you being there. I figured you’d do something miraculous to get me away from them, and it worked because now here we are driving around in a stolen truck. I just hope they didn’t find my phone.”

  McBride reached into his pocket. “This one?” he said, handing it to me.

  “McBride! How did you find it…? What—are you psychic now? Did you catch that from Sophie?”

  “How do you think I found it? I phoned you. Nearly gave myself a hernia!”

  “You were in the chair! It was a trap set by the cat. I told her you were coming.”

  “Anyway, some disturbing pictures there, Roz. So who were you sending them to?”

  “I was figuring out how to send them on to Corporal Monaghan—the Mountie who came out this morning and affirmed what I thought I was seeing. She had this Zodiac retrieval plan on the go, and was blindsided by that helicopter business, so she wanted me to send her—oh look! There’s the SUV up ahead there, turning left by that yellow house.”

  “Weaver Road,” McBride said when we got to the turn. We stayed well back, just keeping the roof of the SUV in view.

  As they approached Pereaux Road, they surprised me by turning right. We followed suit and came over a rise just in time to see them turn left again.

  “Where do you think they’re heading?” McBride asked.