The Fundy Vault

by Linda Moore

  “How’s your stay going?” she asked.

  “It’s an extraordinary place, tide and all! I had a great picnic with some friends from the city earlier today. Where are you staying?” I asked.

  “I live here year round. My husband and I have a house close to the beach down near the pier. He’s been away, so I’m having some peace and quiet, but I’m picking him up tomorrow at the airport.”

  “What does he do?” I asked.

  “He’s a geologist, works over at the university. He loves it here, so close to the Bay of Fundy—it’s a geologist’s dream.”

  “But not many people live so close to Kingsport beach all year, do they?” I asked.

  “This place is deserted in the winter and most of the spring. High summer’s a different story with all the cottage owners in residence. They’ll soon be here. But in the off-season we do meet the occasional renter like yourself, and the farm’s a going concern year round.”

  We had reached the driveway to my cottage. “Here I am, safe and sound. Thanks again, Grace. You rescued me.”

  “Well, you were definitely in for a rude awakening. But I did save your book.” She handed me the weighty biography and I wished her a good evening. She continued on down the road with her two dogs.

  As I watched them go, my phone bleeped and I dug for it in my rucksack.

  “McBride!”

  “So I drove down Black Hole Road, Roz, hiked in alongside the creek and found those falls.”

  “Black Hole Falls?”

  “Well, there are actually two waterfalls. The one I was at is right there by Black Hole Cove. It’s called Haunted Falls, and like the young fella said, those falls are awesome—really high and roaring!”

  “That’s wild,” I said, “because I just fell asleep on the beach and had a dream about you caught in a roaring waterfall…and the girl in the tree, she was there too.”

  “Climbing down from the top to get out to the cove would be no picnic. I didn’t want to risk it with Molly. Another time I’ll try approaching the cove from the beach side when the tide’s out. And there are numerous caves along the shore that can be explored as well.”

  “I like that idea,” I said. “Let’s do it together.”

  “Maybe Sophie can join us. She texted me! She’s flying in tomorrow. I’m picking her up at eight in the morning.”

  “That’s fantastic news, McBride! You sound happy,” I said, relieved that things might be resolving between them.

  “It was nice to hear from her.”

  “Who are you kidding—you’re beside yourself,” I teased.

  “Okay, I admit it. I can’t wait to see her.”

  “You better get home and clean that house! Where are you now?”

  “I was making my way back to the valley, but a few minutes ago I passed the turn-off to Jasper Creek Road where we were this morning, so I decided to check it out just in case. After this I’ll head into Halifax.”

  “And what about the SUV?” I said. “Any sightings, or anything interesting?”

  “Here’s why I’m calling, Roz—I’m standing down here at the very end of Jasper Creek Road and right in front of me there’s a disproportionately large industrial bridge that crosses this tiny creek that runs out into the ocean, and on the other side of the bridge a fairly new gravelled road leads up a steep incline and disappears into this dense forest right at the top which overlooks the Bay of Fundy. Got the picture?”

  “I think so. End of the road, big new bridge, a steep hill, a forest at the top….”

  “Right. If that SUV was heading anywhere along this mostly deserted road, it must have been here, and I can vaguely hear some kind of motor running up there. I don’t have a clue what that could be. I’d like to find out, but strung across this industrial bridge in the middle of nowhere, there’s a high-tech steel cable and signs that say No Tres—”

  The phone went silent.

  “What? No Trespassing?…McBride? Hello?”

  I called him back, but no luck. If he had gotten out of range I knew he’d call me as soon as he could. I went into the cottage and poured myself a drink of water and fed the cat. But I couldn’t shake the ominous feeling I had. Putting a No Trespassing sign in front of McBride was like waving a red cloth in front of a bull.

  I went and stood in the porch and stared out at the basin. The morning’s events washed over me. My gut instinct said, “Go immediately.” I’d been dithering long enough. I grabbed a light jacket, got into Old Solid, and headed for North Mountain. There was still a reasonable amount of time before sunset. I pursued the same route we had taken that morning, only this time I would follow the road all the way down to the end. Hopefully I would arrive before dark and find McBride there or, with any luck, pass him along the way.

  Twenty minutes later I was at the top of the mountain making the turn onto Jasper Creek Road. There was little traffic, but when I got close to the juncture with the arts centre driveway I was forced onto the shoulder by a huge tanker truck coming the other way. He blared his horn as he roared past me. Once the dust had cleared, I could see an older model silver-grey Honda at the top of the driveway. In the driver’s seat was Jacob, the young fellow who had helped us out that morning.

  I beeped my horn and waved to him. He turned right onto Jasper Creek Road and stopped. I got out and hurried across as he opened his window.

  “Hi, Jacob,” I said. “Roz. Do you remember me from earlier today?”

  “Yeah sure, the gas.”

  “That’s right. I’m actually out here looking for my friend—the man I was with. You haven’t seen him by any chance? He would have a different vehicle. A Subaru wagon, red….”

  “I’ve been working outside all day—he didn’t come back to the centre.”

  “He followed your suggestion and hiked in to Black Hole Cove this afternoon. Said he saw Haunted Falls. Loved it!”

  The kid nodded. “It’s pretty cool.”

  “Anyway, he called me less than an hour ago from the end of this road. How far is it down to the Fundy shore anyway?” I asked.

  “Ten K or so.”

  “He was telling me there was some kind of fancy industrial bridge there. But then we lost the signal.”

  “It’s restricted.”

  “What is? The signal?”

  “The bridge. Illegal or something.”

  “You mean—it’s illegal to cross it?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. Listen, I’m running late for something—gotta get going,” he said, putting his car in gear. “Just be careful when you go down there. Seriously. Don’t cross the bridge.”

  I watched him drive away, towards the valley. I stood there in the lengthening shadows, overwhelmed with both apprehension and curiosity. How could a bridge in the middle of nowhere be illegal to cross?

  Maybe McBride would have the answer by now. I got back into Old Solid and headed for the end of the road.

  Chapter 7

  I must be almost there, I thought. I’d been driving along the deserted road for what felt like forever. Now and again there were glimpses of the Bay of Fundy in the distance. The water glowed red in the low sun. I passed a hand-painted sign pointing to a small quarry off to the right. I recalled Jacob mentioning a quarry when we’d asked him about the road earlier in the day. A couple of kilometres closer to the water was a dirt lane going off to my left which appeared to run behind a line of summer cabins along the shore.

  Abruptly Jasper Creek Road narrowed and I slowed to a crawl. It pitched down and then opened out to a small parking area edged by a couple of decrepit wooden fishing shacks which faced out to the rocky beach. There were no parked vehicles down there. I came to a halt on the brink of the slope. As I peered down into the deserted lot, the sun began to disappear below the distant horizon.

  Nervous about negotiating the steep slope in the i
ncreasing gloom, I pulled over to the right as far as possible, parked, and began picking my way carefully along the incline on foot. Partway down, a wide, freshly gravelled road opened out to my right and I saw that it led to the oversized bridge McBride had called to tell me about.

  I walked the twenty yards or so to the bridge. Strung across its entire width was the steel cable McBride had described. The cable was connected on either side to tall poles which sported metal signs reading: No Trespassing. Violators will be Prosecuted—24-Hour Video Surveillance. This was what McBride had been about to read to me when we lost the signal. I looked up. Atop the tall poles at either side were video cameras. Jacob’s words came back to me. “Seriously: don’t cross the bridge.”

  Had McBride crossed it? I checked the thick steel cable. It was automated and secured at either end, apparently requiring a code to operate, so there was no way he could have taken his car across unless someone had released the cable. The narrow little creek was several metres below the bridge, running out into the Bay of Fundy from the woods and dense brush of North Mountain. McBride had said that he could hear something running up on the bluff, but at this moment it was dead silent. Surely if he’d decided to duck under the cable and proceed on foot, his car would be right here somewhere. I whistled for Molly and called her name, but to no avail.

  It was now dusk. I could only conclude that McBride had left the area prior to my arrival. Maybe his phone had simply died. Even putting aside Jacob’s warning, it was getting too late for me to duck under the cable and climb the hill. I turned and began walking back up to my car. I scanned the parking lot and the beach beyond but could see no vehicles, no boats, no activity of any kind in the encroaching darkness. I got into Old Solid, reversed slowly, and managed to turn around. Relieved but confounded, I began heading back along Jasper Creek Road towards the Valley.

  A couple of kilometres along the deserted road I felt compelled to give McBride’s cell another try. I pulled over to make the call, but all I got was the exasperating “customer is unavailable” message.

  This excursion had yielded nothing. I counselled myself to stop worrying about McBride. With Sophie coming home tomorrow, he was sure to be heading into Halifax by now. He was notoriously messy when left to his own devices, but I knew he’d be anxious to please her. Picturing him tackling his place made me smile. It would likely take him half the night to get everything in good order.

  By the time I got back to my cottage on Longspell Road I was exhausted and hungry. The June bugs were slamming themselves against the windows, occasionally startling me and riling the cat. There was a heavy mist moving around the point, giving a damp chill to the night air. I heated up some Campbell’s chicken noodle soup, and sliced some of the fresh bread the actors had left behind. I decided to make a little fire in the wood stove, grabbed a quilt from the bed, and curled up with my hot soup in front of the fire. I let myself get lost in a book my friend Harvie had sent me when I told him where I would be vacationing. It was Harry Thurston’s Tidal Life: A Natural History of the Bay of Fundy. I began to relax, and told myself that all would be well.

  A bright beam of morning sun came through the living room from the porch window, struck my eye, and woke me with a start. As I stretched out on the couch I knocked my rucksack over and its contents spilled onto the floor. I groaned and reached down for my phone to see the time. Almost nine. I had overslept.

  I got to my feet, hauled the quilt from the couch, took it back to the bedroom, and went into the kitchen to put the kettle on. You Again was around my legs. I fed her, and returned to the pile on the living room floor.

  I began placing the contents back into my bag—wallet, cosmetics, car keys, blood pressure pills. In the midst of it all was the notebook I had put in my bag the previous day so I’d remember to drop it at the farm. It had flopped open on the floor and was lying face down. As I picked it up, a small newspaper clipping fluttered out. I unfolded it. It had been cut out from the Portland Press Herald, a Maine paper, and was dated the March just past.

  Young Journalist Wins Award

  Portland’s Aurelia Strange has won the Emerging Writer Prize for a national competition sponsored by the Society of Environmental Journalists. Her winning article is entitled “Our Lowly Honeybee Versus A Pesticide Giant.” Ms. Strange graduated with honors from the King‘s College School of Journalism in Halifax, Nova Scotia, in 2012. In her interview, she said she hoped to use her prize money to take a trip back to Nova Scotia to work on a new investigation.

  The kettle whistled and I jumped. While the tea steeped, I went into the porch and sat down in the big armchair with Aurelia’s notebook. Inside the cover was a receipt for the book from a gift shop on Main Street in Wolfville. I flipped through. There was only one entry—she must have just begun to use it when she left it behind—it read:

  Finally landed the perfect place to stay on the Fundy side of North Mountain—a great price and the little cabin is super clean and has electric heat. The woman is grateful to have a tenant for the place.

  I’ll be sad to leave this beautiful cottage, but I must get closer to the site & keep a better record of the daily activity if I’m going to make a watertight case. What I’ve learned already is shocking. I believe I’m on the verge of a breakthrough and once I have all my ducks in a row, I will pursue an interview with the head honcho—treacherous though it may be. Will pack after I get back from the library and move up to the cabin later today.

  “Treacherous,” I said aloud, staring at the journal entry and wondering what “activity” this young journalist wanted to be close to on the Bay of Fundy. And who was this “head honcho”? I set the notebook down and went into the kitchen to pour the tea. As I was stirring in the honey, my phone rang.

  “Hello—yes? Hello!” I caught it just before it went to message.

  “Roz?”

  “Sophie! McBride told me you were flying in this morning. How are you?”

  “Upset is how I am. Where’s McBride? My plane was right on time. I arrived over an hour ago. I’ve called his place, called his cell…no sign of him. So where is he, do you know? Roz? Are you still there?”

  “I’m here, Soph…God, I don’t know what to tell you. I’ll drive in and get you.”

  “No, no, I’ll grab a cab. It’s fine, thanks—I’m just…I was determined to make things better between us. Fresh start, right? He promised to be here and he’s not. I feel like a total loser.”

  “Look, Sophie, McBride was over the moon that you were coming home. He told me he’d be picking you up at 8 this morning. Whatever’s happened, it’s my fault. I’ve dragged him into this bizarre situation that came at me out of the blue yesterday. When he left my cottage, he wanted to do a little on-the-ground investigating before heading to Halifax. I better go, Soph…I’ve got to track him down. I’ll find him.”

  “Well, don’t leave me in the dark, Roz! Call me to let me know what’s happening.” We rang off.

  I was shaking. I had to calm down and think clearly about this. McBride had been in sticky situations many times before, and emerged without a scratch. But I had just told Sophie I would find him, and I had no idea where to look.

  Chapter 8

  By 10 A.M. I was back on Jasper Creek Road, where my search for McBride would have to begin. As I passed the driveway to the arts centre, I impulsively turned in to seek out Jacob. I wanted to find out if he knew more than he had told me about the industrial bridge and why it was so heavily secured.

  I drove down past the farmhouse and the outbuildings. He was nowhere to be seen, but as I reached the parking lot by the arts centre entrance, the door opened and the woman I had seen registering students the previous day came out.

  I called out to her. “I’m looking for Jacob! Is he around?”

  “I think he’s stacking square bales for an outdoor benefit we’re doing in the field this weekend,” she said, walking towards the ca
r. “And you are…?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, realizing how anxious and rude I must seem. “I’m Roz.” I stepped out of the car. “Are you Heather?”

  “Yes, I am,” she said.

  “Jacob mentioned you to me,” I said. “I’d asked him whether you rent studio space—I’m looking for something for three days next week.”

  “Wednesday through Friday is available.”

  “Really?”

  “You’re in luck,” she said. “After that, both studios are booked solid with rehearsals for our own productions, so you just squeaked in.”

  “I’ll take it.” I got out my cheque book to give her a deposit.

  “Don’t you think you should take a quick look at the space first?”

  “You’re right,” I said, trying to focus. If I didn’t find McBride there was no way I’d be able to switch gears and work in the studio the following week. But maybe the company could use the space and do the work without me.

  She walked me through the studio. It was perfect, and I told her so.

  “What will you be working on anyway?” she asked.

  “Beckett material—short works. Myself and four actors from Halifax are starting to put a show together.”

  “What brought you out here?”

  “I was driving around these parts with a friend yesterday and I’m embarrassed to say we ran out of gas. That young fellow—Jacob—helped us out. I don’t see him here today. I might track him down just to say hello.”

  “Feel free. Just out behind the red barn next to the main building.”

  “Thanks, Heather,” I said as I hurried out the door.

  “I love Beckett,” she called after me.

  “Me too.”