She’s never seen the North Atlantic the way it is now. A never-ending desert of ice. In past years, she’s come after the ocean’s begun to thaw. The landscape out the window is scary. She can make out the horizon just vaguely.
On land there are towering drifts of snow everywhere, some as high as a three-story house. The streets are like tunnels, with thick walls on either side. How do you avoid claustrophobia here? She has no idea how people in Labrador manage to survive the winter. Normally she’s no longer here by the first snowfall. But there are good reasons for coming back to Labrador again and again. There’s no other choice this year but to fight her way through.
The swirling, drifting snow denies her a view of the shimmering ice outside. A white barrier will soon drop over it like a theater curtain. She will still be able to make out Shannon Wilkey’s house across the bay, sad to say. She can’t make it go away, even though she’s constantly furious about it. There was nothing on that spot before. Just a rocky shore and undisturbed bush. Until Shannon Wilkey went and plunked down an architectural monster and ruined the view. It spoiled the joy of living in Port Brendan in the summertime. The village is just the right size to her. Two thousand inhabitants, and she’s made friends with some of them. She loves the Mealy Mountains in the distance, and she loves one of the most beautiful beaches nearby—twenty-five miles of sparkling white gold. A legend tells of the Vikings who were said to have landed there. Ann knows all of them, those legends.
She finds peace and security in Port Brendan. Keeping her private life private is difficult, however, because the locals are so curious. She skillfully reveals only what she wants to. She knows folks are puzzled by what a young woman from far away is doing in Port Brendan. But nobody can pry her secret from her.
Every spring she looks forward to flying to Deer Lake, traveling for five hours up the breathtaking west coast of Newfoundland and taking the car ferry over to Blanc-Sablon. It’s still a good three hours to Port Brendan after that. A long trip—it’s not for impatient people—but she doesn’t mind. It’s where she’s found her second home.
And then Shannon Wilkey discovered her bay. Ghost Bay. When she got wind that the American woman intended to build a house catercorner from her, Ann didn’t believe it at first. Nobody would build there. Too rocky. Too exposed to the brutal winds. And where could you put the septic field the village stipulates? Certainly not on that bedrock.
Had she known Shannon better, she wouldn’t have been so naïve. Now she knows that if that American woman wants something, she’ll go and get it. What a monster that house turned out to be! The buildings in Port Brendan have small windows to keep the warmth of the wood stoves inside in winter and the wind outside in summer. Like her cozy little frame house. In Shannon’s villa the windows go from floor to ceiling. Like in an aquarium. A shark tank. How often has she pictured in her mind’s eye the villa going up in flames! Red-yellow tongues blazing up into the dark sky. In her revenge fantasy, she doesn’t see anyone flee the house. It’s always too late to escape. Sometimes she even manages to shock herself with her fantasy.
She aims her binoculars at the ice again. A dot of color in front of Shannon’s villa catches her eye. The American drives a silver SUV. But now a red pickup’s parked there. Ann saw it a week ago Friday, too, and then again on Tuesday. Her eyes go back to some movement on the ice. Suddenly a hot rage seizes her. It’s stronger than her sense of caution. Ann has never thrust herself into the public eye in Port Brendan. Until now. She puts down the binoculars fast and reaches for the phone.
When Wendy answers at the police station, Ann says in a trembling voice: “I think there’s an injured animal in a blue garbage bag out on the ice.”
9
Well, that’s a fine start to the day. I open the front door, and what do I see before me? A white wall. I can clearly recognize the door’s imprint in the snow, the indentations and protrusions. I fetch the broom and try to hack holes into the wall with the handle. Abject failure. Some snow falls into the house, but the wall stands firm.
The wind had all night to plaster snow against the side of the house. Where’s Rick Stout, who’s supposed to plow it? I wouldn’t mind if he burst into the house—only he can’t because that wall is in the way. I have to get to the office early today so I can speak with Closs before the others show up. Closs is on the early shift. It’s a quarter to eight; I hope that gives me an hour alone with him. To stake out some territory. I drew up a situation plan for him, a list of people that we ought to interrogate in the Lorna Taylor case, and also some hints where we might need to begin the questioning. And what does Closs do? He assigns the men to be questioned to my colleagues, the women to me. Better to talk woman to woman, he seems to think. Baloney.
Of course, I was hoping to be able to decide which people to question. Stands to reason, after all: I’m a fresh pair of eyes on the case; the others can’t see the woods for the trees anymore.
I hack away again at the wall of snow. I get nowhere. Except that my right wrist hurts. Could be the result of injuries from the attack, though. I can never predict when something’s going to hurt again.
There’s a balcony door in the kitchen, but the balcony itself is missing. I tear it open, and I squint until I can see again. Gusts of snow blow in my face. I take a look down. It should work without me breaking a leg. Everything’s padded with snow anyway.
I slip on my winter jacket, put on my toque and gloves. The wind has turned more bearable—only forty miles an hour, says the weather report—but it’s supposed to get worse soon. I take a deep breath. Cold, cold, cold. Then I jump. Land in a snowdrift, break through, deep. Up to my chest. Half my body is stuck in a freezing vise. Didn’t count on that.
I rotate my arms like a windmill. My ski outfit doesn’t help; I can’t get any friction. My slippery gloves are useless. Shoot! I’ve got to get to the office! This threatens to wreck my beautiful plan.
Then I hear a snowblower. The machine slowly makes a path to my house. Rick Stout sees me stuck and turns the machine off.
“How the heck did you get there?”
I look up at the open balcony door; he does, too. Grins.
“We call that the mother-in-law door.”
I don’t ask why. Can figure out the answer myself.
“There used to be a wooden porch around the house,” he explains, “but they took it down, it was so rotten.”
Looks like the door isn’t an emergency exit for heavy snow days. Who knew?
“Can you get me out of here?” I ask meekly.
“Sure.”
Stout shovels me to freedom.
“It was just a bit of snow,” he jokes.
His throat is uncovered in spite of the cold. Doesn’t seem to bother him. He looks around as if seeing his surroundings for the first time.
“Pretty soon we can export igloos.”
My feet are starting to freeze.
“I need my car. It’s in the garage.”
Rick sticks his shovel in the snow.
“You’ll have to wait for the snowplow. Hasn’t come by today yet. The street’s blocked.”
But the guy’s got a snowblower! Stout points to the sky.
“There’ll be more snow this afternoon. Where’s your Ski-Doo?”
“In the shed.”
I point to the left side of the house. A new machine, Closs emphasized. As if he was afraid I’d smash it up first thing.
“That’s what you’ll need.”
Stout starts up the snowblower, and it eats through the snow up to the shed. Then he digs out my front door.
Before leaving, he returns to the shed and looks at my snowmobile. Bits of ice hang from his moustache.
“Must have been darn expensive. Have you driven it yet?”
I nod. I made three little circles with it yesterday. And was constantly afraid of tipping over. I don’t want to come to my final resting place under this monstrosity.
Stout gets moving.
“I’ve
got to dig my uncle out. His arm’s in a sling because he slipped on the ice.”
I suddenly see my neighbor in a new light. First he helps me, then his uncle.
“Thanks for digging me out,” I shout after him.
All he does is raise an arm in response.
Keep your distance from the local population—that was drilled into me in Vancouver. That’ll be hard to do here. In Port Brendan you’re continually dependent on other people. And they’re so terribly helpful. When you fraternize with them, staying objective is difficult. The entire RCMP team in Port Brendan comes from different provinces, so none of us has grown up with the locals or is related to any of them.
That’s not a problem in Vancouver. I shake the snow off my ski clothes and boots. In Vancouver—that’s where I want to be now. No snow there. I can jog and bike every day. Or roller-skate. I don’t mind the rain. I’m a water animal. You don’t go swimming in Labrador. The North Atlantic is far too cold. The lakes, too. In Vancouver I start swimming in March. And now I’m stuck in this icy hole. I’ve only been here for three days, and every waking hour I pine for the Pacific. Most folks in Port Brendan have probably never even seen it.
Then I hear Stout’s voice again. He’s stopped on the unplowed street.
“What kind of a name is Calista?” he shouts. That must really be important for him.
“It’s Greek.”
My mother explained to me when I was little what it means: the most beautiful. Because you’re the most beautiful one to me. But she only said that when my sisters weren’t around.
I didn’t tell Stout that my father’s Greek. After he fled to Canada, he changed our family name from Galanis to Gates. As if it were something to be ashamed of.
“My name’s Rick,” Stout shouts as he walks away with his snowblower. He told me that yesterday.
I take off my ski clothes in the house and call the office. Wendy, the dispatcher, answers. She is the mother of four children. She calls my male colleagues by their given names; to her, I’m Constable Gates. A subtle division of the sexes.
“Constable Gates? I was just about to call you. We need you. Something peculiar was spotted out on the ice. We have to check it out. Austin and Frank are on their way to Mary’s Harbor. Fred has to see the doctor.”
“What’s on the ice? A person?”
“We don’t know yet. Maybe an injured dog, but Sergeant Closs wants you to go and check it out. We got a phone call about it.”
Closs has no desire to go look for himself, apparently.
“The snowplow hasn’t come yet,” I say. “I can’t take my SUV.”
“You need the snowmobile for the ice. You’ve got to go out on the ice. In the bay.”
She sounds as if she’s being a little gentle with me. I’m the new person from Vancouver, and I don’t have a clue. Wendy’s been working at the station for eleven years. My throat feels slightly irritated.
“Where on the ice?”
“In Ghost Cove.”
Appropriate name. I’ve seen it on the map. Not far from here.
“Who’s coming with me?”
RCMP officers are never allowed to go into a dangerous situation alone. Strict orders from above. The ice is considered a risky zone.
“We’ve scared somebody up. Gerald Hynes. The chief of the volunteer fire department.”
Great! The volunteer fire department. Closs’s broad hint to me that Port Brendan plays by different rules.
Then something crosses my mind. Gerald Hynes. The contractor who built the Viking house. Now I can grill the guy without asking Closs’s permission.
“Gerald’s waiting for you at the fire hall,” Wendy says, concluding our conversation.
10
Gerald sees her coming from a long way off. A bright green blur on a snowmobile weaving its way among Port Brendan’s houses. Like a green grasshopper on skis. Her Ski-Doo swerves now and then. An unskilled, delicate little city girl who’s still got a lot to learn. He doesn’t understand why they sent a Vancouver Mountie to Labrador. A woman who doesn’t have the physique or the toughness.
He’d spotted Calista Gates yesterday in front of the supermarket. Even in her ski outfit she looked like a deer, petite and lean. Gotta have meat on your bones in Labrador; it’s no place for somebody skinny as a reed who can be blown down by a gust of wind. A gust like this one right now.
Doesn’t the RCMP have any physical requirements for their personnel? How can such a delicate flower incapacitate a man, a man like him, for instance? Maybe she thinks the gun in her holster makes her invincible. I bet she’ll soon be giving tickets to drivers without their seat belt on. Half the people in Port Brendan don’t fasten their seat belts, for Chrissake. After all, this ain’t Vancouver, it’s the wild North. Freedom’s still king here; they know nothing about that in the cities of the South. The woman’s got to try to make herself a bit liked. Those guys, her colleagues, are more laid back about it.
But that’s the way it’s always been. The RCMP sends people to Port Brendan from far away. Everybody knows that a posting to an isolated place nobody wants to go to gets you more money because of the bonus pay for the higher cost of living in the North. That’s how it is with newcomers. It’s the dough that brings them here. They even lure doctors to the hospital with a big fat raise so they can justify the move.
He’s heard other rumors about Calista Gates, though. That she’s being tested in Labrador to see if she’s still suited for the police. Unfortunately he hasn’t been able to find out anything more yet. Those guys in Vancouver evidently think they can use Port Brendan like a research lab. And people here like guinea pigs. As if it doesn’t matter one bit who’s unleashed on the population.
At least she’s amazingly quick. He wouldn’t have thought her capable of getting dressed and getting the snowmobile in gear in so little time. And she’s attired properly for the storm that’s already raging. Her Ski-Doo looks new, an elegant machine with a windshield; she no doubt got it from the RCMP.
She stops six feet in front of him and takes off her helmet.
“Gerald Hynes?”
Her question is a bit muffled because of her thin ski mask. She hasn’t learned yet to pull the thing down to speak. With that black skintight headgear that leaves only her eyes uncovered, she looks like a Ninja warrior. Her eyes are watering.
“Do you know where we’re going?” she asks, in full emergency mode.
Gerald is convinced that the call to the police is a mistake. Ann Smith sounded the alarm. A stranger from Ontario who’s not usually here in the winter. She hasn’t got a clue what’s normal and what isn’t.
But it’s a good opportunity for Gerald to meet the policewoman from Vancouver. His adrenaline starts to pump.
“Always stay right behind me!” he shouts. He can’t hear her answer over the noise of his howling motor.
He speeds down the snowmobile path. He would go even faster, but he’s towing a wood sled. You never know. When he looks back, he sees how bravely she’s taking the humps of snow. He could have gone around the bay on firm ground but goes quickly onto the frozen ocean instead. The surface is as rough as a pebble beach. The air has turned whiter. Gates is clearly traveling more slowly. He looks back repeatedly. Must keep a steady eye on her. This excursion should make her just a little more humble. He sees her swerve to the right. She’s found a track that’s not quite as bumpy and accelerates. Smart kid.
Gerald heads for the rocky outcrop at the end of the bay. He mustn’t push it too far, or the Mountie will wind up in a snow squall. They’re moving side-by-side now. Ghost Bay lies before them. In better weather you’d see the villa he and his men built for Shannon Wilkey. On the opposite shore, his late grandfather’s old fishing docks cling to the rocks. Ann Smith lives in his house. He’s never understood why Shannon wanted to build right here. On the rocks. There were much better places. How can you figure these people out? An eccentric American with too much cash. From Texas. When her husband comes to visit�
��rarely—they both put on cowboy hats. Otherwise Shannon shows off her blonde mane. Who the heck knows why she’s here so early, in March, and not in Texas. And before this year Ann Smith has never come until May.
Ann thinks it’s an animal that’s on the ice out here. She feels more for animals than for people, the way he sees it. When old Helen’s house burned down in November, she phoned him up to inquire about the fate of Helen’s cats. Never said a word about poor Helen, who managed to escape with only the clothes on her back. He almost hung up, with an obscene word. But since he and Melissa separated, he has to worry about his reputation, or else the girls will think he’s a misogynist. The selection of potential girlfriends in Port Brendan isn’t large enough to afford that.
He doesn’t see anything blue on the ice. He doesn’t see much of anything at all; he’s got the feeling he’s under frosted glass. Suddenly Gates waves her arm.
What does she want now? She makes a circle in the bay, goes along the coast and over the ice, then makes a smaller circle. Concentric circles. She forces him to do the same. He swears under his breath. They’ll still be out on the bay at nightfall if she keeps up like this.
As he turns his snowmobile, he can see the sled he’s towing out of the corner of his eye. And there’s something else—he brakes and peers at it more closely. Then he makes his motor roar like a bull moose in rut until the Mountie looks over. He lifts his arm. A blue bundle on the ice. They head carefully for it from different directions, their paths forming an arrowhead.
A large blue plastic bag. The wind pulls at the loose corners but can’t lift the bag because something heavy keeps it on the ice.
Gerald gets off his snowmobile and is about to bend over it, but Calista—ever the investigator—stops him with a hand gesture. All this fuss about a garbage bag, he thinks to himself.
She takes off her helmet, then her bulky gloves. She has thin gloves on under them. She’s really thought of everything. He watches her approach the blue plastic bag and lift a corner. Something hairy looks out. A dog’s head.
CRIES FROM THE COLD: A bone-chilling mystery thriller. (Detective Calista Gates 1) Page 7