by J C Paulson
“I can’t. They’ll kill me. Not that that would be much of a loss to anyone.”
“Who will kill you?”
“I can’t tell you. They’ll kill me. They might even kill me if they know you’ve been here. Please. Can you leave now?”
*****
Now what was he going to do? Tom Allbright was in a jail shared by Al Simpson, scared to death for his life. Neither of them would point a finger, nor take any responsibility for two deaths. Did Tom need protection? Did Al?
And would moving them to a different jail make any damn difference?
Adam pondered and worried as he and James left the centre.
“I can’t just leave him there, in general population,” Adam said, once they were outside. “He’s messed up on drugs, but obviously he’s scared to death and equally obviously, he’s connected to Elias’s murder.”
“Solitary seems like a bad idea for a guy that fucked up,” James observed.
“Yeah. That’s another problem. And what about Al? How’s he involved in all this, and if we can believe Tom, is he in danger, too?”
Adam shook his head to clear his thoughts. “I want to go back in there and tell the desk sergeant to keep an eye on them. But shit, James, if Al is a suspect, who else might be involved? And could that person, or those people, be here, or in Saskatoon?”
Adam’s phone pinged. He looked down to see a message from Grace.
Found Elias’s uncle, it read. He thinks army involved.
Why? Adam texted back.
Told me what happened to Elias. Much news. When can we talk?
Soon. Have to deal with a problem first. Four?
OK. See you at the cabin.
Adam showed James the conversation.
“We have to get them out of here.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Adam and James stood firmly before the desk of the Ford dealership in Meadow Lake, pulling rank.
“I need to rent a vehicle,” said Adam, showing the salesman his badge.
“We don’t rent cars here, sir,” he said.
“You do now.”
Meadow Lake, population approximately five thousand, was devoid of car rental companies, to Adam’s considerable chagrin. Hence, the dealership.
The salesman still looked dubious.
“Let’s pretend we’re taking it for an extended test drive,” Adam suggested.
The man sighed.
“Let me call my manager.”
An hour later, having signed copious amounts of paperwork and putting the Saskatoon Police’s insurance policy on the line, James had his own slightly-used SUV. Adam called Chief McIvor and insisted that Tom Allbright and Al Simpson be moved to Saskatoon, there to be held temporarily in police cells under constant supervision.
“Until I know they’re safe, Chief. We can’t just leave them here. Allbright’s testimony and Al Simpson’s body language were pretty convincing. They’re also our witnesses — well, hopefully — as well as suspects.”
“This better not be a fucking tempest in a goddamned teapot.”
“I know, Chief.” Adam held back a burst of laughter at the chief’s language, peppering the old saying with his usual expletives. “Could you please call the correctional centre, and tell them James will be hanging out there until the wagon comes to pick them up?”
“Will do. The wagon should be there in about four hours. When the hell are you coming back?”
“Tomorrow, I think. Unless some other crazy thing happens.”
James got behind the wheel of the newly-rented vehicle, and Adam hopped into the police SUV.
“Come by the cabin when you’re finished here,” Adam said, through the windows. “We’ll feed you and catch you up.”
“Okay. Will there be beer?”
“Beer there will be.”
Adam saluted his constable, rolled up the window and started the drive north to Ferguson Lake, ready to let the forty minutes of solitude clear his mind — and more than ready to see Grace. What the RCMP couldn’t, or wouldn’t, accomplish in a few days she had managed in less than one.
The thought brought another. Adam pulled over onto a farmer’s grid road, hauled out his phone and called Nathan Ellard.
“Hey, Sarge,” he answered, sounding sorrowful. “That was some crazy shit.”
“Yeah, I know. Sorry, Nathan. I should have stuck around to talk, but we had to get Al out of there. So, I’m calling. I need to know what efforts were made to find Elias Crow’s family.”
“Well, we sent out an email to the reserves in the area, to the chiefs. Al did some calling around.”
“Did you actually hear or see him do so?”
Ellard paused, then quietly said, “No. He said he would handle it.”
“It looks like he didn’t. And no response to the emails?”
“I’ve only seen a couple, but no one so far has admitted to knowing Elias. He had been off the grid for quite some time, Sarge. I don’t know if he was originally from around here.”
“He was. I’m going to find out more in about half an hour. Okay, thanks, Nathan. I’ll be in touch.”
Adam turned back to the highway, wondering how Al Simpson thought he would get away with not making every effort to find the dead man’s family. Did he have an exit strategy in place? Did he think he’d be long gone before his detachment realized something was wrong? If so . . . where was he planning to go?
Suddenly, Adam was anxious to return to the cabin. There were two men dead, two men in jail, Grace had been attacked and someone out there was ultimately responsible. Who was it, and where was he?
Or, where were they?
He pushed down the accelerator and pulled into the cabin driveway thirty minutes later. Jumping out of the SUV, he felt his heart tick faster as he walked up to the cabin and opened the door, calling out for Grace.
No answer. She wasn’t there. His heart thumped a little harder, as he headed down the path to the beach.
There she was, sitting on the last dock remaining in the water. Her arms encircled her knees, and her hair flew behind her in a stiffening breeze, as she looked out over the shining blue water.
“Hey, Babe,” Adam said as he came up behind her, his shoulders dropping in relief. He crouched down and hugged her, nuzzling. “Are you all right?”
Grace turned in his arms, rising onto her knees, and threw her own arms around him in a clutch of passion.
“Is that a no, then?” Adam asked, trying to look into her face, but it was buried in his neck. “Honey?”
“I’m better now,” she mumbled into him. “Hold me. Kiss me,” she added, removing her face from his body and offering her lips.
Adam touched her mouth with his, gently, but Grace placed her hand on the back of his head and kissed him hard.
“Right here in front of God and everyone?” Adam said lightly, and a touch breathlessly, after the kiss had finally ended. Then he looked into her eyes and saw her distress. He helped Grace to her feet and led her to the little bench at the end of the dock.
“Talk to me,” he said, pulling her down.
“As I told you, I found Elias’s uncle,” Grace said. “Elijah Starblanket is his name. He’s an Elder on the Raven River Reserve.”
She told Adam the entire conversation, from Elias’s adoption through to the Elder’s final words.
“It was a cabal, he said. He also blamed the army for giving the soldiers a really nasty anti-malarial drug as well as codeine. He said it messed them up horribly, including Elias.”
“Mefloquine?”
Grace nodded.
“I looked it up. Mefloquine was brought into use as a prophylaxis against malaria in 1989 in the United States — four years before our soldiers were dosed with it before being shipping out to Somalia. It was still very new to the military, but the drug came with a “discontinue” warning if someone experienced psychiatric symptoms, vivid dreams or even insomnia.”
Grace paused and looked down, shaking her head.
“If they didn’t know the side effects, that’s one thing. But even back then, there were indications that this drug could cause extreme symptoms. One study’s authors recommended that pilots not use it, and that was in 1982. No wonder so many soldiers came back with PTSD.”
“There are other anti-malarials, aren’t there?” Adam asked.
“Yes, at least two that were — and still are — commonly used for people travelling to Africa or other places where malaria is a problem.”
“So how many armed forces members are out there with long-term mefloquine side effects?” Adam mused.
“Too many,” Grace said, bitterly.
“Including our killer, possibly. And definitely at least one of our victims.”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Well, we can release Elias’s name now; or at least, we can as soon as I talk to his uncle. But should we?”
“What are you thinking, Adam?”
“Is there a benefit to withholding his identity? You’ve already reported that someone was murdered at Ferguson Lake. If the killer is following the news, he knows we found him; but he knew that anyway, right? He was on the island when we arrived. But he doesn’t know we’ve identified him, unless he heard you calling Elias’s name. That might buy us some time. We know something he doesn’t know.”
Adam paused for a moment and ran a hand through his hair.
“And it might protect Elijah Starblanket. If they don’t know we’ve talked to him, then theoretically, we don’t know what Elijah knows. But if we release Elias’s name, they’ll know we’ve informed the family, and probably interviewed him.”
Grace nodded.
“When you say ‘they?’” she prompted.
“We already have Al Simpson, Tom Allbright and at least one other person involved in this — whoever picked up Martin Best at the psychiatric hospital. That qualifies as ‘they.’ If Elijah is right, there are more.”
Grace shivered. It was after five by now, and the September sun was slipping toward the west, taking the day’s warmth with it.
“This sucks,” she said, turning her face toward the water.
“Yes, it does.” Adam checked his watch. “We have three hours, more or less, before James returns.”
“Late dinner, then.”
“Yes. Want to, ah, build up an appetite?”
Grace smirked. That’s better, Adam thought.
“Do you want to go for a walk?” she teased him.
“I had a little indoor exercise in mind. It’s getting chilly out here.”
“So it is.”
*****
Adam lay on his side, touching the tips of Grace’s breasts, one after the other, back and forth in a steady rhythm, like a musician with two tiny drums.
“Feeling any better?” he asked her.
“Much. Amazing what making love will do. All those endorphins block out everything else. If you keep that up, though, mister . . . “
“Then what, Grace?” Adam increased the pressure of his touch.
“Oh!” she cried, her hips coming up. “Damn it, man.”
“Do you want me to stop?”
“No. That depends. Do we have time to . . . ahhh . . .”
“More, then.”
“Yes. Oh, God.”
Afterward, Grace held Adam tightly, stroking his hair and back.
“My beautiful man,” she finally murmured.
Loath to leave his warm home, Adam stayed inside her for a while as she crooned, but finally eased himself up and over onto the bed. He pulled her into him, and they fell asleep in a cocoon of remembered pleasure and peace.
*****
“Adam! Adam!”
He awakened with a start. Someone was shouting. Damn. Who?
“Adam!”
“I’m coming!” Adam shouted, recognizing James’s voice. In the same moment, he smelled smoke. “Grace! Wake up. Something’s wrong,” he said, pulling on jeans.
Adam dashed out the bedroom door and toward the back of the cabin; James’s calls had come from that direction. In the darkness, all he could see was the bright flare of an orange flame.
“Holy God,” Adam whispered, and lunged outside.
James was already at the side of the cottage, rummaging in the fire-thrown shadows for the garden hose. Adam saw that the shed immediately behind the cabin was alight, and knew they had seconds to tame it. Gasoline for boats, propane for cooking, all the explosive fuel an arsonist could possibly want was in that little hut.
James obviously knew it too. Every cabin owner or guest in Saskatchewan would have.
“Grace! Get out of the cabin! Now!” Adam yelled, grabbing a shovel and vaguely thanking himself for forgetting to put it away. As fast as his arms would allow, he began throwing loamy dirt at the flames, as James turned on the faucet and aimed the hose’s icy flow at the shed.
Seconds later, Gordon Allbright appeared, panting and on the run with a second shovel in his hands.
“Skip’s getting the water truck,” he gasped. The subdivision had its own small fire-fighting trailer, always filled with water. It required several strong people to move it, but it was nearby in the clearing that served as community meeting space.
Adam could hear more shouting, then, the calls among the late-season cottagers raised in hectic, organized chaos. He and Gordon continued to fling dirt, as James kept the water focused on the flames.
The little shed, old and worn from years of weathering, burned hot and fast; and with a snap, the sixty-foot pine tree looming inches away ignited. Adam feared it would burn and fall.
And where was Grace?
Not ceasing to dig and throw, he screamed her name. “Grace! Where are you?”
“Adam! I’m all right. I’m here,” she said, struggling with the other cottagers as they dragged and pushed the heavy water reservoir into the driveway.
How the hell had she slipped by him? Adam wondered with half his brain, amazed.
“Get the tree!” he shouted, and another stream of water instantly shot into the air, dousing the pine and falling in a heavy, needle-spiked rain over the by-now filthy Adam and Gordon.
They fought like mad men and women, Tillie and Grace joining other cottagers, including the reliable Skip, behind the big hose as Adam and Gordon and James battled closer in.
Finally, the fire relented. The shed crumpled and hissed under the weight of the sodden, scorched wooden walls and shingled roof. Adam moved in, shovel poised, to dig for the gasoline can, always stored just inside the door.
“Adam!” Grace shouted. “Be careful! Anything in there will be blazing hot!”
Good point, he thought. Hacking through the rubble, he located the jerry can, drove the shovel’s shaft through its handle and dragged it out of the ruined shack. More dirt showered over the container, courtesy of Gordon.
“Anything else flammable, Grace?” he asked. She was by now right behind the men.
“One propane container. Thank God the barbecue is on the deck.”
Adam went in and dug for the tank, dragged it out and sat heavily on the back step, which was blackened but otherwise more or less unscathed. James drew the back of one hand across his sweaty, dirty forehead, while Gordon and Skip just gazed at the destruction.
“James,” Adam said. “Thank you. You have excellent timing.”
“Not quite good enough, apparently,” answered the constable, with a shaky grin. “If I’d been here two minutes earlier, or even less, I would have caught him in the act.”
“I’m personally good with you saving our lives,” Grace said, going over to hug James. “Not to mention the cabin. I can’t think what to say, to thank you properly.”
“Hugs are good, Grace,” James said, returning the favour.
“What the hell is going on?” Gordon asked as he neared the trio.
“I don’t know, Gordon, but thank God for you,” Adam said, wearily. “Thanks for coming so quickly.”
“I appreciate that, but damn, what the
hell?”
“Someone knew we were here — me, or Grace, or both of us. He didn’t count on James. One of us knows something the killer doesn’t want us to know.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
For two more hours, Adam, James and the other cottagers covered the steaming rubble with dirt, sprayed hot spots with cold well water, and checked the vicinity for errant sparks. The park’s fire department came, checked, sprayed again and left. By then, night had fully fallen; it was after ten, pitch dark apart from a scatter of stars. To a person, everyone was dirty, stinking of smoke and very hungry.
Grace finally went inside, followed by Tillie, washed her face and hands, and started to rummage through cupboards and the fridge for food and drink. She handed bottles of cold beer to Tillie and brought out some white wine.
“Well, I have hot dogs, anyway,” Grace said, wearily opening packages. “How many people do you think are out there?”
“Maybe ten or twelve?” Tillie said, pulling buns out of bags.
“Okay. At least I can do a small meal. First, I really want to beer Adam and James.”
She grabbed two of the bottles and went back outside, where she handed the beer to the men. When Adam took his, he looked down at her with a tired but slightly reverential expression.
“You were amazing,” he said, hugging her with one arm. Grace flung her own arms around him.
“No! You were. And James. And Gord. And Skip. Oh, God, Adam,” she added, as the possible outcomes of the fire washed over her. “We could be . . . if the shed exploded . . . “
“But we aren’t. We’re here, love. We’re all right. But we will have to change how we do things, immediately. He’s hunting us.”
“I know. This isn’t over yet.” A small sob escaped her throat.
“No. But we will take care. It’ll be okay.”
“Why is it that every time we make love, something awful happens afterward?”
“Every time?”
“Okay, I’m exaggerating. But the night of the first fire, then in the greenway with Tom after, ah, being in the lake, and now . . .”
“It’s coincidence.”
“I don’t think so. Not entirely. I mean, it’s not that this awful person — or Tom, for that matter — knows we’re having sex, but . . .”