Fire Lake

by J C Paulson

  “We better go talk to him.”

  They traipsed back down and buzzed again for the young constable, who appeared sheet-white and sweating to let them back in.

  “Okay, Duncan, just have a seat. Take a deep breath. Do you need some water?”

  He nodded, dumbly.

  “Char, do you mind finding a bottle of water?”

  Charlotte left, and Adam leaned over, forcing Duncan to meet his eyes.

  “I need you to tell me everything that happened this morning. Now.”

  “Well, there was no backup guard, when I got here,” he said. “I thought that was weird, but it’s not up to me. Everything was quiet. The food came down, the guys ate, I took out the trays and the cafeteria picked them up.”

  “Nothing else? No one came down here, apart from the food servers?”

  “Just the chaplain.”

  “Chaplain?”

  “Yeah, the new guy. He popped in to chat with Al, see if he was okay.”

  “Not Tom?”

  “No. He said he peeked in and Tom was asleep.”

  “We have a new chaplain?”

  “Yeah, just started this week.”

  “First I’ve heard of it. He had ID?”

  “Yep.”

  “Name of?”

  “David Smith.”

  Despite the seriousness of the situation, Adam gave a sharp, sardonic laugh.

  “Really. Smith?”

  Horror dropped Duncan’s jaw and widened his eyes. “Oh, my God,” he whispered. “I can’t believe it. Fuck, I’m sorry, Sarge.” He paused. “But, how did he do it?”

  “He brought Al a treat, apparently. Drizzled with icing, laced with strychnine.”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Grace followed Adam out the door that morning and by eight was leaning over her editor’s desk.

  “Claire, is it okay if I call overseas? I want to contact Reuters and Agence-France.”

  “Sure. Want to tell me why?”

  “The remains of a child who died fourteen years ago have been found in Somalia. I think this is a boy related to our story, and I’m hoping to find out where they’re at with the reportage. If they’re nowhere, I might be able to help. Unless, of course, you’d rather send me to Somalia,” Grace added, raising an eyebrow.

  “That’s so going to happen. I think the budget can withstand a couple of long-distance calls, though. You’re much further along on this than I thought.”

  “Well, I just learned about the boy last night. It appears that Elias Crow caught the child trying to steal from the Canadian military and sent him away. But he was beaten, afterward. He died, from his injuries or from another cause, and someone buried him out there.”

  “God, Grace, that’s shocking. How far out are you on reporting any of this?”

  “I don’t know. First, we have to verify that it’s the same child. And, of course, it would help if the police found the perpetrators. They’re working on it. If you’re good with the long-distance charges, I better get at it because of the time difference.”

  Claire waved her away. Grace rolled back to her desk on her wheeled chair and dialled.

  A mellifluous and authoritative voice crackled from over the miles.

  “Reuters. Colin Day here.”

  “Hello, Colin. My name is Grace Rampling. I’m a reporter in Canada, at a newspaper called The StarPhoenix, in Saskatoon. How are you today?”

  “Hello, Grace. To what do I owe the honour?”

  “I’m working on a story about a child, a male youth really, who died fourteen years ago in Somalia during the civil war.”

  She heard a grunt.

  “A lot of children died during that war. What’s remarkable about this one?” asked the Reuters editor.

  “It could be that his discovery is behind the deaths of two men in my province.”

  “Oh. I see. How does that work?”

  “Someone did not want his body found, and we think the men were silenced because it was.”

  “And you’re calling to see if I know anything about this.”

  “I am. I searched for news items last night, and found a tiny piece on an Italian site, based in Somalia, from about twelve days ago. I wondered if you were covering it.”

  “We weren’t, but we are now. Can you send me the URL for the story? My email is Colin.Day@Reuters.com. I’ll wait.”

  Grace sent the email and made small talk about the weather until Day said, “Okay, got it. Give me a second to read it. My Italian isn’t very good.”

  She could hear him click his computer keys and make small murmuring sounds as he translated the words to himself.

  “Right,” he finally said. “Not much to go on. You don’t have a name, by chance?”

  “I do. Abukar Dualeh.” Grace spelled it for him.

  “Wow. That’ll help. How did you get the name?”

  “Well, I don’t know it’s him, but I’m fairly sure. Off the record . . .” Grace paused. What was she going to say? I’m sleeping with the police sergeant on the case, so I know more than I should? Which was more or less true . . .

  “I have a source,” she replied, lamely.

  “I see. A reliable one?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me what you know.”

  Grace briefly explained, holding back details that would explode the story in Canada. She badly wanted to protect Adam and give him time to find the killer before he could potentially dive underground. What she really needed from Reuters was verification of Abukar’s remains, and hopefully, how he died.

  “That’s huge,” Colin said when she finished. “Okay. I have your email and your numbers. I’ll be in touch as soon as I can. I wonder how long it will take the authorities to identify him.”

  “We were wondering the same thing. Thank you, Colin.”

  “Thank you, Grace. Cheers.”

  Grace hung up and picked up the phone again to call Agence France-Presse, where she had a similar conversation with another editor who thankfully spoke English. Grace could speak French reasonably well, but it was much easier to explain the situation in her own language.

  Now what? Grace wondered. She didn’t want to sit and stew, so she called Elijah Starblanket. He did not answer, which of course made her worry, but there was nothing she could do about it. She resolved to try again in a couple of hours.

  As she scanned her brain, Grace realized with a nasty, guilty start that she had not yet told her father about the destruction of the shed at the lake. Mick Shaw’s unwelcome appearance immediately after returning home had distracted her, to say the least; and if she was honest with herself, she dreaded the dad conversation — particularly since there were so many things she couldn’t say.

  Should she call him now? He had to know, obviously, and the insurance company would have to be contacted. Reluctantly, she picked up the phone for the fourth time that morning.

  Wallace answered and was understandably upset, more about the danger Grace had been in — again — than anything else. Otherwise, he took the news fairly well.

  “You’re okay, though, my girl? Really?”

  “Yes, Dad, I’m fine. Honestly.”

  “Try not to go back up there again until this case is solved.”

  “I’m not likely to.”

  “And you did close the cabin again?”

  “Of course. The cabin itself is fine, and hopefully nothing else will happen up there.”

  “Oh, something is happening. I haven’t had a chance to tell you. Your Uncle Howard is indeed up to his old tricks. He did put in a new request to build a cabin on the island.”

  “Did you tell him about Elias being the victim?”

  “No. Of course not. I thought he could damn well wait until the news came out.”

  “But Dad, we haven’t revealed the identity of the dead man yet. How did he know to try again?”

  “Maybe he assumed the dead man was our hermit.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe he’s been in touch with s
omeone at the lake. Does he have a friend up there?”

  “Good question. He hasn’t been at the cabin all that often — a few times, maybe.” Wallace paused. “Grace, what are you saying?”

  “I don’t know, Dad. I just think it’s weird that he’s jumped on this so quickly. It’s probably nothing.”

  “Do you want me to ask him?”

  “No! No, please don’t, Dad. It could mess things up for the police. And, to be honest, for me.”

  “The police?”

  “They’re going to have to talk to him, Dad. I’m sorry. They won’t be happy if he gets a heads-up from us.”

  “I’m sure Howard has nothing to do with any of this.”

  “I’m sure,” Grace said, although she wasn’t, entirely. “But he may know something about it.”

  And so, once extricated from the uncomfortable chat with her father, Grace made her fifth call of the morning, feeling her heart throbbing in her throat.

  “Adam,” she said, when he answered. “I have something to tell you.”

  “And I you, but you called, so you go first.”

  “You don’t sound well. Are you all right? Or is something up?”

  “Yeah. The second. Okay, so I’ll go first. Al Simpson is in the hospital. We found him unresponsive in cells this morning.”

  “Oh no, Adam. What happened?”

  “He had a visitor bearing poison, we think.”

  “That’s insane. I assume we can’t report that.”

  “Not yet, but we have to disclose when something happens in cells, so it won’t be too long.”

  “You are taking care, aren’t you Adam? This person is crazy.”

  “Oh, yeah. Wait until I tell you how he got in here. But you called. What’s up?”

  “I can’t believe I have to tell you this, but my uncle has repetitioned the government to get access to Elias’s island. To build a cabin.”

  “Where is your uncle?”

  “He lives in Briarwood. Howard Rampling. I’ll let you take it from there.”

  “Retired, or working?”

  “He’s retired.”

  “I’m sorry, Grace. I’ll have to go find him right away.” Adam heaved a sigh. “Even if he isn’t complicit, I still might learn something.”

  “I know. See you tonight.”

  “Later, love.”

  *****

  “So, you’re The Adam,” Howard Rampling said in greeting.

  “The Adam?”

  “Grace’s The Adam.”

  “Yes. Do you mind if I come in for a minute?”

  Uncle Howard puffed out his lips and cocked his head to one side, apparently considering the request as something he could accept or refuse. Adam, who didn’t want to threaten him with a station interview, waited.

  “No,” Howard said.

  “No you don’t mind, or no I can’t come in?”

  “No, I don’t mind. Come through to the living room.”

  The man is a pain in the ass, Adam thought, more than a bit surprised that he could be related to smart, sweet, straightforward Grace. Can’t pick your relatives.

  “So. What brings you here?” Howard asked, once they’d chosen seats on sofa and chair.

  “I understand that you’ve expressed an interest in building a cabin on one of the islands in Ferguson Lake.”

  “Yep. Tried a few years ago, but a petition persuaded our brilliant government to turn me down. Your Grace signed it, by the way.”

  Adam decided not to be baited by this annoying human being.

  “It has come to my attention,” Adam said, wondering from which withered brain cell this strange formal language was coming from, “that you’re trying again.”

  “Is that a fact. And how did this come to your attention? Don’t answer that. It’s obvious. Wallace told Grace, and she told you. Well, to add to your information, this government is a little more open to progress and development. If you don’t play the game, you can’t win.”

  “If I understand correctly, the province is unlikely to dislocate an Indigenous person’s home, or hunting and fishing cabin. Am I right?”

  “So I’ve heard.” Howard shrugged. “Can’t blame me for trying.”

  “How long ago did you file your new request?”

  “Well, let me see. Hmmm. I guess I don’t remember, exactly.”

  “Mr. Rampling, I can check with one phone call. I’m doing you the courtesy of asking personally.”

  “Hmph. Fine. I suppose it was about a week ago.”

  “A week ago? Sir, did you know that the so-called hermit of Ferguson Lake’s fishing hut was burned down ‘about a week ago’?”

  “Noooo . . . well, not at the time. Kind of convenient, eh?”

  “Too convenient, Mr. Rampling. Did you know that the hermit is dead?”

  Finally, a reaction. Howard Rampling turned a shade of purple that clashed with his green and red checked shirt.

  “No.”

  “Did you assume it was him? I would think you’ve read the paper and saw the story.”

  “That had nothing to do with my application.”

  “Something did. I would advise you to tell me what it was.”

  Rampling had regained some of his composure.

  “What might that be?” he said, in a musing tone that would have inspired a good throttling from someone less controlled than Adam.

  What might that be, indeed. But the question, and a flare of anger, fired Adam’s brain.

  “That might be getting a little inside information. Do you know any of the cottagers at Ferguson, sir?”

  “No . . . not well, anyway.”

  “Is that the truth?”

  “Look. I promised I wouldn’t say anything. It was just a remark, that’s all.”

  Adam leaned over the coffee table, his navy eyes flashing.

  “I’m going to tell you something that you will not repeat,” Adam said in his most authoritative and menacing voice. “Am I clear?”

  Howard said nothing.

  “Am I clear, sir? You need to acknowledge my request, right now.”

  He nodded, finally silenced by Adam’s intimidating presence.

  “Two men are dead, including the hermit. Another is clinging to life. I know that whoever uttered that ‘remark’ is involved. If you are not, and if you want to remain that way, you’re going to tell me which cottager you were talking to.”

  Adam already knew the answer. But he had to hear it from Howard Rampling.

  “Now, sir.”

  Howard pursed his lips and blew through them in an odd little whistle.

  “Hell. Okay. Every so often, I get together for drinks with some old army buddies, down at the Legion. One of the guys who shows up from time to time has a cabin up there. I didn’t serve with him; he’s a bit younger. We’ve gotten to know each other, as acquaintances.

  “One night, he was in a fine mood, had maybe more than one or two too many. He knew — it had come up in the past — that I had my eye on that island and asked if I was still interested. I said I was.”

  Howard licked his lips, and his eyes opened wide.

  “Holy shit,” he breathed. “The guy said I should think about trying again, and then laughed until I thought his sides would split. I didn’t see what the hell was so funny. I asked him why I should give it another shot, and he just said the government might be more amenable than it had been in the past.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  “About ten days ago or so. I had all my application paperwork, so all I had to do was update it and send it along. Took just a few minutes.”

  Adam had to take a minute before he spoke.

  “It was George Best, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes. How the hell did you know that?”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The chief of police’s email awaited when he returned to the station, in response to Adam’s request for a meeting. Adam seethed over Terry Pearson’s actions, infantile and pompous and ridiculous as t
hey were. Pearson risked Al Simpson’s life, simply because he was pissed that his authority had been ignored.

  Fucking idiot, Adam swore to himself, as he stomped the distance to McIvor’s office. He knocked and the chief responded with a grim “come in, Adam.”

  “What the hell happened?” McIvor asked, even before Adam sat down.

  “Pearson came in early, I gather, and pulled the detail on Simpson and Allbright,” Adam said, pulling up a chair. “Two hours later, after the usual fight in my office, I found Al in rigour in his cell. It looked like he was frothing at the mouth, at first, but it was actually icing.”

  “Icing? Like on a cake?”

  “Yeah. Someone brought him a pastry. Ashern thinks it was laced with strychnine.”

  “How’s the prisoner?”

  “I don’t know. Ashern said he would call when he had news. Good or bad.”

  “Who the fuck was it?”

  “The guy was posing as a chaplain. Do we have a new chaplain on call, Chief?”

  “Yeah, we do, or at least we will. A new guy got signed up last week.”

  “That explains why Duncan let him in. I bet his name isn’t Smith, though. Or is it?”

  “No, I don’t think so. Did he see the other prisoner, too? Allbright?”

  “No. He made the excuse that Tom was asleep. Tom would have, or may have, recognized him; he saw him at Ferguson Lake. And Tom is much less of a risk, apart from recognition. He’s not directly involved.

  “But Al wouldn’t have recognized him — at least, not as the killer. He had only talked to him on the phone. Tom had a message, too, with the dead mouse. They’re trying to tell us all not to squeal. And there’s something else.”

  Adam launched into a retelling of his conversation with Howard Rampling, watching his chief’s face slowly set like concrete.

  “Who is behind all of this, Adam? What the hell is going on?” he asked after Adam had finished.

  “It’s hard to say who’s at the top of the chain,” Adam said, slowly. “Maybe a top dog in the military, although at what rank, I’m not sure. Or possibly even the government — although we’ve had a few elections since all this began. But whoever they are, their henchmen are on the ground, and we have to find them first. George Best, the cottage owner, is definitely involved but I don’t think he did the actual dirty work. He might be calling the shots.”