by P W Ross
“Try this, Pony. It’ll put hair on your chest and a fire in your... ”
“Never mind the location of the fire Bob!”, Jack interjected swiftly as Bob returned to the taps.
“Jack, is this edible?”
“Absolutely! House specialities and in limited supply. Brought out only on special occasions.”
Usually when the boys are out moose hunting, Jack kept to himself.
“Pickled goose eggs and brine-soaked kielbasas. Dig in.”
Jack scooped up one of the eggs, salted and peppered it.
“Look out stomach, here it comes!” he warned, biting off the top of the egg, chewing with gusto as he selected one of the kielbasas.
He leaned over to Pony’s ear. “When we were kids, we used to call these horse cocks.”
“Jack, there’s a gross hidden side of you.”
He lewdly bit off half of the sausage and with the goose egg, savoured the combination.
“Jeez, that’ll produce enough methane to light a Coleman lantern. I’ll be sleeping in the guest room tonight.”
“A cruel consequence.”
“Consider it self defence.”
Jack glanced up to see Bob motioning him to the back office.
“Don’t leave town,” he said with a playfully wink as he hoisted himself off his stool and struggled around the bar into the back office.
“Take care of my date Abe,” he called over his shoulder and as he turned, smelled the pungent aroma of weed from the screened porch. Brautigan and Braxton were going to have go lightly tonight.
Bob tossed the Toronto Star on his desk and flopped into the battered office chair and pulled on a beer.
“We’re going to be dead as dinner.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
The front page headline yelled;
‘SERIAL KILLER LOOSE IN NORTHERN ONTARIO?’
It went on to give a fairly accurate review of what had transpired over the past eight days and speculate on what twists and turns the story might take next.
Bob was exasperated. “Every paper and TV station in the country is on this story now and the idea of a serial killer is fuel on the fire, they’re like hounds on a hare.”
“You were at the meeting. What more do you expect Eugene and Braxton to do?”
“How the hell am I supposed to know? I just know that this is going to be a ghost town if they don't catch this guy quick.”
“Why don’t you give it rest, at least for tonight. You’re going to have your hands fully keeping order as this shindig gets rolling. Let these folks have a good time tonight, hopefully without getting into too much trouble and we’ll see what tomorrow brings. Anybody saying anything over Henry tonight?”
“Yeah, around midnight.”
“Hell, I can’t stay that long. If anybody’s looking for me, cover my ass. I’m going to pay my respects, collect Pony and get back to the cabin. I’m whipped.”
“Long as it’s not pussy-whipped. Pony been keeping you up lately?”
Jack winced, got up and made his way back to the bar. Abe was devouring eggs and kielbasa, nothing like the aroma of bait and sulphur.
“Where’s your buddy?”
“What pal would that be?”
“Norval.”
“Who knows. He’s got a charter up into Diamond Lake country for a few days so he’s probably getting his gear together.”
Pony rose off her perch and motioned in the direction of the casket. Jack nodded, met her halfway cross the room and they shoehorned their way around the dance floor to the coffin.
Four photographs of Henry Wainright sat atop the pine box, rough-hewn and full of knotholes. His college graduation portrait, one standing at the podium of a Property Association annual meeting, tie askew and drink in hand. Meetings were never formal. Roberts Rules not enforced. In another photo he wore a business suit behind a massive oak desk at his former law practice and the last in front of his cottage holding up what Jack would guess to be a fifteen-pound lake trout. Nice fish. It had that characteristic stiff curve that came as rigor mortis set in but the eye was clear and fresh.
Jack could only assume Henry had been strategically placed here close to the nostalgia wall as some sort of connection to Temagami’s historic past that he had the misfortune of unfortunately joining in an untimely fashion. Although Grey Owl peered down at him from his hallowed position on the wall, the connection was as remote as that of the Pope’s expression as he watched the two millionth pilgrim kiss his ring.
Norman Greenbaum was chanting. “Goin’ Up to the Spirit in the Sky.”
Like all lobby groups, the Property Association had primarily acted over the years to protect its’ own interests and that of its artificially inflated membership list (50% American). Its policies, while superficially contemporary in terms of the bon mots of mixed and balanced resource use, sustainable lake development, co-operation amongst all stakeholders for the common good, and the rest of the bullshit, were essentially as NIMBY as it could get. And although they purported to represent the majority of the cottage owners on the lake, again like most lobby groups, it was a position more usurped than actual.
Henry had been a new breed of executive and as a retired lawyer had worked tirelessly to ensure what he felt was a truly equitable solution for the native land claims in the area. He knew the history well and his sense of fair play had caused him to develop enemies both within and without the Association. Jack had not known him well but he had a reputation as a rugged outdoorsman and later in life a widower in middle age who was known as quite the ladies’ man around town and even up into the Tri-Towns. The only thing Jack knew for sure was that Henry had not deserved an end like this.
After ninety seconds that seemed like an hour, Pony and Jack could hear Freddy Mercury and “Another One Bites the Dust”. It was time to go.
Chapter Forty-Eight
It was eight am. Tired and cranky, Rummell was at his desk, flipping through a stack of crime scene photos. The Miniwassa had closed at two in the morning and he had remained with Jill and Rene until the wakes’ end in an attempt to reason with the most intoxicated of the revelling mourners and to prevail upon them in a gentle manner not to attempt the drive home. Rather than make his own way home, he himself had slept upstairs at the station in a bunk next to Rene, whose relentless snorting and snoring threatened to suck the drapes off the cell window. He succumbed, went downstairs and poured a double JD.
Much as he relied on ‘old-fashioned’ police work, and regardless of what Braxton thought about nails or needles in haystacks, he held to his view that the case would be broken either with the killer making a fateful error or somehow by locals making a connection and providing a fragment of information that would point him in the right direction. As for the theories of Friscolanti, on one thing he did agree, the killer was on a demented, sick mission and would not stop until it was fulfilled or he was captured. The only question was how many more innocent casualties would there be. Studying the photographs for any incongruity that might provide a clue he reflected that never had he been involved with a series of events as calculatingly brutal as these. These were meticulously planned, not just to kill but to traumatise the beholders.
The jangling phone startled him out of reflection. He was reluctant to answer and continued to sip coffee, half expecting the report of a car crash involving patrons of last night’s wake. It wasn’t.
“Rummell here.”
“Who?”
“Okay Fred, just slow down. What can I do for you?”
“Just go ahead and tell me.”
He leaned forward to his desk, a dark mien coming over his face as he scribbled in his notebook.
“I told you ... slow down,” he commanded.
Not interrupting, Rummell listened intently for two minutes.
“Where exactly are you?”
“Ask the cottage owner what the island number is.”
“Seven-oh-eight… good. Now, what colour is the marker and how f
ar offshore is it?”
“Right... What size is the boat?... Okay... and did you touch anything?... you sure?... alright, leave it that way.”
“Look, I know where you are and I need your help on this. Have you got an anchor with you? Right, I want you and your buddy to go back out there and anchor about fifty yards away from that marker. Wait till I get there. If anyone comes around, tell them that Rummell and MacKenzie are on the way and to move on. Under no circumstances let anyone touch that boat or its contents. Understand?”
“We’re going to be about forty-five minutes and you’ll just have to hold the fort until we get there. Do not contact anyone else about this. Sit tight. Questions? Okay. Get there as soon as we can.”
Pale faced and with a grim demeanour, Rummell laid the receiver down softly and reached into the drawer of the desk to retrieve the bottle of JD. Screw it if it’s eight something in the morning. He poured a hefty shot into his coffee and stood in front of the framed lake map on the wall behind his desk. Reaching into his shirt pocket he retrieved his readers, perched them on the tip of his nose and with his right finger traced down the South Arm to Seal Rock Point. All the islands in the lake were numbered. It took no time to find 708 and identify the marker that was his destination. He guessed it to be about a seventeen-mile run and by the time he got things together, forty-five minutes’ travel time was a pretty good estimate. Events were going from bad dream to nightmare.
“What the hell’s next?”
He picked up the phone and dialled MacKenzie on Bear Island.
“Will?... Rummell... yeah, I know. More dire-straits. We’ve got another one.”
“Off Seal Rock.”
“No, not sure, probably last night. Can you meet me there? Right... Maybe forty-five minutes. See you at the marker.”
Rene was brewing coffee. “What’s up Chief?”
“Call Jill and get her in here,” Eugene barked.
“She’s off-duty today Inspector.”
“Not any more she’s not. She’s coming in to cover for us.”
“When?”
“Now for Christ’s sake,” he snapped. “Then get hold of Brautigan and have him up here in no more than two hours. No excuses. Tell Jill when he arrives, I want him ferried over to Jack Alexander’s. Call Alexander, ask him to empty one of his boat-house slips and that we’ll be there around eleven-thirty.”
Rene was puzzled to say the least. “Inspector... I don’t… ”
“Just do it Rene! Meet me at the dock, we’re going down the lake.”
Half through the door he turned back to add, “And tell Brautigan to bring a body bag.”
Jack was puzzled but dutifully moved the cedar strip to the side of the boathouse and was puttering around in the workshop when at eleven-fifteen Jill and Brautigan arrived to tie up behind it. Brautigan unloaded a large aluminium suitcase and made his way into the boathouse while Jill carried on up toward Jack.
“Jill, you want to tell me what the hell’s going on?”
“We’ve got another body up the lake.”
Chapter Forty-Nine
It was easy. The boy turned first with apprehension, then recognition.
“Hey son, you got that net twisted round that tree at the far end. You ain’t getting it in by yourself.”
“Ayay Norval, loop around and cut it free.”
Norval severed the mesh with his Buck and brought it around in an arc to the lad’s boat.
“Nice catch. Twenty, maybe twenty-five.”
The boy was in the stern hauling in the catch. Norval boarded the bow and stealthily approached. He took him. Left arm around the neck and right hand over the top of his head to the ear. One snap. It was done. He retrieved the walleye-laden net, wrapped the boy and gently positioned him on the deck the way you hoped your father would.
“Meet you again before you know it.”
So it wouldn’t drift ashore and out of sight, he moored the boat to a marker buoy and fled, not looking back.
The Reaper is not tasked to kill mortals, but merely to ferry their souls to the afterlife.
At his camp, he opened the door for the final time. Not entering, he took a slow mournful look around and departed.
Chapter Fifty
“The Inspector’s gone to the scene with Rene,” Jill said, “and he’s going to bring the body back here.”
“Here!” Jack gasped. “What are you talking about?” He was dumbfounded, angry and exasperated. “Why in God’s name would you bring a body back here to me?”
“Not to you Jack, to your boathouse. Not my idea. From what I know, the body's in a boat and Eugene doesn’t want to take it back to town. We don’t need another scene like we had the other day with Sawchuck.
We don’t have a boathouse at the station so I guess he figured to bring it here and have Brautigan take a look without half the town and that gaggle of press looking over his shoulder. Come on Jack. Don’t be an asshole. We’ve got another stiff on our hands and you’re pissed ‘cause we want to use your boathouse for an hour?”
The admonishment surprised Jill as much as it did Jack.
“Who is it?”
“Don’t know.”
“Where did it happen?”
“South Arm.”
“When?”
“Probably last ... ”, Jill halted at the rumble of the police launch coming into the bay. Rummell was at the helm and Lavigne in the stern keeping an eye on a battleship grey steel boat they towed. It had a Mercury two-stroke on the transom and was covered with a bright orange polytarp.
Jill moved back down toward the boathouse. Jack remained in the shop doorway, hands on hips, watching Rummell expertly curl the launch in front of the empty slip so Lavigne could push it in to the waiting Brautigan. Moments later his head appeared at the boathouse door yelling to Jack.
“Got any lights?”
Nodding and turning into the shop, he retrieved a couple of droplights and a rarely used spotlight. Gagging on the stench, he entered the boathouse. It was a cocktail of rotting fish and death. Jill and Rene stood on one side of the slip, Brautigan and Eugene on the other.
“Come on Jack, you’re looking green, buck up,” Brautigan mocked through a grin. “This isn’t your first corpse and the way things are going won’t be the last. Give us a hand with those lights.”
The guy was incorrigible.
Brautigan swung two lights up over the rafters and hung them four feet above the tarp while Jack opened the other boathouse door to provide more light and much needed ventilation. On either side of the boat, Rene and Eugene reached down, took hold of the corners of the tarp and pulled it back, allowing a putrid, nauseating wave of air to escape. No one spoke.
The body of a young native male lay sprawled on his back in the bottom of the boat. He was at an angle of forty-five degrees with his buttocks pushed up against the bench-seat. His legs bent up and folded over it pointing toward the bow. He was fully clothed.in a greasy yellow slicker over a black and red wool bush shirt; faded baggy blue jeans, the legs terminated by worn Kodiak boots. The head was twisted unnaturally sideways and the tongue was extended and swollen. One open eye bugged out with a frozen look of surprise. The other was gone, leaving an open, ragged and bloodied socket. The head was supported by a grimy red life preserver and he lay in an inch of oily bilge.
That was not the worst of it. Inexplicably, he had been wrapped head to toe, twice, maybe three times in a gill net that held one arm pinned to his left side and the other crossed over his heart. The remainder of the net and its wooden floats were piled in the bow, still holding eight or nine walleye, three or four of which had been torn apart. One fish was lodged in mesh that wrapped him at the thighs. To the right of the body was a plastic tub that had tipped, over spilling out another dozen walleye into the foul bilge. Most of these had been shredded. Amongst them swilled a yellow baseball cap, a gaff, spotlight and a couple of unopened coke cans.
Jack got down on one knee, taking a closer look at the f
ace.
“Jesus Gene, I recognise this boy.”
“Gary Potter’s boy, Mathew. He’s Will MacKenzie’s nephew.”
“How do you know?”
“I asked Will to meet me here.”
Jack’s head snapped up. “Who got there first?”
“Will did.”
“Shit ... where is he now?”
“Gone back to the reserve to talk to the family. He’ll return later to pick up the boat once I let him know we’re done with it.”
“How’s he?”
“Devastated. Angry.”
Jack left it at that and watched Brautigan put on white disposable overalls, rubber boots and step down carefully into the boat. His aluminium forensics case was open on the slip walkway and he put on a pair of surgical gloves.
“Conrad, Jack and I are going to pow wow for a while. Figure out what you can and let me know whether or not you want to release the boat and just take the body back or if you want to take the whole shootin’ match back to the Bay on a trailer. Jill, let Will know what Conrad decides. No use him coming all the way here if he doesn’t have to. Rene, you better get back to the station and take statements from the fishermen who found the body. Try the best you can to keep a lid on things.”
Eugene sat with Jack in bright sunlight at the picnic table adjacent to the cabin. He removed his hat, ran his hands through greying hair and washed them slowly and wearily down over his face, tired, beleaguered, confidence waning.
“Just start, Eugene.”
“Two fishermen found him this morning around seven thirty. The boat was floating, tied to a green marker in the South Arm. Christ, he’s only seventeen.”
“Where?”
“Off Seal Rock Point. It was the gulls they saw first. They were all over it, a feeding frenzy. The fish weren’t torn up, they were half eaten. A baldie or two was probably in there as well and the fishermen high-tailed it to the nearest cottage to call it in. I called Will and told him to meet me there. Wish I hadn’t now. Would have been easier for him if I’d gotten there first. That’s no way to find kin.”