Finally, Turnbull broke the silence. “I don’t think they’re coming.”
“Something terrible must have happened to them,” said Margaret.
“Maybe they just got fed up and went home.”
“We need to go look for them.” Miss Miller ignored Turnbull’s remark. “We’ll divide into teams, two downstream and two upstream, one on each side.” She glanced at her watch. “We’ll meet back here in half an hour.”
“Why don’t we just pack up our canoes and head downstream?’ Turnbull said. “Otherwise, we’re just wasting time.”
“Because they might have gone upstream,” said Miss Miller.
“I think he took Peters fishing,” said Norman.
They broke into teams, Norman and Geraldine going upstream with Miss Miller and Simpson, the others downstream.
“Well,” said Turnbull as he dipped his paddle in the water, “Here’s nothing.”
“I know something terrible has happened to the boys,” Margaret fretted as she and Rudley eased into their canoe.
“I’m sure they’re fine, Margaret. They probably swamped their canoe and are waiting for us to rescue them.”
“Oh, I hope so, Rudley.”
·
“What do you think that is, Norman?” Geraldine adjusted her binoculars. “I can’t seem to get a good fix on it from here.”
Norman raised his binoculars and stared off into the trees. “It’s an eastern kingbird.”
“No, no.” Geraldine pointed over his shoulder. “There, near that log.”
“Oh.” Norman squinted. “It’s a shoe.” He swept the binoculars to the left. “But if you look closely, Geraldine, in the shallows by that rock, you’ll see a nice pair of mallards.”
She focused on the shoe. “What do you think a shoe would be doing here, Norman?”
Norman had his binoculars fixed on the ducks. “Probably the same thing large quantities of plastic bags are doing in the Sargasso Sea. The detritus of the human animal is widespread.” He frowned. “There’s also a hat.”
·
“So,” said Brisbois, looking up from the paperwork on his desk, “do we know what we’re doing?”
“Don’t we always?”
“Sum it up for me just to make sure.”
Creighton rolled his shoulders. “Well, we have two very bad kids sending us on a wild goose chase. We have an incorrigible who’s really just a scared kid living off his wits — which, in his case, isn’t much to live off, if you ask me.”
“The waitress in Lowerton picked Johnny Adams out of the lineup right away,” Brisbois said. “So what are we left with?”
“Three old ladies and their driver who will probably get a stern talking to.”
“And well they should.” Brisbois picked up the latest stack of notes, slid half of it across the desk to Creighton, and picked up the phone. “So now we can get back to following up leads on our John Doe.”
·
Reconvened on shore, the campers examined Norman and Geraldine’s find.
“That’s Gil’s hat,” said Norman. “His name is on the sweat band.”
“And I’m sure this is his shoe,” Geraldine added.
“They must have had an accident,” said Norman.
“Perhaps the canoe capsized and they had to swim to shore,” said Geraldine. “You could lose a hat and shoe that way.”
“In that case, they should have made it back by now,” said Rudley. “Unless…”
“Unless they were injured and are wandering around in a daze,” Margaret worried.
“We need to get help.” Miss Miller surveyed the campsite. “Has anyone seen the satellite phone?”
“It should be with Gil’s belongings.” Simpson walked over and began to sort through their guide’s gear.
“He keeps it in that waterproof case.” Norman pointed to a padded bag.
Simpson opened it. “It’s not here.”
“Perhaps he took the phone with him,” said Norman.
“I guess,” Turnbull said, “if Gil sunk the canoe, we’re sunk too.”
“Well,” said Rudley after a moment’s silence, “you’ve realized your dream, Margaret. We’re out in the middle of nowhere, incommunicado.”
“The location of the hat and shoe would appear to confirm Gil and Peters went downstream,” Miss Miller said. “I think our only option is to continue downstream and keep looking.”
“That’s sensible,” said Norman.
“What if they make it back here and find us missing?” Margaret asked.
“We could leave a trail of breadcrumbs.” Turnbull caught their disapproving looks and said, “Look, they’re probably fine. That idiot Peters, probably tipped the canoe and…” He trailed off as Margaret frowned.
“We’ll leave a note,” she said. “We should leave most of our gear here.”
“Yes, we’ll need to travel light in case we find them,” added Geraldine.
“We’ll bring the essentials,” Miss Miller said. “Food, water treatment paraphernalia, matches, minimal fishing equipment, Swiss Army knives, first aid kit, binoculars. Edward and I will lead the way.”
Turnbull snickered. “What a shock.”
“Miss Miller is the logical choice,” said Margaret. “She’s the most accomplished canoeist and most likely to recognize hazards and alert the party.”
“I’m not exactly chopped liver,” said Turnbull.
Miss Miller studied him a moment. “You’re right,” she said finally. “Mr. Turnbull and I will take the lead.”
“Okay.” Turnbull grabbed his life jacket and headed toward the canoes.
“Are you sure this is a good idea, Elizabeth?” Simpson frowned.
“I think it’s the best plan, Edward. Mr. Turnbull has proven to be an accomplished canoeist.”
“I’d feel better if I were with you.”
She gave him a kiss on the cheek. “I need you to look after the others.”
“Will do.” Simpson gestured to Turnbull, who was stowing his knapsack in the canoe. “Elizabeth,” he whispered, “do you trust that man?”
“Not entirely.” She smiled. “He’s a jackass, but I can handle him.”
·
The door to Brisbois’ office opened and an officer peeked in. “We’ve got something on your John Doe.” He handed Brisbois a slip of paper. “A lady called in. She wants you to contact her right away.”
Brisbois noted the number the officer had jotted down. “New Hampshire?”
“Vermont.”
“Thanks.” Brisbois picked up the phone. “We’ll get on it right away.”
·
The banks of the river grew higher the farther downstream they paddled. Five hundred yards along, the river narrowed and the current quickened. Leaves, twigs, strips of bark and dead reeds joined their canoe procession. Suddenly, Turnbull shouted, “Look, ahead to your right.”
Turning her head, Miss Miller caught sight of a bright orange object snagged on a tree root.
“It’s a lifejacket,” Turnbull said.
“Hold steady.” Miss Miller grabbed the binoculars, took a quick look, then scanned the horizon.
“I don’t see anything else.”
“We’ll have to go in.”
“Are you kidding? They got themselves into this mess. Are you going to risk all those old duffers trying to rescue them?” Turnbull gestured back of their canoe where the others lagged a hundred yards back.
She looked over her shoulder at him. “No, I’m not. We’re going to paddle back and set them out on their portage. Then we’ll go on by canoe.” She paused. “If you’re up to it.”
“You’re not the only one who can paddle a canoe. What’s up ahead is a piece of cake compared to what I’ve done.”
“Good. Paddle in the water, Mr.
Turnbull.”
·
The others listened as Miss Miller laid out the plan. She and Turnbull would continue by canoe downstream through the rough water. The others would go back upstream, portage, and meet them downstream at the shallows past the rapids.
“You may need to go back three-quarters of a mile before you land the canoes,” Miss Miller said.
“That far?” Norman asked.
“Unless you want to climb the cliff with three canoes, Norman,” Rudley said.
“What if we get to the shallows first?”
“I think that will happen only if we leave the canoes and run like hell, Norman,” Rudley remarked.
“Or if Miss Miller and I end up smashed to little pieces on the rocks.” Turnbull grinned at Norman’s horrified expression. “Hey, that’s not going to happen. I can handle water like that in my sleep.”
After a silence, Edward said, “At the shallows, then.”
“At the shallows,” Miss Miller saluted her husband. “Paddle in the water, Mr. Turnbull.”
·
The river took a sharp bend around the scrubbed grey cliffs, narrowed further, and began to drop. As they navigated their canoe through the foaming waters and around jutting boulders, Miss Miller scanned the water and the shoreline. She half expected to find Peters slung over a limb of the one of the trees teetering toward the water, his eyes gouged out like a modern-day Percival, with Gil reduced to a frozen claw stretching out of the water.
Suddenly a bird swooped low in front of the canoe, treaded water, then shot high into the air. She followed its precipitous climb and caught sight of someone clinging to the cliff. “Look,” she called to Turnbull and pointed. “Up there!”
Turnbull grabbed his binoculars. “It’s Peters!” he shouted. “What did he do? Climb most of the way up before he realized he was afraid of heights?”
They paddled to shore as fast as the choppy water allowed. Jumping out onto a low ledge, Miss Miller quickly secured the canoe and assessed the cliff. “We can scale this easily enough,” she said, pointing. “It’s only about thirty feet high here and there are plenty of crevices.”
She started up the rock wall, Turnbull following and fussing as the gritty surface abraded his knees.
After several minutes of strenuous climbing, they reached Peters who lay pressed against the cliff, holding on for dear life.
“It’s going to be all right,” Miss Miller manoeuvered beside him. “We’ve got you.”
“My boot’s caught,” Peters groaned.
“Hang on tight. I’ll move your foot to the next toehold once it’s free.” Carefully, she worked the boot, wedged in a crevice, back and forth. “Is your foot numb?”
“A little.”
“Just hang on.” She continued to manipulate Peters’s foot. Finally it came free and Peters inched his way up, Miss Miller following behind.
“Is the feeling coming back?”
“Yes.” He hoisted himself over the rim of the cliff and struggled to his feet, turning to face her as she reached the edge.
“Where’s — ?” Miss Miller began, the words dying in her mouth as she looked into the muzzle of a gun. She scrambled back down the cliff. A bullet snapped off a branch inches from her shoulder.
“Jump!” she yelled to Turnbull. “Jump!”
·
Brisbois hovered at the desk of the Pleasant, turning his hat in his hands, waiting for Mrs. Millotte to give him her attention. Creighton, who had picked up a magazine from the lounge, flashed Brisbois a spread featuring a Jaguar.
“I think,” Brisbois said, “if you show up in something like that, Internal Affairs will think you’re on the take.”
“Or have a rich girlfriend.”
Brisbois shook his head.
Mrs. Millotte opened a file box and dropped into it the paper she had been perusing. “Detectives.” She studied them over her glasses. “I hope you’re here to report you’ve got those Danby children on a chain gang.”
“If it were up to me, Mrs. Millotte, that’s exactly where they’d be. Unfortunately, they’ll probably be going home in a day or so.”
“You mean their parents showed up?”
“Yes. As it turns out, they took a little jog off their itinerary. They made a side trip to Zermatt, ended up at the base of the Matterhorn, and fell in love with an old hermit herding five cows and six goats. They spent a couple of days with him, playing at being simple peasant farmers. They didn’t know anyone was looking for them until they got back to Wengen.” He shook his head. “Now I know what Walter Sawchuck meant when he called his son-in-law a hippie.”
“Far out.”
“You said it.” Brisbois shuffled through a file he’d brought with him. “We’ve got something to ask you.”
“Of course.”
“Were you expecting a guest who didn’t show up?”
“No.”
“Did anyone cancel?”
“No.”
Brisbois’ face crumpled.
“Should someone have?” Mrs. Millotte raised an eyebrow.
Brisbois pulled a police artist’s sketch from the file. “Have you had this guy as a guest recently?”
She studied the drawing. “No, I can’t say that I’ve ever seen that man.”
“His name is Vernon Peters.”
She frowned. “We have a Vernon Peters, but that’s not him.”
Brisbois’ forehead crimped. “This man,” he pointed to the drawing, “has been identified as Vernon Peters. The woman who identified him said he was vacationing here.”
“Our Mr. Peters has a long head and thin blond hair.” Mrs. Millotte glanced again at the sketch. “That man has a round face and thick black hair.”
“Could I speak to this Mr. Peters?”
“Not at the moment. He’s part of the group that went on the outdoor trip.”
Brisbois thought a moment. “Is his car here?”
“No, he drove his car. Apparently he gets carsick in vans.” Mrs. Millotte paused. “I can think of a number of reasons for not wanting to be cooped up in a van with Rudley and Norman, motion sickness not being one of them.”
“What make was the car?”
She flipped through the hotel register next to her. “A Toyota Camry. Burgundy. Vermont licence plate.”
Brisbois jotted down the licence number. “When did they leave?”
“The same day you wandered in to warn us about the psychopath on the loose.”
“Do you have any way of reaching them?”
“They have a satellite phone. I don’t have that number but I do for the outfitters.” Mrs. Millotte rummaged through the desk drawer, found the outfitter’s card, and wrote out the number for Brisbois.
“If you hear anything from them, let me know right away.” Brisbois gestured to Creighton, who remained immersed in his magazine. “You have my card.”
Tiffany intercepted him as he headed for the door, fishing in his pocket for his cell phone. “Detective, you should know Mr. Bostock is up the lake in granny glasses and a long grey beard.”
“See if you can get a picture of that,” he said, startled from his thoughts.
Creighton shrugged at Tiffany and followed Brisbois.
“I think the detective is finally taking my concerns about Mr. Bostock seriously,” Tiffany remarked.
“That’s good,” Mrs. Millotte responded absently.
Tiffany frowned. “Is there something wrong?”
“Could be.”
·
Brisbois stopped halfway across the lawn and punched a number into his cell phone. “Get me Inspector Mallen.”
“What’s up, Boss?” Creighton asked.
“Nothing good.” Brisbois raised a warning hand to silence his partner as they neared their car. “I need a plane,” he barked
into the phone as he slipped into the passenger side.
“Yeah, heads up to North Bay,” Brisbois continued as Creighton pulled the car out of the parking lot. “And get onto the outfitters at — ” he reeled off the number. “They should be able to get us a fix on their location.”
Creighton gave Brisbois a quick sideways look when he’d closed his phone. “Did I hear you just say that our serial killer is travelling along with Rudley and the gang?”
“Yup.”
“I hope we’re not too late.”
“Hope not either,” Brisbois opened his phone again and dialed the Pleasant. “Mrs. Millotte,” he said when she picked up the phone, “I’m going to need a complete description of that Peters guy who’s on the canoe trip.”
·
“Perhaps we should be getting along now,” Simpson said, collecting the remnants of the snack.
The group had stopped to rest for a few minutes, tired from lugging three canoes over uneven ground.
“We just have to wait for Norman,” Geraldine trilled. “He’s gone looking for that grosbeak he thought he heard.”
“I thought he went looking for an appropriate tree,” Rudley said.
“He’ll be back in a minute.”
“Of course — ” Simpson was stopped by the sound of a twig snapping.
“That’s probably him now,” said Geraldine.
“With our luck, it’s probably a bear,” Rudley muttered.
“I don’t think…” Geraldine began, as Vern Peters stepped into the clearing.
“Why, Mr. Peters” — Margaret broke into a smile, as the others regarded him with surprise — “we’ve been looking for you. What…” She choked on her words and gasped as he leveled a gun at them. “Mr. Peters?”
“Don’t move!”
Rudley bristled. “What’s the matter with you, you damn fool? We’ve been looking all over for you.”
“Are you all right?” Simpson asked, stepping forward. “Did you hurt yourself?”
“Move back,” Peters rasped.
Margaret clutched Rudley’s arm. “Where’s Gil?”
“Forget about him.” He menaced them with the gun.
“Elizabeth and Turnbull…” Simpson began.
“Forget about them too.” Peters licked his lips, his gaze drifting over the group. “Where’s Norman?”
Judith Alguire - Rudley 04 - Peril at the Pleasant Page 21