As they went along the shore, Anderson edged even closer until it was clearly visible. The sonar still showed over 40 feet and the bottom showed lumpy but fairly even on both sides. “John, if you slide open the window over the map table, you’ll be able to kneel on the seat and rest your arms and the binoculars on the window sill. It’ll be a lot more comfortable and steadier.”
About twenty minutes later, the sergeant’s voice interrupted the low hum of the engine: “There’s a roadway coming down to the shoreline, and what looks like a little boat pulled up on the beach.”
“That’s likely where the interns launch their canoe. In a couple of minutes you should see the beach change into a marsh, and the landscape will look lower. I’m also getting a tiny blip about fifteen degrees off the bow... maybe start checking that out every half-minute. I think it may be one of the buoys we saw when I was out here with Marjorie.”
“Okay, there’s the marsh you talked about... and... there is a round white thing in the water, ahead but about half-way to shore. Whoa, that was a shotgun – three shots – slightly behind us maybe. Nothing to see, though.”
“I’ll bet it’s some good old boys hunting a duck dinner out of season,” laughed Anderson. “Anyway, shotgun pellets won’t reach us out here.”
“I think you’re right... I hear dogs barking like they’re all excited about something! How far from here is the old provincial park?”
“Pretty close, I think. There should be more roads coming down shortly.”
Fifteen minutes later, the sergeant said in a stage whisper, “There – just ahead is a road coming down and a much bigger boat pulled part way onto the shore. Yes, that’s the one both the interns and Jennifer described, I’m almost positive. There’s a truck right in front of it, backed down. And another one, facing the lake! I’ll take the wheel while you take a look!”
They quickly changed places, so Anderson could see through the glasses: “Yup, looks like the same one! And a couple of them have started looking our way... crap, they’re trying to push out the boat. Here, you watch and I’ll drive.” Anderson crossed the wheelhouse and got in behind the wheel. He pushed and held the button on the GPS to set a waypoint for future use, swung the boat hard to starboard and pushed the throttle to full speed, so he was headed as fast as possible straight off shore. As he did so, he caught a glimpse of another tiny blip on the radar screen, almost straight ahead. He veered further to starboard and stared out the windscreen, In about thirty seconds it loomed up out of the fog and skated slowly by them – another marker buoy, this one with a number on it that he couldn’t make out. “Come on fog, I want more fog!” he muttered.”
The sergeant had moved from the wheelhouse window to the door to the stern, where he stood leaning against the door jamb with the binoculars glued to the shore. Soon he let the binoculars hang from his neck and turned back into the cabin. He instinctively checked his sidearm, then crossed to the bench and picked up his carbine which he had brought from the cruiser. He checked it over, stood it against the wall by the door and came over to Anderson. The diesel engine was screaming at full speed so he had to yell: “I lost sight of the boat in the fog – seems they were only just off shore. Can you see them on the radar?”
Anderson pointed to the bottom of the screen. “The boat is that blip there, and it doesn’t seem to be moving,” he yelled. “I think we’ve probably lost ‘em. I hope to hell.” The fog thinned out a little ahead of them, then thickened up again. Anderson throttled back to half speed, ran that way for a minute, then took it down to idle. The blip seemed to be getting further away, then again became part of the shore behind them.
“Hate to tell you this, but they fired some shots a few minutes ago – could hardly hear them over the engine, but they were rifle shots – big rifle shots – and I think I heard one that must have hit the water nearby and ricocheted – I’m guessing just ahead of us. Didn’t bother to tell you because you were concentrating on what you were doing, and there was nothing we could do any differently except get the hell out of there!”
Anderson rolled his eyes at the sergeant and said, “I don’t think they’re even in the least bit friendly on this shore. Not even a bit!” He turned north about 30 degrees and put the throttle forward to just over half, and took the GPS back a couple of screens until he could see the village. He adjusted his course to miss the little island that had recently become so friendly for him and headed for home. It was 14:20 hours, still very foggy (thank goodness) and the drizzle had changed to rain. “Let’s have some of that coffee.” And he pulled the throttle back to about four knots so they could relax a little.
Both men sat in silence for a few minutes, sipping their coffee. “Y’know, Anderson,” began the sergeant, “seems like the more we find out the less they connect. In my mind there is no way that Robertson Mines would even dream of approving this type of crap. Don’t know what they might countenance in Africa or South America, but in Canada or the USA? No, almost certainly not. So the way I see it, there is another agenda that we – and they - aren’t yet aware of. You touched on this when we talked a few days ago. Now that we know where the bad boys hang out, we need to find out why. Even assholes don’t start raising hell like this unless they have something to gain.”
“Or to protect, maybe?” said Anderson after a pause.
“Good point. Hmm... Tell me, how do you suppose Hassam, and Anita if she’s alive as it now seems, and maybe the interns and that public event (and Anita’s webpage) connect together?”
“Maybe through Robertson Mines and they don’t even know it. As I talked about earlier, they’re used to dealing with public protest and government influence, and may be totally unaware that things are going on totally beneath their radar. But – they could be kind of like a catalyst for the explosions happening around them.”
“From what we cops cynically observe, crime is usually about drugs, sex, and immigration. And power – which may be related to all of those things but is a strong enough motive all on its own.”
They batted these thoughts around until they arrived back at the village and landed at the dock. They had no sooner landed when it was Anderson’s phone that rang. It was Arnold, who said he had just had a call from Cyndi and that she and Adumbi were coming in the next morning and needed to talk. Anderson told him he was with the sergeant, and to hang out by his phone – he’d call him right back. “John, that was Arnold, and our PSP interns are coming in the morning and want to have a meeting. I’ve half a mind to tell them to meet us in The Falls where it’s relatively safe from prying eyes and ears. We need to extract some information from them about Hassam and Anita, and maybe more. And at the moment they should maybe stay in The Falls anyway. Make sense to you? We’ll buy them motel rooms for a couple of nights until we get a handle on this.”
“Yes it does.” He called Arnold back and asked him to call Cyndi back and set up to meet at Timmys in The Falls around 09:00. They locked up the boat and walked back to the house, where Corporal Jen was still waiting. “Only one person came by,” she announced. “Said his name was Arnold and that he’d call you later.”
“Thanks Jen,” said Anderson, “he actually just called and everything’s good. Thanks for babysitting the place – I’m very grateful!”
“We found that boat,” the sergeant told her, “and those folks certainly didn’t want to be found. We’ll be paying them a more official visit in the next few days. When the officer taking over your shift turns up this evening, you can fill him in, of course, so he is warned, but don’t be too full of details. And Frank, I’d better be going – I’ll be in touch later this afternoon or evening. but before I go, would you make up the template for that sign lettering you want?”
“Sure will,” and Anderson went into the house and fired up his computer. He wrote:
Heavy outdoor vinyl, black, 4 inches high, Helvetica bold or similar, 3 copies:
THE BEAVER
and one copy, 3 inches high
AWA
N LAKE
He printed it out and handed it to the sergeant who grinned: “Cool!” then got into his cruiser and headed up the road. Anderson went back into the house, took a beer out of the fridge, called Arnold, and told him to come over and join him: “We have things to talk about. Really? That sounds good, I’ll be over in half an hour – thank you!”
Steaks and beer over at Arnold and Marion’s house felt like a really good idea this afternoon.
06:30 JULY 24
Anderson punched the “off” button on his cellphone alarm and swung his feet out from under the sheets onto the floor. He rubbed his eyes and gazed around his one-room castle which, he noticed, was in need of some clean-up, or at least some re-organizing. Last night’s barbecued steak and beer with Arnold and Marion had been just what he needed: a chance to touch base with his usual – rather more normal – existence.
And, while such things were somewhat new to him, a lengthy phone call with Marjorie had been comforting too. He did not share with her the events of Sunday morning, save to say that he had taken the sergeant out for a run along the east shore up to Robertson Mines and back in the fog, trying out his new radar toy. Marjorie said the fog had thinned out and disappeared within half an hour’s drive from Spirit River, but the showers and cloudy skies had lasted all the way into Toronto.
He stood up and paddled in bare feet across the varnished floor to the south window overlooking the docks; he could see Constable Jen had arrived for the day-shift and was standing beside her cruiser having a smoke. His launch was in place at the dock, the fog had lifted and the sun was struggling to shine through a partially-overcast sky. A light breeze had blown in from the west and would soon cooperate with the sun to dry the soggy grass and the dripping pine trees that sparsely lined the road. Given the rather hectic and unusual turn of events over the past week, today looked strikingly normal: time for a shower, a cup of coffee while tidying up a bit, and getting on the road in time to pick up Arnold and make it to Tim Hortons in Maple Falls for 09:00 and the first appointment of the day – meeting with Cyndi and Adumbi.
***
The PSP interns were already into their coffee and bagels when Arnold and Anderson arrived and bought their coffee – dark roast for Anderson and regular for Arnold, who started the conversation: “Hi gang,” he said as the two men wedged into the two empty seats at the interns’ table. “Hope you had a more peaceful weekend than your canoe adventure last week!”
The interns smiled thinly and nodded. “Yes, it was good to get away,” Cyndi said quietly and paused for a long moment. “Mr. Jamieson, and Mr. Anderson, we don’t feel we can go back to work anymore. We are biology students and technicians, studying birds and frogs as a summer job and shouldn’t have to deal with criminals trying to drown us when we are doing field work.” Adumbi remained staring deep into his coffee mug, obviously a little shy about being as outspoken as his Canadian-born colleague.
“No worries about that,” said Anderson. “We – and the police – are very aware of the danger and nobody will be going into the field until we get this sorted out. However, as Arnold will explain, the community needs a lot of help getting ready for the event with Dr. Horowitz, and it’s all work you can do in the village. We will set you up in an unused office at Arnold’s garage, where his wife Marion can keep an eye on things... she’s kind of the boss of that event anyway. Arnold, can you explain a bit more?”
Adumbi had finished his research into the bottom of his coffee mug and was listening intently as Arnold began: “Yes, Marion really does need help with everything to do with the event... lining up volunteers and sponsors, making sure the hall is set up and figuring out a sound system, making and distributing posters, and so on. And Cyndi, I also expect you will need some computer-time to record and report on your summer field work anyway?”
Cyndi had brightened up considerably, but still had a question: “Don’t you think all these bad things – Hassan being run off the road, and those guys attacking us in the canoe – are related to the public meeting and Robertson Mines trying to shut it down?”
“No,” said Anderson. “We – including the police – are all convinced that these things are not related at all. And that reminds me, we need to ask you both some questions about Hassan and Anita. I will be talking with Hassan later this morning – he is out of his coma now and he wants to talk to me before he talks to the police... I think it has to do with Anita. Please tell us how close they were – Hassam and Anita – and if it was a dating thing or friendship?”
“Hassam adored Anita, but so far it was just friendship,” Cyndi began. “Anita is – well, she is Anita, you know, and always bouncing from boyfriend to boyfriend and back again. The thing that drew them together as buddies was her love of the lake and the old cultures – before the Europeans came to settle here. She was kind of like a spaced-out hippie, if you know what I mean, and Hassam was drawn into her vision somehow.”
“Was she knowledgeable, or just passionate?” asked Anderson.
“Both. She was both,” chimed in Adumbi. “Hassan (he is actually here to do graduate studies like me) told me that Anita was amazing – reading and doing research online and asking questions all the time, except when she was in the bar or at a party somewhere. And of course she has this Facebook group for Awan Lake – calls herself ‘Foggy Swamp Girl’ I think.”
“Did they do pot or other drugs than booze?”
“Not at all,” Adumbi continued, while Cyndi nodded in agreement from time to time. “Hassan, of course, is Muslim and takes it seriously (and doesn’t drink liquor either). And even Anita, she loves being at the bar or at parties, but actually she doesn’t drink very much as far as I can tell. She talks about sweetgrass ceremonies and spirits, and if she smokes a little marijuana it wouldn’t surprise me, but I have not seen it.”
“My wife Marion always tells me not to believe all the village gossip about Anita,” Arnold put in. “I guess she’s right – people don’t really understand her at all.”
“Yes, she’s pretty special,” added Cyndi rather wistfully. “I hope she is somewhere safe.”
“Do you think she’s in trouble? or dead?”
“In trouble – probably. Dead – I don’t think so. I hope not.” Cyndi added: “Apart from Hassan and a few locals, some of the people she hung out with were pretty scary.”
“How so?” asked Anderson.
“Big. Like bikers, but better dressed. Dark-skinned – not like Adumbi here – like Indians. I guess we’re supposed to call them Indigenous. I guess some of them were quite good looking, but scary.”
“Hmm. Interesting,” said Arnold. “Thanks for the input, folks. You’ve been a big help. So if you’re okay with carrying on as we talked about, I’ll let Marion know you’re headed over to see her, and she’ll get you set up. Make sure you get her to fill you in on plans for the event, and take some time to look around and make a written plan, with location drawings and so on to plan sound systems, parking and security. We have a kind of a committee, but frankly they need all the help they can get! Marion will introduce you to the volunteers whenever they turn up.”
After they left the coffee shop, Arnold took Anderson’s pick-up to head out to the auto-parts stores at the edge of town, and Anderson walked the half-block to the police detachment, where he joined the sergeant, chatted a few moments about the interns and what he had learned, then rode with the sergeant in his cruiser to the hospital.
Hassam was in a room opposite the nursing station on the top – third – floor. The sergeant spoke briefly to a uniformed officer hanging around the hallway, and introduced him to Anderson. “Constable Marchand here says there have been no incidents over the last two shifts, and that Mr. Khoury seems to be conscious but only responds to the nurses’ and doctors’ questions with barely audible yes or no answers. I’ll wait out here out of sight for now. Learn what you can, and see if you can get him to trust the police – or me anyway. You may have to explain that he is under guard fo
r his own safety, not because he is under arrest. Although, of course, that may have to happen because of his student visa, but I hope not.”
Anderson nodded, and went into the room and closed the door behind him. “Hello Hassam, this is Frank Anderson,” he said quietly, standing just inside the door. He looked at the patient: he was a mess. Hassam’s head and upper body appeared to have taken most of the punishment: his head had been shaved and bandaged and he was in a complex-looking neck brace. Tubes were everywhere, and his bed was surrounded by a battery of monitoring instruments. Strikingly, it seemed, Hassam’s eyes were open, and his gaze bored across the intervening space directly at Anderson.
He crossed the room to the badly-injured man’s left side, and reached out to cover Hassam’s uncovered left hand with his own. “Hassam, I’d be lying if I didn’t tell you that you look like crap, but you look better than when I saw you the other night. You’re going to need a new car, but I’m awfully glad to see you!”
Hassam smiled, ever so slightly: “I am pleased you are here.” It was almost a whisper. It was almost inaudible.
“Do you know who did this to you?”
“No.”
“The truck was from Robertson Mines. Was it someone you work with?”
“No. Not them. Other men drive those trucks.”
“Were they the men you had been sitting with?”
“Yes.”
“But you don’t know them. Where do they come from?”
“Near. Near there I think.”
“Where is Anita? I am worried about her.”
“Not know.”
“Hassam, you cannot help her from your hospital bed, and I am a friend of her family and want to help. And I can help. Will you tell me who I can talk to?
Hassam said nothing, and closed his eyes. The silence was broken only by the beeping of the monitors for almost a minute, then: “Grandfather. Crazy man. He take her with him.”
Sunset at [20 47] Page 22