A Green Place for Dying

by R. J. Harlick

  “Jeez, what’s got into you?” Teht’aa shook her hand free of my grasp and began brushing off the dark liquid trickling down the front of her jeans. “You made me spill half my coffee.”

  “I’ll tell you later. Right now I need something stronger than coffee and to be a long way from cops. Plus I’m famished. Got any ideas?”

  Teht’aa knew of a restaurant in the middle of what used to be the old town of Hull before it was merged with the much larger municipal entity of Gatineau. I followed close on her bumper through the twisting streets to the downtown core of low nineteenth-century buildings overshadowed by sky-high twentieth-century office towers. We managed to find a couple of parking spots on a side street not far from the sprawl of a national museum and walked along another side street to a restaurant tucked inside a gabled two-storey house with a large side verandah. Despite the late hour, the restaurant was still full, although several tables were in the process of being vacated. Five or so minutes later, we were ushered into the stylish dining room to one of the freshly reset tables. The waiter, however, didn’t appear to be particularly pleased with our arrival, which had probably back set his departure by a good hour and a half.

  Even though Teht’aa wanted me to immediately launch into what had me all fired up, I was in no fit state to talk. I needed sustenance above all else. Plus, I was flinging emotional daggers and knew my recounting would be fraught with more passion than sober second thought. Only after the soothing warmth of the cream of asparagus soup did I feel sufficiently calm to recount all that I’d encountered since we’d parted. I had wanted wine, but a warning glance from Teht’aa dissuaded me.

  I watched her face run a gamut of emotions, from elation at learning that we finally had proof of the prostitution ring’s existence, to chagrin at knowing yet another of her sisters was being trafficked, and finally to the same rage that I’d felt at listening to the self-serving cop say that the SQ couldn’t mount an expensive rescue operation without firmer evidence that Eric and the kidnapped women were at the fishing camp with the green parrot.

  “So what do the stupid pigs want?” she spat out when I’d finished. “A YouTube video of him being tortured at the camp or his cut-off finger with a map showing where to find the rest of his body?”

  There was no point in answering. I felt the same way.

  “Did you learn anything we can use, either for Fleur or your father?” I asked.

  Her beaded earrings danced as she shook her head. “Not really, but Charley, the owner of the Dreamcatcher Bistro, knew about the missing women and knew a couple of them. In fact, one who disappeared about four years ago had been a good friend.” She pulled out a photo of a young woman in her early twenties with laughing eyes and a bright smile. “But she hadn’t employed any of them, and Fleur was the only one who’d ever come to her restaurant looking for a job.”

  “Well, we didn’t really think the restaurant was involved, did we?”

  “She did mention the drop-in centre you talked about, Auntie’s Place. Apparently her friend had been all excited about an ad she’d seen there. In fact, she even had an interview set up before she disappeared.”

  Teht’aa smiled her thanks up at the waiter as he placed a dish of veal kidneys smothered in mustard sauce in front of her.

  “Do you know what the job was?” I nibbled on a french fry while I sliced through my tender steak. Steak et frites, one of my favourite meals.

  “Modeling for a magazine.”

  “I think that ad was used to lure these women. I saw a similar ad at the Welcome Centre. Did she tell you the name of the magazine or the name of the person this friend was meeting?”

  “Sorry, I didn’t ask. I didn’t know it was important.”

  “That’s okay. I’ve already told Will about the ads. But we should probably let him know that we have proof that it was used to entrap at least one of the missing women, in case the Ottawa police want to follow up. But let’s face it, it won’t happen.”

  “You can say that again. Ignorant bastards.” Teht’aa dropped her utensils onto her empty plate to emphasize her disgust, then ordered a double espresso.

  “Make that two,” I said to the waiter. “Anything to keep me from falling asleep on the long drive home.”

  Teht’aa continued. “I did learn something important from the bistro owner, even though there isn’t much we can do with the information. Before she started up her restaurant, she was the chef at the green parrot fishing camp for a couple of summers. The camp, by the way, is actually called L’Auberge du Soleil Couchant.”

  I laughed ironically. “Fitting name, isn’t it? It may mean Inn of the Setting Sun in English, but the direct translation of couchant, meaning ‘sleeping,’ seems more appropriate.”

  “And the green parrot does exist. He has a perch on the verandah and in the lounge.”

  “Did she tell you where the camp’s located?”

  “She doesn’t know exactly. She said it was about a three-hour flight from Gatineau to somewhere in northern Quebec. Unfortunately, the lake’s name is White Fish Lake. And as you well know, if there’s one lake by that name in Quebec, there must be a hundred.”

  “At least we have the lodge’s name. Did Charley mention anything about prostitutes?”

  “Nope, she said there were very few female staff members, only herself and a couple of older women from a nearby reserve who did the cleaning.”

  “How long ago was she there?”

  “She was last there about nine years ago. She said the main lodge is a gorgeous timber building with a spectacular two-storey stone fireplace in the great room. It also has a number of outlying cabins and is on a rocky point overlooking the lake.” She smiled. “Sound familiar?”

  Except for the outlying cabins, she could’ve easily been describing Three Deer Point.

  “Charley also said it was very isolated, accessible only by plane or canoe. I gather the reserve the two other women were from was at least a two-day paddle away. It’s also the kind of fishing camp that only the wealthy can afford. She said during her time there were a number of prominent guests, mostly men.”

  “Did she say who owned it?”

  “A man from Montreal, who was the owner of the parrot. But she’d heard he died about six or seven years ago. His brother-in-law took it over and sold it to some foreign company. She didn’t think it was American, but it might have been Arabian or from another oil-rich state.”

  “For what it’s worth, we should pass this info on to Will.”

  “She did mention that there were a couple of tragic accidents while she was there. Apparently one of the female guests, a young woman who’d come with one of the male guests, disappeared into the bush and despite an extensive search, she was never found. The people at the lodge suspected that she’d probably wondered too far from the lodge, became lost, and either died from exposure or was killed by a bear or wolves.”

  “Well, as we both know, it can easily happen, particularly with someone who isn’t familiar with the wilderness. And the second accident?”

  “It happened with another young woman also accompanying a guest. I don’t believe either woman was married to these men. This time it was a drowning. Charley apparently found the woman’s body drifting close to shore. There was a police investigation, but it was determined that the woman had taken a canoe out on her own and had been dumped in the middle of the lake. I gather despite being unable to swim, the drowned woman hadn’t worn a life jacket.”

  “Another accident that can easily happen, but two accidental deaths within a short time must not have done the reputation of the fishing camp much good.”

  Teht’aa nodded. “It unnerved Charley so much that she decided not to return to the camp. In fact, she wasn’t entirely sure the drowning death was accidental. The night before the woman drowned, she’d approached Charley, quite upset and wanting to leave the lodge. Before Charley had a chance to tell her that a plane would be coming the next day, the woman’s escort arrived a
nd took her away. She remembered noticing strange bruises on the woman’s arms and neck.”

  “Did she think the man had beaten her?”

  “She did and thought maybe this man had had a hand in her death. Apparently he was quite abusive to the woman when he dragged her away from Charley. But when she mentioned this episode to the cops, they said they’d been told the woman had been drinking all day, was acting erratically, which was supported by other guests, and had apparently fallen and hurt herself.” She paused. “By the way, I gather this young woman was native. Charley thinks that’s why she approached her, a kindred sister.”

  “It looks as if funny business has been going on at the Fishing Camp for some time, doesn’t it? It makes me wonder why the SQ don’t have it on their radar screen.”

  She waved her hand dismissively. “You know what I think of cops.”

  We both lapsed into silence. While she played with her empty espresso cup, I fidgeted with my empty plate. A kernel of an idea was beginning to form.

  Suddenly she banged her fist on the table, startling not only me but also the couple at the only other occupied table in the dining room. “We’ve got to do something, Meg. If we don’t, Dad’s going to die, if he isn’t already dead. But, jeez, I don’t have a clue what we can do.”

  “How would you like to go on a trip?” I answered.

  She arched her eyebrows.

  “It’s something I’ve been thinking about once I realized the police weren’t going to move.” I paused, thinking this was too much of a harebrained idea. But why not? It was worth a try. “Why don’t we fly in to this camp ourselves?”

  Chapter

  Forty—Seven

  "You've got to be kidding.” Shocked disbelief spread across Teht’aa’s face.

  “Why not?” I said as I fished out my credit card and passed it to the waiter hovering at my elbow. He scurried away and returned within seconds with the slip ready for my signature.

  “I figure if we could get some pictures or other hard evidence of illegal activity, like revealing it’s a brothel and not a fishing camp, it would be enough to send the police in.”

  I’d been mulling over this idea since the Migiskan police chief first warned me of the difficulty in convincing the Quebec police to fly into the camp.

  “I’m hoping we’ll come across Fleur or one of the other missing women.”

  “And if we do, will we take them with us?”

  “Only if it doesn’t endanger the other women. I don’t know how many there will be, but I doubt we can fit more than a couple of extra people inside a small float plane. I’m worried that the owners would harm them when they discover Fleur is missing.”

  “But surely they’ll be suspicious of us?”

  “I’ve been thinking we could go undercover, so to speak. We could pretend to be clients … or upset wives looking for our wayward husbands.” Chuckling, I followed Teht’aa out of the dining room.

  She laughed. “Yeah, I bet there are a number of wives dying to know what their husbands are really doing on their fishing trips.”

  The skepticism on her face had turned to acceptance. “It’s probably the kind of place you need to book weeks in advance. What about going as travel writers or better yet, reviewers? That way we can drop in unexpectedly without arousing suspicion.”

  “It would also help explain our snooping around. I like that idea.”

  Without so much as a thank-you for our business, the waiter clicked the door lock into place the second we walked out onto the street.

  “But what about Dad? If he’s there, we can’t leave him.”

  “I know. It’s something I’ve been struggling with. But I worry that if we take him, it will spell the end of the women. Perhaps it would be safer for everyone if we leave the rescue up to the police.”

  “Meg, you dreamer you. You honestly think the police will change their minds. No way. They’re going to continue to sit on their fat asses. Nope, if we find Dad, we take him with us. That’s the only reason I’ll agree to this crazy idea.”

  “You’re right. I wouldn’t be able to leave him behind either, or Fleur for that matter. But we’re going to have to come up with a plan to protect the women.”

  The night had turned cool. The streets were empty but for a ginger cat sitting by a front door. His eyes followed us as we headed around the corner to our parked vehicles.

  “Damn. I hadn’t thought of the danger. We’ll have to think of something.” She clicked the remote of Eric’s Jeep, which responded with a flash of lights and a beep. “Now where do you plan to get this plane? Steal it?”

  “I figure we can charter one.”

  “But, Meg, that’ll cost a fortune.”

  “That’s a fortune I’m prepared to pay. I have some bonds coming due. I’ll use money from one of those.”

  “And where are we going to find this plane? I don’t know any airlines that charter.”

  “I don’t either, but Wendy’s husband uses a floatplane charter service. I figure we can use his. And I’m also hoping that one of the company’s pilots might know where this Sunset Lodge is located.”

  “I’ll call Wendy now and see if she knows the name.” Teht’aa dug her cell phone from her purse.

  Although Wendy didn’t recognize the name “Sunset Lodge” or its French equivalent, she did know the name and phone number of the airline. Air de l’Orignal, otherwise known as Moose Air, operated out of a town a little over an hour’s drive from Somerset, but she said the plane picked up George and his clients on Echo Lake at the Forgotten Bay Fishing and Hunting Camp. That would be very convenient for us too, since it was around the corner from Three Deer Point at the bottom of a deep narrow bay. But Wendy had no idea whether the airline would know the location of George’s fishing camp. As far as she knew, her husband always used the camp’s private plane to get there.

  Since neither of us wanted to spend the night at this camp, hundreds of kilometres from the nearest help, we would have to do the trip in one day. I doubted a floatplane could land in darkness, so given the three-hour trip Charley had mentioned, we would need to leave first thing tomorrow morning to ensure we could land in daylight on our return to Echo Lake.

  But I was fooling myself if I thought we could charter a plane this quickly. The airline office was predictably closed when I tried calling before Teht’aa and I set off for home. And the next day the owner didn’t return my message, nor the other ones left during the course of the morning, until it was almost noon. By then I’d convinced myself that chartering a plane wasn’t going to happen.

  Thankfully, business was slow and his Beaver, which could accommodate six people including the pilot, would be available the following day. So after haggling over the price, which meant I would have to put off replacing my decrepit truck for at least another year, and agreeing to giving him a hefty deposit, Bernie, the owner and pilot, agreed to pick us up at eight in the morning at the Forgotten Bay Hunting and Fishing Camp. Although he could’ve landed near my dock, he said the beach at the camp would make loading easier. He also wanted to use the Fishing Camp’s gas pump to ensure he had a full tank.

  Fortunately, he knew the exact location of Sunset Lodge. Over the years, he’d flown in numerous clients.

  He hesitated. “You know, it’s not exactly a place for women. But I guess no reason why women can’t fish.” He paused. “Just I don’t think I’ve ever taken in a female client on her own.”

  Now was the time to try out our cover. “We’re travel reviewers. We’ve been contracted by one of the big travel magazines to do a review for an upcoming issue on North American fishing lodges.”

  “I guess … though I would’ve thought it wasn’t exactly the kind of place people reviewed. Oh well, see you tomorrow.”

  He hung up leaving me convinced that we needed to learn a lot more about this fishing lodge before we arrived unannounced. So I left a message with Wendy saying I wanted to speak to George when he got home later in the afternoon.
>
  While I waited, I called Will to bring him up to date on my disastrous meeting with Sergeant Tremblay. He was just as annoyed as I by the SQ cop’s noncommittal response and vowed to go up the chain of command.

  However, when I asked about Doris and how much the Ottawa police had managed to learn about the trafficking operation, I discovered that they hadn’t been able to apprehend her. Apparently, she hadn’t returned home, nor had she shown up for work today. But the apartment where I’d seen her did indeed appear to be a holding place for these women. It was furnished with the bare basics, no personal items and little food in the fridge. The bathroom cabinet contained a number of female cosmetic products and hygiene items, while the bedroom closet held a variety of scanty female clothing.

  “Oh dear, what does this mean for Doris?” I asked.

  “Hate to say it, but it’s likely she’ll turn up dead. An All Points Bulletin has been issued for her car.”

  Although we talked for a couple more minutes, I didn’t tell him about our planned trip. I figured he would try to stop us. He might even go as far as calling the airline and telling them not to fly us. I did, however, plan to tell him shortly before we took off. If we didn’t return as planned, he would know where to send in the rescue. Surely that would be enough to fire the SQ into action.

  Chapter

  Forty—Eight

  Unable to sit still while I waited for George to return my call, I kept myself busy puttering around the yard under the watchful eye of Sergei, who preferred to stretch out on the wooden floor of the verandah rather than the cold damp ground. Occasionally he’d lift his head at a squirrel’s chattering, but that’s as far as he would move. Once he roused himself enough to shamble down the stairs for a pee, but after coming to me for a reassuring pat, he lumbered back up again to his resting spot. Gone were the days when he tore around the property in a fit of canine exuberance.