by Lou Allin
There was a pause as Hélène lowered her voice, and Belle punched up the volume on the portable phone. “Ever hear of Psychic Paula?”
Belle covered the receiver and groaned. “The one who tapes handwritten sheets on light poles at all the intersections? Not very classy. Do you believe in that stuff?”
“Don’t be so negative. She told a friend of mine ninety years old about a sister dead in 1940. Erma tried to trick her. ‘How do I look to you, Betty?’ she asked. And the choice part is that the sister had been blind.”
“So then what?”
“The voice said, “Don’t tease. Now I can see you clear as day. And that hairdo doesn’t suit you at all. You’re not one of the Andrews Sisters.”
“It could be a guess. Psychics read a lot from body language and vocal tones. Anyway, I’ll go with you.” She didn’t mention that she wanted to prevent Hélène from getting bilked by a con artist. Her friend gave people far too many benefits of the doubt. She was born to feed and nurture the world, not inquire into its ethics.
Belle hung up and went to collect the brochure, lying in a dark corner where it had been brushed when she entered. She brought it into the living room and sat in her blue velvet recliner, turning on the swing lamp. The cover bore the sinister picture of a hulking man staring at a computer, the screen reading “Kidchat.ca.” He was typing: Jgirl15. “I collect dolls too.” Apparently twenty-five per cent of children are asked to meet someone they’ve only met online. Despite the heat pumping from the stove, she shivered.
In the computer room, she logged onto their friendly and comprehensive site, www.bewareweb.ca, which had information about gambling, cyberbullies and kid-friendly addresses as well as tech tools like filters or monitors. Suggestions for each age group called the years eleven to thirteen a “dangerous time”. And in both houses, Micro’s computer was in his bedroom, not in a safe family area like a rec room. Sadly enough, he fit the profile for abduction in one key way. Since his mother’s death, he had felt alone, and he didn’t want to return to Dave. Why did he hate the man so much?
SIXTEEN
Micro’s school was St. Francis on Lilac Street. Belle knew the principal from a house sale years ago. Jolly Watson was called to the phone late that morning and remembered her. “You were right about not buying too large a place since our boys were already in their teens. When they left for university, Phil and I would have been rattling around that Moonglo castle.”
“That’s good to hear. This isn’t about business, though. I’m a part of the team searching for Micro, I mean Michael Bustamante.”
Jolly gave a moan. “God, we’re devastated. We had an assembly to discuss the rules about strangers and keep the children calm. Each class made a collage for Micro, and I took them over to his home. Mr. Malanuk thanked me. I remember meeting him and Bea at the Open House when school started. His mother’s death, his father’s and his sister’s before that. What a heavy load for a boy.”
“Micro may have gone somewhere on his own. Time is crucial.” Belle explained her mission in needing to talk to his teacher. “I know how careful schools are these days, so I wanted to work through the right channels.”
Jolly gave a defensive snort. “It’s not like the States yet. No metal detectors and private security.” She paused as if she were checking schedules. “An essay, you say? That would mean his English teacher. Lisa Boggs is a sweetheart. I’m sure she’ll see you. Can you come around four?”
Later that afternoon, Belle drove to the school, passing the last yellow bus leaving the property. She parked the van and walked through the front doors. The halls were clean and cheerful, with cabinets of achievement awards, plaques and framed pictures of graduating classes. A Thanksgiving bulletin board was filled with cutouts of turkeys and Upper Canada settlers. When she reached the office, the secretary gave her Lisa’s room number. “She’s expecting you.”
Fresh out of teacher’s college, Lisa turned out to be a tiny dynamo with fashionable small glasses and her dark brown hair gelled into wings. She wore a short, rainbow-print dress and sturdy sneakers. After shaking Belle’s hand, she offered her a chair beside her desk.
“I haven’t had a good sleep since Micro disappeared,” Lisa said, pointing out a nearby cluster of desks, one of which held a bunch of wildflowers in a retro Coke bottle. “I shouldn’t say it, but he’s my favourite, more like a teacher’s assistant than a student. Always helping the others with infinite patience. If anyone’s harmed—”
Belle levelled her eyes at the woman, struggling to push aside the spectre of a molester. “So far we have no solid evidence that anyone else is involved. Micro’s initiative may have gotten him into trouble.” She related what Chris had said.
Lisa gave a weak smile, her oval face chalk-pale despite the cherry lipstick. “I’ve been off two weeks with bronchitis that turned to pneumonia. Those supply teachers. Assign work but never mark it.” With an accusing tsk, she pulled out a drawer with piles of papers and rummaged through the folders until her nimble hand fixed on one set. “It’ll take me weeks to sort this.”
They looked at the two-page essay, neatly typed. “Sounds old-fashioned, but I always have them write about their summer. It’s a quick start, and when they read their papers aloud, they can get to know each other.”
The essay was spell-checked, though computers couldn’t replace the eagle eye of an educator: “Ranger Paul talked to us around the campfire for twenty minuets. He said that beavers had become pests in cottage areas because of too much breading.” Breaking the tension, they erupted in laughter. Micro described a normal camp routine, fire building, shelters, plants, animals and especially food. “S’mores are great, but my counsellor Beth made us eclairs on broomsticks over the fire. She wrapped biscuit dough from those tubes on one end, baked it, and put pudding inside. They’re good, but not like Mom makes.” Belle was interested in the location, and the last paragraph contained a name.
“Camp Sudburga,” Belle said, snapping her fingers. Named for the legendary monster whose reptilian neck broke the waters of Lake Ramsey on foggy nights, usually when the sighter had finished a six-pack. “Do you know where it is?”
“I’m afraid not. There are so many in the region.” The playground of the North had camps for many purposes, including scouting, wilderness challenge training, Bible study, even one for kids recovering from cancer. Lisa promised to give the essay to the police, but Belle wished she could have kept it to hear his voice again, a little boy who had taken her heart hostage.
As she rose to go, she remembered another name. “Tom Beerchuk. A friend of Micro. Is he in this class?”
Lisa blew out a sigh of relief. “What a despicable bully he was. Very subtle, too. Hard to pin him down for discipline. A little sociopath in training, I’d say. After the first two weeks of school, his family moved to St. John’s, Newfoundland. Good riddance.”
Driving home, Belle recapped the information. She had doubted Micro had been involved with Tom after the painting incident, but it was comforting to cross off another name. Now he’d face the punishment alone, but she had confidence in him. “Come back, Micro. Nothing is worth what you’re doing to yourself and to all of us,” she whispered as she crossed the old railbed on her road.
After a bleak supper and an anxious evening, at ten thirty she finally reached Dave. He sounded tired from his travels, but happy to hear her voice. “I have so many people to thank. Neighbours have been bringing casseroles. The school sent collages. The Scouts are going to check the Conservation Area around Laurentian Lake. When I got back the other night from Leonora’s . . . Did you meet her at the viewing? I think she said—”
“Yes, I did. Everything okay on the bakery front?” she asked with a casual cool. What he chose to share about the woman and the tenor of his voice might reveal more than appearances.
“She’s a gem. It’s her mother. Died in her sleep in palliative care on the weekend. Eighty-nine. Poor lady lived with her all these years. A brittle diabe
tic who had lost both legs. Don’t know how Leo managed. I saw the obit yesterday morning, missed the funeral, but I went over to see her with flowers. I thought I should pay back some of the kindnesses people have offered me.”
Easy enough to check. It seemed that Len was off the rails about Dave. Now they could get back to business. When she told him about Micro’s essay and Camp Sudburga, his voice gathered new energy. “His teacher had that? Why didn’t I think of going to the school? He loves Miss Boggs. Probably opened up to her.”
“Of course, we can’t be sure, but that sleeping bag, the jerky—”
“Micro never mentioned it, but that’s not surprising. Like any boy, he had his secrets. The camp can’t be far. Bea kept him on a close rein.” His pace speeded up. “It’s not that late. I’ve got a lot of contacts.”
He promised to get back to her as soon as possible. Meanwhile, just in case a fast trip would be possible, Belle rescheduled her morning appointments, hoping that the changes wouldn’t irritate her clients. All she needed was for the ever-trembling business to fold. On the other hand, if she joined up with Cynthia Cryderman, could she lease a Humvee Two?
Dave called back half an hour later as the eerie warble of a lone loon rippled across the lake. It should be gone for the winter. Perhaps it had lost its mate or was crippled. “Still up? Good news. Bill Desantis works with the Recreation and Parks Department. He knows every camp within one hundred miles.” He paused, and she could hear a tissue being generously used. “I offered to take Micro on a canoe trip, a loop in the Elliot Lake area. Showed him the maps to get his interest. He could even bring a friend. It was no use.”
Belle drummed her fingers on the desk. Dave needed to take action, not brood over his failures as a stepfather. Clenching her jaw, she managed to keep annoyance from her voice. Some people needed a good shaking. “Where exactly is the place?”
She heard a rustle of paper. “I’m looking at a map, Belle. It’s not that far. Over by the Ashigami area to the east. Should we—”
“Ashigami! Whoa, Nelly. This is beginning to make a crazy kind of sense.” She helped Dave put it together. The food supplies, the old rail path. “That’s why no one has seen him on any local roads. He travelled as the crow flies.”
“I talked to the director. The place has been locked up since the end of August. But we’re welcome to take a look. There’s a key on a hook over the door. It’s probably a wild goose chase, but I’m going crazy waiting for news. Should we go tonight? Are you up to it?”
“A bit dangerous in the dark. Dawn’s not far off. We should tell the police now, though. They’ll dispatch a squad car.”
“I called Detective Sumner already. There’s been a five-car pile-up on 69 near Britt. A tanker’s burning, and a load of cattle spilled onto the road. A regular massacre. No one can go out until tomorrow afternoon.”
Belle made a fist in frustration. “Afternoon? Wait all that time? You’d think they could spare one officer. This is ridiculous.”
He blew out a long breath. “They’ve followed several false tips about Micro already. Spotted at a bus depot in Marathon, riding down the streets of Huntsville, at a rock concert in Toronto. It’s a nightmare, and you know about staff cuts. They’re eleven officers short right now in this brutal amalgamation.”
Belle felt like calling Steve and pulling a few personal strings, but she supposed that Micro’s flight had cost many thousands of dollars already. “Let’s go at dawn, Dave. I’ve cleared my schedule.”
“Why aren’t I surprised? I’ll repay you somehow for this. You’re setting your life on hold for us. That’s something only family would do.”
“Consider me an adopted aunt. Micro’s safe return will be the best payment. We can meet at my office at seven, first light, and take your car. The roads might be rough.” She was curious to see how his SUV handled.
Despite their reputation for early bedtimes, she knew the DesRosiers were catching every last hour of news. She called Hélène, who insisted on giving her own update first. “We’re safe on one point. Dreamcatcher on the chat line turned out to be a fourteen-year-old girl in Kingston. An honour student.”
When her friend heard about the camp, Belle had to hold the receiver away from her ringing ear. “Not that dangerous railbed! Over that high bridge a few miles east? Ed took me on the quad hunting blueberries along there once, and I nearly fainted. He had to tie me to the frame. Even so, I closed my eyes the whole way.”
Belle resisted comment on the provocative picture of the older couple. “You have acrophobia, remember? That bridge carried trains. There’s plenty of room for a bike.”
“I’d go with you tomorrow, but Ed has an eye exam. Those drops where you can’t drive.”
“We’ll be fine. Don’t get your hopes too high. I could be wrong.” She looked at the clock and calculated her shrinking sleep allotment. “Anyway, I’d better get to—”
“More good news. I got a consultation this week with Psychic Paula.”
“Come on. Do you really think that’s going to tell us anything?” No sooner had she spoken than she regretted dampening Hélène’s parade. “Sorry to sound so—”
“You have your hunches, I have mine. I hear she’s a lovely, sincere woman.”
SEVENTEEN
In his SUV, armed with a huge thermos of coffee, Dave collected Belle at the office, and they headed out Route 17 toward Ottawa. With a topo map, she explained the logistics of the old railbed, now linked to the TransCanada trail. “He was definitely listening, asking questions. And with those strong legs of his, he could have reached the camp in six or seven hours. Why didn’t I remember?”
Dave smiled at her as they stopped at a light beside Chapters. “You’re a genius. I’d never have put this together on my own.”
Far up the hill she could see the Silver City complex. How far away in time that happy Saturday seemed. Now perhaps they were close to ending this nightmare. But suppose they found nothing at the camp?
They were soon passing Coniston, home of a former nickel smelter. Only a few decades ago, hills of surreal black rock where astronauts came to train for the moonwalk bore witness to over a hundred years of environmental devastation, first from logging to rebuild Chicago after the Great Fire, then from noxious open-pit smelting. Thousands of hectares of soil had washed away in a core area the size of New York City. At last Sudbury was in full recovery mode, green again. The Rye-on-the-Rocks with a lime chaser project had regrassed the area. Then over eleven million trees had been planted in a massive government, corporate and community effort which had earned an award at a United Nations Earth Summit in Rio.
The small community of Wahnapitae sat by its namesake river, farther along, a few rundown motels and Uncle Rick’s Flea Market closed for the season. Finally they turned left at a restaurant-gas station on Kukagami Lake Road. For sale again.
Evergreens were the dominant growth on the thin layer of peat over Cambrian granite bedrock. Out of range of the devastation miles west, taller red and white pines soared beside firs and spruce. Occasionally a swamp lake with grey spars and beaver lodges bordered the dirt road. The feathery tamaracks, wetland lovers, an unusual deciduous conifer, added lemon splashes to fall’s ongoing postcard. At crossings, painted signs to family camps, Lemieux, Niemi, Cechutti, Schultz, pointed toward thinly travelled paths into the dark woods. Dave braked as an emaciated fox stood briefly in the road, its thin brush drooping.
“Very unnatural behaviour. Foxes are usually wary. It’s probably rabid,” Belle said. She should have kept her observations to herself. Dave had enough to worry about.
They took the first turn to Ashigami Lake. Twenty minutes later, they saw a large sign with a swimming sea creature grinning in cartoon innocence. Camp Sudburga. A chain lay across the entrance, so they parked and stepped over it. Before them, nestled on one of many bays on twisted Ashagami Lake, was a complex of simple pine buildings. Horseshoe and volleyball grids were laid out, and a baseball diamond waited for summe
r. They walked toward the main lodge, Belle searching for bike tracks, Dave by her side, eyes down, and gloved hands clasped in mute prayer. The rising wind took a bite from her neck. Without its liner, the Gore-Tex parka wasn’t as warm as Dave’s sheepskin jacket.
At a muddy spot which had hardened in the cold night, she stopped and knelt, tracing grooves with her finger. “Do you recognize this pattern? The police should be able to match it to the model. Did you buy the bike in town?”
Dropping to one knee and touching the track with shaking fingers, Dave let out a groan of relief. “It seems familiar. I bought it at the Outside Store and put it together myself. If you’re right, he could be safe in his bed by tonight.” He brushed off his hands, stood and scanned the grounds as if wishing to be in five places at once. “Micro!” he yelled. “Are you here? It’s Dave and Belle. Come out, son. There’s no harm done.”
The stillness of the surrounding woods was broken by the affronted chitter of a squirrel stocking up cedar cones for winter. Belle understood the man’s desperation, but if Micro were spooked, he might retreat on to forest paths where they couldn’t follow. Still, Dave thought he recognized the tracks. Her heart rate picked up. “Let’s search the buildings. He won’t be sitting by a campfire. His gear will be inside.”
The lodge was a one-storey log building with add-ons. Behind it, smaller cabins for campers and counsellors dotted the grounds along with storage sheds. Dave reached up over the front door and blew out a breath of relief. “Here’s the key. Pretty stupid to leave it here like an invitation, though I guess there’s not much to take.”
“A cottager would rather sacrifice a boat motor or bottle of rye than get vandalized,” Belle added. “But it’s far from town, and I can’t see teenagers driving all over the bush when there are easy pickings closer to home. My road gets a few break-ins every fall when townies leave.”