by Lou Allin
The lodge had a typical musty smell from unheated closure. Passing though the dining room, complete with long, oil-clothed trestle tables for fifty and a fieldstone fireplace at one end, they entered the kitchen. A wall calendar stopped at August. Out of curiosity, Belle checked the cupboards: dry supplies of rice, pasta and flour in sealed containers. Canned goods would freeze.
“No sign of recent use, but Micro’s always been neat,” Dave said, running a finger through the dust on the counter as the corners of his mouth wavered. “Maybe the tracks belonged to another rider. Let’s try the other rooms.”
Unwilling to leave until she had touched every corner, Belle paced the room. At the moment of abandoned hope, with Dave already turning to the corridor, something caught her eye. She bent to collect a small plastic bag lodged under the overhang of the sink cabinet. It smelled like jerky, and tasting one shard brought back memories. Dave watched her carefully, his eyes brightening with hope. “He’s been here!” she said.
He took the bag, examining it like a talisman, a crease on his broad brow. “I’d like to believe that . . . but are you sure?”
She smacked her lips. Taste and smell were more powerful memory organs than sight and sound. The flaky crust and sweet tartness of her famous mother’s cherry pie had deep roots in her memory, try as she would without success to duplicate it. “Green jalapeño sauce. Hélène’s secret ingredient.”
As they locked eyes, then headed for the hall, he gestured to her. “You take that room, and I’ll look in there.”
The two pine-panelled bedrooms were probably maintained for the camp director and assistant. Nothing out of place, but was it her imagination that there seemed to be a depression in the old spring bed, sloppy mattress or not? Had a sleeping bag rested there? Belle tested the window. It lifted easily, and the shutter outside, a sheet of brown, painted plywood braced by a stick in summer, was unlatched. A removable sliding screen sat on the floor. An old stump below made an easy stepstool.
Dave returned, his shoulders sagging. “Nothing.”
“Watch this. Why would Micro have known about the key? But he could have come in through here.”
He ran his fingers over the sill, brushed a bead of fear-sweat from his temple. “Then where in the name of God is he, Belle?”
The other outbuildings were firmly padlocked, and so was the large boathouse with stacks of canoes, kayaks and paddle boats visible through the cobwebbed panes. The lake rippled with the wind as a trout broke the surface to grab the season’s last mosquito.
Dave sat on a picnic table with his head in his hands, fighting back tears as he took out his wallet and showed her a school picture of Micro, beaming into the camera in a white shirt and tie. Dave’s hands made fists of stress, and he looked on the edge of collapse in a struggle between hope and despair as he focused his weary eyes on the dark woods. “I’m going to stay, at least until the police arrive. You take the car. I’ll get a ride back.”
“Well, I—” If he was around, Micro was clearly spooked. And he wasn’t going to come to Dave. He’d be more receptive to an officer.
Dave shook his head. “I had another terrible idea. What if he met someone here? That last message.”
“Why choose to meet here? It’s miles from town.” He hadn’t mentioned the gun, a dangerous addition to any scenario.
“All the more reason. No one around.”
“Or are you saying someone led Micro here . . . and kidnapped him?” The thought sent an icy charge down her spine. And the location pointed to someone who knew the area.
“I know I need to stay cool, but it’s as if my brain’s working against itself. All kinds of crazy ideas are flowing in, no matter how hard I try to focus. I just want him home and this nightmare to end.” Belle watched him smoulder like a volcano, powerless to act. He stood suddenly, blinking against the sun. “Car tracks at the gate. I didn’t look. Did you?”
She placed a steadying grip on his shoulder. “Stay calm, Dave. I know it’s hard, but let’s think this thing through. There’s a much simpler possibility. Yes, he’s gone, but not because of our arrival. We would have seen him run, and how could he have packed up that fast? Suppose he came here to live off the land and discovered that his belly hurt after a few days. Squirrels and rabbits aren’t easy to kill, even with that .22. He has no fishing equipment. Plain rice and pasta gets boring.” She recalled their conversation about aboriginals and how vegetarianism wouldn’t have supported a hunter-gatherer lifestyle, especially under extreme cold.
“If he’s back in town, he’ll be found soon enough.” Dave smacked a fist into his large hand in a gesture of confidence. “Maybe I’m way off base on this idea of another person. Thanks for the wake-up call.”
Belle nodded as she checked her watch surreptitiously. Closing in on eleven. She needed to get back to the office. “The police will give the camp a closer look this afternoon.” She didn’t add that from day one they would have been checking the Ontario Sex Offenders’ Registry of over four thousand people.
He stood, squaring his shoulders, a catch in his voice. “There is someone else. Micro’s uncle, Rafe Bustamante. The boy liked him. I could almost hope—”
“Hélène mentioned him.”
“He’s an eye surgeon in Cleveland. Rafe came up each summer when Michael Sr. was alive. Bea said they made a great trio. Rafe and his wife couldn’t have children.” He groaned. “After Bea . . . died, Micro wanted to go and live with him. Maybe it would have been for the best.”
“But surely you don’t think he took the boy across the border. That’s impossible these days.”
He shrugged. “Come on, Belle. You’re too law-abiding. With a bribe to someone with a boat, you can enter the States via the St. Lawrence, around Ganonoque, for example. Maybe you’re right in figuring that Micro came here, got sick of the rough life, then went back to town and called Rafe collect.”
“That would be easy to check. He has a practice, a home. A child can’t be hidden.”
“I phoned when Micro first disappeared. Seems he’s off in Europe on a vacation. Or so his office says. It could be a ruse.” Then he coughed as if disgusted with himself. “The man’s a professional. This speculation is crazy. I feel like diving into a bottle of rye.”
“But you won’t, Dave.”
“Thanks for the confidence. Sorry for the self-pity. It’s not my normal mode.”
She thought for a moment, running over all possibilities. “Whatever his plans, he’ll need money. Was anything withdrawn from his account?”
“Not a cent. First thing we checked.”
A thorough examination by the gate revealed only rough gravel. Winds had blown sand across the road. As they got into the SUV, Belle rubbed her shoulder. She’d wrenched it moving wood from the pile to the deck crib, and it was taking its middle-aged time to repair. “When I get home from work, I’m taking a hike and getting into a nice hot sauna before dinner. Last one of the year.”
She listened to him talking on his cellphone, getting patched through to Detective Sumner. “A cruiser’s already on the way. And now that they have a lead on where he’s been, they’re bringing out the Canine Unit. If he’s in the bush, he’ll be found. No worries. That’s what he said. No worries.”
Belle met his eyes. “Dogs can work miracles, days, even weeks later. Things are moving, Dave. And he’s still alive. That’s the greatest gift.”
At the office, the first thing Belle did was call Hélène, but the number was busy. She didn’t reach her until four thirty, when she got home early, having left Miriam to man the barricades.
“Dave just called. The magic ingredient in my jerky. How clever of you to remember. And you think he may have left? But where now? Back here by the same route? Why doesn’t the boy smarten up?” Hélène asked.
“Any news about the mysterious e-mail?”
“Let me check my notes. I’m not a computer expert, but I may become one.” There was a pause while she told Ed that dinner wasn’t re
ady and that he wasn’t to fill up on the pickled eggplant. “It was a Hotmail address. The police traced the source.”
Belle sat up. “And?” Where would the cybertrail lead?
“A public-usage computer at the MacKenzie Street library. They have six, and there’s no supervision.”
“So it’s local. That’s a relief.” Better a local predator than one who could take the boy provinces away. She didn’t elaborate to Hélène.
“Yes, and it could be another teenager. We don’t know.” Belle heard the sound of a door slam and Ed’s booming hello. “Got to run. Dave’s here for supper, and the porketta just went in.”
Belle hung up with a few encouraging words she was beginning to have difficulty believing. Clearly, Hélène was still rationalizing. If he’d taken the old railbed again, Micro would be back by now.
She took Freya up her trail to clear her head. Was it her imagination, or did a mosquito dive-bomb her ear? October 8th already, but the few warm days had resurrected another bloodthirsty generation, learning their vampiric trade from first hatch. As they travelled the soft turf, Freya chased a shrew into the underbrush in joyous abandon, receiving a nip on the nose which made her shriek. Her mistress’s preoccupation with Micro had cut time from their activities.
Thirty minutes later, restored by the energizing peace of the forest, Belle collected wood from her tarped pile and went out to the little red sauna saved from the original cottage property. Opening the stove, she popped in paper scrunkles, kindling, then dry pine splits for a roaring blaze. After lugging a bucket of water from the lake, she placed it on the lowest tier of the wooden bench. No change room, nor shower. Finnish style without the birch scourges, it smelled like a cedar forest.
Back inside the house, Freya wolfed her meal as usual. With no meat unfrozen, Belle scanned the cupboards and decided to stay vegetarian in Micro’s honour for another night. Eating less meat certainly reduced the grocery bill. A can of baked beans with molasses could dress up a raft of whole wheat toast. Easiest way to get fibre short of Freya’s Metamucil, even if the Bumble Bea logo on the bread package was a constant reminder of the murder.
Storms aside, fall was the quietest time on the lake. Boats had gone to dry dock, snowmobilers fine-tuned their engines waiting for the big, deep lake’s mid-January freeze, last in the region. The air was crisp and cool, and in the privacy of her quarter-acre, she was queen of a vast country, the 180° view of the mirrored lake framed by gentle, graduating hills. Near the North River, on a high island often shrouded in petticoat fogs, a Hudson Bay post had been built in 1820. It had taken nearly another hundred years before Europeans had lived here, working in the lumbering camps in Skead. Because of the difficult access, seventy-five per cent of the shoreline was still pristine wilderness, but that was changing, and not for the better. More people meant more noise, traffic and pollution.
Glad that the boathouse shielded her from the war-torn remains of the dock base, its shattered concrete walkway a reminder of nature’s power, she poured a Maudite beer from Quebec and relaxed on the deck with the biography of Pauline Johnson she’d been reading. It told the story of a woman trapped between two worlds. Her father was a Mohawk chief and his devoted wife a shy Englishwoman. After her father’s untimely death brought penury to the family, Pauline, a talented poet, took off on endless recital tours across Canada. Her poignant themes dealt with the denigration of a once noble people.
The overproof beer rocketed to Belle’s head. One was more than enough. Going back inside, she shook off her clothes, then left by the basement patio doors, ambling barefoot across the sparse grass. Instead of a bathing suit, she wore panties and a towel around her shoulders. With absent summer neighbours on one side and a greenbelt on the other, she enjoyed total privacy. Going topless was legal for women in progressive Ontario, but how many tried it at the public beaches on Lake Ramsey?
Flushes of dry leaves from her prize maple near the shore were skittering in gentle dances. Belle never raked in the fall. From the surrounding forest, others took their place, so why not wait until spring? Savouring the sun, Freya rolled in abandon on the lawn, exposing her vulnerable pink groin, the true sign of a relaxed dog.
Belle’s toes curled deliciously in the spongy turf, but as she opened the heavy door of the sauna, heat smacked her like a brick. “Wheew. Take my toxins, puh-lease.” Hanging up the towel, she sat on the lowest bench, pulled the dipper from the bucket and ladled water onto the clustered cobble rocks framed in metal on top of the stove. Billowing steam rose in clouds, and for a moment she couldn’t see, laughing at the effect. After relaxing for awhile as the temperature edged past 90°F on the old thermometer, she began scrubbing with the raspy loofah sponge, sluicing water over her arms and legs. Fish-belly white for the next seven months, it was the Canadian condition, healthy but as uninspiring as the oatmeal which had fuelled the nation’s empire builders.
Stretching in languor, she left the sauna, her skin tingling, gave a quick glance along the lake, and waded up to her thighs, chuffing at the frigid water as she cupped it over her body. She thought she heard a splash as she hustled back to the grass, but being on one side of a point, she couldn’t see far along the right shore. A flash of colour caught her attention as a white, black and brown merganser skittered across the water’s mirrored surface, followed by his more prosaic, red-headed mate having a bad hair day. Belle chuckled at the performance. “Get going! You have a reservation in South Carolina. If only I could fly.”
Back inside, she drizzled more water on the rocks, then lay down to let heat seep into her bones. The cold dip had penetrated to her core. How Micro had managed to plunge in during the storm still amazed her. Suddenly she felt selfish, enjoying herself while he. . . . She shook off the guilt. Everyone with a lost child learned that falling apart was no option. The time passed while she worked up an appetite, her stomach growling, the perfect sauce for any meal. She thought she heard a noise outside, perhaps a plane on the airport approach. Then the building gave a slight shudder. Blasting again at the new mine a few miles away over the hills? Sitting up too quickly, she felt lightheaded and remembered that she had skipped lunch. She needed to shower off the sweat and start dinner.
Belle got up, a bit unsteady and perturbed at herself for drinking on an empty stomach, and swiped her face with the towel. Then she closed down the fire draft. Heat would remain for almost twenty-four hours once the building had reached max. The large round thermometer read over 105°. She pushed the heavy wooden door, surprised at the resistance. Swollen with humidity? She pushed again. Then again. It wouldn’t budge. She kicked it, threw herself against its boards and fell back, banging an elbow on the benches. The door had a tight fit, but it seemed nailed shut. Panic rose in her chest, and she began gasping. The tiny windowless building was a tomb, tough as the old miner who built it. And she had no axe, no weapon to break out. Sweat streaming down her face, her arms slick as they pounded on the door, she began screaming, pressing her face to the seams. Who would hear her? There wasn’t another neighbour for half a mile, and no boaters. Struggling not to faint, she heard a whine outside. Freya pawed the wood, curious, then anxious, setting up a mournful howl. With choking breaths that seared her lungs, Belle assumed a tone of command, fighting a terror which might confuse the dog. “Go see Hélène! Go see Hélène! Go!” The dog would sense that her mistress was in trouble. There was no enemy to bite, no intruder to bark at. Only another human could come to the rescue. Would she understand?
Belle repeated the commands, and Freya continued to whimper, leaping at the door, her strong claws scrabbling. Then a yelp, followed by an ominous silence outside as the stove crackled and Belle’s eyeballs burned like cinders. “Freya? Are you there? Speak!” Hoarse from yelling, she was sorry she’d called the dog back. Animals needed simple commands. Context and tones counted more than words. Her head was pounding, and cramps racked her belly. She was dizzy and weak, as if she’d run a marathon in Death Valley. This wasn’t the way she
thought amoral nature would punish her stupidity. She’d be on her snowmachine, bogging in slush on some remote lake or lost in a sudden atmospheric fog on Wapiti, out of gas and without shelter as dusk fell and a joyride turned deadly. Freezing was preferable, but the results were the same. Then she passed out on the floor.
EIGHTEEN
A pantheist who found her temples in the woods, Belle didn’t believe in the concept of hell. But she was changing her mind, roasting in the belly of a deep-fat-fried whale. A human turducken. Images kaleidoscoped across her feverish mind, red lava floes shading to black. She watched her father in his gerry chair, gesturing and calling to her.
Then a pounding and a rush of air, but she was too weak to open her eyes. When she tried to talk, her swollen tongue cleaved to the roof of her mouth. Her throat constricted, she saw her father flex his muscles, rip off the lap tray and send it sailing like a paper plate, then rise, his legs oxen-strong. Once he’d jumped into a swimming pool, where her wiry six-year-old body was shivering from cold in the shallows, and lifted her out, hugging her to his warm and hairy barrel chest. Then her ears registered fragmented voices, moving in and out like the annoying static on the CBC. She tried to tune in, but she was out of range. Was she in her van? A crimson cloud blurred her vision.
Suddenly she was lifted into the air, floating, then laved in coolness, blessing its wash over her limbs. The Balm of Gilead. Then cruel rocks pressed her backbone. A chorus of voices, muttering, yelling, assaulted her from all directions. More lifting, her arms and legs dangling like a broken doll. The roar of an engine. Something wrapped around her. No longer hot, no longer cold. Perfect porridge for the three bears. They’d be in their dens now, like she was, snug and cozy. She submitted gracefully to fate. Grace was her hole card. Would she meet her mother at the end of that long, luminous corridor that ushered travellers between life and death? She wasn’t ready, but how many people were? Would she return in another form? A pampered dog? A mini-poodle? She thought she heard herself laugh.