by Lou Allin
Pacing around the yard, Freya eyed the procedure with some confusion. Usually she went along on Belle’s trips. “There is a space for you, girl, but it’s taken. When I get back, we’ll try it out ourselves if you watch those clawbees.”
At the old dog’s hurt expression, Belle departed from custom. “Tell you what. You can stay out on the deck today. Special treat. Watch Nature Canada.” Freya’s doghouse was Belle’s house, but the day was clear and the forecast warm and dry. It would take an earthquake to make the animal set one paw off the property. As a further bribe, she dug out a smoked bone intended as a present for Rusty’s birthday and placed it between Freya’s paws. The resigned animal gave it a token lick and turned her head away from her mistress.
In town, Yoyo was sitting on the steps of her apartment, rubbing sleep from her eyes, when Belle picked her up. At her side was a small daypack, which she hoisted. “Sunblock. Bug spray. Twenty per cent Deet. That’s the max. I suppose there’ll be hordes. When you live in town, you don’t bother about them. But I remember Burwash.” She rubbed her arms. “Makes me itchy just thinking about it.” Belle looked at the woman’s long-sleeved pink denim shirt and sensible cotton pants with a maternity panel. The neon-blue sky was dotted with high, harmless clouds. Still, a weather rock was more reliable than the local forecasts. Mix of sun and cloud was their default prediction. “Did you bring a jacket? You never know.”
Yoyo waved a little nylon packet. “It has its own case. Neat.” She tucked it into her pocket. “Mom made us cheese sandwiches. Apples, drinks. Sound good? I baked last night and brought a bag of Baron’s bikkies for Freya.”
“She loved the last ones.”
Then Yoyo looked at the van. “But where’s the kayak? Are we picking it up somewhere?”
“Blowing it up instead. It’s inflatable. And you did tell Coco we’d be back by six, right?” She felt strangely protective, as if something precious was in her care. What if they had an auto accident and . . .
Yoyo’s heart-shaped face nodded, totally devoid of makeup, healthy and glowing. The tooth whitener system had left her with a star-tingling gleam to the neat rows. “I can’t wait to see the old place again. I was only a little kid when we left. Know what? I bet we’ll find some raspberries.”
“Maybe in a few weeks.”
“Blueberries then. Around the rocky areas where it’s hotter.” Her deft tongue gave a sensual lick to her full lips.
On the road for a short time, they came to a halt behind traffic at Britt as an army of front-end loaders, backhoes and dump trucks rearranged masses of sparkling granite blasted from the Shield. Yoyo asked Belle to turn on the air conditioner. “Sorry, but it’s kind of like hot flashes, you know,” she said, fanning her flushed face and rolling up her sleeves. A wisp of a fruity deodorant tickled Belle’s nose.
As she juiced the air conditioner, Belle reached around to put on a light jacket. She wore a T-shirt, convertible pants, and a brown suede cap from Meldrum Bay. “Hot flashes are lurking around the corner for me.”
An hour later at the parking spot at the edge of the Burwash community, they began unloading the kayak. At the perimeters, meadows of hay and wildflowers had taken over, violet vetch, black-eyed Susans and hawkweed. The warm air was still with the aromas of fresh grass and the buzzing of bees on clover reconnaissance. Yoyo shielded her eyes to scan the remains of the town site, searching for landmarks. “Whooee. There’s my big old oak. And a couple of boards still up from Nick’s fort. Our house was a ways farther. Can’t we—”
Belle locked the van with the remote and zipped her keys and wallet into her jacket pocket. “Plenty of time when we return. That roadwork at Britt delayed us half an hour. I want to get moving here. Let’s carry the kayak as is, and we’ll inflate it at the lake. I don’t want to take off like a Zeppelin.” Then her cell phone rang. “Damn. I’ll check the voice mail later,” she said. “If it’s important, they’ll leave a message.”
The portage through the maple grove into Bump Lake was flat and easy. Belle hoisted the folds of kayak, and Yoyo the rest. The younger woman gave a bittersweet laugh as she puffed along. “Tom and I had our own baby kayaks. You could tuck one under your arm.”
Finally they reached the shores of Bump Lake. Tied to an old dock, mere fragments of planks, was a small car-top boat with a 9.9 horsepower motor. They hadn’t seen any sign of a vehicle. Either someone was nearby, or too trusting of other fellow men. Motors were portable and quite untraceable. Belle spent ten minutes operating the foot pump. Finally they positioned the kayak half into the water, paddles at the ready.
Belle checked the topo section she’d brought, cut down for convenience and laminated for waterproofing. Maps loved to fly out of boats, get soggy, or rip. “Portage to the next lake will be through those bulrushes on the far side. Only a hundred feet. First we’ll take a sample here.” She got out the package of test tubes, unstoppered one, and bent down to dip. Gary would have had a good laugh imagining her as Madame Curie.
Then they heard a roar as a man chugged up on a quad, a rifle strapped to the side and an expensive spotting scope hanging from his neck.
“I met this guy before,” she told Yoyo. “Nearly blew my head off, but he’s harmless. That’s probably his boat.”
“Hello there, back again?” he called, getting off the machine and punching the kill switch to return the scene to quiet. Again he wore full camouflage, but this time a light brown tree-bark pattern.
“No pup today?” Belle asked.
“Arthuritis got her down. Best to rest the girl. Vet said he had some meds that might help. Rima-something. Pricey, though.” Walking over, he gazed at the test tubes with some curiosity. One bushy eyebrow rose, and the corner of his grizzled mouth flickered as he considered Yoyo. “Got your sister with you? You two don’t look alike.”
Belle laughed. “Two crazy but unrelated ladies. We’re here to take water samples like Gary did. I had a hunch about something. Probably a wild goose chase.” She made the introductions. “Yoyo used to live in Burwash. That’s why she wanted to come.”
Patch cocked his head at the nubile blonde in an appreciative evaluation. “All them years ago, little lady? Why, you don’t look hardly old enough for that.”
“My mother Coco was the cook.” Yoyo’s bright eyes wore a proud look.
Patch threw back his head and guffawed until his belly shook. He slapped a hand on his broad thigh. “Coco Caderette. God, could she whip up a Christmas turkey dinner to beat the band. Never saw the like before or since. Should have asked her to marry me after old Bruce took off.” He gave a grunt of self-reproach. “Uh, no offence. Just that your momma deserved better.”
Yoyo’s dark, sharp eyebrows flickered, and she cleared her throat. “What did you say your name was?”
The water was murky at the trampled roil of the shore, but no help for that. Turning back to her work, Belle capped the filled tube, labelled it with a pencil, and tucked it into the carrying case. One down, three or four more to go. Then as she rose from her knees, her phone rang again. Would they never get this trip underway? And what was wrong with Yoyo? Her posture seemed defensive, and her wary expression was hard to decipher. Please no cramps, breaking of water, or whatever foretold birth. Belle was wondering about the wisdom of her decision to bring the woman. She glanced at the phone. Caller ID made her hesitate against ignoring it again.
“It’s Rainbow Country,” Cherie said after Belle hit the green button.
Belle’s father had returned yesterday. Had the condition flared up again, or was he merely wondering if she’d be there Tuesday, Tuesday? Had he twisted the arm of a soft-hearted nurse to call her? “Tell him I’ll be—”
“I’m sorry, Belle, but your father has developed pneumonia. Probably got it at the hospital, despite precautions. Seniors can be vulnerable.”
“And he’s going back to the same place? Tell me not.” Her voice started to rise in panic. Pneumonia was one often fatal complication for the elderly.
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“I’m afraid he had to. We’re not equipped for anything that serious. We did our best until the paramedics arrived. Got him on oxygen right away.”
“Where is he?”
“The geriatric wing at Memorial. Fifth floor.”
In a mental limbo, Belle looked over at the pair. Patch seemed abnormally interested in what Yoyo was saying, but he kept glancing around at Belle. Yoyo scratched at her neck and grimaced. “Damn blackflies. I’ve got a little perfume for you. Eau d’Off.” Snickering, she took off her daypack and rummaged around. Patch had been carrying the rifle on his back in a sling, but now he held it in front of him like a soldier guarding a prisoner. Belle didn’t like the intimidating pose. He hadn’t seemed like this last time, but Mutt had been present. The sooner they were gone, the better.
She looked out at the lake. Only one sample taken. Her father would want her to complete her mission, but if she didn’t act fast, she might not see him again. Either that, or a grim bedside vigil might await. His heart was so strong that he would joust for days with death. Her mother had died in their home in Florida, refusing Belle’s offer to fly down, probably to spare her daughter from seeing her in a wheelchair. Her father had done the caretaking as best he could. Now it was her turn. Couldn’t the old man have another kick at the film can? He enjoyed his life, had made adjustments in good humour as his independence melted like Victoria Day flurries. Then she clamped her jaw in decision. Life had presented a defining moment. Even if the trip to the interior would delay her a mere hour or two, there was no real choice. “I’ll get there as soon as I can, Cherie. Thanks for calling.”
Then as she punched off and the merry jingle of Bell Mobility added a discordantly festive touch, a strong and hairy hand snaked over her phone and wrenched it from her. “I don’t think you will.” Patch tossed it far into Bump Lake, where it landed on a lily pad with a splash and sank into the benthos. Frogs set up a chorus of protest as he tickled the rifle barrel under her chin like a shy lover.
“Jesus, what are you doing?” Belle asked, her pupils larger than Kalamata olives.
An ugly leer came over his grizzled face, as instantly as John Barrymore had morphed without makeup from Dr. Jekyll to Mr. Hyde. He set the rifle butt on the ground. “One trip’s not enough. Just hadda come back and spy on me. I’ll take care of the both of you nosey little fuckers the same way I took care of the others.”
Others? For a split second, Belle stood frozen, assessing the scene, tumblers in her brain falling into place like a lockset. Was the man crazy, protecting his territory, or even more sinister, both? What had he to gain or lose? Then she heard a hissing followed by a deep, low scream, as if from a wounded gorilla. Yoyo was deploying her superstrength dope canister into the old man’s face. The pungent smell of citrus filled the air like a toxic bomb. He dropped his rifle, slumped over it, and began pawing at his eyes. The patch slipped off, revealing a stitched socket. “You bitch! When I get my hands around your—”
Taking the gun was impossible. At close quarters he had all the power, half-blind or not. In another minute he’d be capable of shooting, then running them down on the quad if they tried to backtrack over the portage to the van. “Into the kayak, Yoyo!” Belle yelled.
TWENTY-ONE
Awkwardly, she knelt to hold the boat while Yoyo tried to crawl into the tippy craft, her arms braced against the sides, one sneakered foot ankle-deep in the lake. At this critical point, Belle had landed in the water more than once. No rehearsals allowed now. Showtime. As the woman landed precisely into the hole with an “oomph,” Belle added, “Pass me your backpack.” Meagre as they were, here were their only supplies. Shaking with adrenaline, she tucked it in front of her, then handed Yoyo a paddle and grabbed the other one. As Yoyo fumbled to set her hands, the moment in slow motion, cursing and stamping came from the bank.
“Go!” Belle called, pressing fast-forward.
With an easy motion stressing balance over strength, keeping low as she’d been taught, she slipped in and pushed them away from shore as the craft scraped bottom on pebbles. One leak, and they wouldn’t get fifty feet. Something white floated in their wake, but she dared not look back. As they powered ahead, she was amazed that Yoyo handled the paddle like a pro. No wasted movements. No miscalculated circles. Kayaks could be totally unforgiving. In half a minute, they were a hundred feet from shore, gasping for breath. Belle craned her neck to see Patch standing and shielding his good eye against the bright sun. His vision might be returning. Yoyo’s action had bought them only precious minutes. Would it be enough to reach the protective reeds? She heard gunfire pops and saw bullets spit the water to the right. A .22, not a shotgun. A bonus for the vulnerable boat. They ducked and mistimed strokes. The kayak swerved like a drunk exiting a bar.
Belle did a compensatory motion to set them straight. “Paddle harder! We need to reach those rushes.”
“I am!” Yoyo bent and continued to dig at the water with savage strength. Her sun hat lifted off her head as the breeze rippled the lake, but she brought the paddle shaft flat down on it and never missed a stroke. Smooth move, as a teenaged Belle used to say.
All was silence, except for their laboured breathing and the sleek cuts of their paddles, parting the water like chef’s knives. Either they had drawn out of range, or Patch’s vision was still impaired. Belle gave a momentary gulp of relief. Just as they neared the sanctuary of the rushes, they heard a few stuttered rips. It was the 9.9. The motor roared into action, and the small, flat-bottomed boat came streaking across the water, raising a pair of mergansers who flapped along then rose into the sky like British Harrier jets.
Belle’s heart began to pound as she worked the paddle. One false stroke, and their chances at escape were over. She heard no more gunshots, but as she turned around at last, she saw Patch take his hand off the tiller and aim the gun. Twenty feet from the reeds. Was the proverbial fat lady tuning up? Would they soon be floating face down like Gary then find shallow graves where no man ever walked? Patch would know many secret places. Then, in a freakish break of luck, the unbraced motor hit an underwater spar, a deadhead, and pulled a ninety, sending the boat into wild, overlapping circles. Patch fell out of the rear and flailed around trying to avoid the propeller. But the lake was eutrophic, hardly more than a swamp. He found his feet and struggled to regain control of the craft. Then they glided into the heavy reeds and were swallowed up like Moses in the rushes. Whoever had chosen the colour army green for the boat got Belle’s blessings.
Belle felt the boat slow as Yoyo stopped paddling. Aching muscles or not, this was no time to rest. She lowered her voice to a whisper to avoid telegraphing their destination. Perhaps he’d believe they were hiding. “Farther, keep going. We’re not stopping until the portage.”
Yoyo’s breath came in short gasps as she resumed her stroke. “I know that bastard. Patch Wells was a sadistic prison guard. Mom told me all about him. He used to be a boogeyman to all the kids. Patch is gonna get you if you don’t watch out. Old One-Eye.”
The weeds parted between hummocks of grass, and sharp blades slashed their arms like whips. Belle aimed for the narrows at the confluence of two hills. Portages were located for good reasons. “I thought Burwash was a medium-security facility. No need for rough stuff. Why wasn’t he fired?”
Suddenly the water became quite shallow, and the heat built up, sending sweat trickling down her back. She still wore her light jacket from the frigid van. Now she was glad of the protection. Belle felt the kayak ground as it scraped bottom. “We’re not going anywhere,” Yoyo said, her voice rising with frustration.
“Hold on.” Belle muscled the paddle like a Cambridge punt pole, and they eased by as the disturbed muck bubbled and burped sulphuric swamp gas.
“Puke,” Yoyo said, coughing. “One of the men he beat up nearly died. And he was fired. But they didn’t have enough evidence to prosecute. Besides, the facility closed that year anyway.”
Belle gave herself time to let this inf
ormation sink in. So he’d stayed in the bush in some shack all this time. Convenience? Habit? Surely after being fired, he wouldn’t have had any pension other than the basic Old Age and the supplement for those with no other support. Was he a total mental case, or a gatekeeper protecting something?
Suddenly the weeds parted, and they saw the muddy shore. Scratches of aluminum and flecks of paint on half-buried rocks showed where boats had been dragged. “If I recall, this one’s not long,” Belle said as Yoyo rubbed her sore arms. “Cracker Lake’s just beyond those trees.”
Yoyo looked around with eyes wide as the lily pads at her side. From afar, the yellow bullheads had bright blooms, but nose-close, they festered with flies and stank like Shakespeare’s flowers. “Shouldn’t we get going?”
“We’re safe for a minute. He can get here, but he has to be careful not to ground or choke the motor with weeds.” She patted her coat pockets. “Now where was that map? I want to take off in the right direction once we’re at Cracker.”
Then in her mind’s moted eye, she saw a white sheet floating in Bump Lake. “Hostie.” She drew out the curse like an unanswered prayer.
“What’s the matter? Where is it?” Yoyo asked in a hushed voice, poking around her own seat and finding nothing.
“The map fell out back where we put in. If he sees it and the notes and arrows I added, he’ll know where we were going.”
A tiny frown shadowed Yoyo’s face. “We can’t go back, can we?”
Patch would follow them as far as he could over short portages where he could haul that light boat. If he didn’t find them, he would return and set up camp, knowing that they carried no provisions and lie in wait like a fat vulture. This was perilous country. Squeezing her eyes, Belle tried to recall the progression of lakes. Eventually the watercourses, including streams and rivers, led to the huge Penage Lake district and Killarney, the jewel in Ontario’s crown of parks, then finally to populated Georgian Bay, but never directly. They might end up backtracking, mired in a swamp, losing precious energy fighting a log jam. A pregnant woman. Little food. No map. The last problem was the worst. It struck her like a pitiless arrow. Maps were light in a dark world.