Prisoners of Hope

by Barbara Fradkin

  Chris was studying the ground. “One vehicle. Big tires. The tread is thick and new. I’m guessing a big SUV or truck, new or at least with new tires.” He straightened to follow the track toward the back. “But today’s rain has partially washed the tracks away, so they’re not fresh.”

  Amanda tiptoed up to peer in the cottage windows. Deserted. But through the screen of cedar she spotted a third kayak pulled up on the shore beyond the point. A familiar lime green. Damn, she’s been here, she thought. The silly girl. She headed for a closer look. The kayak was haphazardly pulled ashore, still half in the water and bumping in the waves. The paddle had been tossed nearby and farther up the life jacket, as if she had shed things as she moved.

  “Amanda!” Chris’s call was sharp with alarm. She rushed back to find him by the rear door of the cottage, bent over a figure splayed on the ground. The girl’s arms were flung wide, and her honey-coloured ponytail was sodden in the mud. Chris was feeling for her carotid pulse.

  With a cry, Amanda rushed to help. “Is she alive?”

  He nodded. “Barely.”

  Amanda pulled her cellphone out of her jacket pocket, praying there was a signal. Hallelujah! “Let’s hope they have 911 service here,” she said as she dialled. Within seconds she had the 911 operator on the line and reported the emergency. Once the operator had dispatched the EMS team from Parry Sound, she came back on the line for further information.

  Chris was already assessing her vital signs and calling out his observations. She was breathing, her airways were clear, and there was no visible sign of bleeding or injury. Her pulse and breathing were slow, however, just nine or ten respirations per minute, and she was snoring softly. Pupils were pinpoint. He tapped her shoulder and called her name. No response. He picked up her flaccid arm and pushed back her sleeve. Her skin was smooth but bluish and cold, possibly from the cold rain, but her nails were even darker.

  “She’s not getting enough oxygen,” he shouted toward the phone. “It looks like an overdose. Tell EMS to bring naloxone, just in case. Lots of it. I’m going to do rescue breathing and CPR to get her oxygen up.”

  He rolled her onto her back, checked her airways again, and tilted her head back to blow air into her lungs. He worked like a pro, focussed and calm as he watched her chest and counted the seconds. Every few moments he checked her pulse.

  Time crawled by. The girl lay clinging to life by a gossamer thread. The EMS were coming by road, but even at breakneck speeds it would take at least half an hour. A long time to sustain a life by CPR or rescue breathing. Amanda had stayed on the phone to provide updates, but once the ambulance took over communication, she handed the phone to Chris and relieved him to do CPR.

  They worked in tandem for some time, alert for the sounds of an approaching ambulance. Even as Amanda focussed, questions tumbled through her mind. Was this an accidental overdose, sadly all too common even among recreational users now that fentanyl and other super-opioids had hit the streets? Was it a deliberate overdose brought on by despair? Had Kaitlyn been overwhelmed by a sense of loss, not only of her stepfather but also the father she secretly yearned to know?

  Had it been something in between? Had she been so desperate for temporary oblivion that she didn’t care if she ever came back?

  Or had the overdose been more sinister? Had someone else handed her the fatal drug, promising her nothing worse than a mind-blowing high? For Amanda had no doubt that had she and Chris not stumbled upon her, Kaitlyn would be dead by now.

  She looked up at the back door of the cabin. It was ajar, as if Kaitlyn had stumbled outside before collapsing. In a desperate attempt to escape? To get help? When Chris began his shift on CPR, she stood up to stretch her back and flex her arms.

  “I’m going to look around inside to see if I can find any drugs or drug paraphernalia. There may be some clues that will help the paramedics and doctors.”

  He glanced up. “Good idea. But try not to touch anything. If this goes south … the cops will want some answers.” He nodded to Kaitlyn’s arms, which still lay flaccid at her sides. “Unless she’s hiding her track marks, she doesn’t use needles. Most likely she snorted or ingested something.”

  Amanda slipped through into the darkened interior, which was neat and spartan. Clean dishes sat in the draining board, and the kitchen table was bare. A narrow hallway off the main room opened into three tiny bedrooms and a bathroom, each closed off by curtains in the doorway. Two beds were stripped, but the bed in the largest bedroom had sheets, pillows, and a duvet, all neatly made.

  She returned to the main room for a closer look. Colourful throw cushions were lined up on the sofa under the window, but the rocking chair in the dark corner looked used. It had been jammed up against the wall, and its cushions were creased and crooked. On the table beside it was a small plastic baggy. She peered closely. Specks of pale bluish powder clung to the insides of the bag and dusted the tabletop. Nothing else. No flat surfaces or residue of powder lines. Had Kaitlyn taken the entire contents of the baggy and put it up her nose? Or had it been in pill form?

  Amanda backed away, her eyes tuned to subtler details. One corner of the braided rug was flipped over, and a framed photograph of Georgian Bay had fallen over on the table. Had Kaitlyn done that as she stumbled to get outside, or had there been a struggle?

  Chris’s shout penetrated her concentration, and she rushed back outside to find him agitated and breathless. The girl’s colour was worse.

  “I’ve lost her pulse,” he said. “Do chest compressions while I continue the breathing.”

  Amanda knelt at her side to begin CPR while he redoubled his efforts.

  “Hang in there, Kaitlyn!” he gasped. “Hang in! Help is almost here.”

  Through her fear, Amanda heard a distant bark from Kaylee, and she prayed that Chris was right.

  “You folks always seem to be in the thick of things,” Sergeant Neville Standish remarked. “If I were the suspicious type …”

  “Yeah, this is just what I want to be doing on my hard-earned time off,” Chris grumbled. “Nothing better to do around here.”

  They were sitting in Standish’s office at the OPP station in Parry Sound. Sandwiches and coffee had been brought in, although at this point Amanda thought a glass of Scotch wouldn’t go amiss. It was nearing the end of a long, long day. Chris was scheduled to fly back to Newfoundland the next evening, but instead of sharing a bottle of wine and watching the sunset on the beach outside their cottage, here they were, sitting in plastic chairs in a faceless grey cubicle, facing a tight-lipped, florid-faced cop. Through the one tiny window, all she could see was the tarmac of the parking lot.

  Kaitlyn was in intensive care at West Parry Sound Health Centre, still unconscious but alive. Amanda knew she should feel relief and pride that she and Chris had a hand in that, but she could only feel a sense of dread. Whether the poor girl would ever be whole again, either mentally or physically, was another question. Half an hour without adequate oxygen could kill off a lot of brain cells.

  Janine and Candace were on their way up from Toronto, and Amanda was not looking forward to that drama. Could Janine summon the motherly instinct to put her daughter first for once? Amanda doubted it. She hoped at least that she and Chris could sneak off back to the cottage before the two sisters arrived so they could salvage some of their last night together.

  They salvaged three hours. They barbequed the last of the trout, made it through most of a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc, and were relaxing in the Muskoka chairs hand in hand as the last lavender blush of sunset faded over the bay. The distant rumble of an engine and the stutter of tires on gravel made them groan.

  “I hope that’s not for us,” Amanda murmured.

  They both turned as a white Lincoln Navigator lurched to a stop inches from their cabin, spewing gravel. The door flew open, and Janine leaped out. In the days since her husband’s death, she’d had her hair freshly cut and coloured and new gel tips on her fingernails. The effort was probably f
or media coverage, but the cosmetics couldn’t hide the crazed eyes and the bony angles of her face. She waved away mosquitoes as she stomped over, fear and accusation in her eyes.

  Amanda headed her off at the pass. “How’s Kaitlyn?”

  “She’s terrible. Still unconscious.”

  “Shouldn’t you be with her?” Chris said. Cops, Amanda thought. Subtlety wasn’t their forte, but for once she was grateful.

  “The doctors don’t know when — even if — she’ll wake up. What am I going to do, sit there and hold her hand?”

  That would be a start, Amanda thought. Even Janine seemed to recognize her misstep, for she dropped her voice. “Candy is with her. She’ll call. But I have some questions for you!” She pointed her gel fingertip at Amanda. “Who are you, and what are you playing at?”

  Amanda tried for the short answer. She was here scouting locations for a trip and had become involved when Danielle swamped her boat off the Mink Islands.

  “Bullcrap,” Janine said. “Candy saw you with Benson in Pointe au Baril. Then you just happened to be there when Danielle swamped, you just happened to find Ronny’s body, and according to my cousin Venetia — who I admit wouldn’t tell the truth if a lie would do — you were snooping around the Chippewa Club asking questions about us. And now you just happened upon Kaitlyn in the middle of fucking nowhere!”

  “Can I point out we saved your daughter’s life?”

  “Yeah, and I bet you want a big fat donation to your little charity for that.”

  Amanda hid her surprise. The woman had researched her and knew a lot more than she was letting on.

  She was about to shoot back that would be nice, but Chris was on his feet. “That’s enough. Go back to your daughter, and when you’re ready for a civil conversation, come back.”

  Janine wasn’t used to being ordered around, even by an extra tall Mountie who crowded into her personal space. She stared up at him. “Just stating the facts. Sir.”

  “Who’s Julio?” Amanda asked.

  Janine’s gaze flicked to her. “Who?”

  “The man your daughter went to meet. She was at his cabin.”

  “No, she was at our cabin. The Bat House, Benson used to call it, because before we renovated it a few years ago, that’s all that lived there.”

  “But Julio was staying there.”

  Janine frowned and widened her eyes in theatrical surprise. “Oh, you mean the handyman Benson hired? Is that his name?”

  “What’s his relationship to Kaitlyn?”

  “Well, you’ll have to ask her. I don’t keep up with all her friends.” She paused. “But she was bored and lonely on the island — believe me, I’ve been there — so maybe she talked to him.”

  “So did Danielle.”

  “Well! The little Mexican gets around!”

  “Mexican?”

  Janine waved a dismissive hand. “Or whatever. He’s from somewhere down there. I don’t pay much attention to the workers Benson hires.”

  Amanda cut through the contempt. “Was he supplying drugs?”

  “What are you, the cops? Oh I forgot, he is the cops, just out of his jurisdiction. I have no fucking idea if he supplied drugs, but that’s a good basis for a relationship with Kaitlyn.” She put air quotes around the word relationship. “So are you going to tell me what you’re really doing snooping around my family? Even Neville thinks it’s weird.”

  Amanda noted the first-name basis with the OPP sergeant. She had to remember the Saint Clairs had deep roots in the community and probably shared secrets and alliances she knew nothing about. “Most of it is coincidence,” she said, trying to keep more bridges from burning. “But I did care about Ronny, and even more, his father George. George believes Kaitlyn is his granddaughter.”

  Janine blew a puff of air. “George and Ronny have been trying to weasel their way into our lives — and our bank accounts — for years. He can believe what he wants.”

  “But what if Kaitlyn believed it? And thought her real father was dead?”

  Janine spun back toward the Navigator. “Kaitlyn has a big imagination. Did I mention bored and lonely? I don’t want you visiting her, or talking to her, or putting stupid ideas in her head. Or anyone else’s head. If you so much as peek into her room,” she paused on the running board in a dramatic flourish, “you’ll find yourself in court!”

  It was so theatrical that Amanda almost laughed. “That went well,” Chris said as the SUV took off in another spray of gravel. He slipped his arms around her waist. “But she’s given us the perfect reason to butt out, leave this whole mess in Neville Standish’s hands, and get back to our last night together.”

  She tickled his side. “I’ve got one last thing I want to do.”

  He tightened his embrace. “It better involve a handsome young Mountie with a —”

  “It involves a pudgy, middle-aged journalist with a devious mind.”

  He dropped his arms.

  “I want Matthew to see if he can get hold of the coroner’s report on Benson Humphries. I want to know if they’ve confirmed cause of death as a drug overdose. Specifically something laced with fentanyl.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Matthew Goderich began to work the phones early the next morning, calling in favours and resurrecting contacts he hadn’t used in years. He sat under the shade of a patio umbrella in what had become his favourite haunt. The coffee shop on Queen Street West brewed an exceptional four-shot espresso and served pain au chocolat still hot and oozing from the oven. After a month of living in Toronto, he’d already had to loosen his belt a notch.

  The morning clientele was mostly business people engrossed on their laptops and a few coffee klatches of mothers with babies in strollers at their sides. No one paid him any attention as he surfed between laptop and phone.

  From a former colleague now on staff at the Star, he’d learned that all information related to the Humphries investigation and post-mortem was being withheld at the request of the family.

  “We know the police investigated,” the man said, “and we know the investigation is closed and the coroner has released the body to the family. Funeral’s tomorrow, in fact.”

  “Closed,” Matthew said. “As in there’s nothing to see here, folks?”

  “Probably as in there’s nothing we want you to see here.”

  “I guess money buys a lot.”

  “Yeah, everyone at the top is pretty cosy with each other, so the word came down to respect the family’s privacy. The party line is ‘The medical community mourns the loss of a well-respected neurologist who died at his family’s country home in a tragic accident.’”

  “Accident. What does that mean?”

  “Well …” the reporter lowered his voice, “the word being whispered around here is accidental drug overdose. Sadly, not much of a story anymore, even among the rich and privileged. I hear the Saint Clair country house has quite a reputation for wild parties.”

  “But was Benson Humphries a regular user?”

  “I don’t know. But you know with the opioids on the streets these days, it only takes once, and sometimes the user doesn’t even know it’s there.”

  After thanking him and promising to steer any useful tidbits his way, Matthew hung up and fiddled with his coffee spoon. The OPP had closed the investigation. Closed the book on Benson Humphries’s death. But had they simultaneously opened another investigation into illegal drug dealing up in the Georgian Bay area? A man had died, after all. He could hear Amanda’s outraged shriek all the way from Parry Sound.

  Before he called her to report, he wanted to find out two more details. First, was Benson a user, and if not, who was, besides his stepdaughter Kaitlyn? Secondly, was fentanyl the cause of his death? As usual, going the official route would probably be a waste of time, for neither the medical nor police personnel were likely to give a crumb of information. He needed some backdoor sources. The tipsy next-door neighbour? A street-level drug dealer?

  In the end, he decid
ed to go straight to the horse’s mouth after all, using a plausible combination of truth and artful lies. He tracked down Sergeant Neville Standish at his desk at the West Parry Sound detachment.

  “I work with Amanda Doucette, managing her tours and finances, trouble-shooting problems. Chief cook and bottle-washer to an amazing woman and proud of it. I try to —”

  “What can I do for you, Mr. … ah … Goderich?”

  “She’s planning a trip for some very vulnerable mothers and children next month, and she’s stumbled on quite a mess —”

  “Barged into it is more like it.”

  “Well, that’s Amanda, but it doesn’t change the facts. That there are drugs up there and young teenagers are overdosing. I need to know how big a problem drugs are up there.”

  There was a chuckle. Matthew held his breath. “I’d say your mommies and kids are more at risk in their own emergency shelters and group homes than they are out in kayaks on the bay.”

  “Agreed. And that could be a concern as well. How are the drugs getting in? Local labs and suppliers, or …?”

  “Drugs are getting in, for sure. Cottagers bring them up from the city more often. But with the locals, alcohol is still our number one concern, and should be yours too.”

  “Right. But we can search their bags for that. Drugs like ecstasy, acid, and fentanyl are so small they’re easy to smuggle. Has the fentanyl problem reached you guys up there yet?”

  “Some. We expect an increase when the summer folk arrive.”

  Matthew took the plunge. “I’m told fentanyl killed Benson Humphries.”

  There was silence. Standish didn’t even grace that with an answer. Matthew pushed further. “And nearly killed Kaitlyn Saint Clair. It seems to me you already have an epidemic up there. And a local supplier.”

  “I can’t comment on ongoing police matters, Mr. Goderich.”