She nodded. “Yeah. Either you’re getting taller or I’m getting shorter.”
“I’ve never been this size before, Bridget. And I just can’t stop eating! For Christ’s sake, Bridget, what if I’m the one who ends up like Digger?”
“Hey,” she said, shaking him. “We’ll deal with it. Just the two of us.”
“How?”
She let go of his arms. “How do you think, Ishmael?”
He wanted out. He wanted air. He needed to run.
“Ishmael.”
He nodded tersely. “You deal with it like a field agent.”
She slowly closed her eyes. “Yes we do.”
“You do it,” he said. “Only you.”
She raised her hand again. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
“I . . . I can’t concentrate. I’ve got twelve catastrophes on my mind, and I can’t pick which one to panic about first.”
“Well, how about we start with this one: there’s a long-toothed cannibal running around Elmbury, and it’s not you.”
“That’s a good one,” he said.
“It is, because we can still do something about it.”
“Bridget, I have to get out of town! I’m four hours off a recent change and already I—”
She covered his mouth with her hand. “Yeah. I know. And we’re going to use it to our advantage.” He grunted an angry question through the palm of her hand.
Restaurant patrons opened the inner door and gave them strange looks as they headed outside. Bridget removed her hand from Ishmael’s mouth. “He said he wouldn’t let me pay the bill,” Bridget said with a forced laugh. The other customers laughed back, politely, and left.
“How exactly do you figure me going rogue is a good thing?” Ishmael asked.
“The Padre’s the closest thing we’ve got to a bloodhound, right? Unfortunately, the Padre’s cycle doesn’t end for another few days. We could wait a week and a half while the trail gets even colder, or we can make use of your problem and trigger his cycle.”
“Are you crazy? Twice in one day?”
“Not necessarily. But we have to do it soon, or there won’t be anything left for him to smell out.” She raised her hand to stop his next protest. “We’ll go out in a field or in the woods or something. Somewhere near that one body dump site, so Two-Trees can bring him closer to get a sniff. You and me and Foster, we stay behind in the woods, and we get a better look at you.”
“I don’t—”
“Your human body is changing. We need to know how your other body is changing, too. If you’re going to take a turn for the hungrier, maybe we can spot some signs and . . .” She waggled her head uncertainly. “Deal with it.”
“Like field agents.”
She nodded. “Like field agents. Like you would.”
“And if I fight back?”
“Then I’ll bloody well up-cycle, because you can trust me to shred your ass.”
He smiled weakly. “So now we trust each other again.”
“Yeah,” she said. “I suppose we do.” She put her hands on her hips again. “One big old . . . messed up . . . shitacular situation we’ve got ourselves into, isn’t it?” She added, “Ishmael, are you genuinely sick? Or are you reacting like a normal human being would, after a traumatic experience like Wyndham?”
“And the sudden growth spurt?”
“Maybe it’s your lycanthropic reaction to a sense of powerlessness,” Bridget said. “Bigger equalling bad-asser, or something.”
Like Gil said. It’s all in my head.
“Look, just . . . just trust me on this much. We’ll get the Padre over to the dump site, we’ll have you both up-cycle, let Foster do a physical—”
He laughed at that.
“And when you get the clean bill of health, we can get back to the business of killing murderers and drinking shots off Two-Trees’ belly.”
He faked retching. “God, all that hair—”
“I know, right? It’s like he’s one of us, only all the time, and without all the perks.”
They stood a moment longer, not quite looking at each other, but being together, at least.
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Foster,” he said.
She rolled her eyes and pushed through the inner door.
“Please,” Ishmael said, chasing after her, catching her before she had gone very far. “Please don’t tell anyone at Wyrd.”
“They’re going to find out eventually.”
“From you?” he asked, a little more loudly than he’d meant to.
“No,” she said. She flipped hair she no longer had. “Wyrd can wait. We’ve got bigger problems on our hands, and your growth spurt is one of them.” She approached their table and chucked her chin at Foster. “She come around with the bill yet?”
“Not yet,” Foster replied.
Two-Trees came in from outside and joined them. “And baby makes three,” he said. “Sorry to cut and run, but I’ve got to go. Can you cover the bill?”
“Wait—what?” Bridget asked. “Three—oh shit. No.”
“Yeah,” Two-Trees said. “I’m going to text you the location as soon as I get there. Leash is in your truck. You might want to look into getting an ID vest for him to, to mark him as a cadaver dog.”
“Wait—”
He tossed up his hands, helpless. “Just get him ready to go. I’m going to try and get special permissions to bring him onto that third body dump site.”
“Hector—”
“I’ll keep you posted,” he said over his shoulder as he ran for the door.
The restaurant was awfully quiet.
“Well shit,” Bridget said.
Chapter Nineteen
TWO-TREES SHOWED his identification to the constable responsible for traffic control. She asked him to stand by the side of the road while she fetched the lead detective. He stopped her and asked if DS Buckle was on site. She said he was, but said that DS Palmer was the lead detective.
“Buckle’s expecting me,” Two-Trees said. “I’d appreciate it if you told him I was here.”
Because the last thing he wanted to do was tangle with Palmer. It wasn’t that he was expecting some carryover confrontation from their OPP days together. It was because Two-Trees had gone nearly eighteen months without returning any of Palmer’s calls, after news broke that the Reid murder scene had been torched. It wasn’t that he’d been trying to avoid Palmer, not entirely. Two-Trees had simply been too busy to deal with loose ends. The months that followed the Pritchard Park murder were the height of the quarantine hunting season. When he finally had a chance to catch his breath, Two-Trees had no plausible alibi to cover his negligence.
Two-Trees stood on the bridge over Deer Jump River, listening to the water rushing below. At this time of year, it was more rock than water, but in spring, they used to pluck trout out of the water with their bare hands.
His eyes travelled north up the river, where it formed the boundary between two farms. In the distance, illuminated by the sunset, were the treetops of Beshkwe Provincial Park. Beyond that, between Beshkwe and Waabishkindibed, there would be a cottage, a barn, and a garage. The garage, if it was still standing, had a tin roof. The cottage would be abandoned. The barn had been burned to the ground.
So close to home I could touch it. He tapped his hand against the bridge railing, cursing soundlessly. Stop pulling me back. He didn’t believe in spirits. He didn’t believe in fate. And yet I do believe in werewolves.
He got out his phone and texted Bridget, sending her the directions and rough location of the scene of the crime—or at least, where CSI was going over the body dump site. He added,
“Doctor Boogidi, I presume,” Buckle called.
Two-Trees turned and leaned against the railing. “How bad is it, Detective Flatus?”
“Same as before,” Buckle replied. He stood facing north, toward Beshkwe. Toward the place where Red Cloud met his end, and where Two-Trees earned his st
atus as Wyrd’s youngest agent in history, human or otherwise. “Same deal. No identification, no head, no hands, no feet. A little more clothing this time.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah. A bra.”
“Doesn’t imply that the deceased is female,” Two-Trees said. “I hope the body matches a head.”
“God, me too.” Buckle drew up his collar against the rising October wind. “I was supposed to be with family tonight.”
“A late Thanksgiving?” Two-Trees asked.
“I missed it the first time because of Body Number One. Hell of a Thanksgiving feast that crowd’s been enjoying, eh? Wonder if it tastes like chicken.”
“I hear it tastes more like pork.” Two-Trees’ phone binged, telling him he had a text message.
Buckle peered over Two-Trees’ shoulder. “Any luck with your cadaver dog?”
“Still en route,” Two-Trees said, quickly putting away his phone. “Actually, that was him.”
“Oh yeah?” Buckle asked. “Talented little puppy.”
“Yeah, car troubles. I know he was coming down by way of Sudbury. Maybe he hit bad weather.”
Buckle nodded. “It’s that time of year, eh? Anybody’s guess what we’re going to get this week. Thunderstorms, tornadoes, snow . . . bodies falling from helicopters . . .” He massaged his balding head with pincer-like fingers. “The hell are we doing at our age, Two-Trees?”
Two-Trees didn’t have a quick answer.
“Same deal as before,” the detective sergeant said, recovering his professionalism and terse, quick words. “Foot traffic all over the site.”
“Hey,” Two-Trees broke in. “Did you guys find anything down at the mill?”
Buckle seemed taken aback. “Sorry?”
“The paper mill at Pritchard Park.”
Buckle lifted a thinning eyebrow above the rim of his glasses. “You have a theory?”
“I had a theory,” Two-Trees began. “Seems a hell of a lot easier to carry the head up from Oxley Mill to Pritchard Park, and leave the body behind in the mill, especially if you’re underage and don’t have a car of your own. Better than keeping the head and driving half an hour away to dump the body.”
“Easier going the other way,” Buckle countered. “Park the body here, carry back only the head. Besides, Palmer checked the place out.”
“I saw him there. He been asking about me?”
“He knows you’re assigned to the case as forensic anthropologist, but no, he hasn’t been asking after you.”
Maybe he never did make a connection between me and two counts of arson.
“And no, Palmer didn’t find anything at the mill,” Buckle said. “Place is flooded after all that rain. It was a toss-up between wading into the water and calling in the divers. Doubt the kids could have been mucking around. Too shallow for swimming, too deep for fun.”
Out of the blue, Two-Trees remembered the illustrations in the Sister Whitehair book Michael Crow had borrowed. Crow had left his notes in the gutter of the two-page spread where Sister Whitehair was imploring the Trickster for his help in trapping an angry spirit, which had been drawing people out of their wiigiwaman at night, forcing them to dance until they dropped of hunger. He’d always hated that picture, not because Sister Whitehair’s eyes were painted unevenly, nor because the evil spirit looked like some medieval Japanese demon. He hated it because it reminded him of having to squat thoughtfully on a tree stump for five hours straight while all the other Reserve kids came by to laugh at him in his stiff rabbit ears, coyote tail, and enormous black wig, and calling him “Wena-Bozo!” and asking if the dog-boy was having problems pooping.
“Something’s been bugging me,” Two-Trees said.
Buckle laughed. “Missing persons, dead people cannibalized, one of the Reid brothers back in his home town . . . What could possibly be bugging you?”
“Why send me messages from a personal account?” Two-Trees asked, seriously.
Buckle’s laughter faded.
“I mean, Palmer knows I’m here. He knows my work here’s legitimate. So why the cloak and dagger?” Two-Trees asked.
Buckle turned and adopted much the same posture as Two-Trees, only he crossed his arms and legs while he leaned against the bridge railing. “Things have been going missing,” he said.
“Evidence?”
“And reports,” Buckle said.
“Oh, that’s exciting.”
“I remember you from Pritchard Park,” he went on. “I was the responding constable. I saw the state of that body. And I remember you looking at it like you already knew what to look for and what you were up against. Saw the same expression on your face again the night you came back.”
“Well, I am a forensic anthropologist,” Two-Trees said. “It’s in my job description to—”
“I mean like you’d seen it all before, a hundred times before. Everyone else is either freaking out about psychos or jumping for joy because this might be the case that gets them the career recognition they’ve been dying for. You walk in, and all you want to do is catch the son of a bitch.” He scratched his head and said, “And . . . hell . . .” He dumped all the air out of his lungs. “Michael Crow told me to do it.”
Two-Trees smiled.
“He went to high school with my dad, and after Dad passed, Michael helped me get my first car, my first job, taught me how to shoot even before I went away to Aylmer for police training, whatever. Like a second dad to me, even though I wasn’t full-blooded Anishinaabe, you know?”
Michael Crow wasn’t exactly in line to become chief at Waabishkindibed, but he was a leader of men, and a stern but resourceful father for all the boys on the Reserve.
“Crow was friends with your grandfather, wasn’t he?” Buckle asked.
“Grandson of my grandfather’s sister. What does that make him, a second cousin once removed?”
“Something like that. Hell if I know. Anyhow, he said you . . .” Buckle took a deep breath. “That you knew what really happened at Pritchard Park.” He shook his head. “I saw that body, Doctor. I mean, I remember what my eyes saw. I just don’t know . . . what . . . I saw. Does that make sense?”
“Shock,” Two-Trees answered. He took out his phone and texted Bridget.
“No, not shock,” Buckle said. “Being the first on scene where a car has been run over by a train? That brings on shock. Getting hit in the elbow by buckshot? That brings on shock. This was something else. Like . . . like some buried Neanderthal part of me knew exactly what I was looking at, and from his antediluvian perspective it was as real as fire or mammoths or sabre-tooth tigers, but my Homo sapiens sapiens superego said it was impossible.”
“And that dissonance tells you that you should contact me through unofficial email inboxes?”
“No, missing and redacted files tells me that I shouldn’t trust our own internal networks, and that someone on the inside is covering up the truth,” Buckle said. “And if someone’s abetting a murderer—or several—and if more bodies keep turning up, I’ve got to wonder what the hell difference I’m going to make. That was the look I saw on your face at Pritchard Park. Like, Why am I doing this again, and What the hell difference can a guy like me make?”
Bridget replied:
Two-Trees put his phone in his pocket.
“Push too hard,” Buckle added, “and I might be the next course on the menu.”
“Oh, I doubt that. You’re too damned skinny. You’d be the toothpick they need after they finish chowing down on my lard ass.”
Buckle laughed. “Any luck?” he asked, after a moment of quiet thought.
“Busted timing chain,” Two-Trees said. “I don’t think he’s gonna make it tonight.”
“Shit. So what now?”
Tw
o-Trees shrugged. “If someone’s hacking OPP files, you’ve got a hell of a bigger problem here than cannibals. You need to get CSIS in on this.”
Buckle sucked his teeth. “Not what I meant, my friend, and you know it.”
Two-Trees opened his arms and walked backward toward his truck. “Don’t know what else to tell you. I’m just a forensic anthropologist.”
“Bullshit, Doctor,” Buckle said, without meeting Two-Trees’ gaze. “You’re more than that. There’s more going on here that you’re not telling me. I need a friend here.”
“You need CSIS. Find out where your files are leaking to.”
“I need someone who knows what happened at Pritchard Park. I need someone who can give me insight on a certain missing girl, whose father and uncle were both involved there. I need someone who’s seen all this before.”
Two-Trees could see his own breath in the autumn wind.
“I don’t care who’s redacting what. I’ll turn a blind eye. I just want these murders to stop, honest to God. Did you set fire to the crime scene? At Pritchard Park?”
“It wasn’t me,” Two-Trees replied, honestly. It had been Bridget and a pair of human agents. “What, you think I’m the one redacting reports?”
“Destroying reports is one thing,” Buckle said, “but torching a crime scene? While it was still under police watch?”
After Pritchard Park, Jay had hacked into OPP files and deleted key bits of information from Palmer’s reports, such as how a torn shirt had been recovered from the scene, and how the medical examiner had found traces of human saliva all over it. About how a bloody branch recovered from the scene had bite marks consistent with those of a large dog, but only human saliva had been found there. And how John Reid’s bungalow basement carpet was rife with an unusual amount of human hair.
And now Jay was MIA.
“That tells me someone was both desperate and resourceful.”
“And you think that someone was me?” Two-Trees said.
“I’m asking you, flat out, what you had to do with Pritchard Park,” Buckle said. “I’m asking you why, not six hours after you arrived on scene, that scene caught fire, despite the lakeside being saturated with rainwater. I’m asking you why, eighteen hours after you arrived, I’m hauled into the staff sergeant’s office and raked over the coals for missing reports I swore I’d filed that same afternoon. I’m asking you why, not an hour after you identified the remains, you disappeared off the planet, never to be seen or heard from again until six years later, when you miraculously arrive in time to identify not one but three partially digested human cadavers.”
Helix: Plague of Ghouls Page 23