Patriot

by A S Bond

  “Is it...Kyle?” Brooke looked at the scraps of black hair and one side of a youthful face. It belonged to someone who was probably no more than 25 years old

  “No.” Dex shook his head. “But it is Max, his friend. I’m fairly certain. I only met him a couple of times, but...

  “So that must mean the second...”

  Dex took a deep breath and straightened his shoulders. “Maybe. But I don’t think so.” He gazed at the remains of the two men, charred and twisted in their wilderness grave, and frowned in puzzlement.”Brooke, what does that look like to you?”

  She looked where he was pointing, the center of Max’s forehead, just at the point where the charring ended. There was one half of what appeared to be a very regular, small hole. Brooke looked up at Dex, the flesh on her arms and back turning into goose bumps. Suppressing a shudder, she said,

  “It looks like a bullet wound.”

  There was almost complete silence in the forest for a few moments. Brooke looked at Dex and saw her own fear reflected in his eyes, but there was something else, too; a fresh determination, a hardening that set his jaw and closed off emotion.

  “Where’s Claude?” Dex said suddenly. They looked around them, but their guide was nowhere in sight. Brook began to run, her boots slipping on the rocks, her hands grazed by the tree trunks as she fought to stay upright, scrambling towards the light. Part of her was so overwhelmed by the grisly find in the forest that she wanted to escape the oppressive atmosphere. She wanted the reassurance of her canoe - and that Claude wasn’t somehow a cause of this nightmare.

  Brooke crashed out of the willows onto the bank and stopped short at the sight of Claude standing motionless on a rocky outcrop several yards from the bank, where the canoes drifted on the breeze-blown chop, tugging and worrying at their tethers. Claude ignored her and stared intently into the clear depths of the lake.

  “What is it?” Dex asked, and he walked quickly to where Claude stood. The older man pointed into the water below. Brooke joined them, balancing on the narrow rocky ledge, and looked down.

  Far below the surface of the lake, she could just make out something that didn’t belong: a straight edge...no, a right angle. Was that a flash of color? Writing, even. She squinted. The light was still good, but dusk wasn’t that far away.

  “It’s the plane.” Dex’s voice was husky with emotion. For a moment, they all stood and stared, then Dex burst into activity, pulling off his shirt and trying to kick off his boots.

  “I’ve got to see if there’s anything inside.”

  “Let me,” Brooke said, anxiously. “You’re still recovering.”

  “No way.” Dex paused on the rock’s edge above the deepest part of the inlet. “Get a fire going for when I get out. “ Taking a deep breath, he jumped into a graceful dive and was gone.

  Brooke watched his pale shape move through the greenish depth until he disappeared, maybe into the plane. She looked up. Claude was already working on the fire. Brooke simply crouched on the rocks, waiting.

  A minute or so later, Dex burst up to the surface.

  “There’s something in there,” he said, gasping, and he shook his head, spraying Brooke with icy water. “I’ll go down again and see what I can bring up.”

  This time, he was gone much longer. Brooke was aware of Claude blowing on the tinder and coaxing it into a small fire, but her eyes never left the water. It was too cold, she thought. The water was too cold to stay down there for more than a minute or two.

  As if in response, Dex once again shot to the surface and this time, he hauled himself out of the lake, his skin white and pinched by the extreme cold. Brooke ran for a towel, which she threw over to him.

  Despite sitting by the fire, it was some minutes before Dex was warm enough to speak without his teeth chattering.

  “Some things in the plane - couldn’t lift them - too... too heavy.”

  “Anything personal? Backpacks? Identification?” Brooke asked.

  Dex shook his head. Pulling his clothes back on, he sipped at some black coffee, before speaking again.

  “I definitely think it was the boys’ plane. There was what I think was prospecting equipment in the cockpit, but nothing else. I think she was deliberately scuttled so an air search wouldn’t pick her up. Even her shape beneath the water couldn’t be spotted here in this inlet, because of the narrowness, and the overhanging trees.”

  “Claude,” Brooke said, “we have to tell the authorities about his. Where’s the nearest place we could get help? Is it Okak?” Claude nodded.

  “But you don’t have to come with us, Claude,” Dex added, looking meaningfully at Brooke, who finally nodded in agreement.

  They both looked expectantly at Claude, who thought for a moment. It was clear he was unhappy.

  “Okak is not a good place to go. Visitors aren’t welcome.”

  “So there are people there?” Dex said, ignoring the warning.

  “Yes, but they may not...help you,” Claude said carefully.

  “We just need to make a call,” Dex said. “And maybe get some answers.”

  This had gone far beyond anything Brooke had investigated before. Making a surprise visit to a legitimate business had suddenly become a hunt for murderers. It could be the story that won her the Pulitzer, or it could see her career cut short in a very final way. Brooke looked at Dex.

  “Yes,” she nodded, the decision made. “Okak it is.”

  “I will come with you,” Claude said unexpectedly.

  “You don’t need to, we have a map of the river system,” Brooke told him.

  “I know a faster route, through the ponds. It will be hard, but it will save maybe half a day. We will be there by tomorrow afternoon.”

  Brooke and Dex didn’t have to discuss it, they just nodded. “

  “Let’s go then,” Dex said.

  There was an unspoken agreement between them that they couldn’t camp that night so close to what they had found in the forest. So, just as the sun began to set behind the mountains to the west, they pushed their canoes back into the water and paddled out of the inlet.

  The breeze had dropped, Brooke noticed, and the sunset spread a widening ripple of gold in their wakes. How could someplace so peaceful be the scene of so much horror? A muskrat slid into the water with a distinct plop, causing Brooke to glance into the forest, which was merging into shadows.

  “It’s getting dark,” she called out to Claude, who was just ahead of them. “We should camp soon.” Claude slowed briefly and Brooke and Dex came alongside his canoe.

  “There’s a beach - a camp place my people use when hunting,” Claude said, pointing into the shadows. “Beyond the next corner.”

  He was true to his word and after another ten minutes of hard paddling, Brooke found herself smiling as she looked at what was the best place for a camp she had ever seen. A curve of dry white sand formed a small riverside cove, protected from the wilderness beyond by a low cliff. Spruce trees lined this ridge, filtering the last of the light, and the warmth soaked into Brooke, relaxing her aching muscles. As their canoe nudged the sand, she stepped out and, leaving Dex to haul the boat ashore, Brooke lay down on the soft sand, back flat, face to the porcelain sky. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath.

  She opened her eyes and was startled to see Claude standing over her.

  “Do you need wood for a fire?”

  “No,” Brooke said, dragging herself upright. “Thanks, but we have a camping stove. We can share...”

  But Claude simply nodded and disappeared around the edge of the cove upriver, swinging a small axe. Dex, who was unloading their canoe, paused and looked over at Brooke.

  “Do you think he can be trusted?”

  “Yes, I do.” Brooke considered the edge of the cove for a moment. “Which is lucky, as I don’t think we have a choice.”

  They worked quickly to erect their tents as the light died and the cove became quite homey, with three little tents, Brooke’s storm lamps and Claude’
s open fire. He used a blackened tin kettle to boil water for his tea, which sat on the embers of the fire, next to something unidentifiable from his own food store. Caribou, Brooke suspected. Her own meal of rehydrated chicken and noodles, which she shared with Dex, was prepared quickly and eaten just as fast. Probably not as tasty as the caribou, she conceded. Afterwards, Brooke sat back against a fallen log and sipped her coffee, wiggling her bare toes in the sand.

  She’d always had the ability, in times of real stress, to distance herself from it and focus on the moment. But Dex, she noticed, wasn’t doing as well. He had barely spoken since they found the plane, and now he sat, silent and hunched, a deep frown carved in his forehead. Nobody spoke and eventually Claude leaned against the side of his canoe and lit another cigarette, comfortable in the lack of chatter. His smoke mingled with the wood smoke from the fire, but there were few flies to drive off tonight. It had been hot, but Brooke could feel a break coming in the weather and with it who knew what else.

  Chapter 17

  Out in the alley behind the garage, Scott sprinted hard until his cell buzzed. He slid to a stop and threw himself into a doorway, simultaneously picking up the call.

  “Apartment 9, 67 River Heights, Jackson Street, Queens,” Reggie said. “Watch yourself, son.”

  “Thanks,” Scott said, but the line was already dead. He glanced around the corner. No sign of his tail. He took out the cell again and brought up a map of Queens and a GPS for his current position. Jackson Street wasn’t far. He badly needed to catch his breath and get a drink, but he was afraid stopping would waste the head-start Jimmy and the boys would give him.

  Scott hurried down the street. He picked up a bottle of water from a coffee cart and downed it before the end of the block. At the intersection, he looked north. According to the GPS, River Heights was one of those mid-century concrete skyscrapers dominating the neighborhood’s older, red-brick style.

  Inside the building, it was just as he had imagined. Not quite a dingy walk-up, but not far off. The dim lighting in the hallways at least obscured the stained carpet. A peculiar smell clung to the beige walls, somewhere between sweat and stale takeout. A baby wailed behind one of the doors, and the sound got louder the closer Scott got to Number 9.

  He knocked.

  “Who is it?” A woman’s voice cut over the sound of the baby. Scott hadn’t thought this far ahead. She wasn’t going to open the door to a Pentagon staffer, that was for sure.

  “Plumber, ma’am.” he said in his best Queens accent. “The Super’s had reports of gas on this floor. We’re checking every apartment.”

  A pause. Then, the dead bolt slid back, and the door opened slowly on the chain. The face of a woman, probably no more than 37 or 38, peered out. There were black rings under her eyes and her face, which had once clearly been striking, was starting to sag off those high cheekbones, dragged down by poverty and who knew what else.

  “You’re no plumber,” she snarled as soon as she saw Scott in his expensive wool overcoat and white shirt. She tried to slam the door.

  “Ms. Gonzalez, I’m sorry, I just need to speak to you,” Scott said, his foot jammed painfully between the door and the frame. He looked her in the eye and did his best to smile pleasantly. “I just need a few minutes, and I can pay you for your time.” He could see she was beginning to waver. “We can talk somewhere else, if you prefer - maybe I can buy you a coffee? I’ll wait out here.” He added as she glanced back into the apartment at the baby.

  “Let me see the money.”

  Scott took a thin wad of twenties from his wallet. She grabbed for them through the crack in the door, but he jerked his hand out of reach.

  “After.”

  She nodded, and closed the door.

  Scott waited only a few minutes before he heard the chain rattle and the door opened wide enough to allow a stroller to pass through. It bore a dark-haired child of perhaps a year old. Scott wasn’t an expert on kids; he just hoped it wouldn’t start bawling again.

  They went to a diner, where he guided them to the rear, away from the window. The place was empty, but the waitress seemed to know Mia. She eyed Scott like he was asking for some extra kind of perversion by ordering coffee. Actually, he needed it, and when she put the cup down in front of him, he took the lukewarm contents in several gulps and handed it back without looking at her.

  “I’ll take a refill. And make it a fresh pot this time.”

  The waitress glanced at Mia, who nodded slightly. Once they had the diner to themselves again, Scott leaned forward.

  “I’ll keep this simple. I’m not interested in you. I just want to know what you can tell me about Duncan Blake.”

  “Who?” It was clear she wasn’t stalling. Mia frowned as she struggled to sort back through faces and memories. Scott watched her. She was still beautiful, in a worn sort of way. She had found time to apply some make-up before leaving the apartment, and behind the eyeliner, Scott thought he could see a kind of weary decency in her eyes. It was clouded by disillusionment and fatigue, but it was there. The waitress brought them two mugs of steaming coffee and Mia sipped at hers, leaving a dark red smear of lipstick on the white china.

  “He was a politician. The police caught you in a hotel together, and he was charged?” Scott tried to jog her memory and it worked. He saw it slip into place and she startled him with a laugh.

  “That guy? We didn’t get up to nothing.”

  “What about the drugs?”

  “What drugs? I’m clean, I always have been.” She glanced at the child, now sleeping soundly in the stroller, clutching a stuffed rabbit.

  “Walk me through what happened.” Scott tried to take the urgency out of his voice. He didn’t want to scare her into closing down.

  “Not much to tell.” She reflected for a moment, as though getting things straight in her mind, one hand absently rocking the stroller. “I wasn’t working much then, you know. I just had my...regulars.” She looked him in the eye, daring him to judge her.

  “Go on.”

  “Well, I got a call, asking me to go to a room in a hotel I sometimes used. I still remember the room number: 212.”

  “And you met Duncan Blake?”

  “I don’t know names; they never give their real ones and I don’t ask. But I recognized him later, on the TV.”

  “But he was a new ...client?”

  “Yes, and I was surprised, because I’d recognized the voice on the phone. But that wasn’t the strangest thing.” She leaned forward. “The door was unlocked and when I walked in there was this drunk guy on the bed.”

  “Is that unusual?”

  “No, I mean dead drunk!” She laughed again. “He wasn’t getting none that day!”

  “And then the police arrived?”

  She shook her head. “A photographer arrived and paid me an extra hundred to be photographed on the bed with the guy...you know. Nothing too hard core. Said it was for a family publication.” She laughed again, but sobered quickly. “Then the police arrived, and. ...” she shrugged.

  “What happened to the photographer?”

  “I don’t know, but that photograph was in the papers the next day before the drunk guy even got bail.”

  “I see.” Scott’s stared out the window of the grimy diner.

  “Can you tell me anything about the client who made the appointment?”

  She thought for a moment.

  “Not much. He’d been kind of regular, maybe two or three ...appointments. I think he worked for some big corporation upstate, but I never saw him after that day.”

  “What did he look like?”

  She shrugged.

  “Kinda reddish blond, well built.”

  The chid started to cry, sleepily, moaning a little. Mia ignored it and put her hand across the table, palm up. The movement was bold, practiced. Scott put the cash into it and she counted the bills. By the time she looked up, Scott was on his way out the door.

  Scott tried not to let his hands shake as he
dialed Brooke’s satphone. Holding it up to his ear, New York swirled around him in one giant blare of noise and color, but he didn’t see any of it. The line clicked, then went dead. Scott looked at the screen; number unobtainable. He frowned. Maybe it was off. Did satphones have voicemail? He had no idea.

  Backing into a doorway, Scott hastily tapped out a text message to Brooke.

  JM has serious leverage over Friend. Doubt mine safe. Come home. Urgent. S.

  Chapter 18

  By daybreak the next morning, Brooke, Dex and Claude were back on the water, the fires doused, embers scattered and trash collected. Now, the going was hard by anyone’s standards, and Dex paddled like a man possessed.

  Not that they were doing that much paddling. Claude’s shortcut took them from tributary to tributary, crossing the muskeg using a dozen small, shallow lakes. Much of the time, though, they travelled on foot, carrying their equipment and even the canoes from river to lake and back to river. It was backbreaking work, and even as her energy declined, Brooke’s conviction that they were doing the right thing grew stronger. The situation had escalated far beyond her original plan, but Okak was simply the closest place they could potentially communicate with the outside world about the fate of those two men on the lake.

  “Whoa! Hold her there!” Dex cried out, snapping Brooke back to attention. She was holding their empty canoe on a rope, walking it up a short section of river, when a standing wave caught the canoe and dragged the rope through Brooke’ fingers. Realising the danger, she clutched the rope, the flick of the last few inches flinging water into her eyes as the canoe jerked around mid-current.

  “Hold it!” Dex shouted, as Brooke fought to haul in the unwieldy canoe against the power of the river. Dropping the pack he was carrying, Dex scrambled towards her across the rocks.

  “I’ve got it,” Brooke said, methodically hauling in the rope, hand over hand.

  “Okay.” Dex looked as tired as she felt, Brooke thought. This unseasonal heat wave was draining both of them.