Buzzard Bay (11 page)

“I think you guys are full of shit,” I tell them.

“I was a hundred miles north of here, and I can prove it. I’ve lost the house I was born in; and you guys are trying to implicate me in this. I think you’re grasping at straws and totally unjustified. Christ Almighty, can’t you could do better than that?”

They are both taken aback by my outburst, and Novak tries to justify what they were saying. “Somehow, we think all these events are tied together. We are looking for the string. These events stretch from your place to where you were thought to be seen in town. This makes you a possible suspect.” The corporal is being very careful about how he says this, telling me they weren’t very sure of their facts.

“I think you guys are guessing,” I tell them, “and I think there’s some things you’re not telling me.”

“No, Bob,” the sergeant answers. “We’ve been pretty up-front with you about everything so far, but I’ll tell you what we know if you’re interested.”

I nod my head, and the sergeant continues, “We know that Constable Reich was following the tracks back to an old farmhouse. Apparently some of the people who were at the place where two men were shot on Helek’s farm followed him. They got as far as the old farmhouse then they turned back, because it had started to snow hard. Another group tells us they followed the other set of tracks right to town.

Of course, these tracks are no longer visible because of the storm. We know Reich was still alive around dark. He called on his radio, but we could not make out what he said, so what happened to him after that we don’t know. At first, we thought he had decided the storm was too bad and had stayed someplace until it was over. We had snowmobiles out early as we could Sunday morning, but as you know that was a vicious storm. The guys almost got themselves lost, let alone find anyone.”

“Where’s the old farmhouse?” I ask defensively.

“It’s apparently the old Scarf place, maybe two miles from your mother’s house, isn’t it, Bob?” Novak asks.

“About that,” I answer.

The sergeant took off on a different tact.

“I understand your wife is in the Bahamas, Bob.”

“No,” I lie. “She’s in Quebec right now. Her mother’s family comes from there.”

“Oh,” the sergeant says. “We saw her on that TV commercial about the Bahamas. I thought she was still there.”

“No,” I lie again, hoping to convince him I wouldn’t be headed that way. “We haven’t been getting along that well since what happened in Germany. I guess she’s a little upset with me,” I tell them. As far as I’m concerned, the less they know about July and me and the Bahamas, the better.

“Sorry to hear that, Bob,” the sergeant replies then continues on, “So what we have here is your mother’s house burned to the ground with bodies in it, identity unknown. Two men dead in a field, identity unknown. Then there’s the guy who piled his snow machine into the ford garage downtown, who people said looked like you but wasn’t, so he’s unknown. We did our usual checking around town to see if there were any strangers in town. Out at Motel 35, we found that there were five hunters here from the states that checked out very early Saturday morning. Only two of them flew out on their Sunday morning flight from Regina. We’re checking with the outfitter that they we’re assigned to as we speak. What we wonder, Bob, is what were they hunting?”

I mull over what the sergeant had just told me. What a perfect disguise, I think; the two officers are sitting there obviously waiting for me to respond.

“Maybe,” I say hoping to sound convincing, “they started fighting among themselves.”

“We thought of that too, but the fact that both the John Does found in the field were wearing bulletproof jackets tells us otherwise. No, they came looking for someone, the question is who and why?”

The office girl came to the door and stuck her head in. “Sir, the helicopter pilot is on the radio. I think you should talk to him.”

Novak pulls out his portable and hands it to the sergeant.

“This is Sergeant Anderson, Jack. What’s going on?”

The radio crackles; you can hear the helicopter blades in the background.

“We’ve found a body the wolves dug out of the snow,” the pilot tells them.

“Where exactly are you?” The sergeant wants to know.

“We are about a half mile west of that burned farmyard, right on the south bank of the White Fox valley.”

“We see you,” another voice says.

“We’ll be there in about ten minutes. That’s some of our search crew on snowmobiles,” the sergeant explains. I can feel the tension in the room as we wait to see if they can tell who it is.

Finally, a voice comes back on the radio.

“What we have here is the frozen body of a naked male Caucasian, probably in his thirties. The wolves have badly mutilated the body, but we can see a bullet wound to the head. It’s definitely not Reich.”

The sergeant let out a sigh, “Any idea how long it’s been there?”

“Not long,” the officer on the ground tells them. “It looks pretty fresh to me.”

“Damn, that’s another body,” Novak sounds overwhelmed.

“Bob,” the sergeant looks at me, “if you’re involved in this, you’d better tell us. No one else can help you. There’s no doubt about it, these guys are professional killers.”

If it were just me, I would tell them, but there’s no way they can help July. I have to do that myself.

“Look, you guys, there’s no way I could kill anyone, let alone be a part of all this. Looks to me like you’ve got some kind of a war on your hands.”

The radio, sitting on the desk, crackles again, but there is too much static to make out what is being said.

“This is Sergeant Anderson, can anyone pick that up?”

“Ten four, this is Jack. Apparently one of the snowmobiles hit something in the deep snow. They think it’s Reich.”

“Where is he?” the sergeant asks. His voice sounds shaky.

“They’re down in the valley, probably why you can’t hear them,” the pilot tells us, “not far from the other body. I’m coming in to get you. Be there in ten minutes.”

“I’ll be ready,” the sergeant answers. He just sits there holding the radio in his hand.

“If you don’t mind,” I say quietly, “I’d like to go up to the hospital and get this looked after.” I point to the cut on my head.

He doesn’t answer me but says instead, “Do you own a .270 Winchester, Bob?”

“No,” I answer, “I don’t own any guns.”

“That’s what they tell us,” Corporal Novak speaks up, “but they tell us your Dad did.”

“Well, whoever they are, they were right. That rifle could have been stolen, or it could have burned in the fire, I have no fucking idea.”

They can hear the frustration in my voice. The sergeant becomes noticeably upset. For a minute, I think he is going to lock me up.

I hold my breath, finally he turns to me and says, “All right, go get yourself looked after, but stop in again after supper. We will want to get your fingerprints and talk to you some more.”

With that, he gets up and grabs his coat, and then he goes to the door.

“Around seven thirty will be fine, Bob,” Corporal Novak tells me.

I stand up and leave the building. As I walk toward my truck, I hear the chopper coming in. “Should I make a run for it now?” I ask myself.

It is all I can do to keep myself from limping, as I walk out to the truck, but there is no way I want the cops to know I ‘m hurt in other areas. I drive around a bit trying to get my thoughts in order. There’s no use getting out now, I decide, I have no plan and no place to go.

One thing I do know, if I’m not healthy, I won’t be able to help anyone, let alone myself. I’m pretty concerned about the wound on my leg, so better get it looked after. I head for the hospital. As I sit in emergency, I hear the chopper coming in. Bringing the bodies in for autopsies, I guess.

I don’t want the doctor to see the bruises on my body, but he insists. I take off my pants; thankfully, the bruises are not near as evident as they were.

“You took quite a tumble!” the doctor shakes his head.

“Yes,” I tell him, “the snowmobile rolled right over top of me.”

“This is a deep wound on your leg, but it looks like you took care of it.”

I tell him I was up north and couldn’t get out because of the storm.

“Just kept it soaking in hot water,” I tell him.

“I don’t think we’ll stitch it,” he tells me as he scrapes gently at the wound.

“I’ll just clean it up and put a dressing on it. You’ll have to stay in the hospital for a bit. I want to keep an eye on this.”

I had to think fast. “Look,” I tell him, “you say I’ve looked after it well so far. My mother’s house just got burned, I’ve got people phoning me and things to look after, and I’d really appreciate it if you would let me go home.”

“Well, seeing as you have looked after it, I guess you can go, but you’ll have to come in and get the dressing changed in the morning. The wound is bleeding quite a bit now, and by morning the dressing will be saturated.” With that, the doctor leaves.

A nurse comes in to put the dressing on my leg. She doesn’t seem to feel that I had been inflicted enough pain, I guess, because she then pulls out a needle that looks to be a foot long and gives me a shot in the ass. I don’t thank her, I just pull up my pants, and leave.

The day is fast disappearing; it’s four o’clock before I get out of the hospital. Time is against me; I feel the noose tightening around my throat.

“Now what?”

I decide to go back up to Bill’s and clean up any mess I had made there, just in case someone checks the house out. I clean the tub and dishes then put the pistol back in the closet. I take the clothes I had arrived in and bury them in the snow outside.

My daughter Mindy is the only one I can think of who can help me now.

I had to give her credit; she’d gone on her own very young and had done really well. She hadn’t liked the Bahamas, too isolated. She had left us to live with her grandmother in Minnesota.

I need her help. It’s strange, but I feel I can trust her. I’m thinking of phoning her from Bill’s, but they’ll get a record of the call. I don’t want to implicate her.

I head downtown stopping at a corner store and load up on all the loonies the lady behind the till will give me, and then I go and place a call to Quebec from the pay phone. July’s grandmother cemes on the line. She’s a grand old lady; I love her French Canadian accent.

“Grandmamma, this is Bob. How are you?” We exchange pleasantries, and then I ask her if she would phone Mindy for me and tell her to phone me at this number. I have to repeat the number to make sure she has it right.

“This is my cellular number,” I tell her to ease her suspicions, but she’s good; she asks no questions.

“She won’t be home until after six,” Grandmamma tells me. “She’s not home from work until then.”

This makes me feel good; I know I’m not the only one who’s been talking to Mindy.

“Tell her she must phone before seven o’clock, otherwise I’ll be out, and Grandmamma, I cannot explain why, but please ask her not to use her own phone.” With that, I hang up, almost out of loonies.

Gradually, I am putting a plan together, but I have to deal my cards right or my deck will come crumbling down. This is the only payphone I can find still in operation. It’s inside a small corner store. I busy myself in the magazine section nearby waiting for it to ring.

About six fifteen, a lady uses the phone. I’m apprehensive, but she just asks someone to pick her up, and she’s not on it long. I’m sitting pondering my next move when suddenly the phone rings. It is exactly six thirty.

“Hello,” I say.

“Hello, Dad. How are you? Are you okay?”

“Yes,” I tell her. “Mindy, I’m in a lot of trouble, but more important, Mom’s in danger. I’ve got to get to her. I need your help.”

“Oh my god, Dad. What’s the matter?” It sounds like she is about to cry.

“Keep a hold of yourself, Mindy,” I tell her. “Here’s what I want you to do. I need someone to pick me up south of the border. Can you make it?”

“Well, when?” she asks.

“I think around midnight tomorrow, and then I’m living on borrowed time,” I tell her. I can hear her crying now. I know I’ve scared her; I’d better go a little slower.

“It’s not a matter of life or death, it’s just that the Mounties might not let me go after that time, and I want to be with your mother.”

“What do you want me to do?” I can hear resolve in her voice now.

“Okay,” I say, “it’s a ten-hour drive to a place near Rugby, North Dakota. Will your car make it?”

“Ya,” she says, “it’s running really well.”

“I’m out of time on this phone, Dad. We’re only good for one more minute.”

“Okay,” I tell her, “Go to Grand Forks then north on 29 to Highway 5. Follow it till you see a sign saying ‘Antler’. Go north until you see a crossroad saying ‘Antler, one mile’. Turn right on that crossroad for about a mile and then wait. Try not to get there before ten p.m. It’s pretty remote, there won’t be much traffic then. I will try to phone if I need to, but watch for a light flashing in the field. If you see the light, flash your lights and for god’s sake don’t phone me. If I’m not there by two in the morning, go back home. Oh,” I add, “bring all the cash you can get your hands on.”

I think I hear an “Okay,” and then the phone is dead.

It’s time to head for the cop shop. I brace myself. This could be the last big hurdle before I made my getaway.

Novak comes into the office and takes off his coat. “You going to hold Green here, or do you want me to take him up to Prince Albert?” he asks the sergeant.

“Neither,” was the answer to Novak’s surprise.

“I got the call,” the sergeant tells him, “I’m to hand in my resignation in the morning.”

“Why?” Novak sits down across from him.

“You don’t have all these bodies lying around and let the main suspects get away without some repercussions,” the sergeant laments.

“But you’ve still got Green,” Novak tells him.

“He’ll break the case wide open for you. We have to hold him tonight though, he’s ready to run,” Novak tries to sound positive.

“The call was more than just about my resignation,” the sergeant tells him. “Ottawa wants us to let him go.”