Red Ice for a Shroud: A Meg Harris Mystery

possible.

ONE

I could feel his eyes drilling into my back. I stopped walking and turned around. The old man remained on the trail, where he’d blocked me and my work crew from going further. His orange hunter’s vest was an angry blot against the web of the leafless November forest, his shrunken frame as gnarled as the ancient maple he stood beside. Light glinted off his rifle.

A few steps beyond him stood his daughter, Yvette, in her bulky duffel coat, its metal buttons bright in the afternoon’s dull light. She hadn’t moved either, not from the spot where he’d grabbed her arm and dragged her from our midst.

For several tense seconds, he and I glared at each other, then he slowly raised his rifle and pointed it directly at me. The rustling behind me stopped.

Dead silence but for rapid breathing behind me, then John-Joe yelled, Hey, put that stupid thing down! Someone’ll get hurt.

Another voice muttered, Crazy old man.

Madame Harris! the old man yelled. Allez-vous-en!

His pointed rifle was enough translation to tell me to get out of there. Even at this distance, I could feel his daughter’s eyes pleading, her silence saying, Go, I’m afraid.

I turned to leave and collided with John-Joe. He stood rooted next to where he’d dropped his chainsaw on the trail, his arms crossed over his chest, his long bowed legs spaced apart, a look of pig-headed stubbornness on his bronzed face. His hawk feather lifted in the late autumn breeze, then dropped back to its place on the brim of his orange cap.

John-Joe, don’t make it worse, I said. There’s nothing we can do.

Who does the old bastard think he is? John-Joe retorted, clenching his fists. Why, I could—

Forget it. Fighting won’t solve anything. I pushed my way around him. Come on guys, let’s go.

I clamped my long-handled clippers onto my backpack and started walking back along the section of new cross-country ski trail that my crew of four volunteers and I had just finished clearing of brush and trees. I motioned Chantal and Pierre to follow. If John-Joe wanted to tangle with the old man, then Eric Odjik, the brains behind this ski marathon venture, could pick up the pieces. I wanted no part of it.

Despite John-Joe being too handsome to be credible, I’d come to view him as an okay guy after he’d helped Eric and me prevent a gold mine from destroying our West Quebec wilderness. Now I wasn’t so sure. Several times since we’d begun cutting this section of marathon trail through the dense bush, John-Joe had kept the rest of us waiting. Overslept, he would say. Yeah, sure. Probably just crawled out of the sweaty bed of his latest conquest. Most likely Chantal, if the hungry eyes he was casting in her direction were anything to go by. Twice he’d forgotten his chainsaw and kept us drumming our fingers for over an hour while he returned to his apartment to retrieve it.

Damn Papa Gagnon.

And forget about Eric and his hot-air promises.

He’d vowed to get the old man’s permission to cross his precious land. Sure Papa Gagnon’s ornery, but he owes me one. I’ll do my part, Meg. You just make sure you do yours, Eric had said in that officious manner he assumed when trying to be the big chief, a card he rarely played although fully entitled to as the Band Chief of the Migiskan First Nation.

Yeah, well, Eric, you blew it.

I stomped through the dead leaves, kicked a stump in my way and slashed at it again with my axe.

What do you do now? gasped Chantal as she struggled to keep up with me. Her young, ripe body tugged at the seams of her stretch pants. One look at her shocking pink outfit the first day we’d met had been enough to tell me I didn’t want this Québécoise femme fatale on my crew. We had enough work without having to carry excess baggage. But Eric had insisted, with a look in his eye that had set my insecurities jangling. Since it was his ski marathon, not mine, I’d complied.

Beats me. I decapitated a young spruce.

Now we had a ski trail that led nowhere. It had taken the five of us a week to get this far, one back-breaking week of chopping, sawing, clipping and hauling, and we’d only managed to clear half the planned five-kilometre distance. And what did we have to show for it? Nothing but a dead-end trail, which looked more like the aftermath of a tornado than a perfectly manicured section of the 65K Migiskan Ski Marathon. And all because a selfish old man didn’t want us on his land.

"Sacrebleu! You are screwed, that’s for sure," joined in Pierre. He sucked deeply on the cigarette that seemed to grow from the side of his mouth. One of those dark, brooding coureur de bois types, Pierre usually kept his thoughts to himself. But this time he seemed riled enough to say the words I was also thinking.

Monsieur Eric will find a way, offered Chantal in the breathless Pamela Anderson voice which seemed to emerge whenever a member of the male sex was close by.

Not unless he wants to blow up the mountain, I countered.

But monsieur is so smart. He will find another route down this big mountain.

Yeah, and you’ll bat your baby blues at Eric too and wiggle your bum, I said to myself. Don’t think I haven’t seen the fawning looks you’ve been casting in his direction. Well, hands off him, he’s mine. I thought these last words with more bravado than I felt. Eric and I’d been going through a rough patch lately.

Pierre, not the least concerned about niceties, said, "Et bien ma p’tite, you will make this other trail like you make this one, on your ass, eh?" which prompted an immediate unladylike reply.

I was glad Pierre had said it, not I. I was tired of hearing my own voice yelling at Chantal to pull her weight. I still couldn’t fathom why she had wanted to participate in such heavy work when it was obvious she’d rather file her nails than rip them hauling logs.

Okay, guys, enough, I interjected. We still have a way to go before we’re off the old man’s land.

We’d reached the end of the cedar swamp that filled the length of the valley floor and were starting the long slow climb back up the mountain local people called Le Nez de Champlain or Champlain’s Nose. Maybe it didn’t quite meet the heights of the western Rockies, but here in the Outaouais, or West Quebec as we Anglos call the region, in the municipality of La Blanche, we called these steep hills on the northwestern edge of the Laurentians mountains.

At least the leaving wasn’t as slow as the coming. We did have our freshly cleared trail to ease our return through the hardwood forest. As I crunched through the decaying leaves, I couldn’t help but worry about Yvette. I’d been reluctant to leave her behind with her father. No telling what he might get up to, given his mood, but I wasn’t about to take him on while he held a rifle in his hands. We’d already had one confrontation too many over his daughter. She didn’t need another.

Still, I didn’t trust him. A week ago, at the start of the trail clearing, Yvette had suddenly appeared, clippers in hand, saying her father had given her permission to join my crew. Today he’d pounced out of nowhere and pulled her away for no apparent reason other than perhaps not liking the carrot colour of my hair.

I peered through the curtain of tree trunks behind us, fearing I would see the advancing streak of his fluorescent orange vest. I didn’t fancy hiking with a rifle aimed at our backs the entire two kilometre distance back to where his property abutted the Migiskan Reserve.

Any sign of Papa Gagnon? I asked.

"Non," came a quick reply from Chantal.

However, as I turned to continue our retreat, Pierre called out, I see something.

I looked in the direction he pointed, towards a stand of old growth hemlock about fifty metres from the trail. With no lower branches to obstruct our view, we would see Papa Gagnon if he were there.

Something twinkled from behind one of the thick columnar trunks.

Can you tell what it is, Pierre? I asked.

Probably one of those tree tags.

I waited for another flash. But the hemlock stand remained as still and silent as the surrounding maple bush.

Pierre was probably right. I’d seen enough of the markers myself, little round aluminum disks hammered into the bark of prime specimens of old growth trees. Last summer, our forests had been invaded by a group of university students conducting some kind of government survey. This could be one of their tags. On the other hand, given Gagnon’s penchant for hassling trespassers, it more likely had something to do with his own forestry operation.

As we started to leave, Pierre asked, Where is John-Joe? I do not see him.

Forget him. I scanned the empty trail behind us. Serve him right if he gets shot by the old man.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Chantal smile rather smugly to herself. What’s J.J. up to? I asked, perhaps a little too sharply, but I was getting tired of her secret smiles and knowing glances.

With blue-eyed innocence she replied, "J’n’sais pas. But he is a big boy. I think he look after himself, eh?" And she wiggled her pink derrière at me as she resumed the slow climb up the hill.

I bit back the words of sarcasm I was aching to say and followed behind her.

Until this point, the trail had meandered gradually upwards over the contours of the rocky terrain. Now we began to weave back and forth as the trail scaled the steepest part of Champlain’s Nose. At the top of the climb, we would reach Kamikaze Pass and the end of Papa Gagnon’s land.

The death-like calm which invariably descends before winter’s advance gripped the forest. Our shuffling through discarded leaves was the only sound. Lifeless grey had erased all memory of summer’s flourishing green, while the songs of summer had been extinguished by the flight of its singers. Even the sky hung low and heavy. And, as if to reinforce winter’s pending arrival, a few scattered snowflakes drifted in the windless air.

Enough. I do not carry this any longer. A puffing Chantal threw her half-filled backpack to the ground and sank down onto the only soft spot, a moss-covered boulder.

Don’t look at me, chickie. Without a backward glance, I crunched onwards.

Putain! came a shriek from behind me.

And bitch to you too. I continued walking. The threatening quiet of being utterly alone in the wilds would scare her into action.

"Pierre? You help me, hein?" she said, switching to a simpering French. But it seemed Pierre was of like mind, for his footsteps continued without interruption behind mine.

I shifted the load on my back. Chantal did have a point. My pack was getting heavier with each forward step. And my leg was sore where the long-handled clippers knocked against my thigh.

It would be good to get home to the warmth of my fireplace. A week with my back bent at an angle for which it wasn’t designed, clipping never-ending saplings and dragging freshly cut trees and branches from the trail was taking a toll on this tired middle-aged body, one that usually shied away from such strenuous activity. I wasn’t entirely upset that our trailblazing had been abruptly terminated. A few days respite would be good for the aching bones.

But it couldn’t be for long. We needed to complete this last section before winter buried it under a foot of snow.

I’d reached the steep drop-off which marked the start of Kamikaze Pass, supposedly a key attraction to the marathon’s hoped-for success and the only route down the mountain. Without access to this pass, we had half a marathon.

Eric needed to fix this impasse and fix it fast.

But, for the moment, once the remnants of my crew and I were through the pass, we could breathe easier: we would be out of Papa Gagnon’s sights and on Migiskan band lands.

I shifted the load on my back and glanced behind to see if Chantal was coming. No blob of shocking pink struggled up the trail. Nor did I see the long striding form of Pierre. I was completely alone.

Pierre? Where are you? I called out. The only answer was a squirrel cursing me from the protective heights of a white pine.

It appeared even rock-like Pierre could be swayed by Chantal’s whimpers. Maybe I should take note and quit trying to prove I was just one of the guys. I should bat my eyelashes too and get some behemoth on a leash to do the heavy stuff.

In disgust, I kicked a stone and sent it flying over the edge of the trail. It felt good. I kicked another and another. I watched them bounce off the side of the cliff onto the rocks ten metres below. One skipped into the middle of a stream, another shattered on a glacier smooth boulder. Most stayed where they landed, wedged in the angles of the rocks. A few settled on softness, a band of velvet moss that skirted the edge of the stream.

This sudden drop-off was the reason we called the pass Kamikaze. If a skier didn’t cling to the side of the mountain as they exited the pass, they could miss the turn and sail over the edge. I’d argued about the safety of this section, but Eric had overruled my objections with the argument that this was the kind of thrill world class marathon skiers expected. He’d also added that a couple of metres of snow would provide a soft enough landing for any skier who went over the edge.

However, as I looked at the jagged ground below, I wasn’t convinced. I wouldn’t want to fall on those rocks—even if they were covered by a deep cushion of white powder.

I continued along the metre-wide ledge to Kamikaze Pass, which wasn’t much more than a narrow defile carved by eons of erosion on a vein of softer rock that sliced through the centre of Champlain’s hard granite nose. The pass wasn’t long, no more than fifteen metres, but if we couldn’t use it, we were screwed, to paraphrase Pierre.

Within seconds I reached the end of the pass and a tree slashed with red that marked the end of Papa Gagnon’s land and the beginning of the Migiskan Reserve. I scrambled up another ten metres to the summit of Champlain’s Nose, found a spot sheltered from the cold wind, and with relief dropped my pack and my tired bones to the ground to wait for Chantal and Pierre.

TWO

I would wait thirty minutes for the two of them, long enough for me to eat my lunch and rest my sore feet. But considering Chantal’s appetite for men, I’d be surprised if she and Pierre did turn up by the time I wanted to leave. As for John-Joe, I wasn’t going to give him a second thought. Surely a guy who’d spent the better part of his twenty-odd years in the bush didn’t need me, a lapsed urbanite, to protect him from the big bad bears. If he came, he came, otherwise forget him.

I was tired. My back and arms ached from three straight hours bent like a chimpanzee. The sofa in front of my fireplace was looking better by the minute. I could almost feel the warmth of the fire’s heat spread through my chilled bones. Although winter was still officially another month away, no one had bothered to tell Mother Nature. The temperature must have dropped below freezing, and the thought of having to hike another hour and a half to my truck parked at the trailhead didn’t thrill me.

I unlaced my tight hiking boots and wiggled my toes with relief. Then I extracted a sandwich and a thermos of pea soup from my pack and nestled as comfortably as possible against the slab of granite protecting me from the northwest wind. This lichen-mottled boulder was the pimple on Champlain’s Nose, a massive outcropping of ancient pre-Cambrian gneiss.

Local rumour had it that four hundred years ago, Samuel de Champlain, in his quest for a route to China along the waterways of New France, had sighted a river passage to the west from this lookout. Maybe someone did see something, but I doubted it was this seventeenth century explorer, since as far as I knew he’d never travelled this far east of the Ottawa River. Like the French with Napoleon, people around here had a penchant for naming things after Champlain. Moreover, it couldn’t have been for discovering a route to the west, because the outcropping faced east.

With a clear view of the ski trail ten metres below, I would see Chantal and Pierre when they finally arrived. I also had a superb view of the West Quebec wilderness that had become my home. Although the sky hung low and heavy, visibility was clear, except for the odd whiteout from a pre-winter snow squall. In every direction stretched the endless boreal forest where the trees outnumbered people a million to one and the lakes a thousand to one.

To the south, beyond the brow of the next line of hills, lay the flat black water of Echo Lake. On its far shore, I could just make out the giant pines of Three Deer Point, the fifteen-hundred-acre Harris family property I’d inherited from my Great-aunt sin Agatha and where I’d made my home since moving from Toronto over three years ago. And to the east, tucked into the far end of Forgotten Bay, was my closest neighbour, the Forgotten Bay Hunting and Fishing Camp owned by the Migiskan Band and managed by Eric.

The band lands themselves occupied my entire line of sight from where I sat to the farthest tumbling line of mountains on the northern and eastern horizons. In the mid 1800s, over ninety square kilometres had been set aside as a reserve for the Fish-Hook Algonquin Indian Band, the anglicized name the authorities used. Today the band called itself by the Algonquin words, Migiskan Anishinabeg. The white steeple of their tiny wooden church jutted up through a gap in the tree-fringed heights beyond the end of Forgotten Bay. It marked the location of the village, where most band members lived.

And below me ranged the newly made network of trails for the Migiskan Ski Marathon, sixty-five kilometres in total, another of Eric’s ventures for making money. His reasoning had been simple. The band desperately needed income. He’d read somewhere that ski marathons could bring in big money. The reserve had plenty of hills and lakes, perfect terrain for cross-country skiing, but it needed a challenging course to attract world class skiers. So why not hold an annual marathon with the route over Champlain’s Nose through Kamikaze Pass as the key attraction? Yes, why not? There was only one tiny detail Eric had failed to consider: the band didn’t own the other side of Le Nez du Champlain. Papa Gagnon did.

With the old man’s pointed gun still fresh in my mind, I fumed at Eric’s optimism in thinking he could convince this reclusive farmer to allow a host of skiers to race over his land. Particularly when Eric knew Gagnon was paranoid enough to shoot at robins that dared to land on his precious trees.

How blind I had been to believe Eric, when I should’ve known better. My friendship with Yvette had taught me just how suspicious her father could be. On the few occasions when I’d driven her home, the old man had followed me bumper to bumper in his rusted-out pickup back to the main road to ensure I left his farm. Still, he had agreed to her participation in the trail clearing, so he must’ve given Eric at least some nominal agreement for the use of his land. That is, until for whatever squirrelly reason, he’d changed his mind.

Now the marathon was in danger of becoming a white elephant in more ways than one. The entire course had been designed around Kamikaze Pass. Most course sections were finished, except for mine, and I doubted any of the five volunteer crews, including mine, wanted to start over. Besides, winter’s first dump of snow could arrive any day. Once on the ground, it would double the work effort, if not make it impossible to make a new course.

As if to reinforce my concern, a sudden snow squall swirled around me. I looked at my watch. A half hour had passed. Chantal and Pierre had still not arrived, nor John-Joe for that matter, but despite my initial vow, I hesitated leaving. We’d all crammed into the front seat of my truck to get to the trailhead. If I abandoned them now, they would have an additional five kilometres or more to hike to the Fishing Camp, where their ride was supposed to pick them up. Perhaps I should give them another half hour. My feet wouldn’t mind the added rest. The hot soup had warmed me up nicely, even made me feel a bit drowsy. Plus the squall had moved on, leaving my shelter in relative calm.

I shifted my position to a softer patch of ground partially protected by the wind-twisted boughs of a pine. Using my pack as a pillow, I stretched out. A wayward breeze flicked strands of hair across my face. It tickled and reminded me of Eric.

He liked to wake me up in the morning by running a strand from his thick mane over my eyes, down my nose and onto my lips. Except he hadn’t done that very often lately. In fact, it was over a month since we’d spent a night together. There always seemed to be an excuse. He was busy. Or I was. No, that wasn’t true. I’d just been pretending to be busy when, after two weeks of no visits, not even phone calls, he’d suddenly turned up on my doorstep, wanting me to invite him in.

Something was going on, that much was clear. I supposed I could brush off his neglect by using the marathon as the excuse. After all, for the last two years, our relationship had percolated along like mellow coffee simmering on a wood stove, there to sample at leisure. That is until now. I’d been in this situation before with my philandering ex-husband, Gareth. I knew the signs when a man was casting his eyes in another’s direction.

Damn it. Why did this always happen to me? Was there something about me that turned men off? Perhaps I should adopt some of Chantal’s feminine wiles, bleach my hair blonde, stick out my boobs and speak in a panting whisper. That certainly seemed to catch Eric’s attention. Several times now I’d caught him giving her that appreciative once-over he generally reserved for me.

But enough. These thoughts would only get me more upset. Better to pretend, like I used to with Gareth, that all was normal and hope whatever was distracting Eric would go away, and we’d get back to being the loving couple we were supposed to be.

I resettled myself on the needle-cushioned ground. The thought of leaving crossed my mind, but I didn’t fancy tightening my hiking boots just yet, and my long johns were keeping me reasonably warm. I watched the pine needles above my head flutter and dip in the breeze. I nestled my head further into a softer part of my pack. Clouds drifted into, then out of my line of sight. A woodpecker hammered with little enthusiasm on a tree somewhere below me, then stopped altogether.

My eyes drifted closed...

With a sudden icy jolt, they snapped back open. A small switch of pine needles pricked my face. My body shivered with cold. I realized with annoyance that more hours in the afternoon had passed than the forty winks I’d intended. Two and a quarter hours to be precise. Daylight was fading fast. Tramping through the woods alone in the dark was not exactly at the top of my list of favourite things to do, especially since a quick search of my pack failed to produce the flashlight I usually carried.

No doubt Chantal and Pierre, even John-Joe had passed below me on their way to the trailhead. And since I’d been lying down, they wouldn’t have seen me; otherwise Chantal, not one to overexert herself, would’ve made very sure she got her ride back to the Fishing Camp.

I hastily got up, shook the kinks out and slung the pack onto my sore back. I braced myself for the hour and a half hike to my truck in the darkening forest. However, as I started to step off Champlain’s Nose onto the trail, I thought I heard a strange noise. I stopped to listen and heard what sounded like a faint echoing cry above the quiet settling of the land.

The cry was so fleeting, I wasn’t sure whether it had echoed through Kamikaze Pass or had come from this side of the mountain. To be on the safe side, I decided to return back through the pass, leaving my heavy pack behind. Although daylight still gave the sky above me a soft grey sheen, night already filled the narrow defile. Barely able to see my way forward, I almost turned back, but knew my conscience would never rest easy if it turned out someone, possibly one of my crew, was in trouble.

My foot stumbled into an unseen rock, and I only managed to save myself from falling by grasping the granite wall. I kept my hand on the cold stone and inched my way forward. When I reached the brighter twilight at the end of the pass, I stopped and listened. A faint rustling sound rose from below the steep drop-off.

I shouted. Silence answered. Probably a squirrel or other small animal rummaging through the underbrush.

I walked further along the narrow ledge down to where it disappeared into the forest floor. I yelled again. From behind me came an answering cry. I called out again. Another faint cry, this time louder. I retraced my steps back up the trail to the cliff edge to where I thought the sound might have come from.

Anyone there? I called out as I scanned the blackness below.

I strained to hear any sound that didn’t belong to the forest, but I heard only a faint rustle of leaves, the soft gurgling of a stream, a solitary cheep from a bird settling in for the night.

I called out again.

After several more minutes of intense waiting, I finally decided it must have been an animal’s cry and turned to leave. Once again, I heard rustling from below, this time joined by what sounded like a moan. I strained to see through the blurred darkness below. At first I saw only the opaque wall of night. But as my eyes adjusted, I gradually made out a patch of lightness.

Au secours, drifted up a very faint murmur.

Alarmed by this cry for help, I yelled back, Are you hurt?

Au secours, replied the soft French voice, which could only belong to Chantal.

Au secours, she uttered again.

Hold on, I’m coming.

While I searched for a way down, I yelled for help in the desperate hope that Pierre or John-Joe was still in the area. Miraculously, an answering shout rang through the forest.

Come quick. Chantal’s fallen down the cliff, I called back. Running footsteps pounded in reply.

As I peered down at the dark, yawning gulf, a vague memory came to mind of a sloping rock-fall a few metres from where I stood. I tentatively tapped along the edge until I felt something solid, then I gingerly stepped over the edge, and finding more solid ground, scrambled down to her.

THREE

I reached the bottom of the drop-off in a shower of stones. I frantically searched for Chantal, and spying a lightness in the surrounding darkness, moved towards it. Without warning, my ankle twisted and I plunged to the ground. My ankle throbbed. My knees and palms ached. I heard moaning and realized it was my own.

Salut! Ça va? came a shout from above.

That you, Pierre? I called back in English. Come quick, Chantal’s hurt.

Fearing another fall, I scrambled on hands and feet to where the patch of grey lay stretched out on the ground.

My hand brushed against cloth and the firmness of flesh. Chantal, you okay?

Dead silence. With dread, I ran my hands over her body, which felt more like a rag doll that had been tossed out of a second storey window than a living woman.

I was so certain of finding Chantal that it took several seconds for me to realize that the fabric under my hands wasn’t the slick nylon of her pink jacket, but a coarse wool. Only one person in my crew had worn such a coat.

My God! It’s Yvette! I cried out.

Is she all right? Pierre called down from the top of the cliff, where I could see the pinprick glow of his cigarette.

Come down here, I shouted back. I need your help.

I felt her wrist for a pulse, but my trembling fingers made it impossible to pick out a beat. I tried under her chin, where the pulse usually beats harder, and encountered stickiness.

Au secours, she mumbled.

She was still alive.

A small stone bounced off my back. More ricocheted off the surrounding rocks. With a final grunt Pierre landed several feet away.

Au secours, Yvette mumbled again. I felt her move.

Where are you hurt? I asked, switching to my basic high school French. Yvette was in no condition to struggle with English.

Au secours.

Sacrebleu! Pierre’s swearing cut through the darkness. She fall off the cliff, that’s for sure, he continued, voicing my own thoughts.

Don’t just stand there. Come and help me. I ran my fingers over her face and felt it twitch. Yvette, do you hear me?

Pierre persisted. She is, how you say, out cold, eh? I get help.

"That’ll take too long. We’ve got to take her out ourselves. Check her legs to see how badly she’s