Fool's Gold (21 page)

Below me I could hear Tettlinger blundering through the brush. I switched on the radio and called again, almost shouting into the radio. "Mayday. Mayday. Mayday. Bennett calling from the lake. Come in please?"
 

There was more crackling, but this time I could hear the calm voice of the operator at Olympia. "Come in, Bennett, we hear your Mayday."
 

"Constable Onyschuk shot. Need medical aid soonest. Re peat. Constable Onyschuk shot. Need medical aid soonest, over."

The girl was pro. "You're breaking up. Understand you need medical aid." Her voice faded and came back. "Notifying hospital and airfield. Location, please?"
 

I shouted down to Onyschuk. "What's the name of this lake?" With his voice full of pain, he called, "Tell them Turtle Lake. They'll know."
 

"Location Turtle Lake. Landed here an hour ago. West shore. Will light a fire, over."

Again the bush-fire crackle of static and then the voice. "No helicopter available, sending plane. Over."

"Message understood. Will light fire. West shore. Hurry. Out." I switched off and slipped the radio back into my pocket. It was on my mind that I had left the rifles loaded at the base of the tree. I didn't think Tettlinger could handle one but I took the precaution anyway. I shouted to Sam "Fight," and heard his instant snarl and Tettlinger's frightened yelp.
 

Good. He was helpless. I took a moment then to look around and check what I could see of the lake. There were no canoes or boats anywhere and I couldn't see any of my immediate surroundings for the trees, but I had a clear view of the island with its sloping rock surface where we had landed the day before and its one prominent rock standing out like a miniature Gibraltar. Then I started down, slipping and sliding down the trunk.
 

Tettlinger was on the water's edge, half a step from falling back and drowning, looking fearfully over his shoulder at the water, then back at Sam who was slavering and snarling six inches from his knees. I called Sam off and he came over to me, wagging his tail. I patted him and told him "Good boy," then called to Tettlinger "Sit down"—and he did, almost in the water.
 

I went back to Onyschuk. His eyes were closed and his teeth clenched against the pain. I knew how he felt. My last wound in Nam had gone through the bone in my forearm. Bone pain hurts worse than any other. "Hey, Mike."
 

He opened his eyes. "I got through. Help's on the way. Be here in half an hour, tops."

He tried to grin. "Bullshit," he said softly.

"Sooner, likely. They're just picking up the nurse from the hospital. That Gloria."

"My wife'll kill me," he said, and closed his eyes again.

I left him and pulled together some dry wood, then found a birch and ripped off a piece of the white bark. I stuck it under the sticks and lit it with matches from the waterproof tobacco tin I carry everywhere in my combat jacket. It flared and smoked with that rich dark smoke and the intense heat that makes firelighting so easy in the bush. Within thirty seconds I had the twigs going and was feeding in bigger pieces.
 

I went to my tipped belongings and picked up the pot and filled it from the lake. Then I found a couple of stones and set them among the flames and set the pot on it. "Coffee's on," I told him, and he groaned again.
 

"You said you'd give me a drink."

"Not yet. It's bad for growing boys," I kidded, and he groaned again. I took no notice. I had aspirin in my first aid kit and I gave him two with a sip of water, knowing they would do him more good than whisky. It's only in old Westerns that they give you raw hooch. It's lousy for you when you're in shock.
 

While the water boiled I found more sticks, hacking them off deadfalls with my knife and piling them beside the fire. Then I told Sam "Seek," and he whisked away into the brush again, keeping us safe from other intruders.
 

When the water boiled I made coffee from the tin of mixed coffee, powered milk, and sugar in my pack, then found a mug.

"Where're you hiding the rye?" I asked Onyschuk.

It took him a half minute to reply, then he reached down to his side pocket, under the sleeping bags. I did it for him, pulling out a mickey of cheap rye with one of those deep caps you can use as a shot glass. I measured out one shot and put it in the coffee, then sealed the bottle and set it aside. "See, I do so keep my promises," I told him.
 

When it had cooled enough to drink I fed the coffee to Onyschuk a sip at a time, supporting him against my knee as I crouched beside him. He didn't want to drink it. He wanted to lie down and think about his pain but I kept him at it until he had taken it all. Then I laid him down again with his pack as a pillow and covered him up warm.
 

Tettlinger was watching every move and now I went over and stood above him. He didn't look up so I prodded him gently with my toe. "Look at me, I want to talk to you."
 

He looked up, craning his neck high, staring into the sun that was playing tag among a flock of woolly cumulous clouds. "Okay. Now there's just the two of us here. You're not under arrest. You're still on the run in the bush. Understand?"
 

He didn't, so I spelled it out for him. "I'm not a policeman in this locality. I'm a citizen who's been shot at. I'm going to ask you some questions." I kept my voice even and reasonable and he relaxed a fraction. I smiled at him, a big friendly smile, and added the fear element. "You have the right to remain silent. But I also have the right to bring my dog back to tear your guts open. I want you to think about that. Your hands are tied behind you so you couldn't do a thing except scream."
 

"You wouldn' do that?" His voice ran up in a frightened whine. I looked down at him and smiled again.

"With real pleasure. You're already going in for attempted murder of a peace officer. Nobody's going to grieve if you just didn't come back in one piece."
 

He swallowed. "It was an accident. You never gave me a chance to explain. I was shootin' at a deer f crissakes an' your buddy was in the way. I'm sorry."
 

"You will get a lot sorrier," I promised. "Now tell me what I want to know. Who set you up to shoot us?"

He made the obvious noises. "I dunno what you're talkin' about. It was an accident."

I reached down and grabbed him by the hair. "On your feet," I said, and yanked. He groaned and came up, all the way up, two inches anyway taller than I am. He had lost his hold on the back of his pants and he was standing in his long underwear with the green work pants puddled over his high boots. Without turning I whistled for Sam. Tettlinger's eyes widened with horror and he tried to duck for his pants but I held his head and he gave up instantly.
 

Sam came loping out of the bush and I summoned him over and patted him. "Good boy. Ready for a feed?"

Tettlinger licked his lips and said nothing. I smiled again and said, "Now, I've heard all the crap I'm gonna take from you. Who sent you to shoot us?"
 

The words poured out of him. "I don't know his name. It was some Frog. I never even saw him. I just got the message."

"By radio?" It was starting to make sense. Tettlinger was already in the bush. Laval hadn't needed to fly in and shoot Prudhomme, he had simply delegated.
 

"Yeah. By radio."

"And where were you when this happened?" I knew the answer before he told me. He had entered the country the same way the Indians had always traveled it, by canoe, up Trout River.
 

"I was in camp, up the river, across the other end of the portage."

I switched my line of questioning. I needed to know where the portage was, otherwise I'd spend the whole day covering those four or five klicks to the river. "Where is it?"
 

He nodded behind him. "Up the shore a piece, maybe a quarter mile."

"Okay. So what was the message?"

Again the words poured out, fearfully. "It was all in a code. The guy told me to net the salmon."

"So he had set this up. You were in the bush waiting for a signal to kill me, right?"

He lowered his head. "Is that right?" I repeated, and he looked up again, his eyes brilliant with hatred. "If that goddamn gun didn't fire low and left you'd be a dead man."
 

"Where'd you get the gun?" I'd saved this one, because I didn't really want to know the truth. I respected Misquadis too much.

"Bought it offa Jack Misquadis for a jug."

"He doesn't drink," I said. "And if he did he wouldn't sell his gun. He was up here looking for a bear. You can't catch them in a leg-hold trap."
 

"He sold it to me." Tettlinger repeated it with the despair that told me he was lying. "Lousy piece a' junk. Jammed first round."
 

"And where is he now?"

"Back up the portage, pissed, I guess. You know what Indians are like, eh?" He flashed me a quick grin but swallowed it when he saw my expression.
 

"Now, here's the hard part. Why did you murder Jim Prudhomme?" I asked the question quietly and he looked at me in genuine surprise.
 

"How d'you mean?" I said nothing and he rushed on, anxious to please, aware of his vulnerability. "Ain' he the guy got mauled by a bear here, few weeks back?"
 

"That was a ringer. I found Prudhomme's body in this lake yesterday," I said, and Tettlinger's mouth gaped.

"He's dead," he protested stupidly. I stared at him and he shifted his eyes and said, "He's dead, eh? They had the inquest in town. His buddy from Montreal was there, identified him."
 

He stopped speaking and I heard the buzz of a plane approaching, coming up out of the sun from the south. I told Sam "Easy." Then I beckoned to Tettlinger. "Come up on the shore and sit down. And pull your pants up."
 

He stooped and found the back of his pants, then shuffled onto the shore and sat facing the water. I went to Onyschuk and unwound my sleeping bag from him. It's a bush bag, waterproof green on the outside but bright orange in the lining. I shook it out and stood at the water's edge waving the orange side toward the aircraft.
 

It waggled its wings and made a straight, sweet descent, kicking up a white plume of spray, then settling onto its floats with a gentle rocking motion. It was a four-seater, a pleasure plane, not the flying ambulance I wanted for Onyschuk. I swore, then shrugged. It would lift him out somehow.
 

It taxied in and I saw there were three people aboard. In the copilot's seat was Gallagher. I waved to them, indicating a path to the rock where I was standing. The last thing we needed now was a float puncturing on one of the rocks in the shallows. The pilot crept in with his engine barely ticking over, then cut it and bobbed up to the shoreline.
 

Gallagher jumped down into six inches of water and splashed up the beach. He saw Tettlinger and asked, "He do it?" but rushed by to where Onyschuk lay.
 

I followed him. He was stooping over the wounded man, talking to him urgently. "Mike. Mike. You okay?"

Onyschuk opened his eyes and nodded "Yeah," then closed them again. Gallagher turned and bellowed over his shoulder at the big nurse from the hospital who was wading through the shallows, carrying a bag. Millie was wearing a parka over her uniform and the crisp white skirt stuck out beneath it incongruously.
 

She ran up the rock, opening the bag as she came. "Where's he hit?" she asked me angrily, as if it were my fault he was lying there.
 

"Compound fracture of the shoulder. I put Mercurochrome on it and stopped the bleeding. It's a bullet wound."

She pulled out a syringe and a little bottle. "Okay, Mike. I'm going to give you a needle for the pain. Then we'll get you back home and fix you up properly."
 

Onyschuk was at the end of his strength. He blinked slowly and said, "Good." She took out a pair of scissors and made a quick cut in the sleeve of his good arm, exposing the shoulder.
 

"The chief's going to owe you a new parka," she said as she swabbed the flesh and pushed the needle home. He didn't even wince.

Gallagher straightened up. "Let's get him in the plane."

We lifted him gently, and he groaned. "I can walk," he protested.

"Yeah, sure, son. An' I can fly," Gallagher said. "Don't take any weight, we got you." We supported him between us, out through the chilly water, knee-deep into the aircraft. The rock under our feet was slippery and we inched along until Gallagher could reach the float with his right hand and haul the plane around with a slow pull that had the power of an ox in it. I stood until the float reached me, then grabbed it with my left hand and helped Onyschuk up into the hands of the pilot. He pulled him into the seat behind him and strapped him in. Onyschuk groaned once as the pilot fastened the shoulder straps tight over his wound, then bit his lip and sat silent, head lolling forward.
 

"Pull," Gallagher instructed me, and we heaved the aircraft sideways until the float was resting on the rock. "Good. Let's get that other bastard," he said, and we sloshed up to Tettlinger.
 

Gallagher unsnapped the handcuffs from their pouch on his Sam Browne and spun Tettlinger around. He saw my lashing job and laughed. "Hell, you don't need cuffs, do you?"
 

"Cuff him and leave the other ties in place," I said. "He's a murderous swine. I want him nailed down."

"Me too," Gallagher said. He pulled outward on Tettlinger's arms, making him double up and his pants slip down. He didn't comment, just clicked the cuffs over his wrists and pulled him straight again. "If you can't reach your pants to pull 'em up, kick 'em off," he said, and Tettlinger squatted and felt with his fingers for the back of his trousers again. He straightened up and Gallagher steered him to the plane, handling him gently. He shoved him up and the pilot strapped him in. I heard Tettlinger swear.