Judith Alguire - Rudley 04 - Peril at the Pleasant (9 page)

“Unimaginative but effective.”

“Why would he stop in Ottawa to kill three innocent people for peanuts?”

“Maybe he hitchhiked and that’s as far as the ride took him. Maybe he blew the take from the jewellery store and couldn’t get any further.”

Brisbois shook his head. “The old couple and the cabbie were just unlucky.”

“Yup.”

“They thought he took the bus,” Brisbois said, “because that’s what the old lady told the cab company.” He took a drag of his cigarette. “This guy’s smart. He went to the train station instead. Bought himself some time. Muddied the waters.”

“But maybe he didn’t get on the train,” Creighton said. “Or maybe he did.”

“Somehow he encountered the young couple in the
RV
. He cranked the guy’s neck, smothered the woman.”

“The last guy,” said Creighton. “Our John Doe. He was shot. That suggests a different operator.”

Brisbois stared over the lake. “He used the gun because he didn’t have the opportunity to use his preferred method. Or he didn’t have a gun to use before. Maybe it was the John Doe’s gun.”

“Okay.”

“It’s got to be the same guy. The
RV
victims and our John Doe died within hours of each other, two miles apart. That links them. And the preferred
MO
links the whole kit and caboodle. Mel Turk” — he named the lead detective on the murder in Fredericton — “when he heard about the murders in Ottawa, he glommed onto that right away. Some guy who kills for next to nothing, whose preferred method is suffocation or strangulation.”

“He’d have to be one cool customer.”

“One dangerous customer.”

“He could be miles away from here,” Creighton said. “I don’t think the folks out here are at any particular risk.”

“What about last night — that guy who ate and ran at the bus station in Lowerton? That’s only eight miles from here, maybe twelve miles from the last murder scene.”

“You think that’s the same guy? Maybe he was just some guy couldn’t afford to pay for his meal.”

Brisbois shifted restlessly. “Or maybe a serial murderer who got spooked when the security officer wandered through.” He shook his head. “There was a lot going on in a relatively small rural area for one twenty-four-hour period.”

“No fingerprint hits,” said Creighton. “Not even the same unidentified prints at any two scenes.”

“Gloves,” said Brisbois.

“The
RV
was a rental. They probably don’t clean them that thoroughly between customers.” Creighton stretched his legs. “Maybe our John Doe was a mob hit.”

“One shot between the eyes at close range,” Brisbois murmured. “They’re guessing something like a .32. Nothing more definite until later today.”

“Our John Doe was stripped down to his shorts,” said Creighton. “Maybe to make it hard to identify him. Buy some time.”

“Or assume his identity,” Brisbois stubbed out his cigarette, tore off a piece of foil, wrapped the butt in it, and stuffed the foil into his pocket. “Anyway, the guy who killed the couple in the
RV
is the same one who killed our John Doe.”

“Yup.” Creighton wasn’t sure Brisbois was right, although he was a lot of the time. He didn’t say anything more.

·

Rudley peered out the window as the train slowed. “I don’t know why in hell we’re getting off here, Margaret.”

She looked past him at the spotty mix of conifers and deciduous trees alongside the track. “Where would you like to get off, Rudley?”

“Anywhere, Margaret, with a suggestion that a human being had, at some point, set foot on it.”

Norman leaned over his shoulder. “I’m sure that thousands of human feet have trod this soil. Our Cree friends were widespread. And prior to that, whatever group crossed that isthmus that used to connect Russia and Alaska.”

Rudley shot him an irritated look. “A simple sign would be reassuring, Norman. Even something of the ‘You Are Here’ variety.”

Margaret turned to Miss Miller, who was studying her map. “Rudley is worried we’re in the wrong place.”

Miss Miller looked from the map to the train window. The train was slowing. “I believe we’re as close to our destination as the train takes us. From here it rounds a curve and loops south to Terrel’s before turning north again.”

Geraldine trained her binoculars on the tree line. “Is this the confluence of the Little Beaver and the Swine?”

“It’s the confluence of Outer Hell and East Outhouse, Geraldine.”

Geraldine swatted him on the back. “You have such a sense of humour, Rudley.” She wrenched her binoculars skyward. “Is that a bald eagle I see, Norman?”

He grabbed his own binoculars. “Why, I believe it is, Geraldine.”

“Beautiful specimen,” she murmured.

The train lurched to a stop. Norman fell into Simpson’s lap. Geraldine tumbled on top of them. Norman chortled.

“This reminds me of the train we took in India,” Geraldine said. “We were packed in like sardines and ended up stacked in the lap of a former Gurkha soldier. Fortunately, he was a large man.”

“I’m not,” Simpson squeaked.

“Oh.” Geraldine wriggled up, “Norman, let’s get you off before you squash Edward.”

“I’m sure he’s already relieved,” Rudley murmured to his wife. “Geraldine could make a whale say ‘uncle.’”

“Be nice, Rudley.”

Turnbull paused to look out the window then began to gather his gear. Peters’s gaze swept the landscape. “Is this it?” He stood up and likewise started to collect his things.

“Would you like a hand with that?” Simpson offered, reaching toward Peters’s bag.

Peters snatched the bag away. “I can do it.”

Simpson recoiled. “Of course.”

Peters climbed down from the train to join those who had already assembled. “So this is it,” he repeated. “Nothing around.”

“Not for many miles,” said Miss Miller. She put down her bag to strap Edward into the frame of his backpack.

“Just us and white water,” said Turnbull.

Rudley helped Margaret down.

“The trip doesn’t call for white water, Mr. Turnbull,” Margaret said. “I understand there’s just one stretch where we’ll be compelled to portage. We chose the route partly because of that and partly because it promises an intimate experience.”

“Intimate?”

“Without crowds of strangers flitting about on Jet Skis.”

Turnbull shrugged. “We’ll probably run into a lot of people with the same idea.”

“Our guide reports from his experience that the area should be deserted. It’s early in the season and not the sort of area white water canoeists favour.”

“Like Miss Miller and Mr. Simpson,” Norman chuckled.

“Like Miss Miller,” Edward corrected.

Miss Miller smiled. “I’m quite happy with a more leisurely pace on this excursion.”

“Elizabeth and I had several challenging white water experiences last fall,” said Edward.

“Colorado River?” asked Norman.

“Northern British Columbia.”

“The scenery must have been spectacular,” Geraldine remarked.

“Huge boulders,” Edward countered. “Which seemed to come at us every few seconds. We were in a raft with several others. One man ended up with a broken leg. It took hours to get him out.”

“We should be fine,” said Margaret. “Almost everyone here has had some sort of emergency training.” She nodded toward Elizabeth. “I know Miss Miller has advanced training, as I imagine our guide will as well. He also has a satellite telephone.”

“You’ll never know you aren’t in Toronto,” said Norman with a grin.

“The phone’s only for emergencies, Norman,” Geraldine trilled. “I don’t think we’ll be using it to call the grandchildren or anything like that.”

The grandchildren. Rudley smiled, whistled a few bars, then murmured under his breath, “Mrs. Millotte has things well in hand.”

Margaret squeezed his arm. “You’re such a trouper, Rudley.

“If we’re all together, let’s set out,” said Miss Miller. She checked her compass. “This way.”

They set out across the countryside as the train chuffed away behind them.

“That does it.” Rudley yanked off his backpack and sank down onto a rock. “We’re clearly lost.”

Norman stopped and sat down beside him. “Why would you say that, Rudley?”

Rudley searched furtively in his pockets for a cigarette. “Do you know where we are?”

“I would say, according to our itinerary, we are at the confluence of the Little Beaver and Swine Rivers. Oh” — he motioned toward Rudley’s vest — “your cigarettes are in the side pocket. Left side.”

Rudley glared at Norman and pulled out the pack.

“Now you have to take care when you smoke in the forest,” Norman went on. “Far too many forest fires are caused by human carelessness.” He watched as Rudley lit up. “I don’t know why you brought cigarettes. It’s not as if you’re a dedicated smoker.”

Smoke spewed from Rudley’s nostrils. “I brought them in case I found myself surrounded by ninnies.” He looked over his shoulder. “I don’t see a confluence, Norman. I see patches of rock and an impenetrable forest.”

Norman squinted at the map. “According to this, we have reached the confluence.”

“I don’t think you could tell a confluence from a cesspool, Norman.”

Norman smiled. “Now, Rudley, I am not a stranger to the wilderness. I know you’re feeling anxious and frustrated because you think we’re lost.”

“We are lost, Norman. We never should have agreed to let Miss Miller and the others go ahead — especially Miss Miller.”

Norman nodded. “I agree that it is always wise to stay close to Miss Miller.”

Rudley drew hard on his cigarette. “You know we would have been further ahead if we’d driven in the van all the way to Campbell’s Landing, met up with the guide, and started the expedition from there.”

“There’s no road into Campbell’s Landing, Rudley. As Miss Miller explained, our guide and some pals were to bring the canoes down to the confluence of the Little Beaver and the Swine.”

“Then his friends walked home?”

Norman stared at him. “I must say, Rudley, the details of our preparation seem to have gone over your head.”

Rudley savaged the filter of his cigarette.

“Our guide’s pals were picked up by a float plane returning from dropping another party at Salinger’s Bay. Our guide will be waiting for us with the canoes and supplies at the confluence the of the Little Beaver and Swine.”

Rudley’s eyes crossed. “I have to say, Norman, this is the most convoluted travel arrangement I can recall. It would have made more sense to catch a plane at the local airport, fly to the confluence, marvel at how dismal it is, then fly home again.”

Norman looked bewildered. “But then it wouldn’t have been a canoe trip. It would have been a plane trip.”

“But at least we wouldn’t have gotten lost.”

Norman looked around. “I don’t believe we’re lost, Rudley. We’re merely detained. We probably should have asked the others to wait while you went into the bushes to change your shorts.”

Rudley glowered. “I didn’t want the entire country to know my shorts were chafing, Norman, and I’ll thank you not to broadcast the fact.”

“You should always wash your shorts prior to wearing them, Rudley. I have found it’s always wise to wash shorts the first time.”

“They were washed, Norman. The cut is something I’m not used to.”

Norman took off his hat, smoothed the sweatband. “I’ve always found the traditional boxer the most comfortable.”

“I’m glad to hear that, Norman.”

“I take it Mrs. Rudley picked them out. A man should never let his wife choose his shorts. Women are inclined to choose style over comfort, you know.”

Rudley took a deep drag from his cigarette. “I imagine women lack an intuitive feel for what might be comfortable in men’s under apparel.”

“I think you might be right, Rudley.”

Voices interrupted: “Norman! Rudley!”

They turned to see Miss Miller and Geraldine.

“We thought you’d fallen down a rabbit hole,” Geraldine trilled.

Rudley stubbed out his cigarette, dug a hole, and buried the butt as Norman nodded his approval.

“And here you are, just slacking off,” Geraldine continued. She turned to Miss Miller. “I knew we should have waited for them. Norman couldn’t find his way out of an elevator without me.”

Norman smiled a buck-toothed smile.

Rudley struggled up and strapped on his backpack. “I gather this is supposed to be the confluence. I don’t see a confluence, Miss Miller.”

“We’re three hundred yards from the confluence,” said Miss Miller. She took out her map and indicated the area to Rudley.

Rudley peered at the map. “Yes, we’re here at the confluence, which is two hundred yards from the falls.” He stabbed his finger at a spot on the map.

Miss Miller shook her head. “Mr. Rudley, what you’re pointing at is the orienteering symbol for a marsh.”

“Come along,” Geraldine beckoned.

“The others are waiting at the confluence,” said Miss Miller. “Our guide, Gil Jackson, was waiting there when we arrived. He has the canoes and provisions and is right on schedule.”

“I hope he’s competent,” Rudley grumbled.

Miss Miller smiled. “I think you will find him satisfactory.”

They covered the remaining three hundred yards without incident. The rest of the party sat on the ground, chatting. Five red canoes snoozed on the shore edge.

“Norman, Mr. Rudley” — Simpson saw them arrive and jumped up — “I’d like you to meet our guide, Gil Jackson.”

The man hunkered down over one of the bags lifted his head, turned, and smiled.

“I’m pleased to meet you,” Rudley said. As Norman went over to talk to Gil, he turned to Margaret and muttered, “Christ, Margaret, he’s a teenager.”

“Now, Rudley, I’m sure he’s in his twenties.”

“I would have thought Clifton would have at least sent his son, not his grandson.”

“Clifton’s son is an insurance agent. I’m sure Gil is much more qualified.”

“He looks like a Boy Scout.”

“Well, then Rudley, at least we know he’ll be clean.”

·

The sun hung heavy in the west, casting a brazen sheen downstream as the paddlers pulled up for the night. Once the canoes were secured, Miss Miller set about preparing a campfire.

“Wouldn’t it be easier if you had a propane cooker?” Turnbull asked, as Miss Miller dug a pit and arranged the rocks Simpson had collected.

Miss Miller looked at Turnbull over her glasses. Her hair had escaped its bobby pins and trailed across her face. Her cheek was scratched from a branch that had whipped back on her. Edward, positioning the last stone, thought she had never looked lovelier. “Whatever for?” she asked.

“It would be easier than what you’re doing.”

Miss Miller arranged a handful of twigs in the bottom of the pit. “I would prefer not to drag around a Coleman camper and dozens of propane tanks.”

“You could have had one of the staff cart around that crap.”

Miss Miller smiled. “This is an equal opportunity venture, Mr. Turnbull.”

Turnbull shrugged. “Sure. So you’re doing the cooking?”

“I imagine each of us will contribute to the effort, Mr. Turnbull,” Simpson replied.

Peters lingered near the pit, watching Miss Miller intently as she coaxed a flame from the twigs.

“You’re kind of like a kitten watching a fire,” Turnbull remarked to Peters as he bent to pick up a few pebbles.

Peters gave him a quick look.

“Never see anyone make a fire before?” Turnbull tossed the pebbles from hand to hand.

When Peters didn’t respond, Turnbull’s attention drifted to the shoreline where Gil was bent over a satellite phone.

When Gil finished his call and joined the others, Turnbull gave him a smile. “Calling home?”

Gil shook his head. “Just checking to make sure everything was working properly.”

“Is the equipment so bad it couldn’t survive a short trip?”

“The equipment is good. But if there’s going to be a malfunction, better to find out earlier than later.”

“Sounds sensible to me,” said Miss Miller.

Norman held out a jug. “I’ll prepare some water, Miss Miller.”

“Are you taking charge of water purification, Mr. Phipps-Walker?”

“Norman specializes in making potable water,” said Geraldine.

“I can look after that,” said Gil. “It’s really my job.”

“Oh, your job is to get us safely down the river and keep the bears away,” said Margaret, “and supervise the overall operation. We’re all prepared to do our share of the day-to-day tasks.”

Gil smiled. “And to wake you up with coffee every morning and to make sure the water is safe.”

“Yes, it would be embarrassing if we were found sprawled out, dead from cholera,” Rudley murmured.

“Be nice, Rudley,” Margaret murmured in return.

“What do you do to make the water safe?” Turnbull asked.

Norman described the procedure. Gil nodded his approval.

“Oh, I thought you just muttered an incantation — ” Turnbull began.

Margaret interrupted. “Would anyone care for a trail cookie?”

“It was clever of Gregoire to put those trail cookies together,” Norman remarked. “Tasty. Light to carry and if we get lost, we could probably live on them for days.”

Gil looked hurt. “I won’t get us lost,” he said.

“Of course you won’t,” said Norman. “But we can feel secure in the knowledge that no matter what might happen, we won’t starve.”

“I doubt if we would starve,” Rudley grumbled. “The rivers up here are teeming with fish…although…”

Margaret nudged him in the ribs before he could comment on Norman’s fishing skills.

“Even if there were no fish we could always snare a rabbit or a bird,” he added.

Norman started to splutter.

Margaret made a soothing sound. “Rudley’s joking, Norman. We certainly won’t get to a point where we need to sacrifice birds and bunnies. I couldn’t eat a robin or a little bunny even if I were starving.”

“We’ll resort to cannibalism before we stoop to that,” said Rudley.

“Now that’s a terrible idea,” said Margaret. “Selecting someone to kill so the others can survive.”

Turnbull appeared bored. “I think they wait until somebody dies. Usually the weakest member of the group.” He flipped a pebble in Peters’s direction, hitting him in the shoulder. “Sorry.”

“Or maybe the most annoying,” Peters muttered. “After he’s had some kind of accident.”

Turnbull rolled his eyes. Gil watched the proceedings with an anxious look.

Norman turned to Rudley and said in a low voice. “I don’t think those two like each other.”

“Probably not,” Rudley muttered. “I can’t say I like either one of them.”

“I hope everybody’s hungry,” Miss Miller said. “We’re having sausage dogs, hash browns, and skillet blueberry pie.”

Simpson started to gather kindling. Peters joined him, saying, “I saw a big piece down by the river,” he said.

“I’ll bet it’s kind of waterlogged,” Turnbull drawled.

Peters’s jaw tightened.

“Let’s have a look at it, shall we?” Simpson said to Peters.

Turnbull sighed and grabbed his backpack. He stuck it under his head for a pillow and stretched out.

Gil went down to the canoes and returned with his personal gear and the satellite phone. “I think we did well today,” he announced. “Made good progress.”

Turnbull peeled a callous from his palm. “I think we’d do better without him.” He gestured toward Peters, who was climbing the rise laden with branches.

Gil looked at him, surprised. “I think he’s doing all right.”

“I could go faster by myself. I’m a pretty experienced canoeist.”

Gil shrugged. “I’ll take Mr. Peters with me if you want to carry the extra gear.”

Turnbull shrugged. “Sure.”

Rudley had been studying Turnbull and Peters. “At the risk of repeating myself, Margaret,” he began, “where do you find these people?”

“They both seemed quite pleasant on the phone, Rudley.”

“I find Turnbull twitchy, Margaret, and an ass to boot.”

“Perhaps he’s one of those people who suffer from what they call adult attention deficit disorder.” She shook her head. “I do think he could show more enthusiasm for the camp work. Mr. Peters seems willing.”

“I find him edgy, too, although in a quieter way.”

“I get the feeling he thinks everyone is watching him and judging him.”

“He has an unusual head, Margaret.”

“Mr. Turnbull seems to enjoy making fun of him. I suspect he’s a bit of a bully.”

“He said he was a law student, Margaret. I believe they’re trained to be bullies.”

“Well, then we need to support Mr. Peters…in an inconspicuous way.”

“I don’t know. I’ve never had the desire to be a nursemaid.”

“He’s young. I’m sure he could benefit from the support of a mature man.”

Rudley looked toward Norman, who was gazing into a tree, making chirping noises. “I guess that would have to be me.”

“We’d better get the tents pitched,” Geraldine interrupted them. “Best to get at it while Miss Miller’s getting the supper going.”

“Before it gets dark,” Gil added with a smile. “Or you could find yourselves sleeping on a rock.”

“That does it for me,” Rudley muttered. He grabbed a tent and followed Geraldine up the rise.

·

Mrs. Millotte took the flashlight from the desk drawer. “I’m going to check the Elm Pavilion,” she told Lloyd. “Stay near the phone.”

Lloyd’s gaze wandered to the gathering gloom outside the windows. “Want me to go with you?”

“No, someone needs to stay by the phone.”

“Want me to go instead?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Detective Brisbois said we was to be careful. Maybe we shouldn’t be out at night alone.”

“I’ll take Albert with me.” Mrs. Millotte removed the leash from the hook by the door and called to the dog.

Albert stretched, yawned, and rolled onto his back, regarding her affectionately.

Mrs. Millotte jiggled the leash. “Come on, Rin Tin Tin, you’re riding shotgun.” She opened the door. “Lock this after me,” she said to Lloyd.

“Yes’m.” Lloyd reached under the desk and pulled out a comic book.

Mrs. Millotte paused on the veranda. The water lapped the dock, the sound amplified in the silence. A light moved along the opposite shore, the boat too far away for her to hear the engine.