The Land God Gave to Cain (28 page)

This was confirmed by Lands that evening. He called us into Darcy's hut immediately after the supper meal and told us bluntly that if we still intended to try to reach the lake, we'd have to make it on the ground. “I had the General Manager and one of the directors through here to-day,” he said. “And they made it plain to me that the helicopter was not to be used for anything but supervising the construction of the grade. Well, that's that, I guess.” He gave a little shrug. He was looking at Paule.

“But surely,” I said, “if it were explained to them—”

“If what were explained to them?” he demanded harshly. “They know all there is to know.” He hesitated, and then said awkwardly, “They don't believe Paule's father is alive. Anyway,” he added quickly, “they have a lot on their plate. There's more than a thousand men working on the grade north of here, and a hell of a lot of machinery, and that helicopter is the only means the Superintendent has of keeping them driving.” And then he was staring at me. “Well, you've seen a bit of the country, you know what it's like now. Do you still say that your father was sane and that message a genuine transmission?”

They were all staring at me, and I suddenly realised that this was the moment of decision. I had only to say I wasn't sure and Lands would veto any further attempt. His eyes were fixed on me and I could almost feel him willing me to say it. Laroche was watching me intently, too, his long fingers nervously running the zipper of his parka up and down. Darcy's expression was one of curiosity, an artist watching human behaviour. And Paule, she was staring at me, too. But I couldn't see what she was thinking. Her face was a sallow mask, the features fine-drawn, the mouth a tight line. And then I heard myself saying in a flat, colourless voice, “I'm quite satisfied my father was sane and I'm perfectly certain he received that transmission.”

What else could I say? If there'd been a way out, then I think I'd have taken it. But there wasn't. I'd gone too far to turn back now.

In the sudden silence I heard the girl's breath expelled in a little hiss of sound, and then Laroche said, “How can you be certain?” The words seemed dragged out of him.”

“Because my father had been a radio operator all his life,” I told him. “A man doesn't make a mistake like that when his whole life has been given to one thing.” I hadn't meant to emphasise the word “mistake,” but as I said it, it seemed to hang in the air, and I felt Laroche withdraw into himself.

“Okay,” Lands said. “That settles it, I guess.” But he sounded uneasy about it. “It's up to you now, Ray,” he added, turning to Darcy. “You willing to go in?”

“I guess so.” Darcy's voice was flat, matter-of-fact.

“And you, Bert?”

Laroche glanced at Paule Briffe. “If that's what you want?” And when she nodded, he said, “Okay then.” But, like Lands, he didn't look happy about it. And the girl, aware of his reluctance, said impatiently, “What else is there to do—if we cannot have the helicopter again?” She looked across at Lands and he shook his head. “There's no question of that, I'm afraid.”

“Then it is agreed?” She was looking round at the rest of us. “We will start at dawn, yes?”

And so it was settled. We came down to the details, then and there was a long discussion as to whether or not we should take a canoe with us. In the end it was decided we should. From what we had seen of the country from the air, there was as much water as land ahead of us, and though the portageing of a canoe would slow us up on the land stretches, it was felt that we should more than make up for it by avoiding the long detours necessary in skirting lakes and muskeg. It could always be abandoned if it didn't work out as we hoped.

The task of getting together all the things we needed for a bare existence in the bush took us about an hour and a half. We collected them in Darcy's hut—food, cooking utensils, clothing, packs, a gun, axes, fishing gear; a great pile of equipment that had to be sorted and divided into loads for portageing. We finished shortly after nine and then I asked Darcy to take me down to the radio shack.

I had already raised with them the question of the transmitter Briffe had used. It seemed essential that we should be able to make use of it if necessary and I thought Laroche would say he could operate it. But all he said was, “The transmitter went down with the plane. I told you that already.” He said it flatly, with an insistence that carried conviction, and though it made nonsense of the whole basis of our expedition, I could see that the others believed him.

Trudging down through the frozen camp, I wondered if I could persuade, the operator to keep a regular watch for us on Briffe's frequency. “I suppose the radio operators here are kept pretty busy?” I said to Darcy.

“Oh, I wouldn't say that,” he answered. “There's not all that traffic. Mostly they're brewing coffee or reading paperbacks.”

The dark shape of a hut loomed up behind the blazing eyes of its windows. Darcy went to the far end of it and pushed open the door. The heater was going full blast, the small room oven-hot, and a man in a T-shirt raised his eyes reluctantly from the magazine he was reading. His face looked pale behind a straggling beard and his body lay slack against the tilted chair. Even when I explained what I wanted, and why, his tired eyes showed no flicker of interest. Yes, he knew how a 48 set worked, and when I insisted that he explain it to me in detail, he grudgingly drew it out for me on his pad.

I couldn't help comparing him with Ledder. Simon Ledder had been like my father, an enthusiast. This man was just an employee doing a routine job. As soon as he had finished explaining the workings of the set to us, he tilted his chair back again and picked up the magazine.

I hesitated then, unwilling to commit ourselves to him. Our lives might depend on radio contact, and I thought of Ledder again. “Could you contact a ham radio operator at Goose Bay for me?” I asked. “The call sign is VO6AZ.”

He shook his head. “I got to stay tuned to our own frequency.”

“You expecting news of world-shaking proportions?” Darcy asked. I think he realised what was in my mind.

The operator stared at him with a puzzled look, not understanding the sarcasm. “My orders are—”

“To hell with your orders!” Darcy exploded. “You're here to operate a radio service. Now get your fat arse off that seat and see if you can raise this ham. And hurry—it's urgent.”

“Okay, Mr. Darcy. If you say so.” He hitched his chair forward. “What's the frequency?” he asked me.

I told him and we stood and watched him as he fiddled with the dial settings. He tried Voice first and then Key, and as the minutes slipped by on the clock above the transmitter I knew it was no good. I'd either have to trust him to get a message through or … “Could you get Perkins down at One-three-four?” I asked him, wondering why I hadn't thought of it before.

He lifted one of the earphones. “What was that?”

“Perkins at Camp One-three-four. Could you get him?”

“Sure. If he's on duty.” He shifted the dials and began to call: “CQ—CQ—CQ. Two-six-three calling One-three-four. Come in One-three-four. Over.” And then Bob Perkins' voice was there in the room, the solid North Country accent sounding homely and reliable. The phone was put in my hand and when I told him who I was, he cut in immediately with the information that a cable had come in for me from Farrow. “Arrived shortly after midday, but I decided to sit on it. There's been a proper flap on about you and I was afraid if I started radio-ing messages to you at Two-six-three, it'd give the game away like. You're at Two-six-three now, are you? Over.”

“Yes,” I said, and flicked the switch back to receiving.

“Aye, I thought you'd make it all right. But I suppose they've caught up with you now. Are they sending you back to Base, or what? Over.”

“No,” I said. “We're to make one more attempt to locate Briffe. I'm leaving in the morning with Laroche and Darcy.” And I explained then that I hoped to find Briffe's old transmitter still serviceable. “Will you do me a favour and keep a radio watch for us on Briffe's old frequency. Any time you like, but I must know that I can rely on somebody to pick up any message. Over.”

“So you're going in with Laroche, eh?” Even the loudspeaker couldn't conceal the surprise in his voice. And then, after a pause, he said, “Maybe you'd better take down Farrow's cable and then have a right good think about it. I'll read it to you slowly.” The radio operator pushed his message pad towards me and reached for the pencil behind his ear. And then Perkins' voice was saying: “It's a night letter cable signed Farrow. Message reads—‘Mother desperate your departure Labrador in ignorance Alexandra Ferguson's diary stop Diary shows grandfather killed by partner Lion Lake stop Partner's name Pierre Laroche stop Fears may be some connection.…'”

Laroche! So I had been right. There was a connection. It was as though my father had suddenly called a warning across the ether in Perkins' tin-box voice. No wonder he had written the name in capitals. And that scribbled line that had so puzzled me.…
L-L-L-it can't be
. It was all clear to me in a blinding flash and I turned on Darcy. “They're related, aren't they?” I cried. “You knew they were related.” I didn't need his nod to confirm it; he'd been so careful not to mention the surname of the man who'd come out raving. “My God!” I breathed. “No wonder my father was so absorbed in Briffe's expedition.” And I added, “Does Lands know about this?”

He nodded.

“And Paule Briffe?”

“I don't know. But I guess so.”

Everybody but myself! They had all known. “What's the relationship?” I asked. “What's this Laroche to the one that murdered my grandfather?”

“Same as yours to Ferguson,” he answered. “He's Pierre Laroche's grandson.”

So it was as direct as that. The third generation. No wonder I'd been scared at the thought of his coming with us. And then I became aware again of Perkins' voice. “Have you got it?” His tone was impatient. “I repeat, have you got it? Come in, please. Over.”

I pressed the sending switch. “Yes,” I said, and I turned again to Darcy, wondering whether he was feeling about it the way I was—the way I knew my father had … feeling that history was repeating itself. “Do you think …” But I stopped there, unwilling to put it into words.

“It's just a coincidence,” he said harshly.

A coincidence—yes, but a damned strange one … the two of us up here in Labrador and leaving together in the morning for the scene of that old tragedy.

I was so dazed by it that I had to ask Perkins to repeat the message. Apparently my mother, faced with the fact that I was actually in Labrador, was determined now that I must see the diary before I took any further action. It was being flown out to Montreal on the next flight and from there it would be posted direct to Perkins.

But it was too late, and, anyway, it didn't seem to matter. The one vital fact was in my possession. “We leave first thing in the morning,” I told Perkins, and then went on to arrange with him that he should keep watch between seven and half-past, morning and evening. He said he would contact Ledder and arrange for him to keep watch, too.

It was the best I could do. Between the two of them they ought to pick us up if we were able to transmit. His last words were, “Well, good luck, and I hope it keeps fine for you.” Banal words, and only a voice out of the ether, but it was good to know that somebody would be listening for us the way my father had for Briffe.

And then we were outside the radio shack and it was snowing; not soft, gentle flakes like the night before, but hard little crystals of ice driving almost parallel to the ground and dusting the edges of the ruts like a white powder. Darcy took my arm, his gloved fingers pressing hard against the bone. “It's a coincidence,” he repeated. “Just remember that.” And when I didn't say anything, he added, “Best forget all about it. This isn't going to be any picnic.”

I didn't need him to tell me that! But it was manifestly absurd for him to suggest that I should forget that Laroche was the grandson of a homicidal maniac. Once a thing like that is put into your mind, it stays, and all the time we were discussing the final arrangements for our departure in the morning, I found myself covertly watching Laroche's face, searching for some definite indication of the mental instability that I was certain he'd inherited; appalled at the thought of what the next few days would bring. And later, after we'd turned in, I couldn't get the past out of my mind, and lay awake for a long time, watching the red-hot casing of the stove gradually dull and listening to the howl of the wind against the thin wood walls of the hut.

PART THREE

LAKE OF THE LION

I

I woke to the shrill of the alarm clock in that dead hour before the dawn and knew that this was the day and that there was no turning back. The light snapped on and I opened my eyes to see Darcy bent over the stove in his long woollen underpants. “Is it still snowing?” I asked him, reluctant to leave the warmth of the blankets.

“I guess so.” He struck a match and flames licked out of the top of the stove. “You'd best get moving. Breakfast's in quarter of an hour.”

We washed and shaved and then went down through the white desert of the camp. Paule Briffe was already in the diner and the lights blazing on the empty tables made the place look vast. Laroche came in shortly afterwards. “Even if they'd let us have the helicopter,” he said, “Len couldn't have flown in this weather.” It was still blowing hard and the snow was the same mist of drifting, powdery crystals.

We ate in silence, joined by the driver of the truck we'd been allocated, each of us wrapped in our private thoughts. And then we loaded the truck and left, and the wretched little oasis of the camp was swallowed up by the blizzard before we'd even reached the Tote Road.