Marshalls from the Drift Busters were removing the red poles across Wapiti that marked the major trail. The year before, the trail had been marked by using discarded Christmas trees complete with shreds of tinsel, a curiously surreal diorama which elicited howls from the environmentalists. Approaching the Dunes, Belle lost all mature restraint and thumbed the gas full-throttle, a move which snapped her head back in shock and rearranged her spinal cord. What a race horse!
At the top of the Dunes, Franz caught up with her like a faithful Sancho Panza. The sight of him bouncing barely inches off the ice, his back probably screaming, drew her sympathy and amusement at the same time. He waggled his finger like a teacher, yelling over the motors. “I thought you would fall under her spell. Why don’t you get a new model? You would like it, you know.”
“No wonder so many riders exit the gene pool every year. Horsepower corrupts; absolute horsepower corrupts absolutely. But stop tempting me. Why buy a VSOP cognac when Ontario brandy will do?” She stood up like a jockey in a steeplechase and revved the engine. “I might be spoiled now, so thank God the season is nearly over.”
As he pointed out on the topo, Franz had chosen the safer land trail instead of the faster route across five lakes. Crossing the bridge over Thimble Creek, Belle stared into the rushing water shimmering with ice diamonds. This was still frozen on her last trip, she thought, but she’s coming up like gangbusters. Wapiti’s going to rise quickly. The Ministry of Natural Resources, keeper of the hydro dam keys, let the lake fall all winter and didn’t close the sluice gates until the ice had vanished, minimizing dock and boathouse destruction and allowing cottagers their rockwall repairs with a backhoe in the narrow window of opportunity.
After half an hour, Franz pointed to a small side trail and signalled Blondi to jump out. “My cabin is that way,” he said, “but here’s the trail I cut to Cott.” The sun was brilliant, and the winds seemed tropical. It had been seven months since Belle had enjoyed such warmth. Several minutes later, they drove into Cott, skirting the shore carefully. It was a swamp lake, soft and treacherous in spring. A plane landing would be impossible now with the thaw. Franz guided her to a thick spruce growth. “Look at what I found,” he said, rummaging under a bush and pulling out some plastic bags. “Broken open. And they just left it. Why not? One quick gust and gone . . .”
“With the wind.”
He tasted the residue with a wet finger. “Cocaine, if the usual mythology is true.”
Belle took the bag and dipped in, wincing at the bitterness. “Who says television doesn’t have educational merit? Hey, should we rinse our mouths with snow?” she asked. “Anything else?”
“Just these two bags. Oh, and cigarettes.” He passed her a half-full pack of Luckies, sodden with moisture. “American. I’ve never seen them for sale here. Too expensive.” They scuffed their way to the middle of the lake, noting the landing marks of the skis. Blurry steps packed the ice where a conversation might have occurred, and a snowmobile trail, covered by fresh snow, pointed to the end of the lake.
Belle punched his shoulder lightly in her excitement. “This could make the connection. At the very least, it proves that Jim’s theory was on the money. Steve should see this, with your permission,” Belle said, and packed the evidence into her pocket after Franz nodded. “A raid on Brooks could come soon, by the way.”
Some coffee warmed them while Franz tossed pine cones for Blondi to chase. “Come up next winter, and I promise to be a better host and show you around my camp. I have a few fine spearheads from a quartzite dig at Sheguiandah on Manitoulin. 7000-8000 B.C. Much sharper work than the hand axe you admired.”
“I’ll look forward to it, Franz. Why don’t you come for dinner tonight and tell me how you found them?”
He sighed reluctantly. “This is unfortunate timing. After my four o’clock class, Mother and I are off to Toronto to see Phantom of the Opera this weekend for her birthday.” Belle suggested an excellent Portuguese place on Bloor West, recommending the octopus. The dog resumed her place in the toboggan, and Franz followed Belle back to the island, lurchingly slow and steady on the old chestnut.
When Belle collected the van at the marina, it was barely three o’clock, so she stopped at the police building. Originally built as an armoury after World War One, it squatted downtown on its treeless square like an ancient toad. According to Steve, the staff hated the place; not only was it cold, uncomfortable and overcrowded, but security was a joke. Last year several prisoners had escaped, to be caught hours later playing PacMan at the bus depot. A classic tale of felonious stupidity, Steve had told her, like the guy who robbed a convenience store, then left his footprints in the snow right to his house.
At the main desk, a sergeant doing crossword puzzles pointed her to a sub-basement after asking a five-letter word for “criminal”. Water pipes covered in shredding asbestos led her down a dungeon hall, her steps echoing ahead in the gloom of a single, dangling fifteen-watt bulb. Steve stuck his face out of a door with a look of suspicion. “What brings you to my palace? A social call, I hope.”
“Where do you chain the man in the iron mask? And I thought asbestos had to be removed,” Belle responded, flopping into a comfortable brown leather chair cracked with age. She adjusted the stuffing to cover a spring and brushed white flakes from her shoulders.
“We’ve been lobbying for a new building for years. Just don’t do too good a job of it. Need a crime wave to raise our profile. A nice mass murderer or an arsonist. This year the money went to the Seniors’ Complex. So?” He looked at her quizzically.
“Presents. Franz Schilling and I found some drug traces in the bush today.” She placed the bags and cigarette pack on the desk, shifting a plastic plate with a crust of pizza.
Steve didn’t even examine it. Her news pressed his irritation button one time too often. “Are you still prowling around?” he yelled. “And disturbing evidence again?”
“Let me get to my point if you’re in that kind of a mood. We found this up at Cott Lake. It’s a miracle the stuff was still there. A brisk wind would have buried it. Come on, look at it. Don’t make me feel like a fool.”
“Wow, a cigarette pack! For me? I suppose you want us to check for DNA.”
“And the bags?”
After the usual rituals, he settled into serious mode, sighing and tapping a pencil onto a date on his calendar. “Congratulations. Every now and then a blind squirrel finds an acorn. We can’t cover thousands of kilometres of bush in the hopes of catching someone in the act. We have Brooks set up for Saturday night. Saturday, Belle, is that close enough for you?” He drew a stick man on his paper and confined him in a box. “If you want to watch the fun, and I know you will, be at the Beaverdam around eleven for the raid. But stay clear.”
“Yes, sir!” She offered a snappy salute and backed out of the office. Saturday Night Fever at last.
Belle arrived home about six o’clock to find the house inhospitably cold and unwelcoming. A rising wind had blown up and sucked the wood to ashes with the draft. Wood was a benevolent dictator to its grateful servant, usually good for ten hours or more before a temperature drop would trigger the propane furnace. She would have to restoke it for the night.
Belle refilled the stove with soft fat pine for quick coals, then took Freya for a short walk. At last the bitter temperatures were gone, even if most of the snow remained, as it likely would until May. Her boots crunched down the road, as she listened through the silence for sounds which carried miles in the clear air and insulating snow, the long, piercing whistle of a train headed south with
