operations, but sometimes they were the homesteads of the original settlers and had been left to rot, either because the family had died out or later generations had moved to a more accessible location.
We crossed a narrow wooden bridge spanning the ravine and headed back towards Migiskan land. Another half kilometre and we were over the boundary and linked up to the next cleared section of the marathon trail.
In total, the unfinished section amounted to a little less than four kilometres, which wasn’t as bad as we’d thought. Despite the deep snow, a professional work crew with the right equipment could have it cleared within a couple of days. Eric relaxed, and so did I. The future of the Migiskan Ski Marathon had taken an upswing. And even if our relationship was about to disintegrate, my twenty-thousand-dollar investment would still be safe.
We set out along this back section of the cross-country skiing course, which traversed the dense, scrubby middle part of the reserve’s nine thousand hectares. The spindly newness of this second growth forest of softwoods suggested that clear-cut logging of the mature hardwoods had occurred within the last couple of decades.
We slipped through a whiteout, along the side of a partially frozen beaver swamp and headed up a steep hill thick with balsam and poplar. At the top, Eric stopped at the intersection of what looked to be a narrow path leading north, off to the left.
“Guys, you go on ahead,” he said to the others. “Meg and I’ll catch up when we’re finished here.”
Watching the three skidoos disappear down the trail, I decided not to keep pushing aside the inevitable. So with my heart pounding, I said, “Eric, you started to say something back at the start of our trip.”
He arched his brow in confusion, then firmed his lips as he remembered. He gave me a penetrating stare, as if trying to determine my state of mind. Finally, he shook his head and said, “I thought we should check out John-Joe’s hunting camp at the end of this trail.”
I started to ask again, but he hushed me with the words, “Please, Meg, not now.” He gave my mitten a firm squeeze, which left me feeling more confused.
Then, as if nothing had gone on between us, he continued, “It looks as if someone’s been through here since the last snowfall.” He pointed to some very faint indentations in the snow just as a gust of wind filled them in with fresh powder.
It took a few seconds for me to rein in my uncertainties and pretend everything was okay. “Moose tracks?” I finally said.
Eric shook his head. “Too big. More like snowshoe.”
He drove the snowmobile slowly down the narrow path, which was little more than a channel cut through dense, snowshrouded balsam. We churned over more of these depressions, following the path until it descended into another valley lined with the spiked remnants of drowned trees.
We sped through this dead forest, along the frozen edge of the beaver swamp that had killed them. We passed under a great blue heron nest wedged at the top of a skeletal snag. Made from twigs, this massive plate-like nest looked as if it would never survive the harsh winds of winter, but in fact it had probably served as the summer home for many a growing family.
With the surrounding hills closing in, we passed under several more nests until the trees ended at an enormous beaver dam, which spanned the valley floor. Then we jogged right and plunged through a snowdrift to a smaller swamp below. Still following the faint tracks, we zigzagged around withered clumps of marsh grasses and bullrushes until we stopped at another dam, this one much narrower. Below it burbled the stream, whose black water raced towards the canyon of the converging valley walls.
“Looks pretty quiet,” Eric said, getting off the snowmobile.
Perched partway up a slope was a small hut made from round, narrow logs, hibernating under an overhang of snow. A single, dark window stared blankly back at us.
Faint snowshoe tracks stopped at the bottom of a set of steep stairs and smaller, more like boot-size depressions continued up to the door.
“Yeah, but the tracks say someone is here.”
“Maybe, but I don’t see any snowshoes. Given how these tracks have been filled in by the snow, I’d say these were made a couple of hours ago.” Eric tramped up the stairs and flung open the door.
“What the…?” Eric’s voiced died. Alarmed, I scrambled up the stairs behind him and stepped into the muffled stillness of the hut.
“Go back, Meg. Better you don’t see this,” Eric’s voice came from the darkness on the far side of the room.
It took my eyes a few minutes to adjust to the low light. A narrow wooden table with a couple of chairs stood next to the window. Beyond it, in what looked to be a kitchen area, Eric was attempting to light a Coleman lamp hanging from a hook in the ceiling.
I could just make out a narrow bed against the back wall. Something appeared to be lying on it. I stepped towards it. The room burst into light, and I saw Chantal lying as if she were asleep on the bed. But she wasn’t. Blood caked her mouth. And between two perfectly round breasts were several gapping slits, their edges puckered in blood. Many more covered her stomach, leading in a path down to her pubic hair, where it looked as if a thousand birds had pecked away her genitals.
ten
Don’t touch her!” Eric cried as I reached for Chantal’s wrist, not wanting to accept the obvious. “There’s nothing you can do,” he said as I pulled my hand away, the feel of cold rigid death clinging to my fingertips.
I might not have liked this dizzy blonde sexpot, but I’d certainly never wanted her dead. And certainly not lying dead with her voluptuous nakedness fully exposed. Without thinking, I reached for a blanket.
“Don’t,” Eric said again. “We have to keep everything exactly the way we’ve found it.”
“What do we do now?” I felt numb.
“Only thing to do, get the police.”
“What about John-Joe?” The worry on Eric’s face expressed my own. “Do you think he did it?”
“I want like hell to say no way, but what else can I think, finding her dead in his shack?”
I looked at the still face of the young woman who’d been bubbling over with life five days ago. In death, the tense prettiness had taken on a sombre beauty that seemed to speak more of innocent youth than the jaded adulthood she had worn.
“Where do you think John-Joe’s gone?” I asked.
“By now, he’s probably a hundred miles from here,” Eric replied grimly, as he walked towards the door. “Come on, let’s be on our way.”
“No,” I said, glancing back at the girl lying alone and forgotten on the sagging camp cot. “You go. I’ll stay with her.”
“It won’t matter to her being left alone.”
“I know…yet I feel she shouldn’t be left by herself any longer.” For some strange reason, I felt the need to watch over her departing spirit.
“It’s not a good idea. I don’t want you here if John-Joe comes back.”
“Why
