waiting room, before the doctor finally came out. “He’s going to live,” she announced with a smile.
Thank God, I thought, and smiled at Eric who obviously felt the same. And then I felt my hand squeezed, and realized with surprise that he’d been holding it. I squeezed back.
The doctor continued, “Although he has lost a significant amount of blood, the wound is not life-threatening. Fortunately, the bullet didn’t lodge in his body but passed through cleanly, missing vital organs. He was very fortunate. Usually a bullet entering the upper thorax of the back is fatal.”
I felt Eric stiffen beside me as I too thought over the implications of what she’d just said. But neither of us interrupted the doctor.
“The wound on his forehead is probably from falling on a hard object after being shot. As a result, he has a concussion. It will be some time before he is fully conscious and able to talk.”
When she finished, Eric asked, “Are you saying that Tommy was shot in the back?”
“Yes,” she replied grimly. “I’ve called in the police.”
Neither Eric nor I said anything. But we both knew what this meant. I’d made a terrible mistake. Tommy hadn’t killed his parents. In fact, their killer had probably just tried to kill him. And if I hadn’t been so cocksure that my evidence pointed to Tommy, he would be lying safe in his bed with the police hot on the trail of the real killer. Instead, he was lying here in this hospital with a bullet hole though his back.
I hastily apologized to Eric, but he brushed it aside, saying that in light of my evidence, he had suspected Tommy too. Nevertheless, I still felt very guilty for having thought that Marie’s son could have been her murderer.
For the next couple of hours, I found myself closeted with my old buddy Sgt. LaFramboise. His manner was no less arrogant than in our previous confrontations. In fact, when he glowered at me and said, “Not again” in his surly French, I received the distinct impression he was adding me to his list of possible suspects. However, despite his insolence, I told him everything. That is, except for my suspicions about Tommy. I was too embarrassed.
Once finished with the policeman, I then had to take on Eric, who was now concerned for my safety. He reasoned that with a killer on the loose, remaining alone at Three Deer Point might not be healthy. He insisted I stay at the Fishing Camp. But I quickly quashed his concern by emphasizing that the killings were directed towards Tommy’s family and had nothing to do with me.
Eventually, he relented and I headed to Three Deer Point. By the time I reached home, day was fully underway. Thinking only of sleep, I dragged my tired body to bed, where I was greeted by the message light flashing on my bedroom phone.
“Hi, dear. It’s your mother calling. Sorry I’ve missed you, but I’ve found William Watson. And I was right. Well, dear, since you’re not home, I’ll put it in the mail right away. Ta.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
I frantically dialled Mother’s number only to hear: “Sorry I’m not at home to take your call, but please—”
Frustrated, I slammed the receiver down. I waited a couple of minutes, tried again and got the same insipid greeting. With my eyes swimming from exhaustion, I decided a couple of hours sleep was required. Perhaps by the time I woke up, Mother would finally be home. However, when I woke up midway through the morning, feeling somewhat revitalized, I failed to reach her again. This time I left her a message to phone me immediately.
I had slightly better success with the hospital. A talkative nurse told me that although Tommy was steadily improving, he was under heavy sedation. Unfortunately, she anticipated it would be at least another day, if not two, before he would be able to talk.
I received this news with mixed emotions. Although very glad he was improving, I worried that any delay in Tommy’s identification of his assailant would be too late. This would-be killer, who I strongly suspected was the murderer of Marie and Louis, would be halfway across the continent by the time Tommy woke up.
Tommy had almost died because of me. When I’d seen the elongated “y” footprint of Marie’s killer by Tommy’s doorstep, I should’ve gone straight to Decontie. Unlike me, he wouldn’t have jumped to a knee-jerk accusation. He would’ve recognized the possibility that the killer was after Tommy and kept him safe.
I felt I had to do something to help, but I didn’t know what. I knew I couldn’t just sit there and wait. So I decided to drive to Tommy’s house, where I assumed the police were carrying out their investigation. As I’d told LaFramboise early that morning, since Tommy’s car was only a short distance beyond the driveway when I found him, it was likely he’d been shot at home.
Although I was surprised to see Tommy’s car still parked at the side of the main road where I’d left it the night before, I figured Sgt. LaFramboise had decided to investigate the site of the shooting first. However, to my dismay and disgust, I didn’t find any police vehicles parked out in front of the shack, nor was there indication they’d even checked it out. I felt my temperature rise at the thought of LaFramboise’s blinkered arrogance. He’d probably decided there was no hurry to find the would-be killer of an Indian.
I was on the verge of turning my truck around to track Chief Decontie down at the Migiskan Police station when I caught sight of a large patch of what looked to be blood on the dirt drive. I jumped out to have a closer look and saw a trail of dark blotches leading towards the side of the house. I followed them, stepping carefully to avoid destroying possible police evidence.
At the corner of the house, the trail of blood disappeared into a tangle of weeds and low brush. Although Louis had managed over the years to hack a clearing out of the dense bush at the front of the house, he’d never attempted to do so elsewhere. Sun-starved balsam and poplar crowded against the side wall of the shack, making it appear impassable. However, a faint gap in the vegetation seemed to lead towards the back of the house. I followed it.
Once out of the wind, the sudden eerie stillness made me think twice about venturing into these woods. Surely the gunman had taken off after the shooting. I glanced nervously around. But in dense bush, where every tree was a potential hiding place, it was impossible to know if you were completely alone.
Within a few feet, I found a pool of blood partially congealed in the hollow of a large rock. A trail of broken twigs and crushed weeds led further into the dark woods, away from the cabin. I hesitated. But curiosity overcame my remaining fears and I crept deeper into the gloom.
From the zigzag line of Tommy’s track, it was obvious that he had been weak and confused. Several well-trampled spots suggested he might have stumbled and fallen. And where his track intersected an established path, he’d lain for a period of time. The dirt and surrounding rock were sticky with his blood, the earth scoured from his attempts to get up. I could almost feel Tommy’s desperation to keep from dying alone in these woods, miles from help. I was surprised the gunman hadn’t finished him off, but perhaps Tommy had remained still, possibly unconscious, for so long, the guy had assumed he was dead.
I jumped at a sudden loud bang and jerked around to see the plank door of a small roughly built shed swing open. Another gust of wind sent it slamming back against the doorframe. From under the roofline of the outhouse, two holes, shaped like eyes, stared back at me smugly as if saying, “I know something you don’t.” On the ground, directly in front of the door, I found more of Tommy’s blood. Then I spied a perfectly round hole amongst the irregular knotholes of the door. Curious, I ran my fingers over it and felt metal. The shiny end of what was probably
