Amis.”
He laughed. “Oh, Amis. Yes. He’s new from Ontario.”
As if that explained everything.
“Donna — Doc Iannucci — says it’s Old Stink?” he continued. “Bashed on the head?”
“Yes. Do you know anything about him?”
“Nobody knows much about Old Stink. Well, maybe the old-timers down there do, but he’s been in the bush for fifty, sixty years. Went off his head, they say, but fifty years in the bush will do that. Used to live there with his mother, and when she died, he stayed on. Didn’t know any other life, I guess.”
“Was he paranoid? Would he attack someone who came on his land?”
Willington seemed to be thinking. “Maybe, but he’s more likely to hide in the woods, from what folks say. Dr. Iannucci says she only met him once — the locals went to check on him after a hurricane ripped though a few years back — and found he had a busted leg. She said he wouldn’t look her in the eye. Hardly remembered how to carry on a conversation.”
Amanda digested the information. On the boat ride back to town, Casey had said Old Stink sometimes came into the village to collect his pension cheques and sell fish and game in exchange for supplies. Casey hadn’t known of any disputes or altercations — in fact couldn’t think of a single person who’d bother to kill him — but perhaps Willington knew more. The man loved to talk, but even he would eventually realize he’d said too much about an ongoing police investigation. She had to find a way to keep him talking.
“I’m worried,” she said. “Chris Tymko is out there all alone. Do you have any idea who might have done this, and is Chris in danger?”
“Shouldn’t think so,” Willington said cheerfully. “Likely one of those arguments that got out of hand. Stink’s been getting a bit ornery in his old age, sometimes stands on his wharf yelling at boats that get too close. The local folks know to stay out of his way, so I’d say the killer’s not local. If Stink’s been dead a couple of days, the killer’s probably long gone by now.”
Amanda could hear rustling in the background as if he was moving around. “I’m on my way,” he said. “I’ll get statements from all the townsfolk, ask about strangers in the area, and try to get as much done before the guy from Ontario shows up. With a bit of luck, by the end of the day we’ll have an answer all tied up with a bow for him.”
Amanda signed off with a heavy heart. She had not told Willington about Phil, but since the whole town knew about him and about where he was headed when last seen, she suspected by the end of the day, Phil would be the RCMP’s prime suspect.
Chris sat on the end of the wharf and peered down the harbour, his ears tuned to the faintest sound of a boat engine. By now Amanda should have contacted the police and the doctor should be on his way. Chris had to admit he felt a little spooked. Stuck on a remote point of land surrounded by the ruthless sea, with a dead man rotting on the path behind him and an irrational fear of what lurked in the dark, empty woods.
He wouldn’t admit it to a soul, especially not to his fellow officers. Just as he never admitted to the nights when he bolted awake awash in panic and sweat, with the sound of gunshots still ringing in his ears and the sight of a loved one spurting blood all over the walls. Sometimes it was his mother, or his sister, or even a daughter he’d never had. Just as he never admitted that, even two years after the horrific shootout that changed his life, the sight of blood still made him queasy.
He was a cop. No matter what he’d been through, he had a job to do.
After Casey and Amanda left, with Kaylee standing like a sentinel in the bow of the boat, he’d done a more systematic search, starting at the shore where the killer had presumably made his escape. He’d explored the wharf for bloody footprints. He’d crept cautiously over the sand and bent over to examine every mark and scuff in the damp sand. He’d found nothing useful. The sand was etched with bird tracks and Kaylee’s paw prints, but the tide had washed out even Stink’s old prints.
When boats putted into the bay occasionally, he studied their occupants through his binoculars. Most looked like regular fishermen or locals out on an errand. But how would he know? The killer would hardly be waving a banner saying KILLER. He cursed his own stupidity. He should have asked Casey for a description of Old Stink’s boat. He assumed it was small, since Stink operated it by himself, and it was probably decrepit, but so were most of the boats that passed by. Wealth was a scarce commodity in these fishing communities.
After his futile examination of the shore, he had moved inland to search the path for signs of disturbance. The three of them had all trekked up and down it, of course, as had the dog, so he wasn’t surprised to find nothing useful.
He worked his way past the cabin and up the hill to Stink’s body. As the sun heated the day, more flies gathered. He felt an urge to cover the body but knew he had to wait for the tarp. He forced himself to look closely at the corpse again, at the mass of tangled hair and blood. The poor man had been hit from behind, and, judging from the amount of damage, more than once. The rest of his body, although smeared with blood, seemed unharmed. Chris noticed that his feet were bare and he was wearing stained yellow clothes that had probably once been white. Long johns. Had Stink been in bed when the killer surprised him? Something to check on when he returned to the cabin.
Stink’s feet were filthy, but there were dirt streaks on the top as well as on his knees and palms. Stink had not been dragged here, but rather had crawled, mortally wounded, until he collapsed. There was no sign of a scuffle in the vicinity of the body, so if his attacker had followed him, he had not bothered to strike him again.
Stink’s fingernails were chipped and so encrusted with dirt that Chris doubted forensics would be able to extract much usable evidence even if Stink had managed to scratch his attacker.
Looking beyond the signs of violent death, Chris studied the old man. His skin was like a parched prairie plain, with dirt embedded in every crevice. His hair and beard blended together in a long, stringy tangle of white. Chris could not bring himself to check, but imagined he had few teeth left.
The long johns hung on his body, draping loosely over the contours of his body. He was a tall man, probably once a big man possessing a strength to be reckoned with, but now his collarbones and ribs stuck out. Either sick or starving, he would not have presented much of a fight. Chris felt a twinge of pity as he pictured the poor man, living by choice in the familiar isolation of his homestead, awakened abruptly in the night by a terrifying axe. Fighting for his life. Crawling, still fighting, up the path to what he hoped was safety. Only to have his life ebb out of him little by little.
Chris returned to the cabin to see what tales it could tell. He stood just inside the room, careful to stay clear of the blood, and studied it. An ancient mattress lay on the floor in the corner, but it was stripped bare. No one faced a Newfoundland winter without several quilts or blankets, but there were none in sight. Perhaps Stink had dragged them outside with him. Chris made a note to check around.
A pot-bellied stove occupied the middle of the room, with a single blackened pot on top. He felt the stove. Stone cold. He peered inside but could see nothing unusual in the thin layer of ash. Beyond this, the room looked stripped. No clothes on hooks, no boots. In what appeared to be the kitchen area, there was a single chair, a small table, and rows of shelving. One shelf held a few dishes, three bags of salt, and four jars of pickles, but the rest were empty. Had the man run out of food?
The room was surprisingly tidy. The axe and the blood were a violent
