Lake
on the
Mountain
A Dan Sharp Mystery
Jeffrey Round
Dedication
For my brothers, Mark and Brian
Epigraph
“I’ll play it first and tell you what it is later.”
— MILES DAVIS
Prologue
1987: The Icy Bier
A cold snap had frozen everything. Record low temperatures setting in the previous week presaged an early winter. The man wheeled his bicycle from the ferry dock over the rocks and down to the shoreline, where the ice had cracked and erupted in little chips, reflecting a bleak sky. The cold’s relentless grip on this chill November day was enough to send most men reeling back to their homes as quickly as possible, but this man hardly felt a thing.
He stared at the surrounding shore and the ice encroaching the edges of the battered point. A spumy spray broke at the dock where the ferryboat had just left its mooring in a whorl of ice and black water. A light snow swirled about, landing on the man’s coat and brushing his reddened cheeks.
He turned his head to the big boat pulling away from the dock. There were seven cars on board for the return voyage, so few it hardly seemed worth the haul. Most of the passengers were huddled in their vehicles, but a handful emerged to stand on deck braving the elements. If they turned and saw him standing there, would they sense his desperation? Would they glean any hint of who he was or what he was about to do, wondering perhaps if he could go through with it?
A dull sun was setting through the grey skies arching overhead. Soon there would be nothing between him and the chill. He looked up at the mountain looming over the Adolphustown Reach. Somewhere up there, in three hours’ time, he had a different assignation. One he knew he was not meant to keep. Just one more broken promise in the grand scheme.
He turned to look over his shoulder. Through the trees he could make out the house he had once called home. It could never feel like home to him again. Not after what had happened. Yesterday lay like a crack in time dividing his old life from whatever remained of it. Everything that mattered had been left behind in that house.
He thought of his wife and felt a cold, clear burning inside. She had beaten him. She had stared across the courtroom with coldness and malevolence and spoken the words that brought his doom, describing to them how he had struck her. So she had won, and the victor’s spoils were too great for him to bear. But what about his sons? They still needed a father. He’d hardly been that to them.
He took a step onto the ice, feeling its slippery solidity beneath his shoe. For a moment, it took him back to the skating parties when he was a kid. The endless fun, the shrieks of laughter and cups of hot chocolate afterwards. And the daring, going out farther than he should have. He’d been lighter then, a mere pup. Now he weighed more than two hundred pounds. He looked up and imagined himself skating out to where the black swath of water stretched fifty yards offshore, chunks of disembodied whiteness bobbing as the ferry cut a path on its journey to the far side.
He took another step and paused at the uneasy creaking. In a sense, his mind had been made up long ago. He simply had to follow through with his intentions. He would head out for as long as the ice would bear his weight. Then there would be the first cracking and then another and it would be done. He thought about the cold engulfing him, the iciness gripping his skin. Even if he struggled, it would be too late.
If someone were to come looking for him years from now, what would they find? A pile of bones, at best. It would tell nothing of why he had done it. Images spewed from his mind: all the anger, all the labour, all the loss. How would they see him afterwards? As a coward who ran away from his problems? Maybe he was. Then wasn’t it better to get it over with, once and for all?
He could still make her pay, he thought. He’d kept meticulous records. Maybe one day it would help them understand his dark motives, the rage that burned, the anger she’d spoken of in court. The diary would help them piece it all together.
A seagull shrieked and bobbed on a stray wave. It seemed to be laughing at him. The ferry had progressed to about the halfway point, slowly sawing through the ice and water. He stood there, a man poised over an abyss. Which would it be, this way or the other, with all of its grim consequences? He could go no farther. He had to choose.
A gust of wind caught his collar, startling him. He turned and looked back to shore. The bicycle caught his eye. He ought to move it, not leave it there as a signpost, if he was going to go through with it.
One
2007: Look for the Unexpected
He was late again. It was the third time that week. His son was waiting on the corner outside the dry cleaners, chomping on the yellow crescent of a meat patty and still wearing his team uniform. Dan pulled over and sat by the curb, watching. A smattering of graffiti ran across the brick, swirls and squiggles approaching letters, black on white on red. Nothing actually intelligible except for the cryptic rendering Babb 2. But no Babb 1. Did graffiti artists disdain the sequential? He watched Ked push against the wall with one foot — the Jordan Spiz’ikes that cost more than any shoe Dan had worn at that age — then lean into the brick again. Push away and in, push away and in. It took on a rhythm.
Ked was with the same black kid from the other day — the one Dan had come to think of as the “ruffian.” His mind took in outward impressions: skinny face, weird hair, baggy clothes. A low waistband revealed the ruffled edge of blue-grey checkered boxers. At least the boy’s jeans were high enough, if he needed to run. What was it with teenagers and those freaking hoodies? They looked like ghouls roaming the streets, especially after dark.
The ruffian’s face was set on neutral. No expression of defiance or curiosity. Certainly no joy. Did that spell devious or repressed? Usually Dan got a feel for kids, but this one gave few clues. He seemed almost catatonic — no junky twitches, no arrogant swagger. It was unnatural.
Dan’s training taught him people were composites — aggregates of personalities, upbringings, social milieux. First you looked at the whole and then took in the details one at a time. Being a father confirmed it. You never knew who carried the knife and who might turn out to be a Rhodes Scholar. In this neighbourhood, sometimes the same kid filled both roles. Blue collar workers and artsy boho types eager to be near the film studios lived side by side with the new immigrants who thought they’d found Easy Street. A brave new world of 24-hour convenience stores, tenth-hand junk shops, and self-pumping gas stations, with guaranteed lifetime positions as parking lot attendants, fast food servers, and dollar store cashiers. Roll up, roll up — be the next ethnicity on the block to inhabit this ragtag, burnt-end-of-the-candle cul de sac. A new underclass of hirelings for the least-wanted jobs.
The old Canadians knew they lived in a ghetto at the bottom of Leslieville that held gold for a few, but fool’s gold for most. Trapped between the uptight New Agers of Riverdale and the monochromatic, mostly-white enclave known as the Beach (And don’t call it the Beaches! residents chided), theirs was
