Grave Deeds (18 page)

“Rosie,” Bonnie called.

Had she found Megan? I stopped paddling. The bow drifted around again. I struggled to keep from colliding with the overhanging branches of a willow tree, then gave up and grabbed one of them to hold the boat still.

Bonnie appeared on the dock. Her face had a strange still coldness that the tracks of tears did nothing to soften or hide.

“I can't get my car started,” she said. “It turns over, but doesn't catch.”

Ryan trailed her down the hill. “I told you we should have stopped for gas,” he said.

“Even when the gauge reads empty, there's usually a few litres left in the tank as a safety measure,” Bonnie defended herself. “At least, that's what your father always says. I thought we'd have enough …”

“We're wasting time,” I shifted to get the weight off my knees. They were sore from my fall through the window. That had happened only last night. It seemed ages ago.

“Do you have keys to your cousin's car? I could take it.”

“I didn't see any around. She must have taken them with her. You'll have to walk up the road. It's only a mile or so. And maybe you'll find Megan on the way. It would make sense for her to follow the road if she's decided she wants to go home.”

“It'll take forever to walk out to the store,” Bonnie groaned.

“Then you'd better get going,” I snapped. “The sooner you call the police and get some help down here looking for her, the sooner we'll find her. And don't forget to close the gate.”

Bonnie stumbled back up the trail. I pushed off from the willow, rounded the bend, and headed for the open water, riding the river current and using the paddle on either side of the boat at times to keep it pointed in the right direction. By the time I passed the long stretches of reeds that marked the river mouth, I'd settled into a rhythm of stroke and drag that
seemed to work; at least, I was going forward quickly.

The canoe scraped bottom and shuddered to a halt. I'd noticed a line of white plastic bleach bottles curving out into the lake, but hadn't realized their purpose: obviously, they marked a deeper channel through the sand bar I was now stuck on.

If I hit bottom then surely Megan, floating like an infant Ophelia on the current, would have struck ground here also. I clambered out of the canoe, wincing at the coldness of the water on my bare feet. It was barely ankle deep, the white sand packed into rills firm and barely yielding to my weight.

Hand to eyes, I surveyed the reed beds on either side. No colour but the green and. brown and blue of bullrushes and wild rice and water. I looked farther along the shores. To my left, the lake extended in a long curve, the marsh cutting deep into the woods which met it with a wall of dark pine and rock extending as far as I could see. There were cottages in that direction, I knew, but none could be seen from the river mouth.

To the right, a narrow finger of land, bordered by reed beds, stretched between river and beach. It seemed about a mile away across open water. And there, close to the strip of sand and bobbing on the waves was a boat.

“Of course,” I said out loud. “Hank! It was his boat we heard a while ago. Megan must have begged him to take her to the beach. Why wouldn't he tell us he was taking her? You'd think he'd realize how scared we all are.”

I glanced behind me, wondering if I should go tell Bonnie first that Megan was probably at the beach. The “probably” stopped me. I was too far away to see anyone on the shore; best make sure she was there and safe before following Bonnie up the road.

I dragged the canoe off the sandbar, ignoring the soaking my jeans got as I waded deeper into the water. Patches of weeds appeared, a soft slimy green that made me grimace when I stepped into them. I grasped the gunwales and heaved myself in. The canoe rocked dangerously, then righted itself. I dug in the paddle and headed straight for the patch of sand.

The windshield of the boat blinked as it rocked broadside on the waves. Funny that Hank wouldn't have pulled it up on
the sand or anchored it out a bit deeper, I thought. Its keel must be getting a bit of a battering, not to speak of the propeller.

The wind had freshened and I bent my head as I worked, concentrating on the task of lifting and digging in the paddle, shifting my weight for balance as the canoe rose and fell on the waves. Long swells that broke in a froth of white, they rolled straight into the shore, pushing me in.

Every time I lifted the paddle, a bolt of pain shot through my left shoulder blade and slid down my spine. The wind chilled, while at the same time the sun bore into my back. I should have worn sunglasses. I should have changed into shorts. Wet denim clung to my calves. Water sloshed in the bottom of the canoe, some from waves that had splashed overboard, the rest from a leak I didn't want to think about. If I could only make it close enough to the beach to wade or even swim in, we could all go back in Hank's boat. He had said something last night about a camp along the shore. Perhaps that was where they were, back in the bush. Oh, I would give that young man a talking to he would never forget!

The canoe scraped bottom, then rocked as a particularly large whitecap caught it under the stern. I scrambled out, clutching the paddle in one hand and the rope in the other. The water was knee deep, the bottom soft sand dotted with broken clam shells, small rocks, and driftwood. I hauled the canoe right up out of the waves and wound the rope around the dead white branch of a stranded tree trunk.

I had landed about twenty yards from the other boat. Its motor was still down in the water, jarring each time the propeller struck bottom with the lift and fall of waves. Gulls circled overhead, quarrelling with each other, floating down towards the boat as if expecting to get a meal of fish. Once I went fishing with my friend Annie and her father up at Lake Simcoe. We didn't catch much but rock bass, perch and sunfish. I remembered the squall of white wings and hooked yellow beaks as her father broke the backs of the little fish and threw them overboard into the water. “Garbage fish for garbage birds,” he said. Neither Annie's pleading nor my tears would make him stop. We finally refused to fish any longer and spent the rest of the day huddled in the bow of the boat, telling stories. Her father
never took us fishing again.

The birds screamed. I ran to the speedboat, dodging logs white with guano and gray-green mounds of wild goose droppings. The beach itself was a narrow strip of exposed sandbar between the lake and a swamp whose black water rippled as the breeze blew over it. Beyond the swamp was woods, thick cedar woods here, a dark unbroken line of trees that leaned low over the reeds. Frogs hummed in chorus with the whine of stinging bugs, the complaints of gulls, the rhythmic slap of waves against the boat. I hesitated. Should I go to look for Hank's camp, or check out the boat? I was assuming it belonged to him and that he had Megan with him. I could be wrong on both counts. I would have to look in the boat.

It was grounded on the sand a few yards out from shore. A rope dangled at the bow. I gasped at the cold, hopping from one foot to the other through the shallows until I reached it.

Although old, its fibreglass hull green with algae and dented from various minor collisions, the boat was built for speed with a long narrow hull and high sides I couldn't see over. Hand over hand on the chrome railing, I hauled it around so the bow faced into shore. The stern was much lower, cut to accommodate the motor. There was a good foot of water sloshing about over the stained plush carpeting on the floor and swirling around the two red gas tanks. An orange anchor was lodged beside them.

I hoisted myself up over the stern and pulled on the cord to lift the motor. It was far too heavy. The keel caught the sand and the boat shuddered, the bow swinging around with the force as another whitecap rolled over, drenching me and the seats.

I looked for some kind of hydraulic mechanism to lift the prop. I glanced up at the control panel by the steering wheel. There was a bewildering display of dials, buttons, and levers — but the key was still in place in the ignition. I would have power if I could only figure out which button operated the lift. Perhaps there was a driver's manual in the dashboard.

“Megan,” I shouted. “Megan.”

The gulls whirled and shrieked.

I scanned the shore again for any sign of the child. I was wasting too much time. If this beach was near Hank's camp,
where was his dock? From the height given by standing on one of the swivel back seats, I could see the entire length of the beach. I hoped to catch a glimpse of a small girl bent over a collection of shells or a sand castle. No one. Off to my left, though, was a cut in the sand bank that snaked back towards the woods, which seemed to pull aside for the tiniest break. A sudden wave jolted the boat and I fell into the front seat. On it, wrapped in a dingy blanket was a toy bear. Megan's bear. Hank must have her with him, and not too far away.

I jumped out of the boat and ran back through the shallows for shore. The slap of the water and the sad sight of the boat heeling over and then with an obvious effort righting itself stopped me. There was no way I was going to paddle back across the lake with Megan in the canoe. And there was no time to look for a way back through the woods. I would have to save the boat.

I stripped off jeans and underwear. I should have taken off my sweatshirt too, but the wind was brisk and I knew how cold the water was. I compromised by rolling up the sleeves and tucking its hem into my bra to try to keep it from getting soaked. I probably looked ridiculous, but there was no one to see me and I was in a hurry to get the job done.

The anchor was attached to a sturdy yellow nylon rope secured to a cleat on the stern. I pulled the bow around again and shoved the boat out of the rut its keel had dug in the sand. The waves fought to keep their prize stranded but I pushed hard and finally the boat broke free. Hoisting the anchor in one hand, I made my way to the front and grabbed the bow rope, towing the boat deeper until the water was up to my waist. I dropped the anchor. The bow swung round towards shore but the anchor held. Teeth chattering, I splashed back to the beach. I used my underwear to dry my legs, then pulled my jeans back on, stuffing the pants in a back pocket. The bottom of my sweatshirt was damp but the sun and wind together would soon dry it.

As I dressed, I headed for the break in the treeline I'd seen from the boat. It was the mouth of a creek and along its shore was a corduroy boardwalk made of short lengths of poplar nailed to longer logs to make a dry passage over the mud. The knotty branches bruised my feet. I ran as fast as I could, and as
I ran a litany repeated itself in my head: I know Hank won't hurt her, I think Hank won't hurt her, I hope Hank won't hurt her, I pray to whatever god there is that Hank is good to her.

The boardwalk became a combination bridge and dock that spanned the stream as it disappeared into the forest. I crossed over and found a well-beaten trail that led into a tunnel made by the interlocking branches of giant cedars. The ground underfoot was soft with years of fallen needles. Under the trees out of the sound of the wind, the forest was surprisingly silent. Far off, I could hear the whine of a car engine: the highway, I hoped. The land sloped steeply upwards. I ran, breath coming in great gulps, one hand pressed to the pain in my breast. I was really out of shape.

I burst through the darkness under the trees into sunlight so dazzling I was blinded. I stumbled, falling to my knees on a carpet of ferns. This was a meadow cut out of the forest, a circle of sunlight hemmed in on all sides by cedar, pine, birch, and poplar. Past the rim of grass and wildflowers that bordered the woods, the ground was littered with tiny mounds of dirt and scattered holes, a moonscape of craters whose use I couldn't fathom. Near the centre of the field was the rock cairn a settler had raised to clear the way for crops or cattle. Next to it was a tent, one of those two-person domes made of green Egyptian cotton and lightweight aluminum poles. Its door was zipped shut. Smoke from a fire pit curled up from a bed of coals. A blue enamel pot, sitting beside it on a wide, flat stone, was the focus for a cloud of insects that rose and settled with the fitful gusts of the breeze.

“Hank!” I yelled. “Megan!”

A chipmunk sprinting through the underbrush behind me paused to complain about my voice. That was the only answer to my call. Even the birds I could expect to hear were absent; silence filled the clearing, a silence centred on the tent, a silence that drew me despite myself. I didn't want to see what was in there. Stray news stories filtered through my memory, of children abducted, assaulted and murdered. To keep them at bay, I concentrated on the path, trying to step between the sharp bits of stone that littered the ground. Not just stones. I bent to examine what my big toe had nudged out of the mud: a bone, a human finger bone. Oh god. I really didn't want to
look in that tent.

But I had to, of course.

“Megan?” I called again. “Are you in there, baby? It's Rosie Cairns here. I've come to take you home. Megan? Hank?” Nothing.

I knelt at the opening. Take a deep breath, I warned myself. All I could smell was the scent of drying earth, of wood smoke and ashes, the faint tang of ooze from the marsh. I listened, but the only sounds of living creatures were my own quick breath and the buzzing of flies.

“Megan?” I whispered again. I unzipped the tent flap and peered inside.

The tent was full of a stifling blue dusky light that bathed its few contents with soft shadows. Waiting for my eyes to adjust, I felt cautiously around with one hand, still kneeling at the door, unwilling to penetrate further. An animal skin covered the floor right in front of me, its hair brittle and stiff. To one side of the door was a backpack, zipped closed but from its softness full of clothes. On the other, a cardboard box half full of cans, sealed packets of food, tin plates and cups. Three plates. Three cups. A handful of cutlery. A frying pan.