In the Shadow of Death (23 page)

“Hi,” the man next to her said, giving her a gap-toothed grin. She smiled back weakly before looking down at the stained menu. “Pan-fried steak's good,” he continued, taking a huge bite out of a wedge of bread. “So's Annie's chicken pie.”

Maggie chose the chicken pie, which arrived piping hot, smothered in gravy, with peas and mashed potatoes on the side. As she broke the flaky pastry with her fork, she couldn't help thinking of Nat and wondering what he was doing for food.
If only you could be here, Nat.
He really enjoyed a well-cooked meal!

“Goin' far?” Gap-Tooth asked, reaching for his mug of coffee.

“Shadow Lake,” she answered.

“Wouldn't try it today,” her new friend went on.

“Why? It's stopped raining.”

“That road's a killer after it's been raining.” He sucked on a toothpick. “Only last week Klaus, him that works for the Lazy Q, got caught in a mudslide.” He paused dramatically. “Took six men to haul him out.”

“Out of the mud?” Maggie asked horrified.

“The lake,” he answered. “His truck slid in the lake. Ain't that right, Josh?” he said, turning to one of his companions. Josh nodded and kept on eating.

“Was he dead?” Maggie couldn't help asking.

Gap-Tooth laughed. “Take more'n that to kill old Klaus. Jest wet and yellin' like a bull moose. Don't yer want yer cake? Goes with the dinner.”

Maggie, absolutely stuffed with the chicken pie, shook her head. “Mind if I do?” Before she could answer, her dinner partner had reached over and her cake had gone the way of his own dessert. Wiping his mouth on the back of his sleeve, he leaned back and gave a loud and satisfied belch. “Best fer yer to let it dry up a bit. Wouldn't want ter fish yer out of the lake.” He was still laughing as Maggie paid her bill and left the restaurant to retrace her steps to Ed Hinkle's Garage.

The garage doors were open, and the Jeep, with its hood up, was inside. But there was no sign of the mechanic. After walking around the vehicle and then looking underneath, just in case the missing man was under there tinkering, she returned outside and pushed open the door to the small office.

“Yer looking for me?” A huge sandwich in his oily hand, Hinkle was leaning back in a scarred, wooden swivel chair behind the counter.

“Have you found out what's wrong?” she asked.

“Fuel pump.” He took another bite of his sandwich and washed it down with a long swig from a Thermos. Then, cramming the last of his lunch into his mouth, he stood up and ambled out the door. Maggie, at a complete loss when it came to mechanical things, meekly followed.

“Needs a new one,” Hinkle proclaimed, his head disappearing under the Jeep's hood.

“And you have one in stock?”

“Nope. Phoned Williams Lake. They're sending one up on the bus this afternoon.” There was a pinging sound from outside as someone drove over the alarm wire. Hinkle's head re-emerged from the engine, then he wiped his hands on a rag and went out to greet his customer.

Maggie watched while he served gas, his free hand gesturing as he made some point or other in their animated conversation. Even after the nozzle had been replaced in the pump and Hinkle had received payment, neither seemed to be in any great hurry. She walked outside and coughed. “What time will the bus get here?”

“Four. Maybe four-thirty,” Hinkle said. “She needs a new fuel pump,” he said, turning back to his customer. “Going ter Shadow Lake.”

The man shook his head. “Road's bad.”

“Is there someplace I can rent a car?” she asked.

“No-o-o,” Hinkle said. “Nothing like that this side of Prince George.”

The afternoon dragged on, the alarm bell pinging from time to time, and each new customer was told that Maggie was off to Shadow Lake. Each commented on the road.

• • •

IT SEEMED TO NAT
that he'd walked ten miles instead of four when he eventually came to another bridge and just beyond it the turnoff marked on the map. He paused to watch the foamy water cascade down under the bridge. The road beside it swung north along the edge of the stream. “This must be it,” he muttered. “There's tracks going up, anyway.” But although the road surface had dried fast and the walking became easier, it was late afternoon when he staggered up to the mine entrance.

Everywhere he looked was devastation. There were piles of rubble and large slabs of stone around the entrance. Rusty machinery, buckled tram lines, wooden carts and other unidentifiable bits and pieces of equipment lay among the huge boulders, so that the place looked like a war zone. He stumbled over the rubble at the entrance and made his way inside.
Damn! Why didn't I look for a flashlight at the cottage?
Although it looked as if a lot of the rubble had been hauled out of the mine—probably when they had been searching for Fenwick's body—there were still mounds of rock partially filling the passageway.

“Guthrie!” he shouted. “Kate! Can you hear me?” But the only sound was the steady drip, drip, drip of water somewhere in the darkness. Taking a few more steps, he called again. “Kate! Guthrie!” Again—silence. There was absolutely no way to explore the mine without a flashlight. Outside again, Nat tottered down to the stream, and using his hands as a cup, drank the mineral-coloured water. He then leaned back against one of the boulders, took off his boots and socks, and reached for the sandwich he had made for himself at the cottage.

The food revived him, but though the packed grass had helped cushion his feet, the blisters on both of his heels had broken. As he pulled on his socks again, he thought longingly of the box of band-aids in his medicine cupboard at home.
I bet Maggie has some in that handbag of hers. It weighs a ton.
He groaned as he got to his feet.
There's no way I can walk out of here today.
He climbed the hill again and sat down just inside the entrance.
At least this will give me some shelter if it rains again. And I can take these bloody boots off!

• • •

IT WAS AFTER FIVE
that afternoon before the bus arrived in Horsefly with the new fuel pump, and almost dark before Maggie finally slipped behind the wheel of the repaired Jeep. Looking toward a particularly large mountain north of Horsefly, she could see grey, heavy clouds shrouding the top and clinging to the trees that grew thickly up its side. Her instinct was to go looking for Nat immediately, but common sense told her to wait until the morning, when she could at least see where she was going. “Is there a hotel or something nearby?” she asked before switching on the ignition.

“If yer wants yer comfort, then it's the Cariboo Inn. Jest bin built. Cost yer a mite, though.”

“How do I find it?”

“Over that bridge across the way and follow the signs. Yer can't miss it.”

She found the Cariboo Inn nestled among firs, alders and aspens on the edge of Horsefly Lake and took a room for the night. After unpacking her toilet gear, she went down to the dining room, where from her table by the window she watched heavy clouds blot out the last of the daylight and shroud the lake in darkness. In bed later, she lay listening to the lap of the water against the pebble shore and thought about Nat.

• • •

THE SUN HAD
already gone down when Nordstrom found Nat's wet Harris tweed jacket in the shed. He returned to the cottage with it. “I was getting the dinghy out for a little early morning fishing when I found this,” he said. He turned to Kate. “Who does it belong to?”

“I don't know,” she answered in a terrified voice.

“It's still wet. It has to belong to someone who's been here recently.”

“That explains my missing rain slicker!” the other man exploded.

“I don't know . . . ” Kate began again.

“Who does it belong to?” Nordstrom screamed at her.

Kate's face crumpled. “It's . . . it's Nat's . . . ”

“Southby! How did he get here?” he asked, his voice suddenly soft and menacing. “And where is he now?”

The other man grabbed her by the arms and pulled her out of the chair. “Answer him.”

She struggled to free herself from his grip. “You're hurting me,” she whimpered.

“How did he get here?” he shouted into her face.

“I don't know.”

“I didn't see a car,” Nordstrom said. “Or a boat, for that matter.”

“Could he have hiked in?” the other man asked. He threw her back into the chair. “When did you see him?”

“When we were leaving this morning,” she whispered.

“Then where did he go?”

“I don't know,” she wailed.

There was silence for a moment before the other man suddenly burst out. “I'll bet he's nosing around the mine!” He rushed to the door and flung it open. But darkness, coupled with the wind and rain from a sudden squall, pulled him up short. “We'll never find him at this time of night.”

“How would he know where the mine's located?” Nordstrom asked.

“He would need a map,” the other man answered, glaring at Kate. “Did you give him one?”

“No, no. I told you. I only saw him on the path.”

“We'll soon see,” the other man said, striding over to the desk and sifting through the pile of papers. “I left one here,” he added, “and the damn thing's gone. He must've taken it.”

“Don't worry,” Nordstrom cut in. “He won't be going anywhere in this weather. All we have to do is get up there early and flush him out.” He reached for his raincoat.

“Where are you going?” the other man demanded.

“To make a phone call, of course. Our partner needs to know about Southby.”

“Yeah,” the other man agreed. “Right.”

Behind him, Kate sobbed.

• • •

NAT, DOZING JUST INSIDE
the entrance to the mine, awoke to find the wind and rain lashing into his face. Struggling to his feet, he eased himself further back into the darkness. Although no coward in the face of real danger, without the comfort of a flashlight, he wasn't overfond of unknown crawling creatures. He reached into his pocket for a sandwich, only to realize that he'd left the bag down by the stream. “Damn and blast!” He wedged himself against the cold slab of rock and tried to sleep, but he was sure that he could hear rustling and slithering in the blackness beyond. He would head for civilization at dawn, blisters or no blisters.

• • •

SAWASKY, RED-EYED
and weary, consulted his map again. He hadn't been able to leave home as early as he wished, because Lucille, his wife, had used every means in the book to persuade him not to make the trip. “Leave it to the Mounties up there,” she had said. “That's what they're paid for.” And when he'd tried to explain how uncooperative the police were in Williams Lake, she had countered by saying, “You probably rubbed them the wrong way. You know how you hate people interfering in any of your cases.” Which of course was true, but he couldn't make her understand that this case was different. Nat and Maggie were his friends and they needed him.

It had been after six that evening by the time he'd lined up someone to cover for him over the weekend, kissed an icy Lucille, hugged his two kids goodbye and left the house. This meant that dusk was falling as he began driving the terrible unpaved road that wound through the Fraser Canyon. Several times he had to pull over against the rock face as another vehicle came down toward him on the narrow road, and he whistled to himself to keep his mind off all the hair-raising stories he'd heard of trucks and cars going over the treacherous edge. Sawasky had no head for heights at the best of times, and it was all he could do not to look down into the raging waters of the Fraser River as it rushed and roared over the rocks hundreds of feet below. Eventually, the road came down from the dizzying heights and the rapids became less turbulent, but it was still a great relief when he eventually drove into the desert-like town of Cache Creek. He stopped for a snack and a couple of hours of sleep in the car before tackling the next stage of the trip, which would take him up onto the Cariboo plateau.

He breakfasted in the small town of 100 Mile House. “Funny name for a town,” he told the waitress when she returned with his order. “A hundred miles from where?”

“Lillooet. That's Mile Zero. There were roadhouses at the mile points back in the 1800s when the miners came through here on their way to the gold fields. This was the site of one of them.”

Sawasky put his mind back to the scanty Canadian history lessons he had endured at school. “I thought they came by boat up the Fraser River?”

“Yeah. But if you read under those pictures over there,” she pointed to the sepia photographs mounted on the wall, “you'll see that they only went as far as Hope by boat.” She deftly refilled his coffee cup. “You must've gone through Hope to get here.”

Sawasky nodded. “Yeah. I remember Hope.”

“Well, according to them pictures, the prospectors used pack mules the rest of the way after Hope, and they stopped at these roadhouses.”

“Is the original roadhouse here still standing?”

“No. Went years ago. But the town decided to keep the name.” She slipped the bill in front of him. “Where're you heading?”

Sawasky looked up into her tired face. “Horsefly. Know it?”

“My husband's from those parts. Take the 150 Mile turnoff. It's another two or three hours from here.”

“Is it paved?”

“Some of it. About time, too.”

“Is there a gas station nearby?”

“Turn right out of here. It's across from the school. Can't miss it.”

Sawasky glanced at his watch before getting into his mudsplattered car. It was already six o'clock! “I just hope I'm not too late.”

While Sawasky waited impatiently for the gas attendant to finish filling the shiny dark blue Chrysler Windsor sedan in the other bay, he couldn't help overhearing the raised voice of its driver.