Seven Days Dead (8 page)

Checking the direction of her interest the officer spots a man striding up the hill from town. A rain jacket is strapped around his waist, the sleeves knotted together at his hips. The rain pants he wears indicate that he began the walk in earlier weather, or that he’s expecting more of the same. What makes him distinctive is not so much his clothing as his posture and bearing. A march-like swing to his arms seems to impart balance to his uphill stride, virtually military in its precision, while seemingly unnatural. Nobody walks like that, elbows rising up and out. The stride might seem laughable on a different body type or on anyone lacking self-confidence, but the man’s demeanor defrays any such slight. He not only commands and sustains attention—Ora Matheson’s, and everyone else’s—but respect as well. Or so the policeman surmises in the moment before he gathers that the new arrival has chosen a destination, and he is it. Ora notices that, too.

“Oh my brown shit, he’s coming straight here!” She seems in a sudden and inexplicable panic.

“Who is he?”

“That’s Roadcap, you dumb twist!”

“Mind your manners, Miss Matheson.”

“Don’t be so sensitive. I call everybody names.”

“What name do you call him?”

She doesn’t hesitate a second. “Scary wacko dreamboat dude.”

The cop eyes him more closely, and draws a conclusion from a previous encounter, a long while back. He fears that she might have a comparable phrase for him, apart from “dumb twist,” but decides that he’s better off not asking. “Tell me his real name again.”

“Roadcap.”

He’s heard that name mentioned. He knows of him.

“News travels fast,” the cop calls.

“Why’s that?” The man stops fifteen feet away, which seems an odd distance for a conversation he’s evidently intent on having.

“All the way to Dark Harbour.”

“Okay. I’m from there. But I heard no news lately. What’s up?”

The policeman looks away, a fake pause for dramatic effect perhaps, and in that moment notices that Maddy Orrock is paying attention. She’s crossed her arms and stepped to the rim of the mansion’s porch to observe the man facing the policeman. “Orrock’s dead,” the cop tells him. “If that’s news to you, then you’re probably last on the island to hear.” When the man does not seem to react immediately, he adds, “Is that why you’re up here for some reason?”

“I didn’t know. Sorry to hear that. But no, I don’t walk across the island because somebody dies. Doesn’t matter who it is. How’d he die anyhow?”

“Old age,” Ora pipes up. She tucks herself in slightly behind the policeman, as if for her protection. “People die that way. Maybe not in your family, but…”

The man looks at her then, and while his choice of words is challenging, his tone remains flat and cordial, his gaze level. “You know nothing about my family.”

“Not if you don’t say so,” she replies.

The officer notices a look of puzzlement cross the man’s brow, and sees him choose not to bother decoding her remark. “She’s got a mouth on her,” the cop points out.

“My way to keep your eyes up that high, copper man.”

“All right,” the officer says, clearly irritated now.

“All right what?”

The Mountie feels that she might be sassing him to make him look bad in front of their visitor.

“Enough of that.”

“Of what?”

“Of that. Will you excuse us, please?” He does a quarter turn to exclude her from further conversation, and as he makes that motion sees Madeleine Orrock come down the stairs. She’s casually sauntering toward him. “Can we help you with something, sir?” he asks the man called Roadcap.

“
Sir?
” Ora complains at his back. “
Sir?
Don’t call him that. Not him.”

Roadcap ignores her but answers the Mountie. “The other way around maybe. I can help you out, I think.”

“How so?”

Ora butts in. “I thought Dark Harbour people got nothing to do with cops.”

“Maybe for good reason,” Roadcap suggests.

“No argument there.”

“Ora,” the cop says, “will you please be quiet?”

“Dark Harbour guys never date us local girls. Ever notice?”

The officer sees that Maddy is curious enough to come closer, but she has stopped along the way and stands observing them, listening in. That’s not difficult given the extended range Roadcap has deployed to talk to him, and his voice carries.

“Sir?” the policeman asks, and he must also raise his voice a trifle to speak across the gulf between them. “How can we help you? Or you help us, as the case may be?”

“Like I said, I came across the island. Overnight. Through the storm. I met Reverend Lescavage along the way.”

“Oh I know,” Ora pipes up from behind the officer’s back, “he’s got a thing for you Dark Harbour thugs. His flock gone astray or something like that. Pretty funny when you think about it. I mean, he’s the one astray, right?”

“Maybe we can talk about this in private?” Roadcap suggests.

“Is there a problem?” the Mountie inquires, finally alert.

“You can say that.”

The Mountie gestures with his chin and the two men stroll farther uphill while remaining in the front yard of the Orrock mansion. They finally come within a conversational distance of each other. Maddy takes advantage of their departure to step forward herself, and comes up alongside Ora Matheson.

“What are they talking about?” Maddy asks.

Ora looks her over, exactly as she did when she first arrived, a kind of up-and-down assessment. “Not what,” she says. “Who.”

“Then who?”

“Reverend Lescavage. You know him, right?”

“Family friend, yeah. I’ve known him all my life.”

“Me, too. All my life. But it’s been a shorter life for me.”

“So far,” Maddy tacks on.

Ora agrees with that. “Yeah. Right. So far.”

They see the Mountie extract his notebook and start to scribble things down.

“So what are they talking about?” Maddy asks again.

“That’s for them to know and for us to go find out,” Ora tells her.

EIGHT

Officer Wade Louwagie of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police has made it through a third year on the island of Grand Manan. Coming off a lengthy stint with post-traumatic stress disorder, he’s taken to the place, and credits the island with his salvation. The Mounties have declined to take a page from their sister police organizations across the continent to provide expert counsel for officers with PTSD symptoms, partially believing in the mythic power of their famous tunic to hide what’s going on beneath the skin—and in an officer’s discombobulated head—but mainly convinced that the best therapy, perhaps the only therapy, is to get back to work. Officer Louwagie’s attempts to get back to work failed repeatedly, his anxiety clouded by alcoholism, leading to drug addiction, which wound up in long bouts of tearfulness and inadvertent panics, night sweats, the shakes, violent headaches, two attempted suicides, weeks of mulling over shooting himself, and one admission to a rehab center. Since the Mounties’ hierarchy contends, perhaps as a remnant from their horse-and-rider heritage, that the only way to deal with a fall is to get back in the saddle, Louwagie was given one last assignment, a do-or-die posting, where to everyone’s surprise he made significant progress. Given his success on Grand Manan, he’s been left in place and finds himself in command. If he’s never posted elsewhere again, he’s fine with that.

He credits the sea. Arriving on Grand Manan, he did what tourists do, only in all seasons, walking the cliff trails and the forest loops, spending time on rocky beaches. The ocean seemed to soothe his inner panic, alleviate a deep malaise, and him a prairie boy whose only sense of water growing up was found in sloughs. He’s not fond of being in a boat and on the water—that doesn’t work for him—but the shoreline, the breadth of sea and sky, this foreign geography, helps his head. He doesn’t do drugs anymore, he’s not on the wagon but he drinks sparingly. He’s doubled down on cigarettes, although on the scale of things it’s a vice that might kill him, but slowly. The other options can be quicker. He also talks to Ora Matheson a lot, and to a few other young working women around the island. Only talk, but all of it is a comfort.

What he’s seen, what led him to descend from being an idealistic recruit with a prizefighter’s physique to become an alcoholic basket case, is not something he’s willing to talk about, although the events are sufficiently torturous on his psyche that HQ cut him more than the usual slack, and is content now to cut their losses and leave him right where he is. Out of the way, doing himself some good.

So he does not like hearing what he’s now being told, and must ask the man from Dark Harbour to repeat himself more than once to get his point across. He’s written his name down as Aaron Oscar Roadcap, a man who, he recalls hearing, derives from a criminal background and possesses a shadowy past. People whisper about him among themselves but say nothing openly to Louwagie, as if afraid to do so.

“What were you doing out in the storm, exactly?” he inquires again.

“I told you, I—”

“You were walking out in the rain, in the wind, in the dark. You enjoy that sort of thing. Okay, I get that. I don’t understand it, but I’m taking you at your word here. But what were you actually
doing
?”

“I wasn’t doing anything. Except for what I said. Walking. Sometimes I was sitting. I was lying on my back when the sun came up.”

“The sun came up.”

“Yeah, it did, actually.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Officer Louwagie attests. He’s feeling lost.

“Then what did you mean?”

“I mean, who goes out and lies on their back, probably on wet ground, when the sun comes up after a rainstorm?”

“Besides me? I can’t say. But I do it, Officer. It’s a free country.”

“Yeah,” Louwagie concedes. “It is.” In truth, he isn’t finding the idea so strange. Whatever floats your boat, he wants to tell the man, but doesn’t. He even thinks that he might try it himself sometime, just go out into the wind and the roar. “Was anyone else with you? Besides you and Reverend Lescavage?”

“Yeah. A bunch of people. Not with me, but out there on their own.”

“Out in the rain? Really? A bunch? What were they doing?”

“Beats me. They had tents. They were camping.”

“That’s not allowed up there.”

“I’m not the police. You are. So I didn’t arrest anybody.”

“Don’t be a smartass, all right?”

“All right.”

“So who were they? These campers. Are they still there?”

“Can’t say. We didn’t stop for a chat. It was my impression that they were packing up.”

“Your impression. Okay. Did you meet them before or after?”

“You mean—before,” Roadcap concludes. “A bit before. They were in the vicinity.”

“Okay.” Louwagie writes that down. “What word, sir, exactly what word did you use again? You know, to describe—”

“Reverend Lescavage?”

“Yes, Reverend Lescavage.”

“Eviscerated. I could have said gutted. Or filleted. His entrails are all over the ground.”

“Jesus H—Okay. A big word. An educated man’s word, if I may say so.”

Roadcap does not rise to the bait.

“And you can take me to see him now?”

“If you’re driving, the shortest way up is via the Whistle. We can walk in from there.”

“
Via.
That’s another word. Although a short one. You didn’t come down here by that way, did you? You didn’t take the Whistle Road into town.”

“No, sir. I came in over Seven Days Work.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because that’s the way I was already going. It’s what I planned to do.”

“But it was shorter if you backtracked and came down from the Whistle, no?”

“Sure. Shorter. That would be shorter.”

“Then why not—”

“He was already dead, sir. Reverend Lescavage. I couldn’t do anything for him by taking the shorter route.”

“Then why not take it anyway, is what I’m asking.”

“That’s not the way I was walking. I just came in the way I was coming in. And—”

“Go on.”

“I suppose. Did I really want to walk back through the campers? They might’ve done it, right? Eviscerated that man. Did I really want to walk back through them?”

The officer puts his book away. He’s not sure how he’s going to handle this, how his internal system will react—what the experts on the subject call his “psyche.” He has qualms about his nerves, his endurance, the side-swiping impact of an unforeseen depression. What memories might be evoked by all this? An evisceration. Will everything he’s gained over the last three years be sabotaged in the blink of an eye, in a glimpse of a man’s entrails? He wants to just go and sit by the sea instead. Maybe like this man does sometimes, out in a storm. He could send his partner in his place, but he’s in command here with a job to do, and perhaps this is a test. Get back on the job, Mounties say. This is his chance to find out if he can really do that.

“All right,” he tells Roadcap. “Take me up there. Just let me have a word with my partner.”

“Sure thing, Corporal. Whenever you’re ready.”

He doesn’t know if the man is being sarcastic with him, but he might be.

Officer Wade Louwagie speaks to his constable, Réjean Methot, and the two agree to separate. Louwagie is giving the order but the leadership style he’s been trying to nurture requires him to consult first. Methot offers to remain at the Orrock place and keep the peace, given the public’s interest. They don’t want anyone scrawling graffiti on the walls, that’s one thing, but worse than that is also a concern. Worse than that means arson. In recent months, islanders have been enduring a spate of fires, and they don’t particularly want the mansion turned into flames on its fine overlook above the Bay of Fundy in retribution for fifty years of island dominance. The king is dead, and neither officer wants anyone celebrating. Experience has taught that celebration means drinking, and that brings on an excess of exuberance, and after that, just about anything can go down. Louwagie listens, consistent with his new leadership style, but he has a different task in mind. When Methot hears what Roadcap has reported, he accepts the urgency of his next job. If the Orrock home needs protecting, the current occupant will have to provide it on her own.