Kennet Forbes Mysteries
GERALDTON BACK DOORS (2nd of the series)
Chapter 4
SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 3
Mid-morning . . .
After the regional news, Kennet switched off the radio of the Kia SUV. He cracked the window on the driver's side, letting in the sweet air of the Northern bush. Only the occasional flash of bunched yellow leaves signaled the approach of autumn.
He found himself frequently dodging the potholes and wet spots on the Goldfield Road. Not long after leaving Highway 11, he traveled along an esker ridge. Again the secondary growth screened the countryside to left and right. He crossed the Wintering River on the wooden bridge with its flimsy railings, noting the dark rocks in the swirling water. He met two
pickups, one with a load of firewood cut to stove length.
An hour after leaving Geraldton he arrived at the junction of the Trio Road, and turned west on a hard-packed one-lane track. He drove past a marshy area, then turned sharply left. The road traversed a series of clear cuts, the trees harvested many years ago, and the landscape recovering with scattered young conifers planted by hand and naturally-regenerating poplar, birch, and alder. The sun bathed a vast area in warming rays. The road wound up and down small hills. About eight kilometres from the
Goldfield, he encountered two scarecrows.
They were leaning against a pickup pulled just off the road. The red Ram with a red cap pointed north, and left just enough room for a vehicle to edge around it. A silver racing stripe stretched from nose to tail. The ragged figures studied his approach, arms folded across their chests. As he slowed to a stop, the bulky figure in hunter camouflage detached itself from the pickup and sauntered into the road, blocking the passage. The other figure remained in place, a ragbag of half-laced boots, wrinkled jeans two or three sizes too large, torn padded vest, and a once-gray workshirt that had been laundered too many times. Someone's hand-me-downs, thought Kennet. He had straight ragged-cut blond hair under a crumpled gray baseball cap with the crest THE SOO LOCKS. A deathly pale face.
Kennet cut the engine and exited the vehicle. Camo Scarecrow rocked on his heels, arms again folded across his chest. Kennet headed for him.
"Hi. What's up."
Camo's lips moved tightly inside his door knocker beard. "Road
dangerous." A floppy wide-brimmed hat in camo colours shaded a broad, deeply tanned face.
Kennet stepped up to Camo, proferring his hand and grinning. "My name's Kennet. And yours?"
Camo took a sudden step backward, eyebrows shooting up, arms dropping. "Screw ̶ !" he said.
Kennet dropped his hand. "Screw. Unusual name. And your friend?"
Kennet nodded in the direction of Blondie Scarecrow.
Camo recovered quickly. "Screw him. What d'yuh want?"
Kennet grinned again. "You Screw. Him Screw. You must be brothers.
Any other names?"
A crafty look crept into Camo Screw's eyes. "Yeah. Ewen. Call me Ewe. And this is my brother Ewe Two, the rock star. Only you got it backwards.
It's Screw Ewe."
"Nice. Now ̶ "
Blondie detached himself lazily from the pickup and strolled to a position near Camo, avoiding Kennet's gaze. Kennet watched him carefully. Blondie opened the hatch of the cap and lowered the tailgate.
Kennet continued: "I don't want trouble. Just want to pass."
"Sure," said Camo. "Just wanted to warn you of the dangers." He now displayed a lopsided grin between sentences.
"Explain, please."
Blondie had extracted a crossbow from the box. He sat himself on the tailgate and began fiddling with the mechanism.
Camo said, "Washouts. Windfalls. You could get bunged up. Your nice paint job could get all scratched up . . . Tough to explain to the insurance . . . after you been warned."
"Looks like you're hunting."
"Could be. Could be bear . . . moose . . . alligator . . ."
Blondie spoke without lifting his head: "Kia."
Kennet looked down on the gray baseball cap . "This is not the season for Kia."
Camo responded: "Not for alligators neither. But that don't stop us."
"I just want to pass. I'm not hunting trouble."
At that moment, Blondie tilted his head up. Pale dead eyes. Falling
away from the left eye, a tear-shaped tattoo. He had seen those eyes before. Not the face, and not the tattoo, but the eyes. And the blond
hair.
●
It had been in the beseiged city of Mostar in the former Republic of Bosnia-Herzovogina. September, in the year 1993. The blond Croat had spoken perfect English. He was a Canadian, he said; he asked about the lineup for the Montreal Canadiens, said he was seconded to serve Mate Boban, commander of the Bosnian Croatian military, as an intermediary for the foreign media. No, there was no ethnic cleansing occurring in the new Croatia. The HVO were helping the Muslim population to relocate, following their express wishes. They had the signed releases from them. The borders of several provinces in this former country had been redrawn after very complicated negotiations, all with United Nations oversight. His name? His name was Draco. He was dressed in the black uniform affected by the newly-formed army. A tattoo crept above his black collar, just under the left ear. It looked like a dragon's head. Could they cross the bridge? Walk about the Muslim enclave? Sorry, said Draco. There were snipers about.
It was unsafe.
As they turned around in their Land Rover, Kennet's own interpreter, a Croat, had whispered, "The Dragon." Then, "He has a brother. Very bad man. He is in that house. His name is Snake." And the interpreter had pointed to an institutional complex, with many windows, like a school.
He had been talking to a couple of black-uniformed soldiers.
●
Camo Scarecrow snapped his heels together and made a mock bow,
sweeping his arm up the road past their truck. "Be our guest. We was just being friendly." He grinned broadly.
As Kennet returned to the Kia, Camo shouted after him: "What you doin' up here anyways?"
Kennet spoke over his shoulder: "Looking for trout."
"Trout? You crazy? There ain't no trout 'round here."
Kennet cranked the engine and moved forward slowly. Both scarecrows stood aside and looked at him blankly as he passed. The road dipped again, and he lost sight of them in his rearview.
After a kilometre, he stopped the truck. He scrabbled in his daypack and pulled out his handheld global positioning system, an electronic device with a small LED screen. He switched on the GPS; the readout stated it was acquiring satellite signals. He laid the unit on the passenger seat while he turned the truck around. He started back for the Goldfield. As he approached the red pickup, Camo was watching him with arms akimbo.
The tailgate was closed, Blondie not in sight. Kennet lowered the driver's-side window.
He rolled slowly past Camo. "You were right," he said.
"What?" Camo looked genuinely puzzled.
"No trout." As he uttered the last word, he punched a button on the GPS.
He rolled up the window and picked up speed. In the rearview he saw Blondie leaning against the truck in his original position, scribbling something.
Andrija Stasiuk was right. They were guarding the Trio Road. They were blocking a haul road that ran north toward Dickison Lake. They were discouraging visitors in the immediate area. He saw no evidence of a camp-out, so the guards were likely working in shifts and being relieved regularly. The Trio did not look like a woodcutter's destination. There were no fish, according to two sources, only one of them reliable. Travelers on the Trio would be berry pickers, or canoeists, or hunters who were scouting the territory for the upcoming moose season. What were Camo and Blondie guarding? Some illegal operation. They weren't moonshiners, that was certain. A grow-op? That was the most plausible scenario. And
Andrija had handed him strong evidence.
It's not my business, he told himself. It is not my business.
Chapter 4
SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 3
Mid-morning . . .
After the regional news, Kennet switched off the radio of the Kia SUV. He cracked the window on the driver's side, letting in the sweet air of the Northern bush. Only the occasional flash of bunched yellow leaves signaled the approach of autumn.
He found himself frequently dodging the potholes and wet spots on the Goldfield Road. Not long after leaving Highway 11, he traveled along an esker ridge. Again the secondary growth screened the countryside to left and right. He crossed the Wintering River on the wooden bridge with its flimsy railings, noting the dark rocks in the swirling water. He met two
pickups, one with a load of firewood cut to stove length.
An hour after leaving Geraldton he arrived at the junction of the Trio Road, and turned west on a hard-packed one-lane track. He drove past a marshy area, then turned sharply left. The road traversed a series of clear cuts, the trees harvested many years ago, and the landscape recovering with scattered young conifers planted by hand and naturally-regenerating poplar, birch, and alder. The sun bathed a vast area in warming rays. The road wound up and down small hills. About eight kilometres from the
Goldfield, he encountered two scarecrows.
They were leaning against a pickup pulled just off the road. The red Ram with a red cap pointed north, and left just enough room for a vehicle to edge around it. A silver racing stripe stretched from nose to tail. The ragged figures studied his approach, arms folded across their chests. As he slowed to a stop, the bulky figure in hunter camouflage detached itself from the pickup and sauntered into the road, blocking the passage. The other figure remained in place, a ragbag of half-laced boots, wrinkled jeans two or three sizes too large, torn padded vest, and a once-gray workshirt that had been laundered too many times. Someone's hand-me-downs, thought Kennet. He had straight ragged-cut blond hair under a crumpled gray baseball cap with the crest THE SOO LOCKS. A deathly pale face.
Kennet cut the engine and exited the vehicle. Camo Scarecrow rocked on his heels, arms again folded across his chest. Kennet headed for him.
"Hi. What's up."
Camo's lips moved tightly inside his door knocker beard. "Road
dangerous." A floppy wide-brimmed hat in camo colours shaded a broad, deeply tanned face.
Kennet stepped up to Camo, proferring his hand and grinning. "My name's Kennet. And yours?"
Camo took a sudden step backward, eyebrows shooting up, arms dropping. "Screw ̶ !" he said.
Kennet dropped his hand. "Screw. Unusual name. And your friend?"
Kennet nodded in the direction of Blondie Scarecrow.
Camo recovered quickly. "Screw him. What d'yuh want?"
Kennet grinned again. "You Screw. Him Screw. You must be brothers.
Any other names?"
A crafty look crept into Camo Screw's eyes. "Yeah. Ewen. Call me Ewe. And this is my brother Ewe Two, the rock star. Only you got it backwards.
It's Screw Ewe."
"Nice. Now ̶ "
Blondie detached himself lazily from the pickup and strolled to a position near Camo, avoiding Kennet's gaze. Kennet watched him carefully. Blondie opened the hatch of the cap and lowered the tailgate.
Kennet continued: "I don't want trouble. Just want to pass."
"Sure," said Camo. "Just wanted to warn you of the dangers." He now displayed a lopsided grin between sentences.
"Explain, please."
Blondie had extracted a crossbow from the box. He sat himself on the tailgate and began fiddling with the mechanism.
Camo said, "Washouts. Windfalls. You could get bunged up. Your nice paint job could get all scratched up . . . Tough to explain to the insurance . . . after you been warned."
"Looks like you're hunting."
"Could be. Could be bear . . . moose . . . alligator . . ."
Blondie spoke without lifting his head: "Kia."
Kennet looked down on the gray baseball cap . "This is not the season for Kia."
Camo responded: "Not for alligators neither. But that don't stop us."
"I just want to pass. I'm not hunting trouble."
At that moment, Blondie tilted his head up. Pale dead eyes. Falling
away from the left eye, a tear-shaped tattoo. He had seen those eyes before. Not the face, and not the tattoo, but the eyes. And the blond
hair.
●
It had been in the beseiged city of Mostar in the former Republic of Bosnia-Herzovogina. September, in the year 1993. The blond Croat had spoken perfect English. He was a Canadian, he said; he asked about the lineup for the Montreal Canadiens, said he was seconded to serve Mate Boban, commander of the Bosnian Croatian military, as an intermediary for the foreign media. No, there was no ethnic cleansing occurring in the new Croatia. The HVO were helping the Muslim population to relocate, following their express wishes. They had the signed releases from them. The borders of several provinces in this former country had been redrawn after very complicated negotiations, all with United Nations oversight. His name? His name was Draco. He was dressed in the black uniform affected by the newly-formed army. A tattoo crept above his black collar, just under the left ear. It looked like a dragon's head. Could they cross the bridge? Walk about the Muslim enclave? Sorry, said Draco. There were snipers about.
It was unsafe.
As they turned around in their Land Rover, Kennet's own interpreter, a Croat, had whispered, "The Dragon." Then, "He has a brother. Very bad man. He is in that house. His name is Snake." And the interpreter had pointed to an institutional complex, with many windows, like a school.
He had been talking to a couple of black-uniformed soldiers.
●
Camo Scarecrow snapped his heels together and made a mock bow,
sweeping his arm up the road past their truck. "Be our guest. We was just being friendly." He grinned broadly.
As Kennet returned to the Kia, Camo shouted after him: "What you doin' up here anyways?"
Kennet spoke over his shoulder: "Looking for trout."
"Trout? You crazy? There ain't no trout 'round here."
Kennet cranked the engine and moved forward slowly. Both scarecrows stood aside and looked at him blankly as he passed. The road dipped again, and he lost sight of them in his rearview.
After a kilometre, he stopped the truck. He scrabbled in his daypack and pulled out his handheld global positioning system, an electronic device with a small LED screen. He switched on the GPS; the readout stated it was acquiring satellite signals. He laid the unit on the passenger seat while he turned the truck around. He started back for the Goldfield. As he approached the red pickup, Camo was watching him with arms akimbo.
The tailgate was closed, Blondie not in sight. Kennet lowered the driver's-side window.
He rolled slowly past Camo. "You were right," he said.
"What?" Camo looked genuinely puzzled.
"No trout." As he uttered the last word, he punched a button on the GPS.
He rolled up the window and picked up speed. In the rearview he saw Blondie leaning against the truck in his original position, scribbling something.
Andrija Stasiuk was right. They were guarding the Trio Road. They were blocking a haul road that ran north toward Dickison Lake. They were discouraging visitors in the immediate area. He saw no evidence of a camp-out, so the guards were likely working in shifts and being relieved regularly. The Trio did not look like a woodcutter's destination. There were no fish, according to two sources, only one of them reliable. Travelers on the Trio would be berry pickers, or canoeists, or hunters who were scouting the territory for the upcoming moose season. What were Camo and Blondie guarding? Some illegal operation. They weren't moonshiners, that was certain. A grow-op? That was the most plausible scenario. And
Andrija had handed him strong evidence.
It's not my business, he told himself. It is not my business.
THE BEARDMORE RELICS (1st of the series)
Chapter 13
. . . Friday evening, later
In the fall of '08, the operator of a bulldozer had been stripping overburden on a promontory in the Brennan-Kenty claim group two miles from Lake Nipigon. The area he was working, the northern portion of the property, was being explored as a gold prospect, although the most abundant known mineral happened to be molybdenite, and considerable trenching had occurred on the south end of the property at that moly occurrence.
The property, owned by Crown Resources Inc., was accessed by a bush road linked to Highway 580, a hard-surfaced secondary highway that gave
Beardmore access to Lake Nipigon. Crown Resources had commenced work in the spring of '05, but the claim group had been explored by different owners since the 1930's.
On October 16th, the blade of the bulldozer had dug into a bank of soil. The operator, Conrad B. Parker, said that he had disturbed a burrow that he believed was a bear's den. When he backed off, he could see some peculiar lumpy objects strewn behind the strip that he was back-blading in order to move the soil. He got down from the machine and identified the objects as bones, extremely weathered bones, which at first he took to be animal bones, those of a bear or other large animal. As he walked about, kicking the loose soil to unearth more bones, he turned up a skull. A human skull.
Parker notified the foreman, Ferguson S. Christie, who was supervising the excavation of a cut in the molydenite deposit. Christie agreed that the authorities had to be notified. Officers from the Greenstone Detachment had attended the scene, taken statements, recovered the bones, and taken them to the Paleo-Forensics Laboratory of Thunder Bay University. The site was returned to the jurisdiction of Crown Resources.
Next, Kennet turned to the osteological analysis. The bones belonged to a young female, possibly Caucasian, in good health, aged seventeen to nineteen, height 161 centimetres. One of the pelvic bones exhibited a fracture. Severe trauma to the patellas or knee caps. A fracture in the frontal bone of the skull. Three cracked ribs and two broken ones. All of the injuries suggested perimortem trauma. All of the bones, including the skull, exhibited marks consistent with the tooth marks of a large animal, probably a bear. There were smaller marks consistent with rodents. Many of the victim's teeth had been recovered intact, but loose. The teeth showed a pattern of regular dental care, including fillings.
A swatch of black hair had also been recovered. Very little clothing had survived, with the singular exception of the major portion of a plastic belt, colour red, and denim rags that might have been jeans, and a mostly intact dark rubberized coat, sized for a large adult. Scene-of-crime officers had
also recovered miscellaneous artifacts by sifting the soil, a list of which
followed, and included:
Fragments of plastic belt, colour red, 5.5 cm, 2.3 cm, 1.2 cm, .8 cm
1 belt buckle, white metal
4 white buttons, plastic
7 brass studs (probably from
jeans)
1 ring, 14K white gold, size 6 (with setting for a jewel)
1 cut stone, aluminum oxide, blue, 0.27 carat (commonly known as
corundum or sapphire)
No evidence of footwear.
Evidence suggested the body/bones had been reposing on site for twenty-five years, with a margin of error of three years, plus or minus.
An addendum to the report alluded to concerns of a local aboriginal group, Ombabika Bay First Nation, headquartered in Beardmore. If the age of the bones suggested an ancient burial, the First Nation reserved the right to claim the remains and to provide a decent burial with appropriate ceremonies in a place of their choosing.
Twenty-six years ago, thought Kennet, I graduated fromGeraldton District High School. I might have known the decedent. It was a disturbing thought.
An appendix listed the full names and addresses of people mentioned in the body of the report, including the officers involved, the scientists engaged in the investigations, and the contact person for Ombabika Bay First Nation. The employees of Crown Resources Inc. who had reported the find were Ferguson Simon Christie and Conrad Blake Parker.
Kennet created a document folder titled Beardmore, and saved the report. Next, he conducted a Google search with the terms "Brennan-Kenty" and "Beardmore". He struck gold. The first hit was a long document in PDF format. It turned out to be an 8-megabyte file. With the wireless broadband connection, it took only a few minutes to download.
He clicked on CBC/The National under Favorites, and scanned the headlines. He repeated the process for CNNInternational News. Satisfied
that he was current with world events, he conducted a search using the exact phrase "how to unlock" and the essential words "dodge" and "ram".
At the very top of the responses was a website titled How to Pick a Door Lock On a Dodge Ram.
He studied the content. He needed a lock pick set. They were necessary tools for any car thief, which he was not, or for any restorer of vintage cars, which he was. The article directed the thief, or the restorer, to the driver's door lock. A total of seven discs or wafers had to be aligned before the lock could operate. Then the lock had to be turned in the right direction. It looked easy enough.
Kennet booted down. Amazing, he thought. What a marvelous compendium of information the Internet was. A boon to any thief or embezzler or fraudster or scammer – to a crook of any description. And a boon to the honest scholar. Which he was. Mostly.
He brushed his teeth. It was 11:27. He set the travel alarm for 2:27. He could hear the water splashing as it dropped from the eaves.
At 2:24 he arose and switched off the alarm. He dressed quickly in his wet suit. He opened the door and stepped out, holding his palm open to the sky.
A few raindrops moistened it. Lightning flashed, followed by a rumble. The motel windows were dark. He stepped back inside. He rummaged under the sink and extracted a large black plastic garbage bag. He had neglected to bring rain gear this trip. He fashioned two armholes and a neck hole and slipped the bag over his head. The bag disguised his body outline. The last thing he wanted was a report of a ninja marauder prowling the streets of Beardmore after midnight.
From the truck he retrieved the lock pick set he kept in the console. He found a dark ball cap in the back seat and jammed it on his head. He sensed a misty rain on his face. The sky was pitch black. He walked wide of the security light at the office. It was rather a pointless manoeuvre because he had to walk, fully exposed, under a streetlight as he found the walking trail and headed east over the tracks. As he approached the line of houses, a dog started barking furiously, but it was reacting to other marauders. He stood still, cocking an ear to the distant sound of a pack of hunting wolves.
The Fleming homestead stood dark. The nose of the Dodge Ram 3500 faced the garage. He would have to work with his back to the house.
He hoped that the Flemings slept soundly.
He removed a small tool from his lock pick set, a small rigid tension tool that he had manufactured himself from a piece of steel. It looked like a very tiny old-fashioned hand crank. Before electric starters became de rigueur, car operators had had to crank their engines by hand. His back to the darkened house, he inserted the tool into the very bottom of the lock. Holding it with his left hand, he pressed gently to the rear of the truck. He operated by touch, not willing to risk a light, even if he had had
one.
With his right hand he inserted another steel tool, a pick, with the pick facing down. He pushed it all the way in. He pressed it gently downwards, and withdrew it steadily. He re-inserted the pick with the pick facing up, and pushed it all the way in. Applying a gentle pressure he withdrew it steadily. According to the instructions the inner mechanism should have
rotated. He had heard no clicking. With the tension tool still in place, he inserted the pick again, pick facing up, and repeated the procedure. He heard the inner plug of the lock rotating. He removed both tools and glanced toward the house. Silence and darkness. He pocketed the tools.
The rain picked up. He squeezed the door handle release and slowly opened the driver's door. The cab light popped on. He glanced around. No reaction from the house. He opened the door wide. He pressed the button to electronically open all the doors, and then opened the rear door and climbed quietly in and fumbled for the lever to release the back of the bench seat. Half the seat folded forward. In the dim recess he felt around until he identified three encased long guns. He extracted one, carefully, and lay it on the floor of the back seat. He extracted a second one.
Behind him a light popped on. Through the truck's rain-streaked glass
he saw that someone had switched on a light on the ground floor of the
house. Judging by the size of the window, someone was utilizing the bathroom. There was a tremendous lightning flash, followed by a roll of thunder. The sound-and-light show, he thought, might prompt somebody to peer out a window.
Kennet snapped the rear seat back, grabbed the two gun cases, and stepped down. He closed the rear door, and clutching the cases with his right hand, hit the lock switch on the front door with his left hand and closed the door carefully. The cab light went out.
As he crept across the cinders, the heavens unleashed a downpour. He poked the two cases up under his makeshift raincoat, holding them in place with both hands. If he should encounter anyone in the darkness, he might cut an awkward figure but he would not give the impression of a walking arsenal. He took the trail west across the tracks, and once he reached Rothwell Street, behind the motel, he walked north along the road until he came to the snow machine graveyard. He pried open the door of the orange derelict and tucked the two encased guns inside out of sight.
No one would be poking around the junkyard except tourists like him. Or kids. It was Saturday, and kids might be roaming on their day off school. Okay, what was he thinking? This was summer vacation. The likelihood of kids locating the cache was slim to none. Still, there was a chance and it worried him. He had decided against stashing the loot in the Sportage in the event that the Flemings reported the theft, and the finger pointed to him. But the irony of a gang of thieves reporting a theft of their own
property might be too rich even for the Flemings. Besides, he suspected that they redressed their own wrongs. He would have to move the guns at the earliest opportunity. And implement Phase 2 of the operation.
Back in his room he stripped off his wet outfit and hung it to dry over the bathtub. The garbage bag he stuffed in his kit bag. He would not risk the chambermaid finding it. It was 3:04. He set the alarm for 7:00.
Chapter 13
. . . Friday evening, later
In the fall of '08, the operator of a bulldozer had been stripping overburden on a promontory in the Brennan-Kenty claim group two miles from Lake Nipigon. The area he was working, the northern portion of the property, was being explored as a gold prospect, although the most abundant known mineral happened to be molybdenite, and considerable trenching had occurred on the south end of the property at that moly occurrence.
The property, owned by Crown Resources Inc., was accessed by a bush road linked to Highway 580, a hard-surfaced secondary highway that gave
Beardmore access to Lake Nipigon. Crown Resources had commenced work in the spring of '05, but the claim group had been explored by different owners since the 1930's.
On October 16th, the blade of the bulldozer had dug into a bank of soil. The operator, Conrad B. Parker, said that he had disturbed a burrow that he believed was a bear's den. When he backed off, he could see some peculiar lumpy objects strewn behind the strip that he was back-blading in order to move the soil. He got down from the machine and identified the objects as bones, extremely weathered bones, which at first he took to be animal bones, those of a bear or other large animal. As he walked about, kicking the loose soil to unearth more bones, he turned up a skull. A human skull.
Parker notified the foreman, Ferguson S. Christie, who was supervising the excavation of a cut in the molydenite deposit. Christie agreed that the authorities had to be notified. Officers from the Greenstone Detachment had attended the scene, taken statements, recovered the bones, and taken them to the Paleo-Forensics Laboratory of Thunder Bay University. The site was returned to the jurisdiction of Crown Resources.
Next, Kennet turned to the osteological analysis. The bones belonged to a young female, possibly Caucasian, in good health, aged seventeen to nineteen, height 161 centimetres. One of the pelvic bones exhibited a fracture. Severe trauma to the patellas or knee caps. A fracture in the frontal bone of the skull. Three cracked ribs and two broken ones. All of the injuries suggested perimortem trauma. All of the bones, including the skull, exhibited marks consistent with the tooth marks of a large animal, probably a bear. There were smaller marks consistent with rodents. Many of the victim's teeth had been recovered intact, but loose. The teeth showed a pattern of regular dental care, including fillings.
A swatch of black hair had also been recovered. Very little clothing had survived, with the singular exception of the major portion of a plastic belt, colour red, and denim rags that might have been jeans, and a mostly intact dark rubberized coat, sized for a large adult. Scene-of-crime officers had
also recovered miscellaneous artifacts by sifting the soil, a list of which
followed, and included:
Fragments of plastic belt, colour red, 5.5 cm, 2.3 cm, 1.2 cm, .8 cm
1 belt buckle, white metal
4 white buttons, plastic
7 brass studs (probably from
jeans)
1 ring, 14K white gold, size 6 (with setting for a jewel)
1 cut stone, aluminum oxide, blue, 0.27 carat (commonly known as
corundum or sapphire)
No evidence of footwear.
Evidence suggested the body/bones had been reposing on site for twenty-five years, with a margin of error of three years, plus or minus.
An addendum to the report alluded to concerns of a local aboriginal group, Ombabika Bay First Nation, headquartered in Beardmore. If the age of the bones suggested an ancient burial, the First Nation reserved the right to claim the remains and to provide a decent burial with appropriate ceremonies in a place of their choosing.
Twenty-six years ago, thought Kennet, I graduated fromGeraldton District High School. I might have known the decedent. It was a disturbing thought.
An appendix listed the full names and addresses of people mentioned in the body of the report, including the officers involved, the scientists engaged in the investigations, and the contact person for Ombabika Bay First Nation. The employees of Crown Resources Inc. who had reported the find were Ferguson Simon Christie and Conrad Blake Parker.
Kennet created a document folder titled Beardmore, and saved the report. Next, he conducted a Google search with the terms "Brennan-Kenty" and "Beardmore". He struck gold. The first hit was a long document in PDF format. It turned out to be an 8-megabyte file. With the wireless broadband connection, it took only a few minutes to download.
He clicked on CBC/The National under Favorites, and scanned the headlines. He repeated the process for CNNInternational News. Satisfied
that he was current with world events, he conducted a search using the exact phrase "how to unlock" and the essential words "dodge" and "ram".
At the very top of the responses was a website titled How to Pick a Door Lock On a Dodge Ram.
He studied the content. He needed a lock pick set. They were necessary tools for any car thief, which he was not, or for any restorer of vintage cars, which he was. The article directed the thief, or the restorer, to the driver's door lock. A total of seven discs or wafers had to be aligned before the lock could operate. Then the lock had to be turned in the right direction. It looked easy enough.
Kennet booted down. Amazing, he thought. What a marvelous compendium of information the Internet was. A boon to any thief or embezzler or fraudster or scammer – to a crook of any description. And a boon to the honest scholar. Which he was. Mostly.
He brushed his teeth. It was 11:27. He set the travel alarm for 2:27. He could hear the water splashing as it dropped from the eaves.
At 2:24 he arose and switched off the alarm. He dressed quickly in his wet suit. He opened the door and stepped out, holding his palm open to the sky.
A few raindrops moistened it. Lightning flashed, followed by a rumble. The motel windows were dark. He stepped back inside. He rummaged under the sink and extracted a large black plastic garbage bag. He had neglected to bring rain gear this trip. He fashioned two armholes and a neck hole and slipped the bag over his head. The bag disguised his body outline. The last thing he wanted was a report of a ninja marauder prowling the streets of Beardmore after midnight.
From the truck he retrieved the lock pick set he kept in the console. He found a dark ball cap in the back seat and jammed it on his head. He sensed a misty rain on his face. The sky was pitch black. He walked wide of the security light at the office. It was rather a pointless manoeuvre because he had to walk, fully exposed, under a streetlight as he found the walking trail and headed east over the tracks. As he approached the line of houses, a dog started barking furiously, but it was reacting to other marauders. He stood still, cocking an ear to the distant sound of a pack of hunting wolves.
The Fleming homestead stood dark. The nose of the Dodge Ram 3500 faced the garage. He would have to work with his back to the house.
He hoped that the Flemings slept soundly.
He removed a small tool from his lock pick set, a small rigid tension tool that he had manufactured himself from a piece of steel. It looked like a very tiny old-fashioned hand crank. Before electric starters became de rigueur, car operators had had to crank their engines by hand. His back to the darkened house, he inserted the tool into the very bottom of the lock. Holding it with his left hand, he pressed gently to the rear of the truck. He operated by touch, not willing to risk a light, even if he had had
one.
With his right hand he inserted another steel tool, a pick, with the pick facing down. He pushed it all the way in. He pressed it gently downwards, and withdrew it steadily. He re-inserted the pick with the pick facing up, and pushed it all the way in. Applying a gentle pressure he withdrew it steadily. According to the instructions the inner mechanism should have
rotated. He had heard no clicking. With the tension tool still in place, he inserted the pick again, pick facing up, and repeated the procedure. He heard the inner plug of the lock rotating. He removed both tools and glanced toward the house. Silence and darkness. He pocketed the tools.
The rain picked up. He squeezed the door handle release and slowly opened the driver's door. The cab light popped on. He glanced around. No reaction from the house. He opened the door wide. He pressed the button to electronically open all the doors, and then opened the rear door and climbed quietly in and fumbled for the lever to release the back of the bench seat. Half the seat folded forward. In the dim recess he felt around until he identified three encased long guns. He extracted one, carefully, and lay it on the floor of the back seat. He extracted a second one.
Behind him a light popped on. Through the truck's rain-streaked glass
he saw that someone had switched on a light on the ground floor of the
house. Judging by the size of the window, someone was utilizing the bathroom. There was a tremendous lightning flash, followed by a roll of thunder. The sound-and-light show, he thought, might prompt somebody to peer out a window.
Kennet snapped the rear seat back, grabbed the two gun cases, and stepped down. He closed the rear door, and clutching the cases with his right hand, hit the lock switch on the front door with his left hand and closed the door carefully. The cab light went out.
As he crept across the cinders, the heavens unleashed a downpour. He poked the two cases up under his makeshift raincoat, holding them in place with both hands. If he should encounter anyone in the darkness, he might cut an awkward figure but he would not give the impression of a walking arsenal. He took the trail west across the tracks, and once he reached Rothwell Street, behind the motel, he walked north along the road until he came to the snow machine graveyard. He pried open the door of the orange derelict and tucked the two encased guns inside out of sight.
No one would be poking around the junkyard except tourists like him. Or kids. It was Saturday, and kids might be roaming on their day off school. Okay, what was he thinking? This was summer vacation. The likelihood of kids locating the cache was slim to none. Still, there was a chance and it worried him. He had decided against stashing the loot in the Sportage in the event that the Flemings reported the theft, and the finger pointed to him. But the irony of a gang of thieves reporting a theft of their own
property might be too rich even for the Flemings. Besides, he suspected that they redressed their own wrongs. He would have to move the guns at the earliest opportunity. And implement Phase 2 of the operation.
Back in his room he stripped off his wet outfit and hung it to dry over the bathtub. The garbage bag he stuffed in his kit bag. He would not risk the chambermaid finding it. It was 3:04. He set the alarm for 7:00.
