Possible, I supposed. But it also meant that this guy was involved in drugs. And if this were the case, did it mean drugs were behind Chantal’s murder? Still, it didn’t explain the viciousness of her killing, unless of course, it was meant to hide the real motive.
It was all so confusing. Too many “if”s, “but”s and hopeful conjectures. One thing, though, I felt I could safely say; Chantal’s killer had to be either someone local or someone familiar enough with the area to be able to make his way through the confusing network of trails that crisscrossed the reserve. Either it was someone from the reserve or someone who visited it frequently, which made me wonder again about Pierre. He certainly could’ve followed John-Joe to his cabin. After several days of trail clearing, he would’ve gained enough familiarity with the network to be able to navigate them on his own. Regardless, I didn’t need a course in criminology to know that this was about as far as I could go with the information I had. I needed more. The best source was making tracks as fast as he could away from the Somerset jail and hopefully in this direction. Obviously, my problem would be easily solved if he turned up on my doorstep again. But that was unlikely. No doubt this time he would increase his chances of eluding capture by heading deep into the bush of the reserve. But to survive in these frigid temperatures, he would need a rifle, warm clothing and other supplies. The most likely source would be his own people. I dialed Eric’s number, albeit reluctantly. I figured it was more important to find John-Joe than to worry about my hurt feelings. When I didn’t reach the chief at the Band Office, I tried the Fishing Camp. In the end I was forced into doing what I’d been trying to avoid, phoning his house. As I dialed the number, I girded myself for the possibility of that woman answering again. When I did hear her voice, I was able to ask calmly if Eric was at home without revealing any of the misery that I felt.
“He’s not here,” was the clipped female reply.
“Do you know when he’ll be back?” I asked.
A pregnant pause. “Who’s this?” she asked, somewhat coldly.
“Meg, Meg Harris.”
“Oh, you. What do you want with him?”
My turn for the pregnant pause while I tried to suppress my growing rage. “Just tell him to call me, okay?” Another pause, then I asked, “By the way, who are you?”
“The only female in his life,” she said and hung up.
“You can have him,” I muttered as I banged the phone down. “Who needs Eric?” And I burst into tears. Damn him. It was true. Despite all the signs, I’d been holding on to a thread of hope that this woman wasn’t really his girlfriend. Shit. I liked him. Might even go so far as to say I loved him. I’d even had the audacity to think he cared about me, might even love me. Boy, had I been wrong.
I stomped to the kitchen intent on finding something, anything alcoholic to still my angry tears. Hoping a bottle still lingered in some forgotten, out-of-the-way spot, I rummaged through every cupboard in the kitchen and pantry, under the sink and in the broom closet without success. I was heading across the hall to search the dining room when reason finally took over. Eric wasn’t worth it. No man was. I wouldn’t let myself start down that slippery alcoholic slope and ruin my life again.
I slumped down onto the living room sofa, beside Sergei, buried my face in his soft, curly coat and wept a few last tears. I’d just have to reconcile myself to the fact that Eric had plans that didn’t include me. I’d have to forget about him. So I kept reminding myself as I got up to make myself a cup of tea.
The bird feeder outside the kitchen window had become another battleground. One tiny chickadee had managed to escape with a sunflower seed clenched in his beak, when a fury of blue and white swept down to take over his perch. Another ravenous blue jay took over another perch, while three more, secure in their dominance, lined up along the porch railing to take their turn. One brave nuthatch dared to dart in and was summarily pecked away.
The reign of the blue jay continued as I slowly sipped my tea. One after another, they whisked down onto the feeder and gulped down a hoard of seeds, only to be dislodged by another greedy jay. Then, without warning, a hairy woodpecker zoomed onto the feeder, his long pointed beak ready to remind bullies who was really king, and the jays vanished in a whirl of feathers and outraged squawks.
Serves them right, I thought. Size and numbers don’t always win out. Sometimes it pays to have a strategic advantage. But if John-Joe had any strategic advantage in his fight to stay out of jail, it was beyond my understanding. I’d just have to keep slogging away and hope I would eventually unveil some tidbit of information that would point towards his innocence.
As I continued to gaze outside, I noticed with a start a small blue and white feather stuck to the glass, where a blue jay must have flown into the window, but a quick check outside relieved my concern. The porch floor was bare. The surprised bird had managed to fly away with probably nothing worse than a sore head.
By the time I’d finished several bracing cups of tea and eaten lunch, Eric still hadn’t returned my call. I steeled myself to call him again, starting with his band office number. However, when I heard his recorded greeting, I was so discouraged that I decided not to continue the search. I really wasn’t up to speaking to that female again at his home number. I left another message.
Since it could be hours before he would return my call and even longer before I could question John-Joe, I decided to pursue another avenue, Pierre. As expected, he hadn’t responded to the message left with Thérèse. This time, when I reached her recorded voice, I left my message for her. I told her I’d be happy to deliver Pierre’s money to her. I just needed an address.
I hung around the house waiting for return calls. At one point, I went out onto the back porch past the bird feeder to get more firewood. As my foot came down onto the cold plank flooring next to the window, I heard a sudden squeak, which sounded very much like one of Sergei’s toys. But my heart stopped when instead of the toy, I saw the tiny grey body of a chickadee peaking out from under the toe of Kòkomis’s moccasin. Oh dear. I’d killed it. I reached down and gingerly picked up the feathered ball that was so soft, so weightless, it felt like nothing in my hand. It promptly gripped my fingers with its talons and shook its head. It was alive. Thank God. I carefully placed the little bird on the porch railing in the hope it would recover.
From inside, I watched for several minutes as the chickadee opened and closed its eyes, almost as if it were trying to get its bearings. Then it lifted its wings and, in one effortless motion flew away. You’re one hardy little bird, I thought. Not even a window and getting stepped on could defeat you. Still, I decided it would be best if I found a new location for the bird feeder, one far enough away from the window, but one that would still allow me to watch from inside.
I turned to housework to pass the time as I continued to wait for one of my callers to get back to me. But after a couple of hours of half-hearted effort, I gave up and took the dog for a late afternoon ski. I zipped over the long shadows cast by the setting sun, along a circuit that ranged under the heights of the red pine planted over sixty years before by Aunt Aggie. Sergei did his usual; chased squirrels, sniffed animal tracks and ran between my skis. He even managed one lucky sighting