LITMIR.BIZ

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two mammalogists — Leslie Mitchell and Don Allenby. They didn’t do much talking while we waited for the cops, but then I suppose they were worried it was their colleague lying up there in the bush. Rightly so, it now seems. The cops took down our names and addresses and thanked us and then turfed us out. Allenby escorted them up to the campsite.”

      “That’s it then? No inquest, nothing? You don’t have to get up there and tell your grisly story and get mis-quoted in the papers and bring the top university brass down on you?”

      Martha had a running battle with the newspapers. She was convinced they all lied through their pens and hid behind their editors when the accusations started to fly.

      “They did the autopsy at the little university in Dumoine. The cops called and said there would be no inquest as it was pretty straightforward. Autopsy results concluded it was death by bear. A blow to the back of the head and neck eventually killed him. It was not a quick death, though. The rest of the mess was mauling. Case closed.”

      “Nasty way to go. Being mauled by a bear, and no one to hear your calls.” Martha shivered and then added, “It must have been one of these rogue bears that come sneaking up on decent folk and, without so much as a by-your-leave, swat them like pestering flies.”

      “That’s what the conservation guy thinks. Apparently a team of wildlife enforcers went up there to shoot the poor devil. They’re not going to trap this one and move him somewhere else, not after he’s killed a man.”

      “Damn right,” said Martha with an indignant look spreading over her face.

      “C’mon, Martha. Most black bears are more afraid of us than we are of them, but a rogue bear, one that attacks without provocation, is different. Too bad they give all black bears a bad name.”

      “Yeah, well, no one in their right mind would want a rogue bear in their backyard, and with so many crazy canoeists like you gallivanting through those woods, there’s no safe place for a rogue bear anymore. Too dangerous. Once a man-killer always a man-killer, I say.”

      I didn’t say anything. I had had a sudden unpleasant jolting in my stomach as I thought back to the open tins, the food in the campsite, the pack up the tree. I was thinking of the way the sun had fallen across the body, its rays peaceful and warm, quiet and soft, beauty in such horror. The unease was back, and I suddenly realized why. I hadn’t seen any sign of any bears in that area. I thought about the chocolate bar still in the tent and the full cans of food and drink unmarked by any teeth or claws. There should have been signs that a bear had been there. There hadn’t been: no claw marks, no garbage dragged from the campsite, no droppings, no drag marks, no signs at the mess tent or near the food pack, nothing to indicate a bear had been there except for the horror of the body. But if it had never been there, then how or where had Diamond been killed by a bear?

      I brushed the thoughts from my mind. I didn’t have time for them, and besides, it didn’t concern me, curious as it was. I glanced out the window. Students of all descriptions were flinging a Frisbee about the grassed lawn across the street. I could see the library to the west and beyond it the Ottawa River framed by a stunning electric blue sky. The city sprawled off to the right and Gatineau, Québec, lay across the river. I liked to pretend that I could make out the Eardley Escarpment where my little log cabin lay snuggled in the most beautiful of valleys within the Outaouais. Wishful thinking though. I didn’t live that close.

      “So who was this poor guy?” Martha brought me back to the present.

      “We didn’t learn anything at all up in the bush. But when we came back and the police phoned to tell me who it was and ask more questions, I did a literature search on him.”

      “You mean you actually got that old computer to work for you?” I ignored her. Martha could make the computer turn somersaults for her but I seemed to paralyze it and funny things happened. I wasn’t about to admit to Martha that I had had to ask the computer guy to help me.

      “He was a mammalogy professor at Pontiac University — a well-known and it seems well-liked mammalogist. He’s a cat man. He’s studied all the North American cats and been to Africa studying cheetahs and helped with breeding of endangered species. He was studying the Canada lynx. I ran his name through my database and it lit up like a neon light. The guy’s written dozens of papers on various mammals. Quite a wonder boy. Lectured all over the world and has written several well-reviewed books about the cats of Canada. His name crops up at least twice a month in all the major newspapers.”

      “Was he also a columnist or something?” asked Martha.

      “Actually, no. He’s at the other end of the media stick. He gets written about. He’s a real wilderness warrior. Couldn’t abide any destruction of anything natural and wild. A real hard-line environmentalist. He’s leading the fight to have logging banned up in the area around Dumoine.”

      Martha said excitedly, “You mean the guy with the black curly hair and deep sexy voice that was on all the newscasts a month or so ago?”

      I looked at the news clippings piled on top of my desk, rifled through it, and pulled out a piece with Jake Diamond’s photo and looked at the curly black hair and warm smile.

      “He’s the one who single-handedly defied the loggers, erected a barricade to stop the logging trucks, and mobilized the masses. It’s been an unpleasant and heated battle. A lot of bad words on all sides, I gather.”

      I paused, momentarily discomfited, remembering the light in Cameron’s eye as it slowly dawned on him that the body might be Diamond’s. It had been a very unpleasant moment to watch joy in another man’s eye at the mention of death. Here certainly was no friend. Leslie had been so cold, so matter-of-fact, and Don had simply been what? Upset? Horrified? No, that wasn’t it. What, then? Frightened? That was it, frightened, but for himself or someone else? Maybe he was just afraid of bears. Academic, really, but I hated it when things didn’t fit neatly. I couldn’t get the thought out of my head that something weird was happening here.

      “I gather Diamond won an injunction to stop the logging and it was overturned. They erected a barricade last month to stop the beginning of the logging. They set up a camp. Dozens of protesters, including children. There were a lot of arrests, and when the injunction was overturned, there was some sabotage of equipment so the loggers can’t start until next month and they are fuming mad. No one’s taking up his battle and the loggers are gearing up. They plan to start on the east side of Dumoine right away. The north side is slated for cutting next fall.”

      “Not a few people would have welcomed Diamond’s death,” noted Martha, echoing exactly what I had been studiously avoiding thinking.

      I looked up quickly. The words sent shivers down my spine. I shuddered, remembering our near miss. That flash of purple, was it just a figment of my imagination or had someone really tried to kill us? And if so, why? Had it had something to do with Diamond’s death?”

      But Ryan and I were still alive, and no one had tried again. It made no sense. Thank God, I had kept my suspicions to myself. No use looking stupid if you don’t have to.

      “Well, that’s all right then.” Martha’s voice brought me back with a jolt. If I keep daydreaming like this I’ll be jolted out of existence, I thought.

      “What’s all right?”

      “This bear business. All tidied up, neat as a pin; you’ve survived, case is closed, as they say, and we can move on to the important things in life such as your insects.”

      God, if only it were that simple. Martha cleared her throat, an ominous rumble. She glanced over the mess in my office, her sharp, penetrating eyes searching among the bottles and vials on the desk.

      “Surely, Cordi, this isn’t all you got then, is it?” She waved at the vials and bottles in disgust.

      I shook my head. “Everything’s up in the lab, but it doesn’t amount to even this much.” I sighed. One day’s collection salvaged from two weeks of work. If I hadn’t known just how depressing it all was, I could have read it easily from Martha’s

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