LITMIR.BIZ

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after his own place. Besides, he ain’t here all that much.” She slammed the glass back onto the coaster. “Look, I answered enough of your fuckin’ questions. Give me the money and go.”

      I made an obvious display of fingering the envelope in my pocket. “Feels like a lot of money in here. How do I know you’re going to give it to Pierre?”

      She clenched her thin lips together and glared at me.

      “Where’d he get this money from anyway?”

      “He earned it, okay?”

      “Curious it’s cash and not a cheque. Makes one wonder about the kind of job, doesn’t it?”

      She glowered over the top of the glass. But she didn’t need to answer. I was beginning to have my suspicions.

      I continued, “Seems strange he’d work for free clearing trails for a ski marathon that has nothing to do with him. Did he have any other reason for being on Migiskan Band lands?”

      “He likes the bush.” She jutted out her chin as if to say “so there.”

      “What was Chantal’s excuse? Tree hugging?” I asked sarcastically.

      Her lips remained clenched, but her jaw worked up and down as she chewed on her gum.

      “Why didn’t you join them? Taking a chance, weren’t you, leaving her alone with your boyfriend?”

      She smacked her gum. “Wuz workin’. Look, I ain’t gonna answer any more of your questions.” She stood up and held out her hand. “Give me my money.”

      The stubborn set of her jaw told me there was no point in pushing her further. As it was, I would be leaving with considerably more knowledge about Pierre and Chantal, and her for that matter, than I’d arrived with. And not all of it had come directly from this contrary young woman.

      Holding the phony envelope in my hand, I walked over to the door to put my boots on. As I bent down to tie the laces, I noticed, hanging from a hook on the wall, a motorcycle helmet partially hidden by a black leather jacket. It was black, with flames painted on the sides. Almost, I thought. The only difference between this helmet and the one John-Joe had described was the colour of the flames. These ones were orange. Still, that didn’t mean there wasn’t another helmet, one with yellow flames hidden elsewhere in this apartment.

      “Who’s the biker? You or Pierre?” Instead of answering, she snatched the envelope from my hand. While she struggled to open it, I ran down the stairs with my bootlaces still untied. I tripped on them and fell against a yellow VW parked next to my truck. As I pushed myself off its shiny trunk, I heard her screech, “You bitch!” followed by a few choice French-Canadian swear words. I drove off feeling rather pleased with the success of my venture.

      twenty

      I arrived home in a light snowfall, half expecting my truck’s headlights to shine on John-Joe’s lanky shape. I said “expecting”. It was more like hoping that he’d managed to elude police and had come seeking sanctuary. Still, my hope was only halfhearted, for I wasn’t sure if I could go completely against my Sunday school upbringing and commit what was effectively a criminal act. But I was saved from having to make the decision. He wasn’t waiting in the shelter of the verandah, nor did he answer my repeated shouts. And the undisturbed snow confirmed that he hadn’t arrived, then taken off upon finding the house empty.

      A call to Tommy told me John-Joe was still on the run. But more than fifteen hours had passed since his escape, more than enough time to cover the thirty-odd kilometre distance from Somerset. Although the possibility of his coming hadn’t completely disappeared, I figured it was more than likely he’d already found haven on the Migiskan Reserve.

      I didn’t want to think of the alternative, especially with the increased intensity of the snow pelting against the kitchen window. It promised to be a long, cold night. Not a time to be without shelter, even if you had been brought up to survive in the bush.

      * * *

      In the morning, the blurred white outside my window did little to diminish my worry. The blizzard had dumped another twenty-five centimetres overnight and didn’t look to be stopping any time soon. The thermometer read minus fifteen Celsius, which by normal standards wasn’t especially frigid, but could be deathly cold for someone dressed only in prison clothes. I left a message on Tommy’s answering machine asking him to call back with the latest on John-Joe. Despite the fact that Eric hadn’t bothered to return my calls of the day before, I was worried enough about John-Joe to try him again. I even called his home. With a mixed sense of relief, I heard his answering machine click in.

      Tommy was the first to return my call. “No word, yet,” he said. “John-Joe’s tough, spent many a winter on his father’s trap line. But unless he was able to get himself proper clothing, he’d be hard pressed to keep warm.”

      “Do you think he could be hiding out on the reserve?”

      “If he is, no one’s telling me.”

      “Is that so surprising? They’d be worried that you, as his lawyer, would be obligated to turn him in.”

      “True. Why don’t you call Eric and see what you can learn?” He paused, as if debating his next sentence. “If I don’t hear from you any more on this topic, I’ll take it he’s safe, okay? Last thing I want is my friend to freeze to death.”

      “I understand. Are there any other developments?”

      “Yes, an important one. It looks as if John-Joe’s story might have some truth to it. Tests reveal the presence of gamma hydroxybutyrate, otherwise known as GHB, in the scotch. It’s commonly used in date rape situations to knock out the rape victim. Leaves her with no memory of the incident.”

      “But Chantal wasn’t raped, was she?”

      “Hard to tell. The coroner’s report reveals the presence of semen, but because of the damage done to her genital area, the pathologist cannot prove rape.”

      “But surely John-Joe wouldn’t have raped her. There was no need. I’m sure she was more than willing. Besides, he was knocked out by the drug, too.”

      “Unfortunately, there is only his word for it. Even if he were to be tested now, it’s too late. This type of drug metabolizes very quickly into the body, leaving no trace. That’s why the tox report on Chantal didn’t reveal anything.”

      “And I guess that’s why the killer used it. But at least the scotch proves it was used.”

      “But it can also point to John-Joe being the perpetrator. The police are already considering this angle. They’ve asked for a DNA sample. If the semen proves to be his, as it no doubt will be, since he admits the purpose of the rendezvous was sex, they will say he gave her the drug in order to rape her, things got out of hand and he killed her. Without evidence to the contrary, it’s going to be difficult to prove otherwise.”

      I groaned. Tommy’s theory sounded just too plausible. “But he was the one who brought up the possibility of being drugged. Why bring it up, if he did it?”

      “To mislead the police. Remember, he could’ve drunk the drugged scotch after the murder.”

      “No. I refuse to believe that of John-Joe. It requires a degree of cold, premeditated reasoning. At no time in my dealings with him have I seen anything other than genuine shock and distress at her murder. Besides, whose side are you on?”

      “You forget, as his defense lawyer, I have to look at all possibilities.”

      A sudden thump from the front of the house startled me. “Can you hold the line a minute, Tommy?”

      I hurried to the front door, expecting to see John-Joe’s snow-encrusted head, but saw only empty white. I stepped out into the penetrating cold of the verandah.

      “John-Joe, you there?” I shouted into the storm’s relentless stream of snow. But only the wind-whipped trees answered.

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