LITMIR.BIZ

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stone.

      The soft light from the candle caressed Chantal’s still face. I tried not to look at her ravaged nakedness but couldn’t help it. Her full-breasted lushness was the Venus of every man’s dream. No wonder John-Joe was obsessed. But in death, despite the savagery of her killing, her nudity had taken on a certain artistic serenity, like a Michelangelo sculpture. I found it strange that someone who’d died by such violent means could look so peaceful in death. The stab wounds and the dried blood were but blemishes on the silky smoothness of her skin, except now its ivory colour had taken on a bluish, lifeless hue. Even the dark blots on the bed coverings appeared more like innocent stains than life-draining blood. It looked as if she’d been sick before the killing, for I noticed amongst the bloodstains a large splotch of what looked to be dried vomit. Curious.

      It was difficult to know when her last breath had left her, but, if my minimal knowledge were anything to go by, the rigidity in her limbs suggested rigor mortis had set in. Or was it possible she was frozen? At this last thought, I took comfort in realizing that both observations would suggest her death had occurred more than a few hours ago, more than sufficient time for John-Joe to be well beyond the boundaries of this region with little likelihood of returning while I waited.

      But what earthly reason would he have for killing her? He’d probably brought her to his out-of-the-way hunting camp for privacy. For some reason, he or maybe Chantal wanted to keep this tryst a secret, otherwise his apartment in the Migiskan village would’ve been a far more comfortable and accessible choice. But casual sex wasn’t usually a motive for murder, especially when both partners wanted it. Still, the vicious attack to her genitals suggested a sexual motive.

      I glanced around the small, uninsulated room searching for clues to the murder, even the weapon. The furniture, confined to the basics, included the narrow camp cot where Chantal lay and the scarred wooden table where I sat. The four mismatched chairs, two wood, one metal and the plastic one, had been neatly shoved under the table, almost as if John-Joe had tidied up before leaving. Apart from the bottle holding the candle and the Coleman lamp, the tabletop was bare, with none of the dust or dirt one would expect in such a rustic setting.

      The cooking area displayed a similar orderliness. A rusty camp stove with its lid firmly closed lay on a narrow linoleum covered counter. Glasses and other kitchen dishes and utensils were neatly stored on a set of rudimentary shelves made from upright log sections and rough pine planks. A metal basin stood propped against a counter leg with a dishtowel draped over it. Even the wastebasket was empty. So either the couple had been very circumspect with the clean-up, which seemed incredible, or, in a more likely scenario, they’d not bothered with drinking or eating and had gotten right to the point of the rendezvous.

      This room was just too tidy, too clean for a murder. Even John-Joe’s rifle was neatly stowed on a shelf, along with a box of shells. Next to it was his fishing tackle box. I didn’t see a knife or any other sharp object that could have been used to kill Chantal. I therefore assumed he had taken it with him. Unless it was lying under Chantal’s familiar pink jacket and pants, lying carelessly on the floor along with her turtleneck, skimpy black bra and panties. I’d leave that for the police to discover.

      A pair of John-Joe’s jeans hung from a hook. His orange cap with its telltale hawk feather lay on top of a wooden crate, which I immediately realized meant he and Chantal had come here after I’d seen him leaving the shack with the drugged kids yesterday. This would fix her death at some time within the last twenty-four hours.

      I continued to scan the room, relighting the Coleman lamp to provide better illumination. In its penetrating glare, I noticed something glistening partway under the bed. I walked over to discover a small plastic bag lying beside an ashtray. I was about to pick up the bag when I remembered Eric’s warning not to touch anything. Instead, I brought the lamp closer and saw a Ziploc bag similar to the ones Eric and I had found. It too was partially filled with the same dried green weed. I brought my nose close to the butts in the ashtray and smelt a faint odour of marijuana.

      It looked as if John-Joe was indeed back on drugs, and it seemed as if I might have found the reason for the couple using this isolated shack. John-Joe and Chantal had wanted to smoke grass without fear of detection. But it still didn’t provide a motive for Chantal’s murder. Marijuana was hardly the kind of drug one killed over, nor was it the kind to incite such a brutal attack.

      A sudden stomping on the stairs outside made me jerk around. Eric was back, faster than predicted. I moved to open the door and stopped when it burst open, breaking the latch. But instead of Eric’s comforting presence, John-Joe’s startled eyes stared out from under a snow-encrusted tuque, while flakes blasted through the opening behind him. Strands of long black hair that had escaped from his pony tail clung to the soaked fabric of his nylon windbreaker. His jeans were equally drenched above his frozen running shoes.

      “You found her,” he said and broke into a deep hacking cough. Stunned by his sudden appearance, I could only stare back wordlessly. I glanced out the window, hoping to see Eric returning with the police, and saw only John-Joe’s bear-paw snowshoes, one with a red strap, propped against a pine tree.

      John-Joe closed the door and walked slowly towards me. Terrified, I backed up and collided with the bed. I found myself sitting on top of Chantal. Too shocked to move, I perched on the stiff body and waited for John-Joe’s next move.

      He lifted his hand. “Please. I won’t hurt you. I’m trying to help you get up.”

      I hesitated. “I didn’t kill her.” He coughed again. I supposed it was the anguished tone of his voice, not the actual words, that made me grasp his hand. I found myself standing up, looking into his tormented face. His usual cocky assurance was gone.

      “I don’t know what to do,” he muttered. He touched her long blonde hair and ran his fingers through its looping waves. “So pretty, like a movie star.” His eyes locked on her brutalized sex, while his hands hovered above the open wounds, almost as if he wanted to close them up. “Such anger. Who could do such a thing?”

      He knelt by her bedside, his back braced with his despair. He scattered what I recognized to be tobacco around her head. Then he reached under the bed for the ashtray, dumped the contents on the floor and replaced them with more tobacco. He lit it. As the smoke wafted over her lifeless body, he closed his eyes and chanted softly in Algonquin.

      Confused by his words, this unexpected ceremony, I watched and debated what to do. I knew I should make my escape while he was distracted. I could head back down the trail in the hope of running into Eric and the police.

      But the solemnity of his actions made me hesitate. There was no violence here. No desire to harm me. And his words, voicing my own thoughts, were hardly those of a killer. So I remained standing at his side. I clutched Eric’s healing stone and felt a faint tingling warmth. Finally, he leaned forward, kissed her softly on the marble forehead and bid her goodbye in Algonquin, “Màdjàshin.” He stood up. “The harmony of her spirit has been restored.”

      I sat across the table from him. The lamp’s glare etched the torment on his face, deepened the hollowness of his cheeks, a hollowness that spoke of more than despair.

      “You’ve been sick, haven’t you?”

      Another spasm of coughing was his answer. He shivered. I suspected as much from a fever as from the cold.

      I glanced at the blanket lying partially underneath Chantal, but knew I shouldn’t move it. I removed my outer Gore-Tex jacket instead. “Here, take this. My fleece and long johns will keep me warm.”

      Not caring whether it would be destroying evidence or not, I lit a fire in the cast iron stove. When finished, I resumed my seat. “Tell me what happened.”

      He remained silent, staring at his trembling hands. Then with a deep sigh, he spoke. “She said she loved the bush, the wild animals. She never got to see any in the city. I told her I’d show her the deer that yard in the cedar swamp downstream. So I brought in supplies and waited until our last day on the trails. I figured we’d have a good couple of days to ourselves.” He twisted the beaded choker around his neck. “I was afraid she wouldn’t

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