LITMIR.BIZ

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wondered how any girl could turn him down. But Chantal would’ve, for the simple reason she’d been the kind of woman who was more interested in the conquest than the relationship itself.

      “But sure enough, when I got here, she was waitin’.”

      “Are you saying she got here by herself? How could she? She didn’t know the area.”

      He shrugged. “Was no big deal. Drew her a map.”

      “But why didn’t you come together?”

      “She didn’t want to.” He shrugged again. “Said she didn’t want people knowing where she was going.”

      “You mentioned something about the last day of trail clearing. Was that the day you came?”

      John-Joe nodded yes.

      I glanced around the unusually tidy room, trying to imagine two people living here for the last five days. “Are you always this neat?”

      For the first time he seemed to notice more than Chantal’s body. As he cast his eyes around the room, his eyebrows arched with surprise.

      “What did you do with them?” he asked.

      “With what?”

      “The glasses, the bottle.”

      “Nothing. They weren’t here when I arrived.”

      “Then someone’s been here. No…wait a minute, maybe I cleaned up. I forget.”

      “When did she die?”

      He closed his eyes, swallowed hard and said, “Few hours after we arrived.”

      “What? You mean she’s been lying here dead for five days?” He didn’t bother to answer, just turned his head towards the cracked window. Snow from his woollen hat dropped onto his face, but he didn’t notice.

      “How did it happen?”

      He continued staring out at the whirling white. I waited. The flakes rasping against the window were almost a welcome distraction.

      Finally, he turned tortured eyes towards me. “I don’t know. Only remember lying beside her on the bed. I musta fallen asleep. When I woke up she was dead.”

      This was worse than I thought. “Are you telling me that you slept through a vicious stabbing taking place right beside you?” He nodded bleakly.

      “No one will believe you.” I found I barely could, and I felt I was looking at a young man who’d gone beyond lying.

      “I know, that’s why I ran.”

      “So why did you come back?’

      But his answer was stopped by the roar of skidoos.

      eleven

      Eric tramped up the stairs, followed by the bulk of Police Chief Decontie, the pencil-stick height of Corporal Whiteduck and another, much younger policeman I knew only by the name of Luke. They were three of the eight member force of the Migiskan First Nation Police Department, or the MPD , as most people called them. The blizzard had dwindled to a few floating flakes.

      “John-Joe’s here,” I said from the open door. Eric’s eyes clamped onto mine. “You okay?” Behind him, the three policemen reached for their guns. “You won’t need those,” I said. Then I heard the metallic clink of a rifle behind my back. I turned slowly around. John-Joe stood in front of the bed as if guarding Chantal’s body, his rifle pointed directly at me.

      For several agonizing seconds I stood frozen, wanting to believe he wouldn’t shoot, yet not entirely convinced. Then I felt a bolstering tingle from Eric’s rock. “Put it down, John Joe. You’ll only make things worse.”

      He stared back at me, his eyes filled with fear. Behind me, boots thudded on the outside stairs. I heard the soft click of a gun being armed.

      “Stay back,” I cried out to the men and walked slowly forward. “Please, John-Joe, put the rifle down.”

      He backed up closer to the bed. “No choice,” he whispered. “No one is gonna believe me.”

      “I do,” I said. “I’ll do all I can to prove your innocence.”

      His lips quivered. His hands gripped the rifle tighter. I felt the tension sharpen in the muffled silence of the shack.

      “Getting yourself killed won’t help Chantal. The only way is by helping the police find her killer.”

      The sound of snow sliding off the roof filled the room. I waited. I didn’t know what more to say.

      Finally, he nodded. “Okay,” he said looking into my eyes. “You believe me. I’m gonna believe you.” And he slowly bent down and placed his rifle on the floor beside where my jacket had fallen, then straightened with the determination of his decision.

      “Move away from the gun, very slowly,” shouted Chief Decontie from behind me. John-Joe stepped towards me. “No! Towards the wall,” he yelled, while Corporal Whiteduck shoved me out of the way.

      Decontie slammed John-Joe spread-eagle against the wall, searched him and, finding a bulge under his jacket, brushed it aside. Clamped to John-Joe’s belt was a leather sheath. A bone hilt proclaimed the knife’s presence. Removing a tissue from his pocket, Decontie pulled out the knife and held it to the light. All action stopped as we stared at the knife. The blade was stained. He slipped it into the plastic bag Corporal Whiteduck held out.

      The police chief frisked John-Joe again. When satisfied nothing else was concealed, he jerked John-Joe’s arms around his back and snapped on handcuffs. After reading him his rights, he charged John-Joe with the murder of Chantal. With such obvious evidence, what else could he do? Even I was beginning to wonder if I’d made a mistake in believing him innocent.

      Luke stood guard over the prisoner, while Chief Decontie checked out Chantal’s body and gave the room a once-over. He grunted at the sight of the bag of marijuana on the floor but left it where it lay. Then he instructed Corporal Whiteduck to begin taking photos.

      Turning towards Eric, the police chief said, “Patrolman Smith and I have to take J.J. back to the detachment, so I’d appreciate it if you could stay here with Corporal Whiteduck until forensics and the coroner arrive. I’m also going to need a statement from you both. So while you’re waiting, Sam can take them down. “

      “No problem,” Eric said as Luke marched John-Joe to the door.

      “Hey, wait a minute,” I cried out, scrambling for my jacket. “Put this on him. He’s sick.”

      Patrolman Smith glanced at Decontie, who reluctantly gave his approval.

      Once garbed in my jacket, John-Joe offered his thanks, then looked me in the eye. “You promise?”

      “I promise,” I replied, despite beginning to have second thoughts. He was, after all, innocent until proven guilty.

      Despite Eric’s grim expression, he voiced his support. “We’ll get the best lawyer we can find.”

      At that moment, a column of snowmobiles drove up and stopped behind Decontie’s. Several men garbed in official looking snowmobile outfits and a man in a civilian one jumped off and trudged through the deep snow towards us. As they got closer, I recognized the badges of Quebec’s provincial police, the Sûreté du Québec, or SQ as they are generally called.

      As if answering the question in my mind, Decontie said with barely concealed anger in his voice, “The SQ take over from here. They have the forensics mandate, our small force doesn’t.” Then almost as an aside, he muttered under his breath, “Especially when it comes to the murder of whites.” I watched the line of men approach. Something vaguely familiar about the first officer alerted me, when, at the top of the stairs, he removed his helmet, I groaned at the sight of the arrogant sneer of Sergeant LaFramboise. Playing on the English translation of his name, I’d taken to calling him Rotten Raspberry.

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