William Bell - Fanatics

“My normally excellent judgment was undermined by your magnetic charm.”

“Hah.”

“Or it could have been the Thai stir-fry that got to me.”

“You know what? I think it’s time Mrs. Stoppini came clean. I think I need to confront her.”

“I should go with you.”

“That would help. Mrs. Stoppini likes you. But I got us into this mess.”

“Will you go back and talk to her now?”

“No hurry,” I said.

FOR THE FIRST TIME in a long while I got a good night’s sleep, and the cloudless blue sky that greeted me when I got out of bed gave me a welcome lift.

Dad was at the breakfast table when I entered the kitchen, reading the paper and drinking a cup of coffee. A bowl sticky with the streaky remains of porridge sat beside his cup. Dad made it the old-fashioned way, with real rolled oats. No instant stuff for him.

“How you can eat that glop is a mystery to me,” I greeted him.

He lowered the paper and folded it, putting it aside. “Like most things nowadays, it’s a lost art.”

“Hah.”

“Porridge is the food of the gods. It sticks to your ribs.”

“And the pot, your spoon, and anything else it comes into contact with.”

“Did I tell you the joke about the Englishman and the Scotsman arguing over the benefits of oatmeal?”

“Not this week. Interested in a grilled cheese sandwich?”

“No, thanks. By the way, my customer was very pleased with the job you did on that pine table.”

“I’m glad,” I said, searching the fridge for a block of cheddar.

“And there was a young couple in the store looking over the walnut cabinet you made. Spent twenty minutes there. They said they’d be back.”

“Let’s hope,” I replied. “I could use the money.”

I turned on the broiler and grated cheese onto two buttered baguette halves, sprinkled them with pepper, and popped them onto the broiling pan. Sitting down opposite my father, I nodded toward the newspaper.

“Anything in there about that dead guy they found up the shore a few days ago?”

Dad shook his head, then got up and topped up his coffee and tilted his head in the direction of Mom’s study. “I think she’s given up on the Herat assignment,” he said, taking his seat again.

“Really? That’s great.”

“She hasn’t actually said so, but she’s working away on something big. She told me last night. It’s very hush-hush. It could be huge-international, even. She didn’t even mention Afghanistan.”

“That’s a relief,” I replied, keeping up the pretense that I knew nothing about it. I got up and turned off the broiler, then slid my breakfast onto a plate.

“So what’s on your agenda today?” Dad asked.

“Back to the estate, I guess. More inventory to do.”

He checked the clock on the wall above the sink. “Well, I’d better skedaddle. See you later, alligator,” he said, pulling open the back door.

“Skedaddle?” I could almost hear Raphaella ask.

I HAD RUMMAGED THROUGH my brain and couldn’t come up with a good reason why Mom or I should hang on to paintballer’s cellphone. Mom had copied all the data from the cell’s memory card and backed it up, so she had call lists, messages, the whole works. We had the information. The device itself was a liability.

Being the son of a journalist I was familiar with a few cases over the past couple of years where vindictive cops had hassled uncooperative reporters with search-and-seizures, carrying off files, computers, cellphones, and anything else they thought would cause grief to men or women forced to stand by while the law combed through their lives. The spies, as Mom called the Mounties’ security branch and the Canadian Security Intelligence Service types, were worse. I wasn’t sure what progress Mom was making with her investigation or with her lawyer, but I decided on my own to get rid of the evidence, as they say in the crime movies.

But first the little electronic instrument needed to be sanitized. Wearing rubber dishwashing gloves, I took it apart and wiped down every component-battery, data card, the casing-with a mild cleaning solvent, then reassembled it before dropping it into a fresh sealable plastic bag.

I had concluded that the cell belonged to the drowned man, and that nobody in the paintballer crowd knew about it. Mom had agreed with my deduction. But just in case, why not put it back where I’d found it? Mom had thought about turning it on and waiting to find out if anyone called, but she decided that would not be wise. Phone signals could be traced or monitored. Why invite cops or spies or criminals to our house? No, if the phone was dropped back into the hole under the juniper, we’d be free of it.

I got into my jacket and helmet and fired up the Hawk, already nagged by second thoughts.

BUMPING ALONG the Swift Rapids Road-if a narrow, rock-strewn track can be called that-I followed the dust cloud thrown up by two ATVs, grateful for the rise and fall of their engine noise, like two furious bees in a can, which would make the Hawk’s low rumble less conspicuous on an otherwise quiet sunny afternoon.

After I parted with the ATVs I rode into the cool green woods and turned off on the leaf-covered path, torn up now by my panicky escape last time, and stopped a hundred metres or so from the end, just in case the paintballers had a lookout posted there. Struggling against the Hawk’s dead weight, I pushed it backwards into a patch of saplings alongside the path. I remembered to save the location on my GPS, then took off my helmet. Before calling up the waypoint for my destination I stood motionless for a short while, listening for any sign of the boys in camo, but heard only bird-song and the wind in the treetops.

It was rough going and I made slow progress, but I reached the rock outcropping after twenty minutes or so. I scanned the little clearing from the safety of the trees before I ventured into the open, then climbed onto the granite cap, followed the fissure to the juniper, and took the bagged cell from my pocket. To avoid any possibility of fingerprints-Mom’s caution about the cops hassling her had sunk in-I had wrapped it in a supermarket sack. Careful to touch only the sack, I dropped the sealed cell into the hole, exactly where I’d found it a few days before. I rolled up the sack and stuffed it into my pocket. Mission accomplished. I slipped back into the trees, eager to return to my motorcycle.

But once again curiosity inspired the impulsive angel on my right shoulder to nudge into my consciousness. “Why not just take a quick look at the cabin?” it whispered innocently. “Just to see if anything’s changed. Come on. It’s not far.”

True, I told myself. And I could take more photos for Mom. The more info, the more she’d be hooked by this camo-boy story.

With my stomach doing the jitters, my ears tuned to pick up the slightest human sound besides mine, every nerve tingling, I crept toward the cabin until I could make out the open space through the foliage, flooded with morning sunlight. The pile of cordwood along the cabin wall was lower now. Three three-man tents-I guessed that the leader slept apart in the cabin-stood in their places, their flies undulating in the fitful breeze that swept the clearing, the weather flaps on the front entrances tied closed. Good, I thought. The paintballers have gone off somewhere. Fire rings, one for each tent, had been set at a safe distance, each with a grate laid across the stones and a blackened tripod over it for cooking.

I got out my cell, checked that the ringer and camera flash were disabled, and snapped a couple of photos. I kept to the cover of the trees and crept farther around the perimeter of the clearing until I had a clear view of the cabin’s front, with its verandah and cracked window. The door was padlocked, the weathered frame and wall stained by fresh paintball hits. The boys had been making pretend attacks again. I shot a few more pictures.