Seven

A short while later, Teht’aa and I found ourselves in a line of nine people strung out in front of an impossibly dense section of forest. The underbrush was so thick, I could barely see my trail shoes, let alone the surrounding ground. Little wonder Will had been so angry at the minimal time the SQ had spent combing these woods.

Through the trees behind us, I could just make out a distant flicker of yellow police tape marking where Becky’s body had been found. But none of us had been allowed near the crime scene. In fact, the search and rescue organization had strung another line of tape further out to dissuade the more curious, including myself, from being tempted to check it out.

At Will’s instigation, their more experienced volunteers were going to redo this area allegedly searched by the Quebec police, including the shore of the beaver pond where Becky had been killed. Statistically this area closest to the crime scene was supposed to have the greatest likelihood of containing evidence. Will wanted to use proven skills to find whatever the SQ might have missed. For the same reason, he’d also insisted that the SAR people bring some divers to dredge the beaver pond, which the SQ also claimed had been done.

We amateurs had been split into ten teams that were assigned specific areas of bush radiating out from the crime scene. Our section started in a low, muddy area a good couple of hundred metres’ walk from the parking lot and seemed to stretch up an incline through a forest of mostly spruce and poplar.

We each held the long stick we’d been asked to bring, in my case a ski pole. Tehta’aa had brought the smooth maple branch once used by her grandfather as a walking stick. We were waiting for the search to begin, while our leader, Francine, an SAR volunteer, who appeared more flustered than in control, carried on an intense conversation on her walkie-talkie.

I could see Wendy chatting away with her husband in the neighbouring line. I hadn’t seen Marie-Claude or her husband on any of the teams. Just as well, in case they discovered what none of us wanted to find, their daughter’s body. But I did see her brother J.P. join Wendy’s group at the last minute amidst nervous stares and raised eyebrows at his biker leathers. However, when he’d identified himself as Fleur’s uncle, everyone relaxed. I did wonder what would happen when his brother-in-law discovered his presence.

“All right, people,” yelled our leader, replacing her walkie-talkie in her backpack. “I want you to keep your line. Walk very slowly and look only at the ground in front of you. Use your stick to move aside anything blocking your view of the ground.”

“What about them trees? I don’t got my chainsaw to cut ’em down,” someone shouted amidst nervous laughter from other members of our line.

“As you’ve already been told, walk around them and resume your place in the line,” Francine replied rather testily. “But if it’s an evergreen, carefully check the ground under the branches. I want to remind you that the second you see anything suspicious, stop and call out to let me know. And everyone else, the minute you hear the shout, you stop too. I don’t want anyone going ahead, okay?” She ran her eyes along the line as if daring us to challenge her, then yelled, “Okay, let’s go.”

As one, we started advancing slowly forward, using our sticks to move the underbrush aside. But within seconds our line became an undulating wave. The many trees and saplings made it impossible to maintain the same pace. At one point I found myself held up by a fallen branch that refused to move when I jabbed at it with my pole. When I finally dislodged it and looked up, Teht’aa and my other neighbour were a metre or more ahead.

“Okay, everyone,” Francine shouted. “Those in front stop and wait for the others to catch up.”

I inched my way forward, slashing aside a leafy clump of saplings in an attempt to see the ground.

“Hey, I think I found something,” a woman called out.

I tensed as everyone else fell silent.

“Stop,” Francine shouted as she raced to where a heavy-set woman with thick braids flopping onto her large bosom reached under a spruce bough to pick something up.

“Don’t touch it!” shrieked Francine. “Just leave it where you found it.”

The woman froze as a greyish-white object fell from her hands.

Francine knelt and examined the object and surrounding ground closely. Finally she stood up and without bothering to hide her irritation, said, “It’s a rabbit’s skull. Okay everyone. Let’s start up again.”

The chatter resumed. I even heard laughter, no doubt from the relief of knowing that the item had nothing to do with Fleur.

And so it continued for the next couple of hours. Whenever there was a sighting, everyone grew very quiet. We shuffled nervously while Francine checked it out and smiled with relief when she declared it of no interest. I felt like we were dodging bullets and prayed that none would point at Fleur.

As lunchtime approached, my hands were numb from the cold and my aching back and feet were seeking a much-needed rest. I could tell others were also feeling sore and tired. But though we’d so far found nothing, the mood wasn’t one of dejection or disappointment. Instead I felt a growing sense of hopeful optimism.

One of the grandmothers, who’d held us up on several occasions, sat down on a rock and declared she wasn’t going any further until she had some food in her. Before Francine could intercede, others also sat down. When the frazzled woman muttered, “I guess it’s lunchtime,” the rest of us joined them. “Don’t lose your place in the line,” Francine admonished. But few paid attention. We clumped around the few outcroppings of rocks to avoid sitting on the wet ground.

I found myself sharing a somewhat flattened but very hard piece of granite with Teht’aa and a woman I didn’t know who’d joined our line late.

“Jeez,” the stranger said, brushing a strand of henna-dyed hair from her deeply seamed face. “I didn’t know we were supposed to bring food.”

“Here, have some of mine.” I thrust the plastic bag I’d just removed from my pack towards her. “I made an extra sandwich.”

Her leopard-spotted fleece jacket hung loosely on her bony frame, and her jeans were soaked a good way up from her ankles. She shivered. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” I held up another bag. “I’ve got plenty.”

“Thanks.” Without further comment, she delved into the sandwich and was finished before Teht’aa and I had started ours.

“Here, have a cookie, I’ve got lots.” I thrust another bag towards her. “By the way, my name is Meg Harris, and this is my friend Teht’aa Tootootis.”

I waited for her to introduce herself, and when she didn’t, I asked, “What brings you to the search? Did you know Fleur?”

Ignoring my question, she looked at Teht’aa and said, “Dené, eh? I’m Gwich’in. Name’s Claire. Guess we come from the same neck of the woods, eh?”

“I suppose, if you can call a thousand kilometres close,” Teht’aa replied. “I’m from Fort Simpson in the Northwest Territories. You must be from somewhere in the Yukon?”

The woman lit up a cigarette before replying. “Yup, Old Crow. I guess a job brought you south, eh? Like me. That or a man.” Her chortling was quickly cut off by a bout of hoarse coughing.

“A man, actually,” Teht’aa replied. “My father. He’s band chief of the Migiskan Anishinabeg.”

“Oh.” The woman blew out a stream of smoke and eyed Eric’s daughter thoughtfully. “That’s the same reserve as the missing girl, eh?”

She reached inside her purse and brought out a slim plastic bottle containing a clear liquid. The glint in her eyes suggested it was more than water. I tensed as she uncapped the bottle and took a long swig, but I couldn’t stop my mouth from watering in hope.

“Keeps the old bod warm, eh? Want some?” She offered the bottle to Teht’aa but not to me. Teht’aa declined, while I cleared my throat and said, “Ah, if you …”

She jerked her head around and gave me a long perusal before handing the bottle over. I knew I shouldn’t. I’d been good since my fall from grace in the Arctic, but I was cold too, and tired.

I didn’t dare glance at Teht’aa as I brought the bottle to my lips. I knew she’d be angry. Since Eric was no longer a part of my life, she’d taken over his role as my watchdog. She never ordered alcohol when we went out or served it when I visited, even though I knew she liked her beer. She’d even gone so far as to check my cupboards when she thought I wasn’t looking to ensure I wasn’t harbouring a stray bottle of liquor.

But I didn’t care. The burning liquid warming up my insides felt good, very good. Vodka, my old standby, along with a bit of 7Up, a sweetness I usually didn’t like. But hey, beggars couldn’t be choosers. Just what I needed to get me through the afternoon. I took another swig and passed the bottle back to the woman.

I repeated my question. “Why are you here? Do you know Fleur?”

She turned her bloodshot gaze back to me, except she didn’t quite look me in the eye. “Yeah, she came to the Centre a couple of times.”

I was trying to figure out which centre, then I realized. “You’re talking about the Anishinabeg Welcome Centre in Ottawa, aren’t you?”

“Yup. Police already talked to me, so I can’t tell you much more than I already told them.” She passed me back the bottle.

Ignoring Teht’aa’s angry scowl, I deliberately took a long, lingering sip. “So you’re the one who saw her with Becky?”

“Yup, I saw her with that slut, but that’s gotta be a couple of months ago. That how long she been gone?”

“More or less,” Teht’aa replied. “Why did you call Becky a slut?”

“That’s what she was,” the woman snorted before taking another drag on her cigarette. “Turned tricks in the Market. Some john musta killed her.”

Teht’aa and I exchanged startled glances.

“Surely you’re not suggesting that Fleur was a prostitute, too?” I asked, not bothering to hide the incredulity in my voice. It certainly didn’t fit with my fresh-faced, girl-next-door image of Fleur.

“I dunno if she was in the game or not. Just saw her hanging out with that hooker, that’s all. But ya know what they say about birds of a feather hanging out together.”

As she passed me back the almost empty bottle, she gave me a knowing look, which left me wondering whether she was referring to the two young women, or us.

“Princess. She thought she was a goddamn princess,” Claire continued. “Had no time for the likes of us.”

She tipped up the bottle and drained it, leaving Teht’aa and me completely mystified by her strange comment.