I followed the slippery track into the forest. Despite the fallen branches and collapsing trees, the skidoo had carved a relatively straight line along what looked to be an old logging road. Although the rain had diminished to a fine drizzle, it still froze on contact. A veneer of ice coated my jacket. Even under the thickness of fleece, I could feel an icy dampness.
The trees groaned and creaked. Branches continued to snap and crash to the ground. Entire trees were beginning to topple, their root structures unable to bear the tremendous weight of the ice. Several times I found myself leaping aside as a shower of ice crystals forewarned the arrival of yet another javelin. If the dismemberment continued at this rate, little would remain of this mature forest by the time the ice melted.
I had no idea where the skidoo track was leading me. I only knew that it was taking me deeper into the bush, away from the main road and from help. Although it seemed to be veering toward the Migiskan Reserve side of the Gagnon property, I wasn’t sure whether it would intersect the ski trail, where all my troubles had begun.
It was hard to believe that little more than two weeks ago, I’d been innocently cutting a new ski trail with what I thought was your basic grumbling and not necessarily competent trail crew. Now two were dead, another in jail framed with their murder and the fourth in equal peril.
How blind and naïve I had been. Especially when I’d fallen for a guy who was a woman. Though, in hindsight, the signs were there. They should have alerted me. But I was asleep, fooled by Yves’s polished manner and fluent English, so at odds with Soeur Yvonne’s brusqueness and her thick Québécois accent. But a couple of times when Yves had been upset, he’d reverted to this thicker accent. Even Soeur Yvonne had slipped up once when she had accidentally revealed that she’d brought Yvette home from the hospital. In her rush to extricate herself from exposure, she’d spoken with a fluency I’d ignored at the time.
Another sign I’d failed to heed was the dog. Both manifestations were terrified of Sergei to the point of it being a phobia. As my excuse, I’d just assumed that they had developed the same fear because they were twins.
Perhaps I should’ve picked up on Yves’s shrinking from any real sexual contact. But the thought had never crossed my mind that he was doing it because as a woman he/she feared my reaction. I’d simply believed he was old fashioned in his dealings with women. Still Yves/Yvonne had been right to be wary. I would’ve reacted with an immediate and repugnant withdrawal, regardless of my desire not to hurt her feelings. Although I accepted that a person could be attracted to her own sex, I certainly wasn’t.
It also explained his father’s anger yesterday morning when he’d shouted at Yves to change his clothes. Papa Gagnon didn’t like his daughter pretending she was his son, which then begged the question. Where was this son, this twin of Yvonne?
The boy in those pictures existed, or at least had at the time they were taken. What did he think of his sister pretending to be him? Perhaps he’d laughed it off. Or maybe it didn’t matter because he was dead, which could explain why there were no photos of him beyond his early teen years.
Suddenly the distant sound of a rifle shot rang through the night and tore my mind back to Yvette. Without considering my own danger, I ran towards the sound. I listened for the next shot. It didn’t happen.
A hundred metres later, I stumbled into a skidoo. At first there appeared to be no reason for it to be stopped at this point, until I realized light was glistening through the tangle of a frozen birch grove. I flicked off my light and listened for the gunman.
Silence but for the groaning of the birch under the icy burden. Smoke mingled with the freezing drizzle. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness, the outline of a path shifted into view. Trying to keep the clatter of my snowshoes to a minimum, I followed it and stopped when I saw the glowing square of a window through a gap in the branches. Inside I could see an oil lamp at half-light in the centre of a table. A shadow suddenly moved across the back wall. The gunman? No. The shot had come from outside.
I tried to use the window’s light to pinpoint his location, but it only revealed an empty patch of snow. The rest of the surroundings remained cloaked in impenetrable blackness.
Half expecting the gunman to pounce out at any moment, I held the axe in readiness and continued towards the light. The silhouette of a cabin-sized structure loomed into view. Then the birch trees abruptly ended, and I found myself standing at the edge of a clearing. The path continued forward for another ten metres until it reached what looked to be a small porch jutting out from the side of the building.
Although only one window glowed with light, I could see the outlines of two other windows along the facing wall, which suggested the building was more than a simple oneroom cabin. It had at least two rooms on the main floor, and judging by the steep pitch of the roof, a second floor. Its squared timber walls, some made from logs with a width of a half metre or more, spoke of its age. I knew with certainty that I’d found the old homestead where Yvette had hidden John Joe after he’d fled from Chantal’s body.
The sudden clatter of a branch landing on the cabin’s tin roof stopped my heart. The limb slithered over the ice and dropped to the ground beside the porch with a resounding crash. I froze. Silence, then a faint groan. It came from the darkness to my right.
I gripped my axe harder as I watched the glow from the oil lamp move, as if reacting to the groan outside. It vanished from the back window, washed past the next two windows to the front, where the ground beside the porch suddenly sprang into view. It lit up the stairs and an object lying further away on the snow that made me catch my breath. A pair of old bear paw snowshoes, with one leather thong replaced by a red belt, the pair the kids had seen on the drug pusher. And the pair I’d seen near John-Joe’s shack after discovering Chantal’s body.
Another groan sounded. I caught a slight movement beyond the snowshoes. The square of yellow light shifted upwards as if seeking the source of the sound. It shimmered off what appeared to be an ice sculpture of a person sitting on a tree stump. The sculpture moved. The ice cracked. I could see only the amorphous shape of a snowmobile outfit. Yvette? No. This person was too large.
The head slowly lifted up towards the lamp. Eyes sparked. I felt the back of my neck crawl. The eyes turned towards me, and I was staring into the black orbs of Papa Gagnon.