A Little R and R, Chapter 3

The experimental collaboration with J.F. Juzwick continues in this post with chapter 3 of A Little R and R. To read chapters 1 and 2 click the links below.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2


A LITTLE R AND R

CHAPTER 3

I could hardly believe that I was more or less back where I started. Alone, isolated and with just George's shot gun for company the cabin did not feel like a great place to be.

On the plus side the storm had passed and George's SUV had made quick work of clearing the fallen tree off the track during the journey back from the scene of Slick's demise. Lifting up the telephone handset and immediately hearing the tone confirmed that service had been resumed. However, my sorry looking drowned cell remained inoperable.

I stood outside the cabin's front door and took in the surroundings. A blustery wind made me shiver as I looked through the break in the trees where the track entered the clearing. In the far distance beyond an expanse of pine forest I could see down to the coast, the straits and the mainland beyond. The ferry, a distant toy boat surrounded by waves capped with white horses, was sailing away from Snug Cove. Beyond the ferry I could see another vessel, perhaps something military, on a different course but it was too far away to make out any meaningful detail.

Although the sky had cleared to reveal a cloudless blue I was in shade and quickly driven back indoors by the cold. I found myself drawn to the utility room off the kitchen. The loose panel in the ceiling looked the same as I had left it. Once again two fingers easily prised it free. This time, however, there was no package taped to the rafter.

I sat down in the swivel chair by George's desk. It wasn't yet midday but I decided not to be precious about whether it was too early to help myself to the Jack Daniels.

Had I imagined the bizarre phone conversation? Did the cocaine really exist? I was beginning to feel like the previous night was all a bad dream. The sequence of events played out in my mind like a film. "Come on Frank, pull yourself together," I said out loud. It was all real and I knew I was in serious danger. Whether George was involved or not someone had killed Slick. Whatever it was the petty thief had known it would be safe to assume the killer would not want to take any chances on me knowing too much as well.

There seemed to be just two logical possibilities in relation to the whereabouts of the coke. Either the killer had made it to the cabin and recovered it while my brother and I were busy with the police or George had sneaked it out in front of me. As I mulled this over I opened a desk drawer. I wasn't looking for anything in particular but it felt like I needed to get to know George a little better. There, in a neat row, was a series of ring binder folders. Identical, they each had the imprint of the Bank of Montreal on the spine. I guessed they contained statements. Why did he keep them at his vacation retreat? If I knew George half as well as I thought I did the most recent would be the furthest to the right. Sure enough, on turning to the last page I found the latest balance in a savings account. It was in excess of a million Canadian dollars. Not bad for a career civil servant. Perhaps I didn't know my brother at all.

On the wall above the desk were a number of photos. They were mostly of yachts. George has a big thing for messing about on the water. Off towards one side at the top was a picture that grabbed my attention. It appeared to be of a hunting party. All told there were a dozen people in the shot. A little separate to the main group three people stood together. The two guys were recognisably George and Danny. The third was a woman. She was about the same age as George and good looking. Could this be Janine? She and Danny were facing the camera. George was staring at her.

Further along the wall there was another small picture. This one had just the three of them together, all smiling at the camera. George and Danny were dressed in their Coastguard gear. The female was in the uniform of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.

The desktop was tidy, just as you would expect with George. Lined up at the back were some neatly labelled box files. I opened the one marked 'Maps'. It was immediately apparent George kept a comprehensive selection covering British Columbia. Spreading a topographical chart of Bowen Island on the desk I studied my location. I was grateful to George for marking his own cabin with a highlighter. Using the same pen he had also traced a meandering path down through the woods from the cabin to the coast. It went in more or less the opposite direction to Snug Cove and seemed to terminate at a small inlet about five miles away. The presence of a jetty was marked. I couldn't rationalise why but I felt my PI's radar pointing in that direction.

My thoughts turned back to the killer. If he had made a mistake when hitting Slick he would quickly realise. I knew I was a sitting duck at the cabin. If I had to be a target I preferred to be of the moving variety. Time, I decided, to get some kit together and make another move.

I didn't want to get lost in the woods again. The vehicular access track was the only way back to the ferry terminal. It would be easy for someone to lie in wait in the trees and pick me off somewhere between the cabin and Snug Cove. The only other option was the path to the inlet. I decided to take the gamble that the killer was working alone and would not risk me getting away via the main track because he was covering that path.

Two hours or so later I was at sea level and approaching the inlet. The walk downhill from the cabin had been uneventful. I might even have felt it had been a pleasure but for fretting about George. Inexorably, I was running out of excuses or innocent explanations as to why he had become embroiled in something that was both big and very wrong.

In the lee of the hillside the inlet was sheltered from the bitter wind. As I emerged from the trees the view was initially obscured by a large boat house. As the angle changed I could see the jetty jutting out into the dappled water. There was a yacht moored on the landward side. I'm no expert but I estimated it must have been at least 30 feet long and looked both new and expensive. This was unexpected. Taking the shot gun off my shoulder I approached cautiously.

The boat house was locked up. I looked through a dusty window. From the little light that penetrated it seemed there was no sign of life.

I carried on down the jetty to where the yacht was moored. There was no indication that anyone was aboard. I stepped over the safety wire and on to the deck. Having clambered down into the cockpit I then tried the door to the saloon. It was unlocked. Inside I flipped a light switch. The 12 volts circuit was working. A charged leisure battery meant the yacht had seen recent use but, I surmised, surely not during the storm.

This could be my means to slip away from Bowen Island unseen but first, I decided, I needed to check it out thoroughly. I went to the forward cabin. The two bunks in the bow were covered by a mess of sails. Whoever had berthed the boat had seemingly dropped them down through the deck hatch and not bothered to put them away. I pulled the sails into the saloon and lifted the cushions off one of the bunks. In the stowage underneath there were a dozen football sized packages. The similarity to the one I had found secreted in the cabin was striking. I had no doubt about what they must contain.

There had been no real attempt to conceal the cocaine on the yacht. The person who put them there was not expecting the attention of the authorities. If George was involved with the transportation of cocaine did he see himself as having some kind of immunity from the police or Coastguard when at sea? How could my own brother have access to an expensive boat without me knowing about it? Probably, I thought, for the same reason I was not aware of his millionaire status.

Were there more drugs on board? I searched the storage in the saloon. There was nothing out of the ordinary. I ducked down into the low corridor that passed under the cockpit and made my way into the aft cabin. In the dim natural light entering through two small portholes I could see there was a double bunk with a pile of bedding on it.

I flicked the light on. There was more than just untidy bedding. A body was stretched out diagonally across the large bunk and partially concealed by a duvet. The face wasn't visible because the head was pitched back over the edge furthest from me. With deepening foreboding I moved round the perimeter of the bunk. As the angle changed I could see the chest and abdomen were a complete mess. It looked like both barrels of a shotgun had been discharged at close quarters. I carried on to where I could see the head. My recognition of the face was certain. It was Danny.

Back out on deck I strove to keep it together as I gasped in the fresh air. I thought I was going to be sick and held on to a railing as I looked down at the water. The distinctive thrum of a powerful diesel engine penetrated my consciousness. I turned my head and saw a Coastguard cutter rounding the entrance to the inlet.

My first thought was that George may be on board. I then realised that if he wasn't my situation did not look so great. I was standing on the deck of a yacht containing a large quantity of cocaine and a dead Coast Guard officer. Bearing in mind the nature of Danny's wounds, George's shot gun suddenly felt very heavy.