“It’s the next right,” Lane said.
Harper coasted, then braked before turning north onto a paved and frequently-patched road. It was just wide enough for two vehicles. They climbed a hill. Snow crept down the shoulders of the peaks on their left.
Lane paid close attention to the map and directions. They took a series of turns onto progressively narrower gravel roads. He wondered how the Mounties had been able to find the camper. “There.” Lane spotted an RCMP cruiser blocking the road.
Harper pulled up to the cruiser. He parked and turned off the engine.
Pine branches brushed Lane’s door as he got out. He felt the promise of winter in the breeze coming from the north.
The RCMP officer approached them. A single braid of black hair brushed her gun belt. She asked, “You are?”
“Detectives Lane and Harper,” Harper said.
“Been expecting you. The camper’s over there.” She pointed to a trail turning left off the main road.
“Couple of guys on dirt bikes found it.”
“Thanks,” Lane said. He and Harper followed the trail for about thirty metres. Grass grew knee-high between parallel tracks of compacted earth. Above them, the trees on either side of the trail reached out to touch limbs. A squirrel chattered a warning.
They found the forensic van parked in front of a blue truck with a white camper perched on its back. Investigators looked like they were part of a Michelin Man convention, in their crime scene bunny suits and masks. One stood next to the open door of the truck. Charles’ corpse sat in the front seat. The investigator’s camera flashed, freezing the scene in Lane’s mind.
Charles’ eyes and mouth were open. His head was cocked to one side, posed in that position. Duct tape sealed the partly-open window on the passenger side. A length of flexible black plastic pipe led from the window. It wound around the side of the truck to the exhaust.
The photographer said, “Stay about five metres out when you walk around the campsite. The father’s here,” he nodded at the body, “and the daughter’s in the back.”
Harper and Lane moved around the front of the pickup. Lane noted that the windshield was starred on the passenger side. Eight cracks traveled away in different directions from the centre of the star. The detectives stayed clear of the truck and moved to the back where a single lawn chair sat facing a campfire ringed with stones. Between the fire and the camper, a picnic table sat under a blue tarp attached to the back of the camper. The stench of decomposition blended with the scent of leaves rotting on the ground. Lane concentrated on the scene and not the emotions evoked by memories of death and rot.
He saw that a recent rain had erased most of the footprints. The only fresh tracks had been made by the tires of a motorcycle. Today’s footprints were indistinct hollows left by the forensic team’s overboots. All of them wore fibre masks over their mouths and noses. One walked slowly along the edge of the clearing, studying the ground. Another walked farther out and disappeared behind a ten-metre pine tree.
Lane and Harper stood near the campfire. They turned to look in the back door of the camper. The smell of death seemed strongest here. There was an investigator inside the camper. Beside her, on the bench, was the body of the child. Blond hair, blue jeans, and sneakers. The soles of her shoes were white and the treads free of dirt. The investigator backed up, nudged one of the child’s shoes, and its heel flashed red.
The investigator turned toward them. Her eyes focused on Lane. She nodded. He returned the gesture. She extended the pinkie and thumb on her right hand, and held it to her ear to indicate she would phone him.
Lane nodded.
She turned back to the child.
Lane walked away from the scene and back down the trail to their car. He thought, This isn’t the first time you’ve seen a dead child. You survived the last one. At least this time, you’re not alone.
Harper followed in silence till they were seated inside the Chev. He started the engine. Both reached to open their windows.
Harper said, “The woman in the camper. What was that all about?”
“It’s Lisa. An old friend. We’ve worked together before. She’s going to give me a call later. I’m not sure what it’s about.” Lane could smell death on his clothing and wondered if it would wash out this time.
Five minutes later, in the university parkade, Jay’s watch beeped. He pulled his right arm from inside the
confines of his Mountain Equipment Co-Op sleeping bag and checked the time.
A car door slammed nearby and an alarm chirped. The rumble of a broken muffler echoed inside the parkade.
Jay stretched so his feet pushed against one door and nudged his head up against the other. He thought, Man, whoever designed this bench seat knew about comfort.
His work and class schedules were taped to the back of the front seat. He stuck a finger on the timetable and said, “Psychology 2:00 PM.” He thought, If I get up now, there’ll be time for a workout, shower, and lunch. He lifted his head, took a look around, then began to pull on a pair of sweatpants.
“We’ve got news about your daughter,” Lane said. He and Harper stood just inside Bobbie’s front door.
Bobbie’s face was perfectly made up; black eyeliner and eye shadow, rouge on the cheeks, and glossy-red lipstick. “My daughter? You found her! Where is my Kaylie?”
“We found her and your ex-husband in his camper.
It was west of Cochrane and near the mountains,” Lane said. Harper stood behind him.
Bobbie stood in the hallway. Her voice rose as she asked, “My daughter is okay?”
“No, she’s not,” Lane said.
“My baby’s dead?” The volume of Bobbie’s voice rose even higher.
“That’s correct,” Lane said.
Bobbie turned away, then turned back to look at Lane. She wrapped her arms around his neck and buried her face against his shoulder. “My baby! My God! My baby!”
Lane looked into the room where Cole stood in the hallway. Tears ran down his cheeks. He cried silently, never taking his eyes away from Lane.
“My baby! My God! My Kaylie!” Bobbie cried.
Lane and Harper had to carry her between them to get her to the couch.
Cole stood at least three metres away, crying and watching Lane. Tears dripped from the boy’s cheeks, forming two circles of translucent white on the front of his T-shirt.
Chapter 7
LANE WIPED A towel across his face. He inhaled the scents of soap, shampoo, and death. The light on the phone blinked red, indicating a message was waiting. He pressed the button on the left side and heard Lisa’s voice. She had two voices. He’d known both of them for more than a decade. One was a friendly, happy-golucky voice she always used around her partner, Loraine. The other was a controlled, police voice she used right now. “I’ve got preliminary information and some anomalies. Call me at home.”
Lane hung up. In the quiet, he heard the washing machine shift into spin cycle. His clothes had gone into the wash before he stepped into the shower. I’ll have to throw them away if the smell doesn’t come out, he thought. He remembered that after leaving Bobbie, he’d removed his jacket. There had been no moisture mixed in with the makeup residue on the shoulder of his jacket. Lane dialed Lisa’s number.
She answered after the third ring. “Lane?”