"Can't imagine you straightening out, at least until the undertaker does it for you."
"Paula tries, but I'm never enough help and whatever do seems to make her crazy. Either I didn't do it right, or I didn't do it at the right time, or I didn't do it the way she saw me doing it in her mind before I did it."
"What about your son?"
"In Europe for a year, working at a branch of his company. Can't help with this one." Cope looked at the ceiling. The food came and Cope decided it was time to get to the point. "I'm here on assignment," he told Jag.
"Spies at the air force base?" Trenton had a big air base.
"Brighton, actually. Your turf."
"Brighton? Who did you piss off?"
"I don't know. Well, actually, there's a long list, so it could be any of them. Probably just trying to keep me out of the way until I retire."
"Next year, isn't it?"
Cope sighed. "Damn right. Going to get you taxpayers paying my retirement money. Can't hardly wait."
"I could ask you what you're looking for, but I probably don't want to know."
"Well, I don't know either." He smiled at Jag's confusion. "I'm supposed to nose around and find out if anything's going on in…." He got out a Blackberry Playbook. "Ah, yes. Popham Bay. I guess that's your territory."
"Oh yes. A long sand beach in the Park, and a few cottages facing the bay on the mainland."
"Anything suspicious?"
"Caught a couple of young guys in a car there last week. The had no booze or drugs, weren't racing, weren't guys out for a quickie, and hadn't stolen a thing."
"That's suspicious?"
Around Brighton, it is. It's not an exciting place."
"Anything on the water?"
"The usual boats, which is to say not many. Sailboats prefer the other side since it's more sheltered, and other boats find Popham a bit choppy in a wind. Pretty quiet after labor day. Sorry. Can't say if there's a fleet of Yemeni submarines cruising the bottom."
"I can hang around without raising suspicion, I guess. Just for form's sake."
"I can ask Laura. That's the woman I've been seeing. Since last week, anyway. She's renting a cottage on the shore of the bay."
Cope took out the Playbook again. "Shall I look her up?"
"Ah…"
"Well, maybe you don't want to know. Got a point there."
"Sure," Jag said, after getting as second cup of coffee. "Why not. Might as well find out the truth before it's too late. Laura Singer. Don't know any more than that. Oh. Writes poetry."
There was a moment's pause as Cope entered the information. "Does she know you write poetry, too?"
"I doubt it."
"Keeping the strange stuff for later, are we? Did she write The Minor Odyssey of Lollie Heronfeathers Singer?"
"Don't know. Why not?"
Cope peered at the tablet. "No problems in our files. Wrote a guidebook to Ontario wetlands. Didn’t sell all that well, but what do you expect. Probably doing research on UFOs in Ontario for her next book with Passion Among the Cacti Press."
"Pardon? How would you know that?"
"Didn't mention it, eh? I hear she offered the publisher a book on ghosts or UFOs or ghosts, and he asked for UFOs. Probably doing research."
"Brighton has UFOs?" Jag had stopped eating entirely.
"One reported twenty or thirty years ago out over the bay somewhere." He looked up at Jag. "Hey, the government keeps tabs on all reports of UFOs. Anybody has any real knowledge, they like to know." He saw Jag's stunned look. "I gather you didn't know about that old report. Well, it was long before you got here. She's probably trying to get enough material for the book." He smiled. "Bound to sell better than poetry. I'd have thought she'd have mentioned it to you."
"That's for sure." He paused. "She'd have done better to stick to ghosts, or treasure."
"Haunted town you got?"
"Always a few in a town like this." A pause. "Maybe they sent you to check out a UFO."
Cope gave him The Look. "How many people would I have to piss off for them to send me to check out a UFO report from twenty years ago?"
"I don’t know. How many?"
Cope thought about it. "Maybe the prime minister. Or the Queen. But I don't think I'm that important, even in the nuisance department."
"So you just hang around and look for suspicious things….."
"Should have brought a trench coat and a spy hat, so I can lurk around the street corners of Brighton."
"I'll keep you informed if I hear of anything besides ghosts."
"Well, there must be some reason they sent me here. I'd appreciate anything."
"Where you staying?"
"Ah, the cop question, of course." Cope finished his chili. "A place called the Presqu'ile Beach Motel."
"You do know it's nowhere near Presqu'ile Beach?"
"That's okay."
Jag watched Cope drive away towards Brighton. He himself had a few things to check out near Barcovan Beach before going home. As he drove the sandy back roads, he thought about things. At the end of his shift he got a call from Tammy, his ex-wife. That didn't help things much.
****
Gosport Ontario
At the marina.
Day before Button Day
Cope drove into Brighton in the afternoon, having spent a happy morning going up north as far as Warkworth then following the gravel roads south through the hills and back across the 401. He’d bought a gift for his niece in the Eclectic Mix, a Warkworth arts store and taken a few pictures of some old wooden fences and the pines on the hills. The aspens were starting to turn yellow, and the maples wouldn’t be far behind.
The winding highway into Brighton followed a creek most of the way, and Cope thought he might just like to settle in some place like that someday. Someday soon, perhaps, if his relations with the agency continued to deteriorate. Perhaps a bit later, if he lasted till his pension kicked in. and after his daughter had figured out her life and taken her kids back.
On the other hand, he could always take the option of settling on Algonquin or Ward’s Island across Toronto harbor. The place was already a hangout for ex-spooks, mostly Canadian. Your average ex-intelligence-agent would have preferred a remote cottage, or even, God forbid, the hamlet of Glen Miller, but the islands were safer, and the people there kept a close watch for strangers.
He passed the provincial police station, circled the small downtown a couple of times, then, after consulting a map, took the road towards the park.
On a weekday, and in the off season, there was no one at the gate, so he dropped money and the required self-serve form into a battered collection box and went into the park. There are some private cottages on the peninsula, as well as the park itself, so the road is maintained. But Cope saw no one except a blond guy with dreadlocks taking pictures of dead trees a ways back from the road.
He took a long look at the waters of Lake Ontario, at High Bluff Island, and at the bay between the island and the mainland. It was choppy out on the bay, with a lot of water birds bobbing on the waves. He’d once tried bird-watching, but hadn’t taken to it, finally deciding that James Audubon had had the right idea; shoot the birds, then identify them lying motionless on the kitchen table. He took a couple of pictures on his cell phone, then drove back out of the park, thinking maybe he shouldn’t have paid the entrance fee for such a little time.
Just outside the park entrance, he turned left, away from the town, following the dirt road past the town dump and along the entrances to twenty or so cottages. Most of these were separated from each other with a bit of forest, and from the bay by a high gravel mound of storm wrack. A good place to watch the water, he decided. He passed Laura’s cottage without knowing it.
Finally, about four, he checked in to the Presqu’ile Beach motel, just outside the downtown. He had a supper downtown, then resumed his wandering, eventually getting to the Harbourview Marina. There wasn’t much activity, so he sat in the car and watched th
e bay. Far out in the bay a cabin cruiser came steadily in, at no great speed. The water on this side of the peninsula was a lot calmer than over in Popham Bay. Cope loved boats, although he didn’t have one himself at the moment. He loved creeks and rivers and lakes, even puddles. Even more so since his dusty time in Afghanistan and a few other dry places.
He was only a little surprised when Jag’s patrol car came into the lot. It was possible his old friend had ways of keeping tabs on him, but it was more likely that this was just part of Jag’s usual patrol route. Someone had to check that people weren’t smuggling stuff into the country or people into the States. He flashed his lights and Jag parked the cruiser beside Cope’s Subaru.
Jag stood beside Cope’s window like he was about to make an arrest, then said,
“The movie man, shows up again; shall I hum ‘The Shadow of Your Smile?’” Jag asked. It had been a joke in Afghanistan, an Oscar-award-winning song to note the fact that Oscar Copeman hardly ever smiled when on duty, except when he killed someone. “I’ll have to make it quick, though; I’ve got a dinner date with Laura tonight. Meanwhile, can I buy you a coffee?”
“Cops gotta pay for coffee in this town?”
“It’s a tough place.”
The two sat at the back, a longstanding habit that allowed them to watch the other customers and the door. Jag also watched Cope, wondering why the man seemed so alert.
As the cabin cruiser got to the dock, one of the customers, a tall, balding man with glasses, got up and walked out of the Harbourview café, towards the boat. The tall man greeted the boat as it tied up.
Jag read the name: Serenity.
“Nice boat,” Jag said.
“Not a likely name for anybody dealing with that guy,” Cope said. “Not bloody likely.”
“Oh?”
“Special forces in Afghanistan. Get a look at the guy getting off the boat, too.”
Jag took a quick glance at the younger man, memorizing details. “Special forces, too?”
“Don’t know him,” Cope said, “but he looks like one.” He took a long sip of coffee and finished his date square. "Interesting, isn’t it? I see someone I knew, down at the marina. The old guy is a fellow named Lester Miller. American, a former SEAL who worked for the agency in Langley before getting jobs with private firms. Left about a month before you got there. He meets a guy I don’t know getting off a boat named Serenity."
“Interesting,” Jag said. “Did he see you.”
“For sure, but we pretended we didn’t know each other.”
“What do you think?” Jag tapped his fingers on the table.
“I think this assignment just got a lot more interesting.”
“I’ll see what I can find out tomorrow.”
“Thanks,” Cope said. He stayed seated, watching the boat..
Jag had just got up when Laura’s Jeep drove in. “My current interest,” he told Cope.
“Probably not a wise time to introduce us,” Cope said. “It’ll make me nervous enough if they link the two of us, let alone anybody else.” His eyes narrowed, wondering about coincidences.
Laura, it turned out, was just doing another tour of the local area, and declined Jag’s offer of an escort with sirens wailing. “See you tomorrow,” she said.
****
Chapter 4: September 16
This day is overcast, and windy..
Day before Button Day
Pine Lake
A Small, Isolated lake north of Peterborough
The shelter he’d started a couple of years before was still there, although two winters’ snows hadn’t done it any good. Not that it had been much, anyway; dry branches leaning against a couple of fallen trees, and a covering made of a green tarp, mouse holes and all, that he’d liberated from the snowmobile camp.
It would have been his second winter in the area and his first at Pine Lake, and he doubted that he’d have survived it. How he managed to survive the first winter was beyond him. Luck, perhaps.
Thomas Barrents, doctor of philosophy in philosophy knelt and studied the assemblage. A couple of tall pines creaked in the wind and leaves from aspens higher on the hill fluttered madly, but on the forest floor there was barely a whisper of wind. He didn’t know what to make of it, but then, these days, thinking wasn’t his strong suit.
Two years before he’d been hauled from the lake by float plane after an encounter with some other people on the only island in the lake. The hospital in Peterborough had pumped his stomach and told him, for Christ’s sake, to take his meds every day.
Now he took his meds every day, and the world was sane and gray, and it took a lot of effort just to think. Thoughts would form and fade off before he could get them finished. He hummed to himself sometimes, but the lyrics to the tunes usually included only a couple of lines.
And nothing bothered him, not even the white contrails from a Toronto-bound plane overhead.
There had been a time when he'd gone off his meds, and within a week he was thinking what seemed brilliant thoughts. The world was sharp, and full of colour and movement and things out to get him because of his brilliant thoughts. He'd raved about planes and their contrails spewing stuff the governments used to keep the populace happy and uncomplaining and he'd suspected every person he met of being in some plot to get him or even controlled by alien beings.
Now he was a rag doll, stumbling day to day towards dusty death, incapable of caring. For a moment that seemed all wrong, but he couldn't figure out why, and a moment later the image was gone. He opened his canteen, took three pills from his pocket, and swallowed them.
For a moment, he considered camping right there, beside the incomplete shelter. Or over across the lake, on the island. But there were too many of his own ghosts there. He realized that he didn’t want to spend another night on Pine Lake, and decided he’d portage over to Sparkler Lake and spend the night there. The aspens and maples were more colourful there, and the landscape was brighter.
He walked among the trees down to the lake where his rental canoe was tied, humming without smiling. He didn't look back.
****
Popham Bay
High Bluff Island
Day before Button Day
From the shore, they looked out over Lake Ontario to High Bluff Island. Jag pointed out the remains of the causeway that Paul Daigen had once maintained to the island. “He used his tractor to get back and forth,” Jag said, “so he didn’t mind a bit of water sloshing over the road at times. But, of course, a lot of it’s been washed away now.” He pointed. “You could probably wade most of the way, but there’s that one section you’d have to swim.” He turned to Laura. “But I presume you’d prefer the canoe.”
She nodded. “Does the park plan to rebuild the road sometime?”
Jag shook his head. “As long as it's a bird sanctuary, they want people kept off.” Then, seeing her raise her eyebrows, he added, “Up till the second week in September, anyhow. After that, boaters sometimes visit it. The water’s calm right now, so we might as well be off. Are you a good canoeist?”
“I’ll paddle stern,” she said. “It’s my expedition, after all.” She put a backpack into the canoe near the back.
Jag loaded a rather large and new picnic basket into the middle of the canoe, then slid the canoe across the gravel shore until most of it was in the lake. He got into the back of the canoe, and moved to the front, stepping around the basket. When he’d settled in, Laura shoved the boat into the water as she stepped in and sat in the rear seat.
The canoe, a big and old plastic Coleman that Jag had borrowed from a neighbour, rocked a bit in the small waves as they followed the causeway to the island. Gulls circled, screaming gull songs, and a flock of cormorants on a tree on the island watched them approach. “It’s calm enough to circle the island by canoe first, if you want,” the policeman said, not looking back.
Laura said nothing for a moment, merely looking at Jag’s back and the clouds, and squeezing her finger
s on the paddle handle. “No,” she said, “No. I think we should just get on with it. Have a picnic. See the island.” She took a deep breath.
They landed on a shingle beach not quite below the cormorant tree, as the birds, one by one, took flight. The tree and vegetation around it had been killed by the birds’ waste so they put the canoe in a little closer to the causeway. Jag made the leap to the shore, his feet noisy on the stones, as he pulled the canoe up far enough for Laura to get out. Then he dragged it up and well into the tall grass and shrubs.
He offered a hand, and she took it long enough to get up the slight rise of the shore. Beyond that, the island appeared flat, with the stone foundations of a small old building to the north, and a small copse of poplars to the south. Jag looked at Laura. "Picnic first," she said.
"There's a clear area on other side of the foundation," Jag said, "where there's a good view of Popham Bay and you can see your cottage." Laura said nothing. "Over there" – Jag pointed south – " there's a grassy area where you might see boats going by, though they'll probably be mostly lake freighters." Laura put her backpack on then moved inland.
Abruptly she stopped at a place surrounded by long grass and shrubs. "Here."
"Not much of a view."
"That's for sure. Did you bring a blanket?" she asked firmly.
"Ah, of course. Need one for a picnic. Since there are no picnic tables on the island. More comfortable that way."
After the picnic, they did a tour of the island. Jag pointed out the herd of deer keeping just out of their way. "They have no predators, except the occasional hunter sneaking in from Gosport, so they've multiplied more than the island can hold and, come February, a lot of them starve." At the southwest tip of the island, he showed her the automated lighthouse, looking more like a pile of steel barrels with a lens on top. It was surrounded by a space of flat rock with the mummified remains of birds. "A lot of birds die here in winter," he said. She didn't reply.
When they were back to the old farm foundations, she took a notebook out of her backpack, and examined the stones. She paced off distances from one corner of the foundation, and wrote something down several times.
"A lot of people have looked for Daigen's treasure, if that's what you're after," Jag said. "If anybody's found it, there's been no indication, or so I hear. But I'm not a local," he added.