Death's Golden Whisper by R.J. Harlick

Author:R.J. Harlick
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Dundurn Press
Published: 2004-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

TWENTY-TWO

I reached the turnoff to Three Deer Point in the failing light. The deluge, which had been threatening from the moment I left Ottawa, let loose as my truck turned off the main road. With wipers on overdrive, I drove up the long twisting lane to my cottage and came to a stop as close to the side entrance as possible. I flung open the door and scrambled up the stairs to the protective cover of the verandah.

The screen door banged in the wind. Sergei emerged from the trees on the other side of the driveway. Yelping wildly, he raced through the rain towards me. All my nerve endings went into high alert.

I’d left him locked in the house.

He crashed up the stairs and flung himself at me, whining and yelping, a turmoil of flying water and black fur. I placed a firm hand on his wet back to try to calm him down.

How in hell did he get out?

With racing heart, I tiptoed along the porch towards the kitchen door with Sergei glued to my side. The door swung open at my touch. The dog started to growl. I carefully pushed the door further open and walked gingerly into the kitchen. Everything looked normal. Exactly the way I’d left it that morning, dishes stacked at the sink, newspapers scattered on the table.

Sergei growled louder, ears flat against his head. Suddenly, he pounced snarling into the living room. In the uproar, I almost missed the tinkling sound of breakage.

I raced into the room only to see the front door slam, the dog yelping furiously in its wake. Stumbling over him, I managed to pull the door open just in time to see a figure in brilliant yellow disappearing through the rain down the stairs to the dock.

Without thinking, I ran after the intruder, but by the time I reached the top of the stairs, it was too late. From below came the roar of a high-speed motor. Through the streaming curtain, I watched the retreating boat speed towards Forgotten Bay, the yellow figure a blur in the vanishing stern.

I slapped the railing in anger, then reality set in. What was I doing? This could’ve been the guy who’d tried to kill me on Whispers Island. What if I’d caught up to him?

Preferring not to dwell on the answer, I headed back through the rain to the cottage. Still, it would’ve been helpful to see his face. And then I realized there was a safer way to discover who he was. I raced inside and phoned the Fishing Camp.

John-Joe answered, and judging by the noise level in the background, he was in the bar.

I shouted above the din, “Could you please look out your window and tell me if you see anyone at the dock or approaching in a fast boat?”

“Hang on while I take a look.”

Several minutes passed. I impatiently brushed the dripping water from my eyes while I tried to ignore the growing puddle on the floor. A soggy Sergei clung to my side like a frightened child.

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