Devil's Chair

By G. R. Daniels

Graham Carde points his camera at Devil's Chair Island and watches as a murder by drowning seems to take place. But when Carde tries to report the killing, conservation offices and police want no part of his story. Carde is a former soldier and helicopter pilot and a current hunter, fisherman and caretaker of a luxurious island house in a stretch of Canada's cottage country. He's also a stubborn, curious and resourceful man with a Mountie as a girlfriend.
What's going on at Devil's Chair Island and other parts of a remote park on the northern shore of Lake Superior? Did he see a cult-style murder? Why is part of this giant park under the control of a gang of racists from the United States? When Carde tries to find out, he opens a can of snakes with guns. The action is often, the answers are fascinating and the tale is a thrill to read.
Devil's Chair is the fourth novel in the Crisis Series by G. R. Daniels. The series begins with The Russian Crisis, a free book at Smashwords, Barnes & Noble and other online publishers.
The Russian Crisis introduces Jackson Phillips, a former general, spy and founder of a military software company in Toronto. Phillips has retired to Shield Island on Ontario's Georgian Bay, part of the Great Lakes chain. He's called back to take over his company after the theft of source code of some of the most advanced military software in the world. To rescue his company from the crisis, Phillips has to deal with his hand-picked successor, a CEO who isn't interested in finding the executive that made off with the code. Phillips has to beat the Russian GRU to the prize before they can buy the code from the mysterious thief known only as The Voice.
Phillips and his colleagues have to protect themselves and the company from other attackers and demonstrators threatening to bring down Jackson Phillips Incorporated and the man himself. Can Phillips win against adversaries on all sides?
The second book in the Crisis Series is Crisis In The Cold. Jackson is at his cottage on Shield Island when he sees the body of a man on the ice just metres from his home. He calls the RCMP, the famed Mounties, who have this military supplier on their special protection list. But the man on the ice becomes a very personal matter for Jackson and his company. The dead man is a CIA agent. That leads Jackson to a Chinese assassin with a surprising assignment. And that takes Jackson and the reader to an intricate plot involving a vengeful GRU captain and another attack on Jackson Phillips Incorporated. The action is even hotter in Crisis In The Cold.
The third book in the Crisis Series is Double Down Deadly. Graham Carde and his Mountie girlfriend Marion Hartz come into their own as strong characters in this thrilling story. Graham is, nominally, the caretaker and housekeeper of Jackson's large and swank cottage on Georgian Bay. A former soldier, pilot, short order cook and current hunting and fishing guide, Carde needs all his skills as he is dragged into several life-threatening crises. His story begins with an attempt on his life by a mystery diver trying to recover sniper rifles from the depths of the bay. Then Carde and Marion face dangers as they come to the aid of a hotel-keeper whose bayside resort is under attack.
Why would a Mexican cartel want a patch of land in Canada's cottage country? What has a factory in Toronto got to do with a U.S. smuggling operation? Why is a housekeeper facing men with guns as he tries to keep out of the way of the RCMP and keep on his girlfriend's good side? Doubled Down Deadly really does double down the thrills and suspense that are hallmarks of the Crisis Series. Devil's Chair is a great addition to an absorbing series.. Read the whole series, The Russian Crisis, Crisis In The Cold, Doubled Down Deadly and Devil's Chair. Jackson and Carde are Canadian heroes you should get to know.

• Language: English
• Publisher: G. R. Daniels
• Release date: Feb 4, 2019
• ISBN: 9781999486730

G. R. Daniels

G. R. Daniels is the pen name of this author. He is a veteran journalist who has worked as a front-page reporter, editor, tv writer, tv on-air reporter, tv producer, radio producer, internet blogger and website writer. He also is one of the world's busiest media relations trainers and crisis consultants, working on major and one-off projects for corporations, government bodies, institutions and individuals. His popular novels offer heavy doses of action, thrills, intrigue and complex plots. They are fascinating and fun reads from someone who has been there and done that for world-wide audiences. Daniels writes often about his native Canada but also provides his readers with international stories such as Escape from Zaatari. Many readers are joining the growing audience for Daniels' exciting and absorbing novels. Become one and write a review for this outstanding author's works.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

The man was lifted by his arms from the canoe by two others who had paddled the craft until it grounded in the shallow water. His hands were bound behind him and he shuffled as the men pulled him toward the waiting group. There were two women and three more men standing in the shadow of the rough pinnacle that formed a side of the islet. One man was taller than the rest, his bald head gleaming in the August sun. He raised his arms as the prisoner was brought before him.

One of the captors spoke for perhaps a minute. The other then made a brief comment. The tall man raised his arms over his head and he shouted something unintelligible. The prisoner's knees weakened and he would have collapsed but for the men who held him up. When the prisoner recovered enough to stand on his own, he was released. It looked like his legs were tied together too.

One of the women stepped forward with what looked like a tool belt in her hands. She fastened it around the prisoner with a buckle as the others held him still. The belt sagged heavily around the man's waist as if it were weighted. She clipped or tied a rope to the belt and retained a loop of the rope.

The two women and four of the five men formed an arc while the bald man remained in his place. The human arc began to push the prisoner through the shallow water away from the rock pinnacle. The prisoner tried to struggle against his bonds and to resist those pushing him backward. Inexorably, he was forced across the islet.

The arc pushed until, suddenly, the prisoner, with a brief scream, disappeared as if he had dropped into a hole. The arc of people turned and walked slowly back through the shallow water to the bald man standing tall against the dark brown rock of the Devils’ Chair. The woman with the rope played it out behind her as it grew taut.

A half hour before the sinister scene played out, Graham Carde had lain on the ground just inside the tree line bordering a short stretch of sand beach on Lake Superior. He had rested the 300 mm lens of his Nikon D850 digital camera on a mini-tripod to wait for a cow moose and calf he had glimpsed earlier to come to drink the cold water from the lake. It was 3 p.m. and the sun was beginning to lose some of the heat it had been blasting down for most of the day. Anyone who thought Canada was a cold country should come north at the end of August, Carde thought to himself.

Movement to his left had caught his eye. There were three kayaks - a double and a single - and a canoe closing in on a small islet that was part of Devil’s Chair Island about a hundred metres across the water from his hide on the shore of Cape Gargantua.

Graham liked this spot because of the view of the unique island. The north end of Devil’s Chair Island rose from this largest of the Great Lakes like a tiny volcano. Separated from the forested part of the island by a strip of water, the top of this conical structure looked like a volcanic peak. It had been round and hollow eons ago but had eroded until only two sides of the cone remained above water.

The bottom of the cone was covered by water only a few centimetres deep. Although this feature of Devil’s Chair was bounded on several sides by the deep waters of the lake that remained frigid all year, the shallow water within the cone was heated by the sun to above body temperature. One could step out of a boat into a spa. 'Indians' had been doing this for thousands of years, leaving tobacco behind in a niche of the chair-like pinnacle of rock as offerings to spirits.

Carde had quickly considered his options after watching the scene begin to unfold. He had assumed, originally, that the kayaks and the canoe were occupied by tourists coming to see the unusual island. It was a publicized feature of Lake Superior Provincial Park, one of a number of large parks along the shores of the Great Lakes. There weren’t that many tourists since Devil’s Chair Island was far from any roads and accessible only with a boat in the remote northeastern region of the biggest Great Lake.

When Carde saw, through his long lens, the unfolding of the bizarre tableau, he thought of his gun, left a few metres away in the pup tent at his campsite. But, the firearm was a Mossberg Shockwave Raptor, a short shotgun carried only to frighten off aggressive bears. It was useless at long range and, if the people in those boats were armed, firing the shotgun would only bring attention and possibly death to Carde as well as to the hapless prisoner.

Carde knew what had happened to the man who had vanished. The arc of people had pushed him off the islet into at least ten metres of frigid water. He would drown in minutes in water that remained near freezing through the year. Carde had capsized his kayak in those waters several times and knew the agonizing burning of his skin as he was plunged into that unforgiving lake. His hands had not been bound and he hadn’t been wearing a weighted belt and escaped hyperthermia only by quick action in each case.

Carde had been taking photos as fast as he could and switched to video near the end of the episode. With his lens, he could fill the frame with the arc of killers and their bald leader in his rocky setting.

As he watched the people climb back into their respective craft, he noticed another boat. It was much farther away, in a passage called Tugboat Channel between the much larger Hursley Island and the mainland. It was a green bowrider moving at a good clip toward Devil’s Island. Carde hoped it was a Ministry of Natural Resources and Forestry patrol boat.

The motorboat approached the paddlers without hesitation, slowing to avoid rocking the kayaks and the canoe moving together just off the islet. Through his lens, Carde watched as two men in the bowrider waved to the bald man in the single person kayak. A woman in the rear seat of a double kayak handed the end of the loop of rope to the passenger in the bowrider. Carde could only assume the other end was tied to the drowned man. The bowrider left the paddlers and headed away at slow speed. As Carde kept watch, the bowrider rounded the end of the island and made for the open lake beyond as the paddlers made their ways toward Tugboat Channel.

In a few minutes, Carde had the area to himself again. As he lay still, thinking about what he had witnessed, the cow moose and her calf wandered out of the forest only ten metres down the stretch of beach. They drank lake water. Carde took several shots with his Nikon as he struggled with his thoughts.

CHAPTER TWO

Graham Carde had no boat for this trip to Cape Gargantua. He intended to shoot animals in their natural habitat with a camera, not a rifle or bow. A skilled hunter, he had tired of killing animals and of guiding hunters who were turning out to be, more and more, self-absorbed trophy hunters with no concept of conservation. He had long been a catch-and-release fisherman and would guide only for those who shared this technique.

Carde had hiked to the beach from the dirt parking lot near Gargantua Harbour. He could have parked at Warp Bay nearer to Devil’s Chair but planning to visit the harbour on the way back to his truck. Carde had also intended to hike farther north over the next couple of days, up to Old Woman Bay, another favorite spot in the park. He would hitch a ride down Highway 17 back to Gargantua Road, into Gargantua Harbour, back to his truck and be back on Georgian Bay, seven hours south, in time for the weekend. By that time, his camera’s battery packs would need recharging and he would need a rest from his wilderness foray.

Carde was a former military and government helicopter pilot, short order cook, hunting and fishing guide and housekeeper. His last job he considered his best. He was the keeper of a huge, luxurious cottage on Shield Island owned entirely by Jackson Phillips. Phillips was founder and CEO of Jackson Phillips Inc., a leading military software company.

But Graham Carde had become much more than a caretaker for Phillips. The two had become close friends. Carde not only cleaned and maintained the cottage for Phillips, he operated the hi-tech security system for the cottage, the island and the surrounding waters. He took an active part in defending Phillips and the property from enemies that had included Russian and Chinese agents and criminals. Recently, Carde had worked with his RCMP girlfriend and Phillips’ security team to keep Mexican gangsters out of Canada. Housekeeping wasn’t just vacuuming and dusting.

Carde’s plans had changed dramatically. He packed up and hiked directly back to the parking lot near Gargantua Harbour. He looked for conservation officers throughout his hike but saw none. He stored his gear in his pickup truck. He took out his cellphone and called his girlfriend, Inspector Marion Hartz. She took his call at her desk in Toronto where she ran a team specially formed to investigate gangs moving into Canada from abroad. The team had been formed to counter Mexican cartel activity but was now looking at a variety of threats including ones from Central and South America, Russia, China, eastern Europe and other hotbeds of crime and espionage.

He told Marion what he had witnessed on Devil’s Chair Island. He sent her some of his digital images including closeups of the bald-headed man he assumed was leader of the group of killers.

I don’t have any idea of whether this is in your wheelhouse, he told Marion. If not, you can pass it on. You have those Ontario Provincial Police members on your team, don't you? Carde knew Marion’s team was made up of RCMP officers, the famous 'Mounties', as well as OPP and Toronto Police Department officers.

Yep, said Marion. Got a couple of OPP girls and a guy. They are great people. You’d like them, Carde. She hesitated for a moment. Uh, maybe not in this context… After a pause, Marion said, I’ll brief them and get back to you in a couple of hours.

Carde chuckled despite the gravity of the situation. There’s also the Ministry of Natural Resources COs. Carde had worked for the ministry in a previous life as a chopper pilot helping to fight forest fires. Injuries he received in a crash during a fire ended that career but he still knew conservation officers charged with managing areas like Lake Superior Provincial Park. Maybe I can reach some of them.

Leave it to us, Carde, Marion told him. She had had this conversation with Graham before. He didn’t like taking orders or taking a back seat. Let the OPP have the first crack. The response was a quiet grunt which meant nothing. Marion frowned; then she grinned.

Carde’s next call was to Miles Townsend whose number was in the smartphone's long Contact list. Miles was a Conservation Officer with the natural resources ministry. Hey, Miles, it’s Carde. The two had been friends since Carde’s days with the ministry known as MNR. Townsend had supervised Carde’s rescue from the shore of a remote lake after Carde crashed his chopper on a water run while fighting a forest fire. Carde had broken both legs in the crash.

Carde. How are the sticks? Townsend asked the question about Carde’s legs every time the two talked.

Great. Good hospitals and lots of blueberries. During two days in agony waiting for the rescue team, Carde had lived on wild blueberries from bushes to which he could crawl. He had admired the fruit ever since.

And how are things in the sunny south? Townsend sounded tired but cheerful.

I’m in the north at the moment and it’s just as sunny here, said Carde.

Oh. The enthusiasm fled from Townsend’s voice. Are you in the park?

When the men had last talked by phone, only a few months before, Townsend was supervisor at Lake Superior Provincial Park. He had a staff of COs who supervised everything from limited forestry in the park to summer tourism.

Yep. I just came from Devil’s Chair. And I have something to talk to you about, Miles.

No, you don’t, Carde.

What’s wrong buddy, you sound pretty down.

Townsend took an audible breath. I don’t want to know anything about the park, Carde. I’ve put in my papers and the last thing I need is a problem.

Carde was astonished. He had just assumed Townsend would be a conservation manager until the day he died. He had been with MNR for about thirty years by Carde’s figuring. You’re retiring?

Yes. It’s about time and I have my pension to think about so, whatever it is, you can discuss it with the new people.

Hey, Miles. It’s Graham. Your old buddy. What the hell is wrong with you? I have something serious to tell you, something that needs investigating…

I’m going Carde. You want to share a BBQ next year, you know where I live. Otherwise, take it up with someone who cares. The line was dead. Carde stared at the phone in his hand and shook in head in confusion.

Miles Townsend had his main office and home in Wawa, a small but important town a little north of Lake Superior Provincial Park. Wawa was famous for a huge statue of a Canada Goose that welcomed visitors to the place but it was a giant goose Carde wouldn’t be seeing any time soon. The conversation with his old friend had discouraged a visit to his home any time soon.

Carde was sitting in the bed of his truck in the park lot. He looked around at the vehicles in the dirt lot; there were surprisingly few. The lot was at the end of Gargantua Road, leading out to Highway 17, the highway Carde would drive for about seven hours back to his home on Georgian Bay. Carde spotted a man on the road. He was wearing a yellow and red traffic vest and was carrying a clipboard. Carde jumped down from his truck.

Hey, pal, Carde called when he neared the man. Can I ask you a question? The man looked up from his clipboard. He was in his mid-20s with a buzzcut and a short goatee style beard. His face was pale white which, given the summer sun in the park, was peculiar. Most of the white COs who worked the park in previous years had deep tans in late August. He looked at Carde with total disinterest on his face.

What?

Uh, Carde was taken aback by the unfriendly attitude. Most park workers were trained to treat tourists as friends or, at least, customers. Are there any conservation officers around?

Dunno. The man’s attention wandered back to his clipboard. The paper on the board seemed to be a questionnaire of some kind. The man used a ballpoint to enter a number on the paper.

Can you pay attention for a minute, said Carde with irritation showing in his voice. Where are the COs?

Look, fella, said the young man, now looking up at Carde with a frown. I said I don’t know anything about COs. We run this area. If you don’t like it, go screw yourself. The man turned around and began to walk away from Carde.

Don’t do that. Carde’s voice was harsh. The man turned around slowly. Don’t walk away. I have some questions.

Name. The young man’s pen hovered over the paper on his clipboard.

What? Carde demanded.

Name and address.

Why do you need my name and address to answer a simple question? Carde moved up and stood about a metre from the man. He was so close he pushed against the clipboard until the man dropped it to his side. Do you work for the MNR?

I don’t have to tell you nothing. The man in the vest was agitated now. His face had a pugnacious look. Carde noted the young man’s small, piggish eyes and saw little intelligence in them. He gave up.

Okay, forget it, Carde said in disgust. As he turned to walk away, the young man grabbed Carde’s arm with his free hand.

Hey. I need your name and address.

Carde pulled his arm away. He was angry and stared at the young man with a challenge in his eyes. That man saw something in Carde’s face and stepped back. As Carde completed his turn and walked back toward his truck, he glanced behind him. The young man in the red and yellow vest was squinting at his pickup truck and scribbling the licence plate number on the paper in his clipboard.

Who the hell was the ‘we’ the man mentioned, Carde wondered to himself. And where were the conservation officers who usually did a stellar job of running things and caring for visitors? Why was Miles Townsend packing it in? And, Carde asked himself, who’s going to investigate a murder at Devil’s Chair?

CHAPTER THREE

Sergeants Fadel Arian, Jerrica (Jerri) Meadows and Sonia Lanier were the three members of Marion’s team from the Ontario Provincial Police. Arian had been in the Barrie detachment of the OPP while Meadows served in Brantford as liaison with the Six Nations First Nations and Lanier in Ottawa. All had extensive experience in highway and community policing and Arian had handled a large number of criminal investigations. Marion told the three what Carde had told her and showed them the photos Carde had sent from his cellphone. The photos were blown up and projected on a screen in Marion’s conference room.

Why would anyone do this at Devil’s Chair? Meadows knew the area well as an avid hiker and kayaker. She spent all her free time travelling to the many larger parks in Ontario where she could explore nature and historic indigenous sites to her heart’s content. It’s a tourist attraction - a strange place for a murder.

Carde said there was a powerboat involved. From what he said, that boat could have patrolled while the dirty deed was being done, said Marion with a thoughtful look on her face. It was a green bowrider; anyone going to see the island could have been headed off and they would think it was the Ministry telling them to keep away."

Yeah, said Meadows, it’s not like there’s more than half a dozen or so people going there on a summer day. But still… She shrugged. You know, the photos suggest something bad happened but they don’t prove it. The guy is tied up and we see him dropping into the water. But, he could have come up and Carde missed it. Maybe they knew they were being watched and were playing a game on Carde."

Sergeant Arian nodded. We have to get a boat in there to see if there’s a body. Until we find one, we don’t know what happened.

Sgt. Lanier was even more skeptical. Her time in Ottawa working often with members of the bureaucracy and even some federal Cabinet ministers made her more politically sensitive than the other officers. I think we have to be very careful about this, she said. This is a provincial park and I understand there are some Indian legends about this little island. The last thing we want to do is to give a black eye to a park or disrespect First Nations history. Can we trust Graham Carde to be telling the truth?

Marion wondered if these officers were aware of her close relationship with Carde. If they didn’t know the two were a couple, they might not appreciate finding it out through the grapevine. You may not know but Graham Carde and I are, uh, dating. We’ve been together for months now. I trust him completely. He has worked with the RCMP before and he is associated with a special friend of ours. I think we can be sure he saw what he saw.

The three OPP officers exchanged glances. Meadows knew who Carde was. Arian had heard rumours from friends in the Barrie Detachment. Lanier hadn’t a clue and wasn’t thrilled with the news. You’re sure this isn’t someone’s idea of a joke? She stared at Marion.

Carde can be a funny guy, Marion said with a serious look on her face. But, I can assure you he wouldn’t kid about someone being murdered.

The meeting between newly-promoted Inspector Marion Hartz and the provincial police members of her team ended with Sgt. Meadows being assigned to call OPP officers in the area of Lake Superior Provincial Park. She would ask them for information about activity on or near Devil’s Chair Island. She also would ask officers at the Wawa Detachment, near the park, first. She fully expected that small detachment to kick her request up the chain to regional headquarters. It would be a lengthy process.

What Sgt. Meadows had not expected was the reaction she received from the Wawa detachment.

The park is not a priority. Meadows had reached a senior officer in Wawa. She knew Frank O’Shane quite well from her previous assignments. He was a straight-ahead, good cop in her books. We’ll ask Regional H.Q. if they want us to take a look but I wouldn’t hold my breath, said O’Shane.

But, said Meadows with surprise in her tone, This could be a murder, Frank. We have photos…

Doesn’t matter, was the answer. I don’t care if you have a body, a gun and a signed confession, Jerri. We have been told the park is off our radar unless it has a major fire. We just don’t do criminal investigations there anymore unless a complaint comes from a credible source, not some nature photographer, slash, paparazzi.

Look, Frank. Our team can’t go in there unless we find international gang activity and that’s pretty unlikely in the middle of nowhere. Meadows’ plea was met with a guffaw from O’Shane.

Typical city talk. We get a lot of people up here in the summer…

Sorry, Frank, but you know what I mean. Why the hell can’t the OPP check something that might have happened in a provincial park, for god’s sake?

You might look at the politics, Jerri. That’s all I can tell you. I’ll kick it up the flagpole but I don’t expect anyone to salute. Gotta go. And with that, Jerri Meadows was left looking at her unresponsive cellphone.

When Meadows reported to Marion, the two women sat for a moment looking at each other. This makes no sense, Jerri, Marion said with a shake of her head. She had just been talking to Carde as he drove back to his bayside home. He had reported his run-in with a ‘security guard’ at the provincial park and the absence of MNR conservation officers where he had gone. She and Meadows mulled this information, marvelling that neither of them had received any notice of changes of jurisdiction or security arrangements in the northern part of the province.

Who the hell do we get to investigate this thing? Jerri was looking at the photo images that had been left as a slide show on Marion’s computer. Is there any way this isn’t a murder?

Marion looked at the slides as they changed on the screen. That could be a problem; he disappears into what we assume is deep, cold water. But, hell, they could be part of a polar bear club that likes to dive into freezing water. He could be doing a Houdini. You know, that old magic trick where a guy ties himself up for half an hour underwater and emerges alive and well. Unlikely, she said as she watched the slides. But you never know without taking a close look.

And, added Jerri Meadows, without a body.

CHAPTER FOUR

Carde arrived at his small cottage on the shore of Georgian Bay late in the evening. He put away his gear. He kept his shotgun and Nikon camera with him as he got back into his pickup and drove to the larger, more secure and much nicer cottage owned by his employer Jackson Phillips.

Carde had work to do at the cottage since he was its caretaker. In its more than 4,000 square feet of space there were superb furnishings, a space-age kitchen and all the trimmings. Just cleaning the huge windows looking out over the bay took Carde most of a day. Carde loved the place and usually enjoyed the work that went with it. This evening, he didn’t look forward to the next day with the same relish.

Carde’s mind kept replaying the scene on Devil’s Island.