River Heat

By Graham MacDermott

Kyle McKinley is a former RCMP undercover cop and internationally acclaimed artist. While spending the summer at his cabin and studio on a northern New Brunswick river, a dead girl turns up on a beaver lodge with an interesting tattoo. Then, a missing hermit’s body is found on the shoreline. The investigation leads McKinley

• Language: English
• Publisher: Graham MacDermott
• Release date: Mar 10, 2020
• ISBN: 9781777126315

Book preview

Prologue

It all started when Danny Pictou was poling two American sports into a deep stillwater about twenty-five kilometres northeast of artist Kyle McKinley’s cabin. Danny saw it first. They were just floating by one of two large beaver lodges. It was mid-August and hot and humid, maybe not the best time to be fishing, but they already had some pretty good luck and wanted to get at least another hour in before they headed back to Spruce Lodge.

At first, Danny wasn’t sure what he was looking at, but as they got closer, there was no mistaking what it was.

Danny had guided for Cecil and Bunny Robertson for a long time. He was cool, calm, and level-headed, but finding the nude body of a young Asian girl hit him real hard. She was sort of wedged against the edge of the larger of the two beaver lodges, and she still looked pretty good despite the water and the heat of the day.

Danny tied the canoe off on the lodge next to the body and gently placed a blue plastic tarp that had covered their cooler and portable cook stove over the body.

Poor, dear little girl, he said, and then he took his phone from his hip pocket, opened his contact list, and pushed the number for the Milltown RCMP detachment.

Sam, he said, it’s Danny Pictou. You need to send somebody up to the Linton Stillwater. Me and two American sports just found a dead girl.

Chapter 1

Two days later and about the same time in the afternoon, it was even hotter, and Kyle McKinley was looking out at the river from the picnic table on his front lawn and thinking about his condo in south Texas. He was trying to remember when he had last replaced the hot water heater. It was a while ago, he knew that, and he just hoped it wouldn’t leak before he got back there in the late fall. Maybe he’d go with the on-demand heater — compact, efficient, and nothing to leak. Many of his neighbours were installing them, and he had heard good things. Yes, he decided that was what he was going to do.

He got up from the table and started across to his studio. Break time was over, and he had work to do. He had been working pretty steady since he arrived back on the river in late April. Just as he reached the studio door, he heard a car on the gravel driveway behind his cabin.

McKinley had built the cabin shortly after leaving the RCMP as an undercover officer in Montreal. He had damn near burned out and wanted to get as far away from outlaw biker violence, drugs, and booze as he could. Before the undercover work, he had been a sniper/observer on an Emergency Response Team. The Mounties had given him some very special and specific skills. Skills he kept well honed. But they had also cost him a wife and an angry liver. That was all a long time ago now. A long time.

He heard a car door slam just as he rounded the corner of his cabin.

Well, Corporal Sutherland, what brings you upriver?

Steve Sutherland headed the four-man RCMP detachment in Milltown. It had been his posting for the last five years, and during that time he and his team had investigated two murders and the shooting death of the killer by Sutherland’s friend Kyle McKinley. Actually, Sutherland had been 2IC for that investigation. Headquarters in Fredericton had felt he was a bit too inexperienced to deal with what had become known as the Marcel Latour affair, and Inspector Ramsey had sent one of his top officers, Staff Sergeant Marie Arsenault, up from the capital to lead the search for and capture of Latour. It could have been an uncomfortable situation for Sutherland, but he had handled it well. Arsenault had impressed everyone on the river. She had particularly impressed McKinley.

McKinley was also impressed with his friend Sutherland and was pleased to see him.

Hey, Kyle, Sutherland said as he reached out to shake McKinley’s hand, I guess maybe you heard about the body Danny Pictou and the two Americans found in Linton Pond.

McKinley and his young pal, former US Army Ranger Peter Paul, had fished that stillwater just recently. It was a favourite spot and had over the years been the inspiration for many of his paintings. He loved the look and feel of the place. He had particularly enjoyed the recent outing there with Peter, because such trips had become more infrequent than in the past. Peter had been elected chief of the Narrows Reserve not too long after he, McKinley and Marie had been responsible for the end of Marcel Latour’s wave of violent crime through eastern Canada the past summer. His duties as chief, a marriage, and then the birth of his daughter, Grace, had occupied much of Paul’s time ever since. He had enjoyed the trip to Linton Pond every bit as much as McKinley and had promised the artist they would become more frequent.

Steve, I haven’t had the TV or radio on for days. Just been listening to some jazz and keeping busy in the studio every day. Come on around front for a cold drink, and you can bring me up to date. McKinley was intrigued as he led the young officer to the heavy hemlock picnic table. A body in a lake made his old cop juices start to simmer.

That’ll be more comfortable than the damn canvas chairs in front of the studio. I’ll be right back with some iced tea and a couple of sugar cookies. Made them this morning.

Sounds good, Kyle, Sutherland said as he sat down. The drink at least. Don’t think I really need the cookie. He patted his stomach, indicating a weight issue. McKinley couldn’t see it. The young cop was tall and skinny as a beanpole. There didn’t appear to be any excess weight anywhere. He left Sutherland at the table and went in for the tea.

McKinley’s cabin was built on a promontory on a broad loop of the big river. The picnic table was at the very front of the well-mowed lawn just before it dropped away to the river below. There was a short stone stairway down to where McKinley’s Jon boat was pulled up on the beach. It was a good spot because you could see a good distance in both directions, and you could almost always catch a breeze, even on the hottest days. This was particularly welcome during spring and early summer fly season.

When McKinley came back with the drinks and the sugar cookies, Sutherland filled him in on what Danny Pictou had found. McKinley could tell the officer was faced with a truly perplexing mystery. Certainly, the young woman wasn’t local.

Damn, Kyle, Sutherland said, the only Asians in this part of the province that I know of are the twins that Gordon and June McKillop adopted. They’re eleven years old. She sure wasn’t one of them. The girl was probably late teens, maybe twenty. There were no items of clothing, she was completely naked, and she hadn’t been in the lake very long. Doc McBeath figures a couple of days at the very most, and probably on the beaver lodge even less than a day.

How’s he figure that?

I said she was completely naked. That’s not quite accurate. There was a cord around one ankle, but it didn’t look cut. Looks like she was tied to something heavy, and the line or the knot let go for some reason. Otherwise we never would have known a thing about her.

No doubt you’ve got a diver out there looking for the other end and what she was tied to. McKinley took a big bite of cookie, a long pull on his iced tea, and let out a satisfied sigh. He pointed at the plate on the table where the second cookie sat. Better grab it, Steve. They taste mighty good with tea.

No, you take it. I’m sure they’re good. Doc McBeath’s going to let me know the cause of death. There’s no real evidence of violence. Jesus, it’s hot, Kyle.

Yeah, it is. McKinley was used to the heat, and even though this wasn’t Texas summer heat, it was hotter than it probably should be in northern New Brunswick.

Any marks on her, Steve? Scars, tattoos? McKinley picked up the second cookie. He worked hard to stay under 215. He’d run some tomorrow. Run and take a long swim, maybe. He took a big bite.

Yeah, there’s a tattoo. Well, sort of a tattoo, I guess. It’s behind the lobe of her left ear. Doc spotted it. It’s a number. The number 13.

Chapter 2

Erich Geisel had bought Eagle’s Nest Lodge, sight unseen, in 2007 after a fire had badly damaged it the previous winter. Much of the main lodge, a two-storey, 7,500 square foot stone and log structure, had been a total loss. Only the massive river rock and concrete fireplace and chimney remained standing. The five stand-alone cabins along the river edge were not affected. The local volunteer fire chief had determined the cause of the fire was arson. Probably pissed up kids on snow machines, he had told the police.

At the time of the fire, the lodge wasn’t known as Eagle’s Nest, and it wasn’t operating. The owner had gone bankrupt two years before, and Beaver Tail Lodge, as it was known then, had been on shaky financial footing for some time before that. To the best of anyone’s knowledge, the owner, Kevin Knowlton, was now working out west somewhere. He had dodged his many creditors, and the bank turned the sale of the property over to Valley Real Estate. When realtor Ken Shields, who figured he’d be quite some time unloading the decaying property, got a call from the guy with the crisp foreign accent offering the full asking price, he couldn’t believe his good fortune.

Shields figured most of the stand-alone cabins could be rehabilitated with a liberal infusion of cash and plenty of loving care. If anyone was planning to get back in the hunting and fishing resort business, they’d need to sink a whole of money into an increasingly shaky enterprise. Almost all the great lodges along the northern rivers and lakes had disappeared. They stood now as decaying monuments to a time whose day had all but vanished.

Spruce Lodge, operated by Bunny and Cecil Robertson, was one of the few remaining exceptions. There was no doubt they had plenty of sleepless nights, but a powerful work ethic and savvy use of social media had kept them in the black, even through the recession.

They were still definitely an old-time hunting and fishing operation. They had one great advantage in that they were close enough to Milltown to attract weddings, grad parties, and a pretty steady restaurant crowd. Bunny, in addition to being an exceptional chef and businesswoman, was also a hot-shot genuine bush pilot. She picked up guests in her beloved 182 Cessna Skylane and flew them to the lodge. She was also able to fly them into more remote lakes and stillwaters much farther north than the lodge.

When Ken Shields told Cecil that Beaver Tail had been sold and the new owner sounded like a German, he and Bunny were once more faced with the possibility of some real competition for the sportsmen’s dollar. As Cecil had said to Bunny the evening after hearing the news, Everyone knows those Germans are buying up the whole damn east coast of Canada, and the buggers seem to have real deep pockets.

Every time Erich Geisel stood on the bank of the river and looked up at the expanse of landscaped lawn and gardens and the magnificent lodge he had named Eagle’s Nest, he marvelled at the incredible journey that had brought him to this eastern Canadian wilderness.

It was just past the middle of August, fast approaching that time of year when you can feel the season in retreat, just before the shadows and the colours change and the sounds become more muted and you know that summer is already on its way out. The air feels different in your lungs, and Erich Geisel was the kind of man who found it a mournful time. Everything is already starting to die, and you can’t make it stop, even if you are Erich Geisel and you’re worth millions and millions of dollars, you live in total luxury, you sleep with a beautiful woman and drink the finest Scotch, have your food prepared by world class chefs, and can fly anywhere on the globe in your own private jet. You still can’t make the dying stop.

Geisel’s thoughts on the dying of summer and the decay that went with it faded when he heard the plane. Within a couple of minutes, he saw it over the treetops to the south as it made a lazy curve and started a final toward the button of Eagle’s Nest’s private, paved, 5,800-foot all-weather runway.

The sleek biz jet with American registration was just coming to a stop by the hangar apron when Geisel pulled his Polaris Sling Shot SL up beside it.

The jet wasn’t the only flying machine owned by Geisel. For shorter excursions, quicker pickup and deliveries, he personally flew his own Eurocopter EC 155. It was fast and had great range for a rotary aircraft. The interior was more than elegant in butterscotch leather and mahogany. Like the jet, it carried six to eight guests in royal luxury. Both aircraft discreetly displayed the Eagle’s Nest logo, the same eagle head that was painted on the button of the runway and adorned the electronic iron gate at the only entry into the property.

Were our guests well cared for during the flight? he asked the exotic-looking flight attendant, who was also the German’s personal assistant and lover, as she stopped at the bottom of the stairs and waited for her passengers to alight.

Oh yes, Erich, she said, very well cared for indeed.

Chapter 3

Kyle McKinley was fifty-seven years old. He had been since April, but he didn’t think he felt any different than he had at fifty. Certainly a whole lot better than he had felt at forty. He’d probably been an alcoholic, he wasn’t sure. Maybe not. He’d never bought into the disease theory. What he’d been for the last few years in the Mounties and probably the first couple after he got out was a heavy drinker. An out-of-shape, burned out, depressed drinker. He didn’t go to any meetings, he didn’t take any counselling, he just made himself get better because he was so goddamned ashamed of himself, he had to.

He was in his studio, staring at the commission he was working on for the rich German guy who owned a lodge farther up the river. McKinley had done two pieces for him in the past five years. He was staring at the painting, but he was thinking about the Asian girl Steve Sutherland had told him about. All his old cop instincts were bubbling up, and he didn’t want them to. He had planned on a productive summer. Productive and relaxing. The relaxing part was supposed to start in a week’s time, when Marie Arsenault, the RCMP staff sergeant who had been sent to Milltown the past summer to ramrod the capture of Marcel Latour, was coming to spend three weeks with McKinley at his cabin.

What had happened was this: in the few days Arsenault had been around last summer, the artist had fallen head over heels for her. The truth was he had fallen harder than she had at first, but the spark was there, and she’d even taken a bullet for him. Or at least it seemed that way. McKinley knew she’d have done that anyway. She was a cop, and that was her job. Her bullet wound had been barely more than superficial. Together, they had nailed Marcel Latour, and the relationship picked up over the year, even though Marie had gone back to the capital and then had been posted to the other side of the country. Through the past winter, while he enjoyed the South Texas heat and Marie worked hard to whip her new detachment into shape, they Skyped, texted, and talked. McKinley had tried to convince her to take at least a week to visit him in South Padre Island, but she said she just couldn’t leave right then. She would be ready by August. Now that was going to be next week.

McKinley had had a long-term, on-again, off-again relationship with his Dallas agent, gallery owner Gabby Escobar. About halfway through the past winter, he knew what he had to do. He drove his 1972 VW Thing to McAllen and flew up to Dallas to tell Gabby, face to face, that there was someone else. She assured him they would still be friends, and he thought, man, he hadn’t heard that line since he was a teenager. She also told him if the new romance didn’t work out, she’d still be in Dallas.

Okay, he had a lot of things to do before Marie arrived. He wanted to get some more studio work done, and there was yard work, a couple of trees needed to come down, and he needed to be sure the cabin and studio looked their best. That wouldn’t really be too big a problem, since Kyle McKinley always kept everything just shy of perfect. Just shy. It was his nature. Sometimes, he knew, the beauty is in what’s not quite perfect.

His mind left Marie Arsenault and her pending arrival and switched back to the dead girl. It just seemed so incongruous that a dead, naked Asian girl’s body would be found in a beaver pond in northern New Brunswick. And the strange tattoo behind the ear. What did that mean? He wondered if Sutherland had the autopsy results yet and decided it wouldn’t hurt to give him a call and find out. Just out of interest, of course. He had no intention of getting involved. There was just too much to do, and besides, he wasn’t a cop anymore and it was none of his business. Then again, Steve had stopped by to tell him about it, hadn’t he?

I have no need for an alarm. Never did, McKinley thought as he leaned across to the night table and switched on the clock radio. It was Saturday morning, and the CBC 6:00 a.m. national news was just starting. McKinley stayed in bed until the news was over. The weather forecast was promising sun and heat again and a near-perfect weekend. There was always the river if it got a little too humid. Other than the commission piece for the German, the artist had no real projects underway. There was no deadline for the commission, so the plan was for a mostly idle weekend. Maybe a run, a swim, and a drive into Milltown. He was low on supplies but always tried to keep the trips to town down to once a week at most.

He thought about breakfast as he stepped into the shower. He had upped his exercise program and taken to weighing himself every morning when he got out of the shower. As he stood in the shower, he could see himself in the mirror. Not bad, he thought. He had shed five pounds since Marie said she was coming for a three-week holiday. That had been the first week of August, and now she would be at the Fredericton airport next Wednesday. He had been 215 yesterday morning. If he was still there this morning, he would have one poached egg on toast and one cup of black coffee. Two hundred and fifteen had been his goal, exactly what he weighed in his thirties. He thought of it as his fighting weight. Marie’s going to be impressed, he thought as he reached for his towel. Well, at least he hoped she would be.

Later that morning, McKinley was messing about in the studio when his phone rang. It was Steve Sutherland.

Are you going to be home? Steve asked, Deb and I are going to take a drive upriver. We’d like to stop in for a short visit, and then I want to walk in and see Arnie. Deb’s never met him.

I’m here now. Was going to take a run into Milltown, but I’ll do that later this afternoon. Will you be here for lunch? I’m not completely out of supplies, you know.

No, that’s okay. We’ve packed a picnic lunch to share with Arnie. I just want to bring you up to date on the autopsy results. We’re on the road now. Be at your place in about half an hour.

I hope Deb’s driving, McKinley said. Wouldn’t be a good thing for a cop to be talking on his cell while at the wheel. He hung up before the Mountie could respond.

He laid his phone down on the sideboard cupboard that ran along the length of the south wall of the studio and walked over to where a large canvas was attached to the wall. Too big for an easel. A good payday when he finished the thing for the German man. Geisel had been very pleased with the first two paintings. He hadn’t given McKinley any ideas about what he wanted this piece to look like. I just want lots of colour, he had said. Just lots of crazy colour and make it big.

Well, this is big enough, McKinley thought as he studied the 6’ x 7’ canvas. He had no idea where he was going with it, but he knew it would all come together eventually. Right now, though, all he could think about was Marie’s visit. He was still staring at the painting and thinking about Marie when he heard a car horn in the laneway behind the cabin.

In the decade between 1965 and 1975, tens of thousands of draft-eligible young Americans made the difficult decision to leave life in the States and cross the border into Canada. No one knows the numbers for sure, but probably more than forty thousand, with some estimates pushing that number as high as one hundred thousand. They left