Kapuskasing Sunrise

Kapuskasing Sunrise

By Ron Crouch

Copyright 2018 by Ron Crouch

Cover art by Chris Salewski

(2nd Edition – Formerly called Sunrise)

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events in the story are either a product of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Dedication

To the Canadian wilderness … long may you remain free of the modern world.

Chapter One

Thick Canadian boreal forest, limestone outcrops, huge areas of exposed granite rock. The Canadian Shield. Remote Ontario wilderness. In an hour or so, the leaves will dance in shimmering colours of crimsons, reds, yellows, oranges and all spectrums of colour in between. Spectacular fall colours accentuated by a westerly breeze.

A cool morning, but not freezing. By seven o’clock the sun will appear over the concealed horizon before filtering through the tree canopy painted over with what will become a clear blue sky. The hunter dressed head-to-toe in camouflage, face painted like a military sniper waits patiently in a thicket, superbly hidden among the undergrowth, becoming part of the vegetation itself. All senses in tune with the surroundings … watching and waiting. Two hours have ticked slowly by. One hundred and twenty minutes. Seven thousand two hundred seconds of time forever lost, wasted, but not in the eyes of the hunter. No rush. Hunting is not something that can be rushed. It requires skill, knowledge, stealth and above all else; patience. Infinite patience. Stretching a hand up carelessly to scratch an irritating itch on the side of one’s nose could be just enough movement to spook your prey. An almost imperceptible movement of material, but loud enough to cause panic followed by rapid disappearance into the deep forest. All those seven thousand two hundred seconds would definitely be wasted then.

But not this morning. This morning heralds a wonderful start to the day. There are two of them, one behind the other making their way along the well-worn game trail. The hunter didn’t have a tag for them, couldn’t get a tag. The hunter sees them approaching from the right, experience says they’re too far away, not only that, they’ll spot the hunter and take off into the trees and disappear from sight. No, better to wait until they are directly in front, some seventy-five metres away, allow them just enough time to put the hunter over their left shoulders before taking down the rear one, then the one in front. Upwind, the advantage to the hunter, both unaware of the hunter’s presence. Speed and silence will be essential to get both of them, especially with a bow. Not any bow. Not one of those manufactured compound bows. A beautifully, handcrafted, homemade longbow made of yew, the traditional wood chosen by medieval makers of such powerful weapons of death. A formidable weapon used in the Hundred Years’ War during the 14th and 15th centuries. Six feet in length, this one cleverly designed to come apart into three pieces using carbon fibre connections. The hunter, being a traditionalist, as near as possible also made the arrows; half inch shafts from oak complying with former military specifications of past centuries, heavier than cedar or poplar, better penetration against larger game. Anglo-Saxon broadhead arrow tips, forged by the hunter in steel; razor sharp. The arrows were just shy of thirty-six inches. Like the bow, for ease of carriage the hunter designed them to come in two halves. A lot of trouble had gone into making the threads for the two halves so they would screw together in the middle, the join only visible under close scrutiny. Goose feather fletching fashioned into the more modern parabolic feather design, better in flight, more accurate than the traditional arrangement. The nock, made of hardwood. The hunter preferred the more modern string fibres for the bow string, twisting them into a Flemish twist by hand. The whole thing a unique work of art; a creation of beauty. The hunter was the fletcher, string fellow, bowyer and arrowsmith all in one. Individual occupations in earlier times. Even the dark-brown leather bracer worn on the right wrist had been lovingly handcrafted by the hunter. This longbow had been tried and tested over and over again, the kinks reconfigured until the bow was deadly accurate and efficient. This morning however, was to be its first test in the field against real live prey.

A longbow requires strength to draw back the arrow and even greater strength to hold that arrow steady in place against the bow, until the moment of release. The hunter was excited to try out the bow. Using such a weapon on a regular basis requires a certain level of fitness on a target range. Out in the wilderness requires a high level of fitness and stamina to be able to hike across rugged terrain carrying a heavy pack with supplies and equipment for what could amount to two weeks of living and sleeping outdoors. Depending on the topography, the hunter could travel anywhere from ten to twenty-five kilometres a day, for as long as it took. It was no wonder then, the hunter had no trouble drawing the bow thirty inches at one hundred and twenty pounds pressure on the longbow.

Silently the hunter positioned the arrow’s nock into the nocking point in the centre of the bow string, smoothly drawing back the arrow. Hour upon hour of practice had conditioned the hunter not to aim at the target, but to focus on the target until, eventually it all became muscle memory. Breathe in, breathe out slowly, breathe in, hold and release. To the uninitiated, a loud twang might be expected as the fingers holding the taut bow string instantly release, projecting the arrow at 186 km/h, reaching the target, in this case in less than half a second. In medieval times, a longbowman could fire off six arrows a minute, one every ten seconds. Impressive. It wasn’t a twanging sound so much, but more like a sharp wood plane gliding over a long piece of relatively smooth timber, or perhaps a Buck knife being used to whittle a stick.

The first arrow entered between the left shoulder blade and spine having first penetrated the bright-orange vest, the thick padded camouflage jacket, shirt and thermal long-sleeved vest. The arrow, capable of traveling three to four hundred metres, burst out through the man’s chest, protruding a good eight inches. Death was not instantaneous, not like the movies where people drop dead from a single shot. For that to happen, the shot would have to strike through the triangle of death, that area above the mouth, forming a triangle around the nose. A sniper shot with a rifle, not with a bow and arrow. The man dropped his rifle, looked down in shock and horror at the arrowhead sticking out of his chest; his knees buckled and he went down; hard, eyes rolling back in his head, still alive, but bleeding out. It wouldn’t be long.

The second arrow was already on its way, tearing across the back of the leading man’s orange vest, leaving a long razor-sharp cut in the fabric, skimming across his now bent back as he crouched to help his friend. On seeing the protruding arrow, disbelief turned to terror, a huge adrenaline dump kicked-in. Fight or flight. He chose flight, scrambling away on all fours into the underbrush, moving with surprising speed for a man in his fifties and like his companion, overweight and out of shape. There was no third arrow. The hunter remained motionless, thinking, strategizing already aware a hunting camp lay about ten kilometres back down the trail, where the two men had parked their black Dodge Ram pick-up truck. They would have gone as far as they could on their four-wheelers before following the narrow game trail on foot. Perhaps others had arrived at the camp. The hunter didn’t know, but suspected they had.

The second man still had his rifle with him, a lot more efficient and accurate than a longbow. A tricky situation compounded by the possibility others were at the camp. No cellphone reception here, but maybe the guy had a satellite phone, or more likely a walkie-talkie radio. He was unlikely to start firing off his rifle in an attempt to alert others he needed help. That would immediately give away his position to the hunter as well as using up valuable ammunition.

The hunter remained motionless, every sense on high alert. It would be a waiting game now. Five minutes, ten, fifteen. There it was, as expected, a flash of orange. The man hurriedly removing his vest as though he’d just realized he still had it on, then crawling away from it deeper into the woods. Cat and mouse.

Reaction is always slower than action, that’s why baseball players can steal bases. In a burst of speed, the hunter hurtled out of the bushes, charged zigzag across the game trail, crouching low, snatching up the dead man’s Winchester .308 bolt action rifle with gloved hand. A powerful bullet whizzed past, close overhead, so close the disturbance of air could be felt, the percussive explosion filling the surrounding forest for miles around. Birds previously unseen flew out of the trees and away from perceived danger. Then all was quiet. Woodland quiet. Both now knew roughly where the other was. The waiting game began again.

Far away in the distance, the sound of four-wheelers approaching. Maybe two or possibly three. Not good, thought the hunter. They wouldn’t be able to penetrate deep into the forest, not without clearing a path with chainsaws. That would take time. The game trail was far too narrow, even for an off-road four-wheeler. Silence again. Somewhere out there they’d stopped, no longer any engine noise. They’d be on foot. Gunfire inside a large forest is no accurate indicator of where the sound came from. Just a general direction. The sound echoing off rocks and canyons. The hunter kept all these scenarios in mind, including the fact this Winchester rifle had a maximum five round magazine, plus maybe one in the chamber. It was not an AK-47.

The hunter was convinced the man had a walkie-talkie, but would have heard him speaking into it, even in a muffled voice. Maybe they had a code, Morse code. S.O.S. The man could key the mic and send out dot-dot-dot dash-dash-dash dot-dot-dot, easily enough and quietly enough, as long as he turned the walkie-talkie off afterwards. Any type of reply, verbal or a series of clicks would immediately give his position away. S.O.S. didn’t tell you what the lifesaving emergency was.

The hunter cupped hands over ears, listening intently, turning slowly back and forth. No sound from the man hiding somewhere in the undergrowth. The hunter caught the faint sound of a human voice, indistinct and far off. A name being called, two names … Carl, Gerry!

They were getting closer, the calling louder, but still not that close. They needed another signal to draw them in the right direction, otherwise they were looking for a needle in a very big haystack. The hunter waited. The sound of them calling began to drift away, they were headed off in the wrong direction. Patient, be patient.

The man lost his nerve, Over here! Followed by one loud echoing explosion, completely out of place with the surroundings. It seemed to linger in the air, floating among the trees until finally swallowed up by the vast forest.

The hunter was up and running, weaving through the trees away from the man, away from his backup who were now sure to be running in the direction of the rifle shot, heading toward the hunter. The hunter knew the man was down, otherwise he’d have fired repeatedly back in the direction of the muzzle flash. Dead, injured or just hiding would have to remain an unknown quantity. I hope they don’t have dogs with them. The hunter didn’t want to end up in a standoff with the incoming threat. Whereas the hunter had the element of surprise, they had the greater numbers, unknown exactly how many, or how many more they could call in, plus more rifles, more ammunition and possibly an opportunity to call in a police emergency response team, assuming they had a satellite phone among them. Distance, the hunter needed to put as much distance between them as possible. The rifle was more of an inconvenience now, heavy and cumbersome, slowing down the hunter. The backpack was heavy enough, no need for the rifle, maybe only four or five bullets left anyway, maybe less. Lots of arrows though, if needed. The hunter wouldn’t go down without a fight, wouldn’t be easy to kill.

The hunter figured no more than half an hour before the others found either of the men, likely the one on the game trail first, might not find the other concealed in the bush if he was VSA. Vital Signs Absent as the emergency responders liked to say. Within two hours the place would be swarming with police, tactical units and K9. Paramedics would be allowed in when the scene was secured. At some point a forensic unit would arrive. There would be eyes in the sky, maybe a helicopter, a small plane and very likely in this modern age of technology, a drone of some sort. Maybe all three … searching. The helicopter was sure to have heat-seeking equipment, thermal imaging, not so good trying to penetrate through thick forest. They could be lucky, zeroing in on a heat source at ground level moving quickly below. They’d get a few of them from deer, moose, and black bear moving through the forest. The hunter didn’t need a helicopter pinpointing a position to a heavily armed, well trained and very professional tactical support unit, bound to be a sniper among them. The hunter kept jogging, keeping a good pace a Marine Corps would have been proud of. By late morning, the distant sound of a helicopter. They had found a body, maybe both and were now hunting the hunter.

By early evening, the O.P.D. Mobile Command Centre would set up in the small parking area where the men had parked their pick-up trucks. The Ontario Police Department were good, efficient, practiced, just like the hunter knew they would be. Unfortunately the cat had now become the mouse. The mouse was fit, but not superhuman. The adrenaline dump now turned to exhaustion. Having followed fast flowing creeks to evade police dogs, the hunter was soaked, cold, tired and hungry, but didn’t know the effort was wasted. The other men searching for their friends had ruined any chance of K9 following a scent. The police dog handler ended up going around in circles. The hunter changed into dry clothes, refuelled and kept moving. Just before nightfall, the hunter made a call by satellite phone. As darkness closed in, the hunter donned night vision goggles and kept on going.

Chapter Two

My phone rang. I looked up at the clock. Six hours to knocking off time. Detective Sakaë Sayo looked over at me from her cubicle. It was just her and I in the office this morning. Detective Inspector Lynch walked in.

Are you going to answer that?

No, I said, picking up the phone on my desk, pushing files out of the way to find it.

Can you not take a leaf out of your partner’s book, look at her desk compared with yours. Immaculate, neat and tidy, everything in its place.

That’s because I do all the work and what she gets she tosses on my desk when I’m not looking. I was joking, my new partner was a workaholic. In homicide you have to be. There was never nothing to do. No down time. Cases had to be rigorously prepared for trial, meetings in the Crown’s office, follow-ups. Victim’s families to be reassured, witnesses tracked down and scripted. When a new case came in, the first forty-eight hours were non-stop. It took me a few weeks afterwards to come down off the caffeine high. If the case wasn’t solved by then, you were likely in for the long haul. A detective in homicide, any detective for that matter has to have a very understanding spouse, most are on their second or third marriages, few on their first. Mine hasn’t been going too well as it is. Police officers in uniform don’t fare much better. Bullets, booze and broads, the downfall of many police officers, regardless of rank or unit.

I held the phone up against my right ear and began scribbling down notes with my left hand as the Duty Inspector brought me up to speed. I wasn’t one for crooking the phone in my neck, I heard somewhere it could be injurious to your health, certainly a good way to hurt your neck and end up in physio.

Okay sir, we’ll start making our way north, it’ll be late afternoon by the time we get up there, maybe later, especially if we have to go off road for part of the way. Thanks for the heads up. I put the phone down. Dove, we caught one right up your alley, I said addressing my partner.

DI Lynch was a regs and company man, everything by the book. Black and white no grey and certainly no colour. Not a lot of imagination either. I missed the old inspector already, grumpy, hated those above him, tolerated those below, but fair and wouldn’t do you a bad turn. Can’t ask for more in this job, don’t expect more, that way you won’t be disappointed.

Detective Oliver, see me in my office.

You wanna know what we got?

It can wait, my office, now.

I followed DI Lynch into his office, I had to duck going through the doorway, he didn’t.

As no doubt you are aware, he began, standing behind his desk, "police departments all across Canada are adopting new guidelines regarding harassment of staff, particularly of female staff. From now on, you will address Detective Sayo by her proper title and not by the nickname, Dove. I don’t care if she doesn’t object, as a third party I do, that’s all that matters. Have I made myself clear?"

No problem Inspector.

Why do you call her Dove in the first place?

Because sir, she is the poster girl, sorry, woman representing the real deal. A normal woman, not one of those Hollywood female detectives that look more like models in high heels and fancy clothes and all makeup. Our Dove, I mean, Detective Sayo is the sensible shoes, everyday kind of girl. You’ve no doubt seen the Dove soap ads Inspector, that’s why I call her Dove. The perfect woman, the perfect partner, all meant in good fun and with the greatest respect and admiration. I don’t just call anyone Dove sir, it’s really quite an honour.

DI Lynch stared at me in disbelief. I was warned about you before I took over three weeks ago. Do you need money from petty cash to buy yourself a razor? Clean yourself up man, for God’s sake, you look like a hobo.

Hobo? I was worried there for a minute, I thought you said I looked like a homo, not that there’s anything wrong with that sir.

Why do you stink of wood smoke?

It’s a long story sir.

My boss closed his eyes, breathed in and out slowly, and then opened them. Where are you and Detective Sayo off to?

Kapuskasing, well more northeast of the Kap, toward Smokey Falls actually. Two fresh bodies in the woods, both hunters apparently. Both male, one with a gunshot wound the other has an arrow sticking out of his chest.

Okay, you need anything, call me.

Forensics are en route. I’ll need the Mobile Command Centre to set up there, the Duty Inspector will give you the details. The uniform officers from the local detachment have done a good job, scene protected, TPU and K9 already on scene and assisting as a precaution. Early indications are, they were taken out by a third party, maybe more and this individual or persons are on the run somewhere up in all that wilderness.

Helicopter?

Eyes in the sky already up and looking, nothing so far. I’ll let you know more when I get up there.

Good. By the way, as you know, Detective Sayo is fairly new to this unit, she’s been partnered with you because of your experience. You were not on my list of choices, but this came from above. She comes to us with an impressive pedigree. She’s actually, Doctor Sayo. She has a PhD in behavioural science, among other things. Keep that to yourself, it’s not something she wants spread about.

That is impressive Inspector. Myself, I have a CDM.

CDM?

Yes sir, Cadbury’s Dairy Milk.

Close the door behind you Detective Oliver and keep me posted.

Everything okay Johnny?

It’s all good Dove, all good. We’re gonna need our overnight bags on this one, you might want to make some personal calls.

Personal calls, why?

To let hubby or the boyfriend know you’ll be gone a while and have no idea when you’ll be getting back. Maybe someone needs to feed the kids or the dog, cat, goldfish, chameleon. I dunno.

Can you drop me off at my place on the way, I’ll need to pack a bag? Sorry, I should have had one ready.

No worries. Okay then, you ready?

Ready.

Let’s go then, I’ll brief you on the way.

I always kept a duffel bag under my desk, stuffed with spare clothes for all weathers. There was a pair of binoculars in it, a digital camera, some extra rounds and some other odds and sods and a LifeStraw, one of those tubes that filter water in case you end up getting stranded in the middle of nowhere and get thirsty.

Dove, do I smell of wood smoke? She nodded. I’ll fit right in where we’re going.

I grabbed a set of keys off the board for the unmarked. A grey Chevy Tahoe, big, like a tank, but fast, incredible acceleration for the size of it. But a gas guzzler, not eco-friendly or taxpayer friendly either. Very comfortable, something I could actually fit into. A vehicle suited for driving around northern Ontario. Fully gassed too, then I remembered, I was the last one to use it.

I pulled the unmarked into the curb outside a very expensive looking townhouse. Nice place Dove, North Bay must be booming.

Thank you. Want to come up?

Nah, that’s okay I’ll wait here, take your time.

She was quick, tossing her bright pink bag onto the backseat.

I have a little gift for you Johnny.

Really, I’m touched, how kind. She handed me a small white cardboard box. Dove soap.

Every time you wash you can think of me, she laughed.

In that case I better not take it in the shower with me. For my witticism, I received a playful punch on my right shoulder.

We’ll take highway eleven, pedal to the metal.

It took a couple of hours to reach Kirkland Lake where we refuelled ourselves and the truck before continuing our journey. The ubiquitous Tim Hortons was there waiting for us.

Medium green tea, bag in, medium dark roast with two cream and a couple of those chicken sandwich rolls as well please. I swiped the company credit card, tucking the receipt into my wallet, we found a table in the corner and sat down.

You never asked me why the inspector called me into his office.

"Not my business. I should have asked the girl to put some cold water in this tea, by the time we reach Kapuskasing it should be the right temperature to drink. Anyway, if you wanted me to know, you would have told me already. Obviously he doesn’t want you calling me Dove anymore. Don’t look at me like that, I didn’t make a complaint, formal or otherwise. Let’s get something