Meg Harris Mysteries 5-Book Bundle. R.J. Harlick
I didn’t trust him.
I loosened my grip on the phone and placed it back on the cradle. My fingers were still tense, so was every other muscle in my body. The throbbing in my arm seemed to take on a life of its own. Hell, what had I done?
A sudden roar of engines exploded from behind the distant point. One after another, the three planes skimmed across the water and lifted into the air. They narrowly missed the tops of my trees as they veered up and over Three Deer Point. The droning continued until it was smothered by the silence of the forest. But the silence was short-lived.
The boats revved their engines and, like mosquitoes honing in on the scent of blood, sped towards Three Deer Point. With an ear-piercing buzz, they swerved past my shoreline and headed back to the Fishing Camp. They left a reminder of their passing, an oscillating hum on the wind.
The phone started ringing again.
THREE
Eric bounded up the stairs two at a time. On the phone, he’d said it would take him less time to drive here from the Band Council Hall than it would take a hawk to fly. He was right. But then, he had an unfair advantage, a Harley Davidson Road King.
“Meg, you’ve got to help me with Whispers Island,” he said.
He collapsed his firm, middle-aged body into a large wicker chair next to the verandah railing and shoved his mane of mostly black hair behind his ears. Next he did what he always did when he visited Three Deer Point, ran his soft grey eyes over my magnificent view of the lake and surrounding hills. A sudden burst from the sinking sun ignited a neighbouring hill into a patchwork of exploding red and gold. He smiled.
Then he scowled. “Into that already?” He nodded towards the refilled tumbler of vodka.
I ignored him. I was tired of having him on my case about my drinking. Besides, I needed it after what I’d just been through. I took another sip.
“You’ve got to be kidding. Last thing I want on Whispers Island is a resort,” I said.
“How about a gold mine?”
“Eric, I’m warning you, I’ll fight you all the way.”
He grabbed the glass from my hand. “Meg, I said gold mine.”
“Gold mine? Me support you with a gold mine? You’ve got to be out of your mind.” I reached for the glass.
He jerked it away. “Slow down, I’m on your side. I’ve got nothing to do with the mine.”
“Like hell. Who else allowed those men on the island?”
“The Ministry.”
“You serious?”
“Very.” But he didn’t really need to answer. Although he wasn’t inclined to show emotion—I put it down to a man or an Indian thing—I could always tell when something was bothering him. The puckered scar above his right eye would turn white. Now it seemed to glow in the growing dusk.
“Please, give me back my drink. And I’ll pour you one. I think we both need it.” I headed to the kitchen.
“Okay, shoot,” I said, returning with two filled glasses, one of lemon vodka, the other single malt.
During his days as a professional hockey player, Eric had developed a liking for some of the finer things in life, such as single malt whiskey. With his increased responsibilities as band chief, he’d decided it was no longer appropriate. He had to set an example for the reserve’s youth. However, he couldn’t quite give it up. So he kept a bottle at my place.
“It’s very simple, a motherlode of gold has been discovered.”
“Impossible. People have been living around here too long for something like that not to have been discovered long ago.”
“Well, believe it or not, it’s true.” Eric took a long, slow sip of the scotch.
“How do you know?”
“One of my guys got wind of something early this afternoon when he was renting boats to some guys connected to those planes. Said they were with some mining company, said the band would be in fat city with this new mine. Bullshit.” He took another deep swallow. “All we’ll get is dead land and dead water. It’ll kill the Fishing Camp.”
“And anything else on Echo Lake,” I added. Visions of smoke stacks spewing out who knows what chemicals swirled through my mind. “What is the ministry going to do about it?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? How can they?” I still couldn’t quite believe it, a gold mine plunk in the middle of my nirvana.
“Jobs, the jerk at Indian Affairs said. Give me a break. Miners don’t hire Indians, they think we’re just a bunch of layabouts and drunkards.”
“But Eric, doesn’t the company have to get the band’s permission to use the land?”
“Yup. So I wasn’t all that worried when I first talked to the Ministry this afternoon. But they came back later saying they don’t need our permission, the island doesn’t belong to my people.” No longer able to sit still, Eric began pacing back and forth like a caged bear along one side of the verandah.
“Of course, it does,” I said.
“That’s what I tried to tell this jerk. But he said the records show it isn’t part of the Migiskan Band lands.”
“Who’s supposed to own it?”
“They do, the government.”
“Can’t you fight it?”
“Sure, with a land claim. But that’ll take years to go through the courts. Meanwhile, the mine goes ahead.”
“They’re government. Aren’t they suppose to make sure the mine doesn’t destroy this place?” I saw mountains of mine tailings spilling into the lake, dead fish floating.
“Jerk didn’t seem too worried about that aspect. Nope, I’d say it’s about regional development and all that bullshit. As if the Fishing Camp and other band enterprises don’t provide enough.” Eric wheeled around in front of me and started walking back along the railing.
“Eric, sit down, you’re making me dizzy. How do we stop it?”
“With the land.” He returned to the wicker chair. The last of the setting sun etched every worry line on a face that had seen more of the sky than the inside of an office.
“How? I thought you said it didn’t belong to you guys.”
“Maybe it doesn’t, but I’m not convinced it belongs to the crown either. Between you and me, I’ve never been entirely sure whether it was part of Migiskan lands. My grandfather used to say Minitig Kà-ishpàkweyàg was ours to watch over, not to use.”
“You referring to Whispers Island?”
“Minitig Kà-ishpàkweyàg is what the ancients called it, means Island Where the Tall Trees Stand,” he replied and took a long slow sip of his scotch.
“Fitting, but if you guys don’t own it and the government doesn’t, who does?”
“You.”
“Me? Where did you ever get that stupid idea?”
“My grandfather again. Once when he was talking about the island he said ‘We do this for Miss Agatta’.”
“But that doesn’t mean Aunt Aggie owned it.”
“No, it doesn’t, but it could.”
“Eric, Aunt Aggie didn’t own it, I should know. All her property passed to me when she died, and it sure didn’t include Whispers Island.”
“Why don’t you check?” he asked.
“Aunt