Gil Marsh Read online

  She pulled out an old volume, thick, bound in cardboard and beige cloth, with a fraying spine. She opened it to the back, went down the table of contents and stopped midpage. She flipped through the pages and pointed to a heading. “Voilà!”

  She handed the book to Gil. In bold letters was “Occupations régionales.” This appeared to be a census book.

  “Merci!” he said.

  “Ben sûr,” she said, grinning. “You are the welcome.”

  He examined the book at a desk. Although some of the words were the same as in English, nothing made much sense to him. He turned the page and was rewarded with two tables between paragraphs of text. They listed occupations, followed by dates in ten-year intervals, from 1875 to 1925. Under each date was the number of people who worked in each profession. Each table was for a different set of towns.

  The first occupation on the list was “cultivateur.” Farmer, Gil figured. Then “bûcheron,” “mécanicien,” “médecin” and more. He found “forgeron” about halfway down the list. There were several in 1875. The number stayed almost constant for decades.

  He scanned the lines of text again, frustrated by his inability to read. He noticed people’s names: Jacques Laramée. Pierre Fléchette. And then, as he was about to give up, he noticed Henri Miller. Hmm. Same last name as Old Man Miller. The paragraph mentioned 1875. He also read place names: La Macaza. Le Gros-Curé. La Minerve. And the name Miller reappeared several times. He checked the words again and saw “forgeron” at least once in the paragraph. Yes. Henri Miller. Forgeron. In 1875 or thereabouts. Just in this area.

  He sat straight in wonder. Could this Henri Miller be related to Old Man Miller on the lake?

  He noticed the librarian snap her head back down to her work. She had probably been watching him. On a scrap of paper Gil wrote: “1875. Henri Miller. La Macaza. Le Gros-Curé. La Minerve. Forgeron.”

  He examined the book some more but couldn’t make out anything else useful. He did notice a paragraph that listed a Jean-Baptiste Durocher along with many other names, with “cultivateur” appearing frequently. He wrote that down as well. Perhaps Hervé was related.

  He returned the book to the librarian. “Merci,” he said.

  “De rien,” she said. “It help?”

  He nodded. “Beaucoup.” A lot.

  She smiled. “You are the welcome here. I help again.”

  Gil recognized the young man at the register when he returned to the quincaillerie: he had sold him the ticket to L’Annonciation!

  “Well, hello,” the man said. “You are back already?”

  “Don’t you work at the motel?” Gil asked.

  Hervé approached from a side aisle. “Jean-François. Gil. You know each other?”

  After a minute’s confusion, they sorted it out. Jean-François worked part-time at both places, during the late morning and early afternoon at the quincaillerie and in the evening at the motel. He seemed genuinely concerned when Hervé told him that Gil had been mugged.

  “There’s a gang that comes this way from Hull,” he said. “They may be part of it. The police probably know about them.”

  No. Gil wouldn’t contact the police. They’d call his parents—the last thing he needed right now. Luckily Hervé missed Jean-François’s hint.

  “We’re off to lunch,” he said. “You’re in charge, Jean-François.” He tilted his head at Gil and led him through the back to his pickup. “Jean-François is a nephew.”

  Gil wondered how many other people in town were related to Hervé.

  They drove to his house—a twenty-minute trip. “After we eat, I’ll head back to the quincaillerie,” Hervé said. “You’ll be okay by yourself?”

  “Sure.”

  Hervé prepared sandwiches and served them on the porch overlooking the lake, taking advantage of the beautiful weather.

  “Any luck at the bibliothèque?” he asked.

  Gil put his sandwich on his plate. “Yeah.” He pulled out the paper from his pants pocket and read from it. “Jean-Baptiste Durocher. Are you related to him?”

  Hervé lit up. “My great-grandfather. We called him Pépé. He built this house.”

  “He was listed with other farmers.”

  Hervé’s smile lingered as he chewed. “Oui. They were all farmers. And a lot more.”

  “The book also mentioned forgerons.” Gil was rather proud of his pronunciation.

  “Blacksmiths?” Hervé asked.

  Clearly Gil’s pronunciation wasn’t as good as he thought. He laughed. “Oui.”

  Hervé nodded, pleased. “I told you it would help.”

  “It mentioned a Henri Miller, back in 1875.”

  “Really?”

  “Do you think he might be related to Old Man Miller?”

  “Don’t know. Miller is a common name.”

  Miller? An English name? “Up here?”

  “Ben oui. Some of the English settled around here, too.”

  “Do you think we could ask him?” Gil asked.

  “Whether he’s related?” Hervé scratched the back of his head. “I don’t know, Gil. He really likes his privacy. But we can check the chaloupe this evening, and if it’s ready I can ride you over. I do have some old business with him to discuss.”

  “That’d be great!”

  “Don’t expect too much, okay? He’s not what you would call the, um, sharing type.”

  “Just bringing me over would be terrific. Thanks!”

  Hervé finished his sandwich. “Time for me to head back.”

  Gil waved as Hervé drove off. He washed the dishes but couldn’t find the dish towel. It was probably being laundered. At home, his mom stored clean ones in a drawer under a back counter. He turned around but saw no counter, just a small desk with Hervé’s computer on it. Next to it, though, was a tall set of drawers. Maybe those had towels.

  Bingo! He found a small stack of them in the bottom drawer. He straightened, pleased with his deductive reasoning, and noticed the scratch paper next to the computer on which “Marsh” had been written in neat script.

  Gil stared at his name, then at the computer.

  The screen was black. On a hunch, Gil pressed the power button—yes, the monitor came back to life, the program for the Internet browser still on. Gil checked over his shoulder, though he knew no one else was around, then sat at the desk and clicked on the icon for recent usage. A list appeared. His stomach knotted up at the last entry. “White Pages—Green Valley, Connecticut.”

  Hervé had been tracking his parents down.

  Gil felt as though someone had punched him in the chest. Hervé had betrayed him! He had called his parents even after Gil had told him he didn’t want him to. They probably weren’t home, but they would be checking their messages, even from wherever they were in Montreal. Hervé had kept Gil busy all morning, working him in the store, sending him to the library, even offering to take him to Old Man Miller’s in the evening—to stall him. To let his parents catch up with him.

  Well, he wasn’t going back home! Not yet, anyway. He hadn’t found Enko’s ring. He hadn’t spoken to the immortal man. He hadn’t visited Enko’s grave.

  What should he do?

  He breathed in deep, calming himself, forcing himself to assess the situation. His knee had almost healed, but he knew that if he started running, it’d get worse soon and he’d be a sitting duck. Besides, Hervé probably knew every road and path in this area. He had lived here all his life! And Gil wasn’t ready to bushwhack.

  He glanced out the window. A lone chaloupe with an outboard chugged past, not too far from the shore—the only vessel in sight.

  If his parents were on the way, Gil should follow the one lead he had. Old Man Miller. He’d go now, before Hervé returned, before his parents had a chance to make it up here.

  Gil hiked down the hill to the chaloupe. Hervé had said that the patching needed to set properly but that it should hold after twenty-four hours. The putty looked almost the same as it did yesterday. Gil tes
ted it with his fingers. It felt hard. He pressed a fingernail into it—no give. It was solid.

  He looked around. He’d need the plug.

  The shed. He climbed the several feet. Luckily, Hervé hadn’t pushed the padlock all the way in. Gil tugged it open and unlatched the door.

  As his eyes adjusted to the dimness inside, Gil realized how difficult it was going to be to find anything. The shed was jam-packed with an outboard motor hooked to a board on the wall, a bunch of old tools, countless cans filled with nails, tubes on one shelf, saws hanging on the wall, a line of oil bottles on a shelf, a pickax underneath, ropes coiled on pegs, several sets of oars leaning in the back. The jumble confused him. What did the plug look like? And where did Hervé store it?

  He searched the shelves nearest the door, without luck. But he did find screws and bolts in one can and rubber rings in another. He returned to the chaloupe and measured the drain—the diameter was exactly the length of his thumbnail. Back at the shed, he rummaged through the cans, fitting bolts and screws together and threading rubber rings with them.

  Yes, he thought, this should work.

  Back at the chaloupe, he threaded one ring with a screw, pushed the screw into the hole, threaded another ring over the end and bolted it down, as tight as he dared without damaging the rubber. The fit wasn’t perfect, but the rubber rings would keep the water out—they had to.

  He briefly thought about putting the outboard motor on the boat, but quickly dismissed the idea. He had never operated one and wasn’t sure how it worked. He grabbed a pair of oars instead. All he had to do now was get the boat into the water.

  Fortunately, the shore sloped. Slippery sod lay all the way to the short drop a few feet from the water’s edge. Gil gave a shove. The boat slipped off the wooden supports and slid smoothly for several feet. He pushed without much effort and had almost reached the end of the sod when the boat came to a loud, scraping halt.

  What had Gil hit?

  He circled around, and sure enough, a rough rock jutted out under the front of the boat—a white quartz hidden by weeds. Gil checked for stones farther down and found none. He pivoted the boat off the stone, returned to the stern, straightened the angle and pushed again, but more carefully now. The boat slid off the sod and tipped onto the sand.

  Gil took off his shoes, threw them into the boat along with the oars and rolled up his jeans. The water gave him a cold jolt at first, but he quickly got used to the temperature. He pulled the boat into the lake, grabbed the rope at the bow and tied it to the pier. Then he checked the plug. It held: no water seeped through, as far as he could tell. He had done it. He had floated the boat!

  What else did he need? He returned to the house.

  Gil felt guilty rummaging through Hervé’s drawers. But the man had tracked down his parents—he had probably spoken to them already! And they were probably on their way here right now. He had to leave immediately.

  He found a big flashlight and a few slices of bread, which he stuffed into a sack he found in a closet. He grabbed his toothbrush and acetaminophen. He didn’t know when he would return.

  Gil was no thief. He’d pay Hervé back, he vowed, once this was all over. Right now, he needed to get some questions answered. But he hesitated and scratched out a note on the pad. “I’ll bring back your things. I promise.” He left it next to the computer.

  He stowed the sack next to his sneakers in the bow, undid the mooring and pushed off. He hoped Hervé would understand.

  The breeze blew stronger on the lake. Fortunately, it came from the north and pushed the chaloupe along.

  Although Hervé had been vague about Miller’s location, Gil understood he needed to head toward the western shore. If he kept close to it, he hoped to find the man’s house. Gil rowed across the main channel, drifting southward. He hadn’t realized how wide the lake was. For a fleeting moment he wondered whether he should have brought a life jacket. He was a strong swimmer, but he didn’t know if he’d make it to shore if he fell in.

  He took off his shirt, letting the sun warm his back and the breeze wick away some of the sweat he had built up from rowing. Well, if he did end up in the water, he might cool off.

  He wheeled the boat around to survey the land. Shallow bays and small peninsulas wove in and out. He rowed south and passed two small islands. The lakeside cottages and piers disappeared. The lake channel narrowed dramatically, and a thick forest of pine, birch and maple crowded both shores. Skeletons of trees, mostly submerged and surrounded by lily pads, populated the tiny coves at the water’s edge.

  A bird surfaced behind the chaloupe, just a few boat lengths away, startling Gil. A loon! He’d only seen them in photographs. Where had it come from? He paused, oars in the air, watching the bird float placidly. Then, in an instant, it dove underwater and was gone. Gil stared at the spot, expecting it to resurface at any moment, but as the seconds ticked by to a minute, the bird didn’t reappear. His puzzlement was cut short by a thump and a scrape on one side of the boat. He looked into the water, and the boat, which had continued on its own momentum, floated past a submerged log sticking straight up, its sawed end only a few inches from the surface. The water around it was deep enough so that Gil couldn’t see the bottom.

  He shivered. What else did the lake hide?

  He maneuvered a little farther from shore and turned his head every few strokes, checking the water for other possible dangers. He saw a bright red “Privé” sign on a tree at the water’s edge. Private property. The shore curved around, leading to a deep hidden bay. Gil realized that he had been following one side of a long peninsula. Past it, the lake widened again. He could see it continuing farther south, past several more islands, without any signs of habitation.

  This must be Old Man Miller’s domain. But where was he going to find him?

  He floated for a minute more, then heard an eerie cry—a cross between a laugh and a yell—coming from deep within the peninsula’s bay. That was his signal. He aimed the boat toward the source of the cry and started rowing. He slowed as he entered the bay, intimidated by the looming trees and dead trunks poking into the lake.

  The cry repeated.

  He swiveled around. Two loons floated only yards away. One of them had uttered that freaky cry—he was sure. They were so close he could see the black-and-white speckles on their backs and the collars below their black heads. Fascinated by the birds, he almost missed the glint of sunlight reflected from something among the trees on the peninsula.

  He only noticed after he floated past, and the glint had disappeared. Had he imagined it? He rowed in the opposite direction, peering into the forest.

  Nothing. But something had been there, he was sure.

  He decided to risk downed trees and brought the chaloupe closer to shore, checking the water carefully after each stroke. A sandy spot opened up near some flat rocks that sloped up from the water’s edge. The trees grew a little farther back. There was no pier nor any evidence of a boat, but the spot looked perfect for docking. He rowed in.

  The chaloupe’s front end scraped on the sand. Gil climbed out and lifted the boat, so that almost half of it lay on sloping land, then wrapped the mooring line around a sapling. He slipped on his shirt and shoes but decided against taking the sack. Gil didn’t plan on exploring very far—just enough to see if he hadn’t imagined the glint.

  He saw the cabin as soon as he entered the trees.

  Dark brown, with the roof lower than the trees surrounding it, it blended in perfectly with the forest. The sunlight reflected off the water and gave a dappled light along the side of the house, as if the wood were decorated with shimmering yellow leopard spots. Gil noticed the small window on the side—one of the dapples must have reflected off of it.

  Was this Old Man Miller’s place?

  He thought perhaps he should call out, to see if anyone was there. He took a step toward the cabin. The barrel of a rifle darted out from behind a tree and aimed for his head.

  “Bouge pas!”
r />   The voice was deep, gravelly and quiet, as if it didn’t get used much.

  Gil froze, terror seizing him. What had he said?

  The man circled around, the rifle tip inches from Gil’s face. He was taller than Gil, but not by much. He had black wiry hair and a bushy beard. His eyes were almost colorless—a gray that seemed to reflect the forest around him—and set deep within layers of creases. They narrowed as he appraised Gil.

  “Un jeune!”

  Gil blinked and tried to swallow. What did the man say?

  “Qui es-tu?” the man asked.

  Gil recognized the tone—a question.

  “I … I don’t speak …”

  The man scowled. He lowered the rifle a bit. It was still aimed at Gil, but the man had relaxed his shoulders.

  “American?”

  Gil nodded slightly.

  “Go home,” the man said.

  He aimed the tip down, away from Gil. His accent had a Scottish lilt, without a hint of French.

  “Are you Mr. Miller?” Gil asked.

  Faster than Gil thought possible, the rifle tip was back up by his head.

  “I said, go home!”

  Gil didn’t have a choice. He backed up slowly and stumbled over a branch. He turned slightly to see where he was going. Miller—given the man’s reaction, Gil was positive of his identity—didn’t move. The rifle remained aimed at Gil’s head. Gil didn’t think that this man would miss.

  He had to turn around completely when he reached the shore—so he moved quickly. He launched the chaloupe, badly scraping the bottom, and clambered in. He was too afraid to remove his sneakers, and they were now soaked. He looked into the trees as he placed the oars into the locks. Miller was invisible, but Gil knew that the rifle was still aimed at him.

  He rowed out of the deep bay, around the tip of the wide peninsula, and was level with the “Privé” sign. Old Man Miller must have put it up. Gil worried that the man might follow him on land to make sure he had left. But the thick bushes didn’t move, and there was no sign of a person anywhere.