-by Jake Doherty
Constable Exner had other priorities. A lanky man from northern Alberta who had come east when his banker father was transferred to Owen Sound, Exner had lived in the Bruce long enough to respect squall weather in winter. Offshore winds were already picking up. Roads would close, schools would shut down in the morning when nothing could move in the blinding blur of wind-whipped snow.
Even on a crime scene.
"If you'll pardon an old woman, Constable, sir," said Nellie, hands on her ample hips, looking out the window, "them bodies aren't moving out of here tonight, no hurry for the coroner now, so let's divide my gang into two groups and--"
"Nellie this is police business, and I wish you ...
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Read Scene 1
-by Jake Doherty
Complications set in quickly. After several tries on a cell phone, one birder reached his wife at Lion's Head, midway up the Peninsula who, in turn, reached the Ontario Provincial Police detachment in Wiarton. The OPP quickly contacted officers checking snowmobile trails in the Cabot Head area and diverted them to the old cabin hidden in the evergreens and shore rocks circling Windfield Basin.
At first sight, nothing was obvious except that the victims looked as though they had been dead for some time. That removed any suspicion that Nellie or her birder friends could possibly be suspects or even, persons of interest. Early winter storms had wiped out any tracks left by the killer – or killers for that matter. Nor did the deceased still have their wallets with them.
Except that Capt. Adams, however, still had his military dog tags around his neck under a heavy turtleneck that the killer had ignored. Only one bag of clothing for two victims, just a satchel really with a small shaving kit, and only little leftover food, barely enough to sustain them for no more than two or three days.
-by Jake Doherty
In the end, death came suddenly, at once brutally and ignominiously for Capt. Jonas Isaiah Adams. His flight to Canada ended in a small stone and wooden hut on the Bruce Peninsula along the West Shore of Ontario's Georgian Bay. No more wars, no medals, and, as a coroner would later conclude, just a deep injury from a blunt instrument in the back of his skull. Only one person would see him die.
An experpt from the novel
By Cathy Hird
Thalassai floated in a small boat among fragrant lilies. She reached out to touch one of the delicate white blossoms and saw the reflection of her face on the mirror-like water of the pond. One strand of hair had escaped her braid. She pushed it back, then trailed slender fingers through the sun-warmed water. The ripples grew, and the pond became a river. Water tumbled around a rock, making the boat bounce. She grabbed for the gunnel and ..
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