Chapter 69

By lunchtime, a two kilometre semi-circle of forest had been scoured metre-by-metre.
A yellow Natural Resources helicopter was blowing loud passes overhead, chopping up and down the forest-covered ridge, from Hortonville to Highway 12 in North Alton.
The frozen dog had been flipped like a pancake into a huge, clear plastic bag and placed in the trunk of Cst. Keith’s police cruiser, marked “evidence” with black marker.
A crime of some sort had now been committed. There was no doubt anymore about that.
Rawle Powder sat on a steep snowy hill that ran from the parking lot to the frozen surface of Sunken Lake with the other Hasty Team searchers. They ate dry cold-cut and margarine sandwiches Terry Killacky had bought at a nearby gas station.
Killacky and Cst. Keith ate inside Big Orange, poring over maps and planning the next round of attack against the swallowing wilderness.
After he was done eating, Rawle took his cellphone out of his pocket turned it on. There were messages from Kelloway, Kyle Verryn, and Mittelstaedt, the Gazette assignment editor.
He always forgot to turn his phone on, which was a big no-no at the Gazette. It was such a bad thing, the newspaper had actually written him up about it. He was always supposed to be “reachable,” especially in a situation like the one now unfolding.
He calle dKelloway back first and she cried out loud when he told her who the search was for. Rawle wanted to cry too.
“They’ll be alright,” he said. He declined to tell her about the dog, to spare her some of the details.
“Are you working for the Gazette right now?” She said.
“No. Just searching. Kyle’s on duty today.”
“He’s been calling you all morning, trying to reach you,” she said, yawning involuntarily. Athan had been busting at the seams lately with toddler energy, running her ragged.
“Sorry, babe,” Rawle said, knowing how demanding his cranky fellow reporters and editors were when they’re trying to reach him.
“I told him to call your Blackberry,” Kelloway said. “He said he tried but it’s turned off. He sounded bitchy.”
Rawle laughed. “He is a bitch.”
“When will you be home?”
“Suppertime.”
“Okay. Make sure. And I’ll be praying for them.”
“Me too. Kiss the little guy for me.”
Rawle hung up. As soon as he pressed the little ‘end’ key with his fingernail the phone was already beeping again, furiously. God, he hated these things. He found it annoying that there would even be a signal on South Mountain.
I just need some time to think!
“Rawle Powder,” he answered.
It was Kyle Verryn, sounding frantic.
“God, for Christ sakes! Can’t you leave your phone on?!”
“Sorry,” Rawle said. “It’s Jack. You got a pen?”
“Something’s going on with Jack?”
“Yeah. You got a pen?””Yes. What are you guys doing?”
“Okay, here we go.” Despite being a reporter himself, Rawle was also the official media spokesman for Valley Search and Rescue, which was kind of unusual, but not really unusual at all in Nova Scotia. “-In conjunction with Kings RCMP, Valley Search and Rescue is conducting a ground search for a missing Kings County couple. Jack Walter Lee, 49, Annapolis Valley Bureau Chief and 20 year veteran of the Halifax Gazette, and his wife, Tamara Rose Lee, nee Schofield, 23.”
“Jack’s missing?” Verryn said. “Where is he?”
“Are you writing this down or not?”
“Yes.”
“Missing since yesterday, Friday, morning, they were last seen heading to the beach parking lot at Sunken Lake in the community of Black River. Police ordered a dog unit from Truro. Valley Search and Rescue is combing an inclined piece of forest terrain, located behind Sunken Lake to the southwest. There’s also a helicopter and police divers are checking the power dam.”
“How long have you been there?”
“The ground search began at 5:30. Police will probably say at some point, the subjects…” -he stopped himself- “Jack and Tee, were last seen heading down Black River Road with their dog in Jack’s 4-by-4 at 6 a.m Friday. They’re believed to have taken the dog into the woods for a morning walk. Keep going?”
Kyle was keeping quiet on the other end of the phone call, scribbling furiously.
“Go ahead,” he said finally.
“We found the dog at about 7. Her head bashed-in. She’s dead. The fact that somebody killed the dog is a disturbing clue in terms of the outlook, in my opinion. When you find a clue like that, it usually means the whole thing has gone to shit.”
“-Head bashed in,” Kyle repeated, marveling. He seemed to be finally getting it. This was real.