Murder on the Thirteenth Read Free Page A

1692?”
    Tretheway nodded. “Anything else?”
    â€œNot really, “Jake answered. “Just a minute. That could be a triangle.”
    â€œMore like a star. Looks like they were in a hurry.”
    â€œProbably heard us coming.” Jake thought about whoever had been on the island first hearing a shout, then looking up to see a 280-pound bat-like creature sailing towards them. “Or saw us.” Jake smiled.
    Tretheway didn’t reply. He moved toward the centre of the clearing where there was enough moonlight to show that the pile of rocks had been laid to protect a wood fire.
    â€œThere’s your light,” Tretheway said. “Or what’s left of it.” Jake bent over the still softly glowing embers. “What’s that smell?”
    Tretheway sniffed. “Sulphur.”
    â€œCould be from STELFY.” Jake was referring to the Steel Company of Fort York in the adjacent Fort York Harbor which occasionally spewed sulphur fumes into the atmosphere.
    â€œMaybe.” Tretheway shined the flashlight on the smooth rocks at the edge of the dying fire. While Jake watched, he adroitly slipped his free hand under his armpit, squeezed off his glove, and gingerly picked up one of the rocks. “Not too hot.” He examined it closely, then scraped it with his fingernail. “Wax.”
    â€œWhat?” Jake asked.
    â€œWax,” Tretheway repeated. “There’s your big flare-up. The wax caught fire. Must’ve spilled out of this.” He put his glove back on and picked up a blackened metal bowl from the centre of the fire. Tretheway poked the solid contents with his mitt. “More wax.”
    All of a sudden, Jake felt uneasy. He looked over his shoulder, then did a complete sweep the other way. The moon disappeared again and the indecisive wind scattered the few remaining embers of the fire. A dog howled. Jake shivered again but this time not from the cold.
    â€œYou’re saying someone was out here, middle of nowhere. Midnight. Freezing cold. And during a blackout. Cooking wax over an open fire.” Jake paused. “Why?”
    Tretheway shook his head.
    â€œAnd where are they now?” Jake said.
    â€œHe, she or they, whoever it was, has to be over there.” Tretheway pointed to the north shore, a scant furlong away.
    Jake didn’t say anything.
    â€œWhat’s over there?” Tretheway asked.
    â€œA fair-sized hill. There’s a path through the woods. Leads to a small parking lot. Then the highway. Follow it to Wellington Square. Or come back around Wellington Square Bay and the marsh to Fort York. To where we are, if you like.”
    â€œWe should go over.” Tretheway stared at the yards and yards of smooth ice separating them from the far shore. He could see no one. A conservative estimate of twenty miles an hour entered his head. That would be about the speed he’d reach before he slammed into the hill if the rising wind caught his greatcoat again. “Maybe in the morning.”
    â€œRight,” Jake sighed.
    Tretheway turned to go As he ducked under a branch, a shape not made by nature caught his eye. Swinging from a low limb of a stunted black willow was what looked like an untidy piece of string. He snapped on his flashlight.
    â€œWhat now?” Jake asked.
    Tretheway carefully disentangled it from the tree. They examined it under the light: an approximately five-foot length of thick cord with several dirty grey feathers loosely knotted into it at uneven intervals.
    â€œWhat is it?” Jake asked.
    â€œGod knows.” Tretheway stuffed it into his pocket. “We’ll look at it later. You’d better bring the bowl.”
    â€œRight.” Jake picked it up. A low growling moan broke the silence, slowly at first, then climbed quickly to a loud, high-pitched steady scream.
    Jake dropped the bowl. “What the hell’s that?”
    â€œEasy,” Tretheway said. “It’s the