Free A Dream of Death by Harrison Drake Page B

were
faint voices coming through the trees as well as the footsteps of someone
moving through the underbrush. This area was not well-traveled, likely seen by
only a few determined hikers and campers each year. Those who did see this area
likely came by river—canoes and kayaks being popular methods of travel through
the nearly eight thousand square kilometres of the provincial park.
    As we approached the scene I was struck by a sense of
familiarity. This was my first visit to Algonquin Park, ever, and yet, it felt
as though I had been there before. Images flashed in my mind: my father
standing strong before the trees as the sun rose in the morning; my father
again, weariness in his eyes as he carried me through the woods; and waking up
to the sun breaking through the trees, my skin wet with dew.
    My father had taken me camping once before when I was just a
child. But that had been to Cyprus Lake, a park near Tobermory at the tip of
the Bruce Peninsula hundreds of kilometres away. The terrain was similar—rocky
ground, coniferous trees, cold, clear waters. I must have been confusing
myself, distant memories blurring the lines between the past, present and
imagined.
    I no longer needed Chen as a guide. I walked a direct line
to the skull, following a path I had taken before. The skull was positioned
just as I had seen it, the dirt washed away from around it, revealing the white
bone. It looked fake, like a skull stolen from a medical classroom, too perfect
to be real. I could see only minor damage, cracks and wear caused by the
passage of time.
    There was no knife dangling above the skull, no message in
blood. And much to my delight the skull did not speak to me.
    “We haven’t started excavating at all yet,” Chen said. “We
only found it again late yesterday. Last week a couple of interior campers had
packed up their tents from the night before and were hiking to their next
campsite when they came across the skull. Bones are nothing new to hikers in
here—deer, bear, wolves, you name it, and having watched too many episodes of
CSI, a lot of people assume they’re human. This is the first one I’ve heard of
where they were right.”
    “Hard to mistake this for an animal skull,” I said.
    Chen laughed.
    “When they said it was a skull I knew it was a real one.
Then it was just a matter of finding it again.”
    “How long do you figure the body’s been here?”
    “The anthropologist from the University of Ottawa, Dr.
Conroy, estimated it was at least ten to fifteen years, given the state of the
skull and the complete skeletonization. He was surprised that the body hadn’t
been dug up by scavengers, being so close to the surface.”
    “When is the doctor due?”
    “Right now.”
    The reply from behind startled me. This was happening more
and more often. My unshakeable detective exterior was falling apart—assuming I
had ever had an unshakeable detective exterior. I turned around to see an older
male, unkempt hair and beard, standing beside me. Had I not attended university
I would have assumed him to be a well-dressed vagrant. I had met a number of
professors with similar style, their research far more important than a haircut
and shave.
    I stretched out my hand and introduced myself. He shook my
hand and said, “So you’re the one with the background in anthropology?”
    “If you call an honours B.Sc. and a single dig a background.
I have a feeling Detective Chen here has been exaggerating my qualifications.”
    Conroy smiled. “Don’t worry, Detective. I’m not threatened
by you.”
    Had it not been for the genuine smile, I wouldn’t have known
how to take his comment, the monotone delivery wiping away all possible traces
of humour or sarcasm.
    “I won’t get in your way. Chen just wants me here to oversee
this from a police perspective, evidence gathering and that, I guess.” I looked
at Chen. “Why exactly am I here, Chen?”
    “You’re an expert, Link,” he said with a wink. “Don’t