Free Corkscrew by Ted Wood Page A

straightened up, tapping the contact sheets together so they were square. Carl found an envelope for me. I shoved them into it, and he opened the door.
    He switched off the light as we left, and I walked through his living room to the front door.
    "Thanks, Carl. Keep the negatives, please. If something comes up later, I might need an enlargement or two."
    "Will do," he said, and then added impulsively, "Catch the bastard, Reid. It's a terrible thing, and it means more to me than anybody else in town. The tongues will be wagging, and the trouble will pile up against my door."
    "I know. If anything should start, call the station. I've got someone at the telephone, and I'll get back to you."
    "Thank you," he said firmly. "I will. You're a good policeman, Reid."
    There was nothing to say but Aw shucks, so I just nodded and went out onto the step. Sam was lying there, and I let him sniff the boy's sweatshirt again and set him seeking. He ran to the door, then out to the road, directly opposite the door, then trotted off northward. Carl was watching from the step, and he said, "Does that mean he went that way?"
    "It could. I'm going to follow Sam's nose. Stay in touch if there's any trouble."
    He nodded grimly and shut the door.
    I let Sam lead me up the roadway, keeping behind him in the scout car. He jogged on, nose to the ground, once taking a side trip toward a tree. I waited while he sniffed around the base, noticing that it had a grotesque bump on one side. Maybe the boy had stopped to photograph it. But Sam soon resumed his trot up the road, staying on the left-hand side. The kid had walked safely, facing the oncoming traffic. I was assuming that this trail had been laid after the boy left Carl's house. He might have gone back, but his time had been running out. He must have been killed soon after leaving Carl's house. And he must have left there alive. This trail was proof.
    The road to the Corbett's cottage took me past the dump. I slowed as I passed and looked out at the bikers who were setting up on the flat field. They had their bikes in a line and were drinking beer and setting up a couple of big tents, laughing and swearing together. One of them stopped and pointed at me, and the others laughed. Then another one held up a bottle of beer invitingly. I waved and drove on, their laughter drifting after me.
    Sam led me another quarter mile, straight to the Corbett place. It's right on the water, down a slight slope from the roadway, almost hidden in a stand of poplars planted years ago when the cottage was built. I got out of the car and followed him down to the back door, where he stopped and sniffed. I watched him and waited, glancing up at the cottage. It's more than a cottage, a grand summer residence, really. Mrs. Corbett's parents owned it. Now they're dead, and she comes up here alone through the week in the summer months. Her husband commutes from his business in Toronto and its surroundings. He runs a number of hotels, and I had heard the local gossip that he was trying to open a big marina hotel near here, out on the shore of Georgian Bay, where he can cater to the summer boat traffic.
    After a minute or so Sam moved away from the door, out to the side of the cottage and down to the dock. There was a cruiser tied to the dock. It was green, with a canvas hood, the same kind the Levine boy had seen. Sam followed the boy's trail right into it, but tentatively at first, nosing the air more than the ground. But when he reached the side of the cruiser, he didn't hesitate. He dived right into it and snuffled around the center, not on the seats but on the bottom of the boat, what I'd have called the deck if I'd still been in the marines.
    I followed him down and checked the boat myself. It was empty, and there were no obvious new scratches or bloodstains to guide or to confuse me. The first fact I picked up was that the rope at bow and stern was the same common yellow plastic that the boy had been tied with. I checked