Chapter 1: Beneath the Surface

Chapter 1

 

Discovery

 

March 7, 1988:

 

The man wearing the Hydro-Québec winter coat and cap trudged along the snow-covered path to the back of the barn, where the meter was found. He muttered to himself as his boots crunched through the icy crust.

 

“Brr,” he grumbled. “Winter is still here.”

 

Last night, the temperature had plummeted to minus 18 Celsius, and this early morning wasn’t much warmer. A bitter wind blew in from over the Ottawa River, biting through layers of clothing and making it feel even colder with the wind chill.

 

The barn loomed ahead, sagging under the weight of neglect. Its weathered wooden planks barely held together, and the wind whistled through the gaps. Sunlight filtered through the half-collapsed roof, casting jagged shadows on the snow. The nearby farmhouse, once proud with red brick walls, now showed signs of decay—its roof shingles curling like old parchment, its window frames cracked and brittle.

 

The Hydro worker hated this farm. It wasn’t just the weather or the disrepair—it was the silence. Something about it felt heavy, as if the place carried the weight of too many secrets. Everyone on the island knew the story: the farmer’s wife had left, escaping a marriage that had turned cold and cruel. Her departure had plunged the farmer into despair, made worse by two sons who refused to lift a finger to help. People called them “useless.” The farm fell deeper into ruin.

 

Rounding the corner of the barn, he was met with towering snowdrifts, piled eight feet high against the back wall. The strong northeastern winds had sculpted the snow into jagged ridges.

 

“Dammit,” he growled. “That goddamn farmer could’ve done some shovelling.”

 

Realizing he’d need the shovel from his truck, he retraced his steps. Grabbing the tool, he returned to the drift and followed the electric cable that ran from the nearby hydro pole to the barn wall. He used the cable as a guide, plunging the shovel into the hardened snow.

 

The packed snow resisted with every motion. He stepped firmly on the blade, forcing it down, and flung the icy chunks to the side. His breath puffed out in clouds as he worked. After several minutes, the shovel hit something solid with a dull thunk.

 

The sound startled him. He paused, heart thudding against his ribs. What was buried here?

 

Kneeling, he brushed the snow away with gloved hands. An unnatural shape began to emerge—a pale bluish colour that didn’t belong. Ice? Rocks? But as he uncovered more, a chill deeper than the frigid wind coursed through him.

 

Fingers, an arm, then a nose on a frozen face.

 

The worker recoiled, his breath catching in his throat. He frantically cleared the last of the snow, revealing a lifeless male body, curled as if frozen in its final agony. The skin, exposed in nothing but underwear, was tinged purple and black. The man’s eyes were shut, his mouth slightly open, and his body frozen rigid.

 

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, stumbling backward.

 

Later:

 

The Sûreté du Québec surrounded the red-brick farmhouse. Police vehicles were parked in the snow-covered yard, engines idling, their red and blue lights flashing against the white landscape.

 

“Gerald, Jerome, whoever’s in there, the place is surrounded! Surrender now, and no harm will come to you!” shouted Sergeant Michael Gilbert, a burly man with two parallel horizontal bars on his left sleeve insignia.

 

Inside the house, muffled shouts broke the tension. “What is happening? What’s going on? We’re coming out with our hands up!”

 

The front door creaked open, and two men in their twenties stepped out into the icy air, their hands raised high. Their faces were pale, their movements hesitant. The officers moved in quickly, forcing them face down into the snow and cuffing them. The men were hauled to their feet and marched toward a waiting police vehicle.

 

Sergeant Gilbert stepped forward, his voice steady and authoritative. “You are being arrestedon suspicion of the murder of Ian McLeod. You have the right to legal counsel and the right to remain silent when questioned by the police.”

 

The two men, Gerald and Jerome McLeod, didn’t resist. They exchanged glances but said nothing as the officers led them away.

 

In the Farmyard:

 

The 1985 Taurus skidded to a halt in the snow-covered driveway, the sound of tires on the crisp snow swallowed by the murmur of voices and the crackle of radios. Police vehicles crowded the McLeod farmyard, their flashing lights casting eerie reflections on the pristine snow.

 

George McLeod, Ian’s younger brother, stepped out of the car, his boots crackling on the ice crystals on the frozen ground. His teenage nephew, Peter, sat motionless in the passenger seat, wide-eyed and pale. George glanced at the boy briefly before striding toward Sergeant Gilbert, his breath visible in the biting air.

 

“What the hell’s going on?” George demanded, his voice rough with tension.

 

Gilbert turned to face him; his expression grim. “Ian’s body was found behind the barn. We have reasonable and probable grounds to arrest Gerald and Jerome for his murder.”

 

George staggered, his hands balling into fists. “Murder? Are you sure? Ian—dead?”

 

The sergeant nodded gravely. “You reported him missing three weeks ago. Your nephews told us he’d gone on vacation, but now we’ve found a frozen corpse with bullet holes in its forehead. George, you know what this looks like.”

 

The words hit George like a hammer. He staggered slightly, his breath catching in his throat. “Ian murdered?” he shouted, his voice cracking. “My bull-headed older brother, gone—reduced to a frozen body in the snow?”

 

Shock gave way to a boiling anger as George’s gaze snapped to the parked police cruiser. Outside it, Gerald and Jerome stood flanked by two officers, their faces pale and shadowed with fear.

 

“Those boys wouldn’t kill their own father!” George spat, his voice rising, thick with rage. He stormed across the yard, his boots pounding against the icy ground.

 

“Uncle George, don’t!” Gerald called, but it was too late.

 

George lunged, grabbing Gerald by the collar, his grip iron tight. “What did you do?” he bellowed, shaking his nephew violently. “What did you do to my brother?”

 

Jerome shrank back, his voice trembling. “Please, Uncle George, let him go. We’ve done nothing!”

 

“Don’t you dare tell me what to do, boy!” George roared, releasing Gerald, and turning his fury on Jerome. He shoved the younger man hard, sending him stumbling. “Did you do it? Is that why you lied about him going to British Columbia? You think I can’t see through you? Ian was hard on you, but that doesn’t mean you put a bullet in his head!”

 

“Back off, Uncle George!” Gerald snapped, his voice low and simmering with rage. He wrenched himself upright and stood firm, his jaw clenched. “You don’t know a damn thing about what happened.”

 

George’s face twisted with fury, his breath coming in short, angry bursts. “I know enough!” he barked. “I know Ian’s dead. And I know you’ve been lying. That’s all I need to know!”

 

“Enough!” Sergeant Gilbert’s voice cut through the chaos like a whip. He stepped between them, his stance firm as Gerald and Jerome edged forward, their fists clenched. “Break it up, all of you! This isn’t the time or place.”

 

Gilbert grabbed George by the shoulders, forcing him back. “You want to help anyone here, George? Then let us do our jobs.”

 

George shoved Gilbert’s hands off, his chest heaving with effort. He glared at his nephews, his eyes blazing with a volatile mix of rage and anguish, before retreating a step, his entire body trembling.

 

Behind him, Peter emerged from the car, his small frame visibly shivering as he took in the scene. His wide, terrified eyes darted between his uncle and his brothers.

 

“Peter, get over here,” George called, his voice cracking with emotion. He motioned urgently for the boy to come to him, his hand trembling. He needed to shield Peter from this nightmare—or at least try to explain the unthinkable.

 

Peter approached hesitantly, the crunch of his boots on the snow the only sound in the silent yard. George pulled him close, wrapping an arm protectively around the boy’s shoulders.

 

George’s gaze lingered on Gerald and Jerome one last time, a storm of accusation and disbelief swirling in his eyes. The wind whined softly in the background, carrying with it the heavy weight of all that had been lost—and all that remained unresolved.

Click here to sign up for chapter updates

(Subscribers will be notified of new chapter releases, bonus content, and future book news.)

https://keithlandrybooks.blogspot.com

Books.by/keith-landry-books.com