by Warren Court
Then he thought about it. Why go all the way home again? By the time he got out to highway six it would be dark and dangerous for him to drive. But go where, that motel he stayed at before? The thought of rodents running around really gave him the heebie jeebies. There was another alternative though. Go on, give it a try. Worst thing she could do was say no.
18
“Thanks,” he said as he sat down at Cathy’s table. After his final two visits to names on his list, both of which turned up zero results, he found himself being drawn to the Scotch Line road. And Cathy’s house. He had told himself he was being a fool, thinking this stranger was just going to take pity on him and invite him in and to do what, spend the night? Nonsense. She’ll slam the door in your face. But as it grew darker he found himself wandering out there. Just to see if the lights were on, he’d check in on her that was all. They’d probably be off, she might already be in bed. Her husband might be there. But the lights had been on when he approached. And there was no vehicle outside the house to indicate someone else besides Cathy was there.
A sudden wave of confidence and expectation washed over him as he got out of the car. Cathy opened the door when Armour’s weak headlights had swung in through the front window. She was in the same simple grey dress she had on the night before and her hair was a shambles. She scrambled to get it straightened as he came towards the front door and for a second he wondered if she had another gentleman caller. One that had walked all the way out here?
She didn’t. She’d smiled and looked like she was almost going to hug him when he got up to the door but she stepped aside and beckoned him in. The place was warm, cozy by candlelight and a fire. It was getting crisper at night now and the fire was nice.
“Get you something to drink?” Cathy said. “I have a bottle somewhere, my husband drinks...” She paused and became despondent for a second at the mention of her husband.
“No, no thank you,” Armour said quickly.
“Good. I don’t like drinkers. My husband is a drinker.”
“Where is your husband now?” Armour said.
“Away again, doing god knows what. I don’t care anymore.” She looked away down at the fire. She put a hand to her face.
In a flash, Armour was out of his chair and kneeling down next to her.
“Hey. It’s okay,” he said.
She threw her arms around him and hugged him hard. He returned it, he could feel her warm skin underneath the thin dress. Their faces separated and then joined again and their mouths found each other. They kissed hard, her lips pressed on his like a vice and he felt a jolt of excitement go through him. After a while they separated and Armour retook his seat.
“Well…” he said and they laughed. She got up and came back with some saltines.
“Sorry, I don’t have much to offer.”
“That’s okay.”
“What are you doing out here?”
“Working that murder case I told you about.”
“Really,” she said. Armour was puzzled, she looked like she had never heard him mention it. It was too late to go into the details and his lack of results was disheartening. And what he most wanted not to do is bring on another spell by talking about it. And he also didn’t want to spoil the romantic mood that had developed.
There was a settee in the front room, a rocking chair and a bookcase with a few books. Not like Armour’s bookcases in his front living room. He was running out of room. Despite his dire financial circumstances Armour never resisted the urge to pick up a book, all second hand of course, and all very old.
She cleared the table while he went over to investigate her books. They were the classics Mark Twain, Huck Finn, a Dickens anthology. His kind of thing.
“You like those?” She said and came up behind him.
“I do. You read the classics?”
She didn’t answer. Her hands came up and around Armour’s chest and he felt that surge again. He almost knocked her over spinning around to embrace her.
Armour had placed his pocket watch on the night stand and when he woke he checked it by the moonlight coming in through the window in Cathy’s bedroom. It was three a.m. He heard noises outside, probably deer or racoons trying to fatten up before the coming winter.
Then he heard a man’s voice, like a whisper and he shot up real fast.
“What is it?” Cathy said stirring, still half in slumber.
“Do you have a gun?” Armour said.
“What?” Now she was fully awake too.
There’s someone outside. Do you have a gun?” he hissed.
“Just a shot gun.”
Armour listened, trying to quell the pounding blood in his ears to pick up another whisper. He spun out of bed, grabbed his underclothes off the floor and then his pants and buckled them up fast. No time for shoes. Armour crept to the back door ten feet from the bed. He tried the handle but the door was bolted closed. Good.
There was a sound, like wood cracking or a stick snapping from the field behind the house. No voices though, could be a deer? Had he even been fully awake when he heard it?
He unlatched the door. Opened it a crack, then in a sudden rush flung it open and stepped out, silhouetted by the weak light of the fire embers from the front room.
“Who’s there?” he shouted, his voice sharp and clear in the early morning frosty air.
The chill fully wakened him. Hardened his nipples as wind fluttered against his bare stomach and he shivered but he did not waver and stood there rock still, arms at his side, hands curled into fists. He took a step out and stood still again. The ground was cold beneath his bare feet.
Two shots rang out from the field and Armour heard a round slam into the side of the house near the window. He launched himself back into the cottage and slammed the door with his foot.
“Shot gun. Where is it?” he said. Armour crawled along the floor and then up to the bed.
Cathy was in the bed shaking with fear, the sheet around her. “They’ve come back,” she said.
“The gun!”
“Front room, closet. Shells are on the floor.” Armour, on his feet now, ran crouched over. He found the gun when he heard someone at the back door. He realized he had not re-latched it.
The gun was long and cold and he cracked the double barrels. He found a red and white box of shells on the floor and clawed it open. Shells dropped to the floor and in a scramble, he slammed two home. There wasn’t a sound coming from the bedroom, not even Cathy’s whimpering.
“Alright, you bastards,he shouted. “I have a gun.”
He padded to the doorway of the back room. It was pitch black, his eyes not adjusting from the remains of the fire glow. He used the door to shield half of himself and pointed the gun at the back door. It was not open. Had someone come in?
“Cathy? Cathy are you alright?” He scrambled for a light switch on the wall, found none.
“Armour,” Cathy said, her voice rising at the end in fear.
A torch came on and bathed Armour in light.
“Drop it. Drop the gun,” the man said.
“No. Get out now or I’ll shoot.”
“You jackass, you fire that thing you’ll kill her too.” The man moved the flashlight to Cathy’s face. Armour couldn’t see him clearly but he could see Cathy’s nakedness, her soft white skin gleamed in the moonlight. He could see the wetness of tears on her face and she was trembling. The man was behind her, one hand held the flashlight, in the other hand he held a gun, the barrel was shoved forcefully up under Cathy’s chin causing her to lift her head high.
“What do you want?”
“You to stop poking your nose in where it don’t belong.”
“Let her go.”
“Drop the gun,” the man shouted, pointing the light back at Armour and blinding him again. Armour let the gun go loose in his grip then let it drop to the floor.
“Now let her go.”
Armour could just see the jumble of the two silhouettes move towards the back doo
r that was partially open. The man separated himself from her and pointed the gun at her temple. He paused for a second and then was gone out the door.
Armour ran to Cathy and caught her before she collapsed to the floor. He carried her to her bed and then ran and got the shot gun. He cautiously peeked out the back door, saw nothing except the tall field grass swaying in the strong autumn breeze and slammed the door closed and bolted it.
19
Armour stayed up the rest of the night. An agitated Cathy eventually fell asleep and her light snoring comforted Armour while he stood guard. When the sky started to lighten with daybreak he went out the front door and checked on his car. It was untouched and sat there in the growing dawn, wet with morning dew. He did a walk around the house, there were no footprints out back that he could see but he didn’t think anything of that. The property appeared to be as deserted as it was when he first pulled up.
He was out there half an hour. When he returned, Cathy was making breakfast and humming. She had stirred the fire and the living room was warm and heady with the smell of frying bacon and brewing coffee.
They said little during the meagre breakfast, the shot gun never far from Armour’s side though he did unload it for safety. Armour finally approached the subject of the previous night’s occurrence cautiously.
“What was that all about?”
“What?”
“That man with the gun. He could have killed you. Hell, we’re both lucky to be alive.”
She stood up abruptly and started clearing the breakfast dishes. She carried them to the sink and dropped them in and started humming again. Armour sat there dumbfounded.
“Do you know him?” Armour said.
“No.”
Cathy made herself busy with the chores. Armour sat there for a while longer then finally he got up and put the empty shot gun back in the closet. He picked up the loose shells and put them and the two that had been in the gun back in the box. The shells were old, instead of plastic shell casings they were wax covered paper. The box was labelled Federal Cartridge Co. Anoka Minnesota. Armour wondered if the shells would even fire. He should try that gun out in the field later. That is, if he was coming back.
Armour couldn’t help shake the suspicion that the man last night had been after him. The man had pointed the flashlight right at him. How could he have mistaken Armour for Cathy’s husband. Armour had been followed to the house. Most likely by the Truscott girl’s true murderer. Why else would Cathy deny any knowledge of him? But how would the murderer have picked up on Armour’s snooping around? He thought about who he had seen and talked to about the case but came up short when it came to suspects. Maybe it would be best if Armour got in his car and never looked back, for Cathy’s sake.
“I gotta get going,” he said after he put the gun and shells away. She hugged him hard but said nothing of his coming back. She walked him to the door and waited in the doorway, wearing that same simple cotton dress, her hair just as frazzled as when he had arrived the day before. Would he be back? He couldn’t answer that.
The first house from the Pappanillo list he tried was the one on the outskirts of town but no one was home. Armour realized he probably should have started with this house first the previous day. The man’s name was Graham, Lester P. His name was blackened in bold ink and had ‘foreman’ written next to it. All of the other people had a trade listed or general duties, this man was management.
He spent a few more hours in Port Dover visiting three homes that were on the list. All were a bust, no connection to the plant. He swung by the foreman’s house one more time but it was dark with no cars in the driveway. A newspaper wrapped in a translucent plastic bag was still on the porch where Armour had seen it that morning. Time to go home. And he really meant it this time. As much as he wanted to he vowed to stay away from the Scotch Line road. At least for a while.
Throughout the day Armour was alert to anyone following him. He didn’t think there was but he confessed to himself that he was out of his depth. He remembered the detective novel set in Cuba he was reading and how the police officer the novel was based around had someone follow him and how he’d given the person the slip. No chance of doing that, not in Armour’s under powered, vintage car. Still, he kept glancing at the tiny side view mirror on his car the entire ride home on Highway Six.
Armour put his car away in his garage and took the list of former ELS employees inside. He dropped it on the table and stood there… listening. Was someone in his house? After his violent encounter with that man at Cathy’s house he was paranoid. Could they have found out where he lived? After a while only the clunk clunk of the grandmother clock in his front room was audible. Nothing else. He picked up the phone and dialed Melanie.
“Hello stranger,” Melanie said.
“How’d you know it was me?”
“Call display.”
“Oh. I’m back.”
“I’ll say. Where’d you disappear to?”
“Back out in Port Dover. Running down some people who worked at the steel factory.”
“How’d you come upon those?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“Oh, I see. I have exciting news.”
“About Barbara Housen? You found out what happened to her?”
“Better than that, I found her.”
“You spoke to her?”
“Not exactly. I spoke to her secretary. She’s out of town, comes back in two days.”
“Her secretary?”
“Housen is the executive director at Disabled Ontarians Benefits Association. It’s located right here in town. Isn’t that something?”
“It is.”
“I’ve driven by it, it’s right down town. I figured you and I could go see her on Monday. Her secretary...”
“You and I?” Armour said, wary about involving Melanie if someone was truly after him.
“Yes, you and I. We’re a team. And I found her so I get to go.”
“I don’t know, Melanie. It might be dangerous.”
Melanie laughed. “Armour she’s in a wheelchair, I found the website. There’s a picture of her on it. She’s about your age I think. What could happen?”
“No, I don’t mean her. Look it’s probably just better…”
“Nonsense. I’m going, with you or without you.” She laughed again.
“Okay then. I’m back out to Port Dover tomorrow. Want to interview a foreman from the steel plant then I think I’m done. I’ve only been able to track down one family connected to the plant and the daughter of the former employee was distraught. Most of the men who worked there are dead apparently.”
“Oh my.”
“Not what you think. Asbestos, mesothelioma. Everyone I talked to who knows someone who worked there says the same thing, they all died of it. Probably this foreman too, but I have to find out.”
“Why don’t you just call?”
Armour said nothing.
“Oh wait, it’s long distance, isn’t it? Armour you’re spending more on gas going out there.”
“I need to see them, face to face.”
“Whatever. So, you’re off? Back to Port Dover?”
“Yes.”
“Tomorrow. Friday.”
“Yeah so?”
“It’s a Friday the thirteenth tomorrow… in Port Dover.”
“Oh.” Armour hadn’t thought of that.
“Yeah oh is right. There’ll be bikers there, by the thousands. Every Friday the thirteenth, rain or shine or even snow they show up. You won’t get within earshot of the place in a car.”
“Okay I got it figured out. What’s the weather supposed to be like tomorrow?”
“Nice, clear, little cool.”
“Fine. Just fine. Good night, Melanie.”
“No, Armour wait–”
He hung up.
20
Armour pushed his Brougham Superior 100 motorcycle out of the garage. He liked everything about this pre-war bike and then some. Its curve
s, its shiny chrome. The way it sat. Truth be told if he could own a dozen of these types of bikes he would, but today he was glad to just own one.
He checked the air in the tires. Checked the gasoline. It seemed fresh and the tank was full. Oil was good. It was a forty-five-minute ride out to Port Dover. Every Friday the thirteenth no matter the time of year or weather, bikers, motorcycle enthusiasts, some outlaws and “hang arounds” descended on poor old Port Dover. Any sensible resident of that lakeside town takes flight, leaving for the weekend while the leather clad set take over the motels and disperse out to the trailer parks and camp grounds. They saturate what few bars, taverns and restaurants there are in Dover. It’s a boon for the local economy but not without its pitfalls. There can’t be that many uber-macho, testosterone junkies in one place without fists flying eventually.
Armour started his bike up and let it warm up while he put on his tan-coloured canvass dispatch rider’s coat from World War One. On his head went a black open face helmet and vintage world war two aviator goggles, the leather of which was worn out and cracked. He wouldn’t have worn the helmet at all if not for the law requiring it. He had an authentic leather skull cap from the same period as the coat and goggles hanging on a hook in the garage, but it could never be used. He knew that certain American states allowed its bikers to ride without helmets, at their own risk. He agreed with that, no one could get hurt but the driver. He had debated it with Melanie one night when they were discussing a recent motorcycle accident on the 401 and she had said that he was off his rocker for wanting to ride without one.
Last thing checked was Armour’s motorcycle license. It was valid. With that many bikers in one spot there would be cops and spot checks. With a quick double ratchet of the throttle the engine cracked to life and settled into a growl. Then the kick stand was up with a twang and he was off.