The Devil's Dust

by C. B. Forrest

  Thirty-Six

  The water stopped just as Madsen lathered her hair with shampoo for the first time in three days. She stood there in the shower, groping blindly to part the old stained curtain in search of a towel. There was a moment there where she thought she might cry. This dump, this town, this shower with its brown water, and the fact her husband has not answered his phone in eighteen hours. But she stopped herself, and she stood there for a moment to collect herself. What is the solution, she asked herself. Get the soap out of your eyes. And so she took a towel, wiped the soap from her face, and dried her hair the best she could. She finds a silver lining in the fact she had her hair cut shorter not two weeks ago.

  Now Madsen is dressed and sitting at the desk, her laptop illuminating the room in light blue as she puts together the notes from her two most recent calls. She pauses every few minutes to listen to the room next door, where Celluci has been holed up all day, and she hears sounds of the floor or the bed, someone walking in circles, and she pictures Celluci pacing as he tries to contact his lawyer down in Detroit. She re-reads the last notation and realizes she is hesitating in sharing the information with McKelvey. She is not sure why exactly, except to say it has something to do with the way Nolan looks at McKelvey. She tries McKelvey at home first, and he answers on the second ring.

  “I didn’t wake you up, did I?” She looks at her watch. It’s midnight.

  “Just stepped from the shower,” he says.

  “With hot water and everything? Sounds luxurious.”

  “You can borrow it if you want. We’re like that in small towns. We share everything. And then we bitch about how people take advantage of our kind nature.”

  “I may need to take you up on that. I’m turning into a hobo. Listen, I got a call from Shirley Murdoch about an hour ago that a farmer out on a concession road south of town found a 1997 Jimmy abandoned by some trees on the side of the road.”

  “Gallagher’s?”

  “Confirmed by his plates. The vehicle was unlocked, no signs of foul play.”

  “He ditched the vehicle and had someone pick him up, or ….”

  “Something has happened to him.”

  They are both quiet for a moment, playing through the possibilities.

  “Any intel on Nolan?” McKelvey asks.

  “He was given a discharge from the armed forces three years ago. It was an administrative discharge for medical reasons. A little digging on the coding indicates it was a health issue of the mental variety.”

  “Could be anything — stress, anxiety, depression …”

  “We tracked his ex-wife down in Edmonton. He was married for eighteen months while he was stationed out there with the third battalion of the PPCLI. This woman, Jennifer Martin, she’s remarried now and has a little boy, and she was reluctant to relive the past. But her first words to the investigator who called were ‘did Eddie hurt somebody?’”

  “Ed Nolan,” McKelvey says, as though uttering the name out loud will somehow provide a new clarity that he requires. “I don’t see it. But then, I can’t say I know the man intimately. From the work we’ve done together, I saw more reluctance and hesitation where violence or temper was concerned, that’s for sure. He has a good nature.”

  “Maybe he controls it, I don’t know,” Madsen says. “Or maybe now he’s on medication and he’s doing well. I’m just reading the report. I think it gives us pause to review some of the facts in a new light. Consider the theft report from the Co-op that was never filed. He was at the truck stop pretty fast, even if he left as soon as you called him. He was the last one with the Chief when they went up to look at Wade Garson’s place. He had access to the Chief’s gun. He was in Celluci’s room when you guys found the spent shell casing.”

  “Constable Younger said he was there the day Gallagher and Celluci did some target shooting with the Chief’s prized pistol, which confirms Celluci’s story and accounts for the GSR.” There’s something different in McKelvey’s voice now, as though he is coming to accept a new reality.

  “What did you get on Levesque?” Madsen asks.

  “Enough. More than enough. What are you thinking?”

  “I’ll radio Nolan and let him know we’re finishing the paperwork on both Celluci and Levesque. He needs to sit tight for a few more hours. You head over to Nolan’s place and see if you can talk to his father, learn anything we don’t already know.”

  “We’ll need to stay off the radio. I lost my cellphone, so I’ll make the call from Nolan’s place.”

  Madsen smiles to herself, but does not bother telling McKelvey that she watched him staring at his cellphone one afternoon, the flashing light indicating waiting messages, and then she watched him bury it in the bottom of a drawer in the squad room.

  Thirty-Seven

  The house is in darkness. McKelvey knocks three or four times, but there is no response. He understands Nolan’s father is infirm and likely asleep at this hour. Still, he doesn’t want to frighten an old man, so he uses the weight of his body against the door and the screwdriver he has brought from the glove compartment to create just enough space where the lock’s bolt finds a home within the door frame. It is within this imperceptible space that burglars have been conducting their profession for long centuries. A sharp push with the shoulder, a hand turning the doorknob, and he’s inside.

  McKelvey stands inside Nolan’s house. There is choking heat, a closed-air staleness that makes him unzip his coat and rub at his neck. He speaks quietly, but there is no response.

  “Mr. Nolan? It’s Eddie’s partner. I’m just coming to check on you.”

  McKelvey finds the small flashlight in his coat pocket and casts a beam of light across the living room, which is pristine and appears untouched since Nolan’s mother passed away, a sofa and two chairs with the protective plastic still in place, a coffee table with bric-a-brac. He shines the light down the hallway and walks. He passes what must be Nolan’s bedroom. The beam of light catches posters on the walls, hockey players and girls in swimsuits, the bedroom of a teenager. He moves on. The next door is closed, and he turns the knob quietly and steps inside.

  He can’t breathe, the air is so closed and rank. He moves the back of his left hand to cover his mouth and nose and he inhales the smell of leather from the winter gloves.

  The light shines down on the old man, who sleeps the sleep of the sick.

  He reaches out and touches the man’s shoulder and it is as solid as petrified wood. McKelvey leans down and sees in the dim light the face of death, the flesh turning to leather, eye sockets closed and sunken …

  “Fuck. Jesus.”

  His voice sounds like it comes from someone else. McKelvey stumbles back and stops himself from gagging. He stops long enough to collect himself and then goes in again and pulls the sheet back. The body is clearly in active decay, the third of five stages of body decomposition. The cadaver has already moved through the bloat stage during which the insects feast, and now what remains of Mr. Nolan is simply turning to dust.

  McKelvey steps back out of the room and closes the door. His mind reels. Nolan. The Chief. Garson. The kids, Travis Lacey, Scott Cooper, Mark Watson. He wants to believe there is no connection to Eddie Nolan. But as he reaches the door leading to what must be the basement, he already knows what he will find.

  The basement is unfinished, little more than a cold storage area, and the wooden stairs are steep. McKelvey ducks his head and takes the stairs carefully, feeling with his toe first for purchase. He wishes he had a sidearm, a club, a knife, something, anything. At the bottom he steps onto the hard concrete floor and shines the light from left to right. He holds the light on a workbench that runs along the far wall.

  Four large industrial-grade steel basins are stacked. He moves closer and sees on the floor the container of ammonia. His heart beats so heavily he can feel it in his throat. He picks up a small bowl that contains traces of powder residue and he smells. It is bitter and sharp, the chemical scent of crushed pills. The
re are books, too, all about meth in the U.S., a book on chemistry, magazine articles, finally what appears to be a recipe is printed in neat block letters and tacked to the wall behind the work bench.

  “Jesus Christ, Nolan,” McKelvey says. “What did you do?”

  He moves the light around the space, the concrete floor and walls, cobwebs glued in the corners of the rafters like thick cotton candy. He notices the washing machine and dryer have been moved recently, long black scratch marks on the floor. He sets the flashlight in his armpit, grabs hold of the washing machine, and pulls it forward. He can already see the outline, the denim, a coat.

  He leans over the appliance and looks down on Chief Gallagher’s body, hands bound with handcuffs behind his back.

  I have to get out of here, is the only thought that runs through McKelvey’s mind.

  And then he stops. Holds his breath. He hears footsteps above him. He turns off the light and his world is made black.

  The footsteps stop, as though the walker can sense McKelvey listening.

  He waits for sounds from upstairs, for the door to the basement to slam shut and seal him down here. It is within this quick contemplation that he understands finally that he has been ungrateful for the span of time he has been provided, for the close calls. And there is only one response to the long unanswered question about where Charlie McKelvey stands on the issue: he chooses life, has always chosen life whether he knows it or not.

  A flashlight beam fills the stairwell, and McKelvey’s eyes dart around the basement in search of a suitable implement. There is an old garden hoe propped against the wall beside the workbench. He calculates the steps required to close the distance and put his hands on the hoe.

  “Charlie?” a whispered voice comes from the top of the stairs.

  McKelvey exhales a long breath.

  “Madsen,” he says. “You scared the shit out of me.”

  Madsen has found a string that employs a series of bare bulbs to illuminate the basement. They have moved the washer and dryer to better access Chief Gallagher’s body.

  “No signs of obvious trauma,” she says, leaning down to the body. She uses a pen from her coat pocket to move the Chief’s shirt and jacket collar out of the way. “Correction, bruising is consistent with ligature strangulation. Luckily, it’s chilly down here. He’s just starting to turn. Based on his colouring, I’d say the time of death is consistent with his disappearance.”

  She stands and shakes her head.

  “You found his father?” she asks. “How long has he been expired?”

  “A long time. Months. I’m not a psychologist,” McKelvey says, “but I’d say it’s a good guess Nolan’s father died right around the time Ed started brewing this stuff. For whatever reason.”

  “I told Duncan at the front desk to call my cell if Celluci left, but that seems a moot point now,” Madsen says, and glances at her watch. “It’s quarter after one. We need to scour this place, take some photos, and get all of this evidence tagged. The provincial forensics team will be here tomorrow by eight or nine and can take it from there.”

  “This team you keep talking about, they’re really coming?”

  “I got the word from the very top…. The message has been received.”

  “What are you thinking about Levesque and Nolan? Given the situation, do we let Levesque ride until the reinforcements arrive? Hope he’s slow to catch on to what we’ve got on him?”

  “I’m thinking,” she says, “that with just the two of us, we need to bring all the rabbits together or we risk one slipping through the snare.”

  “Go on.”

  “We let Nolan know we’re taking down Levesque at first light. And we take him down at the same time. Two birds, one stone.”

  “Sounds like a good plan.”

  “I learned it from you. I was listening, you know, all those years ago.”

  Thirty-Eight

  By the time they have made their notes and a list of all visible evidence for the forensics team, it is closing in on five o’clock. McKelvey finds a piece of blank paper in a notebook on the workbench and writes on it POLICE SCENE — DO NOT ENTER in capital letters. He tacks this to the front door on their way out.

  “Who needs caution tape,” Madsen says.

  McKelvey suggests she ride with him in the cruiser rather than take separate vehicles. He looks over at the loaner the mayor provided her in the absence of an extra cruiser, and he tries to imagine fitting inside the thing. He starts the truck and they sit there in the laneway of Nolan’s home for a while. Finally, Madsen turns to him.

  “What is it?”

  “I know I don’t have to remind you how quickly these types of things can go bad,” he says. “I just want to make sure we’re on the same page here for the takedown. You cover me taking down Levesque, and then we both take Nolan.”

  She nods and moves her coat so that her sidearm is visible and accessible.

  “You’re the only one with a gun,” he says. “You and Nolan.”

  “I score well on my range tests every year, but I’ve never had to fire at anyone,” she says, as though the thought has just occurred to her. “Maybe you should take it.”

  McKelvey shakes his head.

  “I’m not worried about Levesque,” he says. “He’ll just make a lot of noise. But Nolan, I don’t know what to expect. He has a gun. He’s killed two men.”

  “So we move quickly,” she says. “The element of surprise.”

  “Let’s hope so,” he says, and shifts the cruiser into reverse.

  McKelvey’s headlights illuminate Nolan’s cruiser parked a block up the road from Levesque’s house where his Cadillac sits in the driveway. He shuts the engine off and they sit there for a last moment in silence, each of them getting ready for this in their own way. McKelvey opens the door and steps into a world coloured with the in-between purple of last light and first light. Madsen walks on the right side while McKelvey approaches the driver’s side of Nolan’s cruiser. They can make out the shape of a man’s head reclined in the seat. Nolan has fallen asleep during his one and only stakeout.

  McKelvey uses the flashlight to tap gently on the glass. Nolan springs to attention, dazed and sleepy-eyed. He fumbles with the electric window to lower it.

  “Charlie,” he says. “I just closed my eyes. I swear.”

  “We’re taking Levesque down,” McKelvey tells him.

  “And what about Celluci?” Nolan asks, having noticed Madsen at the other side of the cruiser. “Who’s watching Celluci?”

  “It’s okay, Ed, we’ve got him down at the station,” says Madsen.

  “I’m going to go and get Levesque up, bring him down here and set him in the back of your cruiser,” McKelvey says. “I need you two to cover me.”

  Nolan nods, then opens the door and stretches his legs. They have fallen asleep and he stamps his feet on the ground. Madsen remains on the other side of the cruiser by the passenger door. She has already put an ungloved hand on the butt of her service Glock. Nolan looks over at her and nods.

  They watch as McKelvey crosses the street and climbs the front stairs. He bangs on the door loudly with his flashlight. Lights come on inside and they can hear Levesque swearing. The front door swings open, painting a swath of yellow light across McKelvey and the front yard. The dark night is beginning to release its grip, and the sky glows with a faint golden pink.

  “You dirty son of a bitch,” Levesque yells, “after I gave you a goddamned roof over your head. This is the thanks I get from you people!”

  McKelvey tugs at the man, but Levesque says he has to go and get pants on. He reappears in a moment, zipping the fly, a fleece shirt open to reveal his hairy belly. McKelvey puts a hand on Levesque’s elbow and guides him down the lane toward Nolan and Madsen.

  Nolan prepares to receive Levesque into his custody. He readies a set of handcuffs and opens the back door to his cruiser. Madsen takes slow steps to come around the front of the vehicle, hand on her weapon.

&nbs
p; “You stupid bastards are going to be sued to bankruptcy. Take the word of a bunch of Indians over me?”

  McKelvey slaps him in the back of the head and Levesque recoils like a child who has been hit by a parent. Madsen is a few feet behind and to the left of Nolan. McKelvey nods to her, and she pulls her weapon discreetly, keeps it at her side. McKelvey shoves Levesque into the cruiser and slams the door. Levesque tries to right himself, for he has tumbled into the vehicle head first.

  “Charlie,” Nolan says, “the cuffs.”

  Nolan holds the handcuffs aloft and searches McKelvey’s face.

  Madsen raises her weapon and points it at Nolan.

  “Ed Nolan,” she says, “you’re under arrest for murder.”

  Nolan turns, the cuffs still hanging by a finger, and he blinks at Madsen. He turns back to McKelvey.

  “Charlie?”

  “Put your hands on the roof,” McKelvey orders, “and spread your feet.”

  Madsen keeps her weapon trained and moves slowly around the front of the cruiser so that now she is beside Nolan. McKelvey takes slow steps toward Nolan, takes the cuffs from his grip, and guides the younger man’s hands to the roof of the cruiser.

  “I just want to help, Charlie. My father, I couldn’t do anything. I couldn’t do anything to help him. I just watched him lay there. I couldn’t do anything to help anybody. I kept reading these stories about small towns. I wanted to see if I could save my own town.”

  “What about Wade Garson?” McKelvey asks, reaching carefully to remove Nolan’s gun from his holster. He ejects the clip and throws the weapon over to Madsen. “You killed him, not Tony Celluci.”

  “He was a cancer in this town for years. His whole family was. I thought he’d get the message and take off after I blew up his trailer. I thought that would be the end of it, two problems solved. But he called you. And then you called me. I had to clean it up. Things just kept getting out of control.”