by Michael Rowe
“I hadn’t yet decided on either archaeology or anthropology as a career, but my father felt it was important that I be part of this particular project because of my native ancestry. When my parents adopted me, they took me to Toronto and placed me in an expensive, progressive private school, one that was respectful of my heritage. Money can buy you almost anything,” Billy said, the trace of bitterness not entirely disguised by his professorial delivery. “Even respect from other people. At St. Rita’s in the Soo, the priests had done everything possible to beat the Indian out of me. My father and mother wanted to try to heal some of that, and they believed that an excellent education was the best way to undo some of the damage.
“One of my father’s students on the dig was a young man named Richard Weal. Dad described him as the most brilliant student he’d ever had. His IQ was in the highest percentile, and he had an academic history that was stellar, as well. I think Dad saw him as second son.”
“How did that make you feel?” Thomson asked.
“It didn’t make me ‘feel’ one way or another, Sergeant Thomson. My parents took a twelve-year-old orphan boy out of a church-run hellhole and into their homes and their hearts. They gave me the best education money could buy. Their love for me wasn’t a question in my mind. My father’s pride in Richard wasn’t a threat to me at all. It wasn’t that sort of relationship. I was Dad’s son, not Richard.”
“Just establishing the facts, Dr. Lightning. Please go on.”
“The second student was a young man named Emory Greer. He and Richard barely knew each other at the time they agreed to join my father on this dig. They were both students of his, but from very different backgrounds. Emory was very quiet and self-effacing. He was deeply studious, even by post-graduate standards. Richard, on the other hand, was a star in and out of the classroom. As an undergraduate, he’d been on the varsity track team—as I recall, his event was the decathlon. He was popular with everyone.
“The dig had been intended as a three-month project. We’d made two teams—I was assisting my father, and Emory and Richard were the second team. My father had arranged with the Parr family for us to work in and around the region of Bradley Lake between June and August. Everything had been going relatively smoothly. Even the black flies were manageable that spring, which, the locals told us, was unusual. It had been cold, so maybe that’s what kept them at bay.
“In any case, we were making a bit of progress—some arrowheads, bits of utensils. Some coins. Nothing particularly remarkable, at first. We also found what we thought might have been an altar chalice of some sort. That was a banner day. As I recall, Richard found that particular item.
“After about the second week, we noticed that Richard was acting strangely. He would go silent for hours on end, almost like he couldn’t hear us. I remember on one occasion, early on, we were five miles into the bush from Bradley Lake, and Richard was on his knees brushing something—a patch of rock, or something—to clean it. He suddenly looked up and said, ‘What?’ No one had spoken to him, or said anything for that matter. It was a completely quiet day.”
Elliot asked, “Echoes, maybe? From in town? Sound plays funny tricks up there on that escarpment sometimes.”
“No, not that day,” Billy replied. “There wasn’t even any wind. Richard got very angry with us. It was completely out of character for him to get angry like that, especially with my father. Richard actually cursed—again, very odd. He was quite a Christer, you understand. He was never pushy about his religion. He kept it to himself most of the time, but I know he was a fairly devout churchgoer, and I never heard him swear. He stormed off into the bush and said he needed to clear his head. He took off in the direction of the cliff where the Ojibwa pictographs are located.”
“I’m sorry—the what?”
“The Indian paintings,” Thomson explained without turning to look at Elliot. “Go on, Dr. Lightning. We’re listening.”
“When Richard didn’t come back for lunch, Dad went out to look for him. Dad spent about two hours, and then came back without him. He said he couldn’t find him anywhere. He was pretty worried—like I said, he was very fond of Richard. At five, we were just about to drive into town and report him missing when he came wandering back to the site. His face was scratched and dirty. There were bits of branches in his hair. His clothes were filthy.
“My father’s first thought was that he’d been hurt in some way. Richard stumbled a bit, like he was drunk. He tripped and fell, then lay there for a moment. We rushed over to help him up. He seemed disoriented.”
Thomson said, “Was he drunk? Did he have a bottle back out there in the bush?”
“No, he wasn’t. In fact, the first thing he did when we picked him up off the ground was down an entire canteen full of water. He drank it like he was trying to put out a fire in his throat. Dad told him to slow down and take it easy, but Richard just brushed him away and kept drinking till he’d drained the entire canteen dry.
“My father asked him where he’d been. Richard seemed confused by the question. He believed it was just before lunchtime. My father told him it was close to five p.m. and he’d been gone the entire afternoon. He thought we were joking until Emory showed Richard his watch. Richard said he’d gone for a walk—he’d been very angry, he said. He was convinced that we were playing tricks on him before.
“He said he heard a man say his name, practically right beside his ear. My father told him he must have imagined it, but Richard said he hadn’t imagined it. He said he heard it clearly. Then he’d heard it a second time, fainter, but no less clearly. When he’d looked up, there had been no one there except us. He hadn’t believed us when we said we hadn’t heard anything, which was why he stormed off.”
“Did he say where he’d gone?” Thomson asked.
“He said he’d gone for a walk. He said he didn’t remember anything else.”
“But you say he was gone for—what, five hours? And he didn’t know where he’d gone?”
“As I said, he thought he was only away for about twenty minutes. He said he’d walked in the general direction of the cliffs where the pictographs are located. He said he didn’t know why he’d left the site, or how far he’d walked.”
Thomson said, “You say he was scratched up? Dirty? Did you ask him how he got that way?”
“Yes, sergeant, of course we did.” Billy said. “Richard looked down at himself like it was the first time he’d seen the dirt and the scratches. He actually seemed surprised. He said he must have fallen. My father asked him if he’d maybe hit his head and had been unconscious the whole time, but Richard said, ‘No, I’d have remembered that.’ He didn’t remember anything, but he said he would have remembered the pain of falling down. Dad checked his head—no bumps, no cuts, nothing. He was drenched in dried sweat, Dad said, which was odd considering that it was a cool day and he hadn’t really done much work that morning. But my father said his clothes were stiff with it.”
“What happened then?” Elliot had abandoned any pretence of disinterest in Billy’s story at this point. He leaned forward in his chair, elbow on a knee, chin cradled in his knuckles.
“We drove him to the one doctor in town. On the way, he drank a second canteen of water, more slowly this time, but again—all the way down. I don’t remember the doctor’s name.”
“Probably Doc Oliver,” Thomson said, more by reflex than anything else. “He died in ’69. Good man. Smart fella, even for a doctor.”
“As I said, I don’t remember. It was more than twenty years ago. In any case, the doctor checked Richard over and said he couldn’t find anything wrong with him. Nothing broken, obviously, no evidence of any concussion. The doctor actually suggested that it might have been a mild form of heat stroke, but that it would be hard to tell because of all the water he’d drunk as soon as he came back to the site. He told us to take Richard back to the motel and put him to bed so he could sleep it off.
“Richard was sharing a room here at the Nugget with Emo
ry. That night, Emory woke up to find the door to the motel wide open. It was a bright night. There were a lot of stars. Richard’s bed was empty. Emory put on his bathrobe and his shoes and went to the doorway. Emory saw Richard kneeling in the middle of the road leading to the motel. He was completely naked. According to Emory, although Richard’s back was to him, he looked like he was praying. His hands were folded in front of his chest and he was staring off towards the edge of town, looking in the general direction of Bradley Lake with his head slightly bowed.
“Emory pulled a blanket off his bed and ran over to Richard. As he got closer, he could tell that Richard was fast asleep. He’d obviously been sleepwalking. Emory said it was a miracle he hadn’t been hit by a car or a truck down there in the road. He put the blanket around his shoulders and tried to get him to stand. He told my dad that Richard struggled at first but that he eventually came along with him. Emory said Richard was muttering in his sleep.”
“What was he saying?” Elliot asked.
“Emory said he couldn’t really make it out, but that it sounded like Latin.”
“Latin? You mean, the language?”
“More specifically, Ecclesiastical Latin.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Ecclesiastical Latin is a form of Latin that deviates from classic Latin in that it’s marked by certain lexical variations. It’s also the form of Latin used in the Latin Rite of the Catholic Church. It can be found primarily in theological works and liturgical rites.”
Thomson looked doubtful. “All of that from some muttering in the middle of the night? In the middle of the road outside this motel?”
“Emory’s undergraduate and Master’s degrees encompassed religion, history, and ancient languages, sergeant. His PhD work with my father was an extension of the work he was doing on his studies of the early Church in Canada and its cultural impact. Also, he was a devout Catholic.”
“Assuming it really was Latin—and I’m sort of doubting it, to be honest—did this fella know what Richard was saying? Could he make anything out?”
“Oddly,” Billy said, “he did think he caught one phrase—he thought Richard said ‘Abyssus abyssum invocat.’”
“Which means what, exactly?”
“It’s from Psalm forty-two, verse seven. It means ‘Deep calleth unto deep.’”
“You said he was a regular ‘Christer,’” Elliot said. “Maybe it was something he heard in church sometime?”
“Richard was a Methodist, constable. His undergraduate degree was in English Literature. He didn’t speak Latin at all.” Billy paused. “He said something else, according to Emory. It sounded like ‘Suscito me.’”
“Sorry, Dr. Lightning—this means what?”
“Roughly translated, it means ‘Wake me.’”
“He wanted Emory to wake him up?” Elliot said. “So he asks in Latin?”
“It didn’t appear that he was speaking to Emory, based on what Emory said about it the next day, when he told my father and me what had happened.”
“All right, never mind all that,” Thomson said impatiently. “It doesn’t signify one way or another, does it? Did he remember anything about the sleepwalking the next day?”
“No. He said he’d had some peculiar dreams, but he had no memory whatsoever of the sleepwalking. He also laughed when Emory asked him if he knew Latin. He said the only Latin he knew was Pig Latin. He said he felt a lot better than he had the day before. So we went to the site and went back to work. It was a good day—bright, sunny. Not hot, but pleasantly warm. Richard seemed to be in a terrific mood, at least to start with.
“As the day progressed, though, Richard became a bit listless and irritable. He snapped at Emory a couple of times for no good reason and, at one point, threw a shovel. It didn’t hit anyone, of course, but it was so out of character for Richard that we all noticed it. I think at one point my father may have wondered if Richard had been malingering the previous day—you know, storming off and pretending to have gotten lost because he was angry about something he wasn’t being honest about—but he was mostly concerned about Richard’s behaviour being so out of character for such a good-natured young man.”
“Drugs? Could it have been that he was doing drugs? It sounds to me like he might have been on some kind of dope,” Thomson said.
“I already told you, sergeant,” Billy said, “Richard was a straight arrow.”
“OK, this is all very interesting, Dr. Lightning, but I’m going to have to ask you to get to the point. Why are you telling us about something that happened twenty years ago to some graduate student who doesn’t live here in Parr’s Landing? And what in the name of sweet biscuits does any of this have to do with why you’re here? Or with your father?”
“Let me finish the rest of my story, sergeant, and I’ll tell you.”
Thomson sighed deeply. “Very well,” he said. “Go on. But please, get to the point soon, Dr. Lightning.”
“Do you know why we had to leave Parr’s Landing, sergeant—I mean, we, the crew?”
“Some sort of medical problem, I recall hearing. Some sort of accident?”
Billy said, “There was indeed an accident, but it wasn’t the sort of accident one normally associates with a dig. Richard attacked and nearly killed Emory a week later.”
Elliot glanced at Thomson as if to say, Do you believe this? But Thomson’s expression was neutral, and his eyes on Billy betrayed nothing.
“After the sleepwalking incident,” Billy said, “Richard became more and more withdrawn. Emory told my father that he slept badly. He tossed and turned all night, and occasionally spoke in his sleep.”
“What did he say?” Thomson asked. “Do you remember?”
“Emory said that not much of it made any sense. Except one night, Richard woke up screaming that he was buried alive. Emory said he was drenched in sweat. He had apparently thrown his covers all over the floor of the motel room and was flailing his arms like he was trying to dig himself out of a hole.
“The next morning—again—Richard had no memory of the event at all. He got very angry with Emory. Richard accused Emory of lying just to confuse him. By that time Emory had started to be afraid of sharing the motel room with him. He told my father he wanted his own room. My father was initially reluctant to accede to Emory’s wishes, not only because it wasn’t in the budget, but also because he was afraid that such a drastic action would just make it worse. Richard, you see, didn’t believe any of this was happening. I think on some level, he believed we’d all been playing a joke on him since that first day he wandered off.”
“So, what finally happened?” Elliot asked. “You said he almost killed the other fella, this Emory?”
“We’d been out on the site all day, that last day,” Billy said. “Richard had apparently had another bad night and not a lot of sleep. He was sullen and withdrawn. It was a hot day, too, that day—really hot, very humid. There were a lot of bugs, black flies and the like, that we hadn’t had to deal with over the course of the dig up till that point. The sort of weather that makes people jump out of their skin at a moment’s notice when someone looks at you the wrong way. Everyone’s shirts were plastered to their backs before noon, but there was no wind and the bugs were a nightmare, so we kept them on and just . . . well, endured.
“When my father announced that we were breaking for lunch, Richard gathered up his things, as he had been doing since the first day since his bizarre experience with the quasi-amnesia, and prepared to go off and eat his lunch alone. My father objected. He insisted we all eat together as a group.”
“Why?” asked Thomson. “After all that had gone on? Why would he antagonize him like that?”
“Dad might have been trying to see what sort of a reaction it would provoke in Richard. I know my father was growing increasingly concerned about Richard and had spoken to both Emory and me privately about sending Richard back home to Toronto to get some help, and finishing up the dig as a trio.”
�
�What was Richard’s reaction?”
“He became furious. He accused my father of overstepping his bounds and taking advantage of his status as Richard’s professor in order to ‘control’ him. His rage was completely out of sync with either my father’s request, or anything else, including how irritable we all felt in that heat. My father insisted again, and for a moment Richard looked at my father as though he wanted to murder him. It looked to me as though Richard would attack him. Emory and I both stood up at the same time. Richard looked at all three of us, and then stalked away into the bush, towards the cliffs, without looking back.
“Emory said, ‘I’ll go after him. Let me see if I can talk to him.’ My father said, ‘No, I’ll do it. It’s my responsibility.’ But Emory insisted, saying that it was obvious that Richard was furious about my father taking a paternalistic role in this situation, and that perhaps talking to someone closer to his own age would be less threatening. So he took off into the bush looking for Richard.”
“What happened when he found him?” Elliot asked. “I mean, I’m assuming he did?”
Billy took a deep breath, and then exhaled slowly. “Yes, he definitely found him. But first, we found Emory. When he wasn’t back in half an hour, both my Dad and I had a bad feeling about it, so we went to find him. We did, about half a mile from the camp. It wasn’t hard—we just followed the sound of his screaming.”
Again, Elliot found himself asking, “What happened?” But this time, he sounded less like an interrogating policeman than he did a young boy listening to a ghoulish campfire story. Dave Thomson caught the subtle tonal shift and glanced at the younger officer. Elliot didn’t notice. Billy held his full attention.
“We found him,” Billy continued. “Emory had collapsed against a boulder about a hundred yards away from where the path veered sharply upward to the hill that led to the cliffs. At first, we thought he had fallen and maybe broken his arm, but his screaming was too obviously the sound of someone in terrible, terrible pain. His knees were pulled up and he was clutching his shoulder and writhing in agony in the dirt. My father ran to him. Emory kept screaming. Dad gently pulled his hand away from his shoulder to see what had happened. His shirt was soaked in blood that was gushing out of a severe, deep wound in his shoulder. Emory’s face was paper-white—he was obviously in the early stages of shock. My father asked him what had happened, and he was able to say just one word before he passed out. He said, Richard.