by Michael Rowe
“Elliot?” Thomson said. “Would you mind?”
“Those hammers are archaeological tools,” Billy said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Those are the kind of hammers we used here in 1952. I told you, it’s Weal. He’s here in Parr’s Landing, like as I said. Now will you believe me?”
“Dr. Lightning, the problem is this—Richard Weal is dead. Those couldn’t be his tools, and he couldn’t be in Parr’s Landing. He died in a car crash earlier this year, in Toronto.”
“Not possible,” Billy said, shaking his head. He took the glass of water Elliot brought him. “It’s not possible,” he repeated. “That’s the manuscript that was taken from my father’s desk. The one I told you about. Those are Richard Weal’s tools. What else could it be? I knew he was going to come here. You’ve got to search for him. I told you. He’s here.”
“Dr. Lightning, I spoke with the investigating officer in Toronto myself. They found his identification near the wreck. It looks like it was a suicide.”
“Did they identify the body?” Billy demanded. “How did they identify the body? Dental records?”
“There weren’t any dental records,” Thomson admitted. “The body was burned beyond recognition, but the police were satisfied it was Weal. So, as far as we’re concerned, certainly officially, he’s dead. Which means that we have a problem. Can you see what that problem might be, sir?”
Billy laughed harshly. “You think I . . . You’re joking, right? You think that bag is mine, and that those are my tools, and I . . . what, drove across northern Ontario with a copy of my father’s manuscript in a hockey bag doing God knows what, carving people up, then walked into the Parr’s Landing police station and introduced myself to Constable McKitrick? Are you serious?”
“Would you give us a sample of your fingerprints, just to clear this up?”
“Absolutely not,” Billy snapped. “After the way I have been bullied and harassed by Constable McKitrick practically since I arrived, and shanghaied into coming in here tonight with implied threats of arrest, I’d have to be very stupid to fall for that one. I’ll be telephoning my lawyer in the morning. When you send the contents of that bag to a fingerprint lab, you’ll find that I haven’t touched them. I’m going to raise such a holy stink that you’ll be lucky to find work as security guards in the Northwest Territories.”
“Dr. Lightning—”
Billy ignored Thomson, cutting him off in mid-sentence. “Now,” he said, “if there’s nothing else, I’m going back to the motel. In the morning, I’m going to go look for Richard Weal, with or without your help. Unless he was working with some sort of accomplice—which I doubt—he’s here in Parr’s Landing.”
Without waiting for a response from either Thomson or Elliot, Billy walked out of the police station, letting the door slam behind him.
Thomson and Elliot were both silent. Then Thomson spoke.
“I think we have a problem,” he said slowly. “I don’t think it's Lightning’s bag. I don’t know whose bag it is. But I think he’s telling the truth.”
“Too much of a coincidence, Sarge,” Elliot said stubbornly. “And you said this Weal was dead, so who else could it be?”
“I don’t know,” Thomson admitted. “I don’t know what the hell is going on here, but it’s about time we called Gyles Point and told them about this. In the meantime, Elliot, do not bother Dr. Lightning in any way. We need to let him cool off a bit.”
“But Sarge—how can it not be Lightning? I mean, we have evidence—”
“For God’s sake, McKitrick, for once, just listen and do as I’m telling you!” Thomson was practically shouting. “We have evidence of something having happened, probably something bad. But it doesn’t directly implicate Lightning except for the fact that it’s his father’s manuscript. If anything, it supports his goddamn theory about what happened. It supports his theory that Weal came back here to the Landing, just like Lightning said he would. Now, would you please, for the love of Christ, just leave him alone until we get some fingerprints, at least? Lightning isn’t the only one who needs to cool off here. I don’t know what sort of bug you have up your ass about this guy, but don’t let it get in the way of you doing your job—the right way. You have a lot to learn about police work, son. Don’t go off half-cocked and make us look like back-country idiots.”
Elliot stared. He’d never heard Thomson raise his voice before. He felt himself blushing and he lowered his eyes. “Yes, sir,” he said. “I understand.”
Thomson softened. “Look, Elliot, you’re a good cop. You have a lot going for you. I understand how you’re feeling right now about this. You did good, bringing in the bag. No one is going to forget that when this gets solved. But the rest of this has to go by the book. There’s too much riding on it. I’m going to call Gyles Point and get this bag off to the lab A S A P.”
“Yes, sir, I understand,” Elliot said again. “By the book. I’ll give Lightning some space.”
“Good man,” Thomson said. “Now, go get some sleep, Elliot. I have some calls to make.”
Just before midnight, Finn was lying in his bed when heard a soft scratching at the back door. He sat bolt upright in bed and listened. The scratching came again, this time accompanied by a soft, familiar whining sound. Finn’s heart leaped in his chest. Sadie! It’s Sadie! She’s come home!
He threw back the covers and ran to the back door. He fumbled with the latch, opened the door wide, and looked down. By the back yard lights, he saw a familiar shape huddled by the door.
“Sadie! Sadie! You’re home!” He shouted for his parents. “Dad! Mom! Sadie’s home! Come quick!” He heard muffled voices from upstairs, then the sound of his parents’ feet on the hardwood floors, then pounding down the stairs.
“Finn, is she back?” his mother said breathlessly. “Is she home?”
Finn’s rapturous joy rendered him incapable of any speech other than his dog’s name, repeated like a mantra. “Sadie! Sadie! Sadie!”
“Finn, bring her in,” his father said. “Why is she still out there?” Hank Miller reached out for Sadie and tried to pick her up. The Labrador yelped in pain and cowered back. His hand came away slick with blood and fur.
“Dad, don’t hurt her!” Finn cried. “Be careful!”
“She’s hurt,” Hank said. “She’s been in some kind of fight, I think.” Then, to the dog, “Here, Sadie, come. Come inside, girl.”
The Labrador looked fearfully behind her, and then scooted into the house, dragging her left leg behind her slightly as though it were broken, or sprained. Once inside, she collapsed on the floor beside the back door, lying on her side and breathing in shallow hitches.
Finn bent over her and gingerly explored her fur with his fingertips. His parents stood back as though they instinctively understood that their son was the authority in this case.
When he inhaled sharply, the sound he made releasing it reminded Anne of a punctured birthday party balloon. Both she and Hank leaned in to see what Finn was looking at.
Sadie was covered with bites. Finn counted two, three, four clumps of matted fur and blood along her thick neck and flanks. In those places, the fur had been torn away, exposing the ravaged pink flesh beneath. The bite marks were about two inches apart and, to Finn’s inexpert eye, looked deep and nasty.
“Mom, she’s been bitten all over,” Finn said, horrified. “She’s been in a fight with some animal or something. Look! It’s horrible. Sadie,” he crooned, petting her head. “It’s all right, girl, you’re home now. It’s OK. Shhhh, it’s OK.”
“Be careful, Finn,” Anne said. “She might be . . . well, whatever animal she fought with might have been rabid.”
“Rabies doesn’t work that way, Anne,” Hank said. “It’s not that fast acting. We’ll take her to the vet tomorrow and check her out. She’s had all of her shots this year, so she’ll be all right, I’m sure. Finn, see if you can get her to come upstairs where there’s some proper light. Anne, get the first aid box. It’s in the medicine ca
binet. There’s some hydrogen peroxide there. At least we can clean these cuts and bites a little bit.”
“Don’t hurt her!” Finn screamed.
“Hydrogen peroxide doesn’t hurt, Finn,” Anne said soothingly, putting her hand on his shoulder. “It’ll be fine, you’ll see. And in the morning, we’ll get her to the vet and get her checked out.”
Finn put his fingers in front of Sadie’s muzzle and rubbed his thumb against them, a familiar invitation to her to follow him, one that usually implied treats.
Sadie, if you get up and follow me now, I’ll give you anything you want. Please, God, Finn prayed silently. Make my dog better. Please let her get up and follow me.
He heard the sound of Sadie’s tail thumping weakly against the floor before he saw it. Sadie rose shakily to her feet, tail swinging from side to side, and slowly followed Finn upstairs.
In the kitchen, Hank swabbed her bites with hydrogen peroxide. His wife and son noticed the gentleness with which he ministered to the injured dog, and it surprised even him, truth be told. It wouldn’t be till much later, when he was in bed with his wife sleeping next to him, that Hank Miller would weep his own tears of relief at Sadie’s return—modest tears, to be sure, because men didn’t cry, at least not in front of women and children, but he’d been a boy once, too, and he remembered what it was like to love a dog the way only a twelve-year-old boy really can.
Anne brought a crocheted afghan downstairs from the cedar chest in their bedroom and laid it on top of Sadie to keep her warm during the night. She kissed Sadie’s muzzle and said, “Good night, sweet dog.” Anne wiped her cheek with the back of her hand and stood up. She cleared her throat. “All right, Finn. Back to bed. Sadie will be all right here by the stove. In the morning, I’ll drive her over to the vet clinic right away, I promise.”
“Can I come, too?” Finn pleaded. “Please? Even if I miss the morning part of school? Please?”
“Of course you can, honey,” Anne said. “She’s your dog. She’d want you there.”
Hank turned off the overhead light. Sadie lay her head on her paws. Her breathing was still shallow, but it slowed as they stood in the doorway, then became deep and regular in peaceful sleep.
When Finn heard the sound of her leg twitching on the floor in the way it did when Sadie was dreaming of running, he sighed in relief and silently reassured God of his intention to honour his part of the deal he’d made, as long as God honoured His.
It was well after midnight by the time Elliot stopped at O’Toole’s on the way home from the police station. He needed a drink, but more importantly he was hoping for a chance to speak with Donna Lemieux and make things right. But the only person behind the bar tonight was a supremely pissed off Bill O’Toole, the owner.
“I don’t know where she is,” he fumed. “She didn’t open tonight, and she didn’t call. She won’t answer her goddamn telephone. I couldn’t get Molly to take her shift tonight because she’s off for the week visiting family in Wawa. So guess who that leaves? Me, the owner, washing glasses and tending bar. Well, we’ll see if she still has a job when she waltzes back in here. We’ll just see about that.”
Elliot doubted very much that Bill O’Toole meant a fraction of what he was saying about firing Donna, who was the primary reason—besides the liquor—that men came to O’Toole’s in the first place.
“Maybe I’ll take a run by her place and make sure she’s all right,” Elliot said to Bill O’Toole, thinking to himself how unlike Donna it was to miss work. Sleep late, yes. Be pissed at Elliot, yes—take a number. But she wasn’t an irresponsible eighteen-year-old girl; she was a divorced adult woman with a carved-in-stone survivor’s work ethic.
Bill paused. The notion that anything could be wrong with Donna clearly hadn’t occurred to him. “You don’t think anything’s really the matter, do you?”
“Dunno, Bill, but it’s worth checking out,” Elliot said gruffly. “You didn’t go over there yourself, I take it?” Elliot knew full well that he hadn’t, and felt a flash of remorse that he was taking out his own guilt over last night on Bill O’Toole.”
“No, I just figured she . . . well, I don’t know what I figured. It’s not like Donna, is it, Elliot? You think she’s OK?”
“Tell you what, Bill,” he said. “I’ll check on her. If you don’t hear back from me, you can just assume that she’s under the weather. If something’s wrong, I’ll give you a call, I promise.”
Bill looked at Elliot with relief. “Good deal,” he said. He took a bottle out of the beer fridge behind him and proffered it. “One for the road, Elliot? On the house?”
Elliot shook his head. “Another time, Bill.” He winked. “I’ll let you know about Donna. I’m sure it’s nothing.”
When he pulled into Donna’s driveway, the first thing he saw was that the house was completely dark. Not even the porch light had been switched on, something Donna, like most people in Parr’s Landing, did reflexively once night fell. The house, set back from the street—ordinary in every possible way—tonight had the aspect of a cenotaph.
Elliot rang the doorbell. He heard the cling-clang of it on the other side of the door. Somewhere in the back region of the house, likely the kitchen, he heard what sounded like the plaintive mewling of a hungry cat. Elliot hated cats as a rule, but this one—Samantha—he had grown fond of over the course of his visits to Donna’s bedroom. Nice cat. Hungry, it sounded like. Donna would never, ever neglect feeding Samantha, whatever else she might or might not do.
The image of the bag of bloody knives and hammers from Spirit Rock suddenly flashed through Elliot’s mind in a crimson streak.
He reached for the doorknob and turned it. The door was unlocked and swung open. Switching on his flashlight, he played the beam over the empty living room. On the wall adjacent to the doorway, Elliot located the light switch and flicked it up and down. Nothing. He stepped over the threshold.
“Donna?” Elliot called out softly. “Donna, it’s me. It’s Elliot. Are you here?”
The darkness and silence seemed to mock him. The sound of Samantha’s mewling came from the next room, louder than before.
Elliot crossed the living room and stepped into the kitchen, his flashlight beam playing in front of him, picking up objects here and there without illuminating the room as a whole. The kitchen was immaculate, the sink dry. He tried the light switch on the wall. It was dead here, too.
He played his light along the floor. Samantha sat in front of the stove, silent now. Her eyes reflected back in the light of his flashlight. “Samantha,” Elliot whispered. “Where’s Donna?”
Behind him, the sound of something falling over, but muffled, as though from a near distance. He spun, shining the light in front of him. It found the closed door leading to the basement. Elliot strained to hear, but there was no further sound. Beads of sweat dotted his upper lip and gathered along his hairline and under his armpits.
Elliot thought of the Wendigo legends of his childhood—the stories of cannibalism and Indian witchcraft and malefic spiritualism associated with Spirit Rock. He remembered the expression on Finn Miller’s face when he first looked into the hockey bag and saw its gruesome contents. The blood on those knives still smelled sour, he thought. They weren’t used that long ago, and they weren’t washed.
Tucking the flashlight under his arm, he drew his gun with one hand and turned the handle on the cellar door with the other.
“Hello?” The loudness of his own voice startled him. “Is anyone down there? This is the police. I’m armed.”
Elliot listened for an answer. Receiving none, he stepped down into the cellar, taking the stairs one at a time. The darkness here was even deeper than it had been upstairs where there had been at least the tangential glimmer of lights from the street, or from neighbourhood porches.
Like a grave, Elliot thought. Then, he rebuked himself: Don’t be such a moron. You’re a cop. Get your shit together. He licked the sweat off his upper lip and continued his descent till h
e reached the bottom of the steps and stood on the floor of the cellar.
Playing his light along the walls, Elliot identified the hulking shape of the washing machine and the dryer below a wooden shelf of laundry detergent and miscellaneous odds and ends. The beam of light passed through dusty jars of jams and preserves on the opposite wall, the light transfixing the glass, the contents of the jars casting red and gold and green shadows against the stone walls.
He half-turned, shining his light on the alcove leading to the area off the main part of the basement, the place where Donna kept the enormous deep freeze that had been her husband’s pride and joy. Slowly, he walked towards the freezer, then stopped in his tracks. The contents of the freezer were spread all over the floor around it, as though someone had been so desperate to find whatever was inside that they’d tunnelled through the frozen meat and packaged vegetables to reach the bottom.
Elliot cocked his gun, the click ricocheting loud and sharp against the stone walls of the cellar. He approached the freezer, opened it, and shone his light inside.
“Donna . . .” Elliot breathed. “Jesus.”
Donna Lemieux was curled up on the bottom of the freezer in a foetal position. She was wearing the same jeans and pink top she’d worn the previous night when he’d left her house. The clothes were stiff now, and frozen. Her skin was blue with cold, and ice crystals blossomed like white flowers in her long hair. It seemed impossible that her body had been able to fit into the confined space without broken bones and dislocated joints, but there was no evidence of any breakage or dislocation. Her body had merely folded like a puppet in a shoebox, fitting itself to the rectangular confines of the empty freezer as though it were a single bed.
Then, Donna Lemieux opened her dead, frozen eyes and sat up.
Elliot jumped back, startled by the sudden flurry of movement. Instinctively, he swung his gun in her direction, resisting the urge to fire just in time, and cursing himself for his stupidity in aiming a loaded gun at an obviously injured woman.
Donna crawled out of the freezer in a sequence of crab like movements that disoriented Elliot, because they seemed to occur almost too quickly for his eye to follow. Then, suddenly, she was standing directly in front of him, and her hands were on his shoulders.