He pulled her keys from his pocket and laid them on the table before her. She drew back, startled. He thought she’d get sick she turned so pale.
“Found your car.”
She took a minute and then raised her eyes to his. He was surprised by their calm.
“I told the police where to find you,” he said when she didn’t speak. “I’ll tell them about the car, too, if you don’t tell me what’s going on.”
She gave a half-hearted shrug, then looked back out the window with the apathy of a traveller who’s known too many dead-end roads.
“Who put it there?”
“I’ll not talk about it.”
“Yeah, you will. You got my mother caught up in this.”
He sat across from her and she looked at him, examining his face with a remote curiosity.
“Best you tell me what’s going on before I talks to the police.”
“I’m not asking this for me.”
“Bullshit. It’s not just Mother you got dragged into this.” He pointed at the keys. “I’m concealing evidence now. Either you talk or I talk.”
She lowered her head, rubbing at her temples. Then looked back at him. “Would you keep it quiet for a while?”
“I can’t say that.”
“I needs a few more days of quiet. God knows, they got enough to talk about.”
“What happened after you left our house?”
“Promise you’ll tell no one. Least, till your mother gets released. I don’t want the police coming here while you’re mother’s recovering.”
“You’ll not bargain my mother with me no more.”
She gave him the bemused look of a wearied parent. “What’s that mean?”
“I seen you sitting at the table with Mother that night.”
She sat forward. “You best keep that to yourself.”
“Tell me what happened.”
“When you swears to keep your mouth shut. Else I’m gone home and you can sit with your mother, helping her through this.” Her eyes were fixed on his, her mouth so tightly pressed it would’ve taken a crowbar to pry it open. “Right, then,” she said to his slight nod. She settled back, facing her reflection. “He was waiting halfways up Bottom Hill. He was parked crooked. And he was hanging out the door—head near touching the ground. What do you know, I fell for it. Thought he’d had a heart attack or something. So I got out of the car and ran to him. And he grabbed me by the arm and that was it. He had me.”
“What did he do?”
“Threw me back inside my car.” She rubbed her forehead. He noted a bruising beneath her hairline.
“Then what?”
“My head hit the dash. Stunned me. He drove us hard through the park. Couldn’t get my balance, he kept hitting me.” She folded her arms, hugged herself. “And he tried to drive us into the river. Well, not himself.” She gave a tight grin. “Only me.”
“He was trying to drown you?”
“He wasn’t thinking about a car wash.”
“How did you get out?”
“He got out first. My door was against a tree. He started rocking the car—the river was right there, a foot away. I was screaming. I seen the water starting to hit against the front of it. Then I remembered the second set of keys. I always carry a second set—not the first time he stole my car. I got them in the ignition and lowered the back right window. He was still rocking the car. I climbed into the back seat and out the window—he must’ve seen me. The car was still rocking when I hit the ground and I just up and started running through the alders. He never chased me. He can only take it so far.” This last was added in a quiet tone.
“So far?”
She nodded. “Then he comes to himself. Sin. Sin he got to do things like that.”
“Sin? He tries to drown you and you feels sorry for him?”
She stretched her little finger towards the keys, caressing the cut edging with a nail more chewed than his, then scooped them off the table, dropping them into her purse.
“Well, then? Why? Why would you feel sorry for him?”
She shrugged. “Who wouldn’t? He never had nothing, did he? Money. His parents had money. Least we had love.” This last word a whisper, as though it weren’t hers to speak. She looked to him defensively. “Dad might be a drunk but he’s a nice drunk. Cries over the scriptures when mother reads them. Kneeled with us every night when we said our prayers. Not what you wants to hear about Jack Verge, is it?” she asked him, and he flushed like a snoop caught at the door. “Don’t feel bad. Not what anybody wants to hear. That’s why I feels sorry for Clar. Nobody listened to his prayers. There was a hole where his heart should’ve been.”
He tried to turn from her, but couldn’t, a horrid fascination growing with her words. Her eyes were dark, murky, stoked with grief. He sat back, shifted his glance around the cafeteria, looked back to her.
“So why’d you leave it there? Your car. How come you didn’t get somebody to haul it out?”
“I’m after telling you, they all got enough to talk about for a while. Can’t believe no one’s seen it yet but you. Tell the truth, I don’t know if I ever wants to see it again.” She lifted her purse off the chair and rose.
“What were you doing back at our house that night?”
“Needed someone to tell it to.”
She started across the cafeteria and he followed. “Just a second. The police said you were in the truck with the old man that night.”
“Syllie picked me up on Bottom Hill, gave me a ride to Bayside. That’s right, to Clar’s place. Imagine that.” She stepped through the cafeteria doors, but then drew back. “One of us got company.”
His stomach kicked. Constables Wheaton and Canning were coming through the foyer. They paused at the sight of Kyle and Bonnie and then started towards them, smiling like two chums pleasantly surprised on their way to supper.
“Say nothing to them about Father being here,” Kyle said to Bonnie. He nodded politely as the constables stood before him.
“We’d like your company back at the station, Mr. Now,” said Canning. “You’ll excuse us, ma’am?”
“Yes, I will,” she said. And then stepped boldly before them. “And the next time you wants to talk to me, phone up to the room and I’ll meet you outside. Don’t barge in upsetting Mrs. Now like you done the last time.”
“Roger that, ma’am.” Wheaton touched his finger to his hat. She lifted her chin with a sniff. She walked away, Kyle watching with a deepening sense of her unfamiliarity.
“Hey,” he called to her, expecting her to snip Hay’s for horses. He held out the truck keys as she turned. “Best do mother’s shopping for her. Tell her I’m gone home with one of the boys, checking on the cement.” She took the keys, and with another snooty look at the policemen, strode off.
“Ready, Mr. Now?”
—
At the police station he was ushered into a smaller room than before, asked to sit in one of the two wooden chairs, and then left alone with the door ajar. He got up and paced, his stomach churning like an agitator in an old washing machine. A door opened and closed down the hall. A phone rang, a woman snapped hello and then cradled it noisily. A babble of voices grew near, paused outside his doorway, and went quiet. He resisted the urge to peek out.
Keep calm, he ordered himself. What do you know? What do you not want them to know? Think about what you’ve already told them, tell them what Kate said: eleven-thirty-five p.m. She picked him up at eleven-thirty-five p.m. and he sat at her fire and Hooker drove his father up to Kate’s around midnight and then he went home and before that his father was passed out in the truck behind the bar all evening. That’s all he knew. That’s all he’d say.
Sergeant MacDuff hurried into the room with a file under his arm. “Kyle,” he said warmly. “How’s your mother?”
“Sends her regards.”
“Nice woman. Sorry about her troubles. We’ll make this fast—I imagine you’re wanting to get back.” He wore glasses this
time, with heavy frames that kept slipping down his nose. He kept pushing them back up and grunting irritably.
“Lost my contacts,” he said conversationally.
Kyle looked past him for Wheaton and Canning, but MacDuff was closing the door. He sat, pulled some papers from the file, and crinkled his eyes reading them. “Right. Right, a few things here. Right.” He looked at Kyle over the rims of his glasses. “Kate Mackenzie. How well do you know her?”
“We’ve shared a few beers.”
MacDuff went back to his notes. “Says here she showed up in Hampden about a year ago. What does she do there?”
“Not much. She plays guitar. Sings nice songs. Writes them herself.”
“Where did she come from?”
“Never said.”
“Never said?”
“No.”
“Strange, don’t you think?”
“Never thought about it.”
“A stranger walks into town. Buys the shack next door and sets up house and shares nothing of herself with her neighbours. You don’t question that?”
“Actually, it’s a nice cabin.”
“How does she support herself?”
“Never asked.”
“You curious?”
“Nope.”
“Outport folks are pretty friendly. They like knowing who lives next door. Don’t you think it curious when a stranger picks a small, friendly place to live a private life?”
“You’re thinking Clar Gillard tipped his hat to all hands strolling about, sir? Jaysus! Should meet Uncle Jake sometime. He’d rather see you drowning than swimming. Aunt Trude Pynn hasn’t stepped through her front door in fifty years. Cousin Max likes dragging his nail clippers down his sister’s back. Kinda makes Kate read like a well-flipped comic book. And the next time you’re driving through, say howdy to the teachers and the minister and the doctor and old Mr. Stonehouse down Fox Point—all come-from-aways who keeps their curtains closed and door locked from sun-up to sundown. Stop reading them tourist books, Mr. MacDuff. Ain’t nuttin’ strange about a city girl comin’ to roost along shore.”
MacDuff’s face drooped into humourless lines.
“Darn, now I made you sad.”
MacDuff pulled off his glasses and wiped patiently at his eyes.
“I come from an outport of twelve houses, Kyle. And six of ’em didn’t talk to the other. Squid rolled, capelin struck, and we grew up on crabs, not lobsters. And strangers never cruised into town and bought a shack and lived there year-round without a reason to.” He put his glasses back on and sharpened his smile. “Kate Mackenzie. She was seen with Bonnie Gillard in her car the night of the killing. What do you know about that?”
“Nothing.”
“Had you known they were together that night?”
“No.”
“Later that night when Kate Mackenzie picked you up walking home, did she say anything about Bonnie Gillard?”
“No.”
“What was Kate Mackenzie wearing?”
“Hey?”
“That night she picked you up, what was she wearing?”
“What was she wearing? How the fuck would I know?”
“Think, Kyle, the night of the killing, she picked you up.”
“Eleven-thirty-five p.m.”
“What was she wearing?”
“I don’t remember.”
“Was she wearing clothes?”
“Yes, sir. She was wearing clothes. Dark clothes.”
“Coat?”
“It was dark.”
“And yet you noted the time.”
“Eleven-thirty-five. The clock was lit on the dash. Right in front of me.”
MacDuff rapped the table with the gentle knuckle of an old uncle. “Think for a minute, Kyle. Her hands were on the wheel. Was she wearing mitts or gloves?”
“I never noticed.”
“What were you wearing?”
“Jeans, T-shirt, coat.”
“That was fast recall.”
“Except for funerals, weddings, and swimming, it’s all I wears.”
“Were you wearing gloves?”
“No, sir.”
“Mitts?”
“No, sir.”
“What was your father wearing?”
“Jeans. T-shirt inside a button-down shirt and heavy jacket.”
“Mitts?”
“Doubt it.”
“Why’s that?”
“Don’t wear them in snowstorms, doubt he’d be wearing them in springtime.”
“When your father came home that night, where were you?”
“Outside the house—sleeping by the gump.”
“What time did he get home?”
“Twelve-thirty. Or, forty, thereabouts.”
“How do you know the time he come home if you were asleep?”
“He woke me up. And we went inside and I noticed the clock lit up on the stove.”
“Who opened the door?”
“What—I don’t know, who the hell cares?”
“Who opened the door, Kyle?”
“I did. I opened the fucking door.”
“You swear to that?”
“If I was on the stand I might.”
“You want us to put you on the stand?”
“I swear to it, all right? I opened the door.”
“Might he have opened it before you woke up? Found you missing and went looking for you?”
“Doubt it.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m potty trained, sir. He don’t come into my room during the night no more.”
“The blood on your hand. When you woke up you said you had blood on your hand. Where did the blood come from?”
“Yeah, I think we covered that. Clar clocked me in the jaw. He broke a tooth through the inside.”
“Can I see?”
“Uh?”
MacDuff leaned forward, peering at Kyle’s mouth. “Open it. Let me see.”
Kyle flicked the inside of his jaw. There never had been a cut, and his lip hadn’t been cut either. Must’ve been a sore gum or something that had bled.
“Sorry. It’s gone.”
“Gone?”
“Healed.”
“You cut your jaw three nights ago and it’s healed?”
“What, you never gargled honey for a cut jaw? Amazing healing properties. And yes, sir, I know this ain’t no fool’s game, but my jaw was cut and you had your chance to see it but you turned it down. And now it’s healed. What more can I do for you?”
“Somebody got murdered on your turf, Kyle. We need to know who did it.”
“You need to know who did it. I don’t give a fuck. The man was an arse.”
“An arse. Right.” MacDuff took off his glasses, laid them on his notes, and wiped at his eyes again. He got up as if to shake himself awake, circling behind Kyle. “Murdering an arse will net you thirty years, Kyle. Was your mouth bleeding before you went to sleep?”
“I woke up drooling. I drooled blood from a cut jaw.”
“Who opened your front door to let you into your house the night Clar Gillard struck you?”
“I opened the door.”
“Where was your father?”
“Behind me.”
“Did you see the blood on your hand before you opened the door?”
“Yes. When I woke up I seen the blood on my hand.”
“Did you wipe it off?”
“No, seen the old man standing there and never thought no more about it. What’s the fucking big deal?” He twisted sideways, unnerved by MacDuff standing so close behind him that he could hear his breathing scratching past his nose hairs.
“Think back, think back to that night. You were sleeping. You woke up and your father was standing there. What did he do?”
“He done nothing.”
“If he done nothing, he’d still be standing there. What did he do?”
“Christ.” Kyle dragged his hands down his face, trying to think.
&
nbsp; “You stood up. What next?”
“What next?”
“Think back.”
Think back—think back—he was lying under the tarp, he pulled himself up and got the spins. Near fell off the wharf. His father caught hold of his arm, led him to the door. And opened it. His father. His father opened the door.
“What do you remember, Kyle?”
“The dog. The dog was there, whining. Drives me nuts, that fucking dog. I got up, pushed past the old man and opened the door and went inside. Now can you tell me what the fuck got you hooked on who opened the door?”
“It was Clar Gillard’s blood that was on your doorknob.”
The words reverberated like eddies from a dropped rock. Two thoughts surfaced, one following the other and each grappling for his mind. He hadn’t felt fear before because he hadn’t done it and there was safety in that. And Bonnie Gillard. She hadn’t shown fear either; when the cops had accosted them back at the hospital she hadn’t been afraid. She didn’t do it. Bonnie Gillard didn’t kill Clar. That thought suckered like a leech onto his brain whilst another slipped from some distant mooring and sank cold in his heart. He was in the water, he knew Clar was dead, he opened the door that night, and Clar Gillard’s blood was on the knob. It was his father. It was his father who killed Clar Gillard and his mother was covering for him and Bonnie Gillard was covering for them both.
“What’s going on, Kyle?” MacDuff’s voice was like an ice pick chipping at his neck. Sweat started down his forehead, and as it trickled onto his lashes he raised his eyes and saw the black nose of a camera tucked behind the door facings. They were watching him. They were watching him up close and he smelled his own fear like a bloodhound smells supper.
He got up and faced MacDuff. “Nothing’s going on. I didn’t kill the bastard and it don’t matter who did, they done humanity a favour. Ask his ex-wife what he done to her. Tied her to a chair and sprayed her with oven cleaner. How’s that for a sick bastard?”
“You think she killed him?”
“Da fuck you care what I think? What do you think?”
“I think there’s a lot of secrets going around, Kyle. And we think you know some of them. Like, how did Clar Gillard’s blood get on your doorknob?”
The Fortunate Brother Page 13