He’d convinced her that it wasn’t cruel in principle, since frogs got eaten by fish all the time. But she didn’t like the part where they helped the fish get the frogs. Frogs had eyes. They saw what was coming. She was certain they felt fear.
Her father maintained that they, with their fishing rods, were just part of the life cycle. “Some frogs get eaten by fish that get eaten by us. How is that wrong when it’s all about eating in the first place? There should be enough to go around, and if there isn’t, then everything might go to you-know-where in a you-know-what.”
On this morning in early June, he had been smoking a rare pipe against a pink sky, the colour of spring trout before they get their fill of insects. They could see the dark backs of the bass lurking in the glowing milfoil below them. The bass were logy, but the walleyes rose to the stinktaste of the bait as soon as they put their hooks into the water. She and her father began hauling them in. He stunned them with a small club and gutted them. There was something present in the thrashing silver muscle when he pulled them in over the gunwale that was no longer there after he’d drawn the knife through the tender white belly.
Out of one of the walleyes came a living spring peeper, blinking its eyes in the sudden light. “You remember the argument about frogs we had? You argued me in circles, saying we were abetting them. The fish.” He laughed at the memory. “Isn’t that what you said?”
“I said I didn’t like you hooking them through their mouths.”
“OK, so …” He held the frog out to her at arm’s length by one of its feet. It flapped its other leg without convinction. “Here’s a free frog, pre-eaten, half-dead. Even you could fish with this one.”
“No way,” she said. He narrowed his eyes at her. “It’s double jeopardy.” (She hoped she’d remembered what that was – she hadn’t been able to focus all that well when Andrew was explaining it to her.)
He narrowed his eyes at her. “What about survival of the fittest?” he asked.
She pointed at the water. “Let it go.”
“What about getting two fish with one frog?”
She shot her father a menacing look. “So there’s no mercy if it’s just business?”
“Touché. And no, there isn’t. Or there shouldn’t be. There’s only mercy in life. Sometimes.”
“That’s why you should let it go.”
He did. He dropped it into the water, and it kicked gamely and then just floated above the weeds. What did it mean to rescue that frog from its fate only to send it to another, identical fate? Interrupting a cycle didn’t change its outcome. What kind of lesson was that? Below the frog, a dark shape was beginning to form.
Her father leaned forward and put his hand on top of hers. “I used to hope you’d want to manage the store one day.”
“I don’t want to sell clothes, Dad.”
“No, I know you don’t. I was hoping, but that’s not going to be the life for you, is it, Hazel? You’re your mother’s daughter,” he said. “It’s not mercy that either of you wants, though.”
“What is it?” she asked, watching the column of fish coalesce. They became a single muscle surging upward.
“Beware a man seeking justice, my Uncle Manny used to say.” He relit his pipe. “You didn’t know Manny.” The tossed match made a tiny sizzle in the lake. That was when she saw the frog was gone.
The morning after Gord Drury’s visit, the house was gravely silent. Hazel found her mother standing at the kitchen sink, smoking and looking through the window. In the den, Alan was watching Gerald McBoing-Boing, the volume turned down all the way. His spoon traced a metronomic arc between a punchbowl full of Rice Krispies and his mouth.
She heard the sound of a newspaper being folded in the library. Normally her father would be at the store by this hour, but when she crept silently down the hall, there he was, dressed in his suit, all but his left shoulder and leg hidden by the high-backed chair. She wanted to ask him a question, but she couldn’t think of how to put it. She moved away from the library door and stood paralyzed against the wall. It wasn’t until she heard her mother utter a single, choking sob, that she knew for sure that Alan was a suspect in the disappearance of Carol Lim.
] 14 [
Wednesday afternoon
Hazel had not thought of her brother or her father except glancingly in many years. Her father had been dead for eighteen years; Alan, for twenty-three. That had been a hard time, managing her own and her mother’s grief, while almost single-handedly looking after two young children. The question of justice for Alan would be forever left open. He’d never speak in his own defence again. He was twelve years old when Carol Lim disappeared, and he’d been big enough to hurt someone. Maybe without the protection of his adopted parents they’d have scooped him up for it. And then who knows what might have happened to him. The present case was a trap door to her past.
And they were really off it now. There was full radio silence from the RCMP and they’d all been warned that they were to carry on with cases that had been assigned to them, and nothing else. The Mayfair unit had been told the same thing: hands off, stand down. Macdonald was still on Renald’s disappearance, but it felt like a formality now. Mel was gone.
She crumpled up the paper bag her lunch had come in – a meatpie and an apple: Cartwright’s idea of a balanced meal. She was a tiny bit sleepy and beginning to feel mired in names. One of them – Angela Wetherling – had already come up three times. The twin Mr. Wetherling had called her Cousin Angie. Another Mr. Wetherling had called her Angela. And the family historian, Hadley Wetherling, had also mentioned an Angie. Hazel called Hadley again and asked if she had a number or an address. She did. Angie/Angela had been one of the Copetown Wetherlings, and she still lived there.
Hazel didn’t speak to Wingate on the way out and she didn’t take her cruiser. She was pretty sure Ray would hear about it if her squad car drove past the exit to Dublin. She took her own car and headed down to the 400.
To go by records as old as the ones she had at her disposal was a farce of sorts. Why presume that there was a connection between unknown bones and dead-end records? Out of hope? A maze suggested both entry and exit, but this case was more like a labyrinth, complete with a monster in the middle. She already sensed its form. In her mind, it was a shimmering outlined in tiny sparks.
The name Wetherling was on the mailbox at 52 Orkney Road, so at least the intelligence had been good. Hazel walked up past the black Dodge Ram in the driveway and knocked on the door. There was a doorbell, but Hazel always knocked.
A man answered. He stood behind the screen door in a tracksuit and tan slippers. “What’s she done now?”
“Oh, well, I may not be here for what you think I am. I’m Detective Inspector Hazel Micallef. I’ve come down from Port Dundas on an investigation. I’m wondering, does Angela Wetherling live here?”
“Yeah?”
“May I come in?”
He didn’t budge. Then he pushed the screen door open with a meaty forearm. Two voices were coming from somewhere on the main floor, and then a woman emerged, looking flustered.
“Are you Angela Wetherling?”
“I’m not gonna answer that,” the woman said. “I say yes, you serve me papers!”
Hazel took out her badge and showed it. “I’m not a process server, I’m a police detective. I want to ask you some questions about a man called Claude Miracle. You’re not in any trouble.”
The woman examined Hazel’s ID. She handed it back. “Turn on some lights, Moe. You want a coffee, Detective … Meek –”
“Mi-cay-liff,” Hazel said. “And no, thank you. I take it you’re Angela Wetherling?”
“I’m not. I’m Angie Wetherling, after my mother.”
“Not Angela.”
“No ma’am, not even on my birth certificate. My mother’s name was Angela.”
Hazel frowned. “You just said you were called Angie after your mother, but your mother’s name was Angela?”
“Everyone c
alled her Angie.”
Hazel made busy looking for her notebook so she could hide her exasperation from the woman she needed to be friendly with. “And what’s your last name?” she asked, pencil ready.
“It’s Wetherling,” she said. “I married ’im but I didn’t take his name. What’s this about, Officer? Where did you say you were from?”
“Port Dundas. About an hour north of here. Past Barrie.”
“Ah.”
Moe had finished snapping switches and the front room glowed with lamp-flung light. Angie Wetherling led her in to sit. Hazel put the woman in her sixties, about her own age. She was dumpy with pasty skin. “I want to know if you’ve ever heard the names Claude or Eloy Miracle. Or Claude Wetherling.”
“I don’t think so. Not the Miracle names. But there’s a cousin Claude.”
“What were his parents’ names?”
“Georgia and Thom.”
Good, she thought. “Is Claude still alive?”
“Oh yeah. I would’ve heard.”
“When’s the last time you saw him?”
“Moe?” she asked her husband.
“You want me to go get the social registry outta the archives, Ange?”
“Come on. When was that? Twenty-five years ago at least? We went up for a family reunion. Last time we ever did that.”
“Jesus,” said Moe. “You were married to your first husband then.”
Angie’s eyelashes fluttered. “You sure you don’t want any coffee, Officer?”
“Detective. No.”
“Well, it was a long time ago.” She stretched and looked aslant at her husband. “Before my hysterectomy, for sure.”
“Claude looked like his mother,” Moe volunteered.
“Claude looked like Georgia?” Hazel asked.
“Both of them, high foreheads.”
“Do you know if either of his parents is alive?”
“Oh no,” said Angie Wetherling. “They’re all gone. My mother, my aunt, Thom, and his brother Hugh. My dad. Claude’s my only cousin.”
“Great story,” said Moe, without enthusiasm. He’d continued to hover in the opening between the living room and the dining room. “Are we done?”
“Of course,” said Hazel, rising. When fact-finding, be light of touch and go when asked. It keeps doors open. But. “One more thing,” she said, putting her cap back on. “Did you know that Claude had a brother? Name of Eloy. Did Claude ever talk about a brother?”
“He didn’t have a brother,” said Angie. “He was an only child.”
“He wasn’t. And he didn’t look like Georgia Wetherling, either,” Hazel said. “He was adopted.”
She stopped in Mayfair to gas up. Was Miracle living under a different name? If so, why had there not been a legal name change? Would he have been born with the name Miracle? She called Melanie. “You busy?”
“For you? Never.”
“Look something up for me. There’s, uh, gotta be a website for the Mohawk Nation. Get the number off the site and call them, would you?”
She heard Melanie’s pen scritching on paper. “What am I asking them?”
“Ask them if Miracle is a common name in Kahnawake.”
“Quebec?”
“That’s right. And get back to me as soon as you can.”
“Skip’s asking for you. Where are you?”
“Working a case. Hurry up.” She hung up and tore into a cinnamon raisin bagel. Toasted, with butter.
She called Wingate next. His brother answered. “He’s asleep.”
“At –” she checked her watch “– five o’clock?”
“Yes. He’s asleep. I appreciate all the support he’s getting from the department, but you people are rushing him.”
“He told me you thought he was ready.”
“He’s not. This week he went three days without sleep. Does that sound ready to you, Detective Inspector?”
“OK. So maybe there’s some … over-exuberance about his recent improvements. I understand what you’re saying.”
“You’re undoing my work you know. When it’s his day off, leave him alone.”
“We’re on a big case, though, Michael. Dead children. Scattered bones.”
“He’s told me. He’s also told me about the people he found steeping in their own blood. Do you think he was ready for something like that?”
“He wasn’t supposed to go down there. He went on his own.”
“If any harm comes to him, I won’t forget it.”
She was shocked and didn’t know how to reply, but he’d hung up. She stared at the phone in her hand. It was good she hadn’t mentioned that James was actually on the job. He was probably in his bedroom with the doors closed and his laptop open. She’d call him later and tell him about her meeting with Angie Wetherling.
Back at the station house, Melanie had got nothing from Kahnakwe, but two people had promised to call her back. Hazel told her to keep on it. She made a point of popping her head into Ray’s office. “I hear you were looking for me?”
“I was. You were gone half the afternoon. Sleeping one off?” He tapped one key repeatedly on his keyboard.
“Something wrong?”
“Oh, you know. Missing officer, dead kids.”
“Maybe someone other than Macdonald should be hunting for Renald.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I just think maybe Sean’s not up to it.” She imagined he was knocking off early to see Freemey. She wasn’t surprised he’d not made much progress.
“Do you want to take over?”
“No.”
“I left you a treat.”
“You did?”
“Noise complaint. From a music school, if you can believe it.”
“Thanks. Any update from the mounted constabulary?”
“None, just as they promised. They are thorough as well as succinct.” He squinted through his glasses at the screen. She remained in the doorway, her mind milling troubling connections between Ray Greene and Chip Willan. “Why are you staring at me?” he asked.
“Just admiring your calm under pressure. I’ll go sound out the music school.”
He grunted some kind of goodbye, and she went back to her office. Melanie was typing at her desk and didn’t even look up when Hazel went past. She opened her desk drawer to get the tennis ball, but it was gone. There was an apple beside her blotter. She threw it at the Plexiglas window.
“Argh!” cried Cartwright. She came lightly stomping into the office with the tennis ball gripped in her hand. “I’m a jumpy person, Inspector.”
“Mohawk names.”
“One.”
“Well, let’s have it!”
“First, please agree to pick up the phone and dial my extension. It’s as fast as throwing something at the window.”
“Fine. Agreed.”
“Maracle is a common Mohawk surname. That’s what the lady said when she called back.”
“Just now?”
“Yes.”
“Goddamn it, why didn’t you come and get me, Cartwright.”
“You were talking to the skip.”
“Spell it.”
“M-A-R-A-C-L-E.” She put the tennis ball on Hazel’s desk.
“Uh-uh,” she said, passing it back. “I don’t need the temptation.”
Maracle. Was it possible? Her hands shook as she entered the variables into Canada 411. She came up with a number of Maracles, but no Claudes. No Cs even. She sat zazen in front of the screen, willing it to do the work for her, her mind wandering. If only she knew where to look and what to look with. Was Eloy in there under Maracle? She typed it in. There was one hit – in Toronto – but it practically leaped off the screen. Eloy Maracle.
She dialled the number. A man picked up. “Claude Wetherling?” she said, and the man hung up. Her pulse whacked in her neck. She dialled again and there was no answer. A machine picked up. She heard “This is the home of –” then someone picked up the phone again.
; “What do you want?”
“Are you Claude Wetherling? Born Maracle?”
“Who am I talking to?”
“Detective Inspector Hazel Micallef of the Port Dundas Police Department. Are you really Eloy Maracle?”
The man hesitated. “Eloy is dead.”
“You’re listed under his name in public records.”
“Easier to stay hidden if you’re a dead man.”
“Where is he buried, Mr. Maracle?”
“I don’t know. Eloy was taken with some kind of a flu is what they said. Why are you asking about him?”
“How long were you at Dublin Home?”
“Two years.”
“Boys came and went I’m sure. But there must have been the occasional death as well, like your brother’s. Were you there when any other boys died?”
“What are you investigating, Detective …”
“Micallef. Missing boys.”
“Eloy died of the flu.”
“Where is he buried? Was there a graveyard or a memorial garden? On the grounds?”
“No. A potter’s field in Mayfair. The county puts the indigent dead into a communal hole. They’re not too sentimental about dead orphans, homeless rubbies, people found dead in the street.”
“Is that what happened to boys who died at the home?”
She heard the sound of ice cubes in a glass. “I don’t like to think of that time in my life. I’m sure you understand.”
“I do. There must be some very painful memories.” She hesitated, unsure how to put the next part. “I have to tell you that we found bones in the fields behind Dublin Home. Scattered over acres of land.”
“And you think Eloy …?”
“He might be,” she said. “We looked into the records from Dublin Home in the late fifties, when you were both there, and they show you were adopted by Thomas and Georgia Wetherling. But there’s no such record for your brother. No death certificate, no transfer order, no release. In fact, you’re the only one who still has a file in the archives. Your brother’s has been destroyed.”
“Well, he was dead enough that Indian Affairs stopped sending his cheques. I know, because my parents put up a fight to keep getting them, but IA told them he was dead. They had to be satisfied with the eleven dollars I brought in every month through my benefits. While I tilled their fields for my room and board.”
The Night Bell Page 13