Cod Only Knows

by Hilary MacLeod

  It was when the man, with his back to Seamus, heaved the bicycle up in the air and tossed it down into the ditch, that he realized who it might be.

  Abel Mack. The man he was looking for. In that instant of physical movement, he had struck the same pose, topped by the same Tilley hat as in the photograph in the book. Seamus sped up as the hat bobbed along in front of him at the side of the road, luring him as if he were a donkey chasing a carrot on a stick. Every time the hat bobbed out of sight and into the ditch, Seamus felt a grip of panic that it might not reappear.

  Finally, he pulled up beside the cyclist.

  “Going my way? Want a lift?”

  The man stopped, tilted his head down, so the hat covered his face. He grunted.

  He yanked the passenger door open and climbed in, so Seamus assumed the grunt meant yes. The man sat without saying anything more, nor making any move. It was clearly his intention not to buckle his seat belt. That was the bane of law enforcement in places like The Shores. Jamieson, for one, could never convince the older folks to buckle up. They “weren’t used to it,” a phrase they often employed as an excuse not to step into the modern world. Seat belts made them feel unsafe. They wanted to be thrown clear of the car going up in a ball of smoke.

  The two spoke not at all, Seamus wondering what he was going to do with this old fellow now that he had him.

  Was he a kidnapper?

  Not intentionally. Certainly not intentionally. He just wanted the man to tell him where the fish was. The guy had dropped right into his lap.

  What to do with him?

  Take him to Winterside, for starters. Mr. Tilley Hat did not seem in the mood to chat.

  Perhaps later in the day.

  And perhaps tomorrow Seamus would have another talk with Ferguson, now that he held the high card.

  The Ace of Spades.

  Abel Mack. The man who’d almost caught the big one.

  ***

  Inside, it was like a funhouse. A room that sloped down, low on one end, high on the other, the walls crooked, window bulging in, door off one hinge.

  Jamieson felt dizzy, the way a funhouse with a sloping floor made a person feel. No Abel. Was that a good sign – or a bad one?

  Abel’s Mason’s apron was hanging from a hook on the door.

  There was the photo of Abel, trying to reel in that big fish. It was a yellowed black-and-white shot, thumbtacked to the wall. Three corners were bent up, the fourth was cracked off. There was a series of tiny holes in the white borders, as if a woodworm had chewed at it, where it had been tacked, undone, and tacked again to the wall.

  There was a…ducky cup. Jamieson seized on it, but as she did, saw another. Two ducky mugs. That made three in all, with the one in her car.

  The cup in her hands had been used. Recently. There was a slick of coffee in the bottom, and still some warmth to the cup. She handed it to Hy. There was a spent match on the small counter, the smell of burnt propane on the air.

  “He’s been here.” Hy looked triumphant.

  “Somebody has.” Jamieson burst her bubble.

  “Who else could it be?”

  “Some vagrant.”

  “There are no vagrants in The Shores.”

  Hy frowned and held the mug up to Jamieson. Jamieson was regretting she and Hy had handled it. Should have dusted it for fingerprints. But there hadn’t been a crime committed. Had there? Maybe she should get Finn to take a look. Finding Abel’s fingermarks wouldn’t prove that he’d been there recently, though someone had.

  Hy nudged her with the mug.

  “Better put your duckies in a row.” She grinned.

  The other mug had never been used. It was covered in dust.

  Jamieson found a box and put them in it.

  “To avoid confusion,” she said to Hy and Ian, as if she must explain herself. “The next time I see a ducky cup, I want to see it attached to Abel.”

  There was still the outhouse. Please, no. Let him not be there. With a sinking feeling that he was, Jamieson crawled up the crooked floor to the outside door and clambered out, Ian carrying the box for her, and Hy following behind.

  They stood for a moment, the three of them, staring down at the outhouse.

  ***

  The suite was in an apartment building opposite the Department of Fisheries building. An ancient elevator clunked its way down to the lobby at the press of a button, floor by floor, stopping and opening at each one no matter the button you pressed, agonizing in its slow progress.

  When it arrived, the doors creaked open and Seamus had to push his companion into the elevator. He didn’t know that Mr. Tilley Hat had never been in one.

  The man tensed as the doors scraped closed and grabbed onto his hat as the elevator began to ascend. He was out the door in a flash when they reached their floor.

  Inside the apartment, he went straight to the bed, sat on it and tested the mattress with a few bounces. He stood up and played with the blinds, opening and closing, opening and closing, until Seamus stopped him. It wouldn’t do to draw attention from the outside. All of Winterside knew this was a government suite. With the curiosity born and bred in Red Islanders, people tended to keep an eye on the place, whether it was occupied or not, speculating about who was staying in luxury on their tax dollars.

  Seamus now thought he’d made a critical error in bringing the Hat Man here.

  It might have been better to take him to his own home. No. There was no room on his couch for a visitor, no spare room, no space anywhere. Couch, tables, chairs, and even his bed were covered with marine artifacts, including dozens of buoys scoured off island shores in springtime.

  Books about Newfoundland and the cod fishery were in messy stacks on the floor, everywhere there was a space to be found. There were paths barely wide enough for Seamus to walk through, which led to the bathroom, and kitchen, and the mattress that was his bedroom.

  No. Much better to have brought him here.

  Seamus showed his guest the fridge and cupboards, opened them, still full of staples from the last visitor five days ago. Mr. Tilley Hat took a great interest in the contents and was soon snacking on crackers and cheese, washed down with orange juice straight out of the container.

  Seamus had to at least show his face at work.

  “Have to leave for a few hours. See you later.” Seamus left without another word being spoken by either. Hopefully, the old man would be chattier the next day, once he got used to his surroundings.

  Seamus closed the door behind him, and the sound of the lock engaging triggered the question again:

  Am I a kidnapper?

  ***

  Jamieson frowned as she yanked at the door to the outhouse. The putrid smell wafted on the smoky air. Even after all this time, tilted off its base, its connection to its former use was pungent, redolent of decay. Not the decay of a corpse. And not old decay. New rot.

  The outhouse had been used. Hy leaned over Jamieson’s shoulder and held her nose.

  “Fresh.” She said. “Can you get the DNA off that?”

  Jamieson supposed she should examine it more closely, but she couldn’t bear the smell. She shut the door, and the movement caused the little building to shift. It wouldn’t be long before it fell right over – or the morning glories ensnared it and pulled it down with them to the pond. Looking back as she returned to the shack, Jamieson could have sworn that the morning glory had resumed its job, its tendrils growing as she stood there wondering, what next?

  She returned to the police house, discouraged. There was a voice mail from detachment offering to send reinforcements for the search. Offering reluctantly. No one wanted to go out to The Shores, the back of beyond, now made worse than ever by the grey mist of smoke from away dusting the village and the lungs of its inhabitants.

  She returned the call to her superior officer wi
th the ridiculous name. Superintendent Constable. People believed that, though inept, he had been promoted because of his name, because Constable Constable sounded even worse, as if the Mounties were a group of stutterers.

  “I could spare a few men,” he said, his tone suggesting it would be onerous.

  Jamieson bristled. They could use some help, but The Shores belonged to her. She could take care of things. Now that it was offered, she wouldn’t accept any help from outside.

  “That’s okay,” she said. “We can take care of our own.”

  She hung up, wondering when – and how – she had come to sound like Gus Mack.

  Chapter 13

  I know where they are.

  That’s what he’d said.

  I know they’re there.

  With such conviction it was hard to disbelieve him.

  They’re hiding. Watching.

  Could he really believe that? Anything the man had said? He clearly had lost a few marbles. Seamus had returned to the apartment in the afternoon and was happy to find the old man more talkative. More talkative, but not making much sense.

  Looking out the window, the old man said: I can see the ocean from here.

  He had a disposable camera in his windbreaker pocket. He kept taking pictures through the window. He’d show them to Seamus. There was nothing there, the camera used and useless.

  Seamus had looked out the window. What he saw was the hospital, the fisheries building, and a great big parking lot, full of cars in the day, abandoned and floodlit by night.

  Christ, someone might see them. The newspaper had printed the photograph of the man in the Tilley hat, under the bold, black headline: MISSING. Someone might recognize him. He had to get rid of the hat. He reached out for it but fumbled when the old man turned and slipped by him. For a moment he was out of his line of sight, as if invisible. Seamus felt his heart leap with fear, fear that the old man had disappeared, disappeared on him.

  He was standing in the shadows, beyond the pool of light. Seamus stepped out of the light. The two men stared at each other in silence.

  My God, what have I done? Have I kidnapped this man – or has he come willingly?

  Seamus was struck by the enormity of what he had done.

  He wasn’t certain that the man was suffering from dementia. If he knew that for sure, then, yes, he could be accused of kidnapping. Since he didn’t know, not for sure, perhaps it was a simple collaboration, a way to get what they both wanted.

  The giant cod.

  He’s out there, he had said. Waiting. Watching. The cod are there. I know they’re there. He kept repeating it, like a mantra.

  Could a man who saw the ocean from this inland window be trusted to know where the cod were – and what they were doing?

  Seamus had to take that chance. It was his only chance. He had to know what this man knew.

  If that made him a kidnapper, so be it.

  If it made him a fool, it would not be the first time.

  ***

  Hy thought Jamieson should have been more grateful for her idea about Abel’s fishing shack. It hadn’t panned out, but it wasn’t “a wild goose chase,” as Jamieson had called it. Ian had pointed out that it was early in the season for goose hunting. That had earned him withering looks from both Hy and Jamieson. Jamieson thought it was not a matter for joking. Hy thought it was a bad joke.

  So her spirits lifted when, driving down into “the holler,” she saw a large moving van approaching the driveway of the house next-door to Jared MacPherson’s.

  Plumbers, carpenters, roofers, even a welding company had been in and out of the house and the big barn for weeks. A black Mercedes SUV had been parked in the driveway, but no one had seen the new owners. That didn’t stop the villagers from speculating about the new people. What they usually came up with could only be described with accuracy as alternative facts. This time, however, the villagers had forgotten all about the new neighbours because of the fuss over the missing Abel. One moving truck had come and gone, and no one had noticed. Now there was a second.

  Hy pulled over to the side of the road, where she had a front-row seat.

  ***

  He opened his eyes.

  Closed them.

  He had no idea where he was.

  That wasn’t unusual. It had been happening a lot lately.

  But this place was different. He’d never been here before. He’d never been anywhere like it.

  It was like a hotel. He’d never been in a hotel. Fancy furniture. Everything black and white. Leather and chrome. Everything new and shiny. Except that big old wardrobe. Not a quilt anywhere. Could use a quilt.

  With eyes closed, he tried to conjure up home.

  Home.

  Where had it gone?

  Where had he gone?

  I’m gone missing, he thought, his heart sinking. It did exactly that, lowering in his chest, fogging his breath.

  To lift his spirits, he thought about the circles. And the moon in line with Ethan Cooke’s chimbley. He remembered that. He smiled, keeping his eyes closed, the better to picture them.

  The chimbley. The circles. This man – where was the man? – would take him to them.

  Or was it the other way round?

  Had he come here alone? Or was someone with him? Had someone brought him here?

  No, he’d come alone. Hadn’t he? How? And where? Where was this?

  He remembered striking out in the shadows and the smoke, rolling his bike down the road, toward that bay. That big bay. That’s right. Big Bay. That’s where he’d spent the night before. Or was it the one before that?

  What had happened then?

  He’d forgotten.

  He’d had a purpose. He knew that. But he couldn’t find it in the puzzle that was his mind, a jumble, no straight edges, no connecting pieces. Thoughts like threads of smoke, wisping away on the air.

  He knew who he was. He didn’t know what he was up to.

  ***

  Letitia Ferguson was tiny, with straggly dark blonde hair and a grey complexion. When she finally followed her husband Brock to The Shores, to the home he was already settled in, she did not look well, and she was not. By contrast, Brock was big, handsome, with salt-and-pepper hair and flashing dark eyes.

  They were standing at the open doors of the barn when Letitia’s van arrived, full of them. Grey. Ginger. Black. Black and white. Long hair. Short hair. No hair. Cats. Crates of cats. Her movers unloaded the furry, squealing, hiding, trembling, hissing, yowling cargo into the barn. Letitia followed them in. Ferguson returned to nursing a beer at the kitchen table. At ten in the morning. His family was from Glasgow, Letitia would tell people, as if that explained it. In a way, it did.

  He’d thrown the tab in a bucket full of them beside the sink. He scratched a mark on its side. Almost one thousand, and time for a new bucket.

  Letitia counted the cages, one by one, and released those cats she knew could safely explore the massive, multi-storey cage within the barn without first being confined. The space contained everything a cat could possibly want. Climbing trees, sleeping hammocks, even a “bowling green” – a large, hard surface, contained on all sides, full of tinkling plastic, bouncing foam balls, and catnip creatures to bat around. It was enclosed in Plexiglas, so the balls couldn’t get out, but had platforms to allow the cats to jump in and out. There was already an intense game going on. Gingers, who seemed always to stick together, against a variety of black, white, and tabby cats.

  Seventy-nine. She finished the count. She was happiest in this small feline universe, happy that her good luck had given her the money to be able to provide for these helpless creatures.

  But her heart was broken over and over. Rescue cats had much shorter lives than domestic cats, and death happened weekly, monthly, too many times a year. With infinite financial r
esources, Letitia did everything she could to keep an ailing cat alive, until it was obviously suffering. Then, with difficulty, she would let it go, weep, recover, and carry on.

  They’d come here because of Letitia’s health. Brock had said the fresh ocean air should clear out those lungs of hers. So far, it was worse, thought Letitia.

  She hadn’t known about the smoke. Had he?

  Ferguson hated cats. He was back in the barn, a sour expression on his face. He hated everything about them. Their good looks. Their fussy ways. Their grooming habits. Their ability to look comfortable all the time, no matter what position they were in. All the things other people like about them.

  He had indulged Letitia when they were first married and allowed three or four cats in the house. He stroked them when she was around, but when she wasn’t looking, he’d kick them aside or let them out of the house.

  Once she’d won the money, the second and third times, he’d had less say about what went on. He negotiated the move to The Shores by agreeing to a cat shelter and sealed her approval by coming up with the litter-removal system.

  The number of cats they now sheltered was no record, and he wouldn’t have cared if it were. He had other fish to fry. He smiled at his own pun.

  His fish and he were well away from the cats at the back of the barn, where he couldn’t hear Letitia’s wheezing and coughing. In fact, he’d had his den soundproofed so he wouldn’t have to listen to the cats, either.

  The barn housed not only them, but also Ferguson’s bitter resentment and a grand plan for fame and fortune, as yet unrealized. Money and a name of his own. Other than fish, his possessions at the moment consisted of bottle cap and soda can tab collections. Dismal, disappointing preoccupations that had stuck with him from the age of six. He hated the caps and tabs, too, but he still couldn’t stop collecting. He’d long surpassed the record in both categories, but he didn’t want to announce it publicly. It wasn’t good enough. He wanted something unique.

  He was about to need a lot of money, and there was no way he could think of to hide it from Letitia, but it was for something of which she would not approve. She hated the idea of keeping wild animals in captivity. He had pointed out that her cats were in captivity. She said that was different, that they were domesticated. That it was for their own good.