by Brent Pilkey
Mason eased back in his chair, idly tapping a pen against his knuckles. He wondered if Jenny would be a good addition to the unit. She was a smart cop and after the beating she took tonight, her toughness was carved in stone. Was she a team player? Mason knew Jack was solid; the whole mess with Charles stood testament to that.
How much about that have you told her, Jack? Something worth considering, but not tonight. He had enough on his plate as it was.
Fuck. He sat up, shaking his head. He was supposed to be looking up his contact in Sudbury. I am getting old. Fucking senile.
He flipped through the cards, found the one he wanted. He punched the number, hoping the detective was at work. Won’t do me any good if he isn’t in the office.
The phone rang three times before it was picked up; a harried voice coughed, “Detective Garrelson.”
Finally, a bit of luck. “That’s not a very pleasant way to answer your phone, you grouchy old prick.”
“Yeah?” rumbled the Sudbury detective. “Depends on who the fuck you are.”
Mason laughed. “It’s Rick Mason from Toronto, you miserable son of a bitch.”
“Mason!” Garrelson chuckled, brightening up. “How the fuck are you? You still got that rat’s nest on your chin?”
“Damn straight. Gonna start braiding it soon.”
“Wouldn’t fucking doubt it.” Garrelson’s tone sobered. “Now what can a jerkwater-berg police force do for the high and mighty Toronto police? I’m assuming this isn’t a personal call, that is.”
“It isn’t, Garry, and yeah, I need your help.”
“Then talk to — hang on.” There was some commotion in the background and Garrelson barked, “Drag his ass down to the cells if he’s gonna be like that. Sorry about that, Rick.”
“I catch you at a bad time, Garry?”
“Naw, not really. We got a guy in for fighting with his neighbour over a fence.” Garrelson chuckled. “You wouldn’t believe this shit. These two morons have been pissing in each other’s pants over this stupid fence for the last year. Well, today, one of them decided to finish the argument with a chainsaw.”
“He cut down the fence?”
Garrelson laughed out loud. “Hell, no.”
“Ouch,” Mason sympathized. “Homicide?”
“Not yet,” Garrelson admitted. “But my money says we have one by morning.”
“Well, good luck. I think.” Mason wasn’t sure if Garry was using a turn of phrase or had actually bet on his victim dying. When it came to humour and gambling, cops were kind of fucked up.
“Ah, peace and quiet. Now what can I do for you?”
“Need to see if you have anything in your files on a suspect of ours.” Mason slouched back in his chair, the phone tucked under his chin. “We’ve got a guy down here who’s putting the boots to the hookers. Sent a couple of them to the hospital and tonight he laid a beating on one of my officers doing a sweep.”
“What do you need?” Garrelson asked and Mason could hear the northern detective straightening up.
“We’ve got a name on the guy,” Mason told him, “but there’s nothing on him in our files. His dl has him at an address in Sudbury so I was hoping he’d have some history with you guys.”
Garrelson snorted. “You’d think we’d be able to access other police records. Like the assholes don’t move around. What a fucked-up system.”
“Would have saved me from talking to some grouchy old fart, that’s for sure.”
“Yeah, fuck you, too. Go with the info.”
Mason passed on Furlington’s name and DOB. Come on, give me something I can use.
“Hang on.” The phone clunked down and while he waited, Mason twined a rubber band through his fingers. Garrelson was back in less than a minute. “I’ve got one hit on him but you ain’t gonna like it.”
Of course not. Mason sighed. “Give it to me.”
“He’s dead,” Garrelson said.
“Dead? What do you mean, dead?”
“Dead. As in not living anymore.”
“Fuuuuck,” Mason breathed out. The rubber band snapped. “Let’s have it.”
“Taylor Edward Furlington, date of birth January sixth, nineteen seventy-seven. That’s your boy, right? Well, he was killed in a car accident eight years ago.”
“Shit,” was all that Mason could say to that.
“Somebody using this dead guy’s id?”
“Looks like it. Fuck.” Back to square one. “Just out of morbid curiosity, what are the details?”
“Let’s see.” Garrelson muttered to himself as he scrolled through the report. “I remember this one now. Thought the name was familiar. Pretty sad case. Taylor was a decent kid, real good athlete. Had a chance to make something of himself but he had a drunk for a father.”
A chair creaked over the phone line and Mason could see his friend leaning back, getting ready to tell a story. Garrelson didn’t disappoint.
“It was after the kid’s hockey practice, I think. His mom usually picked him up, I know, because the dad, more often than not, was too pissed to drive. But that night, Mom couldn’t go. Something to do with Taylor’s sister, I think. Anyway, Dad picked him up, drunker than a priest after a day of confessions. Sure enough, they got into an accident on the way home. The kid was killed and the dad walked away without so much as a fucking scratch.”
“God looks after drunks and fools, they say,” Mason judged. “Don’t fucking know why, though. Dad get done with impaired?”
“He did.” Garrelson sighed and Mason didn’t have to be told there was no happy jail-time ending. “He walked. The arresting officer messed up the breathalyzer demand and the case got tossed. So much for justice, eh?”
“It’s a wonderful world. Anything else?”
“Not much.” Garrelson paused as a pop can fizzed open in Mason’s ear. “Ah, that’s better.” The detective belched, not bothering to cover the mouthpiece. What’s a long-distance burp between professional colleagues? “After the accident, the mother started medicating herself pretty heavily and about six months later ended up dead, as well.”
“Suicide?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. Suicide, homicide or that old standby, death by misadventure. Take your pick.”
“Homicide? The dad?” Mason mused.
“That would be my pick,” Garrelson agreed. “Story around town is that besides being a drunk, the dad was also a mean son of a bitch and beat his family whenever he was into the sauce. Which made the beatings an everyday occurrence, I’d guess.”
“He ever get done for it?”
“Nope,” Garrelson said disgustedly. “None of them ever complained and no witnesses ever came forward. The kids were into sports big time — the sister was almost as good an athlete as the boy — so bruises were easily explained. And the wife, well, she hardly ever came out of the house.”
“So what happened?”
“Well.” Garrelson slurped and belched again. “After the wife kicked off, the old man’s drinking hit high gear and he lost his job at the mine. Don’t know if he really felt guilty about killing his kid or just saw him as a future meal ticket. Either way, a few months later, he and the daughter moved out of town. Ain’t seen or heard of them since.”
“Any idea where they went?”
“Not a clue. Hang on a sec.” This time Garrelson covered the phone but Mason could still hear him bellow, “Gus! Hey, butthead! You know where old man Furlington and his kid moved to? Where? Okay, thanks. Gus thinks they went to the Sault,” Garrelson told Mason.
“The where?” Mason’s ears were still ringing from the detective’s hollering.
Garrelson scoffed. “Sault Ste. Marie, moron. You’re Canadian, right?”
“Yeah, sorry, Garry. It’s been a long day. Could you do me a favour?”
“You want me
to call over to the Sault and see if they have anything, right? You’re thinking your man got the kid’s id from the sister, right? You find her, you find your man.”
“Something like that, yeah.”
Garrelson chortled. “See? You don’t have to be a big-city detective to have any brains. You’ll be at this number for awhile?”
“I never fucking leave,” Mason bitched.
“I know the feeling. Give you a shout in a few minutes.” That was Garrelson’s version of goodbye and he hung up.
“Bad news, Rick?” Jack asked, coming into the office and handing Mason his drink. Jack dropped into his seat, his lunch — a Diet Coke and a package of oversized oatmeal cookies — cradled in his lap. Jenny sat next to him with her own Diet Coke and a bag of what looked like snow pressed against her face.
“You found some ice?” Mason guessed.
Jenny nodded. “Scraped it off the inside of the freezer.”
“You talked to Sudbury?” Jack prompted.
“Yeah.” Mason popped his Coke and guzzled half the can. “And it ain’t good news.” He summed up what he had learned and finished with, “I’m waiting to hear back after Garry talks to the police in Sault Ste. Marie.”
And as if cued, the phone on Mason’s desk rang. “Mason,” he answered.
“And you say my phone etiquette sucks,” Garrelson contended. “You owe me, my friend.”
“Good news?” Mason refused to get his hopes up.
“Don’t quite know if it’s good, but it sure is interesting.” Paper rustled as if Garrelson was checking his notes. “Here goes. Furlington and his kid didn’t move to the Sault proper but a little town close by. Anyway, the kid hit the sports big time. The old man was always at the games, practices too, and always pissed. People learned to keep clear of him while his kid was playing. He’d pick a fight with anybody.
“And he was hard on the kid, too. People said he’d always be giving the kid shit after the games, screaming at him. If the kid had played well, Furlington would say he could do better. If the kid messed up or the team lost, well . . . The police got called a few times but Furlington was careful never to hit the kid in public.”
Garrelson flipped a page. “Here’s where it gets juicy. About four years ago, old man Furlington ends up with his shotgun in his mouth and the top of his head all over the living room ceiling.”
“This is one fucked-up family,” Mason said. “Suicide or homicide?”
Garrelson laughed. “Well, it certainly wasn’t an accident. Not unless Furlington had a strange way of holding his shotgun while he was cleaning it. The official ruling was suicide but not everyone was convinced, and since the kid disappeared at the same time . . .” Mason could picture the detective shrugging as if to say, Who knows?
“Disappeared? You mean, took off?”
“Or Furlington killed him and dumped the body somewhere before offing himself. But from the way the old man treated him, the kid could’ve helped the old man with his suicide then buggered off. If you find the kid, the cops over in the Sault would appreciate a call; they’d like to ask him some questions.”
“Wait, wait,” Mason urged, confused. “You keep saying ‘him.’ You mean her, right? The son died in the car accident. Furlington left Sudbury with his daughter, that’s what you said.”
“Yup, I did,” Garrelson said, sounding smugly pleased with himself. “That’s what’s so fucking weird about this. As far as anyone in the Sault knew, Furlington lived with his son, Taylor.”
Mason rocked forward in his chair and thumped his elbows on his desk. “Wait a fucking minute. Are you saying Furlington was passing off his daughter as his son?” Mason caught four startled faces staring at him and he waved them to silence.
“Pretty fucked up, huh?” Garrelson sounded like a soap-opera fanatic gushing over the latest plot twist. “You should have heard the detective over in the Sault when I told him Taylor Furlington was dead. They really want to talk to your suspect.”
Mason still wasn’t convinced. “But how could he do it? How could he pass his daughter off as a boy?”
“Easy, really,” Garrelson replied. “He had all his dead boy’s id. Birth certificate, health card, driver’s licence, the works. They were new to the Sault, no one knew their history and outside of the sports, the kid kept to himself. I mean, herself.”
“Okay, I get he had all the paperwork. Did he change the photo on the dl?”
“Didn’t have to,” Garrelson stated as if it was obvious.
“What do you mean, didn’t have to?”
“Didn’t I tell you?” Garrelson asked. “The daughter, Sara, and Taylor were twins.”
Taylor dropped his backpack by the old tree and squatted among the roots that ran through the dirt like protruding varicose veins. He leaned his head back against the rough bark, savouring the first rest he had allowed himself since jumping off the balcony. He scrubbed crusted blood from his brow. He searched for the night sky but it was hidden from him by the leafy canopy of intertwining branches.
He had expected the cops to show up at his door — he couldn’t take the chance the bitch hadn’t noticed his shirt — but not so fucking soon. He’d barely had enough time to grab some clothes and the cash he had hidden away in the kitchen before those bastards threw open his door. Ever since his feet had hit the concrete, he’d been running.
At first, he had fled in blind panic, buildings and people passing by unseen. The screech of tires and a blaring car horn had finally snapped his mindless flight; he had run onto the road. Only then did he stop, gathering his thoughts. He was on Howard Street, in the north end of St. James Town. He staggered to the sidewalk, was about to raise his hand in apology to the driver when he realized he was still holding Rico’s gun. He hurriedly tucked it behind his belt, making sure his shirt kept it hidden.
Sirens, but in the distance. Were they coming for him? Since moving to the city, he had learned that sirens of all sorts — police, fire truck and ambulances — were a constant background, but never had he been so aware, so attuned, to their presence. Best to get off the streets, but where to go? Where?
They’ll catch you, his dead sister whispered from deep within his mind.
“Fuck off, bitch,” he growled softly. A woman pushing a stroller scampered past him, keeping a leery eye on the muscular, violent-looking man.
They’ll catch you. They know you killed Father. They know everything.
“I didn’t kill him, you useless cunt.” Taylor looked around him, still mindful enough to see if anyone had heard him. He couldn’t afford anyone calling the police about some nut talking to himself. “He killed himself, bitch. And he deserved it. After what he did . . .”
Memories, dark and terrible, swarmed through Taylor’s mind, slashing and tearing. Memories, fragments of pain and humiliation, sliced at Taylor’s eyes. Memories of his father . . .
a heavy leather belt, clasped in his father’s hand, lashing out . . .
his drunken father screaming at him, “You’re all useless. I’ll show you what you’re good for . . .”
Rico, snarling, “This time I want your ass . . . ”
the gun going off, blood erupting from Rico’s knee, Father’s head . . .
the feel of wood against his cheek, Father’s hand pinning his head, fumbling at Taylor’s belt . . .
Father, spitting, crying, “I’ll show you . . . useless . . . you’re good for . . . useless, all useless . . .”
“Useless, all useless.” Taylor muttered the words over and over as he huddled, cowering from the onslaught. Rocking, he moaned, “Stop, please stop. Please, Daddy, stop!”
Then Sherry was there, holding him, soothing his fears, chasing away the horrors as she had done so many times before. Sherry, he was safe with Sherry, loved. But Sherry was dead. She fell.
If you leave me, I’ll tell!
&
nbsp; Sherry falling, falling. His father crying, pleading. The shotgun kicking in his hands.
“No!” Taylor surged to his feet, slammed into concrete. He stumbled, pawing at the blood running into his eye, hit concrete again. Where was he? He couldn’t see and the air felt stale, closed around him. He was trapped. Panic, horrifying and comforting in its mindlessness, clawed at him, gripping him tighter.
“Hey, man, you okay?”
The words, softly spoken in a gravelly voice, pierced the panic and Taylor latched onto them desperately. He kept his back pressed to the concrete behind him, splayed a hand across its rough surface. Solid. Real. Slowly, controlled, he wiped his eyes, clearing them of the obscuring blood.
Carefully, he looked about himself, but the dead were dead and not with him. He was in a tunnel, short and tight. Too much like a grave for Taylor’s liking.
“You okay, buddy?”
At the tunnel’s mouth, a hunched figure regarded him with cautious concern. Feeble light falling from the tunnel’s ceiling barely illuminated the man, making deep gorges of the wrinkles in his face.
“Yeah, I’m . . . good. Just banged my head.” Taylor backed away, sliding into the shadows hanging in the tunnel. The old man muttered something and shuffled off, leaving Taylor to fend for himself.
Taylor fought with his breathing, forced it and his heart to slow their wild galloping. He recognized where he was. The pedestrian walkway running under Bloor Street. He must have wandered into it while the memories were assaulting him. But the memories were gone, the voices quiet, relegated to their dark prisons.
The tunnel spilled out into Rosedale Valley, high above the road that twisted along its belly. A narrow bridge spanned the distance to the neighbourhood of Rosedale, but he would be too conspicuous walking those affluent streets.
Where to go? There was no going back to his apartment, he knew that, and the realization caused a pang of regret. As shitty as the apartment had been — roach-infested and falling apart — it was home. He had no home now, no safe place to go.
Safe. The word taunted him. The last time he had felt safe had been with Sherry. She had accepted him as he was, understood the scars he carried on his soul. But she was beyond him now, taken from him by some cruel, malicious God. The same God who had allowed a sadistic animal to . . .