Lion's Head Revisited

by Jeffrey Round

  “Thanks,” Dan said. “You’ve already been extremely helpful.”

  SEVEN

  The Edge of the Universe

  ELROY JAMES STILL HAD NOT RETURNED Dan’s call by the time his meeting with Dennis Braithwaite was over. Dan was only mildly surprised, however. Usually a veiled threat about illegal activity elicited a quick response, but maybe Mr. James thought he had nothing to worry about. On the other hand, a text from Donny was waiting for him when he got back in his car: Prabin says he’s busy this weekend. Dan trashed the message as he pulled out of the underground garage. Sure, blame it on the boyfriend. At least it freed him up to take a drive to the Bruce Peninsula.

  The afternoon traffic was already a bitch. He’d overstayed the three o’clock cut-off and the entire downtown core was flooded with drivers, most of them irritable. By four, the city would be almost unnavigable. But if you couldn’t avoid it, it was a good time to relax and get caught up on calls.

  Janice picked up on the first ring. Dan heard Eli talking loudly in the background. It hadn’t occurred to him that the three of them might all live together.

  “Your ex-husband wasn’t very helpful when I asked about possible suspects,” Dan said.

  “No surprise there.” He heard something that sounded as if she were sucking on ice cubes. It was followed by a tinkle, as though she had just spit into a glass. “Sorry, just rinsing my mouth out. No, Dennis was never very helpful unless it would benefit him in some way. The things you learn about people when you live with them, right?”

  “Right,” Dan said. “On the other hand, he did mention he was surprised to learn only recently that Jeremy isn’t his biological son. He said that’s why he turned down your request to put him on his insurance claim.”

  “Oh, that. Well, yes. He could have helped, but he decided not to. Did he really tell you about that?”

  “He did,” Dan said. But you didn’t. “Did you expect him to lie to his insurance company?”

  There was a pause. “I didn’t want him to lie, I wanted him to believe. That’s why I didn’t tell him. What exactly did he say?”

  “He said he had someone look into it and discovered Jeremy wasn’t his son. He asked how I would feel if it had been me. Frankly, I’m glad I know I’m the father of my son.”

  “Smart.” She made another gurgling sound.

  “He also said you asked him to let you use his cottage that weekend.”

  “Right — I texted to ask him.”

  “So why didn’t you use it?”

  “He never replied.” She snorted contemptuously. “Just as well. If you knew Dennis … everything has a price tag. I just assumed he was being his bitter, vengeful self. He won’t admit it, but he still hates me.”

  Dan thought of the photographs on Dennis’s desktop. Hate wasn’t the word that came to mind.

  “Listen,” Janice said, “while I’ve got you — there’s something else we should discuss. That strange woman I told you about? I didn’t want to say anything in front of Ashley, but it’s possible it could be her mother.”

  “Wouldn’t she recognize her own mother?”

  “It’s doubtful. Ashley hasn’t seen her for the past sixteen years. She had mental problems. I don’t know everything about the family history, but it’s pretty messy. The father was abusive and abandoned the family when Ash was just a kid. That was when the mother had her first breakdown. Then, when Ashley was twelve, her twin sister died. It was the mother’s fault. That’s when they put her away. It was devastating for Ash. After that she went to live with her grandmother.”

  “Any reason she would try to come back now?”

  “Not that I can think of. Ashley doesn’t even know if she’s still alive. I just thought it might be a possibility.”

  A thought occurred to him. “Would she have known your real name is Katharine?”

  “I don’t know how.”

  “All right. I’ll look into it.”

  Janice seemed to be in a mood to talk. “It’s hard to explain, but in a way it brought us together. Ashley and I have these dark things in common. Things we never discuss.”

  “Tragedies can do that.”

  “That’s true. She talks tough sometimes, but she’s a sweetheart. I feel like I owe her my life.”

  “How so?”

  “She helped put me back together. After Dennis, I was a mess. When we found out Jeremy has ASD, Ashley gave up everything to help me take care of him. She was very successful when we met. She was a photography model.”

  Dan thought of her quiet, good looks. “I can see that.”

  “So far I haven’t given her much in return,” Janice said with a rueful laugh. “Life, right? It never turns out the way you think it should. What are you going to do now?”

  “I thought I might go up to the Bruce Peninsula and have a look around the area where Jeremy vanished.”

  “You won’t find anything. We packed up everything at the campsite after the police came. They did a pretty thorough search.”

  “What about the farmer who found you passed out?”

  “What about him?”

  “I’d like to talk to him. He might have seen something. If you have his number, I’ll give him a call before I go up.”

  “I don’t think he has a phone, but I can tell you how to find him. He’s a bit out of the way, though.” She paused. “What if we get another call from the kidnapper while you’re gone?”

  “I’ve got my cell. I’ll keep it on.”

  “Suit yourself. His name’s Horace McLean. He’s off Highway 6. Turn right at the three wind turbines and follow Cemetery Road toward the North Shore. The sign says McLean Farm.” She paused again. “You’ll find him a bit odd, though.”

  “Odd how?”

  She paused. “Odd as in, he lives way out in the middle of nowhere. Odd as in, he doesn’t have a phone or believe in the internet. Just odd in general, though he may have saved my life, so I shouldn’t be rude, I guess. Anyway, you’ll see for yourself if you go up there.”

  Dan stopped off at home long enough to eat and pack a bag with a change of clothes. He wasn’t anticipating being gone more than a day, but it was best to be prepared. He took Ralph out for a quick walk and left a note for Ked.

  He had Nick on the phone as he got in the car. “I have a question for you.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Have you read the file on the kidnapped Bentham boy?”

  “I scanned it briefly.”

  “Was there anything on the family histories of the two mothers?”

  “Such as?”

  “One of them — Ashley Lake — had a mother who seems to have gone AWOL for the past sixteen years or so. She had a history of breakdowns. Her partner, Janice Bentham, told me Ashley’s twin died and the mother was at fault.”

  “I recall seeing something about that. Is it relevant?”

  “Possibly. Janice mentioned a strange woman who was hanging around in the weeks before the boy was kidnapped. She thinks it might be Ashley’s mother come back from the dead.”

  “Let me look into it for you. It’ll have to be discreet, of course.”

  “I am the soul of discretion. And while I’ve got you, was there anything about the farmer who rescued Janice Bentham up on Georgian Bay?”

  “Anything in particular?”

  “Just wondering — is he a crazy person? Anything like that?”

  “I didn’t get that sense from the report. He checks out as a regular, routine sort of recluse. Grows strawberries, apparently. Though that might be a bit odd. Why are you asking?”

  “I thought I’d pay him a visit.”

  “When?”

  “Now.”

  “I thought you said we were having dinner guests tomorrow night.” It was Nick’s cross-examiner’s voice.

  “Nix on the guests. I dropped in to see Donny. He got back to me saying Prabin declined, but I don’t think it was Prabin’s choice.”

  There was a pause. “Is it my body od
our?”

  “More like your uniform. He finally admitted he doesn’t want to get to know you because you’re a cop.”

  Nick laughed. “He’s not the first.”

  “Piss on him. He doesn’t even know you. And he doesn’t seem to want to make the effort, despite the fact I keep telling him what a first-rate guy you are.”

  “You don’t have to defend me. At least he’s being honest.”

  “If you can call it that. He’s taken all this time to be honest about it, so I’m not sure it counts.”

  Dan braked abruptly to avoid an altercation between a black BMW and a Lycra-clad cyclist who had stopped in the intersection in front of the car, refusing to move while he exchanged a few choice words with the driver. Their voices carried over the noise of the traffic.

  “Don’t start any fights with your friends on my account. We’ll both regret it. You’ve already lost one recently.”

  Dan’s friend Domingo had died of breast cancer the previous year, closing the circle down on an already small number. The social rewards of middle age were proving slim. “Yeah — you’re right. But I resent being put in this position.”

  “Just give it time. When you’re ready you can talk to him about it. I’m sure it’ll clear up.”

  The car’s driver, who had apparently had enough of the cyclist’s harangue, began to beep his horn insistently. Dan wanted to step out and tell them both to shut up.

  “All right.”

  “When will you be back?”

  “If I leave now, I’ll get there by early evening. I might be back tomorrow afternoon, but I don’t know how long it will take to check things out. I don’t even know if this farmer is going to be there. No phone or internet.”

  “How is that possible?”

  “It’s called a lifestyle choice, Nick.”

  “Okay. Not one I would make. But don’t rush. I don’t want you driving down that highway tired late at night. Take your time and do whatever you need to do. I’ll see you when you’re back.”

  “Thanks. For understanding.”

  “My pleasure. Just remember — I love you. And you will never find a more understanding, caring, devoted mate than me.”

  Dan smiled to himself. “I know that,” he said, wondering why it was so hard to say “I love you” back.

  The GPS informed him that his drive would take three hours and thirteen minutes. That was a conservative estimate, he knew. At Chatsworth, he caught the 6 and continued north to Owen Sound. Once famed for its brothels and taverns, the Sound had been nicknamed Little Liverpool due to its reputation for obstreperousness. Back then it boasted an intersection known as Damnation Corners, where four pubs offset four churches a block away on Salvation Corners. Now, however, it claimed to be a quiet retirement town. But for Dan, it was the last stepping stone before you hit the Bruce.

  He made the drive to the Sound in just over two hours. Lion’s Head was still another forty-five minutes up the road. Travelling at night and speeding most of the way, he could probably shave off a bit more time. So it was more than possible to get there and back by morning if you were desperate enough.

  It had been years — no, decades — since he’d made the journey, back when Dan was a kid and summer weekends meant the possibility of driving from Sudbury over to Manitoulin Island then taking the ferry across to teacup-sized Tobermory, and beyond that to Lion’s Head.

  The last time he’d made the trip, his parents had been testing an uneasy truce between them. The arguing started in earnest as soon as they were on the road, bickering about sleeping arrangements and forgotten provisions. It was as though they couldn’t agree on anything more than the plain fact of being husband and wife, and that only reluctantly. They were nearly always at odds with one another. Even catching the ferry had been a near miss, as they got lost on the way and had had to backtrack down barren country byways, all the while fighting over who was at fault and whether a road map that took up so much space when unfolded across the dashboard was even worth the bother.

  “Just stop and ask someone,” his mother ordered, angrily slapping the chart to one side as though wiping away a potential future for them all.

  His father glared out at the passing landscape. “Where do you see someone to ask? Should I ask one of the trees?”

  But they were already laughing again by the time they reached the ferry lineup, taking secretive sips from the bottle in the brown bag stashed at their feet, with sideways glances at their son.

  With the blue swath of Georgian Bay spread out before him, Dan had climbed to the top deck to gaze at a smudge on the far horizon, focusing on the fantastically twisted shapes of Flowerpot Island approaching, then looking down beneath the waves to discern the outlines of shipwrecks, their vanished worlds taking shape in his four-year-old mind like tales of hidden treasures.

  He wandered up and down the boat with his curly-haired terrier, Sandy, while his parents spent their time in the bar, coming out to check on him now and again. Seeing him happily engaged, they eventually left him on his own till the whistle sounded.

  Once off-ship they followed single-file in the line of cars headed past Tobermory. A song played on the radio, soft and beguiling, the singer urging them to walk before trying to run. Someday, she sang, they would live in a land of white lace and promises. Ironic, in fact, as his mother’s death lay just up ahead, not long past Christmas. There would be white lace in the coffin, though Dan would not remember what the promises had been or whether she’d kept them. For years afterward, he would wonder where she had gone and whether there was a ferry to get there, the memories of that final trip inextricably intertwined with her death. Once, he dreamt she was waiting for him on Flowerpot Island, but sadly he couldn’t get there.

  His reveries were interrupted outside Wiarton when a livestock carrier approached from behind. In the mirror he saw the driver checking the distance from Dan’s car to the oncoming traffic. Dan slowed to let him pass. The driver gave him a thumbs-up as he pulled alongside.

  The vehicle was long, with open-slatted sides. As it sped by, Dan was startled to see dozens of eyes staring at him. Pigs pressed against the bars, looking terrified, as if they already knew what would happen to them at the end of the road. The truck zoomed past.

  On that last trip, his parents had rented a low-ceilinged cottage outside Lion’s Head. They’d stayed up drinking each night, rising late each morning and speaking in hushed voices as though unaware of the rocks and trees, the beckoning landscape just beyond the windows. Dan didn’t wait. He crept out of bed and washed his face, knowing there wouldn’t be a cooked breakfast as there would have been with his Aunt Marge and cousin Leyla. He sidestepped the empty beer bottles and pushed aside the ashtrays stuffed with butts, scrounging in the fridge for cheese and stuffing a handful of cookies into his knapsack before setting out.

  Fired by tales of the Ojibwa and spirits of Manitoulin, Dan had taken Sandy and wandered for hours along the rocky terrain that unfurled outside the cabin door, searching for remnants of teepees and lost arrowheads. Even now, it looked as though little had changed in all those years.

  Another truck passed, more eyes appealing to him, snouts quivering in the wind. If it had been a van full of joy-riding kids, half drunk and returning from some party, Dan would have told them to turn around. Go on home before something bad happens, he’d have said. Before your worst nightmares come true.

  He saw a vacancy sign and turned in the driveway. It was a strip motel with a long line of identical cottages. No need for distinction. You stopped for a few hours before moving on, every one all the same.

  The desk clerk, a thin, nervous Asian, turned out to be the owner. He grinned when Dan asked his name, as though no one had ever done that before. Sonny, he replied. He’d been here for five years since coming to Canada from mainland China. The Bruce must have seemed like the far end of the Earth to him.

  Dan took his key and got back in the car, driving slowly till he found his cabin. The lot was near
ly full, with cars parked up and down the asphalt strip. He was lucky to have found a place.

  A lone cyclist headed his way, a woman sitting upright on an old-fashioned bike with high handlebars. She wore a large sunhat and veil. Just before she reached him, she turned and headed back.

  Dan parked and unlocked the door. The cabin smelled of disinfectant. As he retrieved his bag from the trunk, the cyclist rode by again. She was Asian, too, but she looked much older than Sonny. Maybe she was his mother.

  Inside there was a mini-fridge, dresser, and queen bed. Everything in the room was beige or brown. Each time Dan turned on the bathroom light it was accompanied by a loud whirring overhead. I’m just washing my hands, he wanted to say. I don’t need a whirlwind to accompany me.

  He went back outside and stood on the stoop, looking up and down the lot. Farther along, a television blared through one of the windows, but the lights were off. Dan checked his watch: just before nine. It would be dark soon. It struck him that he hadn’t thought to bring a book to pass the time. That was dire for an inveterate reader who disliked television on principle. He was also hungry. His last meal had been breakfast.

  He locked his cabin then got in his car and headed for Wiarton. The town had one main street with three traffic lights from end to end. He stopped at a red light and waited. An engine gunned behind him. The signal turned green and Dan moved forward, keeping his eyes open for a diner. He passed a Chinese place and a pizza parlour. Both were shuttered and dark.

  The second light turned yellow before he reached it. When he stopped, the driver behind him honked. Dan looked back and saw a burly man with a beard shaking a fist out the window of a black pickup truck. He honked a second time, but Dan just sat there. Seconds later, the truck zoomed around him and tore through the intersection. The driver’s words were garbled, but their intent was clear.

  “Got places to go, buddy?” Dan murmured.

  He headed to the next light — red again. A large For Sale sign filled the window of a hotel on the corner. There was nothing open further down the strip. He slowly turned around in the intersection, disregarding the light, as that seemed to be the local custom, and headed back to the motel.