THE SECRET TORMENTED me. I kept it to myself for three days, sitting by Steve’s bedside, tending to my farm and sharing quiet walks with Jessica. I didn’t tell her what Tommy had told me about Steve’s accident. I was waiting to see what the cops came up with on their own. The doctors said Steve’s heart had stopped a couple of times in the ambulance and on the operating table. He had bruises and a broken rib probably caused by CPR.
Maybe Tommy wasn’t such a monster after all. If he was telling the truth about Steve, was he also telling the truth about the night my father died? Had they left him to die because my mother was afraid of getting into trouble? Had Tommy really left it up to her to call Hurley? He was twenty-six, she sixteen. When Hurley did nothing, why hadn’t Tommy checked with him?
What if my mother hadn’t phoned Hurley at all? What if she’d deliberately let my father die and taken that awful guilt to her grave?
So many questions. Only one person knew the answers. Hurley.
I knew he’d never admit to it. Not with his career and years of service on the line.
Three days later the answers began to come, from a source I’d forgotten all about. I came home from visiting Steve late one afternoon and found a car parked in my lane. It was Dan Picard.
“Jeez, Rick,” he exclaimed as he climbed out, “don’t you ever check your messages?”
I got him one of Steve’s beers, and we sat together on the front stoop. He held out an old, yellowed newspaper. “I found the article you wanted. If you can call it an article. Nothing but a two-inch snippet on an inside page.” He started to read. “An Alberta man, visiting the area to go snowmobiling and ice fishing, died last week in a late-night snowmobile mishap north of town. There was no moon, and alcohol is believed to be a factor. The curve where the man lost control is well known among local daredevils. Police are investigating, and the victim’s identity is being withheld pending notification of next of kin.”
He put the paper aside. “I searched later issues for more news, like the results of the police investigation or an update on the man’s identity. Nothing. When you think a stray dog gets better coverage in the local rag, it got me curious. So I went to see Simon Larose.”
“Who’s Simon Larose?”
“He ran the paper from 1972 to 1998. He’s living with his daughter in the city now, but he’s sharp as a tack and bored silly. I showed him the paper and asked him if he could remember anything else. As clear as if it was yesterday, he said. The man’s name was Wesley Campbell from Calgary. According to the police, the O’Toole family, who he was visiting, said he had no next of kin. So in the end, someone paid for him to be buried in the Presbyterian Church graveyard up at Watkins Corners. There was no funeral, and as far as I know, the grave is unmarked.”
“But he did have a family,” I said. “He had a girlfriend and a son out west. No one ever told them he’d died. They thought he’d just run off.”
Dan shrugged. “Well, either Tommy didn’t know that, or he lied.”
“Did Tommy pay for the burial?”
“No. That’s the odd thing. Simon said it was the cop who was on the case at the time. Rob Hurley.”
The next morning I stood outside the door of the police detachment, gathering my nerve. I had a lot of questions for Sergeant Hurley. But I always felt like that four-year-old kid in the back of the cop car whenever I saw him. The glass front door had an invitation to his retirement party taped to it.
I pushed through the door and made my way to his office at the back. I had my anger all ready, but he smiled and asked me how Steve was doing. I felt my anger fizzle.
“Recovering,” I said, trying to get it back, “but we have questions for you.”
He tipped his chair back. “Shoot.”
“About our father’s death. You were the one who investigated the accident.”
His chair thudded forward. “Like I told you, straightforward case.”
“Why didn’t you interview witnesses? Or order forensics?”
“It was a dark, dangerous curve, and he was drunk. You don’t order forensics for every little case.”
“Why did you keep his identity secret? Why didn’t you notify his family back in Calgary?”
“I didn’t know about them.”
“But why didn’t you check?”
He gave me a long, hard look. “Tommy O’Toole said he had none.”
I tried to hide my shaking. None of this made any sense. “I know Tommy and Wes had a fight that night. I know my mother drove off with him. But nobody found him for a week! That’s pretty fishy!”
Hurley stood up and came around his desk. He was so close I could smell his stale sweat. “The man was dead, Ricky. Bringing their names into it wouldn’t have helped anyone. Your mom was sixteen. She’d lost the man she loved, and she was pregnant. She’d had enough hurt.”
I thought of all the times Hurley had protected my mother. Maybe it had all started with this. “Why did you pay for his burial?”
Hurley blinked in surprise. For a minute I thought he was going to deny it, but then he sighed. “I did it for your mother. To give her some peace of mind. She couldn’t afford to pay, and she sure couldn’t ask her parents.” He looked at me sadly. “I’m sorry you never knew about your father all these years, Ricky. When your mother died, I thought about telling you, but I figured it would just add salt to your wounds.”
He made it all sound so reasonable. But I knew he’d had thirty-four years to figure out a cover-up, and my mother wasn’t around to say different. I had one last question that still needed an answer.
“Tommy says on the night my father died, my mother told him she’d call you. Did she?”
Hurley looked at the ceiling. He was caught in the middle, and he knew it. My father had been left to the coyotes for almost a week. Either Hurley knew, or he didn’t.
“Yeah,” he said finally. “But not till a day later. I did a drive-by, but he was frozen stiff. So…I left him, to keep your mother out of it. In my thirty-five years, it’s one thing that sticks with me. But Tommy should never have left it up to her.”