Green was delayed at the hospital almost an hour while he spoke to the medical staff in charge of Norman Pettigrew’s care. By the end, he was satisfied that the old man had suffered no serious harm beyond a moment of fright. The doctor felt he had probably reacted more to his son’s unexpected presence than to anything he said. Norman Pettigrew had very little remaining language function, particularly for more subtle and abstract language, and the doctor implied Green was wasting his time trying to question him about events that had occurred years ago.
The doctor did, however, believe Norman had the right to know of his son’s death and to attend a memorial service at a later date when he was stronger. With stroke victims, he said, we can’t really be certain to what extent recollections are left intact within consciousness, even though the patient can no longer communicate about them. He may remember everything about his son and feel quite strongly about honouring his memory.
Given the picture Green was beginning to form of this family, he questioned the accuracy of the word “honour”, but the doctor’s observations did give him pause. He left the hospital wondering if there was any way to reach into Norman’s brain and tap those recollections that lay imprisoned there.
Green dropped in at home to discover that Bob and his crew, rather than being near completion, had removed the entire plaster wall between the kitchen and the dining room and were busy checking the studs. Electric saws howled and a fine layer of white powder coated everything.
“Dry rot, eh?” Bob announced dolefully. “Have to get it out, or your whole house will come down someday.”
Green peered inside the remains of the wall, noting the chaotic tangle of wires and pipes that ran hidden between the framing. He prayed Bob knew what he was doing.
“Why didn’t you call me?” Green shouted over the saw.
Bob signalled for his crewman to stop, bringing a stunning silence to the house. “You weren’t in, eh? But your daughter said to go ahead.”
“My daughter? When were you speaking to her?”
“She’s upstairs. Came home for lunch.” He grinned. “Likes her music loud, eh?”
Green bounded up the stairs two at a time and knocked on Hannah’s door. Her latest punk rock offering clashed wills with the electric saw that had resumed downstairs, but Green wasn’t sure which was worse.
She opened her door, her pixie smile quickly tossed under wraps when she saw who it was. Not the tanned, musclebound carpenter downstairs but her father, sporting a dubious look.
“What are you doing home?”
She shrugged. “No co-op today.”
“Why not?”
“How should I know? It’s no big deal, Mike. I’m home, aren’t I, instead of out selling my body down on Dalhousie Street?
He wavered. She held the door open only a crack, preventing him from looking inside, and the police officer in him imagined all sorts of ills. But it was her room, and her time, and if he was ever going to strengthen the fragile bond between them, he had to respect that. He cast about for neutral ground.
“You hungry?”
“Shouldn’t you be at work?” she countered.
“Yeah, but I’m worried about Bob taking down the entire house while my back is turned.” Sensing this conversation had lasted as long as it could, he moved to go. “Keep an eye on that for me, will you?”
As he climbed back into his car and fled the scene, Green’s head filled with visions of dollar bills swirling down the drain. Like it or not, he’d have to ask Sullivan’s advice about dry rot. Sullivan’s aging split level in Alta Vista had been a do-ityourself renovation project for him as long as Green could remember. While the mere idea drove Green mad, he suspected it had kept Sullivan sane through the more horrific crimes of their tenure.
Driving back past the Civic Hospital on his way to the station downtown, Green’s thoughts drifted back to Norman Pettigrew. He couldn’t get the man’s face out of his mind. Before Tom’s appearance, Norman had seemed confused and distressed, as if at the bewildering demands of the world around him. But at the sight of Tom, he’d become apoplectic. Not from confusion, but from what looked for all the world like sheer, raw panic.
Why would the sight of Tom have panicked him so much? And why had Tom confronted him? Did Tom really believe that his father was somehow responsible for Derek’s death? Why would he think that, given that Norman had been confined to a hospital since well before Derek’s death? Did Tom think Derek was still haunted by some past horror his father had committed, or did he think Derek had visited his father just before he died and that something in the exchange between the two had driven Derek to his death?
On the other hand, perhaps Tom had an entirely different reason for staging the confrontation. He had claimed to be accompanying Green in the interests of protecting his father, an excuse that rang hollow considering the antipathy he’d expressed for the man. What if his real reason for tagging along was to control the information Green obtained, to steer the interview along certain lines and to prevent Green from getting answers to crucial questions about the past? Such as what had happened twenty years ago between Derek and his family?
Green thought back to the interview. Tom had stepped into view at exactly the moment Green was asking about Derek’s death. And also at exactly the moment when Norman was trying to say something. “Gone.” He’d been adamant about that word, frustrated that Green couldn’t understand it. Gone? Gom? Or...
Tom.
Was that what he was trying to say? And if so, why bring up Tom when Green was asking about Derek? One thing was clear, Tom had made sure he never got the chance to find out. But in that action, he had unwittingly tipped his hand. Something more was going on than just the death of a longlost son, something that had its roots in an ancient feud. Something that implicated Tom.
Lying to Green was like waving a red flag before a bull; nothing made him more determined to uncover the truth. When he reached his office, he put in quick calls to all the troops in hopes that someone had made a useful discovery about the past. But Peters had been unable to find anyone who knew about Derek’s old girlfriends, and Gibbs had hit dead ends all over Italy in his search for Sophia Vincelli. If she had gone to stay with relatives over there, no one was admitting it to the cops. Green couldn’t believe that an entire Italian family had no knowledge of Sophia’s fate. It was more likely they were keeping that knowledge to themselves for some reason. Perhaps out of shame or loyalty to the family, perhaps out of simple mistrust of the police, or perhaps out of some deeper, more sinister motive. Gibbs had promised not to give up, but Green wasn’t sure he had the necessary social cunning to take on a Mediterranean oath of silence.
Green was just radioing Sullivan when the squad room door opened and in strode the man himself, looking more energized than he had all week. He walked right into Green’s office and tossed Robbie’s photo album on his desk.
“We got an interesting new development, buddy,” he announced, sprawling into Green’s guest chair and stretching his long legs out.
“What’s up?”
“Mrs. Hogencamp came up from Brockville to have a look at our dead man.”
“And?”
“It’s Lawrence.”
They looked at each other for a long moment. Green felt a rush of mixed feelings. Triumph that his earlier instincts about the dead man’s identity were correct. Dismay at the sinister implications it resurrected about Derek’s disappearance, about Sophia, and about the twenty-year-old tragedy that had destroyed the family.
And most of all, bewilderment. What the hell was going on? “Did she recognize anybody in the photo album?”
“Well, that’s the other interesting development.” Sullivan’s eyes had the old familiar gleam in them. Like a good storyteller, he liked to tease. “The photos are gone.”
“What do you mean, gone?” “I mean the photos of the brothers have been taken out of the album. Not all of them, just the close-ups of them when they’re older.”
“You mean the ones we saw just two days ago?” Green pulled the album across the desk and flipped through it. There were no empty spaces; other photos had been moved around to make the disappearance look less obvious. But Derek’s grad photo and at least half a dozen other pictures were missing.
Green looked across at Sullivan, who was clearly waiting to see if Green’s theory matched his own. “Robbie or Tom? They both had access to the album.”
“No contest. Once a con, always a con.”
“So he lied about the ID of the body and removed the photos so we wouldn’t be able to disprove him.”
“That’s what I figure,” Sullivan said. “Beats me why he’d lie, though. Just to throw us off the track?”
Absolutely, Green thought with that familiar rush of excitement when a suspect began to come into focus. Tom had been trying to sabotage the investigation all along, by misleading them on the identity of the dead man, by preventing Green from talking to the father, by claiming to have heard from Derek over the years, and now by removing the photos from the album. Why would he go to such lengths? Simply to cover up a murder that had occurred long ago?
Or one that had occurred less than a week ago.
“Maybe he lied because he killed Lawrence. And he thought if we were tracking down Derek’s movements rather than Lawrence’s, it wouldn’t connect back to himself.”
Sullivan snorted “That’s pretty stupid. He must have known we’d catch the lie eventually, and that it would look more suspicious than ever.”
“I’m not saying he’s smart. Just desperate. Brian, I think we should bring him in.”
“On what grounds? We don’t have solid evidence that Lawrence was even murdered. And what’s Tom’s motive for killing him? Revenge for Derek’s murder? We don’t have proof that he was murdered either, for fuck’s sake. This entire theory is a house of cards!”
Green knew it was, but he couldn’t ignore all the dark hints of menace. “Maybe, maybe not,” he said as mildly as he could. “We’ve got Gibbs and Peters tracking down the past, and if the proof is there, we’ll get it eventually. But if we don’t bring Tom in now, we’ll lose him. If I’m right, he’s got to know he’s only one step ahead of us.”
To Green’s relief, Sullivan gave up the argument. He pulled out his notebook, flipped back a few pages and reached for Green’s phone. “I’ll check with Robbie to see if Tom’s still there, and to make sure Robbie didn’t take the photos himself for some reason.”
Green held up a cautionary hand as Sullivan punched in the number. “Try to be subtle. I don’t want to tip off Tom that we’re suspicious.”
As it turned out, Robbie was in no mood for subtlety. His voice was elevated an octave and shaking with rage. “I don’t know anything about the pictures,” he snapped. “All I know is, Tom’s disappeared and so has the hundred dollars I had stashed in my desk drawer! Some things never change! Some people never fucking change.”
Isabelle Boisvert sat at the kitchen table, her phone in her hand and her address book open to the Fs. Outside, a sodden gray had descended, matching her mood. Rain lashed the windows and wind swept across the field, ripping through the bushes and swirling dead leaves across the yard. The damp seeped into every corner of the old house.
Jacques had roared off that morning in a cloud of rage. He had arrived home last night to find the last of the police units leaving, and so fortunately had been spared the full details of Tom Pettigrew’s visit, including Isabelle’s escapade with the axe. Nonetheless, Tom’s uninvited visit had been the last straw, and Jacques was now insisting that the farm be sold. Isabelle had refused, prompting him to demand that she choose between him and the house. She had tried to calm him, but to no avail. Gentle and mild-mannered though he was, when he reached his limit he could be more intransigent and irrational than anyone she knew. She had tried to buy them both time by suggesting she call the real estate agent to see how much money they would lose. Jacques had countered with the announcement that while she was playing nice with the real estate agent, he would consult a lawyer about nullifying the sale.
The truth was, she was ambivalent. Sitting in the damp, drafty house, battered by rain and facing a long bleak winter, she wasn’t sure she wanted the cursed place either. But the prospect of spring, with ponies in the paddock and green shoots of corn in the field, renewed her hope. She was damned if his stubborn fear would make her give up her dreams.
Finally, she took a deep breath and dialled Sandy Fitzpatrick’s number. She was hoping he’d be out so she could delay any decision, but he picked up cheerfully on the second ring. When she explained her request, there was a long pause.
“But you’ve only lived in it a month,” he said, his cheer dying abruptly.
“My husband finds it very long to drive,” she said. “We didn’t realize how bad the traffic was along Prince of Wales Drive into town.”
“It’s a very bad time of year to sell country property. Buyers look in the spring, sometimes in early fall. But we’re getting towards November. Nothing looks appealing in November.”
She sighed. “I know. Just give me some idea how much we’d get for it, so I can discuss it with my husband.”
“You’d have to take a huge loss on it.”
“How huge?”
“Twenty or thirty thousand. If you can even find a buyer, which I doubt.”
Twenty or thirty thousand... She glared out into the gloom. He must have sensed her dismay. “You know what I suggest you do? Spend the winter fixing it up like you planned. Get as much done as you can by spring, and then if you still want to sell it, you can put it on the market then. It’ll be much more likely to sell and if it’s fixed up, it’ll go faster at a better price.”
Her spirits lifted slightly. This was a possible compromise that made enough business sense that she might be able to persuade Jacques. Yet the renovation project seemed endless. “Seems like we’d just throw good money after bad. Where would we even begin? The basement is damp and smells. It’s even still full of the Pettigrew junk!”
“Oh, dear!”
“From a legal point of view, can I throw it out? I don’t want to deal with that family any more.” She meant that Jacques would have her head if she even spoke to them, but she settled for some personal whining.
Sandy countered by offering to come out with his pick-up truck and take it off her hands. Gratefully, she acquiesced and hung up, glad to have made one small dent in the mountain of work to be done. She flicked on the basement lights and went down to begin clearing up the mess Tom had made. She’d only just finished stuffing the last of the papers back in the boxes when she heard the roar of an engine outside, which triggered a ferocious volley of yapping. By the time she returned upstairs, Sandy was standing on the doorstep, dripping in the rain.
“You were fast,” she said, shoving Chouchou under her arm as she let him in.
“Like I said, business is dead this time of year. Besides, my mother just dropped in for one of her advice sessions—” He gave her a rueful half smile. “Sometimes it’s my love life, sometimes my business. So any excuse in a storm.”
He peeled off his yellow slicker and shook it outside before hanging it on a peg. She turned to lead him towards the basement but found he’d stopped at the entrance to the living room and was looking inside with rapture. Isabelle had been stripping the old paint, and now much of the woodwork around the walls and fireplace mantle glowed a dark oak.
“Wow!” Sandy exclaimed. “I forgot how beautiful the old wood was before they painted it over. You’ve increased the market value already.”
“It was pretty badly damaged in places. I had to sand off huge scratches, and I’ll have to do the same with the window sills upstairs. Someone really carved them!”
“Well, don’t forget five generations of rugged country brats grew up in this house. It was lived in, the scratches are part of its charm.”
He ducked his head and followed her down the steep rickety stairs to the cellar. He frowned when he reached the bottom and saw the boxes cluttering the floor. “Robbie should have taken all this before you moved in.”
Isabelle recalled the frazzled, dejected young man she and Jacques had met the day before closing. “He was going to, but the one time we did meet him he was very distracted by his father’s illness. I also think he hated having the sole responsibility for this place. Of course, now that his brother has come, maybe—”
“What!” Sandy whirled on her, his eyes wide.
“Tom. We had some excitement—”
“Oh, Tom.” The shock faded from Sandy’s eyes, and his lip curled with disdain. “What the hell did Tom want?”
“This stuff. Apparently he was looking for another brother’s address.”
Sandy had bent to pick up the nearest box, and he paused to scrutinize her curiously. “Did he say why?”
Isabelle shrugged. “Maybe something to do with the dead man they found at the church.”
Sandy propped the box on the bannister. “I heard that was Lawrence, so I guess Tom was trying to contact Derek.”
“Ah, yes. DP—the one with the bad love affair.”
Sandy looked startled. “What?”
She smiled. “Just some initials he scratched on the window sill upstairs. It feels like the family is still here, and this place is haunted by all the tragedies and deaths that occurred in it. Like even the house is weeping. Look at this.” She swept her hand to encompass the beautiful natural pine planks that panelled half the walls. “Even this room is sad, like they started with such enthusiasm that just died.”
Sandy had busied himself dragging boxes across to the stairs. Now he straightened, flushed and breathing hard. “They did. This was the middle son’s project. Benji was a natural carpenter, loved woodwork, could build anything. He worked construction around here in the summers while he went to school. He was finishing it for himself as a place to get away from his parents’ moods. But then he died...” Sandy shrugged. “A real shame. He’d had a rough few years, but he was trying to get his life together.”
Isabelle pulled her sweater around her tightly, sensing the damp and despair in the room. She didn’t want to know any more about the history of this house. She wanted to rip it all down, at least symbolically, so that it could start from scratch. As Sandy began to carry boxes upstairs, she pitched in gratefully, and within half an hour the boxes were all piled in the front hall by the door. Although the rain had tamed to a melancholy drizzle, Sandy backed his truck right up to the steps to minimize the trek across the yard, which had become a muddy swamp.
Ten minutes later, Sandy tossed a tarp over the boxes, declined her offer of a hot cup of coffee and headed through the mud to his cab. He nodded at the pile of gravel in the hole.
“Sorry I jumped the gun on that, Isabelle.”
“It’s okay,” she replied. “It was giving me the creeps anyway, with the fire, the axe and the bones—”
Sandy swung around. “The what?”
His astonishment amused her, as she realized how her words must have sounded. “Just an old cow bone. But I’m glad it’s all gone. Your friend was very nice about it and promised to help me build a pond.”
Sandy climbed into his truck, revved his engine and leaned out the window. “Yeah, Scottie will do right by you. Don’t let the snake tattoos scare you; he’s got the heart of an elephant.”
With that, he waved and bumped off down the rutted lane, spewing mud in his wake. Feeling better about the country and its people, Isabelle returned to the basement, which now echoed emptily, and began to examine the half-finished walls. The framing was still solid but in places the pine planking had curled and cracked beyond salvation. She peered behind the panelling, where unidentifiable little creatures had taken up residence in the darkness, spinning thick clouds of web and collecting bits of dust and debris into cozy nests. God knows what was living back there. It would all have to be ripped down, cleaned out and fumigated. More money.
As she peered behind, a small dust-covered bundle caught her eye, jammed in behind the pine planks near the base and almost hidden from view. Curiosity battled revulsion as she reached around the plank and groped in the darkness, trying not to think about spiders and mice nipping at her fingers. Her hand closed on the bundle, which crackled beneath her grip. After some wiggling, she fished out a filthy object covered with cobwebs and chewed by mice. When she’d brushed off the dirt, she discovered the shredded remains of a small paper bag. The bag flaked as she opened it to reveal a collection of papers bound by a rubber band. Curious, she sat down on the bottom stair beneath the light and slid out a pack of papers. Lined foolscap, frayed and water stained at the edges, covered in a large, barely legible scrawl.
Upstairs, Chouchou barked a vigorous greeting that stopped abruptly. Isabelle heard the door open above her and a soft, cautious tread crossed the hall. Since Chouchou had stopped, it was probably Jacques back unexpectedly from work. Or perhaps Sandy, who had met Chouchou and who might have decided to give her more help. She rose to look up the stairs, preparing to call out. In the next instant the basement door opened, silhouetting a lean figure in the light from the top of the stairs. Not Jacques or Sandy. Not nearly big enough for Sandy. She thought of hiding, but knew she was clearly visible in the light hanging over her head. She backed up into the room and summoned all the bluster she could manage.
“What do you want!”
The figure began to descend the steps. Halfway down, he came into the light, and she recognized the man from last night. Anger surged through her fear.
“Tom Pettigrew! What are you doing here!”
Tom’s eyes were locked on the package in her hands. He’d reached the bottom step and stood facing her. In the yellowish glare, he looked sickly pale except for the purple bruise above his left eye. He reached out a soothing hand.
“Sorry, don’t mean to frighten you. Those letters are mine. I—I thought they got lost in the move.”
She backed up still further. “And you were just going to waltz in here and make off with them?”
He shifted his gaze from the package to her face. “No, I was coming to ask you for them. I rang the bell, but I guess...” He held out his hand. “Please. They’re all I got left of my kid brother Benji.”
She was going to hand them over to him then, but something in his desperation struck her as odd. She wanted to be upstairs, where she could see better and where she had escape routes readily at hand.
“Fine,” she said. “But let’s go upstairs where we can talk about this stuff in more comfort.”
He stepped away from the stairs to encourage her to go first, but she shook her head. Clutching the sheaf of papers firmly, she clumped up the narrow stairs behind him and watched as he disappeared through the door into the brightness of the kitchen. Just as she was stepping through into the light herself, she sensed a movement behind her. She spun around, alarm surging, saw his arm sweep down. She had no time to scream before pain exploded in her head.