It was well into the afternoon by the time Green pulled his unmarked Impala up behind the long line of official vehicles in the Boisvert lane. Although technically in charge of the scene, MacPhail had been and gone, leaving instructions that he be called if any human remains turned up. Peter Cole and Lyle Cunningham had cordoned off the entire front yard between the barn and the farmhouse and had already removed most of the gravel fill to a pile at the side of the house. Following standard archeological procedure, the area had been staked and divided with thick twine into grids one metre square to aid in systematizing and recording the search.
A crew of uniformed and Ident officers was fanned out over the grid on their hands and knees, painstakingly lifting the soil with trowels. One of Cunningham’s assistants roamed the scene with cameras draped around his neck, shooting video and still recordings of each section. Cunningham himself was working with Cole in the hole, sifting through the dregs of the gravel. Both men wore overalls and thick gardening gloves, and their cheeks glowed red, whether from exertion or the bitter wind Green wasn’t sure, but they waved cheerfully. Amazing how some people found digging up bones an exhilarating adventure.
The yard was cluttered with tools for digging and cleaning any artifacts they located, but fortunately there was no sign of Jacques Boisvert. Probably still out holding press conferences about police incompetence, Green thought. Spotting him, Sullivan detached himself from a small cluster of officers sitting on the front stoop. As he approached, he looked intense, focussed and on top of his game. Either he’d put his personal disappointment behind him, or he was so caught up in the case that his detective instincts had taken over. Green felt a rush of relief, for he was bursting to discuss the information he’d gathered that morning, and he needed Sullivan at his most pragmatic and astute.
“Any news?” Green left the question as wide open as possible.
“Nothing from the OPP. We’ve got Toronto in on the search too, because by now Tom has probably reached there. He must have filled up on gas in some backwater town and paid cash. Remember, he’s got Robbie’s hundred bucks.”
Green pictured Tom pulling up at some old-fashioned, one-man gas station—the kind where the attendant actually fills the tank—and wondered if he was still unaware of Kyle’s presence in the back. Despite what Sandy had predicted, perhaps the boy had hopped out, or spoken to the attendant, or at least been spotted as he huddled half-frozen in the back.
Sullivan seemed to read his mind. “OPP’s got a region-wide ‘Be on the look-out’ and orders to check every gas station in the target area. If Kyle’s still in the truck, maybe we’ll at least get a sighting as to his condition.”
Green grimaced. And if he isn’t still in the truck, Green thought, where is he? Murdered and dumped in a roadside ditch? Tossed out into the bush to cope for himself? Or fleeing on foot through a rugged countryside of lakes, beaver swamps and forest broken only by vacant cottages and the occasional farm? Fending off the frigid night that had been taken over by dogs, bears, coyotes and maybe even wolves, all on the prowl for food?
Sullivan nodded, worry tightening his own features. “One good thing. At least, he’s a country boy.”
Yeah, Green thought grimly. A country boy whose parents have sheltered him so much that he won’t know even the basics of keeping himself warm. “Have his parents been told that he may have reached Toronto?”
“Oh, yeah. His parents—” Sullivan broke off as they both spotted twin plumes of dust racing down the lane. Sunlight glinted off the bright red truck in the lead, and a moment later Sandy Fitzpatrick skidded to a gravel-spraying stop six feet away. In his wake lumbered a dusty black dump truck with “Scott Construction” stencilled on its cab door. Four people piled out and slammed doors. The McMartins, Sandy and his friend Scott. The four gaped at the digging crews, then stomped over to face down the two detectives. To Green’s surprise, Sandy took up the fight before his mother could get a word in.
“What the hell’s going on, Green! Jeb says you think Kyle’s in danger, and this morning a bunch of cops show up at Scottie here’s dump site with a warrant to search all the fill he took from the yard. And now I see... What the hell are they doing!”
“Searching for something,” Green replied.
“I can see that,” Sandy snapped. “What?”
“Till we have all the facts, I won’t speculate,” Green said. “But we will keep you informed of all developments that relate to Kyle. That I promise.”
Sandy was still staring at the hole in disbelief. “You’re wasting your time. Everything in that shed burned to a cinder years ago.”
Edna shouldered him aside and folded her arms across her chest. “That’s right. Saw it go up myself from over at my place. You should be putting your energies to finding our Kyle, not pawing through some old dirt!”
A shout from one of the workers caught their attention. They all looked up to see an Ident van lurching down the lane. It moved cautiously, as if protecting a precious cargo, but as soon as it stopped, a uniformed officer flung open the rear door and leaped out with an excited cry.
“We found something over at Scott’s place!”
Green snapped an order to the four to stay put, although he knew he was probably wasting his breath. He and Sullivan hurried across the yard, ducked into the rear of the van and slammed it shut. Inside, as their eyes adjusted to the gloom, they made out a large cardboard box, in which lay four objects encased in plastic evidence bags. Green bent closer. Through the rust and the dirt, he was able to make out the head of an axe, a rusty belt buckle, a long brown bone...and half a skull, cracked down the middle.
“Derek!” Green exclaimed, and despite all his advance warning, he felt the strength seep from his legs. “My God, it’s true. They fucking burned him up.”
The rear door of the van cracked open and Sandy peered in, his face the colour of ash. “What!” he gasped. His eyes fixed on the contents of the crate. “What the hell did you find!”
He started to scramble into the van, clawing at the men blocking his way. His mother stepped forward swiftly to grab his arm. “Sandy!” she snapped. “Stay out of it! We have to help Kyle!” She pulled him out, and he thudded against the side of the van, red-faced and panting as if he’d run a marathon. Green signalled Peter Cole over to the van, then jumped out and shut the door firmly behind him. Edna turned to unleash her emotions on him.
“What the dickens is going on! You said Tom wasn’t dangerous! Just wanted to get back home, you said! Now you’re thinking he killed his own brother?”
Privately, Green noted with interest that she had automatically thought Tom the most likely murderer in the family, despite her antipathy for Lawrence. But aloud, he hastened to curb the speculations he had unleashed. “No, Mrs. McMartin, I didn’t say that. Until the experts examine them, we don’t even know what these things are. They could be animal bones and some old junk that was thrown out in that shed long before the fire.”
“You’re digging up the whole yard just for animal bones?” She shook her head, tight-lipped. “I don’t think so, mister.”
Sullivan’s call sign crackled faintly on his radio, and he reached to turn it up. Edna froze in mid-rant and all eyes locked on him. Quickly he unhooked his radio and responded as he walked out of earshot. He kept his face deadpan as he listened, but Green could tell by his rigid focus that the news was important. Green turned back to the group and held up his hands, hoping to defuse one crisis before another was upon them.
“My advice is to go home and let the experts here do their job,” he said. “If and when we have solid information, we will decide our next course of action. Obviously, before we release any information, our first priority will be to ascertain what happened here and to speak with the Pettigrew family.”
Sandy was pacing by the van, his head bowed and his skin now the colour of putty. Phil Scott was whispering to him in a low voice in an attempt to calm him, but Sandy merely wagged his head back and forth. There was an intimacy between the two that suddenly struck Green full force. Holy fuck, he thought. “S”! Of course! It was Sandy whom Derek had been planning to run off with. Sandy whom Norm Pettigrew had found in the shed with him. Sandy who had no pictures of girlfriends or family on his walls, just him and his sports buddy Phil Scott.
For her part, Edna seemed so focussed on Kyle that she didn’t even notice her elder son’s distress as she turned to her husband. “You can go home if you want, Jeb, but if these city cops think I’m taking my eyes off them for one second, they got a thing or two to learn.”
Green was just choosing the right blend of sympathy and authority to order them off the property when Sullivan strode back across the yard. He was rubbing his hand through his bristly blonde hair in a gesture Green knew well. Sullivan was worried. Unfortunately, the others seemed to read his mood as well, for they all looked at him expectantly. Even Sandy stopped pacing and swung on him with burning eyes.
“That was Detective Peters, who’s been liaising with the OPP,” Sullivan said. “They found the truck near Madoc, this side of Peterborough.”
“And?” Edna shot.
“It was abandoned. Out of gas. Unfortunately there is no sign of either Kyle or Tom.”
“Nothing? No sign Kyle was even still with him?”
Sullivan shook his head. “But Madoc’s on the way to Toronto, which is likely where Tom is still trying to go. The OPP are organizing a massive search and—”
“I know that part of the country,” Scott exclaimed. “It’s full of little lakes and cottages, all vacant at this time of year. There’s a thousand places to hole up!”
“Madoc?” Jeb began. “Didn’t Norm used to have—”
“Forget it!” Sandy snapped, heading for his truck. “Scottie, let’s get going. We’ve got to be there for Kyle when they find him.” Sandy revved his truck to life.
“I’m going with you!” Edna pushed Scott aside and jumped into the passenger seat.
“But Mom—”
“No argument! Poor Kyle will be terrified. Drive!”
“What about me?” Jeb sputtered.
Scott was already climbing into his own truck. “Come on with me, Jeb.”
Jeb eyed the massive dump truck with dismay, but Scott leaned over to push open the passenger door. “We’ll pick up my Blazer on the way.”
Both trucks began to reverse in the yard to turn around. Sullivan stepped forward to block the path of Sandy’s truck.
“Get out of my way!” Sandy yelled.
Sullivan folded his arms. His voice, surprisingly calm, boomed over the revving of the engines. “Sir, this man is desperate. For your brother’s safety as well as your own, you must stay out of it.”
Sandy leaned out the cab window to stare him down. He was quivering with rage, but after a few rigid seconds, he sucked in a deep breath to calm himself. “We will. But Mom’s right. Kyle will need to see us when you find him. We’ll just go to the Madoc station to wait.”
When Sullivan didn’t budge, Sandy leaned back with his hands open in surrender. “Listen, I’ve sold a few properties around there, so I know that country. I might even have a tip or two the police can use.”
Edna stuck her head out the passenger window. Desperation was written all over her face. “I’ve tried all my life to protect that boy like he was my own, and he’s not going to know what the dickens hit him. Please let me be there.”
Sullivan stared at her for a moment, then flicked his gaze towards Green with a questioning look. My call, thought Green. He studied the pair carefully. Sandy sat quietly, but his hands were locked on the steering wheel, and his eyes stared over Sullivan’s shoulder at the lane ahead. Edna, however, was ashen; her eyes were huge and dark with fear. Green gave a slight nod for Sullivan to step aside.
Edna mouthed a silent thank you, but Sandy said nothing as he gunned the engine. Together the detectives watched the two trucks roar up the lane, the pick-up skidding as it accelerated and the dump truck slowly grinding through its gears. When they turned south onto the highway, Sullivan swore and kicked at a rock they had churned up onto the road.
“Can’t say I blame them for wanting to be close to the search,” Green said. “I’d do the same in their place.”
Sullivan looked at him grimly. “They’re going off halfcocked, Green. They’re going to be a menace.”
“We’ll alert the OPP highway patrols to keep them in sight. And when they check in with the Madoc detachment—“
“They aren’t going to check in!” Sullivan snapped. “These are country men. Hunters. They know the meaning of every sound, every plant, every mark on the ground. They’re going home to get their shotguns, and then they’re going after Tom.”
Sullivan’s face was grim and his gaze far away, as if he were back in the landscape of his youth.
“Well, then,” said Green, trying to sound matter-of-fact, “we’d better get our asses on up there.”