Fifth Son (27 page)

“I heard yelling!” the wiry boy blurted.

“You did not,” Maple Leaf countered.

“I did! From that old church!”

Green looked at the little boy, whose eyes glowed big and excited in his dirty face, and put on his most authoritative stare. The last thing he needed was to have the facts in this case further muddied by a small boy with an active imagination and a burning desire to impress. “What exactly did you hear?”

The boy stared back, undaunted. “A man. Screaming.”

“What did he say?”

The boy broke his gaze. Dropped his head. “I only heard a bit.”

“What?”

“Sounded like ‘Get away, get away'.” He shrugged. “He was bawling.”

“That's bullshit,” the Leafs fan said. “You never told us that.”

Green kept his gaze locked on the boy. “Did you look to see if anyone was there?”

“Well, no, 'cause I was in goal, eh? And anyway, the church bell rang, and I didn't hear no more.”

“Good job. You'll make a good detective someday.” Green gave the boy a solemn nod, which brought a proud smile to his dirty face. Once they'd all clambered down from the rock, he took all the boys' names, gave them his card and thanked them for their help. He returned to his car, furious that none of the street canvasses had turned up this boy's story. Back inside the car, he turned the heater on full blast, warmed his hands and scrubbed the muddy patches on his knees. As he slowly thawed, he pondered what he'd learned. Late in the afternoon of that Sunday, Kyle had been sitting on his special rock, watching the village square in perfect view of the back of the church. He had seen Lawrence running. Not creeping up with the furtive tiptoe of someone afraid to be seen, nor the tentative step of someone unsure of what he'd find, nor the purposeful stride of someone seeking a way in.

Now more than ever, Green was convinced that Kyle had been an unsuspecting witness to Lawrence's last panicked flight to his death. Perhaps he had even seen the assailant, heard Lawrence begging him to leave him alone. Had Kyle actually seen Lawrence fall to his death? Somewhere in the confused jumble of the boy's mind, did he actually know whether Lawrence had been pushed or jumped to escape? See who he was running from? It had to be Tom, for who else would be desperate enough and stupid enough to risk exposure in the middle of a Sunday afternoon, with boys playing in the square and church bells calling the faithful to service?

Green was convinced he had the whole picture, but he didn't have one damn bit of solid physical evidence to nail the bastard down. Yet. Maybe in the love notes, the bloody fingerprint, or the fingerprints on the tower ladder, Ident would get lucky.

Green was just reaching for his cell phone to call Cunningham when it rang, and Gibbs' voice crackled through the interference.

“Anything from the lab or the
RCMP
?” Green yelled.

“Yes sir!” Gibbs' voice burst with excitement. He'd had to stand over them to get some preliminary reports, but all the media attention on the missing boy had proved useful in mobilizing the interests of the brass. The documents expert had determined that the letter to Benji and the love note to Sophia were in the same hand. Obviously Tom's, Green thought without the slightest surprise. The short note about the bus appeared to be a more educated hand.

“What about the blood type on the note?”

“The
RCMP
's not done that yet, sir.”

“Cunningham's fingerprint report?”

“No hits on that so far, sir. Cunningham said to tell you Tom Pettigrew's prints don't match anything.”

“Not even the bloody note?” Green felt his excitement fade. He'd been counting on that fingerprint to give him some concrete evidence that his theory was on the right track. Now, not only didn't he have that confirmation, but he had the added complication of a print which was likely connected to the murder scene but didn't match any known witnesses. A defence lawyer's dream. Mentally, he flipped through the list of players, wondering who else he should print.

“Uh...sir?” Gibbs interjected cautiously, and Green sensed him searching for words. “Superintendent Jules has left a few messages, sir. He asked me to pass them on. Something about needing an update?”

I'll bet he does, with the media banging at the doors. “That's fine. I'm heading to the command post, and I'll update him from there.”

“Well, sir...” Gibbs hesitated, and Green could hear a quiver of excitement in his voice. “There is something else. I'm on my way out there, with someone I thought you'd want to see right away.”

S
ullivan's
Saturday morning found him at the police station at the crack of dawn as well, labouring over the paperwork needed to obtain the coroner's warrant for the Boisverts' front yard and for Scott's landfill site, where the debris from the yard had been moved. Then the regional coroner had to be roused from his morning coffee to sign the warrant, which proved to be a cakewalk. With all Gibbs' failed efforts to locate Derek and with Tom's letter to Benji as the crowning touch, the doctor barely had to set down his coffee while he scribbled out his signature to set the excavation in motion.

The Boisverts had no objection to the execution of the warrant. From his place at Isabelle's hospital bedside, Jacques waved his hands as if nothing could shock him anymore.

“Go ahead!” he exclaimed. “Dig! Dig the whole damn place!
Je m'en fous!
I'm not living there ever again!”

Isabelle, lying pale and weak against the pillows, did not even lift her groggy head to protest.

Upon leaving the hospital, Sullivan headed out of the city towards Scott's dump site, which was located just north of Merrickville, another of the historic towns dotting the Rideau River. Unlike Ashford Landing, however, this one had remained prosperous by trading its original identity as a canal lock station for a modern one as a quaint heritage village for tourists and artists.

As he cruised south along the highway, Sullivan reflected on the number of people who, like the Boisverts, had left the congestion and high prices of the city for a little spread of green space and fresh air. It had an undeniable appeal. He owned a modest split-level on a city lot shoehorned into the suburb of Alta Vista. Every morning he backed out of his drive to join his neighbours in line for the red light on to Smythe Road. Every night he returned home to his barbeque on the back deck, the sound of his neighbours'
TV
, and the frantic juggling of Sean's hockey practices and Lizzie's jazz lessons. All while Mary was out showing yet another house in the hope that this time she'd make a sale so they could pay for the goalie camp Sean needed.

Maybe it was time to make a change not just in his career but in his home as well. Maybe he could stand to live in the country again, if he didn't have to farm the land. If he could just skidoo on it, hike and fish, teach his boys to hunt rabbits and listen to the hoot of the owls at night.

Scott's business came upon him while he was still caught up in reverie, nearly causing him to miss the turn. He banked sharply and squealed the tires as he swung up the driveway to the massive chain link gate. In the distance, he could see a brick bungalow and a corrugated metal warehouse. Much to his annoyance, a heavy padlock held the gate locked, so he tried the old-fashioned country remedy; he leaned on his horn until the front door of the bungalow opened, and a large muscular man stuck his head out. He was wearing nothing but jeans and an undershirt, but reluctantly threw a flannel jacket on top before stomping down the slope to open the gate. His initial scowl turned to alarm at the sight of Sullivan's badge.

“What's this about, officer?” he asked as he hauled back the gate.

Sullivan handed him the warrant, which Scott peered at with a puzzled frown. He looked as if he'd just woken up two minutes earlier and couldn't get his brain in gear. “All the contents from the Boisvert excavation? What in hell's name do you want that stuff for?”

Sullivan pointed to the fine print.

Scott squinted. “Looking for bones, clothing, personal effects... What the fuck?”

“A team will be arriving shortly to sift through the stuff, sir. It shouldn't take long, then we'll be out of your hair. Now if you'll just show me where it is.”

Sullivan had passed through the gate and gestured to the man to lead the way. Scott, now finally waking up, shook his head in disbelief. “The Boisvert woman was digging out there, but she never said anything about this! Holy fuck! I was just supposed to dig a foundation for the garage!”

Scott stopped by the house and pointed to a vast pile of bulldozed branches, dirt and rocks which extended into the gully behind his house. “It's out in the corner over there. I haven't had time to bulldoze it over, so it should be... Holy fuck! What happens if you find something? I mean, am I in trouble because...?”

“Not unless you're knowingly concealing something,” Sullivan replied.

While Scott gaped, Sullivan set off across the property to the pile of debris that Scott had pointed out. The man lagged behind, fumbling in his pocket for his cell phone. He stabbed a button and cursed under his breath as he waited. Sullivan paused, tuning a sharp ear while pretending to examine the soil. In his line of work, it never paid to assume anyone was above suspicion.

“Sandy!” the man exclaimed. “Call me
ASAP
. Holy fuck, man! What the hell did you get me into?”

Green stood at the door of the command post and watched the pair climb out of the car onto the grassy shoulder. Gibbs headed straight for the truck with the eagerness of a puppy on the scent, but the woman hung back, shielding her eyes with a gloved hand as her gaze swept the village square. She tottered an instant on her spike-heeled boots and tugged her fur collar tighter around her neck before turning resolutely towards him.

Green held the door open for her as she clambered awkwardly up the steps. Inside, she paused and flicked her wary gaze around the gleaming chrome interior. She was all sinews and angles, with brassy tips on her black cropped hair and a harsh red slash of lipstick across her sallow face. She looked nothing like the lush, seductive teenager of twenty years ago, yet Green would have known her anywhere.

He extended his hand. “I'm Inspector Green. Thank you for coming, Ms. Vincelli.”

“Albert. Got married. Divorced.” She sized him up with tired, pouchy eyes. “I heard you were looking for me. What's this about?”

He glanced at the work stations sandwiched along the walls. The truck was a marvel of high-tech efficiency, but hardly a place to put a skittish witness at ease. “Let's go across to the church where we'll be more comfortable. Gibbs, if that stuff is drinkable,” he said, nodding towards a coffee pot hissing on the counter, “bring us some coffees and then join us, okay?”

Gibbs' eyes were dancing with triumph, although by his own admission, he had played only a minor role in her surprise appearance. The Mediterranean grape vine must have been buzzing, for she had walked into the downtown headquarters on her own, asking to see him. Now she followed Green obediently across the square to the Anglican church, pausing only briefly on the alien threshold before joining Green in the small ante-room. She sank into the padded vinyl chair he offered her and crossed one lean, stocking-clad leg over the other, affecting a casual, slightly bored air. But her fingers betrayed her. Laden with rings and topped by inch-long crimson nails, they tapped a restless rhythm on the arm of the chair.

Green sat down in an adjacent chair, affecting a chatty mood that was nearly impossible in the watchful eye of a stained glass Jesus. “You're a difficult person to track down,” he began amiably. “Where are you living now?”

Her fingers stopped. “Am I in trouble here?”

“Not at all. We're hoping you can help us with an incident that occurred out here twenty years ago.”

“So this doesn't have to do with Rocky? My ex?”

Green shook his head. “We need your address for our report, that's all. Routine.”

“I was out west, but I'm back in Ottawa now.” She paused, like a woman who'd learned to choose her words carefully, then dictated her address. “I've been kinda keeping out of Rocky's way. So what's this incident you're talking about?” Abruptly her eyes widened. “Twenty years... Jeeze, Tommy Pettigrew! The same Tom Pettigrew that abducted that kid on the news?”

“I understand you and he were close back then?”

She was still caught in the revelation. “I should have made the connection. That's totally something Tommy would do. Jump in, do something wild, and then find himself in a mess. But what's this got to do with twenty years ago?”

Briefly Green described Lawrence's death, the discovery of the love letters, and the possibility that Derek had been murdered. Sophia reacted with pure, deathly pale, mouth- dropping horror, betraying no sign that she had any foreknowledge. Beneath the brassy style and the prickly façade, Green sensed a woman who cared. When Gibbs burst in with the coffee, she busied herself with cream and sugar for several minutes to regain control.

Once she'd had three unsteady sips, she shook her head in dismay. “So you think Lawrence killed Derek?”

“That's the way the evidence is leaning,” Green replied. “Knowing the family as you did, what do you think?”

“Lorrie was a very sick puppy, but he was always a gentle kid. Sensitive and sweet. He couldn't stand meanness, and I never saw him fight back, even when kids picked on him.”

The use of the diminutive name startled Green, for no one, not even Sandy or Tom, had referred to the dead man as Lorrie. It occurred to Green that the nicknames of the Pettigrew children implied a family warmth that belied the bitterness of their later lives. “But people in the village seemed afraid of him,” he said. “Some parents wouldn't let their children go to the Pettigrew farm because of him.”