The Night Bell (17 page)

Hazel didn’t speak to Wingate on the way out and she didn’t take her cruiser. She was pretty sure Ray would hear about it if her squad car drove past the exit to Dublin. She took her own car and headed down to the 400.

To go by records as old as the ones she had at her disposal was a farce of sorts. Why presume that there was a connection between unknown bones and dead-end records? Out of hope? A maze suggested both entry and exit, but this case was more like a labyrinth, complete with a monster in the middle. She already sensed its form. In her mind, it was a shimmering outlined in tiny sparks.

The name
Wetherling
was on the mailbox at 52 Orkney Road, so at least the intelligence had been good. Hazel walked up past the black Dodge Ram in the driveway and knocked on the door. There was a doorbell, but Hazel always knocked.

A man answered. He stood behind the screen door in a tracksuit and tan slippers. “What’s she done now?”

“Oh, well, I may not be here for what you think I am. I’m Detective Inspector Hazel Micallef. I’ve come down from Port Dundas on an investigation. I’m wondering, does Angela Wetherling live here?”

“Yeah?”

“May I come in?”

He didn’t budge. Then he pushed the screen door open with a meaty forearm. Two voices were coming from somewhere on the main floor, and then a woman emerged, looking flustered.

“Are you Angela Wetherling?”

“I’m not gonna answer that,” the woman said. “I say yes, you serve me papers!”

Hazel took out her badge and showed it. “I’m not a process server, I’m a police detective. I want to ask you some questions about a man called Claude Miracle. You’re not in any trouble.”

The woman examined Hazel’s ID. She handed it back. “Turn on some lights, Moe. You want a coffee, Detective … Meek –”

“Mi-
cay
-liff,” Hazel said. “And no, thank you. I take it you’re Angela Wetherling?”

“I’m not. I’m Angie Wetherling, after my mother.”

“Not Angela.”

“No ma’am, not even on my birth certificate. My
mother’s
name was Angela.”

Hazel frowned. “You just said you were called Angie after your mother, but your mother’s name was Angela?”

“Everyone called her Angie.”

Hazel made busy looking for her notebook so she could hide her exasperation from the woman she needed to be friendly with. “And what’s your last name?” she asked, pencil ready.

“It’s Wetherling,” she said. “I married ’im but I didn’t take his name. What’s this about, Officer? Where did you say you were from?”

“Port Dundas. About an hour north of here. Past Barrie.”

“Ah.”

Moe had finished snapping switches and the front room glowed with lamp-flung light. Angie Wetherling led her in to sit. Hazel put the woman in her sixties, about her own age. She was dumpy with pasty skin. “I want to know if you’ve ever heard the names Claude or Eloy Miracle. Or Claude Wetherling.”

“I don’t think so. Not the Miracle names. But there’s a cousin Claude.”

“What were his parents’ names?”

“Georgia and Thom.”

Good
, she thought. “Is Claude still alive?”

“Oh yeah. I would’ve heard.”

“When’s the last time you saw him?”

“Moe?” she asked her husband.

“You want me to go get the social registry outta the archives, Ange?”

“Come on. When was that? Twenty-five years ago at least? We went up for a family reunion. Last time we ever did
that
.”

“Jesus,” said Moe. “You were married to your first husband then.”

Angie’s eyelashes fluttered. “You sure you don’t want any coffee, Officer?”

“Detective. No.”

“Well, it was a long time ago.” She stretched and looked aslant at her husband. “Before my hysterectomy, for sure.”

“Claude looked like his mother,” Moe volunteered.

“Claude looked like Georgia?” Hazel asked.

“Both of them, high foreheads.”

“Do you know if either of his parents is alive?”

“Oh no,” said Angie Wetherling. “They’re all gone. My mother, my aunt, Thom, and
his
brother Hugh. My dad. Claude’s my only cousin.”

“Great story,” said Moe, without enthusiasm. He’d continued to hover in the opening between the living room and the dining room. “Are we done?”

“Of course,” said Hazel, rising.
When fact-finding, be light of touch and go when asked. It keeps doors open
. But. “One more thing,” she said, putting her cap back on. “Did you know that Claude had a brother? Name of Eloy. Did Claude ever talk about a brother?”

“He didn’t
have
a brother,” said Angie. “He was an only child.”

“He wasn’t. And he didn’t look like Georgia Wetherling, either,” Hazel said. “He was adopted.”

She stopped in Mayfair to gas up. Was Miracle living under a different name? If so, why had there not been a legal name change? Would he have been born with the name
Miracle
? She called Melanie. “You busy?”

“For you? Never.”

“Look something up for me. There’s, uh, gotta be a website for the Mohawk Nation. Get the number off the site and call them, would you?”

She heard Melanie’s pen scritching on paper. “What am I asking them?”

“Ask them if
Miracle
is a common name in Kahnawake.”

“Quebec?”

“That’s right. And get back to me as soon as you can.”

“Skip’s asking for you. Where are you?”

“Working a case. Hurry up.” She hung up and tore into a cinnamon raisin bagel. Toasted, with butter.

She called Wingate next. His brother answered. “He’s asleep.”

“At –” she checked her watch “– five o’clock?”

“Yes. He’s asleep. I appreciate all the support he’s getting from the department, but you people are rushing him.”

“He told me you thought he was ready.”

“He’s not. This week he went three days without sleep. Does that sound ready to you, Detective Inspector?”

“OK. So maybe there’s some … over-exuberance about his recent improvements. I understand what you’re saying.”

“You’re undoing my work you know. When it’s his day off, leave him alone.”

“We’re on a big case, though, Michael. Dead children. Scattered bones.”

“He’s told me. He’s also told me about the people he found steeping in their own blood. Do you think he was ready for something like that?”

“He wasn’t supposed to go down there. He went on his own.”

“If any harm comes to him, I won’t forget it.”

She was shocked and didn’t know how to reply, but he’d hung up. She stared at the phone in her hand. It was good she hadn’t mentioned that James was actually on the job. He was probably in his bedroom with the doors closed and his laptop open. She’d call him later and tell him about her meeting with Angie Wetherling.

Back at the station house, Melanie had got nothing from Kahnakwe, but two people had promised to call her back. Hazel told her to keep on it. She made a point of popping her head into Ray’s office. “I hear you were looking for me?”

“I was. You were gone half the afternoon. Sleeping one off?” He tapped one key repeatedly on his keyboard.

“Something wrong?”

“Oh, you know. Missing officer, dead kids.”

“Maybe someone other than Macdonald should be hunting for Renald.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I just think maybe Sean’s not up to it.” She imagined he was knocking off early to see Freemey. She wasn’t surprised he’d not made much progress.

“Do you want to take over?”

“No.”

“I left you a treat.”

“You did?”

“Noise complaint. From a music school, if you can believe it.”

“Thanks. Any update from the mounted constabulary?”

“None, just as they promised. They are thorough as well as succinct.” He squinted through his glasses at the screen. She remained in the doorway, her mind milling troubling connections between Ray Greene and Chip Willan. “Why are you staring at me?” he asked.

“Just admiring your calm under pressure. I’ll go sound out the music school.”

He grunted some kind of goodbye, and she went back to her office. Melanie was typing at her desk and didn’t even look up when Hazel went past. She opened her desk drawer to get the tennis ball, but it was gone. There was an apple beside her blotter. She threw it at the Plexiglas window.

“Argh!” cried Cartwright. She came lightly stomping into the office with the tennis ball gripped in her hand. “I’m a jumpy person, Inspector.”

“Mohawk names.”

“One.”

“Well, let’s have it!”

“First, please agree to pick up the phone and dial my extension. It’s as fast as throwing something at the window.”

“Fine. Agreed.”

“
Maracle
is a common Mohawk surname. That’s what the lady said when she called back.”

“Just now?”

“Yes.”

“Goddamn it, why didn’t you come and get me, Cartwright.”

“You were talking to the skip.”

“Spell it.”

“M-A-R-A-C-L-E.”
She put the tennis ball on Hazel’s desk.

“Uh-uh,” she said, passing it back. “I don’t need the temptation.”

Maracle
. Was it possible? Her hands shook as she entered the variables into Canada 411. She came up with a number of Maracles, but no Claudes. No Cs even. She sat zazen in front of the screen, willing it to do the work for her, her mind wandering. If only she knew where to look and what to look with. Was Eloy in there under
Maracle
? She typed it in. There was one hit – in Toronto – but it practically leaped off the screen.
Eloy Maracle
.

She dialled the number. A man picked up. “Claude Wetherling?” she said, and the man hung up. Her pulse whacked in her neck. She dialled again and there was no answer. A machine picked up. She heard
“This is the home of –”
then someone picked up the phone again.

“What do you want?”

“Are you Claude Wetherling? Born Maracle?”

“Who am I talking to?”

“Detective Inspector Hazel Micallef of the Port Dundas Police Department. Are you really Eloy Maracle?”

The man hesitated. “Eloy is dead.”

“You’re listed under his name in public records.”

“Easier to stay hidden if you’re a dead man.”

“Where is he buried, Mr. Maracle?”

“I don’t know. Eloy was taken with some kind of a flu is what they said. Why are you asking about him?”

“How long were you at Dublin Home?”

“Two years.”

“Boys came and went I’m sure. But there must have been the occasional death as well, like your brother’s. Were you there when any other boys died?”

“What are you investigating, Detective …”

“Micallef. Missing boys.”

“Eloy died of the flu.”

“Where is he buried? Was there a graveyard or a memorial garden? On the grounds?”

“No. A potter’s field in Mayfair. The county puts the indigent dead into a communal hole. They’re not too sentimental about dead orphans, homeless rubbies, people found dead in the street.”

“Is that what happened to boys who died at the home?”

She heard the sound of ice cubes in a glass. “I don’t like to think of that time in my life. I’m sure you understand.”

“I do. There must be some very painful memories.” She hesitated, unsure how to put the next part. “I have to tell you that we found bones in the fields behind Dublin Home. Scattered over acres of land.”

“And you think Eloy …?”

“He might be,” she said. “We looked into the records from Dublin Home in the late fifties, when you were both there, and they show you were adopted by Thomas and Georgia Wetherling. But there’s no such record for your brother. No death certificate, no transfer order, no release. In fact, you’re the only one who still has a file in the archives. Your brother’s has been destroyed.”

“Well, he was dead enough that Indian Affairs stopped sending his cheques. I know, because my parents put up a fight to keep getting them, but IA told them he was dead. They had to be satisfied with the eleven dollars I brought in every month through my benefits. While I tilled their fields for my room and board.”

“I understand they’re deceased.”

“So I hear. I had nothing to do with them after the age of twenty-one. Came to the city, took my brother’s name and worked teaching grade-school math.”

“Mr. Maracle – Claude – would you consent to giving some hair for the purposes of DNA analysis?”

“What bit of difference could it make? He’s dead. He’s never let me know otherwise, so who cares what they did with his bones? Why
not
in the fields outside of Dublin?”

“What if it was murder? What then? Wouldn’t you want to know?”

He took a breath in slowly through his nose. “Ironic what they changed our names to. Life was no miracle for us. Eloy was bigger’n me, by almost five inches, although he was younger. He always said no one would take us together because he was too strong. He’d been trouble in all the other places we’d been.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“There wasn’t a person that could hold Eloy down when he got mad. He broke a bunch of chairs one day because there’d been no meat in our suppers for a whole week.
They put a shot of barbiturate into him and he kept going anyway. We were in four homes between when I was five and twelve. The Wetherlings didn’t want us both. They wanted a good boy, not a gorilla. I didn’t want to go. I was Eloy’s only protection in that place. I kept a lid on him and calmed him down when it came off. But I had to leave. No one ever passes up an opportunity to leave a place like that. I went.”