An End to a Silence: A mystery novel (The Montana Trilogy Book 1) (7 page)

The
massive dawn sun has already broken the horizon.

Bill O’Donnell
cries dry tears now, from two sources of pain. He had considered dragging the
boy’s body but couldn’t bear for any more damage to be done to him. Instead, he
continues to carry him and the weight of his guilt seems to add another fifty
pounds to the little boy.

He leaves
another track that would have borne lumber-dragging horses and later trucks,
those days merely a sepia memory, and now he’s climbing to a small ridge where
he knows that two miles beyond is his destination. He has to keep stopping to
take in air and to straighten his cramping arms, but now he knows that the race
against the sunrise is lost but the race against anybody else pursuing him is
probably won. If there was anybody following they wouldn’t know the woods like
him.

He had
lived here, had mapped the woods in his mind over forty-odd years, tracking
whitetail and elk and fishing trout over in Blackfoot River. He knew hundreds
of trees, peculiar by their bark patterns or branch formations, knew every turn
in the rivers, and they acted like signposts to him.

He thinks
of his daughter and dead wife and he feels like he’s bringing the boy home for
a burial in his spirit land. And that gives him a small piece of comfort and he
yearns for peace for the boy and for himself.

He
reaches the top of the ridge and on the other side a steep drop appears to have
sheared away the trees. In their place tumble sparse patches of mountain
heathers and
grouseberry
. At the steepest part there
are only rocks. He knows there is a long way down and a short way down, and
instinct tells him to take the long route, which skirts the ridge as it falls
away gently to the north, an ancient track that elk follow and probably
created, carving an easygoing trail. That route would add an extra half hour to
the journey but Bill O’Donnell doesn’t feel he has that time, doesn’t want this
to take any longer than it needs to. He decides to take the short route.

He gently
lowers the boy to the ground and lays him down. The body has stiffened. Then he
reaches into his pocket and pulls out a length of thin nylon rope. He picks the
boy up again and hitches him onto his back so that the boy’s head rests on his
own right shoulder. He bends forward so the boy doesn’t slip, and then he takes
one end of the rope and, with his right hand, he throws it over his left
shoulder, the boy’s too. He pulls the rope tight and fastens a knot at his
chest, securing the boy to his back. He doesn’t stand up, though, because he
knows the boy will be dislodged. He throws the end of the rope over his right
shoulder now and grabs it by his left hip, forming a crisscross over the boy’s
back. He pulls tight and, for the next few minutes, repeats this until he is
able to stand without the boy working loose.

He takes
the steepest part backwards as if climbing down a fire escape and he finds
purchase in the rocks where he expects to. Only once does he nearly lose his
footing on a thin seam of shale. Once the slope becomes shallower he can turn
around and carefully pick his way down, his footing never quite sure under legs
that want to go to sleep. And when rocks and sparse vegetation give way once
more to
lodgepole
pines he falls to his knees. He can
see the water through the trees, the lake created by loggers a hundred years
earlier, and on seeing that he allows himself five minutes of rest. He unties
the rope and gently lets the boy lie down, and then he sits and closes his
eyes. And for a few moments he is asleep and he dreams and in his dream the boy
is alive again.

Ward had
called ahead to the office of James Kenny but he wasn’t there. The customarily
obstructive personal assistant eventually yielded and told Ward that Kenny was
on-site at the planned development of the new science and technology wing at
the Meriwether Elementary School.

When they
pulled up at the school Ward knew straight away which one was Kenny. He had the
calm demeanor of a man who was so in control he probably thought he could
affect the weather. And despite his short stature, he towered over the men he
was with and they were clearly intimidated by his presence.

Ward made
no move to get out of the car. He stared at the man called James Kenny,
property developer, multimillionaire. “Why do I get a prickly feeling about
this guy?”

“Let’s go
say hello.”

The man
with the plans saw Newton and Ward, and this set him in a quandary of whether
to acknowledge them or to keep telling Kenny what he wanted to hear, what he
was paying this man to tell him. Kenny noticed his discomfort and glanced over
to Newton and Ward and then back at the man and the two others he was with.

“We’ll
pick this up in five minutes,” he said, approaching the oncoming detectives
with handshake ready and outstretched. “Detective Newton and…” He grasped
Newton’s huge hand and squeezed it so that Newton wanted to say ‘stop’.

“This is
Detective Ward,” Newton said.

Kenny
grabbed at Ward’s hand and Ward tried to make sure he got a good thrust into
the handshake to avoid what he’d noticed Newton had suffered but he wasn’t
quick enough. He felt his metacarpals crunch.

“You’re
here to see me about the old guy.” It wasn’t a question but seemed like an
order, as if he was driving a meeting to an early conclusion because he had to
be at another one as soon as possible. He could’ve said, “Get on with it, you
sons of bitches,” for all the strength of his delivery.

So Ward
slowed it down purposely and said, “The school getting some work done?”

Kenny
momentarily seemed to be shaken down a rank or two by Ward’s question but he
quickly snapped back in charge, like a sergeant major snapping his heels
together. He might as well have demanded a salute, Ward thought.

“So let’s
talk about the old guy,” Kenny said. “Homicide? That’s unfortunate.” And Ward
thought his choice of phrase was also unfortunate. But he didn’t bite and he
let Newton have a poke.

Newton
said, “Would we be able to ask you a few questions, Mr. Kenny? You want to do
it here or go somewhere warmer?”

“Here is
fine. This won’t take long, I’m sure. And I’m used to the outdoors. All part of
the job.”

“Okay,”
Newton said. “I wondered if you could tell us about the security procedures you
have in place at the nursing home.”

“Ask a
specific question, detective,” said Kenny.

“Okay,
well, let’s start with the security cameras that aren’t working,” he said, and then
he realized he hadn’t asked a question. “Let me rephrase that. Were you aware
that your cameras aren’t working?”

“Being
fixed today. Next question.”

“What
procedures do you have in place for controlling access into and out of the
home?”

“You know
the answer to that, detective. Next question.”

Newton
rubbed his back. “And the control of medication?”

“We have
a small pharmacy which is secured at all times. All drugs are locked up.”

“Who has
access to the pharmacy?”

“The
on-call doctor and the residential nurses.”

“And who
keeps the key?”

“The key
is locked in the safe.”

“And who
has the key to the safe?”

“The
manager of the facility has the key to the safe.”

“Yeah,
we’ve spoken to him,” Ward said. “We’ve asked for a full inventory to be taken
of all the drugs you got locked up there. Make sure none are missing.”

“So
that’s what killed the old man? Drugs?”

“I’m
afraid we can’t discuss any details at this stage, sir,” Newton said.

“Are you
suggesting the drugs came from our pharmacy?”

“Again,
with respect sir, we can’t discuss any details at this stage.”

Kenny
smiled. And then Ward spoke. “You ever take time to visit the home?”

Kenny
paused and sized up Ward. “I often pop in to say hello to my guests. And to
maybe pick out a room for when I might need one.”

Ward
tried a smile. “Were you there on Sunday night?” The question surprised Newton
more than it did James Kenny, who briefly smiled.

“I would
have to check back,” he said. And then, “Yes, possibly. Am I a suspect,
detective?”

“No, of
course not,” Newton said.

“As for
suspect status, I don’t think you are just yet,” Ward said, and Newton looked
at him as though wanting him to stop.

“Just
yet. Ah. Mr.
Poirot
, you do play games,” Kenny said.

“Did you
know the man, sir?” Ward glanced over to the school then as he waited for the
reply.

“I knew
Bill O’Donnell, yes. He was a guest of the nursing home. I know all my guests.”

“I’m sure
you do,” Ward said, “but did you know Mr. O’Donnell on a personal level?”

Kenny
looked at Newton. “Your guy here is very thorough, detective. You got a good
one there.” And then he looked at Ward. “No. I didn’t know him on a personal
level.”

“So you
didn’t visit with him on Sunday?”

“No, I
did not. I was there only briefly to have a walk around. Run a finger over the
surfaces so to speak. I do it most weekends as a matter of fact.”

“Don’t
you find it a little strange that a man of his financial resources should be
able to afford your prices, sir? I mean, it can’t come cheap.”

“I don’t know
what you are driving at, detective, so I’m not sure I can answer that
question.”

“Okay,”
Ward said. “I think we have everything we need for the time being. We
appreciate your cooperation, sir.” He looked at Newton to see if he had any
questions, but a slight shake of the head said he didn’t.

“Well, if
you need anything else you know how to contact me.” And with that comment Kenny
turned his back on Newton and Ward and a wave to his three men brought them
scuttling over to him.

Newton
took a painkiller from the bottle and swallowed it with a grimace that might
have been pain or the effort of a dry swallow.

Newton
said, “Are you kidding me? You know who that is?”

Ward
turned to Newton but his peripheral vision captured Kenny, a blur on the edge
of his thoughts. “You know you said about instinct? Well, ignore what I said.
It’s now set to twitching.”

“You
think he’s a suspect? Goddamn it, Ward, this is the richest man in town. In the
county, probably. You don’t think—”

“I don’t
like the guy. And I think he did know O’Donnell. In what capacity I don’t know
but he knew him all right. And he doesn’t seem too concerned that there’s a
killer on the loose in his nursing home.”

“Now hold
on—”

“No. I’m
running this case, remember? I asked for you to be put on the case.”

“Why’d
you do that?”

“Ask me
that question a few days down the line.”

“We don’t
go around upsetting the richest man in town is all I’m saying,” Newton said.

“Why not?
His wealth don’t come into it.”

“And his
influence. He’s connected. He knows everyone who’s anyone at the golf club,
damn it, and that includes your captain. So don’t you go digging around too
much with Kenny or you’ll end up digging yourself into a hole you might not
want to crawl out of.
S’all
I’m saying.”

“Well,”
Ward said, “I got an advantage here in that I don’t know or care about people’s
influence or reputation around here and I don’t give a rat’s ass who I might
upset.”

At that
Newton just shrugged.

“And
what’s an old guy like O’Donnell doing, spending his last few years in a nursing
home that costs around thirty thousand bucks a year?”

“Maybe he
had a good insurance plan,” Newton said.

“Well,
correct me if I’m wrong but he don’t seem like the kind of guy had a pension
pot to piss in.”

Ward waited
for Newton, who sighed. “I think it’s time you got a bit of background on the
other case. Find you something out about O’Donnell.”

“We’re
not working the other case. I got strict orders on that.”

“Strict
orders from who?”

“From
Gammond. He don’t want you reopening old wounds
 
is what he
said.”

Newton
was silent for a few seconds and then he said, “Let’s go see Alice White.”

“Next of
kin?” Ward asked.

“Closest
he’d got to any. It’ll be a good place to start. Get you some context on the
guy.”

“I’ll kick
off the questions,” Ward said. He and Newton had located Alice White at home on
the quiet side of town. “Seems you know the lady and I’d kinda like to get to
know her too, at my pace.”

Newton
nodded and clapped his hands to get some blood running through them. The cold
seemed to age him, a pallid undercoat showing through his complexion,
emphasizing the wrinkles and making visible the stress. He looked like old
furniture too far gone to restore.

Alice
White answered the door on one knock and her deep purring voice, like that of a
content tigress, led them inside. The house was warm, old people warm, and Ward
took off his coat. Alice White took it from him and set it on a coat stand by
the door. He removed his hat and placed it on the hook next to his coat.

“Mr.
Newton? Your coat, sir?”

But
Newton shook his head. The warmth seemingly hadn’t hit him like it had Ward. He
bit his bottom lip as if to stifle something wanting to come out.

“We’ve
met before, Mr.…”

“Ward.
Sorry, I’m Detective Ward. But I don’t think we’ve met before.”

Alice
White coughed up a deep laugh.

“Not you,
Mr. Ward. Mr. Newton and
me
have met. Long time ago.”

Newton
still didn’t talk but nodded at her, took off his cap, and then looked down at
his feet.

“I won’t
ask you to take off your shoes. Just wipe them on this here mat and come into
the parlor. Fancy name I call my living room.” The words seemed to wash over
Ward and he felt relaxed by them as if enchanted.

She was
dressed for a Sunday and Ward knew for sure that she always dressed for a
Sunday whatever day it was.

In the
parlor three cups were set out for tea. Cookies circled a doily-dressed plate,
some in gold foil and some bare.

“The ones
without the wrappings I baked myself for you this morning. Truth told the
wrapped ones are for show and ain’t nobody never touched those before when my
best homemade cookies are on offer. Please sit.”

Ward and
Newton sat and then Ward noticed the single tear on Alice’s right cheek, at
odds with her broad smile which broadened further when she noticed Ward looking
at her with concern written on his features.

“They
leak from time to time in this cold. Sure it’s an age thing.”

Ward
wondered how they leaked in this heat, though. He glanced around the room and
the first thing that struck him were the photographs of children. Lots of
photographs of lots of children.

“My
babies.”

Ward
opened his face to ask a silent question.

“My
foster children. Brought up no children of my own but many little ones have
graced this house. Some troubled and some mellow but all wonderful in their own
ways.”

Ward
smiled. “You got any now?”

“Oh no.
Not no more. Getting too old to keep up with them. One thing always been true
is that children draw energy. And at my age I ain’t got enough of that most
days to keep my own engine revving. Tea?”

“Oh, yes,
ma’am,” Ward said.

Newton
said nothing but Alice poured three cups anyway. Ward eyed the cookies and
Alice pushed them his way and he accepted the invitation readily.

“I’d like
to ask you a few questions about William O’Donnell,” Ward said. “Would you
mind?”

“No, no,
of course not.” The smile still illuminated her face and Ward wondered if she
knew what had happened to him, but he knew that of course she did. At least she
knew he was dead.

“What can
you tell me about him? Did you know him well?”

“I knew
him very well,” said Alice. “Very well. As well as anybody might know him I
would say. But not as good as God knew him. I see the man but God sees the
heart. What I can tell you, though, is the William I knew was a good man. A
good man.”

Again
Ward allowed space for Alice to continue and she filled that space, the smile
never leaving her face.

“I first
met William at my church. One day he appeared. I can tell you which day because
it was the Sunday of his grandson going missing.”

Newton
looked up now and Alice brought him into the conversation with a slight, almost
indiscernible nod of her head. Newton seemed to freeze in that gaze.

“Go on,” Ward
said, encouragement that wasn’t necessary. He took out his notepad and began to
write as she spoke.

“He hung
around at the back and he kind of stood out. Took him for a hobo at first. And
he was white. Not to say we don’t have white folk at the church but not so
many. When the service ended he stood aside to let people out but he stayed
there. Never took his eyes off of Christ. I did the flowers back then and I was
tending them when he walks up to the front and, as a good Christian, I ain’t
normally quick to judge but I confess on that occasion I thought he had an eye
for the altar. We got a fair weight of gold and silver on there. But he just
walked up and stood there staring up at Christ on the cross. I carried on with
my business and kept a half eye on him, strange looking and sad as he was. Yes,
he looked as sad as anybody I ever saw. I like to leave people be when they
like that, communicating with the Lord. I’m not sure he knew it back then but
he was doing that all right. God’s always listening even when you not saying
nothing. And William wasn’t saying nothing. And then suddenly he spins around
as if he’s come out of a trance and he looked startled and he got me startled.
I think he saw that and he just says to me, ‘I wanted to get closer.’”

“Closer?”

“Closer
to God. He told me later that he picked the Westmoreland Gospel Church because
he thought we got closer to God with our ‘dancing, singing and whooping
hallelujahs’ as he put it. Closer than the other denominations. And he was keen
as corn dogs
 
to
get up close and personal with the Lord at that time.”

“So would
you say he was a deeply religious man?”

“No, Mr.
Ward. I wouldn’t say that. For sure he would be there every Sunday and some
Saturdays too, and he started to help out with odd jobs around the place, but
he wouldn’t be described as deeply religious. Never saw him sing nor pray. Not
outwards anyway. Some, they sing inwards and I think maybe William was one of
those. He once told me he didn’t pray because he was scared to hear silence
coming back. He just wanted to know God was there. To trust he was there. He
had faith because he needed faith. I think that’s it. I think he needed it
because of little Ryan. Not a day passed for that first year that he wasn’t out
looking for Ryan.” Her voice was as sweet as her cookies and Ward helped
himself to another, rapt in her story.

She stood
then and walked over to the dresser and opened a drawer. She took out a
photograph and handed it to Ward.

“Here’s a
picture from a couple years ago at one of our events. He always smiled for the
camera, though his teeth weren’t perfect.” She laughed.

Newton
lowered his head and Alice paused to look over at him.

“Mr.
Newton. I feel what you thinking but I tell it as it is, as facts I know.
William wanted to get closer to God. And you thinking that was because he took
the life of his Ryan. I knew William as a kind man, not the sort of man that
would do such a thing, but it don’t matter what I think. You always suspected
William, I know. But it don’t matter much what you think neither. Fact is, only
God can judge and if William done anything like you say he did, then I guess by
now God has sat in judgment on him.”

Newton
didn’t say anything but sat there with hands gripping knees and head bowed
again.

“And you
ain’t touched your tea, Mr. Newton. No mind. I’ll get us a fresh pot while you
two talk amongst yourselves.”

She stood
up slowly and steadied herself before moving on out of the room. Ward looked
over at Newton and for a minute he thought he was looking at a man on death
row.

“It’s
bullshit,” Newton said. “I’ve heard all this bullshit before. She knows
something more and she ain’t telling. O’Donnell just appeared from nowhere on
the day the boy was reported missing and gave me this story of his truck going
missing and him going off to look for it. Something didn’t add up.”

“Did he
report the truck missing?”

“So what
if he did? Yes, he did. But to me that don’t add up to a convincing alibi. I’m
telling you, Ward, there’s something else here. And I think she knows. Why was
he at the church anyways? He suddenly goes to church. A black church. Don’t
make sense. Never made sense.”

“After
losing his grandson I guess he might go to church. It’s not that unusual for
someone to go pray for something like that.”

“It don’t
match the timeline.”

“How’s
that?”

“Because
he went to church before he knew the boy had gone.”

Ward
stared sleepily at Newton. “Okay, look—”

“I had
him, Ward. I had him. He was at the church before Ryan was reported missing.
His truck went missing. He took the boy and then after he’d killed him he went
to pray for his own soul.”

“Okay. We
need to focus on the old man’s homicide for now. I need to get background on
the man. She’s the one person knew him best. Got to be something in what she’s telling
us even if it’s not the full story. God will strike her down if she’s telling
lies. That’s how it works, right?”

Newton
shook his head and was about to speak when Ward’s cell phone vibrated in his
pocket. He looked at the display and decided to take the call. The call lasted
less than a minute and by the time Ward hung up Alice was back in the room with
a fresh pot of tea and more cookies.

“Was that
a phone I heard? That would be the station, I figure.” She sat down slowly,
smiling at Ward and holding his stare. He looked over to Newton, who sat
upright
now. The phone was on vibrate and hadn’t rung out
loud.

“Mrs.
White. I have a few more questions. Did you receive any money from William?”

Alice
White poured tea. A fresh cup for Ward, but Newton placed his hand over his cup
to decline.

“Yes, I
did, Mr. Ward. You don’t need to ask me that because you got access to
William’s bank account. Regular payment each month of five hundred dollars.”

Newton’s
jaw loosened.

“May I
ask why? What was the money for?”

“Let me
tell you about William O’Donnell. He was a kind man. As generous as they come.
He gave of his time to the church and he gave to the glory of God. He knew of
my work with children and he gave me money to help me support that. The money
he gave was used to make a better life for those children. If there was any
left over after taking care of the little ones I would donate that to the
church and William was happy with that.”

“Any idea
where he was getting the money from?”

“Never
asked. Money’s a private thing for people and I ain’t one to pry. He did work.”

“Where
did he work?”

“Mr.
Newton will tell you. He worked at the elementary school as a janitor.”

“Five
hundred a month’s a lot out of a janitor’s salary. He can’t have earned much.”

“I never
asked a man nor woman what they earn.”

“But you
understand it may appear a little odd that he would be able to give you all
that money and he still managed to support himself too. You don’t find that
odd?”

“William
lived frugally, Mr. Ward, like a good Christian man. I don’t know any more than
that. Can only tell you what I know. And I been open about that.”

Ward
tapped his bottom lip with his pencil. “Yes, you have, ma’am, and I appreciate
that. I have just a few more questions if that’s okay.”

“That’s
fine with me. Fire away.”

“When did
the payments start?”

“A few
years after we met. I tried to refuse at first but he was insistent and I
figured if it could help the children it was a gift from God
hisself
and I never refuse that kind of gift.”

“So that
would be, what, twenty years ago, give or take?”

“Uh huh.
Give or take, I suppose.”

“So that
would make it in the region of”—he did the math slowly—“a hundred and twenty
thousand dollars total. That’s a heck of a lot of money on a janitor’s salary.”

“Like I said,
I don’t know where he got the money from. That’s the honest truth.” She then
reached behind her, twisting uncomfortably on her seat as she retrieved a
shoebox from the sideboard. “You might want to see this. It’s William’s
belongings from the nursing home.”

Ward took
it from her.

“In
there’s his worldly belongings. Don’t amount to much. A wristwatch he never
wore. A penknife. A Bible. Not a great deal else. Apart from his last will and
testament.”

Ward took
a pair of gloves from his pocket, dragged them on and pulled out the will. He
opened it and read it to himself. He glanced over at Newton and tilted the
document so that they could both read.