Fifth Son (25 page)

Green knew just the person he had to call. If there was anything left of Derek down there, Dr. Peter Cole from the Museum of Civilization would find it.

Darkness had settled and a cold, relentless rain drenched the last of the emergency vehicles as they drove up the lane to the highway. Green stood in the kitchen window watching the blurry red line of tail lights wobble into the distance. Behind him, he heard the monotone voice of Lyle Cunningham making his preliminary videotape of the crime scene. Cunny insisted on utter silence during the taping so that some officer's black humour would not end up broadcast all over the courtroom, and he was already incensed enough about the mess of blood, muddy footprints and puddles of rain water created by the emergency workers attending to Isabelle. Now she was safely on her way to hospital, still semi-conscious but stable, and all that remained was for Ident to piece together what had happened.

That was not going to be a surprise, Green thought. Without even bothering to be careful, Tom had simply tossed the cast-iron pan he had used to hit Isabelle down the basement stairs before he fled the house.

The last of the vehicles had just turned onto the highway when a bright pair of halogen beams streaked into view and swung into the lane. As it drew near, Green recognized Sandy's red truck. Green grabbed his raincoat and ducked out into the rain to intercept him before he added further chaos to Cunny's scene. He held up his hand just as Sandy opened his cab door to leap out. In the passenger seat, the interior light illuminated a big man with a bull neck and a John Deere baseball cap, whom Green recognized as Sandy's fishing companion in his office photo. Both men looked tense and angry.

“What the hell happened!” Sandy demanded. “Someone in town said Isabelle was attacked!”

“She's been taken to hospital, but she'll be all right.”

Sandy strained to see around Green towards the house. “Was it Tom?”

“I prefer not to speculate,” Green replied.

“What the hell does he want! The bastard's kidnapped Kyle, and I know he broke in here yesterday.”

Rain traced icy streaks down Green's back, and he clutched his collar closed. “Again, we're still investigating, but we have no evidence that your stepbrother was abducted deliberately. He just happened to be there.” He squinted at Sandy thoughtfully in the glare of the cab light. “Tell me, Sandy. Your mother and stepfather were pretty upset to think clearly. What do you think Kyle would do once he realized he'd gone from home?”

Sandy glanced at the other man questioningly. “Probably stay put, don't you think?”

Green took the opportunity to reach across Sandy to offer his hand to the stranger. “Inspector Mike Green.”

“Phil Scott.” The man crushed Green's hand in a massive, calloused grip.

Green addressed both men. “So you figure he'd stay with the truck?”

Sandy nodded. “It would be familiar. Everything else around him would be strange, and when Kyle is scared, he hides. So he'd probably try to stay out of Tom's sight.”

“That means he wouldn't try to seek help, say from a gas station attendant?”

“Not unless he knew the guy.” Sandy sighed. “My mother's been so paranoid about strangers taking advantage of him that she's put the fear of God into him. He's quite a good-looking kid, and so sweet natured...” He paused, an awkward shame creeping over his face. “Jeb told me what my mother said about your daughter. I'm sorry, that was a cheap shot. I know how crazy Kyle was about her. Living out here on the farm with all his spare time spent on chores, he doesn't have many friends, and he just lit up when she started working in his class. I think it was good for him. I mean, he may be disabled, but whether Mom likes it or not, someday he's going to want a sexual relationship.”

To his own surprise, Green was appalled. He knew Hannah was far from virginal herself, but now that she was not just an abstraction, he found himself reacting as all fathers did. As he'd seen Sullivan react a hundred times when the boys came sniffing around Lizzie. Over my dead body.

No doubt that was Edna McMartin's reaction, but Green cast about for a more palatable phrase with which to voice his disapproval. “A natural parental concern, I think.”

Sandy shrugged. “I suspect she's more worried about losing control of him.”

“And about what the church yaps would say,” Scott chimed in. “Don't underestimate that. All the tight-assed bitches in the communion line and all.”

Even though Edna was not the warm and cuddling type, Green thought the commentaries unduly harsh. Life had not been gentle with her. “But he does have the mind of a child,” he said. “And it's normal she'd worry that someone would use him.”

Sandy ceded the point reluctantly. “Still, she's got years of trouble ahead if she doesn't take her head out of the sand. Why do you think he was hiding in the truck? He's been giving her a hell of a hard time over missing school. Crying, temper tantrums... So she's been pretty tough on him.”

A stance that no doubt is tearing her apart now that he's gone, Green thought. How easy it was to do the wrong thing as a parent, and how quickly that misjudgment can come back to haunt you. In the hopes of sparing Hannah confusion, he'd stayed out of her life when her mother moved across the country and married another man, but now she was making them all pay in spades. Sometimes he wondered if the debt could ever be paid. Probably not.

The Shabbat candles flickered cozily across the white table cloth Sharon had laid on the table in the dining room, and the extended Green family was gathered together for the first time all week. But try as he might, Green could not get into the spirit. His thoughts were still trapped in the horror the day had revealed and in his unresolved fear for those involved— for Isabelle, Kyle, even desperate, battle-scarred Tom. He'd left instructions that he was to be notified the instant Kyle and Tom were found, and he found himself straining for the sound of the telephone.

The kitchen was still in pieces, so that night the take-out fare was cheese blintzes from Vince's Bagel Shop nearby. The rest of the family was digging in with noisy alacrity. Tony was gleefully spreading sour cream all over his high chair and Modo had positioned herself strategically underfoot, ready to lick any overflow that came within reach. Sharon was celebrating the prospect of two days off with an unaccustomed second glass of white wine.

Green's father Sid was seated across from Hannah, his pale watery eyes fixed on her as if he wanted to drink in every nuance. She was the spitting image of her dead grandmother, Sid's wife, and even after four months, the very sight of her made him clap his hands in ecstasy. Now, every Friday evening when Green picked him up at his seniors' residence to bring him to dinner, Sid was waiting at the front door, with a light in his eyes and a lift in his step that belied his frailty and age.

For Hannah's part, Sid was the only family member besides Tony who could make her smile. But not tonight. Tonight she was picking at her food, pushing her salad around her plate and nibbling at the edge of a blintz. She said nothing, and not even the antics of her brother and the dog raised a laugh. Green noticed that she'd taken out half her earrings, and her eyelids were devoid of glitter. He remembered her unexpected presence at home that day and Edna McMartin's allusions to her clothing, and his detective mind clicked into action.

He eyed her thoughtfully. “Hannah,” he began, testing the waters with a careful toe, “has Kyle been away all week?”

She shrugged. “So?”

“I had occasion to speak to his mother today. In connection with my case,” he added quickly when he saw her mouth open in protest. “Has she been keeping him home?”

Hannah didn't rally a smart retort, merely pushed a lettuce leaf across her plate.

“She seems a bit overprotective,” he ventured. Still Hannah said nothing. Sharon glanced at Green quizzically but had the wisdom to keep quiet. He tried again. “Old-fashioned too, like many rural people. I suspect she'd be pretty formidable if she decided to tear a strip off the school.”

“Spit it out, Mike,” Hannah said without looking up from her lettuce. “You want to ask if I've been kicked out of my placement.”

“No, I...” He paused. Detective instincts seemed to run in the family. “Yes.”

She lifted her thin shoulders in a small, disinterested shrug. “Well, fuck it. Fuck her. The kids liked me, and Kyle was happy in school for the first time ever. The parents have a leash on him so tight, he's afraid to do anything. It's their problem, Mike. They don't see he's a normal kid who wants to do normal things.”

He deftly avoided defending the parental point of view. To Hannah, the freedom to be was a sacred right. “Have they taught him any street smarts? Would he know what to do if he was lost?”

“What kind of question is that?”

She had finally looked up from her plate, and her eyes were shrewd. Detective instincts certainly do run in the family, he thought, as he debated how much to tell her. Finally, he explained that the McMartin truck had been stolen with Kyle hiding in the back. She lost all defiance and looked for the first time like a frightened sixteen-year-old.

“This is all your fault! I knew taking that crucifix back was a bad idea! They've been really mad at him about it, and really mad that he tried to lie about it. It's like they don't trust him any more. I bet he was just trying to get away from her eagle eye. And now—oh my God, he won't know what to do! Is this asshole dangerous?”

He didn't tell her what he really thought, that he had no idea what Tom was up to or capable of. He shook his head and risked giving her hand a quick squeeze. Hannah hated to be touched, but in this instance, she seemed too pre-occupied to object.

“The man just wants to get home to Toronto,” he said. “Anyway, we've got police on all the highways. The
OPP
is sure to catch him any minute.”

She searched his face for a moment with an appraising gaze. “I did tell him once, when we were doing a life skills activity in class, that if he was ever lost, he should look for someone in uniform. I hope he remembers that.”

She didn't seem to appreciate the full meaning of her words, but Green felt an unexpected swell of emotion that robbed him of speech. Regardless of how jaded and antiauthority this little bundle of rebellion was, deep inside she too knew that the police were the good guys.

A
fter
a fitful night's sleep, Green arrived at the police station the next morning before the weakening autumn sun had even struggled over the horizon. By ten o'clock he had briefed the duty inspector to arrange for equipment, staff and the return of the mobile command post to the village. He'd also apprised MacPhail and Ident of his suspicions and set Sullivan to work applying for a coroner's warrant. Officially, the excavation would be under the supervision of the coroner, but Green also put in a call to his old friend Dr. Peter Cole. Bones were the physical anthropologist's speciality, but he spent most of his days researching them from his lab at the Museum of Civilization, so he was delighted to escape into the fresh country air to help the police, even on a Saturday.

Tom's letter was turned over to the Ident Unit, and the
OPP
was harassed numerous times for updates on their search. Nothing. Tom, Kyle and the truck had vanished into the countryside. Although Green had tried to sound reassuring in his reports to the McMartins, he expected them to go straight to the Chief to report his gross negligence in releasing Tom in the first place.

However, if the McMartins didn't complain, Green was certain Jacques Boisvert would. Tom had broken into their home just the day before and had a dangerous confrontation with his wife. The poor man had arrived home last night to find his front yard full of emergency vehicles and his wife lying in a pool of blood, surrounded by paramedics. He had spent a frantic night at the Civic Hospital
ER
, pacing the halls and hounding doctors until his wife was pronounced out of danger. She had undergone surgery to relieve a subdural haematoma and was now settled in a private room. Jacques had been joined in his outrage by a large, vocal contingent of her relatives who'd driven in that morning from her little hometown of Bourget.

Despite Green's best efforts, the media were soon crawling all over Ashford Landing and feeding every minuscule lack of progress into living rooms across the city. Jacques Boisvert and Edna McMartin were both centre stage, threatening dire consequences for the entire force if Tom was not behind bars by the end of the day. Jeb McMartin delivered his plea with tears in his eyes and a quaver in his voice. “Don't hurt my boy,” he said simply. “Take the truck, keep the truck, but let my boy off at a safe place on your way.”

Superintendent-to-be Barbara Devine was fit to be tied. She was set to assume command of
CID
on Monday, and she did not want the resolution of this bungled mess to be the first task she had to face when she walked into her new office. “Find the kid, Green,” she snapped into his phone. “Dig up the body, solve the murder, and deliver it all to me on a neat little platter in time for my ten o'clock press conference Monday morning.”

Green knew all about her preference for neat little platters, and her desire to win at all cost, from a double homicide he'd worked on a few months earlier. He considered this latest threat an ominous beginning to her tenure as his boss. How the hell was he going to work with the woman? He had just hung up on her when his phone rang again. He hesitated only an instant before picking it up, hoping it was good news from the
OPP
.

“Mike?” came a very young, uncertain voice.

“Hannah?” He did a quick calculation. On Saturdays, this was still the middle of the night for Hannah in the best of times. On top of that, he knew she'd had a restless night because he'd heard her prowling around the kitchen at four in the morning, when he himself had been miles from sleep. “Where are you?”