Fifth Son (33 page)

He turned to Sullivan. “Would you get Bob Gibbs on that right away and hook him up with Logan here?” He looked back at Riordan. “While we're out here, I'd like a look at the truck and the surrounding area. It might give us some ideas.”

Riordan's mustache twitched in disapproval. “Don't disturb the scene.”

Green was already striding to the door and the only response he allowed himself was the slamming of the truck door on his way out.

“Disturb the scene,” he muttered to Sullivan as he swung the cruiser back onto the road. “Who the fuck does he think we are, the Keystone Kops?”

“He's just a control freak,” Sullivan replied. “Funny thing about inspectors.”

Green ignored the bait. He had already turned his attention to the road ahead, where presently a patch of light came into view. As they drew near, they saw a police van positioned in the road so that its headlights shone into the bush, illuminating a black pick-up tucked into a laneway off the road. It was almost completely obscured by overhanging brush, and Green realized they were damn lucky anyone had spotted it at all.

Yellow crime scene tape draped the trees and spanned the road, blocking passage. One scene-of-crime officer in white overalls was prowling around the outskirts of the truck, shooting video and still photos, while his partner crouched over a patch of dirt at the back. Green's breath caught. Had they found out something about Kyle?

He called and introduced himself. “Find anything useful?”

“Lots of dirt and leaves,” said the one by the back, straightening up. “We'll be loading it onto a truck to take it back to our indoor facility. We're just checking the vicinity now. There seems to be a patch of urine by the back here.”

“Any sign of a struggle in the truck? Blood?”

“Not that we can see.” Green felt a wave of relief. It didn't mean much, for there were half a dozen ways Tom could have disposed of Kyle, but at least he hadn't killed him in the truck. “What's the closest village they could have gone to?”

“Nearest town is Marmora, about fifteen K back down on 7. There's also Brady's Country Store at the junction of Cordova Road about three K up this way. But our guys checked there, and no one's seen the subjects.”

Green thanked him and headed back down to the cruiser. Inside, he consulted the map and located the junction of Cordova Road. It was even further into the boonies. He stared thoughtfully through the windshield at the surrounding bush, combing his recollections of the argument with the McMartins at the Boisvert farm that afternoon. Something niggled at the edges of his memory.

Sullivan started the engine. “What next, navigator? A bite to eat, maybe?”

Green ignored him. “Look at this goddamn place! It's not on the road to anywhere. If Tom was going to Toronto, why the hell would he come up here?”

“Maybe he got lost.”

The memory came loose. “No, he didn't! I think he knew exactly where he was going.” Green's mouth went dry as another memory fell into place. “Fuck! So does Sandy!”

Sullivan frowned. “What are you talking about?”

Green swung on him, excitement fighting fear in his thoughts. “Do you remember back at the Boisvert farm, Jeb McMartin started to say ‘Madoc, isn't that where Norm used to have—”

Sullivan's frown cleared. “And Sandy cut him off.”

“That's right! I'm betting the Pettigrew family used to come up here, maybe even owned a place. And I bet Sandy knows where, and that's why Madoc
OPP
hasn't seen a trace of him. Remember Sandy said he knew this area because he sold cottages up here? We've got to move our asses if we want to find the Pettigrew place before he gets there.”

They drove back to the command trailer. Riordan took down the details and excitedly looked up township records on his computer. Their brief moment of triumph died when the search turned up no properties listed in the name of Norman Pettigrew, or any other Pettigrew.

“We'll have to do a title search down at the County Registry office in Belleville,” he said. “And on a Saturday night, everything is closed up tight. It may take a while to find someone to open it up and go through the files.”

“I'd go straight to the Mayor and Chief of Police,” Green said and was pleased to see Riordan's poker face break into a smile. Maybe the two were more alike than Green had thought. He paused as he headed for the door and matched the other man's smile. “Brian and I will be on the road doublechecking the homes in the area, but we'll keep you informed. Tom Pettigrew is still a danger, but right now I think our biggest threat may be Fitzpatrick. So let us know—”

Riordan nodded. “You'll be the first.”

When Green returned to the car, Sullivan revved the engine and guided it back onto the road. He drove effortlessly through the darkness, one hand on the wheel and the other rubbing his chin. “Do you really think Sandy would hurt Kyle? He's his brother, after all.”

“Stepbrother, actually, which may make a difference. And as for whether he'd hurt him, well, he bludgeoned his own lover, didn't he? Besides, after all the bad calls I've made, I'm not taking any chances with this one.”

“So what's our next move?”

“You're the country boy, Brian. Tell me how we find out where the Pettigrew place was. It may take them a long time to track down the title in the registry office. It might have been thirty years ago.”

“That won't matter around here,” Sullivan grinned. “At least, not with the local folk. They'll remember who owned a store fifty years ago, probably still call it by that name.”

“Okay, so we find some local folk.” Green glanced out at the empty bush. “Somewhere.”

“Brady's Country Store is our best bet. Probably been in the family for generations, and Brady will know everyone's business for miles around.”

Brady's store turned out to be a dilapidated two-storey frontier home of faded white clapboard. The sign across the front proclaimed in old-fashioned red lettering that it was Brady's General Store and Tackle Shop. Assorted signs had been taped in the window beneath. “Hunting and fishing licences available”, “Live worms”, “Propane for Sale”, “Videos for rent”. All the lights were out on the main floor, however, and a large “Closed” sign hung in the window.

Green sat in the car and looked up at the building dejectedly. He was conscious of time ticking away, and of Kyle being held captive by one erratic, volatile man and stalked by an even more desperate one. All because of Green. Kyle was with Tom because Green had not detained the man after he'd first broken into the Boisverts' house. He was being stalked by Sandy because Green had told the McMartins he might have witnessed something on the day Lawrence died.

To his surprise, Sullivan climbed out of the car and headed around the back towards an even more dilapidated wing at the rear of the store. Inside, Green could see the faint glow of a light upstairs.

Sullivan hammered on the door. “Brady!”

A dog barked, followed by a man's gruff bellow as a series of windows lit up downstairs. A moment later the porch light came on and the door opened to reveal a wizened old man with no teeth and a stringy white beard that hadn't seen a razor in ten years.

“What the name of Jesus do you want! He's closed! Gone down to Belleville.”

Sullivan grinned. “You Brady?”

“Yeah. But it's my son owns the place.”

“Brian Sullivan, with the Ottawa Police.” He stuck out his hand cheerfully.

“Eh?” The man shouted, ignoring Sullivan's hand. Sullivan raised the decibel level and repeated himself.

>“Beautiful country,” he added. “You from around here?”

“Never could make enough money off that place to get out,” Brady retorted, eyeing Sullivan's hand warily before deciding it was safe.

Sullivan pumped his hand heartily. “I know that feeling. Most of my folks are still up in the Valley. Further north, though, Renfrew County.”

“Where?”

“Renfrew,” Sullivan shouted. “Madawaska Valley.”

“Oh, yeah?” The man thawed. “Pretty up there, ain't got the lakes, but lots of good rivers for trout. Not so many cottages up there either, eh?”

“Oh, it's getting there. Ottawa's taking over everything.” Green shifted impatiently, resisting the urge to sound the horn. Sullivan was turning on the Irish valley charm, and that took time, especially at the decibel level the old-timer required. It was not a process to be interrupted, so Green sat quietly while Sullivan shouted about fish and deer and the old logging days before finally steering the conversation to the missing duo.

“The older man's a Pettigrew from down the Rideau Valley. Someone was saying the Pettigrews used to own property around here. Norm Pettigrew. You ever hear—”

“Not Norm, but his father, yeah. I knew his father going back...oh, must be sixty years? During the war. He started coming up here winters to do some logging, help keep the farm afloat. Yeah, he bought a little place back then, when there weren't no roads, no hydro most places outside the towns.” Brady relaxed against the doorframe, almost garrulous. “We'd take a horse and sleigh in winter, boat in summer. We had some good times back then, when he used to bring Norm and his kids up for a spell. Haven't seen them in years, though. Place was sold.”

“When?”

Brady squinted. “Maybe twenty-five years ago? When the old timer died? Like as not, Norm needed the money. Hah, don't we all?”

Unable to stand it any longer. Green climbed out and sauntered over, hoping his appearance would speed up the process without causing the old man to shut down. Behind Brady, an equally scruffy dog stared Green down with unblinking eyes.

“My partner, Mike Green,” said Sullivan dismissively.

“What's the name of the lake Norm's dad had the place on?”

“Black Lake. 'Course we called it Lost Lake back then. If you found it, you knew you took a wrong turn.” Brady's chuckle revealed a few yellow teeth still clinging to their posts.

“And is there a road up there now?”

“Oh yeah, they got roads all over now, eh? Used to be an old logging road, opened up now. Matter of fact, the place is only a few miles from here through them woods, but the road takes the long route round.”

“So someone could get there on foot?”

“Half day, easy. We used to do it all the time. The drive's the tricky part.”

Green listened as Brady described the landmarks and turns they should follow, none of which had any road signs or names that Brady was aware of. But Sullivan thanked him profusely, shook his hand and set off confidently towards the car.

“You fellas like a snack from the store?” Brady called after them, as if now reluctant to see them go. “There's some nice, home-baked brownies just going to waste.”

Sullivan broke into a broad grin, signalled to Green and disappeared inside the man's home. The front windows lit and Green drummed his fingers impatiently as he waited. He hadn't eaten since his late lunch with Robbie, but the knot of apprehension in his stomach drove away all thought of food.

A few minutes later, Sullivan reappeared with two grocery bags packed with food, which he loaded in the back.

“In case we find Tom and Kyle. They may be hungry.”

“Can you still remember those directions?”

Sullivan settled behind the wheel and crammed a massive brownie into his mouth, nodding as he sucked chocolate icing off his fingers. Then he eased the car into gear and slowly began to make his way down the dark road. The sky was now a clear, brittle black sprinkled with a thousand stars but not even a sliver of moon to light the way.

Sullivan braked to eye a laneway dubiously. “First left, he said.”

“That's a cow path, not a road.”

“No, it'd be a road around here.” Sullivan turned in, his headlights sweeping the bush that bordered the road. Two hundred yards further, the lane petered out.

“Okay, it's not a road.” Sullivan reversed back up the narrow track he could barely see. Branches clawed at the side panels of the sparkling new cruiser, causing Green to wince. He wondered if Barbara Devine would prove as forgiving as Jules had been. Somehow, he doubted it.

“Okay, it must be the next one,” Sullivan said once he'd backed out onto the road.

They missed the next left, which appeared as a fleeting gap in the bush as they passed. On reversing, they saw a small wooden arrow marked Duncan Lane tacked to a post.

“Oh, it has a name,” Green remarked as Sullivan turned in.

“Probably not to Brady.”

They negotiated Duncan Lane to its end and found themselves at the junction of a larger road. Still dirt, but at least with the potential to avoid a head-on collision.

Sullivan turned right. “Now we look for Jack Hensel's farmhouse.”

“Oh, that's right. ‘Big red one on the hill, can't miss it'?” Green recited as he looked out into the yawning blackness. “What hill? Who sees anything but the fucking bush at the edge of the road?”

They crawled down the road, which dipped and turned like an endless roller coaster. Finally up ahead, Green spotted a tiny lane with a dozen names on wooden arrows tacked to a tree. “Stop.” Green peered out. “Do you see a farm house?”

To their left, a darker smudge stood out against the pallid wash of the surrounding field.

“This has to be it. I'm going to kill the lights,” Sullivan said, swinging cautiously into the little lane. They bumped down the road, following the strip of pallor between the blackness on either side. They passed the first drive.

“Did Brady remember who owned the place now?” For some reason Green found himself whispering.

Sullivan shook his head. “Fuck, there's at least a dozen properties. Watch for a glimmer of light, or the smell of wood smoke.”

They passed the second drive, then the third. The darkness and the silence were absolute. Nothing but vast, yawning emptiness, Green reflected as he strained his city eyes to decipher the alien black. Suddenly, a flash of metal caught his eye.