As to Finn specifically, the emptiness of that doorway cut him so
deeply that he’d had to excuse himself from the table, feeling he might be
sick.
His parents excused him and he went up to his room to read, but
the familiar images struck him as harsh and garish tonight. If Finn had
been older, he’d have realized that he was receiving his first abject lesson
in the cruel architecture of love and loss, and how no depicted horror—
even in
The Tomb of Dracula
—could ever hope to match the awfulness of
a real one, but he was just a twelve-year-old boy who loved a dog that was
missing.
What was the point of being able to turn himself into a bat, or mist,
or live in a ruined castle in Transylvania without Sadie sleeping next
to him? What use was a crossbow, or a silver compact, or a crucifix in
fighting Dracula and his minions without his best friend bounding ahead
through the bush on one of their pre-dawn walks out by Bradley Lake,
fetching her red ball and bringing it back to him as though it was the
most precious token of love imaginable?
“What, Mom?” He leaned up on his elbow. “What did you say?”
“I said, there’s a young lady downstairs to see you,” Anne said. “She
said her name is Morgan Parr, and that she’s a friend of yours.”
“Morgan is here?” he said, surprised. “She’s downstairs?”
“She seems a little old to be a friend of yours, Finnegan,” Anne added.
“Which one of the family is she? How old is she?”
Finn sat up and wiped his face with his sleeve. “I don’t know how
old she is. We sometimes walk home from school together,” he said,
finessing the truth a little bit, knowing that his mother would be happier
if Morgan were his age. “She just moved here, from Toronto. She lives at
Parr House with her grandmother. Her mother lives there, too.”
Ah, Christina, of course—Christina Monroe. That was her name, at least back then. The one that got knocked up by Jack Parr and ran off to Toronto
under the cover of darkness. That one. The tramp. So, not a real Parr after all,
a shotgun Parr.
Anne Miller, who was not in the habit of gossiping, or thinking ill
of other women, immediately regretted her mean-spirited bitchiness,
even in thought, and rightly decided it was beneath her. All the girls had
crushes on Jack Parr, truth be told, so no girl that landed him would ever
be immune from the jealousy.
Besides,
she chided herself,
it was all a long
time ago. And it wasn’t this girl’s fault, anyway.
Anne noted that Finn had brightened since the news that Morgan
Parr was downstairs waiting for him. Until Sadie came home, or was
found, she’d be happy for anything that would take her son’s mind off
his lost dog.
“She’s very pretty,” Anne said. “She looks like her dad. I knew him in
school.”
“I guess,” Finn said, blushing. “Her dad’s dead, anyway.”
Anne blanched. “Jack’s
dead
? When? How?”
“I don’t know,” Finn said. “Don’t ask her about it, OK? I don’t think
she wants to talk about that stuff. At least not yet.”
“Well, don’t just sit there,” Anne said, recovering. “Put some cold
water on your face and come downstairs and greet your guest like a
gentleman. We don’t want her running back and telling Mrs. Parr she
visited a barnyard.”
Finn rolled his eyes at his mother. “She’s not like that,” he said,
suddenly protective of Morgan. “Mom, please just— I’ll be right down,
OK?”
He went down the hallway into the bathroom and closed the door.
Anne heard the water running and the sound of splashing as Finn washed
his face.
She went downstairs to tell Morgan that Finn would be down directly,
and to offer her a soft drink while she waited. When Morgan smiled and
thanked her politely, she felt even worse for her churlish thoughts about
Christina Monroe and Jack Parr.
What an awful, awful day,
she thought.
First Sadie, then that horrible
hockey bag, now this news.
Anne decided that another rum and coke—a strong one this time—
might hasten sleep and bring it to a close a little sooner, which would be
just what the doctor ordered.
“Your parents are nice,”
Morgan said as she and Finn sat in the
basement drinking Cokes. “Especially your mother. She asked me how
I liked the town. I told her I liked it a lot, but it was hard to get used to.”
She glanced around as she spoke. On the fireplace mantle there was
a framed photograph of a much younger Finn on the edge of a lake with
his arms around a wet black Labrador retriever shaking water from its
fur. Curling trophies, likely his father’s, flanked the photograph. Morgan
took in the fake wood panelling and the wet bar, and the hockey and
travel posters on the wall, thinking how nice it was not to be at Parr
House where everything seemed to be a brittle antique, including her
grandmother—to be in someplace normal for the first time since leaving
Toronto.
“They’re OK,” Finn said, shrugging. Then, thinking better of it, he
said, “No, they’re great. My mom, especially, yeah. I like them. Do you
like your mom?” He mentally kicked himself for asking such a stupid
question. “I mean, you probably do, right? Everyone likes their mom.”
Morgan laughed, but not unkindly. “Yeah, I love my mom. My uncle
Jeremy, on the other hand, probably doesn’t love
his
—my grandmother
is a bit hard to take sometimes. She’s a bit mean. She wasn’t really happy
about you and I becoming friends, I guess.”
Finn sounded indignant. “How come? What’s wrong with me?”
“It isn’t you,” Morgan said. “It’s anyone from here. I think she’d like
to think of me as this princess or something, and that I shouldn’t be
associating with the peasants, which is how she sees the people who live
here.”
“Well, she owns the whole town,” Finn said scornfully. “Of course
she’d think like that. How come she let you come here, then?”
“She doesn’t know I’m here—and I can’t stay long.” Morgan looked
at him more closely. Finn’s eyes were red and swollen. He looked as
though he had been crying for hours. “Where were you today?” she asked
gently. “I didn’t see you at lunchtime, or after school. Is everything OK?”
“My dog ran away. Her name is Sadie. I woke up this morning and
she wasn’t in the yard,” he said simply. “She’s lost. I cut school early to go
look for her. I went to Bradley Lake and looked all over, but I didn’t find
her.”
“Oh, God,” Morgan said. “I’m so sorry, Finn. I didn’t know. Why
didn’t you come get me when you got home? I would have helped you
look.”
“It’s OK,” he said. “I didn’t want to get you into trouble. I almost
got into trouble myself for cutting school but . . . well, something else
happened this afternoon.”
“What do you mean?”
Finn looked towards the stairs leading to the living room where his
parents were watching television. “If I tell you a secret, will you swear to
keep it?”
Morgan shrugged. “Sure, I guess so. What is it?”
“No, don’t say ‘I guess so,’” he said urgently. “You have to
swear
.”
“OK, I swear.” She forced herself to keep from smiling. “What is it?”
Then he told her about the bag of knives and hammers he’d found at
Spirit Rock.
Billy was pulling
into the parking lot of the Nugget when he saw the
flashing lights of the police cruiser coming towards him from the opposite
direction.
No siren,
he thought mirthlessly.
I guess they don’t think I’m a
high-speed chase risk
. Then,
Enough is enough with this harassment by these
goddamn yokel cops
. The cruiser pulled sharply into the spot next to Billy’s
allocated parking spot, the light still flashing.
He parked his Ford XL smartly and opened the door. The two cops—
both of them this time, which surprised him—were already waiting for
him beside their cruiser. The younger one actually had his flashlight out,
shining it at the truck.
Billy put his hand up over his face, blocking the light. “Sergeant
Thomson, would you please ask your colleague to put the light away? I’m
not going anywhere and, as you can plainly see, I’m me. There’s no need
for it.”
Thomson turned to Elliot and said, “Constable McKitrick, I don’t
think we need that light on Professor Lightning.” Then back to Billy, “I
apologize, sir.”
If Thomson’s intent in calling Billy “sir” and apologizing had been
to reassure him, it had the opposite effect. In Billy’s experience, the only
thing more ominous than a redneck cop being verbally abusive was a
redneck cop being ostentatiously polite.
“What is it this time, Sergeant Thomson?” Billy said calmly. “What
are you charging me with? Driving a Ford? Being an
Indian
driving a Ford?
Staying in a motel in your town? Or maybe having dinner at O’Toole’s,
which is where I have been all evening? It surely wasn’t speeding—and
that was a paragon of parking I just did.”
The younger cop—McKitrick—didn’t smile, but Thomson did,
however wanly. “Dr. Lightning, I wonder if you’d be so good as to
accompany us to the police station for a word?”
“We’re having ‘a word’ right now, Sergeant Thomson,” Billy snapped.
“Why do we need to go to the police station to do it? I’ve done nothing
wrong. There’s no reason for me to go to the police station with you. As I
explained to Constable McKitrick earlier today, I’m getting very tired of
this harassment, and am prepared to take action to make it stop.”
“There’s been a . . . development,” Thomson said. “It relates to your
story about your father’s death, as well as some other things. I’d really
appreciate it if you’d come along with us and help us clear some things up.
It won’t take any time at all, I’m sure. But we’d like to talk with you.”
“I think not,” Billy said coolly. “I think I’ll decline.”
“Sir,” Thomson said, this time with an edge, “if you don’t come along
with us of your own volition, I’m prepared to arrest you. I don’t want to,
but I will.”
“
Arrest
me? On what charge?”
“Please, Dr. Lightning,” Thomson said. “Trust me, I’d rather just
speak with you down at the station. But I will take whatever measures I
need to ensure that happens.”
“What are you going to do,” Billy demanded, “make something up?
Some trumped-up charge?”
Thomson merely shrugged. “Would you please come along with us,
Dr. Lightning?”
“You’re both going to hear from my lawyer about this,” Billy said in
a cold fury. “The minute I get to a telephone, I’m calling Toronto.”
“It’s the middle of the night, Dr. Lightning, and we’re a long way
from Toronto. Now,” Thomson said, opening the passenger door for Billy,
“if you please—just a chat.”
At the police station,
Thomson showed Billy the hockey bag. It was
zipped closed, with no hint of its contents visible. He watched Billy’s
face closely for a reaction, but none was discernible, other than a calmer
version of the same irritation he’d shown in the parking lot of the motel.
“I’ve never seen that before in my life,” Billy said. “What on earth
does it have to do with me?”
“It was found up by Spirit Rock this afternoon by a boy looking for
his lost dog,” Thomson said. “Constable McKitrick brought the boy back
to town. Do you know what we found in inside?”
“I have absolutely no idea what you found inside it, sergeant,” Billy
said. “Nor—and I know I’m repeating myself here, so forgive me—do I
have any idea what any of it has to do with me.”
Thomson opened his desk drawer and withdrew a clean pair of
latex gloves. He put them on and unzipped the bag. He withdrew the
manuscript and held it up for Billy to see.
“Do you know what this is, Dr. Lightning?” Thomson said quietly.
Billy leaned forward in his seat and peered at the papers Thomson
held in his hands. He looked confused for a moment, then he blanched.
If the confusion was some sort of act, Thomson thought, it was a damn
good act—better than any he’d seen, anywhere. When Billy spoke, his
voice was hushed.
“Where did you get that?” he demanded. “Where the
hell
did you get
that?”
“You recognize it, do you, Dr. Lightning?”
“It’s my . . . it’s my father’s manuscript.” As Billy stared at it, the look
of bafflement on his face was replaced by one of dawning horror. “Is that
blood
on those pages?”
“I think so,” Thomson said in a neutral voice. “Blood, some mud.
Grease. We haven’t had it tested yet—it was just found this afternoon.
Do you know what else we found in the bag?”
Billy shook his head. Thomson beckoned him over and opened the
flaps of the hockey bag. The stench that rose from the interior of the
bag was thicker and greasier than it had been even a few hours earlier.
Thomson felt his stomach lurch. The hammers and knives gleamed dull
brown and silver in the overhead light of the police station.
Billy looked inside the bag, then vomited into the trash can next
to Thomson’s desk. When he had finished retching, he stood up and
steadied his hand on the side of the desk. “May I have a glass of water,
please?”
“Elliot?” Thomson said. “Would you mind?”
“Those hammers are archaeological tools,” Billy said, wiping his
mouth with the back of his hand. “Those are the kind of hammers we
used here in 1952. I told you, it’s Weal. He’s here in Parr’s Landing, like
as I said. Now will you believe me?”
“Dr. Lightning, the problem is this—Richard Weal is dead. Those
couldn’t be his tools, and he couldn’t be in Parr’s Landing. He died in a
car crash earlier this year, in Toronto.”
“Not possible,” Billy said, shaking his head. He took the glass of
water Elliot brought him. “It’s not possible,” he repeated. “That’s the
manuscript that was taken from my father’s desk. The one I told you
about. Those are Richard Weal’s tools. What else could it be? I
knew
he
was going to come here. You’ve got to search for him. I
told
you. He’s here.”