Grave Situation (46 page)

“Have you talked to
him?”

“I have,” David said. “I don’t
know if it’s the years I spent as a cop, but something about this
guy seemed…well, off.”

“What makes you say
that?”

“I don’t know. It was his
demeanor. But like I said, it could be the years I spent as a
cop.”

A trace of a smile moved the corner
of Allan’s mouth. “I know what you mean. After a while you start
suspecting everyone.”

“Matteau told me that he got a
call from Eagles earlier in the day.”

Allan straightened.
“Yeah?”

“He told Matteau that he had some
business to take care of and might drop over during the day, but he
never showed up.”

“And we know why that was,” Allan
said. “What do you know about Herb Matteau?”

“There’s nothing to know. He’s
squeaky clean. No priors of any kind. Not even a parking
ticket.”

“What does he do for a
living?”

“He’s a dairy farmer.”

Allan considered this. “An
honorable profession.”

“Yes,” David agreed. “He made the
news here last month. Had an environmental issue that ended up
killing a bunch of fish in Elm River. Court came down quite hard on
him.”

“Did he give you the names of
anyone else that Eagles might know?”

“No. But I think most of his
associates are going to be in your territory, Lieutenant. That’s
where he spent the last sixteen years when he wasn’t in
prison.”

Allan blew out a puff of air. “I
think you’re right.”

“Doctor Fitzgerald scheduled the
autopsy on Eagles in the morning,” David told him. “Maybe something
will come from it.”

Allan suddenly froze.

Autopsy?

His heart started beating
faster.

Is that it?

“I need to go, Chief,” he said
abruptly. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

The two men hung up and Allan
gripped the steering wheel in front of him. His thoughts flipped
from Cathy Ambré to Hector Walsh and back again. All at once, he
became aware of another connection between them. They weren’t
linked to Eagles at all. Allan cursed himself for not noticing it
before. Perhaps because it seemed so unlikely. Even now he couldn’t
get his mind around it.

Cecil Drake would be exhumed in the
morning. Allan needed to see the body—the piece to this whole
puzzle could lay with it. Guesswork or instincts, it didn’t matter
now.

If he were right the ramifications
were huge.

47

Acresville,
May 24

7:47 a.m.

The empty whiskey bottle fell from
Herb’s hand and clinked on the ground by his feet. Through a
drunken fog, he looked at it for a second and then moved his gaze
to the spot a few feet away where he had buried his father,
eighteen years before.

“So here we are again,” he
whispered. “You and me.”

He stood there under the twisted
branches of the crab apple tree, the warmth of the early morning
sun on his shoulders, the susurrus of wind through the grass around
him.

However difficult, he had been able
to leave his father here. Move on from that tragic autumn day and
run the farm himself in relative peace. Only in recent weeks the
memory and pain of his terrible past had reawakened in him like
some dead fiend suddenly brought back to life. Even worse, there
seemed to be no way to kill it.

Herb didn’t know why he had come up
here now. Maybe it was the courage brought on by the whiskey. Or
maybe he just needed to finally put his matters to rest. Resolve
those lasting issues that ate away at him.

Still he found it hard to
do.

In his haunted mind, he relived the
day he had killed his father.

* * *

It began as it had many times
before—his father, drunk and on the prowl for someone to take his
anger out on.

In the weeks since his wife’s
passing, his state of mind seemed to deteriorate; his drinking
worsened. Nightly binges at Gary’s Tavern became custom. Often he
would come home in the early morning hours with the slam of the
door.

When it happened, Herb would lie
still in his bed, as he had so many times as a young child, a sense
of panic creeping over him because at any moment, he expected his
door to burst open. But it rarely did. Seldom did his father come
upstairs anymore.

Maybe he was too intoxicated to
climb the steps. Maybe he didn’t want to face the empty bedroom he
had once shared with his wife. He would stay downstairs, sometimes
ranting to himself, sometimes breaking things.

In the morning
Herb would find pieces of those things scattered across the kitchen
floor—a broken glass, a shattered whiskey bottle, a cracked picture
frame that had once held a family photo. His father, broken like
everything else, would be passed out on the chesterfield in
the
living room.

Whenever possible, Herb avoided
him. He would leave early for school, hang out with Slick
afterwards, and go home as late as he could. Only his chores on the
farm brought him together with his father. Even then, they barely
spoke.

Years had passed since the man last
put a hand on his son.

But on this early Saturday morning,
all that would change.

Alone in the milking parlor, Herb
prepped cow udders. Milking was done twice a day, spaced at
twelve-hour intervals. As he had been taught, Herb forestripped,
predipped and dried each teat before attaching the milking cups. He
worked quickly and diligently. Three cows hooked up. Then
four.

Over the noise of the vacuum pump,
he didn’t hear the staggering gait of his father’s footsteps coming
up behind him.

“What the hell are you doing?” he
snapped. “You worthless piece of shit.”

Herb swung around, dropping the
cluster assembly from his hands. Swinging from hoses, it struck the
wall of the operator pit with a smack.

His father’s face was flushed with
a mix of whiskey and anger. Herb just stood there, petrified,
unable to answer.

Incensed by this, the man yelled,
“Tell me.”

“Try…trying to get the milking
started.”

“I can see that,” his father
snarled. “Did I ever say you could start without me?”

Reflexively, Herb shook his head.
“It was past six a.m.” He swallowed. “And you were
asleep.”

A scowl deepened the seams in the
man’s face. “Do you check for mastitis?”

“Yes. They’re all
fine.”

The man’s molten stare moved up and
down his son with something akin to contempt. Then, without
warning, he struck Herb across the face with a savage backhand
slap. Herb fell sideways, landing hard on the cement floor. His
eyes began to water. His nose felt swollen, perhaps broken; blood
trickled from it.

Slowly, he lifted his gaze up at
his father. The man stood over him, glaring down.

“You’re just like your mother,” he
growled. “You never fucking listen.”

Herb got to his feet. Backing away,
he ran from the building to the house. He rushed upstairs to the
bathroom where he spat blood into the sink. Then he tore off a
strip of toilet tissue and wadded it against his nose. His hands
were shaking.

The face he saw in the mirror
belonged to that of the small child he had once been. Frightened.
Helpless. Alone. He suppressed the urge to cry. Found it
difficult.

Tears filled his eyes. He tossed
the bloodied tissue into the toilet and flushed it. As he watched
it spiraling around the bowl, a painful memory came flooding back
to him.

In the backyard the man pushed his
son to the grass by the flagstone walk. Afraid to move, the boy
laid there, face down, breathing in harsh gasps. At any moment he
expected to feel the jab of the cold rifle barrel.

Seconds passed.

A minute.

Nothing happened.

Curious, the boy brought up his
head. His father stood a few feet away with the 30.06 cradled in
his arms, barrel pointing toward the ground. The man seemed fixated
on something off to his right.

The boy looked. Thirty feet away
Jessie watched them from the side of the poultry coop. Inside it
came the light clucking of hens.

Nervously, the boy’s eyes jumped
from the dog back to his father. Was the man going to shoot
Jessie?

Like an automaton, his father
started toward the spaniel.

“No, Dad,” the boy cried after
him. “No.”

Halfway between the dog and his
son, the man stopped and raised the rifle.

The boy leapt to his feet and
bolted to his father. As he reached him, he began to strike the man
with his little fists. With a scowl, his father spun around and
struck his son across the face. Arms flailing, the boy staggered
back and fell.

He became hysterical now. He
screamed for his dog to run. But Jessie didn’t run. Tail tucked
between its hind legs, the spaniel sheepishly lowered its
head.

Everything seemed to lapse into
slow motion. His father aimed the rifle, one eye screwed shut, the
other sighted down the barrel.

“Don’t do it, Daddy. Please…” The
boy’s words were lost in a detonation that split the
air.

Herb shut his eyes. This was all
too much to bear. The abuse. The ubiquitous anxiety. The
uncertainty of his father’s volatile mood swings. Whatever the
outcome, something had to be done and it had to be done now. He
could no longer live like this.

Mechanically, he went downstairs.
Displayed on a rack over the fireplace was the 30.06 rifle his
father had used to shoot Jessie, many years ago. For a moment, Herb
stared at it. Hatred coursed through his veins, murderous intent
through his mind.

He turned and faced the living
room. Where, he wondered, were the bullets?

The closet seemed the likely place.
He edged toward it, ever vigilant of his father, the sound of a
door opening and closing.

He tore through the closet. There
were coats and jackets, boots and shoes belonging to his parents.
Not much else. Tucked in one corner he saw two fishing rods, a
tackle box. It was strange, Herb thought, he had never known his
father to fish.

The box contained lures, hooks, and
jigs—all looked to be brand new. Herb checked the top shelf. Hats
and gloves. As he began to push these items aside, he saw an object
that stopped him abruptly—a hunting knife; one he had never seen
before.

In an act of will, Herb brought it
down. Slowly, he pulled it out of the leather sheath. The knife was
attractive with a shiny drop point blade and black Micarta handle.
Holding it in his hand, Herb felt a transformation come over him;
he became empowered, confident. In his mind he watched his father
cowering before him. Hands raised, eyes widened in fear, he pleaded
with his son to stop.

Do it, Herb heard a voice tell him.
You need to end this.

With a tight grip on the knife, he
left the house in search of his father.

In single file, cows were exiting
the milking parlor into the feedlot. Herb knew that his father
would still be inside the building, cleaning up. He began to
approach the parlor, his footsteps becoming slower the closer he
got.

His father was there, standing with
his back to him, spraying the floor with a hose. Completely still,
Herb watched him. He felt unable to move.

Do it, the voice repeated. Do it
now.

Herb swallowed. On tiptoes, he
crept up behind his father.

Twelve feet.

Then ten.

Suddenly, the hose shut off and the
man paused, as if he had heard something. Breath held, Herb stopped
in mid-step. He expected his father to spin around and catch him.
His heart pounded in his ears, his nerves jangled.

With a shrug that was almost
undetectable, his father turned on the hose again. Water showered
the floor.

Eight feet.

Six.

Eyes narrowed on his target. Soon
the man must look behind him.

Four feet.

Three.

Herb could feel the hesitation in
his hand.

Do it now.

In one convulsive motion, he lunged
at his father, thrusting the blade deep into his side. A loud
squeal echoed off the walls. The hose fell to the floor. Snapping
sideways at the waist, the man reached for the cause of his sudden
pain.

Hand shaking, Herb wrenched the
blade free. Then he recoiled in horror, staring at his father. The
man turned to him, wobbling a bit. His eyes were stricken, his face
a pantomime of surprise. He touched the wound and then looked at
the blood on his fingertips.

“What…what have you done?” he
exploded. “You little shit. You little fucking shit.”