Enter, Night (14 page)

“As you wish, Sergeant Thomson.” Billy sat down on the edge of the
bed and stretched his legs. “You’ll forgive me, but it’s been a long drive.
I’d rather not stand. I’m a little sleep deprived and I hadn’t expected you
before twelve noon.”

“Absolutely.” Thomson smiled. “According to Constable McKitrick,
you were curious about any break-ins that we may have had in the area.
May I ask why?”

“I recently lost my father, Sergeant Thomson.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Dr. Lightning.” Thomson made a sympathetic
face, and waited for Billy to elaborate.

“He was murdered. In his home. In Toronto. About six weeks ago.”

“I see. Again, I’m very sorry to hear that. It’s a terrible tragedy to
befall any family. But surely, Dr. Lightning, you didn’t drive all this way
on the matter of your father’s death? What could break-ins in Parr’s
Landing have to do with that very sad event?”

Billy took a deep breath, realizing in advance how what he was about
to tell the two police constables was going to sound to them. He wished
they were sitting in the police station, as he’d originally planned, or at
the very least that Thomson had phoned, as Billy had made clear was his
preference.

You’re not in the university now, Dr. Lightning,
he reminded himself.
You’re back up north. Remember that, for your own good.

“Sergeant Thomson, my father spent some time here in Parr’s
Landing twenty years ago, in 1952. He was an archaeologist at the
University of Toronto.”

“Yes, I know.”

Billy raised his eyebrows. “You
know
? How do you know?”

“I joined the Parr’s Landing detachment as a constable shortly after
his crew left town, but I remember hearing about it from my predecessor,
Sergeant Bowles. He told me all about the excavation. He spoke very
highly of your dad.”

“Thank you,” Billy said. “Did Sergeant Bowles tell you what
happened? I mean, why my father had to terminate the excavation?”

“No, sir, he didn’t. Forgive me again, Dr. Lightning, but I have to
ask—what does this have to do with why you’re here, and what does it
have anything to do with possible crimes in Parr’s Landing?”

Billy gestured again at the chairs on either side of the table. “It’s a
rather involved story, gentlemen. I’m happy to explain, but you really
should sit down.”

Thomson sighed and pulled out a chair. He sat down. He nodded
to Elliot, indicating that he should sit down, as well. The younger man
rolled his eyes, but sat nonetheless. He pulled a note pad from his jacket
pocket and began writing.

Thomson asked him, “What was your father’s name, Dr. Lightning?
For the sake of clarity in our report?”

“His name was Professor Phenius Osborne.” Billy said, and then
spelled it out.

Elliot raised his eyebrows. “Sorry, what? He was your father, I think
you said? Why do you have a different last name than him? Wasn’t his
name Lightning, too? Or did he change it? Was he an Indian, too?”

“I was adopted when I was twelve years old, constable. From the St.
Rita’s residential school in Sault Ste. Marie,” Billy said coolly, ignoring
the second part of Elliot’s question. “I was William Osborne for six years.
I took back my name legally when I turned eighteen, with both of my
parents’ blessing.”

“You mean the Osbornes’ blessings, don’t you?” Elliot persisted.
“Did your Indian parents influence you in some way?”

“My birth father had died by the time I was able to look for him—my
search for him was also with my parents’ blessing. The Osbornes were my
legal parents, and were—and are—the only parents I have ever had. My
mother—Margaret Osborne—passed away five years ago.” He turned
to Thomson. “Is this really relevant? I fail to see how the details of my
adoption are relevant at this point, and I’m finding Constable McKitrick’s
questions intrusive and crude. Do you mind?”

“I think we have enough information for right now, constable,”
Thomson said evenly. “No need for you to take any more notes. If we
need a formal statement from Dr. Lightning at some point, I’m sure he’ll
oblige us. Right, doctor?”

Billy nodded impatiently. “Yes, of course.”

“Please tell us your story, Dr. Lightning. The sooner we get all of this
cleared up, the better we may be able to sort it all out.”

And then Billy braced himself and told the two policemen his story.

“In the summer of 1952,
we came to Parr’s Landing to excavate the site
of the St. Barthélemy mission to the Ojibwa,” Billy Lightning began. “My
father was writing a book about the history of the Jesuit settlements and
the long-term effects of Christianization on the native population since
the seventeenth century. My father brought two graduate students and
me. It was my first trip with him.

“I hadn’t yet decided on either archaeology or anthropology as a
career, but my father felt it was important that I be part of this particular
project because of my native ancestry. When my parents adopted me,
they took me to Toronto and placed me in an expensive, progressive
private school, one that was respectful of my heritage. Money can buy
you almost anything,” Billy said, the trace of bitterness not entirely
disguised by his professorial delivery. “Even respect from other people.
At St. Rita’s in the Soo, the priests had done everything possible to beat
the Indian out of me. My father and mother wanted to try to heal some
of that, and they believed that an excellent education was the best way to
undo some of the damage.

“One of my father’s students on the dig was a young man named
Richard Weal. Dad described him as the most brilliant student he’d ever
had. His IQ was in the highest percentile, and he had an academic history
that was stellar, as well. I think Dad saw him as second son.”

“How did that make you feel?” Thomson asked.

“It didn’t make me ‘feel’ one way or another, Sergeant Thomson. My
parents took a twelve-year-old orphan boy out of a church-run hellhole
and into their homes and their hearts. They gave me the best education
money could buy. Their love for me wasn’t a question in my mind. My
father’s pride in Richard wasn’t a threat to me at all. It wasn’t that sort of
relationship. I was Dad’s son, not Richard.”

“Just establishing the facts, Dr. Lightning. Please go on.”

“The second student was a young man named Emory Greer. He and
Richard barely knew each other at the time they agreed to join my father
on this dig. They were both students of his, but from very different
backgrounds. Emory was very quiet and self-effacing. He was deeply
studious, even by post-graduate standards. Richard, on the other hand,
was a star in and out of the classroom. As an undergraduate, he’d been on
the varsity track team—as I recall, his event was the decathlon. He was
popular with everyone.

“The dig had been intended as a three-month project. We’d made
two teams—I was assisting my father, and Emory and Richard were the
second team. My father had arranged with the Parr family for us to work
in and around the region of Bradley Lake between June and August.
Everything had been going relatively smoothly. Even the black flies were
manageable that spring, which, the locals told us, was unusual. It had
been cold, so maybe that’s what kept them at bay.

“In any case, we were making a bit of progress—some arrowheads,
bits of utensils. Some coins. Nothing particularly remarkable, at first. We
also found what we thought might have been an altar chalice of some
sort. That was a banner day. As I recall, Richard found that particular
item.

“After about the second week, we noticed that Richard was acting
strangely. He would go silent for hours on end, almost like he couldn’t
hear us. I remember on one occasion, early on, we were five miles into
the bush from Bradley Lake, and Richard was on his knees brushing
something—a patch of rock, or something—to clean it. He suddenly
looked up and said, ‘What?’ No one had spoken to him, or said anything
for that matter. It was a completely quiet day.”

Elliot asked, “Echoes, maybe? From in town? Sound plays funny
tricks up there on that escarpment sometimes.”

“No, not that day,” Billy replied. “There wasn’t even any wind. Richard
got very angry with us. It was completely out of character for him to get
angry like that, especially with my father. Richard actually
cursed
—again,
very odd. He was quite a Christer, you understand. He was never pushy
about his religion. He kept it to himself most of the time, but I know he
was a fairly devout churchgoer, and I never heard him swear. He stormed
off into the bush and said he needed to clear his head. He took off in the
direction of the cliff where the Ojibwa pictographs are located.”

“I’m sorry—the what?”

“The Indian paintings,” Thomson explained without turning to look
at Elliot. “Go on, Dr. Lightning. We’re listening.”

“When Richard didn’t come back for lunch, Dad went out to look for
him. Dad spent about two hours, and then came back without him. He
said he couldn’t find him anywhere. He was pretty worried—like I said,
he was very fond of Richard. At five, we were just about to drive into
town and report him missing when he came wandering back to the site.
His face was scratched and dirty. There were bits of branches in his hair.
His clothes were filthy.

“My father’s first thought was that he’d been hurt in some way.
Richard stumbled a bit, like he was drunk. He tripped and fell, then
lay there for a moment. We rushed over to help him up. He seemed
disoriented.”

Thomson said, “Was he drunk? Did he have a bottle back out there
in the bush?”

“No, he wasn’t. In fact, the first thing he did when we picked him up
off the ground was down an entire canteen full of water. He drank it like
he was trying to put out a fire in his throat. Dad told him to slow down
and take it easy, but Richard just brushed him away and kept drinking till
he’d drained the entire canteen dry.

“My father asked him where he’d been. Richard seemed confused
by the question. He believed it was just before lunchtime. My father told
him it was close to five p.m. and he’d been gone the entire afternoon. He
thought we were joking until Emory showed Richard his watch. Richard
said he’d gone for a walk—he’d been very angry, he said. He was convinced
that we were playing tricks on him before.

“He said he heard a man say his name, practically right beside his ear.
My father told him he must have imagined it, but Richard said he hadn’t
imagined it. He said he heard it clearly. Then he’d heard it a second time,
fainter, but no less clearly. When he’d looked up, there had been no one
there except us. He hadn’t believed us when we said we hadn’t heard
anything, which was why he stormed off.”

“Did he say where he’d gone?” Thomson asked.

“He said he’d gone for a walk. He said he didn’t remember anything
else.”

“But you say he was gone for—what, five hours? And he didn’t know
where he’d gone?”

“As I said, he thought he was only away for about twenty minutes.
He said he’d walked in the general direction of the cliffs where the
pictographs are located. He said he didn’t know why he’d left the site, or
how far he’d walked.”

Thomson said, “You say he was scratched up? Dirty? Did you ask
him how he got that way?”

“Yes, sergeant, of course we did.” Billy said. “Richard looked down at
himself like it was the first time he’d seen the dirt and the scratches. He
actually seemed surprised. He said he must have fallen. My father asked
him if he’d maybe hit his head and had been unconscious the whole time,
but Richard said, ‘No, I’d have remembered that.’ He didn’t remember
anything, but he said he would have remembered the pain of falling down.
Dad checked his head—no bumps, no cuts, nothing. He was drenched in
dried sweat, Dad said, which was odd considering that it was a cool day
and he hadn’t really done much work that morning. But my father said
his clothes were stiff with it.”

“What happened then?” Elliot had abandoned any pretence of
disinterest in Billy’s story at this point. He leaned forward in his chair,
elbow on a knee, chin cradled in his knuckles.

“We drove him to the one doctor in town. On the way, he drank a
second canteen of water, more slowly this time, but again—all the way
down. I don’t remember the doctor’s name.”

“Probably Doc Oliver,” Thomson said, more by reflex than anything
else. “He died in ’69. Good man. Smart fella, even for a doctor.”

“As I said, I don’t remember. It was more than twenty years ago.
In any case, the doctor checked Richard over and said he couldn’t find
anything wrong with him. Nothing broken, obviously, no evidence of any
concussion. The doctor actually suggested that it might have been a mild
form of heat stroke, but that it would be hard to tell because of all the
water he’d drunk as soon as he came back to the site. He told us to take
Richard back to the motel and put him to bed so he could sleep it off.

“Richard was sharing a room here at the Nugget with Emory. That
night, Emory woke up to find the door to the motel wide open. It was a
bright night. There were a lot of stars. Richard’s bed was empty. Emory
put on his bathrobe and his shoes and went to the doorway. Emory saw
Richard kneeling in the middle of the road leading to the motel. He was
completely naked. According to Emory, although Richard’s back was to
him, he looked like he was praying. His hands were folded in front of his
chest and he was staring off towards the edge of town, looking in the
general direction of Bradley Lake with his head slightly bowed.

“Emory pulled a blanket off his bed and ran over to Richard. As he
got closer, he could tell that Richard was fast asleep. He’d obviously been
sleepwalking. Emory said it was a miracle he hadn’t been hit by a car or
a truck down there in the road. He put the blanket around his shoulders
and tried to get him to stand. He told my dad that Richard struggled at
first but that he eventually came along with him. Emory said Richard was
muttering in his sleep.”