Enter, Night (33 page)

“Dr. Lightning, I spoke with the investigating officer in Toronto
myself. They found his identification near the wreck. It looks like it was
a suicide.”

“Did they identify the body?” Billy demanded. “How did they identify
the body? Dental records?”

“There weren’t any dental records,” Thomson admitted. “The body
was burned beyond recognition, but the police were satisfied it was Weal.
So, as far as we’re concerned, certainly officially, he’s dead. Which means
that we have a problem. Can you see what that problem might be, sir?”

Billy laughed harshly. “You think
I
. . . You’re joking, right? You think
that bag is mine, and that those are my tools, and I . . . what, drove across
northern Ontario with a copy of my father’s manuscript in a hockey bag
doing God knows what, carving people up, then walked into the Parr’s
Landing police station and introduced myself to Constable McKitrick?
Are you
serious
?”

“Would you give us a sample of your fingerprints, just to clear this
up?”

“Absolutely not,” Billy snapped. “After the way I have been bullied
and harassed by Constable McKitrick practically since I arrived, and
shanghaied into coming in here tonight with implied threats of arrest,
I’d have to be very stupid to fall for that one. I’ll be telephoning my lawyer
in the morning. When you send the contents of that bag to a fingerprint
lab, you’ll find that I haven’t touched them. I’m going to raise such a holy
stink that you’ll be lucky to find work as security guards in the Northwest
Territories.”

“Dr. Lightning—”

Billy ignored Thomson, cutting him off in mid-sentence. “Now,” he
said, “if there’s nothing else, I’m going back to the motel. In the morning,
I’m going to go look for Richard Weal, with or without your help. Unless
he was working with some sort of accomplice—which I doubt—he’s here
in Parr’s Landing.”

Without waiting for a response from either Thomson or Elliot, Billy
walked out of the police station, letting the door slam behind him.

Thomson and Elliot were both silent. Then Thomson spoke.

“I think we have a problem,” he said slowly. “I don’t think it's
Lightning’s bag. I don’t know whose bag it is. But I think he’s telling the
truth.”

“Too much of a coincidence, Sarge,” Elliot said stubbornly. “And you
said this Weal was dead, so who else could it be?”

“I don’t know,” Thomson admitted. “I don’t know what the hell is
going on here, but it’s about time we called Gyles Point and told them
about this. In the meantime, Elliot, do not bother Dr. Lightning in any
way. We need to let him cool off a bit.”

“But Sarge—how can it
not
be Lightning? I mean, we have evidence—”

“For God’s sake, McKitrick, for once, just listen and do as I’m telling
you!” Thomson was practically shouting. “We have evidence of
something
having happened, probably something bad. But it doesn’t directly
implicate Lightning except for the fact that it’s his father’s manuscript.
If anything, it supports
his
goddamn theory about what happened. It
supports his theory that Weal came back here to the Landing, just like
Lightning said he would. Now, would you please, for the love of
Christ,
just leave him alone until we get some fingerprints, at least? Lightning
isn’t the only one who needs to cool off here. I don’t know what sort of
bug you have up your ass about this guy, but don’t let it get in the way of
you doing your job—the right way. You have a lot to learn about police
work, son. Don’t go off half-cocked and make us look like back-country
idiots.”

Elliot stared. He’d never heard Thomson raise his voice before.
He felt himself blushing and he lowered his eyes. “Yes, sir,” he said. “I
understand.”

Thomson softened. “Look, Elliot, you’re a good cop. You have a lot
going for you. I understand how you’re feeling right now about this. You
did good, bringing in the bag. No one is going to forget that when this
gets solved. But the rest of this has to go by the book. There’s too much
riding on it. I’m going to call Gyles Point and get this bag off to the lab
A S A P.”

“Yes, sir, I understand,” Elliot said again. “By the book. I’ll give
Lightning some space.”

“Good man,” Thomson said. “Now, go get some sleep, Elliot. I have
some calls to make.”

Just before midnight,
Finn was lying in his bed when heard a soft
scratching at the back door. He sat bolt upright in bed and listened. The
scratching came again, this time accompanied by a soft, familiar whining
sound. Finn’s heart leaped in his chest.
Sadie! It’s Sadie! She’s come home!

He threw back the covers and ran to the back door. He fumbled
with the latch, opened the door wide, and looked down. By the back yard
lights, he saw a familiar shape huddled by the door.

“Sadie! Sadie! You’re home!” He shouted for his parents. “Dad!
Mom
!
Sadie’s home! Come quick!” He heard muffled voices from upstairs, then
the sound of his parents’ feet on the hardwood floors, then pounding
down the stairs.

“Finn, is she back?” his mother said breathlessly. “Is she home?”

Finn’s rapturous joy rendered him incapable of any speech other
than his dog’s name, repeated like a mantra. “Sadie! Sadie! Sadie!”

“Finn, bring her in,” his father said. “Why is she still out there?”
Hank Miller reached out for Sadie and tried to pick her up. The Labrador
yelped in pain and cowered back. His hand came away slick with blood
and fur.

“Dad, don’t hurt her!” Finn cried. “Be careful!”

“She’s hurt,” Hank said. “She’s been in some kind of fight, I think.”
Then, to the dog, “Here, Sadie, come. Come inside, girl.”

The Labrador looked fearfully behind her, and then scooted into the
house, dragging her left leg behind her slightly as though it were broken,
or sprained. Once inside, she collapsed on the floor beside the back door,
lying on her side and breathing in shallow hitches.

Finn bent over her and gingerly explored her fur with his fingertips.
His parents stood back as though they instinctively understood that
their son was the authority in this case.

When he inhaled sharply, the sound he made releasing it reminded
Anne of a punctured birthday party balloon. Both she and Hank leaned
in to see what Finn was looking at.

Sadie was covered with bites. Finn counted two, three, four clumps
of matted fur and blood along her thick neck and flanks. In those places,
the fur had been torn away, exposing the ravaged pink flesh beneath.
The bite marks were about two inches apart and, to Finn’s inexpert eye,
looked deep and nasty.

“Mom, she’s been bitten all over,” Finn said, horrified. “She’s been
in a fight with some animal or something. Look! It’s horrible. Sadie,” he
crooned, petting her head. “It’s all right, girl, you’re home now. It’s OK.
Shhhh, it’s OK.”

“Be careful, Finn,” Anne said. “She might be . . . well, whatever animal
she fought with might have been rabid.”

“Rabies doesn’t work that way, Anne,” Hank said. “It’s not that fast acting. We’ll take her to the vet tomorrow and check her out. She’s had
all of her shots this year, so she’ll be all right, I’m sure. Finn, see if you
can get her to come upstairs where there’s some proper light. Anne, get
the first aid box. It’s in the medicine cabinet. There’s some hydrogen
peroxide there. At least we can clean these cuts and bites a little bit.”

“
Don’t hurt her!
” Finn screamed.

“Hydrogen peroxide doesn’t hurt, Finn,” Anne said soothingly,
putting her hand on his shoulder. “It’ll be fine, you’ll see. And in the
morning, we’ll get her to the vet and get her checked out.”

Finn put his fingers in front of Sadie’s muzzle and rubbed his thumb
against them, a familiar invitation to her to follow him, one that usually
implied treats.

Sadie, if you get up and follow me now, I’ll give you anything you want.
Please, God,
Finn prayed silently
. Make my dog better. Please let her get up
and follow me.

He heard the sound of Sadie’s tail thumping weakly against the floor
before he saw it. Sadie rose shakily to her feet, tail swinging from side to
side, and slowly followed Finn upstairs.

In the kitchen, Hank swabbed her bites with hydrogen peroxide.
His wife and son noticed the gentleness with which he ministered to the
injured dog, and it surprised even him, truth be told. It wouldn’t be till
much later, when he was in bed with his wife sleeping next to him, that
Hank Miller would weep his own tears of relief at Sadie’s return—modest
tears, to be sure, because men didn’t cry, at least not in front of women
and children, but he’d been a boy once, too, and he remembered what it
was like to love a dog the way only a twelve-year-old boy really can.

Anne brought a crocheted afghan downstairs from the cedar chest
in their bedroom and laid it on top of Sadie to keep her warm during the
night. She kissed Sadie’s muzzle and said, “Good night, sweet dog.” Anne
wiped her cheek with the back of her hand and stood up. She cleared her
throat. “All right, Finn. Back to bed. Sadie will be all right here by the
stove. In the morning, I’ll drive her over to the vet clinic right away, I
promise.”

“Can I come, too?” Finn pleaded. “Please? Even if I miss the morning
part of school? Please?”

“Of course you can, honey,” Anne said. “She’s your dog. She’d want
you there.”

Hank turned off the overhead light. Sadie lay her head on her paws.
Her breathing was still shallow, but it slowed as they stood in the doorway,
then became deep and regular in peaceful sleep.

When Finn heard the sound of her leg twitching on the floor in the
way it did when Sadie was dreaming of running, he sighed in relief and
silently reassured God of his intention to honour his part of the deal he’d
made, as long as God honoured His.

It was well after midnight
by the time Elliot stopped at O’Toole’s
on the way home from the police station. He needed a drink, but more
importantly he was hoping for a chance to speak with Donna Lemieux
and make things right. But the only person behind the bar tonight was a
supremely pissed off Bill O’Toole, the owner.

“I don’t know where she is,” he fumed. “She didn’t open tonight, and
she didn’t call. She won’t answer her goddamn telephone. I couldn’t get
Molly to take her shift tonight because she’s off for the week visiting
family in Wawa. So guess who that leaves? Me, the owner, washing
glasses and tending bar. Well, we’ll see if she still has a job when she
waltzes back in here. We’ll just
see
about that.”

Elliot doubted very much that Bill O’Toole meant a fraction of what
he was saying about firing Donna, who was the primary reason—besides
the liquor—that men came to O’Toole’s in the first place.

“Maybe I’ll take a run by her place and make sure she’s all right,”
Elliot said to Bill O’Toole, thinking to himself how unlike Donna it was
to miss work. Sleep late, yes. Be pissed at Elliot, yes—take a number.
But she wasn’t an irresponsible eighteen-year-old girl; she was a divorced
adult woman with a carved-in-stone survivor’s work ethic.

Bill paused. The notion that anything could be wrong with Donna
clearly hadn’t occurred to him. “You don’t think anything’s really the
matter, do you?”

“Dunno, Bill, but it’s worth checking out,” Elliot said gruffly. “You
didn’t go over there yourself, I take it?” Elliot knew full well that he
hadn’t, and felt a flash of remorse that he was taking out his own guilt
over last night on Bill O’Toole.”

“No, I just figured she . . . well, I don’t know what I figured. It’s not
like Donna, is it, Elliot? You think she’s OK?”

“Tell you what, Bill,” he said. “I’ll check on her. If you don’t hear back
from me, you can just assume that she’s under the weather. If something’s
wrong, I’ll give you a call, I promise.”

Bill looked at Elliot with relief. “Good deal,” he said. He took a bottle
out of the beer fridge behind him and proffered it. “One for the road,
Elliot? On the house?”

Elliot shook his head. “Another time, Bill.” He winked. “I’ll let you
know about Donna. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

When he pulled into
Donna’s driveway, the first thing he saw was
that the house was completely dark. Not even the porch light had been
switched on, something Donna, like most people in Parr’s Landing, did
reflexively once night fell. The house, set back from the street—ordinary
in every possible way—tonight had the aspect of a cenotaph.

Elliot rang the doorbell. He heard the cling-clang of it on the other
side of the door. Somewhere in the back region of the house, likely the
kitchen, he heard what sounded like the plaintive mewling of a hungry
cat. Elliot hated cats as a rule, but this one—Samantha—he had grown
fond of over the course of his visits to Donna’s bedroom. Nice cat. Hungry,
it sounded like. Donna would never, ever neglect feeding Samantha,
whatever else she might or might not do.

The image of the bag of bloody knives and hammers from Spirit
Rock suddenly flashed through Elliot’s mind in a crimson streak.

He reached for the doorknob and turned it. The door was unlocked
and swung open. Switching on his flashlight, he played the beam over the
empty living room. On the wall adjacent to the doorway, Elliot located
the light switch and flicked it up and down. Nothing. He stepped over the
threshold.

“Donna?” Elliot called out softly. “Donna, it’s me. It’s Elliot. Are you
here?”

The darkness and silence seemed to mock him. The sound of
Samantha’s mewling came from the next room, louder than before.

Elliot crossed the living room and stepped into the kitchen, his
flashlight beam playing in front of him, picking up objects here and there
without illuminating the room as a whole. The kitchen was immaculate,
the sink dry. He tried the light switch on the wall. It was dead here, too.