The Dells (35 page)

It was almost eight o'clock by the time Shoe checked Janey into the Days Hotel on Wilson under his own name, booking the room for a week. He carried her suitcase up to the room. Inside, he said, “I wish you'd change your mind about the hospital and the police,” even though he knew it was too late to run a rape kit. She'd taken at least one shower since her stepbrother had raped her, probably more, effectively washing away any DNA or trace evidence.

“Do me a favour,” she said, surveying the room. “Forget it, all right? Please.”

“It's not that easy,” he said. He watched her open the mini-bar, examine the contents, close it, then sit on the edge of the single, king-sized bed and bounce gently, testing it. “You said Dougie hadn't touched you since Freddy and your mother died. What happened to set him off?”

“I dunno. Most of the time, he's predictable as gravity, but … ” She shrugged. “It was probably my own
damned fault. I should never have moved into that house, except I couldn't afford to live anywhere else. Bankruptcy didn't erase all my debts and neither of my real jobs pays that well. The band management gig is actually costing me money.”

“It wasn't your fault, Janey,” Shoe said.

“But I should've known better than to stay there after the first time he came down to complain about my stereo being too loud. He never tried anything, but I could see what was on his mind.”

“It wasn't your fault,” Shoe said again. “Any more than it was when you were ten years old.”

“Can we change the subject?”

“Let's get you something to eat,” Shoe said.

She looked at herself in the mirror over the telephone desk, touching her bruised face. “I'm not going anywhere looking like this.”

“We'll order,” he said. “Or pick something up. We passed a noodle place on the way here. You should be able to eat noodles without too much trouble.”

“I am kind of hungry,” she admitted.

He left her in the room and drove to the noodle shop, where he bought an order of noodles in a half-litre plastic tub, plus two spring rolls and sauce. When he returned to the hotel, Janey was on the bed, fast asleep, wearing just her T-shirt and panties, revealing darkening, handshaped bruises on her upper thighs. There were two empty vodka miniatures and a can of tonic on the bedside table. Shoe put the noodles and spring rolls in the mini-bar refrigerator. He spread the extra blanket from the closet over her, then wrote her a note that included his parents' telephone number and left it on the desk with the key card. He made sure the door was locked behind him.

Shoe drove to Hallam's bar. Hallam's Hummer wasn't in either the front or rear parking area, but he went into the bar anyway. A different bartender was on
duty, a doughy-faced man with an ill-fitting hairpiece and dentures that wobbled in his mouth when he spoke. He claimed he hadn't seen Hallam since shortly after opening up that morning, nor did he know where he was, or when he would return. He'd be happy to pass on a message, however.

“Tell him Joe Shoe is looking for him,” Shoe said.

“Certainly, sir. That would be yourself then, would it, sir?”

“It would,” Shoe replied.

On the chance that Hallam might take a woman to the Dells before dark, Shoe drove east on Sheppard Avenue. Just before Keele, Sheppard descended into Black Creek ravine, then climbed out again. The entrance to the Dells was at the bottom of the hollow, next to the short bridge under which Black Creek ran. He turned right onto the access road and drove through the open gate.

In the evening of the final day of the civic holiday weekend, there were still a lot of people in the park: picnic groups of every size and demographic makeup; dozens of cyclists and walkers, many with dogs; kids kicking soccer balls and flying kites; oil-basted sun worshippers who had evidently never heard of skin cancer taking in the last slanting rays of the setting sun; couples entwined on blankets, or under them. He did not find Hallam's Hummer.

A heavy-set black man in coveralls was removing trash bags from the roadside bins and throwing them into the back of a green John Deere utility vehicle. Shoe pulled off onto the shoulder of the access road, got out of the car, and walked back to him.

“You can't park there,” the man said, as he put a fresh trash bag in the bin.

“I have a couple of questions for you,” Shoe said.

“What now?”

If he believed Shoe was with the police, Shoe wasn't
going to correct his misapprehension. “Do you know a man named Douglas Hallam?” he asked.

“Yeah, I guess you could say I know him. Sort of. What about him?”

“Have you seen him?”

“Today, you mean? No.”

“Are you aware that he has keys to the park gate and that he brings women to the park at night in his truck?”

“Yeah,” the man replied warily. “I might be.”

“Do you know he has keys to the gate or don't you?”

“Okay, so he's got keys. He didn't get them from me.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“In the park, you mean? Not in a while.”

“Did you see him Thursday night?”

“The night that guy was killed in the woods, you mean? No. Like I told the other detectives, when I locked up that night, the guy who died, his car was in the big lot, along with another car. The other car was gone in the morning. Someone must've let it out. It wasn't me. I guess it could've been Mr. Hallam, but I didn't see him that night.”

“Could it have been Hallam driving the other car?”

“Could've been, sure, but it wasn't him I saw talking to the dead guy. Around nine. He was still alive then, o' course,” he added with an impish smile. “It was another big guy. Maybe he was driving the other car.”

“Can you describe him?”

“Six foot and a bit. Fat. Fifty, fifty-five. Dark grey hair. I think he was wearing glasses.”

It was identical to the description Syd the bartender had given him of the man who'd left the bar with Dougie Hallam on Saturday night. While the description fit Hal, as in the bar, it fit a good many of the men in the park that evening as well.

“What kind of car was it?” Shoe asked.

“Toyota, maybe a Corolla or a Camry. Beige or grey.”

“It wasn't a silver Lexus?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you tell the police about the other car and the man you saw talking to Cartwright?” Shoe asked.

The man's eyes narrowed. “I thought you was the police.”

“Whatever gave you that idea?”

“Gee, I dunno. I guess you did. Anyway, yeah, I told them about seeing the fat guy and the car. Gave them the first three numbers of the licence plate, too.”

“Did you tell them that Hallam had keys to the gate?”

He shook his head. “I didn't remember about that till you mentioned it. I don't want trouble with that guy, though.”

Shoe thanked him for his help, got into the Taurus, and drove back to his parents' house to grab something to eat before going back to the hotel to check on Janey.

On his way to his parents' house, Shoe drove past the Hallam house to see if Hallam had returned. Janey's blue Firebird sat alone in the fading light. When he got to his parent's house, Hal's silver Lexus was parked in the driveway, behind Rachel's yellow Beetle, leaving no room for the Taurus. Shoe was tempted to just keep driving, go somewhere, anywhere, anything to avoid facing his brother. He knew he'd have to face him sooner or later, so he parked on the street and went into the house. His parents were in the kitchen, his mother at the table, headphones on, listening to a CD. His father was perched on a tall stool at the sink, washing dishes.

“Hal's here?” Shoe asked.

“Downstairs,” his father said, without looking up from the pot he was scrubbing.

Shoe went down to the basement. Hal was in the recreation room, slouched on his spine on the old sofa, head laid back, but eyes open, staring at the ceiling. At
the sound of Shoe's tread on the stairs, he rolled his head to the side without raising it from the sofa.

“Where've you been?” he asked.

“Checking Janey Hallam into a hotel.”

“Eh?” Hal grunted as he sat up.

“Dougie beat her up,” Shoe said.

“Is that right? Well, wouldn't be the first time, would it? You were comforting her, were you? You're good at that, aren't you? Comforting women?”

“Is there something you want to see me about?” Shoe asked wearily.

Hal heaved himself to his feet with an effort that left him momentarily breathless. “I want to know what's going on between you and Maureen.”

Shoe was not completely successful in suppressing a sigh of exasperation. “There's nothing going on between me and Maureen.”

“I don't believe you.”

“Nevertheless, it's true.”

“She's left me, you son of a bitch,” Hal shouted, as he swung at Shoe.

Shoe stepped out of the way. Hal staggered off balance and would have fallen if Shoe hadn't reached out and taken his arm. Hal wrenched himself free of Shoe's grasp, lost his balance, and fell heavily.

“Hal, I'm sorry,” Shoe said, offering his brother his hand.

Hal ignored Shoe's hand, hauled himself to his feet, face red and breathing heavily. He wiped spittle from his lips. “You bastard,” he said.

“Should I have let you hit me?” Shoe said. “All right. Go ahead, hit me, if it will make you feel better.”

He didn't expect Hal to take him up on the offer, but Hal surprised him and hit him with a roundhouse right that caught him on cheek. Hal had never been quick, however, and Shoe had time to loosen up and let his
neck and shoulders rotate with the blow. Nevertheless, it knocked him back a step.

“Feel better?” Shoe asked, touching his cheek. His fingers came away bloody; Hal's signet ring, worn on his right hand, had cut him.

“No,” Hal said. “I guess not.” He gestured to the cut on Shoe's cheek. “Sorry about that.” He opened and closed his fist a couple of times. His knuckles were reddened and already beginning to swell.

“You should probably put some ice on that,” Shoe said.

“Yeah,” Hal agreed, flexing his fist.

Shoe regarded his brother for a moment.

“What?” Hal said.

“The police may have a witness that places someone answering your description in the Dells the night Marvin Cartwright was killed.”

Hal did not look up from examining his swelling knuckles. “A witness? Who?”

“The park attendant.”

“Well, he's either mistaken or lying. I was in my office till past midnight, then took the 12:43 train to Clarkson Station. It got in about 1:15 and I got home about 1:30.” He took his wallet from his back pocket. “Would you like to see my cancelled multi-pass?” He removed a length of card stock about the size of two business cards end to end and held it out to Shoe. “Go ahead,” Hal said, thrusting the ticket toward Shoe. “Check the cancellation if you don't believe me.”

“That's not necessary, Hal,” Shoe said. “I believe you.”

“Right,” Hal said skeptically.

Shoe regarded his brother for a moment, then turned and started toward the bedroom. He stopped.

“Now what?” Hal said. “Did you know that Dougie and his father had been
sexually abusing Janey since she was ten?” Shoe said.

Hal was taken aback. “What? Did she tell you that I did?”

“No,” Shoe said. “Did you?”

“Dougie used to brag about how he got her to show him her tits or jerk him off, but I figured it was bull, just Dougie being Dougie. Anyway, how do you know she wasn't a willing participant?”

“She was just a child,” Shoe said, clamping down on his anger.

“You were having sex with her when she was thirteen,” Hal said. “Correct me if I'm wrong, but doesn't that make you guilty of statutory rape?” Hal waved away Shoe's reply. “You know she came onto me once, eh? Let me cop a good feel, then kneed me in the nuts. She was a slut, just like her mother. Everyone knew it but you. Okay, now you want to hit me, don't you?”

“I don't want to hit you, Hal,” Shoe said. He wasn't being entirely truthful.

“Well, if there's nothing else,” Hal said. He started toward the stairs.

“Have you heard about Marty Elias?” Shoe said.

Hal stopped and turned. “Yeah,” he said. “Maureen told me. The police have any idea who did it?”

“If they do, they haven't told me,” Shoe said.

“She hung out with a pretty rough crowd when she was younger. Maybe she still did.”

“Maybe,” Shoe said.

“Anyway … ” Hal said. He did not finish the thought, shrugged, and started up the stairs.

“Hal?”

Hal stopped on the stairs, but he did not turn. “What?”

“I want you to know that my offer still stands,” Shoe said.

“What offer is that?” Hal said, still looking straight
ahead. “If there's anything I can do to help you out of whatever trouble you're in, you only have to ask.”

“But that's the problem, isn't it?”

“What is?”

“Asking.” He continued up the stairs, breathing hard and using the banister to pull himself up. Shoe hoped he wouldn't have a heart attack.

Shoe fixed himself a sandwich, washed up, then made his apologies to his parents and drove to the Days Hotel on Wilson.

“Hello, Ruth,” Rachel said, leaning close to the gap in the door. All she could see was a narrow slice of the woman's face, a single washed-out blue eye, curve of cheekbone, the merest fraction of her mouth. “Do you remember me? We spoke yesterday, about Marvin Cartwright.” If Ruth remembered, she gave no sign. “This is my friend Claudia,” she added, moving aside so Ruth could see Claudia.