The Dells (40 page)

Shoe stood as Hal emerged from the woods. Huffing and grunting, he staggered a few feet then sat down in the leaves. “Did I — did I hear — gunshots?” he gasped. Then he saw Dougie Hallam's body. “Jesus,” he said, scuttling away from the body like a massive crab. “Jesus. Who —? Is he dead?”

“Yes,” Shoe said.

“Jesus,” Hal said again.

“Let's get out of here,” Shoe said.

Hal struggled to his feet and stood looking down at Dougie's body. “You're just going to leave him here?”

“He's not going anywhere. Do you have a phone?” Hal shook his head. Neither did Janey or Rachel.

“Dougie has a phone,” Rachel said.

Shoe looked at Dougie's body. He did not want to go through the dead man's pockets to look for his cellphone, not because he was squeamish, but because he did not wish to disturb the crime scene.

“We'll call the police first chance we get.” To Rachel,
he said, “Can you walk?”

“I think so.” She struggled to her feet with Shoe and Janey's help, but was not able to stand without leaning heavily on Shoe's arm. Shoe gathered her up in his arms. It would be easier to carry her. They hadn't gone far when Hal stumbled and fell heavily.

“I have to rest,” he gasped.

Shoe set Rachel down. He could see the lights of the houses through the trees. He could also see distant flashes of red and blue, the stroboscopic throbbing of the lights atop emergency vehicles at Ruth Braithwaite's house. “Janey, wait here with Hal,” he said. “I'll send someone to help.”

Janey slumped to the ground next to Hal. Shoe picked Rachel up and set off toward his parents' house.

Tuesday, August 8

“Tell me again what happened,” Hannah Lewis said.

It was early Tuesday morning. Shoe and Hannah Lewis were standing alone at the top of the yard, looking out over the wooded ravines. Shoe recounted once again how he'd shot Dougie Hallam. When he'd finished, Lewis looked at him for a long moment.

“You shot him twice in the chest with Janey Hallam's gun,” she said.

“That's right.”

“Then you killed him by shooting him through the right eye.”

“Yes.”

“Because two chest shots, one of which appears to have punctured his right lung, weren't enough to stop him from trying to kill her, your sister, and you.”

“Yes,” Shoe said. “Dougie Hallam was a remarkably tenacious man. Very strong and very determined.”

She looked at him. It was a long and penetrating look that left Shoe feeling that she could see right through him. “I'm not sure I buy it,” she said. “But I'm sure as hell not going to lose any sleep over it. Hallam got his just desserts, whoever served it.”

When Shoe had told Lewis that Janey Hallam had been repeatedly raped by her stepfather and stepbrother from the time she was ten, Hannah Lewis's violet eyes had blazed.

“My brother will be happy to close the books on the Black Creek Rapist,” she said. “Between Claudia Hahn's and Janey Hallam's testimonies, there shouldn't be a problem. What about Martine Elias's molestation? You said you were sure it was someone she knew. Could it have been Noseworthy?”

“I think it must have been,” Shoe said. “Marty used to tease him a lot and he would get quite angry about it. Her teasing had a strong sexual component, too. Maybe things just got out of hand that day in the woods. And if it was Joey, she likely wouldn't have told the police, if only because he was my friend and she wanted me to like her. I think she liked him, too, in her way. She certainly came to like him.”

“When we catch up to him,” Lewis said, “we'll ask him.”

“Any sign of him?”

“No. I'm guessing he just abandoned his bike and his gear and took off on Marty's bike.”

“That's what he does,” Shoe said.

“He'll show up sooner or later. At least he's off the hook for Marty's murder.”

“What about Dutton?”

“Nothing so far.” She shifted uncomfortably. “There's something else we need to talk about,” she said.

Shoe waited. He had a feeling that he knew what it was she wanted to talk about.

“We have a witness who says he saw a man answering your brother's description talking to Marvin Cartwright in the parking lot of the Dells at about nine o'clock the evening Cartwright was killed.”

“The park attendant?” Lewis nodded. “I spoke with him yesterday,” Shoe said. “His description could fit any number of overweight, middle-aged men.”

“Did he also tell you there were two cars still in the parking lot Thursday night when he locked the gate at ten, but that only Cartwright's Honda Accord was there in the morning?”

“Yes,” Shoe said.

“He's supposed to record the license plate numbers of any cars left overnight, but he generally doesn't bother. It's not unusual, he says. Drunks sleeping it off. Local kids making out and losing track of time. Most people these days can't tell a Honda from a Hyundai, but he's pretty sure it was a light blue or grey Toyota Camry or Corolla. Common enough cars … ” She paused. “He did remember the first three digits, though.”

Shoe waited.

“The partial he gave us matched the plate number of a car leased by your brother's employer. They have a fleet of half a dozen cars. All Toyota Corollas … ” She paused again. “I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but the parking garage security video shows him taking a car out at approximately 8:15 p.m. Thursday and returning at 12:05 a.m. Friday.”

“Shit,” Shoe said. Although he seldom resorted to profanity, under the circumstances, the sentiment the word expressed seemed appropriate.

“That doesn't prove he drove to the park and killed Cartwright,” Lewis said, “but the park attendant picked him out of a photo array. It isn't dead bang, but enough to get a warrant for his clothes and DNA.” She looked up at him. “Sorry.”

“Not your fault,” he said.

“No, but — well, look, maybe he used the car for business and whoever he went to see can provide him with an alibi.”

“Perhaps,” Shoe said. Except that when Shoe had told Hal that the park attendant may have seen him in the Dells on Thursday night, he'd insisted he'd been in his office all evening. It was possible that Hal had simply forgotten he'd taken out a company car. Shoe hoped that was the case. It was more likely, however, that Hal had been lying.

“When are you going to serve the warrant?” he asked.

Lewis looked at her mannish wristwatch. “We have to finish up here first. Probably around two this afternoon. Why? Look, you're not going to do anything, well, foolish, are you?”

“You've got him under surveillance, don't you?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then what could I do?”

Lewis left. Shoe went into the house. Rachel was in his father's recliner, feet up and swathed in bandages.

“How are you doing?”

“I may never play the violin again.”

“Feel up to taking a ride?”

“Sure. Where to?”

“Oakville. I need to talk to Hal.”

“What about? And why do you need me along? As referee?”

“You could say that. Can you walk?”

“I can manage.” She slipped her bandaged feet into a pair of men's slippers and stood carefully. “Not bad. I could use an arm to lean on.”

As Shoe helped her out to the Taurus, which he had retrieved first thing in the morning from the Braithwaite residence, a car pulled up in front of Harvey Wiseman's
house. Wiseman got out and came over.

“How's Claudia?” Rachel asked from the passenger seat of the Taurus.

“Bruised. Shaken up,” Wiseman said. “But she'll be fine. Are you all right?”

“Nothing a nice long vacation in the south of France won't cure.”

“Mm,” Wiseman said. He looked at Shoe. “How about you?”

“A vacation in the south of France sounds good to me too.” Wiseman's expression darkened. “I'm fine,” Shoe said.

Rachel smiled sympathetically at Wiseman as Shoe closed the passenger door and walked round the car to the driver's door. He got in and started the engine. He looked past Rachel. “We'll talk later, Harv,” he said. He shifted into reverse and backed out of the driveway.

“You can trust him,” Rachel said.

“I'm sure you're right,” Shoe said. “But the fewer people who know what really happened, the better.”

“I can't think of anyone who deserved to die more than Dougie Hallam,” Rachel said. “And if anyone was justified in killing him, it was Janey. Why are you protecting her?”

“Because she needs it.”

“You don't still care for her, do you?”

“Not in the way you're implying. But she's got problems enough without having her history dredged up for all the world to read about in the supermarket tabloids. Cut her some slack. She could use a friend or two about now.”

“She doesn't make it easy to like her,” Rachel said. “Try harder.”

Hal got up that Tuesday morning feeling, if not great, then at least considerably better than he had the night before. More than once he'd been certain he was going to die in those damned woods, of a stroke or cardiac arrest. How bloody fitting, he thought, that Janey Hallam's voice would have been the last thing he heard. “Come on, Harold. Move your fat ass. Don't you pass out on me, you bastard, or I'll leave you here to fucking die. Come on! Just a little farther, goddamnit.” Christ, she was worse than Maureen, and Maureen was in a class by herself when it came to badgering. At least she never called him Harold …

Thoughts of Maureen turned his feeling of well-being, such as it was, to crap. He'd really done it this time, hadn't he? Bad enough that he'd had sex with that woman, whoever the hell she was, in that motel, but what on Earth had possessed him to tell Maureen about it? Was she right? Had he done it just to hurt her? He couldn't even remember if he'd had a good time.
If you're going
to throw away twenty-five years of marriage on a onenight stand,
he berated himself bitterly,
you could at least remember if it had been worth it.
As it was, all he could recall of the woman were her massive, flexing thighs and her pale, flaccid breasts. He shuddered at the memory.

He and Maureen had been through some rough patches over the years, each slightly worse than the one before, but they had always managed to work things out, reach a state of marital equilibrium. Each had been slightly less stable than the one before, but they'd soldiered on, as they say. Not this time, he thought. This time, he knew, it was over for good. All things considered, perhaps it was for the best, he thought dolefully.

He was in the kitchen when heard the front door open and Maureen call out, “Hal, are you here?” He went into the hall.

“Where the hell else would I be?” She flinched at the anger in his voice. He savagely suppressed any feeling of remorse or guilt. “What do you want?”

“I've come for some of my things,” she said, eyes glistening.

“Fine. Take whatever you want. I won't get in your way.”

“I won't be long.” Her voice was a strained whisper.

“Whatever,” Hal said, and retreated downstairs, to the sanctuary of his basement workshop.

He heaved his bulk onto the high stool at his workbench. The Formica surface of the bench was smooth and cool beneath his hands. Dozens of hand tools and small power tools hung from the pegboard panel above the bench. A red LED on a battery charger winked out as he watched, indicating that the spare battery for his set of cordless power tools was fully charged. An elaborate mitre saw was mounted at one end of the bench, a wood vice at the other. A band saw, table saw, drill
press, and a planer stood in a row against the wall, next to the big red rolling toolbox that held even more hand and power tools. Wood for his next project — a wardrobe for the guest room — was stacked in the corner, the scents of knotty pine and B.C. cedar mingling pleasantly. Although it had been weeks since he'd done any work, Hal was stung by the realization that he was going to miss his workshop, perhaps even more than he was going to miss Maureen.

The “down payment” he'd got from Gord Peters — extorted, really; there was no other word for it — was again safely stashed in the bottom of the big toolbox. Dougie Hallam wouldn't be needing it now, thanks to Joe. Hal looked at his watch. It was almost time to leave to meet Peters at the bank. Half a million dollars wasn't quite enough to entirely solve his financial woes, but added to his bonus — the “Oscar” — it would go a long way toward alleviating them. A sick feeling twisted in his guts as he realized he might never get the chance to collect his bonus, if what Joe had said about the park attendant was true.

He gripped the edge of the workbench as the wave of dizziness washed over him. His chest heaved, as if all the oxygen had been suddenly sucked out of the room.

Marvin Cartwright had called Hal's office the previous Thursday, asking Hal to meet him that evening in the parking lot of the Dells, that they needed to talk.

“What do we have to talk about?” Hal had asked.

“Atonement,” Cartwright said.

“Atonement for what?”

“For our sins,” Cartwright replied. “Mine. And yours.”

“What are you talking about?” Hal asked.

“I'm talking about that day in the woods,” Cartwright said.

Hal's heart stuttered. “For god's sake,” he said.
“That was thirty-five years ago. Who cares anymore? Who even remembers?”

“I remember,” Cartwright said. “So does Marty. And so do you, Hal. You must atone. You must go to the authorities and tell the truth about what happened.”

“Why? What difference will it make now?”