The Fortunate Brother (11 page)

He drove past the gravel flat, eased around the turn in the road where the incident with Clar Gillard took place, and then braked hard. Ahead he could see yellow tape fluttering in the breeze. The wharf and his house were cordoned off. To the side, near the shed, was a parked police car. Hooker had spotted him from his speedboat and was now heading towards him, the arse of his boat spitting foam. Kyle threw the truck into park and got out, standing on the rocks and dropping to one knee as Hooker cut his motor and drifted in way too fast.

“What the hell's going on?” yelled Kyle. He leaned forward, grabbing hold of the nose of the boat and pushing it sideways to keep it from bouncing off the rocks.

“Where you been at?” Hooker asked.

“With Mother in Corner Brook. What's going on?”

Skeemo moved forward. “They found a swatch of Clar's shirt hooked on your wharf, buddy. Just below the water mark. Right by your door. He was stabbed on your wharf. He was stabbed and either fell or was pushed over and caught on a nail going down.”

“Hey? How the fuck's that? His truck was on Hampden Wharf.”

“Yeah, so what the fuck, hey? Cops already searched your house. And they had Syllie down Deer Lake for questioning this morning.”

“Like that got them somewhere. Our wharf—how the—” Kyle went silent. Bonnie. She'd been sitting with his mother. He'd been going for Bonnie Gillard. “What time did he get killed?”

“Don't know. They got a police boat out there and divers looking for the knife,” said Skeemo. “Here they comes, then.” The cruiser parked by the shed had kicked into life and was now pulling a U-turn and coming towards them. Kyle looked to Hooker, who was still sitting in the boat, unnaturally quiet, eyes fixed on the police car.

“What's with you?” asked Kyle.

“Nothing, buddy. Keep her cool.”

The cruiser hauled alongside, two policemen getting out. One of them Canning and the other much younger—clean-shaven, big eyes, small nose. Looked like an oversized sixth grader.

“How's this going to work,” said Kyle, going towards Canning, “the house ribboned off like a fucking crime scene?”

“Mind parking your truck, sir? We're taking you to Deer Lake for questioning.”

“
Sir!
Yesterday I was your
son.
And yeah, I bloody mind. Where we all going to sleep tonight? Unless you found something in your search—”

“Get in the car, Kyle,” said Canning. “We'll talk at the station.”

“What, we can't talk here?”

“The car, sir.” It was the new cop.

“Constable Wheaton,” said Canning by way of introduction.

Kyle glanced at Hooker and Skeemo bobbing just off shore and stepped up to Canning, voice low, urgent.

“My mother just had surgery. My father, he needs to know how things went. Can we talk driving to the Beaches? He's on the job site—where you spoke to us yesterday.”

“Send a message with your friends.”

“I can't tell my friends. She's keeping it private about her operation. She has cancer, it's bad.”

“Send a message that she's okay,” said Wheaton. “Get in the car.”

“Look, I just need to make sure the old man's all right. And what the hell, where's he going to sleep? You can't bar us from the house.”

“Get in the
car,
sir,” ordered Wheaton once more. He held open the door of the cruiser, beckoning him inside.

“Christ, my mother just had serious surgery and I can't go tell the old man she's all right?”

“Don't worry, bud,” Hooker called out. “We'll go see Syl. We'll tell him she's okay.”

Kyle faced his friends with a fierce look. “Any fucking chance of privacy here?”

“Relax, bud.”

“Go on, b'y,” said Skeemo. “We'll see to your old man. Meet you for a beer after.”

“Don't open your fucking mouths.”

“Tell you what,” said Hooker. “We needs to blab, we'll go yodel to the dead on Miller's Island. Arse.”

Kyle bent to get into the police car. “Don't put your fucking hand on my head,” he ordered Wheaton.

“Hey, Ky,” Hooker yelled, “meet you at the bar! I'll wait.”

Inside the cruiser Kyle stared resentfully at Hooker and Skeemo picking up speed and foaming their way towards the Beaches. Everybody in the whole stinking outport would know about that operation before the night was done. He stared hard at the backs of the cops' heads, his jaw hurting from grinding his teeth.

Forty-five minutes later they drove off the highway into Deer Lake, where everyone from Hampden, Beaches, and the rest of White Bay went to see a doctor, fix their teeth, pick up groceries and shoes, and all else. He'd passed the cop shop hundreds of times. This was the first time he'd entered its white wooden doors.

They led him down a short hall and into a square room. He recognized the scene from cop shows. Only this one had no two-way mirror. And the chairs were cushioned and a coffee pot was percolating on the little square table. As Wheaton poured himself a cup, Canning beckoned Kyle to one of the two chairs at the table. Kyle sat and rubbed his face and stretched out his back. He was tired. He thought about asking for a lawyer but he didn't know fuck about getting lawyers.

The door opened and Sergeant MacDuff shuffled in, white shirtsleeves rolled up, top button undone, wattle sagging, belly sagging, pants sagging. Looked like a half-stuffed laundry bag.

“Evening, boys.” His eyes crinkled into smiles as though they were sitting in some kitchen sharing tea and muffins. Taking the seat across from Kyle, he flipped through his notebook, settling on a clean page. “Sorry to hear about your mother's troubles.” He held up a reassuring hand to Kyle's surprised look. “Chatted with your father this morning. He was concerned.”

“You're so concerned, haul that fucking tape off our door so's he got a bed for the night.”

“Let's work on that, son. Let's go back to the day Clar Gillard blocked the road to your house. Tell me what happened.”

“Check buddy's notes there,” said Kyle, indicating Canning. “I've told him everything.”

“Now you'll tell me, Kyle. I need to know in exact detail what happened during that altercation between your father and Clar Gillard.”

Jaysus. Kyle dragged both hands down the sides of his face. He sat back and told again about Clar blocking the way while playing fetch with his dog and his father pushing Clar's truck off the road.

“Your father had a heart attack—when?” MacDuff said, riffling back through his pages.

“Three years ago. What's that got to do with anything?”

“Would've been a lot of strain on his heart, pushing that truck.”

“Seen him straining harder than that.”

“He must've been mad.”

“Seen him madder. Expect Saint Peter had a temper. And his mother and the sweet baby Jesus too if his arse was rubbed raw. You thinking it was my father now who knifed Clar?”

“What words were exchanged between the two?”

“None.”

“None? Are you sure?”

“Yes, I'm sure. Clar got in his truck and drove off.”

“When did you see him again?”

“At the bar.”

“What time was that?”

“About eleven, I suppose. Like I already told you, I had a few, I needed air. I went outside and he—Clar—looked to be waiting.

He never spoke, just punched me in the jaw, and I woke up in the ditch a few minutes later.”

“Then what did you do?”

“I started walking home. Got picked up by Kate and sat by her fire for a bit. She always has a fire going.”

“What time did you leave the fire?”

“Around midnight. Hooker drove the old man up in his truck and I went home shortly after and took a nap on the wharf and the old man came home and woke me up. Around half-past twelve.”

“You were drunk, half asleep. How would you know the time?”

“Saw the clock on the stove when we went inside. It was the only thing lit up. The clock. Big yellow numbers. Twelve-thirty or twelve-forty. One or the other.”

“Why didn't you drive your father home from the bar?”

“Forgot him. Was stupid. Took a blow to the head and wasn't thinking.”

“Why didn't your father leave the fire and go home with you?”

“Wasn't finished his beer.” He rubbed his eyes tiredly. The room was stuffy. MacDuff wiped at his brow, half moons of sweat damping the underarms of his shirt.

“Kate Mackenzie. What time did you say she picked you up?”

“Jesus, you're kidding me, right? I've told you that a dozen times.”

“Tell me again.”

“Eleven-thirty-five.”

“Is that a.m. or p.m.?”

Kyle stared blankly. “Trick question, right?”

“Answer the question, sir.” It was Wheaton who spoke. He and Canning were standing on either side of MacDuff like matching mannequins.

“Eleven-thirty-five
p.m.
”

“What time did you say you left the bar to go outside?”

“Look, we've covered this.”

“What time did you leave the bar,
sir
?” It was Canning now.

“I don't
exactly
know,
sir.
Around eleven is what I've figured.”

“When were you punched by Clar Gillard?”

“Soon as I stepped outside.”

“What did you do then?”

“I was knocked out.”

“How long were you out?” asked Wheaton.

“Don't know.”

“Minutes? Hours?”

“Minutes. Band was still playing the same song when I woke up.”

“When exactly do you think Kate Mackenzie picked you up?”

“Like I haven't already answered that? Man, the time's not going to change. It already happened.”

“What time did Kate Mackenzie pick you up?”

“Eleven-thirty-fucking-five
p.m.
”

“How're you suddenly clear on the time?” asked Canning.

“The clock on her dash.”

“When did you first see your father after that?” asked Wheaton.

“About fifteen, twenty minutes later. About midnight.”

“Where?”

“At the fire on the flats.”

“But he was passed out in his truck down by the bar.”

“Hooker drove him up from the bar.”

“How do you know what the time was?”

“What the time was when? What the fuck are ye all talking about?” Both Canning and Wheaton were leaning towards him now, staring hard into his eyes as though practising some ancient Asian art of lie detection based on the size of his pupils.

“How do you know what time he drove home that night?”

“What time
who
drove home?”

“Your father.”

“I don't know. Did ye all do Dale Carnegie? Because you're all starting to sound and look alike.”

“You just said midnight.”

“I said
about
midnight—who the fuck cares what time it was. He showed up at the fire about midnight and then he showed up at the house around twelve-thirty or twelve-forty, like I said.”

“There's blood on the doorknob of your house. How did it get there?”

“
What?
I dunno—oh right. My jaw was bleeding.” He looked at MacDuff who was easing back in his chair, scribbling in his book. “Is that what this is about? My mouth was bleeding from where Clar punched me. I was sleeping and drooled over my hand. Must've got on the knob. Hey!” He flicked his tongue around the inside of his mouth, searching for a cut. Couldn't find one but stretched his mouth open anyway. “Here—have a look. You wanna see the scab, man?”

Both cops stared at his open mouth. MacDuff kept writing.

“Tell us about your father and Bonnie Gillard,” said Canning.

“What about them?”

“The nature of their relationship?”

“The
nature
—what's that mean?”

“Are you aware of anything going on between your father and Bonnie Gillard?” asked Canning.

“Are you fucking nuts?”

“You got a short fuse, sir.”

“You got a filthy mind,
sir.
”

“Your father and Bonnie Gillard were seen in your father's truck around ten the night of the murder.”

“So what? He was giving her a ride.”

“Ride where?”

“Ask them.”

“We're asking you, sir.”

“How would I know?”

“You just said he was giving her a ride. A ride where?”

“Where the hell did he pick her up? That's what we do around here, you see someone walking and you pick them up.”

“Did you see Bonnie Gillard that night?”

“No.”

“When did you last see her?”

“She was at the hospital, sitting with my mother.”

Canning flicked a look to MacDuff and Kyle kicked himself.

“When did she get to the hospital?” asked Wheaton.

“I dunno.”

“What time did you see her?”

“I dunno.”

“Were you there when she showed up in your mother's room?”

“Yes.”

“Around what time was that?”

“I dunno.”

“Why don't you know?”

“Cuz I was taking care of my mother. Cuz I didn't give a fuck about Bonnie Gillard or the time.”

“You don't give a fuck about Bonnie Gillard,” said Canning, “and yet she sits with your mother during this private time?”

“What's your question?”

“Why don't you like Bonnie Gillard?”

“I neither like nor dislike Bonnie Gillard. She's my mother's friend.”

“Is she your father's friend?”

“No.”

“Did you see your father with Bonnie Gillard the night of the murder?”

“No. Why don't you ask Bonnie Gillard where she was? Why don't you ask her sister where she was? Ask anybody in the whole fucking town where she was. Somebody always knows something. You haven't got that figured out yet?” Christ but he was mad, mad at the whole fucking works of them, and Canning and Wheaton kept bearing down on him like dogs, barking out questions they'd already asked and he snapping back answers,
Yes, I seen Father earlier that night, we does what we always does, drives around for a bit—I drives and he drinks. Yes he was drunk and passed out. Yes I parked the truck behind the club. Yes, he was passed out and it's what he does, he drinks and passes out and we'd gotten hard news about Mother that night and he was drunk, stoned drunk, and he should've been home with Mother and that's what you should be nailing him with, getting drunk when he should've been home, and not following some shit story like—like
…He faltered, his throat raw, his heart pounding, his face on fire. Gawd-damn. His mother all hacked up in the hospital and they hunting up some story about his father and Bonnie Gillard. He should tell them about the car, about her bawling in his mother's house, but now he couldn't tell them nothing about that because they'd want to know
when
he found the car and
where
his father was when he found the car and they'd know he
wasn't
with his father like he said he was and smothering Jesus, he had himself all sewn into his own lie. He stopped talking. He simply stopped talking and stared at the cops. They stared back. They were waiting. Waiting for what? Him to break like some arsehole scene from some arsehole cop show? “We done here?”