by Warren Court
“So,” she said. “Tell me about it.”
He got up and came to the table. “Nothing much to tell.”
“The wine!”
“What? Oh.” Armour blushed again. “Sorry, Melanie, I forgot about the dinner and then rushed out. I didn’t have time to go to a liquor store. Came straight here.”
“No problem.” Melanie brought out a bottle of Chilean wine with a screw cap from the kitchen. “Just bring two next time.” She poured Armour a more than healthy dose and he held up his hand for her to stop.
“I am driving.”
“After a while, sure,” she said and gave herself a good helping of it, draining half the bottle.
“Cheers.”
They ate for two minutes and then with her mouth half full of noodles she brought the dented car bumper up again. Melanie was never one for letting something go. There was no getting around it and he had brought the file after all. He went and retrieved it from the inside pocket of his jacket where he had tucked it.
“There was a murder, back in 1991.”
“Wow, ancient.”
“Yeah, teenage girl, violated and strangled with her own blouse. Sorry, we’re eating.”
“Armour, I can take it. I usually watch CSI while I eat, Law and Order Special Victims Unit all those shows.”
“I don’t know what those are. I listen to radio Dismuke while I eat, helps with the digestion.” He had played his favourite radio station once for her when she had come to his house for dinner. It was a vintage radio program, 1920s and 30s music along with original commercials for Burma Shave and the like. She had found it quaint and sort of romantic when Bessie Smith had come on while they ate roasted chicken.
“My digestion is fine,” she said swirling up a great fork full of pasta and putting it away.
Armour chuckled. “Where do you put it all?”
“I’m high strung,” she said. “Do continue.”
“Well, they caught a guy, just a kid himself. Her classmate. Put him away for a long time I suspect. I covered it as a journalist, my first year and first major story they put me on.”
“Really, you make the big time with it?”
“I was just doing stringer stuff, getting names of associates and friends feeding all that to the seasoned reporters they put in charge.”
“Too bad.”
“I was paying my dues. Anyway, I was out there. On the Scotch Line road where they found the girl.”
“And,” Melanie said, sipping her wine.
“I had a spell.”
Melanie rapped her fork on the edge of her plate in shock. “Oh Armour. I am sorry.” Armour could never tell whether sympathy was genuine or if it was masking excitement. Armour, who had held back on the wine, now took a long sip.
“What happened?”
“I passed out, car went into the ditch.”
“Hence the bumper,” Melanie said, then was sorry she had interrupted.
“It’s fuzzy. While I was under I was somewhere else, as usual. There was a noise, a constant almost slushing sound. I know what it is but I can’t pin it down. Rhythmic. I could see someone else but not sure what I was looking at. It was dark out but not night. Maybe dusk. I saw a hand come in front of me. Then there’s a song playing. I can’t remember the lyrics but I remember the tune.”
Armour hummed it for a few bars. Melanie looked puzzled, didn’t recognize it.
“Anyways, I went home and started going through my notes, something about that road and then I found it. The murder. That’s where they discovered the body of the Truscott girl, on the Scotch Line road.”
“Wow. What do you think it means?”
“I don’t know.”
“At least not yet.” Melanie took the file folder from him and quickly scanned through the notes and the articles.
“You have clippings here up until the boy pleads guilty. What sentence did he get?” she asked.
“I have no idea. I was pulled off the story, probably put on half a dozen other things and was too busy to follow it. I just lost interest. Maybe I didn’t want to see what that kid was going to get in way of punishment, the whole thing was disturbing. Sad really. Two young lives shattered. And for what?”
Melanie had her iPad on a china cabinet, a white cord stretched to wall socket. She disconnected it and brought it over.
“Let’s see what we can find.”
Armour ate sparingly, sipped even less of his wine, his taste for it having vanished after he’d gotten through what he wanted to talk about.
“Twenty-five years to life. No possibility of parole for twenty years. Sent to the Kingston pen. Wow. That’s rough,” she said. “Oh wait.” Melanie continued swiping at the iPad. Armour trusted she was finding information fast and digesting it even faster. He was always impressed at how her brain worked.
“He was released, six years ago,” she said.
“That’s good I guess, I don’t know,” Armour said. “Seems like a harsh sentence for a teenager.”
“The DNA was brought into question.” Before Armour could look puzzled, Melanie said. “His DNA did not match that on the victim. That’s the best reason to set someone free. A lot of cases are being overturned these days because of DNA. Don’t ask me what it stands for, couldn’t tell you.”
“I’ll take your word on its importance.”
“So, the killer, the real killer was never found. DNA is irrefutable.” They must have gotten around to testing this boy’s DNA with the evidence and when it didn’t come back a match it was good reason for him to be released. But that’s what, twenty years he spent behind bars? Not a kid anymore.”
“Where’s he living now?” Armour asked. More swiping by Melanie.
“Doesn’t say. He was from that area. Maybe he moved back there. Here’s a picture of him hugging his mother.” She turned the iPad around and Armour looked at the newspaper photo of a man hugging an elderly lady.
“He finally came home,” Armour said. “At least one life was resurrected. So, to speak.”
Melanie put the iPad down. “Back to your spell. You were on that road, had a flashback, a spell, because the killer is still out there.”
“Who knows why I went under?” Armour said.
Melanie cocked her head. “What are you going to do now?”
“Forget it, not going to give that black out the time of day.”
“Okay, Armour. I understand.” Melanie was barely able to hide her disappointment. They finished their meal talking about everything and anything other than the Scotch Line road and a dead fifteen-year-old girl. And most importantly the meaning of Armour’s latest spell.
4
Armour got the bumper off his car quite easily, just two bolts on either side. A couple of hours gently banging the metal back into shape using an auto body hammer and dolly. Then a coat of paint across the entire thing, another coat after that and left to dry in his garage. The bumper would be good as new.
After that he looked at the underside of the fenders and sized up that job. Overnight he had changed his mind about going back out to the Scotch Line road and was going to try his darndest to be done with it, spell or no spell. And besides if he did venture out to the country to visit that first cemetery near Turkey Point, Melanie would probably go with him. He had mentioned that to her last night and she got excited at the prospect of hunting for Armour’s relatives. They would probably take her car.
No, the fenders had to be seen to now. Take them right off and repair the minor damage caused by the gravel. It was minor now but little nicks in the paint down to bare metal would rust eventually. Much like the front bumper the fenders could be removed by a do-it-yourself mechanic.
He could see the bolts holding the fender to the car, such a simple vehicle to work on. He’d often heard Melanie talk of her car troubles, and how much mechanics took her for. Recently her brake lines and fuel lines had rusted out and it cost her a thousand bucks to replace. He’d once tried to work on her Honda only to be d
umbfounded by the jam-packed engine bay with cables and hoses going this way and that. Melanie must have sensed his hesitation and pulled him off the job before he made her car worse. He was glad for it.
Armour wanted to make sure he located all the attachment points for the fenders before he started the job so he had a flat head screw driver and was poking at clods of dirt under the car. They were falling on his hands. When done he rolled out from under the car to take a break. He started to swipe his hands together to get the dirt off. Dirt from the road. The Scotch Line road. Oh Jesus. Armour’s eyes rolled back and he was gone.
When he finally came to, he was lying flat on his back, still on his gravel driveway where he had fallen. The sky a brilliant blue with high flying white wisps of cloud whipping by above him. A yellow jacket flew in and buzzed his cheek and he swatted at it involuntarily and then was fully awake. He sat up and got to his feet, using the side of his car for support.
His head hurt and he rubbed the back of it, not sure if he banged it when he fell or if it was just residual effect from the second spell. This one had definitely been clearer this time. It was a leg he was looking at – a pair of blue shorts then a bare leg. Then a hand reaches out and turns on a radio, a car radio. The swish swishing is wipers, the sky is dark because it’s cloudy out, raining, hence the wipers. “Got it,” he said out loud. Now, what does it mean? Armour dusted off his work coveralls, clothes he always wore when working on his car. Melanie had bought them at a Princess Auto, his name was in a white oval over the left breast pocket. Very cute.
Armour thought about the second vision as he reattached the front bumper. He would forget about removing and repairing the fenders for a while. He was definitely going back to the Scotch Line road at some point. No denying it.
5
The seat of government for Norfolk county is located in the town of Simcoe, some thirteen kilometres north west of Port Dover. Housed in what once used to be an Anglican church replete with large dome shaped windows that stretched up its grey stone sides.
In the main lobby were two service windows with lines of people in front of them. One window was marked Registrar the other Applications. There were straight backed wooden church pews lining one wall and above them in brass and other metals was a textured three dimensional map of Norfolk County. It was really quite impressive with inlaid symbols of the county; a fishing boat, a steam locomotive, farmers and natives.
Armour got in the registrar line and waited. There were six people in front of him, all holding pieces of paper. One lady held her driver’s license in her hand. There wasn’t a general information window, that might be in a different building. Armour knew there was a public library attached to the town hall. Time was running out, the town hall closed at four. A clock above the registrar’s ticked ominously.
If he was going to investigate the Truscott murder and the Scotch Line road’s connection to it, he wanted a lay of the land, literally. Finally, he got up to the window and the clearly bored and tired plump woman behind it asked him how she could help.
“Fire insurance maps. Property lines,” he said.
“Come again?” the woman asked.
“I want to see the property divisions and property owners specifically for the Scotch Line road outside of Dover.”
“Hall of records is on the second floor. You better hurry, they close down at four.” It was three-forty now. Armour had a good mind to admonish the woman and by way of her the entire Norfolk County town hall for not properly posting signage to the location of the hall of records, but then he saw that very sign on his way to the stairs. If he’d only looked around while standing in line he could have made this a more productive trip.
He took the stairs two at a time and flew onto the second floor. There was a table with a placard in front of it that said Hall of Records and there was no one in line. Some hall, Armour thought. Should change the name to unimpressive room of records.
There was a young woman behind the table and she looked up from a paperback book as Armour approached. Behind her were dozens of large steel filing cabinets. Armour tried to put on the charm and smiled at her. She gave him a ‘are you seriously going to impede my imminent departure’ look.
“Help you?” she said.
“Hi, yes. The girl downstairs directed me up here.”
“Girl?”
“The young lady behind the registrar’s window.” The woman rolled her eyes. “You mean Miss Parker?”
“Yes. I need to see the property maps and current ownerships for the Scotch Line road. It’s outside of Dover.”
“Ward Six. I know it.”
“Did you grow up there?”
“Uh uh. Short-cut to Port Dover. Girls and I used to bomb down that road to Dover to the Norfolk tavern on Thursdays. We don’t go there anymore ‘cause they do Karaoke now. Hate karaoke.”
“Oh, I see.”
“Cost is two fifty. Payable in advance.”
Armour dug in his pockets and came up with a five. She put it in a metal box on the table but didn’t write out a receipt. Armour wondered if the money was going to wind up in the till of her latest watering hole, one that doesn’t do karaoke, whatever that might be.
She went over to one of the metal filing cabinets and came back with two large rolls of paper with wooden dowels through them. She carried them over to a long, tilted reading desk.
She returned to her seat and Armour unrolled the first one. It was a fire insurance map, roads were in black, houses were a pinkish red and property lines were in green. There were descriptors of each significant item such as Farm House; Grain Silo etc. The thick black line running diagonally across the map was labelled Scotch Line road.
It took him a few minutes to get his bearings. He was looking at the farm western edge of the road. There was a symbol for a bridge and a long curving line of blue denoting the creek. This might be where the boy saw the Truscott girl with the Macintyre boy.
On either side of the stream were large tracts of land. Farms. The map had the names of owners pasted over previous owners. Armour wrote all of it down. The date on the maps was two years old so it was current information. These farms stayed in a families’ possession for generations. He rolled that map back up around its dowel as best he could and set it aside.
The next map was older, produced ten years ago. It was the east end of the road and Armour found where it met Highway Six. He traced with his finger down about two kilometres and tapped the map where he was sure he had gone off the road. About an inch away from that spot was that farm house, in reality it was close to half a kilometre away. But where that house should be was only a vacant property.
On the opposite side of the road there was a large farm at least two hundred acres with a house, silo, barn and several out buildings. Entrance to it was off concessions road five which was the next exit past the Scotch Line road. Name on that farm was Ernest. That must be the farm where the men who pulled him out of the ditch lived. He would be interested in meeting with them again.
He asked the girl. “Excuse me. Do you have a more current map of the east end of the road?”
She got up and put her glasses on and came over.
“No, this is the most current. Things haven’t changed so we don’t update them.”
“Hmmm. What about one older than this?”
“I can check. Going to cost another two fifty.”
“I haven’t got it.”
“We take debit.”
“I haven’t got that either.”
She sighed. “Fine. You can come in next week and pay it. Fair?”
“That’s fair,” he said.
“You look honest. Anyone dressed like that has to be honest.”
Armour forced a smile. He was never a fan of critiques or any comments on his clothing, except from Melanie who in her words “got him”.
The woman came back with another map and without asking took the other two away. She was getting ready to leave. Armour unrolled it and could
tell it was definitely older. It was dog eared and the paper had yellowed. Bottom corner said 1933. Now we’re talking Armour almost said, glad to be back in his age. Then he remembered he was investigating something from the nineties. He had to force his love of nostalgia and ages past into the recesses of his mind and concentrate.
There was the Scotch Line road, the map was identical but the demarcation lines were different. There were three farms across the road from where he’d gone in the ditch where there had been two in the newer map. Armour made note of two different ones while one was still the same. On this map he also noted that the woman’s house was indicated, the one who had been stringing laundry when his car was pulled out of the ditch. Next to the house was the name Davis written in pencil. Armour wrote that down too, not sure of its significance. Maybe that land was still owned by the Davis family and it had just been deleted from the current map. It happened, he figured.
The hall of records lady was putting her coat on.
“Thanks again.” Armour said as he re-rolled the map and brought it over to her.
“Just come in and pay the two fifty, please. It goes to the city. We’re raising funds to erect a statue to our founder.”
“I will, don’t worry. Besides I might need to look at these again.”
“We’re open on Monday at 10. Have a pleasant weekend.” She stood there waiting and then cleared her throat.
“Oh right.” Armour put his hat on and left the hall, the woman locking the outer door behind him.
A security guard let him out the front door of the town hall. Armour thanked him but the man just grunted.
6
The next day, Armour drove up the driveway to the house that had been marked ‘Ernest’ on the fire insurance map. He recognized the John Deere tractor, its green front nose poking outside a metal Quonset hut. The farmer’s front yard was littered with tricycles and plastic rideable toys. There was a brown and yellow plastic play house and a girl’s face emerged from one of its windows as he drove in, then disappeared.
