Pure speculation, with only the barest of bones to hang it on, but it fit all the facts! Now it was time to see if it could withstand the sober second thought of Brian Sullivan.
As they raced through the deepening dusk, past lakes and rocky outcrops and acres of skeletal trees, Green put his theory into words. Sullivan listened as he always did, quietly, intently and without interruption. At the end, his thoughtful expression had creased with worry.
“You’re not objecting, Brian.”
“I was remembering. This morning when I took the warrant to Scott, first thing he did was call Sandy. Said what the hell did you get me into? Like it was Sandy’s idea to cement over that shed.”
“Right! Because now that the house had passed to new owners, they were starting to dig things up!”
“Gives Sandy a motive for bumping off Lawrence too.” Sullivan was warming to the idea. “Lawrence might have witnessed the murder or seen him leaving. Sandy couldn’t be sure he’d stay crazy enough not to say something. When Lawrence showed up back in town, Sandy must have been shitting bricks!”
All of a sudden the solution to one of the enduring puzzles leaped into focus. The church door! Not only could Sandy have spotted Lawrence and lured him to the church, but as a realtor he even had access to the key to open the door. Perhaps he had begun with a reassuring talk about their old days together, only to turn deadly when Lawrence showed his fear.
But Green’s euphoria at his sudden insight died abruptly as the next question hit him. “But if Sandy’s the killer, why is he going after Tom? Why put himself in the limelight and risk his connection to Derek being exposed?”
Even as he uttered the question, he felt his blood run cold. Kyle had seen something that afternoon in the woods, and Green, through sheer stupidity, had passed that information on to Jeb.
“Maybe he’s not going after Tom,” he said. “It’s Kyle.”
Twenty-One
As the two detectives pulled into the brand new OPP station in Madoc, night was already stealing into the shadows at the edge of the road. Two cruisers were parked out front and a couple of officers were talking by the front door, but there was no sign of the mobile command truck nor the specialty teams the incident commander had mentioned. Let’s hope all the officers are out in the field, Green thought, covering every inch of dirt from here to Peterborough.
Sullivan must have seen the scowl on his face, for he shot him a warning glance. “Just remember we have no jurisdiction here, Green. We’re here as a courtesy, but it’s their show. Their call.”
“Their turf, but our suspect. Our victims. All I want is to be kept in the loop.” Green jerked open the cruiser door, but before he could even get out, one of the officers came down to greet him.
“You here on the abduction case?”
Green introduced himself and Sullivan. “Where the hell is everyone?”
“Over setting up Mobile Command, sir, near the location of the stolen vehicle. That’s where the search is starting from.”
Green’s annoyance flared further, but he held his tongue and snatched the map from Sullivan. “Show me,” he said, spreading the map on the hood. In the dimming light, the officer traced a route deep into the back country north of Highway 7. The map showed little but lakes and bush. It’s going to be a long night, Green thought with a sinking feeling.
“Any sighting of the red Dodge Ram?” he asked.
“No, sir. So far he hasn’t been spotted on the 401 or the 7, but he should be pulling in here any moment. We’ve been instructed to detain him, to keep him out of the way.”
“Whatever you do, hang onto him. Don’t let the guy anywhere near the search, he may be implicated.” Green folded up the map and circled the cruiser to yank open the passenger door. He signalled Sullivan out with a jerk of his head. “This time you drive, and I’ll navigate.”
Using the map light in the cruiser, Green guided them through a series of obscure turns in the deepening twilight until distant pinpoints of red and white light lit up the trees ahead. As the detectives drew closer, the massive mobile command truck became visible on a grassy knoll beside the road, surrounded by half a dozen cruisers, SUVs and pick-up trucks, all sporting official OPP insignia.
Sullivan pulled onto the grass next to a pick-up, and both men climbed out. The wind had died down, but darkness had already chilled the air. Green took a deep breath, smelled the crispness of cedar and the faint decay of fallen leaves. The mobile command post was a fifth wheel trailer positioned at the highest point of the knoll, probably to facilitate communications in this remote, rocky terrain, Green surmised. No one was outside, but the murmur of voices emanated from within.
As Green and Sullivan approached, the side door opened and a slim, impossibly fit-looking man emerged. He had a brush cut, pencil-thin mustache and shoulders so square Green expected him to click his heels and salute. The man instinctively headed towards Sullivan with his hand outstretched.
“Inspector Green? I’m Mark Riordan.”
Green bristled. “I’m Green. Any sign of them?”
The man didn’t miss a beat, pivoting smoothly to give Green’s hand a sharp tug. “Not yet. Come on inside, and I’ll bring you up to speed.”
Inside the trailer, Green’s attention was immediately drawn to a brightly lit table in the centre of the room, on which lay a huge topographical map. More maps and white boards covered most of the walls, and the other tables were cluttered with technical equipment. An officer in a dark windbreaker was hunched over a phone at the front of the trailer, and several others milled about in the cramped space, checking equipment and jotting notes. Radio chatter crackled in the background, providing status reports.
Green headed over to the map on the table. A plastic overlay was marked with indecipherable lines and squiggles. “Where are we?” he asked.
Riordan circled his long, calloused finger to encompass the entire surface. “This map details the immediate area within a twenty mile radius. The maps on the wall are to a smaller scale and show all the roads and navigable paths between here and Peterborough.” He tapped a spot marked in red. “Mobile Command.” He drew his finger along the road to another mark nearby. “The suspect’s truck was located here, about five hundred metres further up this road. Canine unit started at the truck a little over an hour ago, picked up a trail heading north towards this lake area.”
“But he’s had a hell of a head start,” Green said. “Probably twenty-four hours.”
Riordan inclined his head and spun on his heel towards a map on the wall. “Based on your man being on foot and being encumbered by a child who may not be able to travel very fast—”
Green thought of the muscles rippling across Kyle’s chest. “He’s a well-developed teenager who can probably outrun all of us.”
Riordan barely registered a reaction. “By our calculations, on a path or road they could have covered thirty K by now, so we’ve set up patrol units on each of the roads at that perimeter.” He pointed to some faint lines on the map. “Old logging roads and rail lines. We’ve got our ERT people on ATVs checking the outlying parts for signs of activity.” His finger hovered over a tract of land unscarred by either road or trail. “If they’re bushwhacking—and preliminary indications are that’s the case—then the dog’s our best bet.”
“One dog?” Green said incredulously. Beside him, he felt Sullivan fidget uneasily, but all Green could picture was one dog against this vast acreage of bush.
Riordan stiffened almost imperceptibly. “Plus an experienced search team. There are four Emergency Response Team members out on foot with the dog, providing back-up.”
“What about helicopters? Boats on the lakes?”
“That’s the next step if it comes to that. But a careful grid search from the last known position is still the best approach.” One of the officers approached to draw Riordan aside. “That was Spencer, sir. K-9 lost the trail near a stream. The dog’s going in circles.”
A scowl rippled acros
s Riordan’s tight control. “Your fella must’ve done something to throw the dog off. Does he know dogs? “
“He probably hunted with them as a kid,” Sullivan said. Green suspected the wily Tom had learned a lot of other tricks during his misspent youth, and whatever gaps remained had been easily filled during his jail stints. Trust Tom to spoil this man’s perfect search plan.
“Well, the dog’s good,” Riordan said as if reading his mind. “She might figure it out yet.”
“It’s practically dark, though,” Green said.
“Not a problem. The weather’s clear, and our ERT teams have good gear. My information is your suspect is not armed?”
“Not likely,” Sullivan said. More officers wandered in to study the map. Sullivan glanced around the room. “Anything we can do?”
Pointedly Riordan’s gaze took in their city suits and a faint smile twitched across his military features. “You’d be most help finding out everything you can about our suspect—his knowledge of the terrain, any contacts in the area, his survival skills, his habits—and feeding it to Detective Logan over there.” He nodded to the plain clothes officer on the phone. “We’ve already got your Detective Peters out with one of the patrol units.”
A chuckle ran through the knot of officers jotting notes on the white board nearby. Green didn’t even want to speculate what the chuckle meant. His gaze was drawn again to the topographical map on the table. To the endless acres of uninhabited wilderness and the tiny back lane on which the truck had been found. It didn’t make any sense! It was miles from anywhere.
He turned to Sullivan. “Would you get Bob Gibbs on that right away and hook him up with Logan here?” He looked back at Riordan. “While we’re out here, I’d like a look at the truck and the surrounding area. It might give us some ideas.”
Riordan’s mustache twitched in disapproval. “Don’t disturb the scene.”
Green was already striding to the door and the only response he allowed himself was the slamming of the truck door on his way out.
“Disturb the scene,” he muttered to Sullivan as he swung the cruiser back onto the road. “Who the fuck does he think we are, the Keystone Kops?”
“He’s just a control freak,” Sullivan replied. “Funny thing about inspectors.”
Green ignored the bait. He had already turned his attention to the road ahead, where presently a patch of light came into view. As they drew near, they saw a police van positioned in the road so that its headlights shone into the bush, illuminating a black pick-up tucked into a laneway off the road. It was almost completely obscured by overhanging brush, and Green realized they were damn lucky anyone had spotted it at all.
Yellow crime scene tape draped the trees and spanned the road, blocking passage. One scene-of-crime officer in white overalls was prowling around the outskirts of the truck, shooting video and still photos, while his partner crouched over a patch of dirt at the back. Green’s breath caught. Had they found out something about Kyle?
He called and introduced himself. “Find anything useful?”
“Lots of dirt and leaves,” said the one by the back, straightening up. “We’ll be loading it onto a truck to take it back to our indoor facility. We’re just checking the vicinity now. There seems to be a patch of urine by the back here.”
“Any sign of a struggle in the truck? Blood?”
“Not that we can see.” Green felt a wave of relief. It didn’t mean much, for there were half a dozen ways Tom could have disposed of Kyle, but at least he hadn’t killed him in the truck. “What’s the closest village they could have gone to?”
“Nearest town is Marmora, about fifteen K back down on 7. There’s also Brady’s Country Store at the junction of Cordova Road about three K up this way. But our guys checked there, and no one’s seen the subjects.”
Green thanked him and headed back down to the cruiser. Inside, he consulted the map and located the junction of Cordova Road. It was even further into the boonies. He stared thoughtfully through the windshield at the surrounding bush, combing his recollections of the argument with the McMartins at the Boisvert farm that afternoon. Something niggled at the edges of his memory.
Sullivan started the engine. “What next, navigator? A bite to eat, maybe?”
Green ignored him. “Look at this goddamn place! It’s not on the road to anywhere. If Tom was going to Toronto, why the hell would he come up here?”
“Maybe he got lost.”
The memory came loose. “No, he didn’t! I think he knew exactly where he was going.” Green’s mouth went dry as another memory fell into place. “Fuck! So does Sandy!”
Sullivan frowned. “What are you talking about?”
Green swung on him, excitement fighting fear in his thoughts. “Do you remember back at the Boisvert farm, Jeb McMartin started to say ‘Madoc, isn’t that where Norm used to have—”
Sullivan’s frown cleared. “And Sandy cut him off.”
“That’s right! I’m betting the Pettigrew family used to come up here, maybe even owned a place. And I bet Sandy knows where, and that’s why Madoc OPP hasn’t seen a trace of him. Remember Sandy said he knew this area because he sold cottages up here? We’ve got to move our asses if we want to find the Pettigrew place before he gets there.”
They drove back to the command trailer. Riordan took down the details and excitedly looked up township records on his computer. Their brief moment of triumph died when the search turned up no properties listed in the name of Norman Pettigrew, or any other Pettigrew.
“We’ll have to do a title search down at the County Registry office in Belleville,” he said. “And on a Saturday night, everything is closed up tight. It may take a while to find someone to open it up and go through the files.”
“I’d go straight to the Mayor and Chief of Police,” Green said and was pleased to see Riordan’s poker face break into a smile. Maybe the two were more alike than Green had thought. He paused as he headed for the door and matched the other man’s smile. “Brian and I will be on the road doublechecking the homes in the area, but we’ll keep you informed. Tom Pettigrew is still a danger, but right now I think our biggest threat may be Fitzpatrick. So let us know—”
Riordan nodded. “You’ll be the first.”
When Green returned to the car, Sullivan revved the engine and guided it back onto the road. He drove effortlessly through the darkness, one hand on the wheel and the other rubbing his chin. “Do you really think Sandy would hurt Kyle? He’s his brother, after all.”
“Stepbrother, actually, which may make a difference. And as for whether he’d hurt him, well, he bludgeoned his own lover, didn’t he? Besides, after all the bad calls I’ve made, I’m not taking any chances with this one.”
“So what’s our next move?”
“You’re the country boy, Brian. Tell me how we find out where the Pettigrew place was. It may take them a long time to track down the title in the registry office. It might have been thirty years ago.”
“That won’t matter around here,” Sullivan grinned. “At least, not with the local folk. They’ll remember who owned a store fifty years ago, probably still call it by that name.”
“Okay, so we find some local folk.” Green glanced out at the empty bush. “Somewhere.”
“Brady’s Country Store is our best bet. Probably been in the family for generations, and Brady will know everyone’s business for miles around.”
Brady’s store turned out to be a dilapidated two-storey frontier home of faded white clapboard. The sign across the front proclaimed in old-fashioned red lettering that it was Brady’s General Store and Tackle Shop. Assorted signs had been taped in the window beneath. “Hunting and fishing licences available”, “Live worms”, “Propane for Sale”, “Videos for rent”. All the lights were out on the main floor, however, and a large “Closed” sign hung in the window.
Green sat in the car and looked up at the building dejectedly. He was conscious of time ticking away, and of Kyle being held capt
ive by one erratic, volatile man and stalked by an even more desperate one. All because of Green. Kyle was with Tom because Green had not detained the man after he’d first broken into the Boisverts’ house. He was being stalked by Sandy because Green had told the McMartins he might have witnessed something on the day Lawrence died.
To his surprise, Sullivan climbed out of the car and headed around the back towards an even more dilapidated wing at the rear of the store. Inside, Green could see the faint glow of a light upstairs.
Sullivan hammered on the door. “Brady!”
A dog barked, followed by a man’s gruff bellow as a series of windows lit up downstairs. A moment later the porch light came on and the door opened to reveal a wizened old man with no teeth and a stringy white beard that hadn’t seen a razor in ten years.
“What the name of Jesus do you want! He’s closed! Gone down to Belleville.”
Sullivan grinned. “You Brady?”
“Yeah. But it’s my son owns the place.”
“Brian Sullivan, with the Ottawa Police.” He stuck out his hand cheerfully.
“Eh?” The man shouted, ignoring Sullivan’s hand. Sullivan raised the decibel level and repeated himself.
>“Beautiful country,” he added. “You from around here?”
“Never could make enough money off that place to get out,” Brady retorted, eyeing Sullivan’s hand warily before deciding it was safe.
Sullivan pumped his hand heartily. “I know that feeling. Most of my folks are still up in the Valley. Further north, though, Renfrew County.”
Fifth Son Page 25
