“You’re travelling 4,300 kilometres to have a cup of hot chocolate?”
“With you. A cup of hot chocolate with you. Any problem with that?”
Trevor laughed. “None whatsoever.”
“Fine. Then wish me luck —”
“Good luck.”
“— and I’ll see you soon. Can I bring you anything?”
“Yeah. Bring your tool belt. You can read into that whatever you like.”
Downstairs Ralph sat looking at him. “What do you want?” Dan asked, opening his arms wide. The dog leapt to the door and waited while Dan put the leash on him. Outside he trotted briskly along without pulling. He seemed to know where he wanted to go, as though he’d sniffed the wind, and it had told him something.
How do you gauge what lies ahead? How do you choose?
Sometimes, Craig Killingworth had written in his diary, I think the only things that matter are the choices we make, for better or worse, for right or wrong. He had chosen the love of his sons and walked into the open arms of death. As sad and unfair as it was, nothing could change that. Craig Killingworth had let duty — an all-consuming duty of fatherhood coupled with a love for his sons — kill him. He’d tried to escape his fate and walked right into it. And here, twenty years later, Dan Sharp walked his dog across a bridge in one of the world’s largest metropolises, contemplating his future. His own choices. He, at least, could still make them. And they would be as wrong or as right as could be. There was no telling until he made them.
The man and dog passed over the Don Valley Bridge. Snow fell lightly. Below, a flow of red taillights winked and twitched its way up the constipated fracture that divided the city. A river of flame that would be cold as ash tomorrow. A river of escapees. Those who couldn’t take the city any more — this place that was supposed to be friendly and safe, a haven for like-minded souls who wanted to live together in peace and harmony — were slowly making their way to a new land, leaving behind the tyranny of mob rule. Somehow in the course of the last century, as the city became a garbage bin for the tortured and angst-ridden, the uncaring and soulless, the promise had all gone wrong.
Dan heard voices and turned to watch three kids cutting across to his left, sharing some childhood joke. There were two boys, one black and one white, running alongside an Asian girl, laughing as they went. Citizens of the new century. The very essence of diversity.
Well, maybe not all wrong, then. Somewhere there was hope.
Acknowledgements
Thanks to Navigator Shane McConnell, Captain Russell Sergiates, and First Mate Timothy Pinnell of the Outward Bound, for that eye-opening trip to the Bay of Quinte, Fisheries Officer Brian Round for his explanation of marine rescue operations, Constable Lyn Nottingham and Sergeant Mark Round for their advice on policing strategies, and Group Manager Barbara York for shedding light on the intricate mysteries of banking protocol. Any errors or inaccuracies in such matters are of my own purposeful and fanciful invention.
Thanks are also due to Peter Hawkins and Arnon Melo for inviting me on their lovely, non-fatal wedding cruise, Richard Armstrong and Peter Nosalik for having me as a guest in their charming Forest Hill home, Dean Gregory and Drew Elvin, each for their own brand of west coast hospitality, Bob MacGregor of FSA Toronto for helping me sort out my own messes, Kevin Hartley and Eric Wegler for enlightening me on the perils of being a gay dad, and the delightful and ever-lovely Gail Bowen for her additional insights into parenthood.
Cheers to Michael Carroll, Allister Thompson, Margaret Bryant, and the team at Dundurn for making me feel welcome. As well, I salute my boyhood friends Johnny S, Ed T, Joan M, Sharon W, Harris G, Jamie V, Gail and Brenda R, Lynn and Gary D, Junior and Rachel T, aunts Shirley, Elsie, Evie, Kathy, and Helen, uncles Don, Edgar, and Jim, grandmother Evelyn, and cousins Susan, Judy, Steve, Barb, Diane, and David, each of whom contributed something of value to my wayward Sudbury years. And finally, to the memory of Allen Brooker, whose struggle to be with his sons tragically led him to take his life.
Author photo by Don McNeill
Jeffrey Round has published five previous novels, including Vanished in Vallarta, his third Bradford Fairfax Murder Mystery. He has also written plays, directed short films, and served as a producer and writer for Alliance-Atlantis and CBC. He lives in Toronto.
Copyright © Jeffrey Round, 2012
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise (except for brief passages for purposes of review) without the prior permission of Dundurn Press. Permission to photocopy should be requested from Access Copyright.
Editor: Allister Thompson
Design: Jesse Hooper
Ebook Design: Carmen Giraudy
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Round, Jeffrey
Lake on the mountain [electronic resource] : a Dan Sharp mystery / written by Jeffrey Round.
Electronic monograph in EPUB format.
Issued also in print format.
ISBN 978-1-4597-0002-4
I. Title. II. Series: Castle Street mystery (Online)
We acknowledge the support of the Canada Council for the Arts and the Ontario Arts Council for our publishing program. We also acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and Livres Canada Books, and the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit and the Ontario Media Development Corporation.
Care has been taken to trace the ownership of copyright material used in this book. The author and the publisher welcome any information enabling them to rectify any references or credits in subsequent editions.
J. Kirk Howard, President
www.dundurn.com
From Pumpkin Eater,
Jeffrey Round’s Next Dan Sharp Mystery
* * *
Prologue: Toronto 2008
This Little Piggy
Darkness gripped him like a vice. The hush in the room was as soothing as a hand run over velvet. In the faint light filtering in from outside, everything was black on black, broken here and there by minute variations in grey. Uniform, minimalist. Against a far wall the outline of a girder dipped from the roof, twisted and warped like a giant DNA strand or a blackened starlit stairway to heaven. Closer up, the shell of a processing unit stood off to one side, vaguely threatening, like some obscure technology on a low-budget sci-fi set, impossible to say what it was if you didn’t know what spaceship you were on or what series you’d landed in.
Dan sniffed the air. The scent of smoke lingered, a disquieting charred odour, though it was more than two years since the fire that gutted the slaughterhouse’s interior. He took a step forward. From off to the right came a curious grinding noise, like a pebble crushed underfoot. Or maybe it was just his imagination. He froze.
“Darryl Hillary?” he called out. “My name is Dan Sharp. I’m a missing persons investigator. I’ve been hired by your sister.”
More silence.
It was just past two a.m. on a hot, humid August morning. Not the best weather for sleeping, though any bed would be better than this, Dan thought. His eyes searched out movement. He felt no fear on being there. It occurred to him that he was more at home here in darkness than in the light.
After fifteen years in the business, he was still surprised where he might end up looking for someone. During his first week on the job for a previous employer, a lifer with a big mouth informed him of the likelihood that a) he probably wouldn’t last a month, and b) he would never be able to predict where the job might land him on any given day. He’d long since proven the first wrong, but the second prediction had shown itself right time and again.
As anonymous tips went, the one that brought him here had seemed routine. At just past midnight his cellphone buzzed, registering a number at a phone booth. He heard what sounded like a fast-food outlet in the background
— orders being called out over the din of communal eating in a room echoing with restless diners. In the foreground, a voice hard-wired by an indeterminate sexuality — it could have been a young man, his pitch notched up by nervousness, or a woman who’d smoked herself into a good baritone — puffed out the details of where to find his prey: a young man named Darryl Hillary.
Dan knew better than to ask the caller for personal details. He’d long since learned that the bearer of these messages often had something to hide or something to gain by passing along the information. You seldom learned what it was, but the information was usually good, when it wasn’t downright crazy or just implausible. But, hey, it took all kinds.
“That guy you’re looking for? Hillary? He’s hiding out in the old slaughterhouse near Keele and St. Clair. He’s there now.”
Dan’s mind went into overdrive: something about a suspicious fire, a big investigation into arson, allegations of insurance fraud involving unpaid government loans.
Play dumb, he told himself. “Didn’t that burn down a couple of years ago?”
“Yeah, North York Pork. That’s the one. But the building’s mostly still there.”
“What’s he hiding from?”
There was a pause. He shouldn’t have pushed. That was all he’d get now. He’d lost whoever was talking.
“Don’t you know?”
“Maybe, but I wondered what you could tell me.”
“Nothing. That’s it.”
The line went dead, the food court disappearing into oblivion. In his mind, Dan followed the trail backward: fast-food outlet, supermarket, meat distributor, slaughterhouse, and, finally, the farm. This little piggy goes to market. A curious connection but ultimately meaningless, he suspected. He recalled the newspaper photos of the fire engines, hoses turned skyward on a bleak winter day, as well as additional shots: a humorous sidebar of char-blackened pork sides prepped for processing, now permanently overdone. If it was arson, then whoever set it had at least had the good sense to do it after the slaughter, rather than get the animal activists riled at the thought of an abattoir of live pigs going up in flames.
The connections Dan had with his sources were obscure almost to the point of being non-existent. Sometimes the contact of a contact would phone or send him a message — for cash, of course. If there was news to be had, there was a price tag to go with it. What you learned after paying your snitch fee was anybody’s guess, and where the tip came from was nobody’s business. That wasn’t Dan’s concern. Finding his client was. As long as the information put him in touch with the right person, then it was all the same to him. With some, you could never tell. A tip leading to an abandoned slaughterhouse might be just the ticket, or it could be a blind lead. The only way to know for sure was to follow it.
Table of Contents
Dedication
Epigraph
Contents
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright
Upcoming Dan Sharp Mystery
Lake on the Mountain: A Dan Sharp Mystery Page 36
