by Tim McGregor
“Oh?” His brow rose this time. “Why is that?”
“The Culpeppers didn’t exist before 1906. The name is fiction. It was assumed.”
Earl turned all the way round to face her. “I’m not sure I’m following, Billie.”
“The family fled Hamilton and changed their name to Culpepper. The name you want to look up is Cleary. The eight-year-old Cillian Culpepper was born Cillian Cleary. Same with Arden, the one you and I are descended from. They had a sister named Katie, who died in 1904 of scarlett fever, and a brother named Tom. Tom had the gleaning, too.”
The sun was glinting hard in Earl’s glasses, twin flares that masked his widening eyes. “How do you know this?”
“Tom was murdered in 1906. After he was sold off by the family to some charlatan psychic.” She looked down at her boots, the leather soaked through from the snow. “Tom…visits me. He found me shortly after I nearly drowned, when my gleaning came back.”
“Good god.” It was all that the older man could summon for a while. His breathing was heavy, pumping harder as the puzzle was pieced together for him by the young woman. “This is a lot to take in. This Tom, what do you mean he visits you? Do you mean his ghost?”
She nodded. “His family used to call him Poor Tom. Because he had the gleaning.”
“And he was murdered?” sputtered Earl. “How? And by whom? You said the family sold him. Like a slave?”
Shivering in her wet boots, Billie took a step back toward the pathway. “Can we go back to the truck? I’m freezing.”
“Of course,” he said and they trudged off, following their footsteps in the snow back to pickup truck. Billie unpacked the story she had learned from Katie Cleary, about the shanty town existence of the family and the fate of Poor Tom and how they came to flee the city for fear that their sin would be made public.
Earl’s jaw dropped at each new scrap of information. When they climbed back into his truck, he fired the engine and reached for the notebook kept tucked under the sun visor. Enthralled by the break in the story, he asked what Tom had told her about his family, his life, his experiences. His jaw gaped a second time when Billie explained that Tom had told her nothing because his tongue had been cut out by the cruel man who had held him captive.
~
It was late afternoon when the pickup truck sliced into the slush before her building on Barton Street. Earl leaned over to look up at the worn brick facade and the faded sign of the deserted shoe store. “This is your place?”
“Charming, isn’t it?” Billie said. “Do you want to come up? I could make us coffee?”
Earl glanced at the time on the dashboard clock. “I should get home. It’s getting late.”
“Okay. I have something for you but it’s upstairs. Can you wait a second?”
“Of course.”
She was back in less than two minutes, panting from running up to the flat and back. Climbing into the cab, she handed him a sheet of paper. “Here ya go,” she said.
“Thank you.” He looked at the elaborate design on the paper, recognizing part of it.
“It’s the family tree,” Billie said. “The one you made. I just added to it where I could. Sorry it’s kinda messy.”
He was transfixed by her notes. “My God. Look at this.”
“See this break here?” She pointed at a gap between the generational branches. “This is when the Clearys fled Hamilton and changed the family name to Culpepper.”
“I don’t know what to say.” Overwhelmed, his lip quivered slightly. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Tears, like laughter, can be contagious and she fought to keep her own eyes dry. “Can we do this again? I’ll make lunch next time. And maybe, if he’s up for it, you could meet Tom.”
Startled by the idea, he took a moment to process what she was saying. “Would he do that?”
“He might. He can be a bit moody but if I explained that you were family, he might behave.”
Earl rubbed his jaw, trying to get his head around the idea. He looked at her. “And he lives with you? Well, I suppose ‘live’ is the wrong term.”
“Sort of,” Billie said. “He comes and goes.”
Traffic rumbled past his window. “How did you find Poor Tom?”
“He was already here when my abilities surfaced. I assumed that he was haunting the building, like he had died here, but that wasn’t the case. It was me that he was haunting.”
“They can do that?”
Billie nodded. “They attach themselves to people sometimes, rather than places. In fact, my boyfriend had a really nasty—” The sentence dropped off the edge. Then she flinched. “Oh my God.”
“What is it?” Earl asked, confused.
“I just realized something. Holy cow.” She clutched at the door latch. “I gotta run. I’ll call you soon, okay?”
The hug was brief. “Take care,” he said. “I’ll let you know if I find anything on the Clearys.”
“Do that.” She waved and closed the door, watching the pickup drive away.
Billie’s heart was ticking faster, her thoughts running ahead. She didn’t notice the man standing in the entryway of her building, watching her.
“Hi,” Mockler said. “Can we talk?”
Chapter 22
“I’M SORRY.”
They stood there in the grey slush as the traffic lumbered past them. Mockler looked good, showered and smartly turned out in one of his nicer suits, but he looked tired. She wondered if he’d had a rough night.
“That was a shitty thing to do to you,” he went on, before she had a chance to reply. “You’ve been nothing but good to me, Billie, and you didn’t deserve that. Especially on your birthday.”
“Ray—”
He cut her off. “Hold on. You don’t have to say anything. I’m not asking for forgiveness and if you need some space, I’ll understand. I just need you to know that I’m sorry and that it won’t happen again.”
She didn’t know what to say, her heart still thumping from the revelation just a moment ago.
Mockler stepped away to where his car was parked. “That’s it. Call me when you want to talk.”
“Wait.” Was he really going to walk away after that? “Where are you going?”
“Work. The sarge is barking at me to punch in.”
Billie took a step forward. This sudden distance between them was awful and she hated it and wanted it gone. She didn’t care about what had happened anymore. Her hands itched for him. “Did she really try to hurt herself?”
“She said she was going to, but I don’t know. Doesn’t matter.”
“You did the right thing,” Billie said. “Going to help her.”
“I could have called someone else to do it. Should have.”
She stood still. “Come over here.”
He came back and she pulled him close, twining her arms through his. “You help people who need it. It’s who you are.”
“But my timing is lousy.”
“It’s not just that. It’s me. I’m kinda clumsy at the serious relationship thing. And my own fears get the worst of me at times.”
He tilted down to see her eyes. “What fears?”
She took a deep breath, like she was about to dive into a cold lake. “About her. That maybe you’re not over her. There, I’ve said it.”
“Put those fears aside. I’m sorry it got in the way but you don’t have to worry about anything like that.” The wind tussled her hair and he smoothed it back behind her ear. “I’m crazy about you.”
“Or just crazy,” she blurted out, instinct deflecting even the remotest chance of a compliment. Or sincerity.
“Grrr. You’re making me crazy right now.” He kissed her mouth hard and pulled her tighter. He missed the way she smelled. Breaking apart, he said, “I gotta run. Trouble in the office.”
“You’re in trouble?” she asked, stealing one more kiss. “What for?”
“Dunno. The boss clammed up when I asked her that.” He op
ened the car door. “Are you working tonight?”
“No. Don’t tell me there’s a slight chance we might have an evening together?”
“Depends what the boss is fuming about. I’ll keep you posted.”
Crazy how quickly everything could turn around, she thought. How easily a miscommunication could escalate into something terrible. Her heart had flash-frozen when she first glimpsed him. Now, all she wanted to do was drag him upstairs to her bedroom and eat him alive.
But there was something else. Wasn’t there?
The engine rolled over, revving up to slip out of the snow drift. Billie dashed into the street and banged on his windshield.
“Wait!”
His window slid down. “One more smooch?”
“No,” she said. Then added, “Yes, but I need something.” His answer, like every other time, remained the same. Anything. Billie continued. “Can you run a background check on the couple I’m helping?”
“Sure,” he answered, reaching for a pen. “Robin something?”
“Robin Flores and Noah Kemp.”
He had her spell the last names and then folded the notebook away. “What am I looking for?”
“I don’t know. Anything, I suppose.” She bent down for another kiss. “Thank you.”
He said he would call later and then drove away. Billie waved from the sidewalk before running inside to get out of the cold.
~
Detective Odinbeck was on the phone when Mockler appeared in the bullpen. Looking up at the younger detective, he pointed two fingers at his temple and mimicked blowing his brains out.
“No, eleven ‘o clock,” Odinbeck spoke into the phone. “We gotta do this follow-up interview, so stay put, okay?”
Mockler chuckled as his partner looked up to Heaven in despair and then got off the line.
“Who was that?” he asked.
“Our buddy, Trevor McNiven,” Odinbeck said. “We gotta go over his statement again but I want be sure to catch him before he cracks his first beer of the day.”
Mockler checked his watch. “Let’s go now. We’ll surprise him.”
“I got this one. Gibson’s been buzzing through the bullpen looking for you. What’d you do this time, chief?”
“Bad press,” Mockler replied.
“Yonder she comes.” Odinbeck chin-wagged at something across the cubicles.
Mockler turned to see Sergeant Gibson standing outside the board room. She gestured at him to get his butt inside. When she withdrew into the room, Mockler caught a glimpse of another superior already seated at the long table. Superintendent Morrisey, stiff and prim as a bleached collar. He was cleaning his glasses but the motion of his hands reminded Mockler of a man sharpening a knife.
The small television sat atop the trolley, just like the last time he had been dressed down by his superiors. The image on the screen was frozen where the video had been paused, Amanda Troy squared up in the frame.
“Do I need to play this wretched piece?” Superintendent Morrisey asked. His teeth were brilliantly white, bleached possibly. They stood out against the man’s sallow face.
Across the table, Mockler said, “I’ve seen it.”
“Good.” The Superintendent killed the monitor and the screen went dark. “Then we can get straight to the point. Three months suspension, only one of which will be paid.”
The knives were out quick. Mockler looked to Sergeant Gibson but she kept her eyes on the paperwork before her. Never look the condemned man in the eye.
“Suspension,” Mockler said. “That’s a bit overkill, isn’t it?”
“You were warned not to associate with that woman,” Morrisey said. “This psychic. Now the public thinks we’re employing psychics for every investigation. Your association with her has managed to shit on the entire department. I’d say you’re getting off rather lightly here, detective Mockler.”
“Because of this trash TV piece? Amanda Troy is a crackpot who’d do anything to get eyeballs.”
“It’s a question of perception, detective. Public perception. The public has their phones out constantly filming our every move and eager for the tiniest slip in protocol. We all have to walk the razor’s edge now.”
“And suspending me is gonna make it look better?” There was a tiny squeak from Mockler’s molars as they ground together. He looked at his sergeant. “Are you really going along with this?”
Sergeant Gibson finally looked at him. “You’re entitled to appeal, but I wouldn’t advise it.”
Mockler cocked a thumb at the window, the cubicles outside the meeting room. “The unit’s down in numbers as it is. You want to lose one more? Pile even more work on the skeleton crew?”
“That isn’t your concern,” Morrisey said. He closed the folder before him. “How soon can you hand your workload off to Odinbeck?”
“Immediately.” Mockler stood and left the room, letting the door bang against the wall.
Odin was gone when he returned to his desk, off to chase down his interview subject. Mockler bashed the keyboard as he logged in and started shovelling files over. He’d call Odin on his way out and let him know that his workload just doubled. It stung, the way his sergeant had let him twist in the wind. She could only stick her neck out so far, he supposed.
Poring through the files, he toggled through the tedious task of ensuring that everything under his name was accessible to Odin. Any physical paperwork was stacked on the desk, two murder books upright between bookends. Odin could help himself to everything. Then he remembered the favour he’d been asked.
Unfolding a page of notepaper, he typed Robin Flores’ name into the search field. The system churned and spit back zero results. He typed in the husband’s name and bashed the enter key.
The results popped up. Mockler leaned in, scrolling through the information on the screen.
“Shit,” he said quietly.
~
“Leaving?” Connie stood at the sink, looking at her brother as he slunk into a kitchen chair. “But you only just got here?”
“Duty calls,” Gantry said. The table before him was busy with the remains of dinner. One plate sat almost untouched. “Is this Hannah’s dinner?”
Connie shook her head in dismay. “The girl won’t eat anything these days.”
“Is that a girl thing?” He pulled the plate over and tucked in. “Trying to be skinny and all that?”
“Thankfully no. She insists on everything being vegan. Sometimes I confuse it with being vegetarian.”
The fish was cold but it was nicely done. Gantry wolfed it down, speaking with his mouth full. “Be grateful for that.”
“You said you were tying up a few loose ends,” Connie said. She joined him at the table, stacking the plates together and setting them aside. “Did it go as planned?”
“Does it ever?” He set the fork down and thought of the shallow grave he had dug the night before. “One matter was put to rest. So, not a complete waste of time.”
“Where are you off to, then? Back to Canada?”
“NYC first, then up and across the border.”
“What do you do there? What’s it called again?”
“Hamilton.” Gantry shrugged. “Just some mates there. Colleagues, in a way.”
Connie folded her hands together. She looked tired. “Hannah will be disappointed you’re going so soon. She’s not so much of a tyrant when you’re around.”
“I’ll make it up to her next time.”
Connie’s face was hard. “The next time someone tells us you’re dead?”
Gantry smiled at his sister but it didn’t last very long. He pushed the plate away. “I took your advice. Went to see Ellie’s dad.”
“Oh? How did it go?”
“Lovely. He met me at the door with a shotgun.”
“Well, you tried. That’s what matters. Feels good, doesn’t it? Doing the right thing?”
“Not in the least.” He cleared the plates away, clattering them into the sink. “All rig
ht. I’m off.”
A quick embrace. Connie held on for a second longer. “Be careful, John. Please. You’re the only family Hannah has on the Gantry side now. And I can barely stomach the in-laws.”
“Is the brat here?”
“In her room,” Connie said.
Gantry stepped through the living room where Kevin sat with his feet up, laughing at something on the telly. “See you around, Kev.”
“Right,” Kevin said, without looking up. “Anytime, mate.”
“Berk,” Gantry muttered under his breath. Taking the stairs two at a time, he rapped on his niece’s door. Music thumped from inside, loud, so he battered his fist against the thin wood.
It flung open. Hannah, clearly expecting to see her mother, looked up in delight. “Hey!”
“I’m off. Wanna walk me out?”
Not pleased, she had a few choice words concerning his sudden departure. She stomped ahead of him, snatching her coat from the peg before they stepped outside.
“This is really a bad idea,” she said once they were in the front garden. The hedge was bare and rattling in the breeze. “Me and mum at our throats, the way we are. You’re the buffer. You’re needed.”
“You’ll have to manage on your own, Hann.” He lit up finally. “Just remember what I said, yeah? About going easier on my big sister.”
Hannah was having none of it, pouting the same way she did when she was wee. “I thought you were coming to live with us for a spell.”
And step into the psychodrama of a nuclear family? Not on your life.
What he said was, “I’ll be back before you know it. But in the meantime, try not to murder your parents.”
Hannah folded her arms. The pouting lip receded but hadn’t vanished altogether. She looked up at him, the same hard eyes inherited from her mam. “What’s her name?”
“Who?”
“The tart you’re running back to Canada to see. What’s her name?”
Smoke boiled and wisped around his face like some infernal mist. “Her name was Ellie, you prat. I need to do right by her.”
Cowed, her sneer melted away. “What does that mean?”
