The Hole

by David Halliday

  Ed stopped talking, his voice trailing off into his mind. When Margaret arrived at their table, Sam asked for a refill on their coffees. Margaret smiled and moved off.

  “That your girl?” Ed asked, a sly smile flashing across his sunken face.

  “Just a friend,” Sam responded.

  “Looks like more than that,” Ed responded. “Especially the way her eyes are on you when you’re not looking.”

  Sam smiled uncomfortably.

  “No women will ever look at me that way again,” Ed added wistfully, dropping his eyes. “You ever wake up feeling guilty, Sam? Guilty for something but you can’t remember what. And you’re afraid to remember. Afraid to see that lizard crawling inside you. Afraid to look at your soul. You know what the soul is, Sam? It’s time. Dripping like acid from a leaky faucet inside. Eating your flesh. Until there’s nothing left but bone and memories.”

  Ed stopped for a moment.

  “Sometimes I get a bit weepy,” he said. Ed took a napkin and blew his nose.

  “That’s all right,” Sam responded. “I have my moments too.” Margaret came by with a coffee pot and filled up their cups. She smiled at the detective and nodded secretively toward the old man. The detective nodded back. As she walked away, Sam watched her with a smile.

  “Just a friend, eh?” Ed chuckled slyly.

  Sam blushed.

  “Any luck finding my files?” Ed asked.

  “Not much, I’m afraid. Actually, I was hoping you might be able to help me on another case.”

  “Hope I can be of more use than that last one,” Ed replied.

  “A boy named Johnny Gray disappeared one summer. At the time everyone assumed that he was just another runaway.”

  “A kid?” Ed asked.

  “A teenager. He was almost twenty so you could say he was an adult.

  The kid had been under a lot of pressure. From what I’ve learned, he 113 flunked out of college. His parents didn’t know about it. And he was having trouble getting a job.”

  “Blond kid? Good-looking? Something of an athlete?” Ed asked.

  The detective nodded.

  “Knew that kid from when he first started riding a bike. Always trouble. Stealing from stores when he was no more than ten. Looked like an angel but was a real hellion. His parents couldn’t control him. There were a series of break-ins that we suspected he was involved in but we could never catch him at it. He was a track star at the local Catholic high school, Michael Power. An article in the paper about him. Broke all these Ontario records for the mile. What a waste of talent, good looks, and charm. Never saw him without a pretty girl on his arm. No character. No spine in the boy. Put his parents through hell.”

  “You knew about him disappearing then?” the detective asked.

  Ed nodded. “Wasn’t surprised. He was up on assault charges.”

  “I didn’t know that,” the detective replied.

  “One of his girlfriends,” Ed added. “Never could take responsibility for his mistakes. Always blamed it on someone else. Taking off was exactly what you would have suspected from him. He’d be about your age now, Detective. Maybe a few years younger.”

  A crowd of teenagers stepped into the restaurant and fell into a corner booth. Ed watched them and smiled. He turned back to Sam.

  “You ever meet a kid you just couldn’t like? Johnny was that kind of kid. Everything came too easy for him. Haven’t thought about that boy in thirty years. You think he didn’t run off?” The detective leaned back in his chair.

  “Ed, I’m not sure of anything anymore.”

  Ed laughed then looked across the room.

  “What?” the detective asked.

  “The waitress,” Ed replied. “Your girlfriend. I know her.” Gone

  “This isn’t a good idea,” Frank cried, his lip fluttering nervously. He could feel that something terrible was going to happen. He leaned on the trunk. “I don’t care what kind of shithead he is, what if no one finds him?”

  Terry moved Frank gently aside and opened the trunk of the Chev.

  “He fucking tried to rape my girl, Frank. What more do you want?” Terry grabbed one end of the sleeping bag that lay tied up with rope in the trunk.

  “Gobble, gobble, gobble.” Wiggy laughed as he danced around the car like a chicken.

  “I thought you were a friend of Johnny’s?” Frank asked, grabbing Wiggy’s arm. “Can’t you see what’s happening here?” Wiggy brushed Frank off. “The fucker ain’t no friend of mine. You heard what he tried to do to Cathy. And then beats up on my boy, Terry.

  Johnny deserves what he gets. And what do you care? He wasn’t no friend of yours. You said he was an asshole.”

  “Will you two shut up and help with this fucker,” Terry cried.

  The two boys helped Terry lift their prisoner out of the trunk and set him on the ground.

  “When does old man Mackenzie get home from work?” Terry asked.

  “I gotta get this car back to Cathy.”

  “We got lots of time,” Wiggy said, pointing at the sleeping bag. “Hey, look, the bubble boy has come back to life. It’s good I gagged him. The bastard would be screaming like a banshee.”

  Johnny began to wiggle around in the sleeping bag.

  “Hold him down!” Terry barked at Frank.

  Reluctantly, Frank grabbed Johnny’s feet.

  “This is some serious shit you guys are getting us in,” Frank whined, trying to restrain the wiggling sleeping bag.

  “We’re just going to lower him down old man Mackenzie’s well,” Wiggy explained. “He won’t drown, Frank. There hasn’t been water in it for years. It’ll take him a couple of hours to wiggle out of these ropes.

  College boy will learn who the real bosses around here are. Sometimes you’ve got to put guys in their place and right now that place is at the bottom of this well.”

  “He’ll go to the cops,” Frank added. “And we’ll be facing charges.”

  “He ain’t going to charge anyone with anything,” Terry responded.

  “Not unless he wants Cathy to press rape charges.”

  “She didn’t say he raped her,” Frank responded.

  “Did you see the bruise on her cheek?” Terry replied.

  “Like she’s going to tell us about being raped,” Wiggy added, then laughed. “Not that I wouldn’t mind hearing the details. Hey, don’t look at me that way.”

  Terry laughed and turned to Frank.

  “Remember that time we caught Wiggy reading Dear Abby?” 115

  Frank nodded with a smile.

  “He was always a pervert,” Frank said.

  “What’s your point?” Wiggy responded. “Anyway, I like Dear Abby.

  She gives a lot of good advice to teenagers-especially about relationships.”

  “And you need all the advice you can get,” Terry howled.

  Johnny continued to squirm inside the sleeping bag. Wiggy kicked him.

  “Shut up!” Wiggy turned to his comrades. “I wish we had a wheelbar-row. It’s going to be tough dragging him over to the well.” Wiggy knelt down over the sleeping bag.

  “I know you can hear me, Johnny. You’d better settle down or you’ll get a lot more boots.”

  Wiggy stood up and kicked Johnny again. He stopped squirming.

  Wiggy smiled.

  “See,” he said, “I got a way with words.”

  The three boys picked Johnny up and carried him across the long grass, past Joe Mackenzie’s house toward the well. When they reached the well they dropped him on the ground.

  “Why’d you drop him like that?” Frank pushed Wiggy back as he knelt beside the sleeping bag. “He banged his head. What if you killed him?”

  “My arms were getting tired,” Wiggy responded, straightening out his trousers. “And we didn’t kill him. And don’t go pushing me like that. I don’t take shit like that.”

  “Will you guys shut up!” Terry cried. “Did anyone bring a rope?”

  “Tell him to apologize!
” Wiggy insisted.

  “Fuck your feelings, Wiggy. Did you bring a rope?” Wiggy shook his head. Terry turned to Frank. Frank dropped his eyes.

  “Shit! You guys are totally useless. Look around. Maybe there’s something we can use.”

  The boys fanned out. Johnny continued to squirm in the sleeping bag.

  A few minutes later Frank gave a shout and returned to the well with a long rope. Wiggy bent over Johnny and checked the ropes binding the sleeping bag.

  “Shit! He almost got himself loose.”

  “I thought you said that it would take him a couple of hours to loosen those ropes,” Terry demanded, pushing Wiggy aside as he knelt over the sleeping bag and tightened the ropes around Johnny.

  “It’s been a long time since I was a boy scout,” Wiggy said in his own defense. “And I warned you guys about pushing me.” A few minutes passed before Terry was satisfied that all the ropes were secure. He attached the new rope to the binding.

  “Okay,” Terry said. “I tied the rope around college-boy. We’ll slowly lower him down the well so he doesn’t break his neck in the fall and then we’ll drop the rope down. He should be loose by the time old man Mackenzie comes home from work.”

  “This has got disaster written all over it,” Frank said, shaking his head.

  “Are you sure that rope is long enough?”

  “There’s got to be a hundred feet of rope there,” Wiggy cried. “Plenty of rope. Trust me.”

  As the three boys lifted Johnny up onto the edge of the wall that surrounded the well, he continued to squirm.

  “Quit squirming, asshole,” Wiggy insisted and punched the sleeping bag.

  Frank and Terry grabbed the rope as Wiggy nudged the bundle over the side. The body began to slowly descend into the hole, each boy releasing inch after inch.

  “Shouldn’t we have reached the bottom by now?” Frank cried.

  “Almost there,” Terry responded.

  “Man, my arms are getting sore,” Wiggy added. “Johnny’s heavier than he looks.”

  “It’s slipping!” Terry cried.

  “Hold it!” Frank added.

  The boys gripped the rope trying to slow Johnny’s descent. Their hands burned as the rope raced through their fingers. And then it was gone.

  Missing Persons

  Hank waited patiently for his blueberry pie. Several customers stood at the cash register paying their bills and talking to the waitress. Margaret smiled warmly as she handed back their change. Then she turned to the kitchen and picked up several plates and confidently moved across the room and delivered them to another table of guests. When she returned to Hank, she apologized.

  Hank sipped at his coffee. Margaret remembered the pie and moved over to a nearby refrigerator.

  “Been looking forward to this all morning,” Hank said. “Do you pick these berries yourself, love?”

  Margaret smiled as she slid the pie onto the counter in front of Hank.

  “Is it always this busy here?” he asked.

  “You should have been here an hour ago. I’ve never seen such a break-fast crowd like that before. A lot of cops. Something’s going on at the Mackenzie farm. And wouldn’t you know that this is the day the boss decides to go golfing.”

  “You don’t have any other help?”

  “Susan comes in mornings. But one of her kids is sick. She’s useless anyway. Screws up all the orders. But the boss likes her. Thinks he’s going to get a little action on the side. Four kids and the boss thinks Susan’s got time for a little dalliance. Men are such optimists.” Hank began to eat his pie. Shaking his head with delight, he smiled as he washed down the pie with a swallow of coffee.

  Margaret took an ashtray out and set it on the counter.

  “You don’t mind?”

  Hank shook his head and continued to eat his pie. When he finished he pushed the plate aside, wiped his mouth with a napkin and sighed.

  “Wonderful,” he said with a smile. “A pie like that deserves some kind of prize.”

  Margaret drew deeply on her cigarette and slowly let out several smoke rings. Hank sipped at his coffee and watched as the rings rose toward the ceiling and dissipated.

  “You lived in this area all your life?” he asked.

  Margaret nodded. “Mostly,” she said.

  “Do you know a woman named Mary? I’ve come in here a few times with her.”

  “We were school friends,” Margaret replied with a nod. She kept her eyes on the other customers and on the front door. “Still good friends.

  She’s told me about you.”

  “Don’t believe everything you hear,” Hank said with a laugh. He sipped at his coffee then reached over to the sugar container and poured some more into the cup.

  Margaret smirked.

  “What do you know about her ex-husband?”

  “Nothing,” Margaret replied. “And if I knew anything I don’t think I’d be telling you. Why do you want to know about Mary’s ex?” Hank finished his coffee and asked for a refill. Margaret got the coffee and an extra cup for herself. She filled both.

  “Did you ever get an itch,” Hank explained, “and the more you scratched it, the bigger the itch got?”

  Margaret raised her cup to her lips. She did not respond.

  “I’m a writer. Maybe you’ve seen my articles in The Sun. Crime stuff.

  Always looking for material.”

  “So you’re a writer,” Margaret said with a shrug. “Mary didn’t tell me that. She thinks you’re some kind of private eye.” Hank laughed and almost choked on his coffee. “Me a dick? In a way, I am an investigator.”

  Margaret shrugged as she sucked on her cigarette.

  Hank continued. “Maybe you don’t know, but most of this land was owned by Timothy Eaton. He used the produce from the farms, mostly apples, pears, and rhubarb, to stock his downtown stores. In 1950 a man named Shipp bought most of the land and began to clear the farms in this area to build low-cost housing for middle class families, the families of soldiers who had returned from the war and were working the factor-ies and warehouses. The houses were built on the assembly line model.

  Similar projects were initiated in other surrounding areas of the city-Scarborough, Don Mills, North York. It was a great housing boom.”

  Margaret stared at Hank, tapping the ashes of her cigarette into an ashtray.

  “Fascinating,” she said with an air of indifference.

  Hank smiled. “I’ll try and get to the point. A lot of statistics were kept in those days. Hydro, tax records, the police, the census. Maybe it was the aftereffects of the war. Everyone wanted to know everything about everyone. While browsing through all of the paperwork, I noticed that the Six Points area had a disproportionate number of missing persons.” Margaret, who had been keeping an eye on her other customers, turned to Hank. She put down her cigarette.

  “Got your attention?” Hank smiled.

  “Continue,” Margaret said.

  “It started shortly after the Shipp homes were finished. Large numbers of people moved into the area. People started to disappear. Husbands, wives, kids, people just passing through. A young fellow who read gas meters disappeared one day on his route. Foul play was suspected but no one was ever arrested. A couple of Jehovah’s Witnesses were reported missing. A little girl went swimming over at Memorial Pool. She was seen going into Central Park. That was the last time she was seen. Other cases were reported to the police, written up as husbands running out on 119 their families, or teenage runaways, or people avoiding their debts. Not every case was reported to the police.”

  “Wait a minute,” Margaret said. “Why is this the first time I’m hearing about this?”

  “I don’t know.” Hank slowly stirred his coffee. “It makes you think though.”

  “Think about what?” Margaret asked. “What exactly are you imply-ing? You can’t go around saying things like this unless you know something.”

  “Weren’t you reported missing?” he asked.
<
br />   Margaret coughed. She put down her cigarette and took a swallow of coffee.

  “When you were kids up by Echo Valley,” Hank continued. “There was a police report. A bunch of you were drinking and playing strip poker.”

  Margaret leaned over the counter.

  “Exactly,” she interrupted, “what are you up to?” Purgatory

  “What about this heat, Sam?” Jack asked as he polished glasses and placed them on a shelf behind the bar.

  Detective Kelly smiled. He finished his beer. Jack brought him a second.

  “Goes right through you, eh?” Jack said with a laugh. “What’s this I hear about the gang of police dining over at the Canadiana this morning?”

  “The Mackenzie place,” the detective responded.

  Jack stopped polishing the glass in his hand.

  “We got a warrant to look the place over. I did some more spade work on Mrs. Mackenzie’s disappearance. She made a complaint about Joe the previous year. She said that he had threatened her life.” Jack’s mouth fell open.

  “You hear stuff like this when there are domestic problems. But Joe’s mother also disappeared shortly after she complained about Joe’s father.

  He used to beat her.”

  “I never heard that before,” Jack said, his mouth still hanging. “You think the father and the son committed…”

  “Did you ever hear what happened to Joe’s father?” the detective asked.

  Jack shook his head.

  “Neither has anyone else. I checked out all the local graveyards and there are no records of a James Mackenzie. Nor can we find any trace of Joe’s brothers or sisters.”

  “Maybe they just moved on.”

  “Maybe. There were a lot of people who moved around before and after the war looking for work. Most of the people who lived in the area at the time are dead so it’s been difficult to come up with much evidence.

  I’ve talked to a retired cop but his memory is pretty suspect. And then there’s the hole in Joe’s backyard.”

  Jack put the glass in his hand back on the bar.

  “You think old Joe dropped them down that hole?”

  “We’re bringing in some heavy equipment tomorrow. I don’t know what we’ll find. If we don’t find something, I’ve got some explaining to do with my boss. You know about the big fight Joe had with hydro. He threatened some people from the government when they came on his property. Fired a gun over their heads. Charges were never filed. Hydro wanted to make a deal with Joe. They didn’t want people thinking that they were bullying him. A lot of people have disappeared over the years in this area and Joe is the only constant. Everything points his way. And then there’s that hole-”