The Fortunate Brother

by Donna Morrissey

  In this moment when he’d never felt so far removed from himself, he suddenly wanted to go back. Not to the way it was before Chris’s accident—that was too utterly lost to them all. To the way it was just a week ago: his mother clinking china in the kitchen, his father sitting at the table, sizing up the weather, and he biting into a thick slice of bread slathered in peanut butter and bakeapple jam, the smell of birch wafting from the woodstove.

  And he’d been starting to like mornings, too. Wasn’t much, but he’d been feeling some sort of awakening inside of him, as with the awakening of the day. No doubt by midmorning everything started feeling heavy again. Like the sweet greens of spring darkening by summer’s end. But it would’ve happened. Time erasing things, growing new things. He could see it now looking back, new ways starting in. Julia.

  Gawd-damn Clar Gillard. Gawd-damn his brutal winter’s breath, killing everything just starting to seed again. Shame on himself, too, and his father. Too isolated in their loneliness to feel the good still left to them. Shame. Shame what they’d brought onto his mother. Perhaps none of this would be happening if they’d helped her celebrate the living instead of pining for the dead. And he thought of Sylvie. How he’d run from her. Leaving her to carry alone that lasting memory of Chris and the light leaving his eyes. Shame. Shame he kept himself isolated in his yearning when they were all yearning for that one thing taken from them.

  At the police station, he followed Canning to his old room. This time he turned and smiled for the camera. MacDuff dragged his feet through the door, wiping his nose with a wad of tissue, eyes red-rimmed from a head cold. He smiled sadly to see Kyle and shuffled like a geriatric to his chair.

  “Suppose days like this you wished you smoked,” said Kyle.

  “Still watching your cop shows?”

  “Naw, they gets boring after a while.”

  “That’s the difference in real life, son. Nobody gets bored sitting where you are right now.” He stuffed his wad of tissue into his back pocket and sat. “Tell me about the knife.”

  “Why don’t you tell me.”

  “You got it backwards, son. I do the questioning.”

  “And I choose which ones to answer.”

  MacDuff looked up with rheumy eyes. “Are we bargaining, here?”

  “Might. Else, I get a lawyer and he does the bargaining.”

  “Why don’t we talk first? Maybe there’ll be no need for a lawyer.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Obvious. What most cop shows have in common: nobody knows what the other knows. Makes for good television but not real life.” MacDuff twisted a sad smile. “We help each other, Kyle. And we get through this tired mess.”

  “Good, then. You tell me what you know about the knife and I tell you what I know about the knife.”

  “Perhaps you can tell me why you want me to go first?”

  Kyle smiled to catch himself a moment. He couldn’t say as to why; there was no real why. She had told. He wanted to hear it from the police that she’d told and how and why. His mouth felt wooden as he opened it to speak, his tongue dry as sawdust.

  “I buried the knife to hide it. I stuck it in Clar Gillard.”

  He saw the barely detectable look of surprise on MacDuff’s face. He heard a door close somewhere outside. He felt himself swing like the limb on the old sawmill. Too late. He was on the other side of fear now. He felt proud. Chris had given his life to save his family and now he was giving his. Too much hurt, everybody was carrying too much hurt. He’d carry it for a while.

  “You sure this is where you want to take it, Kyle?”

  He gazed at the old cop, his scraggly bit of hair slipping across his sweaty head. He should be home in bed. He should be retired and fishing along shore somewhere, nice cabin to fry his fish. Perhaps I could tell him everything. He’s got no heart left for pain either, can tell by the disquiet in his eyes. I could tell him everything and he’d make it right. Lay it all down, let the old fellow mould it with his big warm knowing hands and mould the law to serve the family’s cause. Christ. He felt himself growing faint. He needed to get outside his head—too many voices. He was starting to feel nauseated, not knowing which one to listen to.

  “Tell me what happened, Kyle.”

  “Gillard came looking for trouble. He had my knife. He must’ve got it in the woodshed; that’s where I kept it.”

  “Keep talking.”

  “We wrestled for it and he dropped it—he must’ve been drunk, else I’d be dead. I managed to get it and he came at me and I didn’t mean to. It was an accident. Self-defence. Everyone knows the guy’s a prick. He would’ve killed me. He’s been waiting to kill all his life, whether by plan or accident. Perhaps he was even hoping it’d be him who got killed. Sonofabitch. He just wanted to take someone else with him when he went down. Cowards are like that.”

  “You’re not a coward, are you, Kyle.”

  “I don’t know about that.”

  “You’re acting pretty brave right now.”

  “I’m not acting, sir. Like we said, this ain’t no TV show.”

  “Why did you bury the knife?”

  “So’s you wouldn’t get it.”

  “If it was self-defence, why wouldn’t you just face it?”

  “Thought if I put up a bit of a fight, it would all go away.”

  “Why’d you stop fighting?”

  “You got the knife, you got me.”

  “Here’s what we know about the murder weapon. It was done with a knife with a long, slender blade. Like the knives used for trimming fish in the fish plant. Everybody who ever lived in an outport owns or has access to one of those knives. Most of them got four or five collected over the years from the plant. Why would we think your knife was the murder weapon?”

  “Who else was caught burying their knife in cement this past couple of days?”

  MacDuff hauled his tissue out of his pocket and blew into it loudly. He wiped at his reddening nose and pocketed the tissue, sitting back. “You learn things about people in this job, Kyle. Becomes a gawd-damn psychologist after a while. Some things here are not adding up—you’re a fighter, but you just stopped fighting. You should be stinking of fear, but you’re smelling like the hero.”

  Kyle laced his fingers, fidgeted with his thumbs, and stared back unblinkingly at MacDuff’s long, searching look.

  “Why did you bury the knife?”

  “Obvious, isn’t it? I didn’t want it found.”

  “Why go through so much trouble to hide the knife and then confess so easily?”

  “I already said. You found the knife, you found me.”

  MacDuff was staring at him as though he were something broken that needed fixing. Kyle struggled to keep his face straight. Think. Think. There was something off. “What more do you need to know?” he demanded. “Why did you bring me here?”

  “We brought you here to talk to us, Kyle. Somebody was killed on your front step. Some things you can’t help knowing. Perhaps we’re looking for those things—the ones you can’t help knowing.”

  “Might often be the case. But you just got your man. Case closed.”

  “Why do you think Gillard came after you a second time? He already punched you out.”

  “I’m thinking it felt so damn good, he just wanted another smack. Things don’t have to make sense to Clar. It just had to feel good.”

  “What things are we talking about, here?”

  “He was stoked about us confronting him the day he blocked the road.”

  “It was your father who confronted him.”

  “I was driving the truck. Good enough for Clar.”

  “Not adding up. He’d just suckered you. Why would he go to your house looking for you?”

  “Perhaps it was the old man he was going for. But it was me that come home instead. He had me knocked out; perhaps he didn’t think I’d be home so quick.”

  MacDuff pulled his notepad before him. Flipped back through a few pages. Kyle kept his smile, hi
s mind working furiously. Think, think.

  “When did Kate Mackenzie pick you up?”

  “Eleven-thirty-five p.m.”

  “When did you leave the bar?”

  “Around eleven.”

  “That gives you thirty-five minutes to be punched out, walk home, kill a man and, what, go for a walk around town before taking a lift with Kate Mackenzie?”

  “I took the shortcut home—cut down through the woods. Takes five or ten minutes from the bar. That would’ve gotten me home around eleven-fifteen. Clar was already there and it was fast. Too fast—I can hardly replay it in my mind. He was there by the edge of the wharf—”

  “Who was by the edge of the wharf?”

  “Clar Gillard. It was dark, I didn’t see the knife—”

  “Who else was there?”

  “Nobody. Just me and Clar. He come at me and I got lucky. I was more trying to duck him than hit him. He must’ve been drunk. He dropped the knife—it fucking near stuck itself in my hand. And I grabbed it. I come up and he threw himself at me. I was more like—trying to push him off me. But I had the knife. I didn’t mean to, but I must’ve struck him with the knife. I don’t remember feeling it—it was too fast. I give the shove and he went over the wharf. It was then I felt wet on my hands, too thick for water. I couldn’t see but I knew it was blood.

  “The dog was barking. I was scared it was going to wake up Mother. I leaned over the wharf, but it was too dark to see Clar in the water. The dog was already on the beach by then, and running out in the water. I jumped down on the beach and started running towards the cliff.”

  “Why did you run in that direction?”

  “I don’t know. I freaked out, wasn’t thinking. Guess I thought Clar would be swimming that direction, making for home. I never thought he was dead—just hurt or something. I whistled for the dog; I could hear him in the water. It was foggy, I couldn’t see. Then I got scared, thinking it was Clar and not the dog. That he was coming after me again. I started back for the house. But then I thought about Mother. She had so much going on with her operation and I didn’t want her getting upset. I had blood on my hands and perhaps on my clothes, I couldn’t see. I dunk my hands in the water and then ran back the other way. I scrabbled around the cliff to Hampden and booted up the back road towards Bottom Hill and was just coming down the other side when Kate picked me up.”

  “What did she say to the blood on your clothes?”

  “Twas none there, checked soon as I got home. But I made sure in the car I was sitting so’s it wouldn’t show if there had been. She wouldn’t have noticed anyway because I was so razzed up and telling her about Clar striking me outside the club and after that we just sat by the fire, had a beer.” Slow down, slow down, slow the fuck down.

  “Where was Kate coming from?”

  “I don’t know, never asked. Too much going on. Couldn’t get my head around any of it. I remember just staring at her dash, at her clock on the dash, talking mostly gibberish. She thought I was drunk. Most I remember is the clock on the dash.”

  “And the time was?”

  “Right. Eleven-thirty-five.”

  MacDuff had listened with his head down, as though saving his ears from any distractions. When Kyle finished, he lifted his eyes like an old asthmatic horse labouring for breath. He scratched irritably at his scrag of grey hair, patted it back in place, and looked with impatient eyes at Kyle.

  “How long does it take to get from your house on the wharf to the wharf down Hampden?”

  “About ten minutes if you’re pacing yourself.”

  “Was the tide in or out?”

  Kyle hesitated. He felt the trick, he felt it coming. Think. Think. His father had been wet.

  “The tide was starting to rise.”

  “It didn’t slow you down none?”

  “Adrenalin was pretty high. I was fast as a cat scaling that cliff.”

  “Yet you couldn’t see where to put your feet it was so foggy?”

  “It was starting to thin. I could see some things clear enough.”

  “Did you see Clar’s truck on the wharf?”

  Kyle hesitated. “It wasn’t that thin.”

  “Did you see it?”

  “Just the shade of it.”

  “Then you must’ve seen your father’s parked alongside of it.”

  The glassy-eyed old fucker, Dobey Randall. He’d seen the truck and told the cops, guaranteed. Guaranteed, the glassy-eyed old fucker.

  “I didn’t see the old man’s truck.”

  “It was there. Why did you lie?”

  “About what?”

  “You said your father was parked outside the bar all night.”

  “He was. Most of it.”

  “Why did you lie?”

  “I thought he was parked behind the bar all night. Till Hooker told me differently.”

  “Why did Hooker lie?”

  “Hooker was looking for me. He found the old man drunk and drove him up behind the bar.”

  “He said he found him behind the bar.”

  “Father was drunk. He didn’t want to say my father was drunk.”

  “So he wouldn’t have been drunk if he was parked behind the bar?”

  “He wouldn’t have been drunk and driving. Everyone parks behind the bar when they drinks too much and don’t wanna drive home.”

  “Hooker risks being accused of obstructing justice in a murder investigation rather than risk having your father lose his driver’s licence?”

  “You don’t know Hooker, sir. He needs to be taking care of people. He’s always taking care of people, especially my father.”

  “Who was at the fire when you arrived there with Kate?”

  “No one.”

  “You indicated that the fire was already burning when you arrived there. Was it?”

  “Wouldn’t be a fire, sir, if it weren’t burning.”

  “Who lit it?”

  “Don’t know. Somebody lights a fire and sits for a bit. Piles on the driftwood before leaving, and someone else comes by—the eternal flame. Perhaps Kate lit it herself before driving off.”

  “When did Hooker show up with your father?”

  “Bit after midnight.”

  “Where were you?”

  “Sitting by the fire. Check your notes, sir. I went home shortly after and was sleeping outside the house by the gump when the old man showed up about a half hour later.”

  “Why didn’t your father go home with you?”

  “Was finishing his beer.”

  “You said he was passed out.”

  “He woke up.”

  “Why wouldn’t he go home with you?”

  “Just told you, he was finishing his beer. Don’t matter, we always staggers home when we wants and he come home around a half hour later and yeah, I’m sure of the time, the clock was lit up on the stove when I went in. Twelve-thirty or forty, something close to it.”

  “Are you lying, Kyle?”

  “No, I’m not fucking lying. You wanted to know who killed Clar Gillard, and now you know, so what more do you want?”

  “The truth?”

  “You got the truth.”

  “A convenient truth.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  “Clar Gillard was killed at eleven-thirty-five. He was heard screaming. You were sitting in Kate’s car. By your own admission you just cleared yourself of murder.”

  Kyle struggled to keep the surprise from his stricken face. Felt like he’d been running through the dark and was suddenly sprung into sunlight on the edge of a cliff. “Must be a mistake,” he said quietly.

  “What kind of mistake?”

  “I must’ve read the clock wrong. Or maybe the clock was wrong. I was pretty freaked out—I must’ve read the time wrong. Who heard him scream? Must have been that old fellow with the glasses, Dobey Randall. He’s always walking the roads, stun as a grouse, you can’t trust nothing he says.”

  MacDuff pushed himself up from his seat,
tucked his notebook inside his pocket, and started towards the door. Then he paused. “Oh,” he said, “you can stop bumbling around your house at night and turn your lights on now. House is no longer under investigation.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “We’ve found the murder weapon.”

  “MacDuff!” Kyle stood up. “I just made a confession, sir. Perhaps I should get a lawyer?”

  “Lawyers work on keeping their clients out of jail, Kyle.”

  “If I walk out that door, I’m on the run. This is a one-shot deal.”

  “Only cowards run, son. You’ve not shown that.” The old cop put his hand on the doorknob. “Wish I had more of a Columbo parting, here. But Kate Mackenzie picking you up at eleven-thirty-five makes for a good alibi where you’re concerned.” He looked with sudden thought at Kyle. “It gives her an alibi, too. Where did she say she was coming from?”

  “She didn’t.”

  “Was she at the bar?”

  “No, sir.”

  “It was foggy. Not the kind of night one goes for a drive, don’t you think?”

  “I’ve not thought about it, sir.”

  “What was her mood when she picked you up?”

  “Her mood?” Kyle shrugged. “Like I said, I was too distracted to notice anything.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  “I don’t remember. Nothing much.”

  “Her hands—do you remember if she was wearing anything on her hands?”

  “No, b’y. I don’t. You suspicious of Kate, now?”

  “Everyone’s a suspect, till they prove they’re not. And your father—do you remember if he was wearing mitts or gloves the night of the murder?”