“Can you describe the person you saw, Mr. Sharp?”
“Not really. It was very dark and it happened very fast.”
“But you’re sure it was a man?”
“I’m not sure of anything. I made the usual assumption that if someone attacked me then it had to be a man. Not true, of course.”
“So you were attacked then?”
Dan thought about it. “I can’t even say that for sure …”
One of the officers sighed, foreseeing the defence in court a few months hence: So you agree, sir, that you didn’t actually see or hear anything?
“… though I’m inclined to believe I was. As I told you earlier, something whizzed past my head and I think whoever was in here took a swing at me with a bat or pipe.”
Lights were splayed over the ground, offering several choice possibilities for weapons — a blackened pipe, some rebar with concrete chunks twisted onto the end, and a lengthy piece of wood that had somehow escaped the conflagration.
The officer turned to him. “But you weren’t hurt?”
Dan shrugged. “Not really. I skinned my hands when I fell, but I wasn’t struck because I fell down first.”
“What made you fall?”
“I seem to remember something shifting underfoot and then suddenly I was on the floor.”
“Where were you when you fell?”
“Right here,” Dan said, without hesitation. “More or less beneath the body.”
The fleshy officer shone his light on the floor. A piece of blackened grid jutted up, just the right size and angle to trip a man wandering about in the dark like a fool.
“I thought you said you had a flashlight.”
Dan felt his face colour. “Yeah. I wasn’t using it. I didn’t want to alert anybody inside. I wanted to catch my misper by surprise, if he was here.”
“Do you have permission to be in here, sir?”
“Afraid not.”
“You were taking one hell of a risk wandering around in the dark.” The admonishing note at last.
The officer shook his head in a fatherly fashion. He escorted Dan from the murder scene back to the entrance, where the flashing cruisers lit up the night like a blue and red bonfire.
“Sergeant Bryson will take your statement, sir.”
The first officer left as another came up to them. This one was tall and jowly, his face grim and cadaverous from too many midnight shifts. Bryson looked gravely at his watch like an executioner about to start his work, jotting the time in a notebook. His questions were routine. He glanced up at Dan now and again, but otherwise noted his words in silence.
“Is there any chance of learning if this is the man I’ve been searching for?” Dan asked when he’d finished giving his report.
“Not at the moment,” the officer said.
A voice called from inside the ruined building. Bryson turned to Dan. “Wait here, please, sir.”
Dan slumped against the wall, easing down onto his heels. The evening had actually begun quite agreeably. He’d spent it with his teenage son, Ked, and his partner, Trevor. After a late dinner, they retreated to the rec room in the basement, hoping to beat an ongoing heat wave the city had endured for the past week.
Watching movies was a mutually agreed upon way of passing the time with little or no physical exertion. That night it was Ked’s turn for choosing a title. He was spoiled for choice, but invariably picked something from the horror genre. Dan teased him for his selection, predicting the film would prove a snore of the first rank rather than the thrill its reputation presaged. Ked’s eyes flashed a challenge at him.
Ked: “Dad, Exorcist was voted, like, the scariest movie of all time. Do you really think kajillions of people can be wrong?”
Dan: “Yes. Just look at Elvis. Or Madonna.”
Ked: “Okay, never mind. Just watch it, all right?”
To Dan’s surprise, the opening scene at an archaeological dig in Iraq piqued his interest. He found himself engrossed. In his experience, horror films seldom boasted cultural anecdotes let alone gifted actors in leading roles; this one promised both. Before long,
the room was silent except for the film’s dialogue and the eerie soundtrack that would accompany him to the slaughterhouse later that evening.
At the first sign of a break, a lump on the floor that appeared to be a lifeless bit of fur lifted its head and sniffed the air for signs of a walk or even just a few well-aimed kernels of popcorn. A thumping tail rewarded everything tossed in its direction.
“See? Even Ralph likes Exorcist,” Ked proclaimed.
After a pee break and popcorn refill, the movie resumed. In the intermittent scenes between thrills and chills the threesome amused themselves by formulating a list of rules for surviving a horror film. By common consent, Rule Number One was, “Don’t go into a room with the lights off.” This sensible injunction — which Dan would recall with irony just a few hours later — was followed closely by Rule Number Two, “When you arrive at a deserted town, don’t stick around to find out why it’s deserted.” Rule Number Three was, “Never go down to the basement alone.”
As Ked passed the popcorn to Trevor, a sudden onscreen apparition made him jump, sending miniature white bombs flying through the air.
“Arggh!” he cried. “Ralph, treats!”
The dog leapt up instantly.
Dan glanced over at Trevor. “I’m particularly fond of Rule Number Four: If someone says your child is possessed by the devil and things start flying through the air, call in a priest immediately.”
Ked’s eyes widened into an approximation of dem-
onic possession. “Aaarggghhh!” he cried, his expression more ludicrous than scary.
Ellen Burstyn had just had her second fit of over-acting as the possessed girl’s mother when Ked snorted in derision. The suggestion by a credulous doctor that Linda Blair’s feats of levitation might be attributable to puberty and a brain lesion brought further scorn from Ked.
“Is that supposed to be scary?” he asked when a lugubrious face appeared onscreen and faded out again.
The game continued. Trevor held up a finger. “I know! Rule Number Five: Never run from monsters in high heels.”
Dan looked over. “I’ve never seen a monster in high heels before.”
“Your father’s a funny guy,” Trevor said, offering the popcorn bowl to Ked. “Lucky you’re not warped too.”
“I know!” Ked replied.
They watched the screen in silence for a while.
“Have you ever noticed how all these horror movies happen in quiet places like Amityville or Georgetown?” Dan asked.
“Which proves indisputably that the source of all evil is suburban USA,” Trevor added.
“Hey, I know,” Ked said. “Rule Number Six: If you’re stuck in a small town in Maine or Texas and everyone has a chainsaw then just kill yourself and get it over with.”
“Good one,” Trevor agreed.
The movie theme unfolded eerily, its arpeggiated tendrils of sound and distinctive tone of the bells made demonic by the film. Those repetitive notes had been the sound of evil throughout Dan’s teenage years.
“Rule Number Seven,” he said, “always listen to the soundtrack to find out when the next attack is likely to occur.”
The popcorn bowl changed hands again. Onscreen, Max von Sydow wiped green vomit from his glasses and held a crucifix over the inert form of the possessed girl, Regan.
Ked giggled. “Rule Number Eight: Never check to see if the monster is dead after you think you’ve killed it.”
“Oh, yeah!” Dan and Trevor chimed in together.
By the time the credits rolled, Dan and Trevor agreed the film had been creepy, if not downright terrifying. Two more rules were posited to sum up the genre: Rule Number Nine, the villain is never who you think it is, and Rule Ten, the hero can never go home again.
“It’s still pretty scary after all these years,” Trevor said.
“It had its moments,”
Dan agreed. “How about you, maestro?” he said, turning to his son. “Happy with your choice?”
Ked rolled his eyes. “Guys, it was lame. Didn’t you see that stupid make-up and overdone fake vomit?
It looked like green porridge. It was totally goofy,”
he pronounced, the emperor turning thumbs down on the defeated gladiator. “I can’t believe I even wanted to watch this crap.”
“Better luck next time,” Dan told his son.
Ked went off, trailed by the steadfast Ralph. “’Night, guys.”
“’Night,” they replied.
Dan looked over at Trevor and shrugged. “So what do we know about horror flicks?”
“That son of yours is a little too sophisticated for his own good. When I was his age, it scared the crap out of me,” Trevor said.
They’d just undressed and were settling in upstairs when Dan’s cell buzzed. He reached for it. The screen showed a pay phone number. Not many of those left any more, he thought.
Trevor glanced over at him. “Better answer it. You know you won’t sleep until you do.”
Dan sighed.
“Sharp.” He listened for a while in silence then said, “Didn’t that burn down a couple years ago?”
Trevor rolled over to watch him.
“What’s he hiding from?” Then, after a pause, “Maybe, but I wondered what you could tell me.”
The call ended abruptly.
“Damn.”
Trevor looked over at Dan.
“Duty calls,” Dan said, sitting up.
Trevor glanced at the bedside clock. “It’s past midnight.”
“I know, sorry. Don’t wait up.”
“I won’t.” Trevor pulled the covers up to his chin. “Have fun. Don’t forget your crucifix.”
It would have been good advice, if he’d followed it.
A voice crackled out of a walkie-talkie somewhere deep inside the slaughterhouse.
“Shit! Did you see this?”
“See what?” answered a second voice. Then “Holy crap! We gotta let the chief know right away.”
Dan’s imagination was running riot. What could be worse than a body strung up on a meat hook? Were there others he hadn’t seen? He was alert as the officer returned and headed for the cruiser.
Bryson mumbled a few words into his cell, then, “Yeah, he’s on a meat hook. Just like the guy said.” He glanced at Dan. “But it gets weirder. Guy’s missing an ear. It’s sliced clean off.” There was a pause. “Left, I think. Hang on.” He picked up the walkie-talkie. “Harvey. Which ear?”
“The left one,” came the reply.
“Yeah, left,” Dan heard the first officer say.
This was followed by silence. Dan could hear the man’s breathing quicken. “Yes, sir.” His body stiffened. “Yes, sir. I understand fully.”
Dan waited, curious, while the officer concluded his call.
The cop turned his grim face to Dan. “Anything else you can tell us?”
“Not that I can think of.”
“All right. You need to leave now.”
He brushed past Dan and headed back to the building. Dan followed.
“How can I find out if this is my guy or not?”
Officer Bryson halted. “Mr. Sharp, sir, you need to leave the site immediately.”
“Sure, but who can I talk to once the identification is made?”
Bryson gave him a dismissive stare. “If you don’t leave now, I’ll have to charge you with trespassing. Or I could take you down to the station for a formal briefing. Do you want that, Mr. Sharp?”
“No.”
The officer softened a bit. “There’s no identification on the body. It could take a while. Maybe if you brought some dental records for your guy to the coroner’s office tomorrow, you might get an answer.”
He turned and entered the slaughterhouse. Dan didn’t wait for a second invitation to leave.
Two
The Vanishing Point
It was nearly three o’clock by the time Dan got back in his car. He’d been at the slaughterhouse almost two hours, most of that time with the officers. Now, heading east along St. Clair Avenue, he reviewed the facts in his mind. Three days earlier, he received a call from a woman claiming her brother had been missing since the previous afternoon. Was that too soon to declare him missing officially? No, Dan said. Not if she felt his disappearance was suspicious or unusual. In which case it was better to act sooner than later.
The woman, Darlene Hillary, had been frantic. Dan waited till she settled down before pressing her. Why did she think his disappearance was suspicious? That was easy: her brother, Darryl, almost never left the house and when he did he always left a note. Agoraphobe, Dan concluded. That morning, Darlene continued, when she was on her way to work, her brother hadn’t said anything about going out. When she returned, he was gone. Could he be anywhere else? No, not that she could think of. Was it possible he got delayed somewhere and found himself unable to get in touch? That, too, was unlikely, she said. Nor had he taken any personal belongings, leaving out the possibility of an extended trip.
The answers were not encouraging. Worse, Darlene said her brother had received a threatening note and several disturbing anonymous calls over the past few months. He hadn’t wanted to talk about them, but she wheedled it out of him when he began acting strangely, obsessing over locking doors and keeping the windows closed and the curtains drawn at all times. Clearly he believed the threats were real, though he hadn’t told his sister what they were about. Dan listened with careful gravity. If someone was serious enough to make threats, then whoever it was might be serious enough to carry them out, though a final verdict was premature.
Almost all of Dan’s questions hit dead ends. Darryl hadn’t held a job in five years and therefore had no work colleagues, past or present, to question. He hadn’t fraternized with neighbours, frequented pool halls or movie houses, so there was no one to ask about the last time they’d seen him socially. His sister worked at an old age home and was often gone for the better part of the day or night, depending on her shift. As far as she knew, her brother spent most of his free time watching TV in his bedroom or outside in their backyard. That habit ended suddenly when the calls started. The one possible lead that held out hope for Dan, as slim as it might seem, was that Darlene’s brother was an occasional dope smoker. She’d admitted that after much hesitation, seeming to think it a grievous liability. “It’s not that unusual,” he reassured her.
Finding the drug dealers in any given neighbourhood was a shell game. Ask the right questions at the right time and you’d hit a mainline of information. The wrong questions asked of the wrong person on the wrong day, and you were almost guaranteed to see everybody’s heads disappear, like a beach full of crabs at low tide. Lots of holes, but nothing showing aboveground. Once they got spooked, they could stay that way for months. Nobody forced these small-time dealers to sell their wares. For most of them, it was part-time work you did on top of your regular job as an underpaid garage mechanic or counter clerk at a late-night donut shop. A little moolah to ease the pain of whatever life didn’t provide naturally. Selling crack to pay off the Mafia or to fund your own addiction was another matter, of course. There was often urgency there, but Dan doubted he was chasing that kind of animal.
“Darryl’s a gentle man,” his sister insisted.
A guitar player and a poet, as it turned out. In other words, the kind of guy who picked up a little weed in the neighbourhood then came home and smoked it in the solitude of his garage, with nobody the wiser. Only in this case it seemed he’d somehow got mixed up with the wrong crowd.
Darryl Hillary was beginning to sound a little weird. He was also one of the most reclusive, introverted young men in the city. According to his sister, almost no one knew of his existence. But even poets must have friends, Dan thought. And apparently an enemy or two, as well. Then again, weren’t writers and journalists the first to be silenced? An uncensored poet could be a d
angerous thing indeed. But in that case, if the body turned out to be his, why cut off an ear? Why not a tongue instead?
Dan sent in the usual requests for background checks. Nothing arrived on Friday and everything slowed down by the weekend. It was now going on sixty hours since the call with Hillary’s sister. In that time, Dan had managed to find the local pusher, the one who supplied the neighbourhood weed. He repaired motors at a small appliance store. No glamour there. Clearly not a big-time dealer. The man was wary when Dan approached, no doubt worried about a bust. He loosened up when Dan flashed the picture and explained why he was looking for Darryl, while assuring him he wasn’t a cop. The man admitted to knowing Darryl — Dan was careful not to ask in what context — but sounded convincing when he said he hadn’t seen him in several months. Which likely meant that Hillary had scored big the last time they’d been in contact, though he wasn’t about to ask for details of the transaction or to wonder if he was keeping proper sales tax records. Dan left his card and a request to be in touch if Darryl contacted him.
Heading downtown now, he wondered if it was this contact that had netted the call from the fast food outlet earlier in the evening. Dan was even reasonably sure which diner it was — there was only one open late in that neighbourhood, at the corner of Lansdowne and St. Clair, not far from the former abattoir. If he drove past now it would still be open, though his anonymous caller would long since have wolfed down an order of fries and a burger and bolted.
He turned south and headed east on College Street, past Yonge and over to Church. Despite the hour, the hookers were still on their corners, long-legged and ever optimistic that Daddy Warbucks would be cruising in their direction any minute. Got the time? Your place or mine? It was more than two decades since Dan had seen anything from that side of the fence, but there was a period in his teenage years when he’d needed to support himself. He’d done that by standing on a downtown corner until he met the man who would take him away from all that, briefly, before getting onto the straight-and-somewhat-narrow in his early twenties after finding himself the father of a young boy.
Dan Sharp Mysteries 4-Book Bundle Page 37
