The Guardians

by Andrew Pyper

"Hey, man, it's your credit card."

  After my coffee cup is filled, I tell them about my discovery in Ben's room. The whole Roy DeLisle file. And how old Paul Schantz was the man looking after him when the bad things happened. I don't include any of my own thoughts about the commonalities between Elizabeth Worth and Heather Langham, Roy and the coach, how they all have been rooted to the Thurman house. They are thoughts I can read passing over their faces as I speak.

  "He's got a name," Randy says when our food arrives. "Roy. I wish I didn't know that."

  "It's like a lousy song that gets stuck in your head," I say.

  "Worse," Carl says. "There's no music in it."

  You've nailed it, Carl, the silence that follows seems to say. Whatever he is, the hoy is the opposite of music.

  "There was this too," I say, pulling out my wallet and letting Heather's locket spill onto the table.

  Carl and Randy stare at it. Less shocked than stilled by the anticipation of some further action to follow, as if the chain might rise up and snake around one of our throats, squeezing out our next breath.

  "That's Heather's," Randy says.

  "Ben had it."

  "How'd he get it?" Carl asks.

  "No idea."

  "Wait. Just wait a second," Carl says. "When we piled the dirt on her she was wearing that thing."

  "I know it."

  "So somebody had to have gone down there to get it before the cops found her. Gone down there to dig her up."

  "I don't see any other way."

  "Who would fucking do that?"

  "I can answer that," Randy says. "One of us. We were the only ones who knew where she was."

  "And the coach," I say.

  "But he was tied up," Randy says. "And he didn't know where we put her."

  "Unless One of us told him," I say. "Unless he talked one of us into letting him go long enough to do it."

  "You mean unless the boy talked one of us into it," Randy says.

  Carl lurches back in his chair and straightens his back, the gesture of a man fighting a sudden attack of heartburn. "What are we saying here?"

  "More went on in that cellar than we thought," Randy says. "Which is saying something."

  "Here's my question," I say. "Why didn't Ben ask which one of us did it?"

  "Maybe he knew and kept it secret," Randy says. "Or maybe he didn't want to know."

  "Or maybe he was the one who did the digging," Carl says.

  Another silence. After a moment, I pick the locket up and return it to my wallet. We sip our coffee. Do a lousy job of pretending the last two minutes hadn't just happened.

  Once the waitress has come and gone, filling our cups, I tell them about seeing Gary Pullinger standing outside the house this morning.

  "Sounds like they have their man," Randy says.

  "He's under arrest?"

  "Not yet. But they've had him in and out of the cop shop, putting the screws to him."

  "If he's still walking around, it shows they don't have enough," Carl says, draining his coffee.

  "What would they need?"

  "A body."

  Once more, our thoughts steal our voices away.

  "I called the police," I say after a while. "Left a message with Barry Tate. He's on the force here now."

  "Hairy Barry?" Carl says.

  "The very same."

  "You sure that was a good idea?"

  "It didn't feel like I had a choice."

  "There's always a choice."

  "I just want to pass along what I know."

  "And what's that?"

  "That Tracey's boyfriend stopped to look at the house where I thought I saw suspicious activity."

  "Suspicious activity? C'mon, Trev," Randy says. "They already looked in there."

  "Okay. So what should I do?"

  "You should do what we're going to do," Carl says. "Get the fuck out of Dodge."

  "There's a train at a quarter after five," Randy says. "You ought to come with us."

  Carl places his hand on my arm. I can't tell if it's meant as reassurance or to stop it from shaking. "There's nothing here, Trev. There never really was."

  "You think I like it here? Everything is telling me to go, just the same as it's telling you. But there's something else that knows we're meant to stay."

  "Why? Why are we 'meant to stay'?" Randy asks.

  "Ben was the guardian of this town, whether the town knew it or not. We owe it to him."

  "Oh Christ."

  "Think about it. He kept an eye on that house for twenty years. And then, after he can't handle it anymore, Todd's daughter goes missing."

  "You need to see someone. Seriously."

  "If we walk away, we're putting some other Tracey or Heather or Elizabeth at risk sometime down the line. We've already got a lot we're trying to live with. You want more?"

  Randy rubs the freckles at his temples as though at the onset of sudden headache. "Okay, you crazy, shaky arsehole," he says. "I'll stay until tomorrow."

  "You believe this?" Carl asks.

  "I don't have to believe it. I'm staying because Trev asked us to."

  I'm prevented from walking around the table and putting my arms around Randy by my cell phone, which comes alive in my jacket pocket, screaming its Beastie Boys ringtone. By the time my hand reaches in and grabs it, it's already switched over to my voice mail. I check the caller ID.

  "It was Barry Tate."

  "What are you going to do?" Carl asks.

  "Call him back."

  Then I'm up and wobbling for the doors.

  Outside on Ontario Street I curse my hands. Fluttery as moths, the fingers swimming over the dial pad of my phone. Some hitting the right numbers, others forcing me to start all over again.

  After I manage to record a message, I catch myself reflected in the glass of the Queen's picture window. With the spotted brick of the Edwardian storefronts behind me, I appear to be not holding a cell phone but nursing a small animal cupped in my hands.

  And then it comes alive. The Beastie Boys hollering "Sabotage" into my palm.

  "Hello?"

  "Trevor? How you doing?"

  "Thanks for calling back."

  "My job."

  It's immediately clear that Barry Tate is not prepared to be as patient with me as he was the first time around.

  "I saw something this morning," I start. "Oh?"

  "Gary Pullinger."

  "What about him?"

  "He was outside the Thurman place."

  "What time was this?"

  "I'm not sure. Maybe six, six thirty."

  "Was he attempting to enter the property?"

  "He wasn't on the property, just the sidewalk."

  "Walking on the sidewalk?"

  "Standing."

  "So you want me to arrest him for loitering?"

  "I'm not telling you to do anything, Barry. I just thought it was worth reporting. Given he's a suspect in the Tracey Flanagan business."

  "Who said that?"

  "It's what I heard."

  "Oh yeah? Well, you know what my supervisor heard yesterday? That me and my partner searched private property without a warrant. It wasn't a pleasant meeting, I can tell you."

  "Sorry to hear that."

  "And I'm sorry to hear you're calling me with more of this 'I saw something' news. What did you see? A kid walking along looking at houses?"

  "He wasn't walking. And it wasn't any house, it was—"

  "Your dad ever tell you about that kid who cried wolf?"

  "Listen, Barry, you can be pissed off at me all you want. But I've got a feeling that Tracey Flanagan was in that place at some point, or maybe she—"

  "You know something? You seem to have a lot of feelings about that girl. Now that could be an avenue I'd be willing to explore if you have something you want to get off your chest."

  "This doesn't have anything to do with me."

  "So let's not make it have something to do with you. Sound good?"

  "S
ure."

  "Thanks for the call."

  "And sorry about—" I start, but Hairy Barry is already gone.

  By the time I'm back inside, the breakfast table is unoccupied and the waitress is clearing the plates. I call up to each of their rooms, but either they have agreed to ignore my call or they aren't up there. I leave a note for Randy at the front desk with my cell phone number and make my way outside once more.

  It's my legs—kicking and side-swinging worse than at any other point since my arrival in Grimshaw—that seem to know I'm going to Sarah's before I do. I must now appear, as one of my doctors said I would eventually, as a "top-heavy drunk," leaving my shoe prints on dew-sodden lawns. You'd think, in my condition, presenting myself before a woman I like would be a bad idea. But the thing is, I don't have time to wait for good ideas anymore.

  An hour after starting off from the Queen's I reach Sarah's place, thirsty and tingled with sweat. Pass my fingers through my hair. Rub a finger over my teeth.

  "Trevor," she announces when she opens the door, as if looking out at the day and declaring "Rain" or "Snow."

  "Gosh," I say, moronically, for the third time today, "I wasn't really expecting you to be here."

  "Why wouldn't I be?"

  "Figured you'd be at work."

  "It's Saturday."

  "Of course. Saturday."

  She backs into the house, and I step inside and push the door closed behind me. Blink against the muted indoor light until Sarah's details return.

  "You don't look well," she says.

  "I'm not."

  "Are you sick?"

  "No more than usual."

  "Then what's going on?"

  "It's not something I could explain."

  Sarah turns away and settles on the sofa in the living room. I follow her inside and sit next to her. I fight against leaning over and pulling her to me. Then I fight against laying my head in her lap.

  "Damn" she says, suddenly shaking her head hard. "It's like old times, isn't it?"

  "You mean you and me?"

  "I mean you thinking you can't trust me."

  "Sarah, it's got nothing to do with trust. I just don't want you to get damaged."

  "Damaged? Like china? A box you'd write 'Fragile' on on moving day?"

  "I don't see you like that."

  "But you don't see me being able to handle anything either."

  "It's just what men do."

  "How's that?"

  "We protect. Even if it means being alone."

  "This conversation could have been one we had when we were sixteen."

  "Maybe so."

  "It makes me think that whatever was troubling you then is the same thing that's troubling you now. Am I right?"

  "You're not wrong."

  "So if it's been around that long, it's time you took care of it."

  "Yes."

  "Because you don't have a chance—and I'll tell you this, you don't have a chance with me—if you've got this secret thing floating around for the rest of your life."

  She slides closer and kisses me. Then we kiss some more. When we finally pull apart, Kieran is standing in the doorway.

  "I'm hungry," he announces. And then, with a grin my way, "Hey, Trevor."

  "Hey."

  "Want to come up to my room and check out my PlayStation?"

  I look to Sarah, who shrugs. "You guys like grilled cheese?" "And bacon, please," Kieran says. "How about you, Trevor?"

  "I think everything's better with bacon," I say, which happens to be the truth.

  After lunch, and after declining Sarah's offer (seconded by Kieran) to stay for dinner, I ask if I can get a lift back to the McAuliffes'. But once the two of them have driven off and left me looking up at Ben's attic window, the paint of its frame scabby and puke- green in the midday light, I decide I can't go inside. So I start walking again. Working out the kinks, I tell myself, though the truth is, I'm nothing but kinks these days. If I didn't have my body's spasms and jerks, I wouldn't be able to move at all.

  The Beastie Boys scream.

  "Hello?"

  "Hey."

  "Randy? Still here?"

  "Unfortunately, yes."

  "What about Carl?"

  "Gone."

  "So it's just us."

  "The gruesome twosome."

  In the sky above, a passenger jet draws a line of smoke at thirty thousand feet. A border that marks Grimshaw apart from the rest of the world.

  "What are we going to do, Randy?"

  "I've got an idea."

  "Yeah?"

  "Let's just say I've done a little shopping."

  * * *

  [16]

  Randy and I decide to meet for an early dinner at the Old London. He's already there when I lurch in. Sitting at the same circular table we'd occupied only two nights ago, a stretch of time that feels as distant now as the memory of summer camp.

  "A cocktail, sir?" the maître d’ asks as I take my seat.

  "What're you having?" I ask Randy.

  "Soda water. Got to keep the mind clear."

  "Right. Orange juice, please. And coffee."

  "And a couple of rare prime ribs."

  The maître d’ slips away, leaving the two of us facing each other across the ridiculous space of the table (I would have sat next to Randy, but that would have been even weirder).

  "I know that keeping us here one more night was my idea," I admit after my drinks are delivered. "But maybe you could help me with something."

  "Hit me."

  "What the hell are we planning to do?"

  Randy looks at me with dead seriousness. "We have to do something to put this place behind us."

  "You think that's possible?"

  "Who knows? We have to try. I think that's the key. If we do our best, maybe we won't have to think about Grimshaw every other second until we drop dead."

  "Okay," I say, and sip my coffee. "So we try. Try what?"

  "To face it. No more tiptoeing around."

  "Ben watched for half his life and it didn't do any good."

  "But Ben stayed outside."

  The maître d’ arrives with our meals, the bloody slices of beef set before us steaming and thick as novels.

  "Are you saying we have to go in and stay there?" I ask.

  "Not us. But we'll have eyes and ears on the inside all the same."

  "How?"

  "Baby monitors! Go on, say it. It's brilliant."

  "It's brilliant. If we had a baby to monitor."

  Randy sighs, savouring the rare moment of appearing smarter than someone else. "They've come a long way, let me tell you. Now they come with video cameras and motion detectors. You can pay me your half when you have a chance."

  "And how exactly do these help us?"

  "We do what Ben did—watch the house," Randy says, beaming now. "But tonight, we'll watch it from the inside.'"

  "On the monitor."

  "It's got a range of five hundred feet. And we'll be in Ben's room. But hidden. No faces in the window, in case someone looks."

  "And where's the sensor?"

  "Where would you least want to sit around all night in that place?"

  "The cellar."

  "Agreed."

  "Agreed on what? Sorry, man, but I'm sure as hell not going down there to plant that thing."

  "Already done. By me. Today. During daylight hours."

  I watch Randy slice off a dripping chunk of meat and drive it into his mouth, his appetite the first giveaway that what we're going to do together this evening isn't a real stakeout, it's therapy. What's important, what gives the voodoo a chance of working, isn't the recitation of the right words or spraying of holy water, but that we believe the process might actually work. And so we are reinforcing our courage as we once did in the Guardians' dressing room before a game. Pretend warriors.

  I can see as he chews and swallows and grins over the white linen that Randy doesn't really expect any confrontation to take place tonight. He's only act
ing as though it might for my sake.

  "You're a good man, Randy."

  "I'm glad you can see that. I just wish you had long hair and smelled a little better and looked great in a bikini."

  "When was the last time you saw me in a bikini?"

  "Please. I'm eating."

  After dinner and several coffees, Randy and I start back toward Ben's house. It's night now, but a fog has darkened the air even further, rubbing out the details of Grimshaw's chimney stacks and the lights from its windows like a blindness. Cars nose through the slick streets. In the fog, Grimshaw feels at once familiar and altered, drained of some fundamental aspect that had previously marked it as a place for the living, so that I am left with the sensation of strolling into the afterlife.

  At Caledonia, we don't immediately cross over to the McAuliffes' as we normally would. Instead, we stop at the spot where I'd seen Gary Pullinger standing, hands in our pockets, studying the islands of concrete that were once the front walk, before taking in the house itself. Given the finality of the evening—the last night in Grimshaw by the last of the Guardians who have come for the last time to brave the scrutiny of its windowed eyes—I am expecting to feel something different about the house. But it appears emptier and less consequential tonight than it ever has, unfairly scorned, even pitiable. The fog that passes between us and its door seems to erase its particulars, sweeping it away into a past that will soon claim what's left of it and leave an anonymous lot behind.

  I can feel Randy wanting to say something along the lines of my own thoughts, a comment at how unbelievable it is that the four walls and buckling roof before us could be mistaken for a living thing. But I don't want the house to hear him.

  "It's getting cold," I say, elbowing him in the side. As best I can, I start back across the street.

  Randy passes me in the front hall and is already halfway up the stairs when Mrs. McAuliffe steps out from the living room's shadows.

  "There's lamb stew in the pot if you boys are hungry," she says.

  "Thanks, Mrs. A.," Randy shouts down the stairs. "Already ate."

  It leaves me alone with the old woman. In the hall, she appears more frail than she did this morning and, at the same time, seems to be fighting this frailty by way of a bulky knit sweater (Ben's?) and corduroy gardening pants.