“So who was this kid that Matthew Ridge almost killed?” Errall asked after I dumped myself into a chair in front of her desk, declared myself immoveable, and caught her up with my baffling case of client/no client.
“Robin Haywood. He was another student at the same school Matthew attended. Apparently Matthew— along with many of the other students—decided he was gay.”
“Gawd, you can just hear it, can’t you, with a name like that?” Errall responded with a sympathetic tone, yanking her reading glasses off her nose and tossing them to one side of the desktop. “I’d bet you a hundred bucks they called him Robin Gaywood. ‘Who’d like to suck my dick? I think Robin Gay would!’” She gave her neck a rub. “Kids are such cruel bastards.”
I flicked Errall a questioning look. She seemed a bit too familiar with the activity of childhood taunting. I wouldn’t have been surprised to find out she herself was a bit of a “cruel bastard” in her formative years. “Anyway,” I moved us along, “Robin was a quiet kid, bookish, an easy target for a boy like Matthew. They were adversaries for years.” I stopped there and reconsidered my choice of words. “Well, no. Adversaries makes it seem as if they were on equal ground, which, by the sounds of it, they certainly were not. Matthew, the big, sturdy, athletic girl-magnet was the tormentor, and Robin was his unwilling, long-suffering victim.”
“But wait a second,” Errall said, as always quick as a whip at an S&M party. “I thought you told me that during your investigation into Matthew Ridge a.k.a. Matthew Moxley, you found out that he had male lovers. So, if I remember my studies correctly, doesn’t that make him the gay one?”
I gave her a nod. “Typical of bullies and bashers.”
“He doth protest too much?”
“Exactly. It happens a lot, especially with young men who suspect they themselves might be gay. These guys hate the thought of who they are so much that all they want to do is strike out against it, destroy it, beat it to a pulp. It’s either that or, if the self-loathing is strong enough, they hurt or kill themselves. Unfortunately for poor little Robin Haywood, Matthew Ridge saw in him the worst of himself and wanted to punish him for it.”
“What happened?”
“It was summer,” I began the account as told to me by Matthew’s mother. “Matthew and his buddies came upon Robin in a neighbourhood park. They were drunk and high. They confronted Robin, and without the constraints of high school, and brave and cocky from drugs and alcohol, they began to taunt him, then jab at him, and eventually it led to an all-out bashing.”
“Shit,” Errall declared. “How frightened that boy must have been. The assholes!”
“According to Mrs. Ridge, upon questioning the other boys, all of them agreed that things got out of hand pretty quickly. They eventually realized Robin could get seriously hurt and decided to stop. But Matthew kept at him, yelling at him, screaming, bawling him out, and calling him names, kicking him, pummelling him. They finally got it together enough to pull Matthew off of Robin. One of them said that when they did, he was crying.”
“Of course he was.”
“Not Robin,” I told her. “Matthew.”
“Oh.”
“And then they ran off.”
“They just left him there?” She was rightfully incensed at the thought.
I nodded sadly. “A guy walking his dog later that night found Robin, all crumpled up. He barely survived. He spent months recovering at RUH.”
Errall’s eyes opened into two wide pools of blue. “Wait a minute. Wait a minute! I remember this. The names were unusual. Normally they wouldn’t even release the names of minors, but it was all over the news long before criminal charges were laid. The newspapers were full of the story for months. Yeah, I remember this; they referred to him as Robin with the broken wing. I was just a teenager myself, but it was a big deal; one teenager almost killing another was huge news in Saskatoon, still would be, I suppose. I remember going back to school the fall after it happened; it was a real hot topic, out of the classroom and in.”
“I guess I missed all that,” I said. “We didn’t read a lot of city newspapers, living on a farm. If it wasn’t about Four-H or grain prices, it wasn’t news.”
Errall kept on as if she hadn’t heard me. “I remember one story; to this day I remember it, it was that vivid. It was about those two boys—Matthew and Robin—they made it sound as if they were the closest of schoolboy chums, best buddies who grew apart and ended up mortal enemies on a bloody battlefield, in a duel to near death. So fucking melodramatic! Can you stand it? I’m not making this up, Russell,” she added when she saw my skeptical face. “I remember it like it was yesterday. I think one of the girls in my class even did an essay on the whole thing. It was a very big deal in this city for a long, long time.”
I nodded, finally coming to a clearer understanding of how the Ridge family might have suffered the level of stigma Clara Ridge described to me.
“I always wondered what happened to those boys,” Errall said.
“Matthew Ridge was sent to reform school,” I told her, “but the other boys who took part in the incident didn’t get more than a slap on the wrist.” My guess was that they testified against Matthew in exchange for leniency. “After Matthew got out, his parents lost track of him.”
“Oh come on,” Errall cried out, indignant. “No one just loses track of a kid. Unless you want to.”
I had to agree, but I had nothing with which to measure the shame the elder Ridges must have felt at having to face the fact that their child perpetrated such a heinous crime. According to Clara, the Ridges had their supporters at the time—mostly religious extremists who lauded Matthew’s actions as a necessary evil to help stamp out those they considered deviant, aberrations of nature—people they ended up wanting to escape just as badly as the disgrace attached to the Ridge name.
“But you still have no answers as to who it really was who hired you and why?” Errall asked.
“Actually,” I said as a scheme began to take shape in my head, “I think I have a pretty good theory. And you’ve just given me a good idea how to confirm it.”
“What? What idea? What did I say?” Errall demanded to know.
But I was already out the door and heading for my car, barely hearing her reference to intended actions to diminish my manhood should I not return immediately with an answer.
Saskatoon’s main library, named after Frances Morrison, an employee for thirty-seven years (most as chief librarian) and one of the first women department heads in the city, is only a few blocks away from PWC. In no time I was microfiching my way through old StarPhoenix newspaper articles until I found exactly what I was looking for. Once back in my car I dialled a now-familiar phone number on my cellphone.
“Mrs. Ridge,” I said in answer to the answering machine request to leave a message, “it’s Russell Quant. I’m back in Saskatoon. And I have your son with me.”
Chapter 16
Hospital visiting hours end at eight p.m., and I made it to Ethan Ash’s room seconds under the wire. I peered into the dim space just in time to see a tall figure lean over the bed, gently push aside a swath of Ethan’s brown hair and place a delicate kiss on his forehead. It was Frank, one of the octogenarians who lived in the care home run by Ethan and who, it was quite obvious to me, loved Ethan a great deal. Whether it was warm affection for a caregiver or a crush, I wasn’t quite sure. I debated going in. My few interactions with Frank had revealed a rather brusque, manly character who might not be comfortable being seen in this tender light, so I turned to go but came to an abrupt halt when I spotted someone else I knew coming down the hallway toward me.
Anthony Gatt gave me a tight hug and a kiss on each cheek. “Puppy, how wonderful to see you. I wish you’d call whenever you get back from these world travels of yours. Some of us worry about you, you know. How was it?”
“It was complicated. I’m sorry I didn’t call. Alex is here, and between this case I’m on, and sleeping off jet lag, I haven’t had
much time. But I need to talk to you.” My uncomfortable meeting with Jared several days ago had been at the back of my mind ever since. It was bothering me a lot, mostly, I think, because I had no idea what to do about it.
“Of course.”
“But…why are you here?”
“Same reason as you, I suspect. To visit Ethan.”
“You know each other?” Ridiculous question. Anthony knows everyone who has ever set foot in Saskatoon.
“Of course.” He threaded an arm through mine and led me back to the room. “Shall we?”
We met Frank just as he was leaving.
“Frank,” Anthony greeted the man as if he’d known him forever. “How are you?”
As we shook hands, Frank eyed me warily before responding to Anthony with a slight grimace. “Well, most everything aches, and what doesn’t ache doesn’t work anymore.”
Anthony gave him a manly slap on the shoulder and one of his Robert Redford smile-and-wink combinations. “Atta boy.”
“I’m just on my way home,” Frank said, blushing at the attention from Anthony. “Simon likes it when I’m there. She sure misses her father.”
“How is she doing through all this?”
The older man smiled, obviously fond of the girl. “She’s a pip that one. She pretends she’s okay, but I know better. We all do. We’re giving her lots of attention. And she gets to visit her dad every day. She’ll be okay.”
Anthony tilted his head toward the hospital room door. “Ethan sleeping?”
“He’s dozing,” Frank answered. “But you should go in. He always wants to see you.” He turned to me, nodded once—just barely—then tottered off to the elevator bank.
“Is it me,” I whispered to Anthony, “or does that man not like me very much?”
Anthony’s eyes told me I should very well know the answer to my own question, and if I didn’t, he certainly wasn’t about to answer it for me. He began pulling off his jacket. “Come,” he said, “let’s be presentable when we walk in.”
Underneath Anthony’s overcoat was a light V-neck sweater, in a purple so deep it might have been black, which showed off his sculpted torso to its best. I pulled off my leather bomber to reveal a boxy-looking, off-white, cable knit job that had seen better days. Jeepers, why does this always happen when Anthony is around? I have nice sweaters, compliments of Anthony’s store, but no, today I had to go for this comfy but moth-eaten sack. Always the embodiment of graciousness (when in public), Anthony merely fingered the ink stain on my chest and smiled indulgently.
We entered the hospital room, and for a moment I was transfixed by Ethan’s face: eyes closed, innocent, peaceful, beautiful like a sleeping giant in repose. Everything about him was strong and big and husky yet achingly helpless here in a hospital room with tubes sticking out of his thick arms. Drawn to the chair next to his bed, like the prince drawn to Sleeping Beauty, I lowered myself into it. I reached out for Ethan’s hand, which sat motionless at his side, and covered it with my own. I felt comforted by the fact that it was warm and soft and pulsing with life. I watched in hope as his eyelids fluttered then slowly opened. Despite the drabness of the surroundings and paleness of his face, his dark eyes seemed to shimmer like melting chocolate. In slow motion, the corners of his mouth turned up, and he opened his lips and whispered my name: “Russell.”
For some reason unknown to me I was struck dumb.
“How are you today, Ethan?” Anthony asked, leaning over my left shoulder where he’d placed a hand.
Ethan’s eyes moved to Anthony. “I’m good. Ready to go home,” he said in a weak voice that trembled with the truth. He wasn’t well yet.
“The doctor says maybe early next week. It seems the swelling in your old noggin has finally come down,” Anthony said gently.
“About time.”
“Frank says everything in the house is going fine. So fine, in fact, they may ask you to move out when you get back.”
Ethan’s face broke into a wide smile that sprouted dimples in his cheeks and turned his eyes into horizontal half moons.
“Gentlemen,” a voice behind us said. “It’s time to go. The patient needs his rest.”
“Do you need anything?” Anthony asked. “I’m going to bring by some magazines—Vanity Fair, The Advocate okay?—and a sweater to cover this god- awful sackcloth they dress you sick people in. Tomorrow maybe? Or are you busy?”
That was good for another good-humoured smirk. Ethan’s eyes fell back onto mine, and he thanked me for visiting him. I squeezed his hand and left without saying one word the entire time we were in the room.
“What are you doing here?”
He recognized me. How sweet. Allan Dartmouth lived in Stonebridge, in a house so new the stucco was still wet. As he stood there at his door, which was painted a brazen shade of orange, I could see his eyes worrying as they surveyed me and the street behind me. In his right hand he held a delicate pair of reading glasses that had probably set him back a couple of hundred bucks, even though they didn’t look much different from the $34.95 version at Shoppers Drug Mart.
“I was wondering if you own a current-year Lincoln Navigator, black, licence plate number 131 KGS?”
He frowned, not quite sure what I was getting at. “What are you talking about? Why do you want to know about my Navigator?”
It was cold standing out there on his fine, new stoop, but I wasn’t holding my breath until I got an invitation inside. “I was just wondering if I could get a ride from you? No? Maybe if I put on a balaclava, spoke like Sylvester Stallone, threatened a local private investigator?”
It was fascinating to watch his face. Irritation turned to confusion then to curiosity, which slowly, inexorably, dissolved into fear. He knew I had him. The successful, upstanding, respected massage therapist had been caught hiring a thug to scare me off. The question was why. I think I knew the answer.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He had to try. He really did. It just wasn’t a very convincing try, especially with the fine sheen of sweat now covering his expansive forehead.
“I have to tell you, Allan, you surprised me,” I said (and actually meant it). “I didn’t expect a mild-mannered masseur would be so ballsy as to hire a no-neck to try and scare me off from finding Matthew Ridge. But I suppose,” I hesitated here for drama, “once a bully, always a bully.”
He checked over his sweatered shoulder, probably for a wife or kid, then looked back at me with hate in his eyes. But I guess a cat had his tongue because he didn’t say much.
“I had to wonder why,” I continued on. “Why would this guy go to such extreme lengths to convince me not to dig up the past? Had to be because he didn’t want something from the past to mess up his future. That about right?”
He shook his head as if not quite believing what was happening to him on the expensive doorstep his future was meant to pay for.
“That something is named Robin Haywood, isn’t it?”
Allan Darmouth had lied to me. He indeed had spent time with his buddy Matthew Ridge the summer before Matthew was sent away, specifically one horrible, alcohol-and-drug-fuelled night, in a neighbourhood park where Robin Haywood had the great misfortune of being at the same time as Matthew and his gang. Allan Dartmouth had been one of the posse that had beaten up the defenceless boy.
It was an event so horrific and reviled—and therefore of great interest to a public insatiably curious about such things—that it spent many months on the front pages of Saskatchewan newspapers. Allan Dartmouth had done everything he could in the intervening years to distance himself from the infamous story and his involvement in it. After all, who wanted to have the same hands that once bashed the body of a teenage boy caressing your back and shoulders?
I couldn’t blame him for hoping he’d never have to face judgment from his clients—his wife? his kids?—over what happened that night. For all I knew (and hoped) he’d paid for it in other ways over the years. It was obvious to me that my stirring things u
p would not be a popular turn of events in Dartmouth’s lily-white, new life. What wasn’t obvious, however, was how far he’d go to bury the truth.
One of the things I’ve learned in my career, first as a policeman and then as a private detective, is never to judge a book by its cover. By all appearances, Allan Dartmouth was a nebbishy, WASPy, white-collar, clean-fingernails kind of guy who probably coached his son’s hockey team and chaired a host of charity boards and committees. But there was a rigid rod of cold steel running down his spine, and at that moment, he showed me a glint of that metal through slitted eyes as he murmured, with teeth clenched tight, the well-known phrase, “Fuck you.”
And then he slammed that bright orange door in my face.
“I know Jared asked you to help him convince me to end our relationship.”
We were at a private table in a dark corner of a popular downtown restaurant, 2nd Avenue Grill, renowned for its martini menu, and boy did we need some of those. I was having an old favourite, a red apple martini, while Anthony was sticking with the classic: straight-up Bombay, sniff of vermouth, and some olives.
“He told you?” I said. “Or did Barbra and Brutus spill the beans? Damn dogs, they’ll say anything for a couple of Snausages,” I added with a levity that wasn’t called for.
“I can’t believe you spoke of this in front of the children,” Anthony shot back gamely.
“I’m sorry, Anthony.”
“For what?”
“This is serious. I’m sorry about what you and Jared are going through. And I’m sorry I left things with Jared the way I did. He must be pretty angry with me.”
“Of course he isn’t. Jared doesn’t get angry. Or if he does, it lasts about as long as cheap lipstick.”
Anthony was right. Jared Lowe has a sweet disposition. “I suppose none of us can know what it feels like to go through what he’s had to go through since…since he had his face taken away.” I swallowed a mouthful of red apple. “God, it makes me so sad, and mad, to think about it. What must he be feeling? And you, Anthony, this isn’t easy on you either. As much as I hate it, and I know it’s wrong, I can understand, a little, why Jared would think it would be best to end your relationship.”
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