Fifth Son (17 page)

“Anyway, Toronto's keeping an eye out for us,” Green replied without much optimism. In a city as overcrowded, fast-paced and ethnically diverse as Toronto, one misplaced derelict would not rank high in their priorities. Perhaps he should tell them Tom was a suspect in a possible murder inquiry. “As for locating Sophia, nothing solid yet, but Gibbs has a few leads and we may get a break tomorrow.”

That was a slight exaggeration, designed to stimulate Sullivan's flagging spirits, but if anyone could make something out of the slim lead he'd uncovered, it was Bob Gibbs. He'd unearthed the name of a distant cousin in a small village in Tuscany, who may or may not have a clue as to Sophia's whereabouts. The family had moved away from Richmond more than ten years earlier, following the bankruptcy of the father's landscape business. The last known address was somewhere in New Jersey, but the trail had petered out. However, neighbours of the family in Richmond recalled that Sophia had left town as a teenager under mysterious circumstances and was rumoured to have been whisked away to live with relatives back in Italy. Given her racy reputation as a teenager, pregnancy had been suspected.

Green had his own nagging fears about Sophia's disappearance which could be laid to rest only when he had irrefutable evidence of the woman alive and breathing in front of him. He'd had enough of magical disappearing acts. Gibbs had been all set to make the call to Italy when Green reminded him of the time difference. With Gibbs chafing at the delay, Green reminded him of the miracles of Canada411.com and suggested he run a few searches on Vincellis while he waited for the sun to rise on the other side of the world. Through his open office door, Green could see him hard at work on the internet.

“Okay,” Sullivan said, breaking into his thoughts. “We're done down here, anyway.”

“You're bringing Mrs. Hogencamp back with you to identify the body, right? Do you want me to set that up with the morgue tonight?”

“She's coming tomorrow. She wanted to drive herself, and she didn't want to disrupt the routine of her patients. Peters and I are coming back up now, but I planned on calling it a day. Nothing else has come up that needs action today, right?”

Green was about to tell him to go straight home and enjoy his kids when Gibbs burst into the doorway, his Adam's apple bobbing with excitement.

“Sir? Sergeant Belowsky from Rural West is on the line, wants to talk to Sullivan. There's been a development at the Pettigrew farm!”

I
sabelle
Boisvert had been walking along the path by the river, her head bent and her shoulders leaning into the sharp October wind. She had turned her collar up and balled her fists deep inside her pockets. Chouchou scurried at her side on a tight lead to stop him from chasing every squirrel and chipmunk in sight.

She had set off in high spirits, eager to scout her property for promising riding trails, but she quickly found her thoughts straying to the spooky discoveries of the past few days and to her husband's mounting resistance. She wasn't sure what she'd do if he dug in his heels and announced he was moving back to the city. This farm was her dream.

With her head bent and her attention turned inward, she would not have even noticed the boat if Chouchou hadn't started barking. He bounced at the end of his leash, yapping and straining towards the river. Isabelle knew all his barking cadences and readily recognized this one as a territorial bark.

Looking up, she saw that she was at the shoreline directly behind her house. The area was overgrown with neglected brush now, but she could still see the worn tracings of a path from the house through the trees to the riverbank. A small area had been cleared at the shore years ago, and the rotted remains of a wooden dock drooped into the water. She had been to the river many times since they moved in, had even swum here earlier in the fall, and she knew there had been nothing but an old rowboat pulled deep into the bush and upturned. Its splintered hull hadn't been seaworthy in over a decade.

Yet today, once she'd threaded her way down to the river's edge, she saw a boat pulled up on the shore; a battered aluminum runabout with a tiny outboard motor on its stern and a pile of moth-eaten blankets on its floor. A hint of gasoline hung in the air. Chouchou was growling as he approached the boat, so Isabelle snapped the leash to quiet him as she peered around. Not a soul was in sight, but the boat was beached directly behind her house.
Sacré bleu,
was there another prowler on her land?

With a shiver, she scooped the dog into her arms and held him tight. He wasn't much use in a crisis, being barely five kilograms with all his fur, but at least he could serve as her early warning system. Wincing at the crackle of every leaf beneath her boots, she picked her way back towards the house. When she reached the edge of the tree line, she crouched in the tall grass and scanned the field ahead. The house sat about a hundred metres ahead, silent and undisturbed in the late afternoon sun. Wind tugged at the desiccated goldenrod that dotted the field, but she saw no other signs of movement.

Clutching Chouchou firmly under her arm, she ran low to the ground through the dry brush until she reached the back of the house. Still no signs of movement. She listened intently. Nothing. Crouching low and hugging the wall, she began to edge around the side of the house. A thud shattered the silence. Her heart leaped in her chest and a low rumble gathered in Chouchou's throat. She clutched him tight to silence him and peered cautiously around the corner of the house into the front yard. A man was walking across the yard towards the house from the barn. He must have just come from there, slamming the rickety barn door behind him, she deduced. The man paused to look at the fresh bed of crushed stone where the burned shed had been, then with a shake of his head he continued toward the house.

From her distant vantage point, he looked past his prime but still attractive in a rugged, sinewy way, and he moved with a fluid lope. His khaki windbreaker and heavy work boots looked clean and new. Briefly she wondered if he was another of Jacques' workmen, hired to do some renovation Jacques had failed to mention. He had a purposeful stride rather than the uncertain, furtive scurry of a burglar. Her fears eased and she was about to call out to him when he reached the door, grasped the knob and thrust hard. No knock, no bell, just a hard shove as if he owned the place. The nerve of the guy.

The door was locked, and she hung back to watch him as he stepped back to survey the front of the house before heading around the side opposite where she was. Fear battled curiosity and outrage as she circled around the back to the other side. She peeked around the corner just as he lifted up the hatch to the root cellar and ducked down the steps into the basement. She slumped against the wall in disbelief. She'd never thought of locking that door, which opened into a dank, unused section of the basement where long ago the family would have stored their turnips, carrots, potatoes and other fruits of the fall harvest.

The man was in her basement now, and although she couldn't see him, she could hear thuds and scrapes as if he were shoving things around. Chouchou gave a low growl, and Isabelle clamped her hand around his muzzle. Holding him tight, she hurried across the yard to the tool shed. Once inside, she pulled the door carefully shut, pulled out her cell phone and dialled 911. Speaking barely above a whisper, she reported the break-in and was advised to stay out of sight until the police arrived.

She disconnected and peered out the shed door. Out here in the country, it might be a solid twenty minutes before the police arrived. She considered her options. She was alone in the country with no one even remotely within earshot, with a useless puffball of a dog and without even a shotgun or tiny .22 for protection. She had grown up with shotguns, but Jacques was adamantly opposed to all guns, so despite the advice of the real estate agent and the man at the general store, they had no guns. She could sit in this shed like a fool and wait to be rescued. Or she could check it out. The man had not looked dangerous, nor had he been carrying a weapon that she could see. He had looked like a typical blue-collar worker, a little gaunt and battered perhaps, as if he'd had a two-pack a day habit all his life.

She lifted her brand new axe from its peg on the shed wall and slipped back out the door. Chouchou was squirming under her arm, so she cast about for some way to contain him. Her eyes finally settled on the minivan parked in front of the house. Chouchou loved the car, because he thought he was being included in an adventure, so he might not bark if she put him inside. Praying that the man was making enough noise to mask hers, she slid open the van door, thrust the dog inside and pulled it quietly shut again. Ducking down behind the car, she held her breath while she listened. Nothing. The axe felt solid in her hand as she crossed the yard to the front door, slipped the key in and cautiously opened the door. Silence greeted her. She tiptoed down the hall to the head of the basement stairs. Still not a sound. Then a muffled scrape.

She eased her foot onto the top tread, held her breath and tiptoed down for a closer look. He had turned on the bare light bulb which dangled from a cord in the centre of the ceiling, casting a harsh glare over the musty cellar. She and Jacques had cleared out much of the accumulated detritus of several generations and had taken van loads of old bicycles, broken lamps and chairs to the nearby dump. The cellar was still stacked with boxes, however; those waiting to be unpacked from their own move, and some full of Pettigrew junk that looked as if it had been sitting undisturbed in the dust for years.

The basement was divided into three rooms, one the old root cellar and pantry, the second a primitive storage and furnace area, and a third small section which the Pettigrews had obviously intended to finish as a den. Concrete had been poured over the earthen floor and two by four framing had been erected on the walls. Pine planking had been nailed on two of the walls, but the enthusiasm for the project must have died abruptly halfway through, leaving unfinished framing on the rest of the walls.

The intruder had already ransacked the storage area because the boxes were all upturned, leaving papers, dishes and old books strewn on the floor. He had moved on to the semi-finished room, where he now stood pressed against the wall, stock-still, his gaze slowly travelling around the room. Isabelle couldn't see his features clearly in the harsh shadows cast by the light bulb, but desperation was etched in his face.

As she took one last step to get a better look, her shadow slipped across the wall, catching his attention. He spun around, stared at her, stared at the axe she had hefted in her hand, and uttered a single, strangled moan before sagging against the wall in a dead faint.

Before Green had even turned off County Road 2 into the Boisvert's lane, he could see the three-ringed circus in the front yard of the farmhouse. Four cruisers and an ambulance sat at various angles to the house, red lights strobed the dusk, and clusters of dark figures dotted the yard. Green was gratified to note that despite the flashing lights, there was no sense of urgency in their movements. He'd been in communication with the sergeant en route, and once he'd determined that no one was seriously injured, and the scene was secure, he'd told Belowsky to hold all inquiries until he arrived.

He pulled his unmarked white Impala in behind the ambulance and had barely opened his door when Sergeant Belowsky detached himself from one of the groups and approached. The beefy man rolled as he walked, and his illfitting uniform looked about to split at the seams. But he was grinning as he swallowed Green's hand in a massive grip.

“Two incidents in one week,” he said. “Gotta be some kind of record.”

“What's the status?” Green asked.

“The suspect is in the kitchen, not giving any resistance. A bit stunned, is all.”

Green raised a questioning eyebrow. “Keeled over in the basement and whacked his head on the concrete floor, but the paramedics say he's okay.”

“What about the homeowner?”

The sergeant's grin widened. “She's fine. Shook up, but spitting mad. I think the bad guy got the worst of the encounter.”

“Has anyone taken a statement from him at all?”

Belowsky shook his head. “He's all yours. But the guy's not saying much anyway. Just that he wasn't breaking in, he used to live here.”

Green nodded. The sergeant had told him this over the phone, and Green had already figured out this was either Tom or the long-lost Derek. If it was Derek, then the whole theory about Lawrence having killed him was out the window, and Sullivan's Brockville fishing expedition had been in vain. If it was Tom, then they finally had a real live witness to what had transpired in the family all those years ago. Green felt that addictive surge of adrenaline that always accompanied a break in the case.

Isabelle was knocking back a hefty brandy in the living room. After a reassuring word to her, he instructed Belowsky to take her statement while he himself headed to the kitchen. The intruder, he wanted to interview personally. As he passed through the archway, the scene before him reminded him of his own kitchen. Dismantled cabinets, mottled walls and the blackened remnants of several layers of linoleum flooring. Two uniformed officers were stationed in the doorways like brick walls, feet planted apart and arms folded. In the middle of the room was a large rectangular oak table surrounded by mismatched wooden chairs.

Slumped in one of them with his elbows on the table and an icepack pressed to his head was a lanky man with strings of sodden grey hair, deep pouches under his eyes, and at least three days' worth of salt and pepper stubble. As soon as he raised his head, Green knew it was Tom. The cocky confidence of the teenager in the photo was gone, but the defiant blue eyes were the same.

Before Green tipped his hand, however, he decided to see what story Tom had on offer, so without missing a beat he introduced himself and asked for a name and address. Tom apparently chose to play for time. He arched his eyebrows.