The Boy Must Die (32 page)

Billy found Sheree Lynn in the kitchen, packing dishes into liquor store boxes. He noticed first her frayed Nikes, then the light cotton sweatshirt with its sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Cups and saucers and cutlery lay strewn on the counters. When she turned to say hello, she was holding aloft a Mason jar in each hand.

“Inspector. I was right. It was you out there prowling.”

“Evening, Sheree.”

“Is there news?”

“Woody Keeler was arrested by the
RCMP
this morning for assault and battery.”

Sheree put down the Mason jars. “You mean you charged him in the Darren case?”

“No. He’d raped and beaten a young Peigan girl.”

Sheree Lynn’s face went still. She sighed, wanting the arrest to be for
Darren, to clear up the identity of his abuser. “I told you he was violent,” she said, bending over to bring up two more Mason jars.

Billy went on. “The
RCMP
arrested his buddy, too. A man named Perry Hill.”

“I don’t know him.”

“You realize, Sheree, I’m at a loss here. I have no witnesses. I don’t have any new leads. What I have is your testimony, a body with markings on it, and some indication of hokey Satanic rituals. Other than that, I have a bloodied boom box that tells us maybe one version of the crime, maybe another. I believe you know better than anyone in this case what the problems were, maybe even what was going on with Cody and Darren.”

“I’ve told you all I know. Believe me. I didn’t like that sergeant of yours coming here and sticking her nose into my cupboards. Darren’s clothes are not here, Inspector.”

“You abandoned Darren after Cody’s death, didn’t you?”

Sheree Lynn blushed. “How dare you suggest such a thing?”

Billy shoved his hands in his pockets and stepped closer to her. “You lost interest. You wanted him out of your hair. That’s why you tried to force him to go to another counsellor. It had nothing to do with playing mother or showing you cared. . . .”

“How dare you? He pulled away from me, he. . . .”

“You were the adult, Sheree. And you threw this kid away. And for what?”

Sheree Lynn stiffened. She turned her back to Billy and walked to the sink.

“Darren was depressed, remember?” Billy felt his voice rise. “The kid lost interest in everything, not just you and your sweet talk. He was really alone after Cody died. What was on your mind, Sheree? What was it, really?”

“Get out of here. You can’t bully me.”

“And what about Cody? He died in your basement while you were upstairs in bed with Randy. How does a lost kid start off dancing naked in your backyard and then two months later end up hanging by a rope
in your basement? Just where were your priorities, Sheree Lynn? I’m beginning to think you might be an accessory to something. Somehow, you
are
mixed up in this. . . .”

Sheree turned and ran at Billy. She had tears streaming down her face. He caught her by the wrists, and she froze, suddenly, her breathing short and shallow like a frightened dog’s. “Let me go.” She ran to the back door and tried to yank it open but then lost control and sank against it, her face pale and her voice hoarse with spent rage.

“Cody took acid. He got it on the street. I couldn’t control him.”

Billy wiped his mouth.

“They were all in a dark world, Inspector. Most of the time I couldn’t reach them. I wanted to. You have to believe me.”

The phone rang, startling Billy and Sheree. “Let it ring,” Billy ordered, but Sheree picked it up and started to talk right away.

“Yes. Yes. Not now. Oh, God. Is he still saying that? Yes. Of course. I gotta go now. Call me after your supper. Nothing’s wrong. No, I have not. Are the students working out? Fine.”

When she hung up, Sheree was still visibly shaken. She walked to the counter, picked up her cigarettes, and lit one. Billy kept watching her, waiting for her to speak again.

“Inspector?”

Billy held her gaze, tilting his head a little to the left to say he was ready to listen.

“That was Randy. He’s tired from the dig this week. I think they’re all done tomorrow.”

“Do you have anything you need to tell me, Sheree?”

“I . . . I can’t. No. I’m tired.”

“Did you like your job at social services?” Billy watched her eyes look away as he spoke to her. There was something she was hiding, but he couldn’t as yet find a way to make her open up.

“You mean, did I like working with clients? With the boys? Yes. Of course.”

“Any problems with the staff? With any co-workers?”

“Not really. Well, there is always a person or two who likes to stake out territory, but other than that, no. I was okay.” Sheree’s voice broke, but she quickly recovered. “Come on, now, Inspector. You know I want to get out of here. Randy and I are planning a trip to the coast, just for a short time, to relax. I have to put this damn chaos in order before we go.”

“You ever meet a young girl named Emily Bourne? She was a friend of Darren’s.”

“No.”

“She claims she phoned you on Saturday morning last. She was asking about Darren. ‘Did they do it?’”

“I don’t know her, I’m sorry.”

Billy decided to let things rest. He pulled in a breath. Sheree stubbed out her cigarette. “When you want to talk to me, Sheree, call. Here is my cell number.”

Sheree walked him to the front door, saying nothing as he went down the front steps. Climbing into the Pontiac, Billy sat for a short time and watched the lights in Satan House, imagining Sheree Lynn Bird alone in the rooms. The contours of her world still remained unknown to him, its regions closed in by a border made of her own insecurities and fears.

Randy Mucklowe read over the fax he’d handwritten and addressed to Robert Lau, China Import Company, Vancouver.

Then he pressed the start button. The white paper glided slowly through the machine, and for the first time that day, Randy felt relief. It had been hot on the mountain; Sam Heavy Hand had been drinking beer and smoking homegrown and sometimes coming onto the dig site, walking over the turned earth, making desultory remarks to Justin and Cara about Native religious practices, his own home life on the Browning reserve, his need to be in the air once breathed by his mighty ancestors. At supper, Sam had dropped his plate of food. When Randy told him to go and sleep it off, Sam had shoved him against the fridge, then slammed the screen door and stomped to his truck, where he eventually fell asleep.

Randy stood in the back of the drugstore dressed in a T-shirt, khaki hiking shorts, heavy hiking boots, and wool socks — the gear he always wore on a mountain dig. The store was closed for the evening, its shelves and counter bathed in a pale blue light from the street lamps on the main street of Waterton village. Caitlin, the owner, had lent him a key and said he could use the fax machine whenever he needed. Sneaking past Sam’s truck had been easy, with Sam drunk and asleep and the sky covered with low cloud, muting the summer moonlight. Tomorrow, the dig would be over. Friday night meant the students would be leaving for their summer vacations. Stipends paid, dig reports completed, the work from a long week in the sun on the side of Chief Mountain done. Only two small amulets and three arrowheads. The site had proven to be relatively barren. But the golden masks — all seven of them — were safe in the cabin, and Sam was under control for the moment. Randy had not enjoyed Sam’s company, except for the nights when they drank and smoked together.
Admit it. You feel tired.
Randy was frustrated, eager to leave and get on with his plans. Get Sheree Lynn on the plane, fly to the coast to clinch the deal with Lau, and somehow, the means not yet worked out, somehow shake off Sam, take the money, and leave the north forever. . . .

The fax machine clicked off. Randy picked up the sheet and read it one more time to be sure he’d made himself perfectly clear.

Robert, the dig is done, and Sheree and I will be going to the coast this Sunday, arriving at noon. We can take a taxi to the hotel as you suggested and meet you there by two. We will be alone, as promised. I have the seven items. We agreed one hundred K for each, in American funds. These are bona fide, I can assure you. As agreed, all cards and correspondence, including this fax, will be handed to you for your records once the billing transaction has taken place. Randy.

Shutting off the light in the small room behind the store counter, Randy found his way to the phone by the cash register. He dialled out, used his long-distance calling card, and waited for Sheree Lynn to answer.

“Hi, it’s me.”

Sheree’s voice was tired. “Where are you?” she said. “You caught me coming in the door.”

“I’m in the drugstore. Sent the fax to Lau and told him when we’d be in on Sunday morning.”

“What time is it?”

“Around eleven-thirty.”

“Yamamoto dropped in this afternoon. I was with him when you called earlier.”

“What’s up?”

“He says he’s still at a loss about the case.” Her voice sounded nervous.

“Nothing happened, did it? You are all right? Everything under control, I hope.”

“Please don’t start.” Sheree Lynn paused. “The inspector says he isn’t sure the case is going anywhere.”

“That sounds positive, then. For us, at least. You all ready to go for Sunday? You been to the bank?”

“Yes, but I had to pay a penalty on the lease, like I told you. An extra three hundred.”

“Let it go, honey. Lau will have seven hundred thousand American.”

“You really think this’ll go through, Randy?”

“Why not? Lau claims he can sell these babies for ten times our asking price. I don’t care what he claims. Just as long as we get our cash.”

“And Sam? What about him?”

“The goddamn fool insists on coming. I don’t know yet what we’ll do, but we’ll figure something out by Sunday.”

“You home tomorrow?”

“Late. Or, if I need to clean up here, Saturday by lunchtime. I miss you.”

“I miss you, too. I hope you’re safe.”

“I’ll see you soon.”

Sheree hung up, and Randy held the receiver for a moment, wondering if this July might be a turning point in their life. Smiling, he hung
up the phone, went out the back door, and folded the fax copy into his right pocket. The streets were quiet, only a few cars and pedestrians. The air had warmed, and the cloud cover had lifted. Birches and willows were still, their shapes haloed by the rising moon as clouds scudded leisurely southward over the enormous black curves of Mount Vimy and the pyramid-shaped crown of Mount Cleveland. Walking into the woods by the river, Randy saw two figures by the rushing water. They jumped, startled by his approach. The young man looked frightened.

“Christ, man, you scared the shit out of us.”

Beside him was a young blonde. Her blouse was unbuttoned, and Randy could see the round white softness of her young breasts.

“I’m just passing through.”

Randy thought the young man might strike him, but instead he stood back, helping his girlfriend to her feet, calming her reaction by placing an arm over her shoulder. Randy walked off quickly, his boots cutting through the damp grass. A few moments later, he relished the refreshing cold spray from Cameron Falls. Standing on the wooden foot bridge, he leaned to look into the silver foam that swirled under the curtains and tunnels of splashing water. He turned and saw the couple moving off in silhouette across the moon-bright meadow. A crow cawed in the distance, and he heard laughter from one of the houses on the hill bordering the falls. He wandered down the road to the cabin, taking his time.

By midnight, he was sneaking past Sam’s truck, the snores from the cab underscored by a low warning growl from Sam’s dog, Crow.

“Easy, boy,” Randy whispered. “Easy now.”

Once through the screen door, Randy tiptoed to his bedroom. He pulled a flashlight from his bedside table, walked gingerly back to the living room, bent down, and checked the black plastic bags under the couch. The shapes were smooth under the plastic. He imagined the golden eyes and the small pearl mouths. He smiled to himself, stood, and went back to the bedroom, where he undressed and lay on top of his blanket. He opened a small box and lifted out one of Sam’s joints,
lit it, inhaled its sweet smoke, and rolled back onto his pillow.

It felt good, lying naked in the moonlight, the heady effect of the smoke leading him into sleep and vivid dreams. Tomorrow, all would change. But then, he reminded himself, that was what he wanted.
Tomorrow, the future begins.

Marilyn Black was leaning forward on the edge of a swivel chair, flipping through pages on a green blotter, her hair pulled into a slick tight helmet, when Billy stepped into her office. She took Billy’s card and examined it, then nodded for him to sit down.

“You want information about Sheree Lynn Bird?” she asked. She gathered her many papers into a squared pile as she spoke. When she looked up, her blue eyes appeared to look right through Billy.

“I know you’ve talked to Chief Bochansky about her before,” Billy said. “I’ve read over the facts of her employment and her downsizing. So what I’m after is more a personality profile, if you like. And perhaps, if I may, your permission to look at her former caseloads to see if I can get a. . . .”

“Those are strictly confidential, sergeant.”

“Inspector Yamamoto,” Billy said.

“Excuse me, I was told you were a policeman.”

“I am retired now. But I am a deputy inspector with the city force.”

“With Chief Bochansky?”

“Yes.”

“The Freedom of Information Act cannot override the Charter of Human Rights, Inspector. Before we could give you access to files, we would have to have permission from our clients, many of whom demand and deserve complete anonymity. But since you have told me little about your case, and are here for a profile of a former employee, there is no need for us to go through a long and difficult process of asking permission.”

“A fourteen-year-old boy was hanged and mutilated in the basement of Sheree Lynn Bird’s leased house on Ashmead Street last Saturday morning. We — the city police — believe Darren Riegert was murdered, but we have no firm leads and no witnesses. All we have is Miss Bird’s testimony and an autopsy report.”