The Devil You Know: A Novel (42 page)

David.

Something he’d once drawn. Stuck to the back of the card was a paper clipped folder. I peeled it off and opened it up. News clippings. Girl, 11, missing since Sunday. Family hoping for miracle in case of missing girl. Have you seen Lianne?

Like souvenirs.

There was a flash out the west-facing window and for a moment I was glad I had my mag light in use already, before the storm took the power out. I paused, my hands sunk into the box. I thought of how you can count, from lightning strike to the crack of thunder, to calculate how close you are to a storm. From the other side of the house, the flash came and went again.

There are no electrical storms in winter. I switched off the flashlight and stood up. Out the window in the other bedroom, a skinny beam of light moved slowly downhill. Someone was on his way home.

T
he car came down nice and slow, snaking its way through the curves as though the driver had eyes trained on the house instead of the road. Now and then the headlights snuffed out and I realized this was where the trees created a blind. The vista went dark, then shone suddenly on again as the vehicle swung back around a bend. The car was being repeatedly swallowed by the earth and forcing its way out of the chasm. It kept coming. There was just the one road down to the house. There was no sneaking out now.

I took the stairs softly, listening for engine sounds or a trunk slamming. Back in the kitchen, I pulled the longest carving knife from the block, then chose a spot far from the door, back in the corner of the living room, between the window and the woodpile. I thought of what David had said, that a knife would be useless protection, but I didn’t like to be empty-handed. Somewhere outside I heard the thunk of a car door closing but it was muffled and distant. He was walking in. I counted in my head, trying to match my pace to a measure of strides. By now he’d seen Angie’s Turismo parked beside the back door. Fair’s fair. No surprises for anyone. I waited for the sound of the stuck latch in the kitchen, where I’d had to kick the door to pop it open, but nothing came.

I was standing close enough to the window that the heat of my breath left little patches of fog on the glass and I could feel the moisture rising off it, against my cheek. The fog bloomed out with every
exhalation. My lungs were working quick and shallow and I held my breath to slow things down. The film of mist on the window shrank back toward the center. By the time I inhaled again, the pane was clear.

He was right there. Outside, looking in. On the other side of the glass.

Put down the knife, Evie.

Graham Patton’s hand on my shoulder, fingernails digging in. Not outside the glass. Behind me. His reflection.

I spun around, arm raised and he grabbed my wrist and the knife hit the floor.

Let me help you with that, he said. Before you hurt yourself. He kept hold of my wrist with one hand, twisting it so that I leaned hard to one side.

I moved my shoulder to try to give myself more leverage or at least the possibility of getting my arm free.

You invited me. Remember?

Funny, he said. You didn’t seem too eager. He placed a foot on the handle of the knife where it sat on the floor and pushed me back toward the little couch. Have a seat, he said. Relax. Stay awhile.

He bent down and picked up the knife and walked away into the kitchen and I heard the clatter of it as he tossed it into the sink. In a moment a light came on and then shone brighter. Patton came back into the room carrying a lantern. There was a thick smell that came with it, the kerosene smoking a little.

I just drove up this morning, he said. Our little talk yesterday reminded me I hadn’t been here in a while. I guess I was homesick for the place.

Where’s your dog?

She’s off on a run-around.

Outside? Now? In the dark?

In the new lamplight there was something formless and crisp-edged inside the stone fireplace and I saw that it was newspaper, bunched up to be fire-starter. Patton struck a match as long as his hand and lit the paper in four places, then crisscrossed a few sticks
of kindling over top of that. He sat crouched in front of the fire with a block of scrap wood in his hand, waiting for the kindling to burn high enough. He didn’t turn around.

If you’re planning to run or push me into the fire, he said, best make up your mind soon. Sooner rather than later. He threw on the scrap wood and pushed up to stand. The lantern was on the floor at the other end of the couch, away from the fire, and it flickered and sputtered. Patton sat down in a wood rocking chair opposite me.

Romantic, he said. Wouldn’t you agree?

I realized that no one else knew where I was. Not my parents, not Angie. Would David guess? The city clerk? It would be at least a day before someone started asking questions. The cabin closed in over me and shut tight.

What’s your name? I said.

The edges of Patton’s mouth lightened. He stuck out his hand, like we were being introduced. Graham Patton. Haven’t we met?

Your real name.

My elbows were tucked in tight against the sides of my body, to stay warm, but it made me feel small and tense.

Got something to say? Patton said. You ought to spit it out.

I leaned forward over my knees.

I am spitting it out, I said. I asked if that’s your real name.

Who do you think I am.

I think you killed Lianne Gagnon, I said. Then you disappeared.

I’m pretty easy to find.

You changed into someone else.

Patton’s brow lifted a little and it made him look grim and amused.

You must be hard up for copy at the
Free Press,
he said.

Nothing else makes sense.

He leaned back and pulled a pack of Lucky Strike out of his chest pocket and lit one up using the same long matches. The match burned in his hand like a candle and when it was half gone he threw it over into the fire.

Patton drew on the cigarette and exhaled and shook his head in a friendly way.

It’s an old story, isn’t it, Evie? he said. And a sad one. I heard they just dug someone up out of the cemetery, though. Is that a lead? Can you use that?

But it wasn’t you.

Well, I’m sitting right here, he said. So, no. It wasn’t me. Tom Hargreave, wasn’t it? He rocked a little in his chair. The north is just a magnet for anyone with something to hide. Poor old Tom. How about you, Evie? Learn anything new, doing all your research? Get a description? No? How about fingerprints? Or dental records? I hear those can be useful. He leaned in toward me with his feet flat on the floor and the rocking stopped. Because the police around here, they just don’t seem to know what’s going on. All that time and they never found him. Imagine. He clicked his tongue. His teeth were straight and completely even. Poor little . . . what was her name again?

Lianne. You know that.

That’s right. Lianne.

A piece of newspaper in the fireplace shot a few sparks into the air and then crumbled away. He got up out of the chair. Excuse me a moment, he said. I realize I haven’t even offered you a drink.

He walked into the kitchen again and came back with a bottle of rye and two short glasses. He set the glasses on the floor and uncapped the bottle and poured a couple of fingers of booze down into each glass.

Tell you what, he said. You ask me a question, and if I don’t know the answer, I’ll take a drink. And then I’ll ask you a question, and if you don’t know the answer, you take a drink.

I’m not getting drunk with you.

Who said you have to get drunk? Patton said. You just have to answer your questions correctly.

All right, I said. Then I’m not playing games with you.

Patton raised his glass.

Look, he said. I’ll give you a handicap. First one’s on me. He took a sip, then lowered the glass and let it rest on his thigh. I think you’ll find that I’m a good sport.

My face felt tight and stretched. Between the lantern and the fireplace, there was enough light now that I had a clear view of the room. There was almost no furniture and only a coiled rag rug.

Not much of a homemaker, are you? I said.

Patton took another sip.

That’s the first question for me, he said. You do want to play! Answer: Hunting cabin, mostly. Hard to keep the floor clean. All that dirt and blood comes in on your shoes, see?

I looked down at his feet. He had a solid pair of black boots on. Army issue, meant for weather. There was a long moment while I considered if these were the boots I’d seen on my balcony.

When I lifted my eyes again he was staring at me.

What did you come here for, Evie?

I found some pictures in your house in the city, I said. You and my mother used to live in a squat on Brunswick Avenue. You used a different name then. You called yourself Arthur Sawchuk.

I was right. You do like pictures.

I came looking for the one that pegs you as Lianne’s killer.

You hunted me down! Evie, I’m impressed. Don’t get me wrong. But the man you’re looking for is Robert Cameron, he said. You know that part, don’t you?

I looked at him hard.

Show me your teeth.

That made him laugh a little and he refilled his glass.

I wish you’d have a drink with me, he said.

My wrist still hurt and he’d stopped talking now and just watched me. There was some wind outside. The night was dark enough to feel soundproof. Patton took the pack of cigarettes out again and this time he offered me one and I took it to have something in my hand. He struck another long match and put a cigarette between his lips and let it flare. He sat and smoked and it was quiet. Better
to keep him talking. I thought of what my mother had said. Flatter him. I worked up a smile.

Here’s what I know, I said. Cameron was a drifter. You couldn’t tie him down. He’d been in prison at Terminal Island when Charles Manson was there and when he came up to Canada and Manson started to get attention, he used that fact to scare people.

Patton gave an appreciative nod. Maybe. Maybe he ran that house like a branch of the Manson family. Your mother tell you that? Maybe it’s true.

Nah, I said. Cameron was too smart for that. The hippie kids were just a cover. Right? Like a distraction. He had his eye on California. He saw what was happening down in the States, how the cops got focused on a bunch of kids with long hair. The kids were afraid of Cameron and the neighbors were afraid of the kids. From the outside it looked like a cult. I leaned toward Patton. If I were Cameron, even later on, I would have left Manson paraphernalia just lying around. Make people think you’re crazier than you really are. He told stories about being locked up with Manson because those stories were true. But it wouldn’t matter if they’d never met.

Patton’s eyebrows lifted.

Oh, they met, he said. They were cellmates at Terminal Island. Bet you didn’t know that. He’d lit both our cigarettes off the same long match and left it burning in his fingers, and suddenly he wrapped the match into his fist to put out the flame. Manson asked the warden to keep him in there. He’d been in and out of prison his whole life. Didn’t know what to do with himself on the outside. Warden turned him down, of course. He was supposed to be released, that’s why they send you there.

That’s a remarkable piece of information to have at your fingertips, I said.

I have it on authority. He opened up his hand and pressed down on my leg. The burned match tip was still hot enough that I could feel it through my jeans and I leaned my body back and away from him.

Evie. I need to remind you that I’m not Cameron. I knew him.
We had a gentlemen’s agreement of kinds. I stayed out of his way. Even made a buck off him now and then. Let’s talk about something else. Here I was hoping you’d come to see me.

There was a space of no more than five inches between our knees. It was a tiny room, meant only for intimacy or loneliness.

I said I didn’t see any kind of agreement, gentlemanly or otherwise, with a man who cut up his pet rats for fun.

You don’t believe me? Okay. Then how’d I get away with it, Evie? Patton had a look to him that I recognized. Like an old guy in a bar, patronizing but too forward, his ego tempered by a kind of carnal desperation. If I’m Cameron, how’d I do it?

I didn’t know if he was mocking me or just trying to wear me down.

Robert Cameron was already well known to police on both sides of the border, I said. So the easiest thing was to find a new identity. Instead of going back to the United States, you invented Graham Patton. In 1971, you bought a swath of land up here and built a place to hide in case things ever got too problematic. But a couple of years passed and no one came looking for you.

Nineteen seventy-one. Now
that’s
a remarkable piece of information to have at your fingertips.

I’m a pro, I said. You came back down to the city and fit right in. You got married. You tracked my mother down. You never forgave a debt.

That’s Cameron’s rep all right. What about Lianne? How does she fit in?

Something about the conversation had turned Lianne into a thing, no more alive than a glove left at the scene of the crime, or a canceled train ticket. Evidence. I stopped talking for a moment. When I started up again it was quieter.

After you killed Lianne, you came up here to wait out the manhunt. You picked up a hitchhiker on the way. He looked enough like you and you could see he had a few things to hide. You had a wallet you’d stolen sitting out in the car and you let him take it, thinking
that with his description and the stolen ID, he’d be an easy mark to take the rap for Lianne. But no one ever came looking up here, not for him and not for you. Not till this year.

Patton nodded slightly. Sure, that could have happened, he said. But you’re missing the why. Why would I kill that girl. His voice had gone quiet as well, but also dark.

My cigarette had burnt down in my hand and I threw it into the fireplace.

You’ve got quite a souvenir collection upstairs, don’t you? I said. I would have guessed antlers, or a big mounted fish or something. But you must have every news item ever printed about Lianne Gagnon’s murder. It’s stunning. I figure you think about it almost as much as I do.