Enter, Night

telephone, I’m calling Toronto.”

“It’s the middle of the night, Dr. Lightning, and we’re a long way from Toronto. Now,” Thomson said, opening the passenger door for Billy, “if you please-just a chat.”

At the police station, Thomson showed Billy the hockey bag. It was zipped closed, with no hint of its contents visible. He watched Billy’s face closely for a reaction, but none was discernible, other than a calmer version of the same irritation he’d shown in the parking lot of the motel.

“I’ve never seen that before in my life,” Billy said. “What on earth does it have to do with me?”

“It was found up by Spirit Rock this afternoon by a boy looking for his lost dog,” Thomson said. “Constable McKitrick brought the boy back to town. Do you know what we found in inside?”

“I have absolutely no idea what you found inside it, sergeant,” Billy said. “Nor-and I know I’m repeating myself here, so forgive me-do I have any idea what any of it has to do with me.”

Thomson opened his desk drawer and withdrew a clean pair of latex gloves. He put them on and unzipped the bag. He withdrew the manuscript and held it up for Billy to see.

“Do you know what this is, Dr. Lightning?” Thomson said quietly.

Billy leaned forward in his seat and peered at the papers Thomson held in his hands. He looked confused for a moment, then he blanched. If the confusion was some sort of act, Thomson thought, it was a damn good act-better than any he’d seen, anywhere. When Billy spoke, his voice was hushed.

“Where did you get that?” he demanded. “Where the hell did you get that?”

“You recognize it, do you, Dr. Lightning?”

“It’s my… it’s my father’s manuscript.” As Billy stared at it, the look of bafflement on his face was replaced by one of dawning horror. “Is that blood on those pages?”

“I think so,” Thomson said in a neutral voice. “Blood, some mud. Grease. We haven’t had it tested yet-it was just found this afternoon. Do you know what else we found in the bag?”

Billy shook his head. Thomson beckoned him over and opened the flaps of the hockey bag. The stench that rose from the interior of the bag was thicker and greasier than it had been even a few hours earlier. Thomson felt his stomach lurch. The hammers and knives gleamed dull brown and silver in the overhead light of the police station.

Billy looked inside the bag, then vomited into the trash can next to Thomson’s desk. When he had finished retching, he stood up and steadied his hand on the side of the desk. “May I have a glass of water, please?”

“Elliot?” Thomson said. “Would you mind?”

“Those hammers are archaeological tools,” Billy said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Those are the kind of hammers we used here in 1952. I told you, it’s Weal. He’s here in Parr’s Landing, like as I said. Now will you believe me?”

“Dr. Lightning, the problem is this-Richard Weal is dead. Those couldn’t be his tools, and he couldn’t be in Parr’s Landing. He died in a car crash earlier this year, in Toronto.”

“Not possible,” Billy said, shaking his head. He took the glass of water Elliot brought him. “It’s not possible,” he repeated. “That’s the manuscript that was taken from my father’s desk. The one I told you about. Those are Richard Weal’s tools. What else could it be? I knew he was going to come here. You’ve got to search for him. I told you. He’s here.”

“Dr. Lightning, I spoke with the investigating officer in Toronto myself. They found his identification near the wreck. It looks like it was a suicide.”

“Did they identify the body?” Billy demanded. “How did they identify the body? Dental records?”

“There weren’t any dental records,” Thomson admitted. “The body was burned beyond recognition, but the police were satisfied it was Weal. So, as far as we’re concerned, certainly officially, he’s dead. Which means that we have a problem. Can you see what that problem might be, sir?”

Billy laughed harshly. “You think I… You’re joking, right? You think that bag is mine, and that those are my tools, and I… what, drove across northern Ontario with a copy of my father’s manuscript in a hockey bag doing God knows what, carving people up, then walked into the Parr’s Landing police station and introduced myself to Constable McKitrick? Are you serious?”

“Would you give us a sample of your fingerprints, just to clear this up?”

“Absolutely not,” Billy snapped. “After the way I have been bullied and harassed by Constable McKitrick practically since I arrived, and shanghaied into coming in here tonight with implied threats of arrest, I’d have to be very stupid to fall for that one. I’ll be telephoning my lawyer in the morning. When you send the contents of that bag to a fingerprint lab, you’ll find that I haven’t touched them. I’m going to raise such a holy stink that you’ll be lucky to find work as security guards in the Northwest Territories.”

“Dr. Lightning-”

Billy ignored Thomson, cutting him off in mid-sentence. “Now,” he said, “if there’s nothing else, I’m going back to the motel. In the morning, I’m going to go look for Richard Weal, with or without your help. Unless he was working with some sort of accomplice-which I doubt-he’s here in Parr’s Landing.”

Without waiting for a response from either Thomson or Elliot, Billy walked out of the police station, letting the door slam behind him.

Thomson and Elliot were both silent. Then Thomson spoke.

“I think we have a problem,” he said slowly. “I don’t think it's Lightning’s bag. I don’t know whose bag it is. But I think he’s telling the truth.”

“Too much of a coincidence, Sarge,” Elliot said stubbornly. “And you said this Weal was dead, so who else could it be?”

“I don’t know,” Thomson admitted. “I don’t know what the hell is going on here, but it’s about time we called Gyles Point and told them about this. In the meantime, Elliot, do not bother Dr. Lightning in any way. We need to let him cool off a bit.”

“But Sarge-how can it not be Lightning? I mean, we have evidence-”

“For God’s sake, McKitrick, for once, just listen and do as I’m telling you!” Thomson was practically shouting. “We have evidence of something having happened, probably something bad. But it doesn’t directly implicate Lightning except for the fact that it’s his father’s manuscript. If anything, it supports his goddamn theory about what happened. It supports his theory that Weal came back here to the Landing, just like Lightning said he would. Now, would you please, for the love of Christ, just leave him alone until we get some fingerprints, at least? Lightning isn’t the only one who needs to cool off here. I don’t know what sort of bug you have up your ass about this guy, but don’t let it get in the way of you doing your job-the right way. You have a lot to learn about police work, son. Don’t go off half-cocked and make us look like back-country idiots.”

Elliot stared. He’d never heard Thomson raise his voice before. He felt himself blushing and he lowered his eyes. “Yes, sir,” he said. “I understand.”

Thomson softened. “Look, Elliot, you’re a good cop. You have a lot going for you. I understand how you’re feeling right now about this. You did good, bringing in the bag. No one is going to forget that when this gets solved. But the rest of this has to go by the book. There’s too much riding on it. I’m going to call Gyles Point and get this bag off to the lab A S A P.”

“Yes, sir, I understand,” Elliot said again. “By the book. I’ll give Lightning some space.”

“Good man,” Thomson said. “Now, go get some sleep, Elliot. I have some calls to make.”

Just before midnight, Finn was lying in his bed when heard a soft scratching at the back door. He sat bolt upright in bed and listened. The scratching came again, this time accompanied by a soft, familiar whining sound. Finn’s heart leaped in his chest. Sadie! It’s Sadie! She’s come home!

He threw back the covers and ran to the back door. He fumbled with the latch, opened the door wide, and looked down. By the back yard lights, he saw a familiar shape huddled by the door.

“Sadie! Sadie! You’re home!” He shouted for his parents. “Dad! Mom! Sadie’s home! Come quick!” He heard muffled voices from upstairs, then the sound of his parents’ feet on the hardwood floors, then pounding down the stairs.

“Finn, is she back?” his mother said breathlessly. “Is she home?”

Finn’s rapturous joy rendered him incapable of any speech other than his dog’s name, repeated like a mantra. “Sadie! Sadie! Sadie!”

“Finn, bring her in,” his father said. “Why is she still out there?” Hank Miller reached out for Sadie and tried to