A Thief in the House of Memory (3 page)

Dec stared at the tattoo on his neck. The man turned and flashed another smile. “You're thinking, ‘Jesus H. Christ, I just hitched myself the ride from hell.' Am I right or am I right?”

Dec shrugged, and that set the driver chuckling again. “You want to know my crime?” he asked. He didn't wait for a reply. “‘Course you do, being my accomplice and all. Well, I'm taking this here back road so as not to get weighed.” He glanced at Dec. “I said weighed, boy. W-E-I… whatever. Get it?”

Dec didn't.

“You see, the Department of Transport up there on Highway 7 got their weigh station open today and I've got too much load on.” He pointed with his thumb over his shoulder. “Just water,” he said reassuringly.

Dec managed a grin. The guy was harmless. “You sure it's not bootleg liquor?” he asked.

The driver cocked an eyebrow. “Now, there's a plan,” he said. “You got any?” Dec chuckled. “We could be a team,” the man continued. “You source things out, ride shotgun, I lug the stuff.”

Dec nodded. They were nearing Cupar. It was only fifteen minutes past Cupar to his place.

“We could start off small. Just water,” the driver said. “We could steal all the water in Lanark County.”

The laughter burst out of Dec before he could stop it.

“Eh?” said the driver. “You up for that?”

Dec nodded. “Count me in.”

“Good stuff.” The driver rolled up his window to block out the noise. Dec watched him reach for his cigarettes before remembering he had given them away. “After we drain the county dry, we could start in on milk. Dawn raids on all the dairy farms.”

Dec laughed again. “Sort of work our way up to the hard stuff?”

“Now you're talking,” said the driver. “You are just reading my mind, mister. But that's not the end of it. Hell, no! I'm thinking the big money is in nuclear waste.” Then he lowered his head and peered into his sideview mirror for a good long moment. He let out a showy sigh of relief. “Phewww! Thought we had the fuzz on our tail there for a minute.”

Dec turned to look. The road was dead empty for as far back as he could see.

“I know this secret road up ahead,” he said. It was a foolish comment, just something to say. Just to keep the conversation rolling.

“That's good to know,” said the driver. “Secret roads come in handy when you're messin' with stolen goods. What is it? An old prisoner-of-war camp or something like that?”

They were gearing down to pass through Cupar. Dec checked his watch. He would be home in plenty of time. This had worked out okay, he thought. Not only a ride, but a stand-up comic as well.

“It's where the county road sort of swerves south,” he said, slouching in his seat.

“I know the spot. A few miles up ahead, right?”

Dec nodded. “The old county road used to follow the river. But there's this big hill in the way and it gets too narrow for a two-lane. So they built the new road.”

The driver nodded, genuinely interested, and Dec realized he had said too much. The deserted road cut across the back end of the Steeple estate. It wasn't public knowledge.

“It never hurts to have a hidey-hole or two,” said the water-haulage man, and he flashed Dec an easy grin.

Dec turned to look out his window. The Eden River came into view, turgid and brown, thick with run-off and yet still frozen in places along the banks. His companion was humming now. Everything was fine, Dec told himself, until the truck started to slow down.

At first he thought there was engine trouble. But there
was no rattle, no smoke. The driver brought the rig to a stop without even pulling over.

“Is that the road?” he said.

They were at the very point where the two-lane highway started its long slow curve south, directly in front of the entrance to the old road. There was a deep ditch bridged by an overgrown and crumbling culvert. Beyond it the brush closed in.

You would never see it. Never. Not unless you were looking for it. If you were driving, you'd be too busy following the pavement, your gaze drifting southward. If you were a passenger, you'd likely be looking at the view to your right, where the Eden widened and was lined with willows, as pretty as a picture on a calendar.

“It's completely grown over,” said Dec, backtracking nervously. “I wouldn't want to take a chance.” He didn't turn to meet the driver's eye. He imagined this guy was crazy enough to try it.

But the water-haulage man just laughed. And then he stopped laughing. He wasn't looking at the old road anymore. His eyes had wandered up to the tree-covered hilltop.

“Will you just look at that,” he whispered.

Dec didn't need to look. Were it summer, the crest of the hill would have been a sea of green. In fall it was a sea of red. Only in winter or in early spring, like right now, before the leaves had unfurled, could you hope to catch a glimpse of Steeple Hall. Even then it took a keen eye to see it. You had
to stare at the exact right place until the tower and chimneys and gables detached themselves from the camouflage of distance and forest and became something solid, something man-made.

Dec grunted. Then he made a point of looking at his watch. Once again the water-haulage man put the truck in gear, but this time without a word. Another couple of minutes and the road curved west and soon enough they came to Camelot. A plain split-level you would never look at twice.

“This one is me,” said Dec.

The driver applied his air brakes and brought the truck to a stop right at Dec's driveway. “Hey, now ain't that something!” he said. Dec followed his gaze to the mailbox on the other side of the road. It was a replica of Steeple Hall. His father had built it in his spare time. And since his father had nothing but spare time, it was intricately done, a marvel of craftsmanship. A passerby wasn't likely to know about the house upon which it was modelled. But when the driver turned to shake Dec's hand, the boy could see that he had made the connection, all right.

“Adios,” he said. “Nice to meet you.” He pumped Dec's hand. “Amigo,” he added with a grin, his eyes shining like all get out.

D
EC
S
TEEPLE
slouched on a lawn chair wrapped in one of Birdie's shawls. He was pretending that the thin April sunshine was warmer than it really was. A book about the South Pacific lay open on his lap. It was a birthday present from Birdie. Somewhere in the middle of all this he had turned sixteen. “Isn't that one of the places you plan to travel?” she had said. And the look in her eye seemed to suggest that she was ready to help him pack any time soon.

But the glossy picture book lay unattended. He was reading the
Ladybank Expositor
instead.

The story of the intruder's death had made the front page of the weekly. Sunny sat on the deck happily killing off one of her Barbie dolls, burying her under a deluge of accessories.

“Read it Again,” said Sunny.

Dec didn't have the energy to argue. “B and E Ends in Fatality,” he read.

“Beundee?”

“Break and entry. Its when you force your way into a place.” He showed her the headline.

“More,” she said.

And so Dec read more.

A local man died last Thursday night after a break-in of a deserted house on County Road 10, west of Cupar. Dennis Runyon, 35, was found crushed to death under a heavy bookcase in Steeple Hall, once the residence of Senator Michael Shaughnessy Steeple, founder of Steeple Enterprises and Member of Parliament for Lanark and Renfrew, in the thirties.

Runyon, who grew up in Ladybank, had not lived in the area for many years. He returned only last fall. He was currently an employee of Eden Mobile Wash and Water Haulage. Ted McHugh, manager of Eden, expressed his sorrow at the news. “He was a lot of fun to have around,” said McHugh. “He'll be missed.”

Bernard Steeple's son discovered the corpse of Dennis Runyon.

“Liar!” cried Sunny, her voice hot with indignation. “I discovered him.”

“Well, they can't say that,” said Dec. “You're too young.”

Sunny made a face and then proceeded to squash Barbie under a red Ferrari.

“You don't want to call any case open and shut,” said Constable Dwayne Hannah of the Ontario Provincial Police. “But at the moment it looks as if the death was accidental.”
Police believe that in trying to reach a valuable statuette, Runyon brought down the bookcase on himself. Constable Hannah went on to say that a Forensic unit has been brought in from Toronto and the investigation would continue. There will be an inquest.

“But it isn't valuable,” muttered Dec.

“What?”

“The statuette, Plato. It's not worth all that much.”

“Because he's got no Brains,” said Sunny, and laughed.

Right, thought Dec. The bust of Plato was heavy, hollow and worthless. It made no sense. He read on.

Runyon had a record of petty thefts and misdemeanours dating back to his youth, but had “cleaned up his act” according to Clarence Mahood, a boyhood friend of the deceased.

The last resident of the Hall was Bernard Steeple, grandson of the senator. He and his family still live nearby. He keeps up the historic property.

He keeps up the historic property, thought Dec. His father: part historian, part janitor. He let the paper fall to his lap, closed his eyes. Began to drift into sleep.

Not a good move.

The nightmare is waiting for him, hiding just beyond his consciousness, a tanker trailer of a nightmare, barrelling across
the
lawns of Steeple Hall, bearing down on the big house. Dec is at the wheel but nothing works — not the steering, not the brakes
.
He looks up and sees his mother standing directly in his path. She has her hands on her hips and a grim smile on her face. She isn't going to move for anyone. She is Wonder Woman, invincible.

“Deckly Speckly?”

Dec's eyes snapped open. Sunny was tugging on his pant leg.

“You were Snivelling,” she said.

He sat up, wiped his eyes. “Was not,” he said.

“Was, too.”

“I was thinking.”

“Me, too,” said Sunny. “I was thinking how the paper got it All Wrong. Mr. Play-Doh wasn't On the book case.”

Dec looked at her, a little dim-witted. Sunny was staring at him impatiently.

“'Member? 'Member you put your baseball cap on him?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your Raptors cap,” she said, patting the top of her head.

“You put it on Mr. Play-Doh. You said, ‘Yo, Play-Doh. Wazzup!'” She giggled. “‘Member?”

He did remember. The bust of Plato had been on the side table near the vestibule door. His father had been painting the hall ceiling; there had been a tarp spread over the bookcase. When had that been? Tuesday or Wednesday. He had gone up with Sunny a day or two before the accident.

“Daddy must have put it back on Thursday,” he said.

But Sunny wasn't listening any more. Making all kinds of concerned mommy noises, she began digging for Barbie.

Dec's gaze wandered up the hillside to see his father coming down from the old house. He had on his work clothes, his sleeves rolled up to the elbow, and he was carrying his red toolbox. There was a streak of paint on his arm. He seemed lost in thought, his chin on his chest, his hair falling across his brow —just like Gregory Peck in
To Kill a Mockingbird
. That's what Birdie liked to say. Bernard was her very own Atticus Finch. He was lanky like Peck and strong through the shoulders, but he didn't look so noble to Dec. There was a worried look in his eye. The forensic unit had been at Steeple Hall all week. They were finished now and Bernard had been putting things to right, making everything the way it was.

He didn't look too happy about it.

D
EC STOOD
before a room with his name on the door:
Declan Shaughnessy Steeple, 1987-1999
. That was what was etched on the brass plate, as if he had died young.

He opened the door and scanned the room. It was decked out like something from a magazine. The bed shaped like a sneaker, his favourite baby blanket neatly folded on a pirate play chest, a Lego skyscraper on the low yellow table, a large Teddy sitting in a small wicker chair, wearing goggles and a scarf. It was Dec's young life laid out for some imagined audience of curiosity seekers. It had nothing to do with him any more.

He walked into the room and shut the door behind him. There was a book beside his bed,
The Phantom Tollbooth
. He opened it and smiled at his homemade bookmark at chapter eleven, “Dischord and Dynne.” He remembered liking the book, but for some reason he had never finished it. Maybe it was because they had left the house so quickly, as soon as Camelot was built. Fled from it like refugees.

There was an alcove as large as his real bedroom down the hill in Camelot. There were drawers built right into the wall and a walk-in closet, where every pair of sneakers he had ever owned sat on the floor in neat rows. On the rod hung every pair of pants, every jacket, every coat. He found the cat costume he had worn for his first Halloween and the Green Lantern costume he had worn for his last. They had both been superheroes, he and his mother. They had gone to town together that night — Wonder Woman and Green Lantern. “There's so much more candy in town,” she had said.

He closed the closet and sat down at his desk. There was a lamp his grandfather had made for his father. It was shaped like a flying saucer. He clicked it on and light shone through mica portholes, greenish yellow. Alien light. He opened the drawer and stared at what lay there — a crumpled package of Player's Plains.

There was a bearded sailor on the front and three unfiltered cigarettes inside. Dec sniffed, made a face. He closed the package again. The top third of the cover was printed with stats about the number of deaths in a year from murder, alcohol, car accidents, suicide and smoking. Smoking won hands down.