Free The End of the Line by Stephen Legault Page A

don’t think he knew, to be perfectly honest.”
    Durrant nodded. “He’s as thick as ever.”
    â€œBe generous, Durrant. I haven’t exactly made my presence known to all our former comrades at arms.”
    Durrant nodded. “The last I heard you were the attending physician at some eastern facility. York?”
    â€œKingston. I grew weary with city life. Adventure was what drew me to medicine. And freedom.”
    â€œFreedom to freeze your arse off, Saul.”
    The doctor laughed again. “And you? The last I heard you were stationed at Fort Calgary.”
    â€œStill am. Steele has asked me to look into this case because Dewalt is too busy with the Blackfoot and with the bootleggers. Frankly, Saul, I’m happy for the distraction.”
    â€œNot enjoying sorting the post and collecting customs?”
    Durrant shook his head.
    â€œAnd how is the leg?”
    â€œIt’s fine,” he said, his mood darkening.
    â€œWell, come by my quarters and we’ll have a look.”
    â€œI said it’s fine.”
    Armatage laughed again. “Durrant, you can play the tough with everybody else in this camp, but it was me who sawed off your leg. And it was me who sewed you back together after your adventure in the Cypress Hills. You can’t play the rogue with me. Plus, you must come by. Evelyn will be asking after you, and you must see Oliver. He’s four years old. And of course, you’ve not yet met our little Ben.”
    Durrant stared at the body before him. He drew a deep breath which slowly seeped between his pursed lips.
    â€œIt will be alright, Durrant,” said the doctor quietly, laying a hand on Durrant’s left arm.
    â€œNow,” he said cheerfully, “let’s have a better look at Mr. Penner here, or at least what’s left of the chap, shall we?”
    The two men began their examination of the body. Armatage removed his thick leather gloves and opened his black satchel to withdraw a set of forceps. Durrant noted the strong odour of peroxide that accompanied the opening of the doctor’s bag, and was immediately transported back to the Regina hospital where the man had attended to his amputation. It was a most unwelcome sense of déjà vu.
    â€œI don’t suppose there’s any question about the cause of death?” asked Durrant, forcing himself back to the present.
    Armatage was using the forceps to remove something from the cavity on Penner’s face. He shook his head. “No, not much question. If I was in Kingston, we could open him up and look at the liver and the stomach and the other organs for signs of poison; it’s always possible that he ingested something earlier in the evening that allowed his killer an easier time with his task, but it seems irrelevant to our purpose here.”
    Durrant nodded. He could hear the sickly sound of the flesh on the dead man’s face sticking to the bone where Armatage was picking at the foreign object. “So,” said the doctor, holding the forceps before him, a tiny rusty fleck of metal in their grasp. “What we have here is a situation where both the zygomatic bone and the maxilla have been all but pulverised. I’d say the first blow caught him lightly here,” said Armatage, pointing to the man’s right cheek with his left hand. His fingers were long and thin and looked ghostly in the yellow light. “I say this because of how this fragment of bone,” and again he pointed to the maxilla, “is concave, and this one,” and here he indicated the frontal bone, “is protruding over the zygomatic bone.”
    â€œBut he was hit more than once?”
    â€œOh yes, I’d say at least three or four times, maybe more. It’s hard to tell. Too much damage to frontal and temporal bones to be certain, but after he was dead, he was hit at least once or twice. I’d say the first blow stunned him, and the second blow killed him.