Free Fifth Son by Barbara Fradkin

head. “No, Mom. Never.”
    â€œThen where did you find the chain?”
    â€œI was walking to the village. Through the field.” Kyle pointed across a stubbled field towards the distant church spires of the village. Green studied him thoughtfully. The boy was lying; he had earlier denied this. But why?
    â€œWhy is Kyle not allowed to go in the woods?” he asked the mother casually.
    â€œBecause of the river, of course,” she answered in a tone that implied a silent “you idiot.”
    â€œOf course. Have you lived on this farm long?”
    â€œLong?” She snorted. “Is all my life long enough?”
    Green felt as if he had hit a gold mine, if he could only figure out how to mine it. “Then you would have known the Pettigrew boys before they all left.”
    Her gaze grew wary. “Some. We stay pretty busy on the farm.”
    He turned abruptly towards Hannah. “Sorry, honey. I need to have a few words with Kyle’s mother inside. Do you think you and Kyle can amuse each other out here for a while?”
    Poor choice of words, Green thought with a grimace as he ushered the reluctant mother into her house. She seemed as uneasy about leaving them alone as he was, no doubt for opposite reasons.
    â€œI don’t know what I can tell you,” she said as she perched on the edge of her sofa, looking ready to bolt at any moment. Unlike last evening, she made no effort to remove the quilt or offer him a drink. “I haven’t seen any of the older children in years. And I never had much to do with him—” She jerked her head in the direction of the Pettigrew farm. “—since he started pickling himself in booze and bawling at the moon at three in the morning. Could hear it clear across to the village some nights.”
    â€œWere you friends when the wife was alive?”
    â€œWell, close enough when the boys were at school together. We were in the same church, and my Sandy was friends with their Lawrence—”
    A distant bell of recognition rang in Green’s head. “Sandy Fitzpatrick? The real estate agent? He’s your son?”
    Her lips formed a tight, wary line. “How do you know Sandy?”
    Green gave her the short explanation—that Sandy had provided Robbie Pettigrew’s address. That seemed to satisfy her, for she nodded and actually volunteered some information. “Sandy’s father is dead, fell under the baler. Jeb McMartin is my second husband.”
    Green absorbed the coincidences of village life. That made Sandy and Kyle brothers, despite the probable twenty-five year age gap. Both were burly and full of health, although beyond that he could see no resemblance.
    Edna flushed, as if having two husbands somehow made her a harlot. “His boy needed a mother, and I needed a man about the farm. This life is hard, Inspector. You take from it what you have to.”
    Green nodded sympathetically. “I understand life was hard for your neighbours as well. What can you tell me about Lawrence? Do you know where he is?”
    â€œSt. Lawrence Psychiatric Hospital in Brockville, last I heard.”
    â€œWhat happened to him?”
    â€œWent crazy. His folks locked him up.”
    â€œHow long ago was that?”
    She pursed her lips as if dredging her memory. “In Grade Eleven. I remember because he and Sandy were in the same grade, and Lawrence just stopped coming to school. Wandered around the place talking to himself, or suddenly you’d turn around and there he’d be standing, staring at you. Gave everybody the willies.” As the bearer of grim news, she seemed to lose her frostiness. “They tried to get him help up in Ottawa, and then one day they packed him into the family’s old pick-up and drove straight to Brockville. I don’t think the mother ever recovered, and then when her Benji was killed, well, that did her in.”
    Green had a sinking feeling. A cursed