Free Last of the Independents by Sam Wiebe Page A

daughter his will was re-forged. Lisa was about my age, pear-shaped, with a face buried under bronzer and red lipstick.
    â€œYou get the hell out of here,” she said to me. “He’s not talking to you. Ever. Understand?”
    â€œHe said you were the one who dealt with Szabo.”
    â€œYou’re a police officer?”
    â€œPrivate detective working for —”
    â€œI don’t care,” she said. “Get out or I call the real police.”
    I nodded and walked to the door to wait for her to buzz me out. Propping the door open, I turned back to hurl some scathing putdown at them. I started to point out that between the two of them they had one pair of eyebrows, but it was too much of a mouthful. I drove home alternating between coming up with better insults and telling myself I was the bigger man for holding my tongue. The perfect ending for a day/week/month full of mistakes, false starts, and what-could-have-beens.
    T hursday, 7:30 p.m.
    P lace: Szabo residence, a small house with a wide paint-stripped back porch.
    S peaker: Agatha Szabo, aunt of Django James.
    â€œI can tell something about you, Mr. Drayton. I can tell you were a lonely child. So you know what it’s like. I was like that. So is Django. Cliff? No, he was always too angry to be lonely.
    â€œDjango is quiet. He sees everything — that he gets from his father. It’s hard for him to fit in.
    â€œI know what his teachers think — that he was unhappy at home, or that Cliff was a bad father. It’s not true. He’s strict about business, yes, but he loves his son. And Django loves him. When Django was younger, Cliff would read to him every night.
    â€œSince he’s been gone, Cliff has become short-tempered. He’s angry at himself. His business has been slow, and he makes mistakes he never would have before. He was distraught when Marisa died, but it was easy for him to know what emotion to feel. He’s lost now.
    â€œThe policeman, Fisk, seemed to think Django might have taken off in the car. I don’t believe it. He wouldn’t leave his father and I. He was very well-behaved.
    â€œWhat do I think happened? I haven’t said it, even to myself. It’s too horrible to say. But I think it all the time. My beautiful nephew.
    â€œI dream about him often.”

VI
    The Ethereal Conduit of Madame Thibodeau
    â€œH e ’s been sleeping for the last two hours,” I heard my grandmother say as she led someone down into the basement. I imagined them in single file, proceeding cautiously down the stairs, the only light my grandmother’s torch. And me, lurking in that basement like some cut-rate Cthulhu, waiting for the seals on my sarcophagus to be broken.
    The expedition reached the lower depths of the household. I emerged from my room stumbling and rubbing my eyes. I saw Katherine and Ben, noted their reactions, and debated whether they’d think less of me if I turned around and retreated back into my room.
    â€œDid you forgot Monday’s a work day?” Katherine asked.
    â€œI didn’t forget.” I took the mail from my grandmother. “Just felt like taking a personal day.”
    â€œUsually you phone in and tell the office.”
    I tore up the flyers and subscription renewal warnings. “Usually Mondays the office is empty.”
    â€œWould you like some lunch?” my grandmother asked me.
    â€œI’m fine,” I said.
    â€œWell, would you mind putting on some pants?”
    I stepped into a pair of jeans, turned on the light and ushered them inside. My grandmother retreated to the sanctity of the upstairs. I sat on the bed, motioned Katherine into the threadbare love seat. Ben stood against the wall. Usually he needed to be at the centre of any discussion. Today he held back.
    â€œSo what’s going on?” I said, groping behind the headboard to find my moccasins.
    â€œYou tell us,” Katherine said. “Mr. Szabo