Fifth Son Read Online Free PDF

something.
    * * *
    Green gazed out the car window at the passing fields, deep in thought. In the distance, the ribbon of maple trees was slowly fading into the horizon.
    â€œWe should send an eager young constable out there to see where that path through the trees leads to,” he said.
    Sullivan took his eyes off the road long enough to follow Green’s gaze. His eyes revealed nothing behind his mirrored sunglasses, but his lips twitched in a smile. “It leads to Ashford Landing.”
    â€œHow do you know?”
    â€œThat’s the way the country works. Farmers usually leave a border of trees along the river, and in the old days they’d bring their produce to the village either by boat or along the river’s edge in the shade. The Boisvert farm is about two kilometres from town. Perfect distance for foot paths.”
    Green looked at the straight, flat road ahead of them. Why would the man go along the shore, he wondered, and have to contend with mud, cow crap, underbrush and swamp when he could walk straight along the road? Green could think of at least one good reason—to avoid being seen.
    â€œSo in all likelihood,” he said, “when our guy ran away from the farm yesterday morning, he got to the river and headed to Ashford Landing. Two kilometres, you said? That should have taken him no more than half an hour, which means he should have reached town before noon. MacPhail places the death after four p.m.”
    â€œBut remember he could have fallen earlier and bled for hours.”
    â€œOkay, but he still might have been lurking around town for a couple of hours, which means he could have been seen.”
    They had reached the outskirts of the village and Sullivan eased his foot off the accelerator, allowing them to coast over the crest and down into the tiny commercial centre. They passed the general store and the gas station before spotting a big yellow real estate agency sign on the lawn of a Victorian manor house painted a striking Wedgwood blue.
    Sullivan had reached Sandy Fitzpatrick on his cell phone from the car, interrupting him in the middle of a showing. The agent had agreed to meet the detectives back at his office, but there was no answer when they rang the doorbell. An old silver Grand Am was tucked at the rear of the house, but the main drive was empty. Through the bay window, Green could see a large office with maps papering the walls and print-outs littering every surface. Looking up at the rambling size of the old home, he guessed that Sandy Fitzpatrick probably lived above his offices.
    Sullivan was just returning to the car to check on the street canvassing when a late-model red pick-up revved around the corner and screeched into the drive. Out leaped a tall, muscular man whom Green estimated to be in his mid thirties. The man rushed at the detectives, his hand extended heartily.
    â€œSorry, officers. The house business—never a dull moment!” He lifted a huge ring of keys from his belt, selected one and unlocked the door with one expert twist. Inside his cluttered office, Green and Sullivan took the client chairs while Fitzpatrick went behind his desk. He flipped on his computer and punched the answering machine button before he’d even sat down. Then, as the first of sixteen messages began to drone, he looked at Sullivan sheepishly.
    â€œSorry, force of habit. No secretary, no partners, just me always rushing to stay on top of the business.” He paused the machine but couldn’t keep his eyes from straying to his email box briefly before he swung around.
    â€œOkay!” He clasped both hands together on the desk before him like a man salivating to make a deal. “Is it about the body? It’s the talk of the town.”
    Green couldn’t resist. “And what’s the town saying?”
    â€œSome homeless guy?”
    â€œNo rumours as to his identity?” Green asked.
    â€œNone I heard. But what’s it got to do