Agency

In Which the Yard is Deemed to Have Anthropological Potential

the same morning, but later

The landline chirruped from the kitchen. Jim, who was overseeing his small sous-chefs as they mixed boxed pancake batter in a large ceramic bowl, stepped quickly across the room to pick it up before it woke the sleeping parents.

He'd heard Berenice come in around 1:30 in the morning. His basement bedroom was at the front of the house, and he could hear her high heels clacking across the hardwood floor and the thud of her purse on the hall table.

She must have turned the porch light off because when Berry came home an hour later, he had difficulty getting in. From Jim's bedroom, he could hear keys jangling then clattering to the porch. His son had too much to drink at his work party, he thought, bemused. Jim could remember evenings like that before his wife had died. After, well, he didn't like to leave babysitters waiting up too late. His party days were behind him by the time he was 30.

Sounded like Berry could use a hand, he thought. He put aside the LP he'd been cleaning — Berry had helped him cart hundreds of his records and his ancient record player from his house in Scarborough down into the guest bedroom. His project could wait.

Jim shuffled upstairs to help Berry open the door.

"Good night?" he asked mildly, letting his dishevelled son through into the hallway.

"You're still up? Sorry I'm so late," Berry stumbled. "Big party. A few too many."

Jim clapped him fondly on the shoulder and said, "Not a problem, son. You know I love your kids. Happy to watch them anytime."

Berry, who was struggling to balance while he unlaced a shoe, looked up. "Were you watching them? Oh. Did Berenice have to stay late?"

Jim waved his hand mildly. "Something like that. Not a problem. She's in bed." He glanced up the dark stairs and didn't mention how recently she'd gone there.

Berry grunted and, leaving his shoes where they fell, lumbered noisily up the stairs to join her.

Jim hadn't heard either of them since. He assumed they'd come downstairs eventually, both with crashing heads and sheepish excuses.

"Let your sister have a go at stirring," he admonished Noemie before he picked up the receiver.

"Ross residence, Grandfather of the house speaking."

"Mr. Ross, this is Doctor Patel. I'm the forensic pathologist assigned to your case file? I work for the Chief Coroner's office."

"Right," replied Jim. This woman might have some answers for them finally. "Have you connected the whole thing to the Russians yet?"

"The Russians?" She seemed confused. "That's very... no. No, sir. I highly doubt any Russians were involved."

Jim found her certainty annoying.

"How do you know?" he pressed. "My daughter-in-law gave them free rein back there. They could have planted it. What I think probably happened is..."

"Sir, no." Doctor Patel cut him off. "We've completed the carbon dating on the bone that was located in your..." — there was the sound of papers being shuffled — "...on your land. It dates, in fact, quite probably, to the 1700s."

"Probably?" Jim narrowed his eyes as he overlooked the giant hole the Russians had left in the yard.

The pathologist hedged, "Probably, most likely. Of course, carbon dating isn't exact, but it's quite reliable. It could, say, be from the 1600s. Or possibly, the early 1800s, but I would be surprised if..."

"Sounds like a lot of might be's and maybe's to me," answered Jim. "But if that's true, the kids can get the project back underway now. If the bone is old, it's not a crime, right?"

"Partially correct," answered the Doctor. "We've ruled out any need for a criminal investigation."

"Good."

"Well, that depends on your viewpoint," she supplied mildly. "We have concluded that, pursuant to the Funeral, Burial and Cremation Services Act of Ontario, an archeological survey will be required. To ascertain anthropological potential."

"Anthropological potential? What are you on about?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Ross. I am to advise you now that you must telephone the Ministry of Government and Consumer Services to request an archeological survey."

The very idea of contacting the government raised flags in Jim's mind. Sign up for a siege of bureaucracy, forms in triplicate, and interminable red tape? No, sir. That didn't sound like a palatable next step.

"Look," said Jim with sincerity. "How about we just fill that hole back in? Put the leg or whatever it was back in there if you like. Or keep it for the museum. Our gift to archeology. And we'll say no more about it."

"Ah..." sighed Doctor Patel. "No, I'm afraid you can't do that, Mr. Ross. That would, in fact, be considered an illegal action at this stage. Knowing what we know. If the area has anthropological potential, Ontario law requires that you fully survey and preserve anything found. If you did not... you would be subject to a $50,000 fine."

"A... what?" Jim spluttered. "You've got to be kidding me."

"I'm afraid not," she replied. "Basically, look, I'm sorry to tell you this, but homeowner to homeowner? You're screwed."