By the time they left, after coffee, liqueurs, and Marj's incredible white chocolate mousse cake, we were more than slightly drunk, very full, and extremely sleepy. Will and I snatched off our clothes as soon as the doors were locked and tumbled into bed, grateful to our friends for an evening of laughter amid our own private chaos.
Although we'd been in Burchill for two years, we hadn't made many friends. May and Alain Reneaux had been our first 'couples' contact, as a result of my working, and now friendly, relationship with May. On one occasion, May and Alain had invited Marjory and Bill to dinner as well.
Once, all six of us had gone out on a boat cruise. Each time had been fun and interesting, with no lulls in conversation. It was nice to know that Marj and Bill felt comfortable enough to surprise us with dinner and a visit.
Late the next morning, I was sitting at the table feeling the effects of last night's frivolity when Edgar knocked at the door. He took one look at me and said, "Oh my God, Emily, this whole thing is ruining our relationship! Every time you look at me now it's obvious that you feel tense. I miss your smile! I can't wait until things get back to normal."
I didn't have the heart to tell him that, from my experience, nothing ever did get back to normal. I just grabbed his hand and pulled him into the kitchen, pouring his coffee as he sat, trying to smile.
"I've been spoiled, Emily. Burchill is such a quiet place. Nothing remotely like this has ever happened to anyone in our little town. So I have to admit that the big bad policeman is having trouble handling it." He sipped gratefully at the coffee, his kind eyes wrinkled and troubled.
"Ed, as far as I'm concerned, you're handling it very well. I know the pressure you must be getting from Ottawa. They don't know any of us. My actions haven't exactly been the kind you can vouch for one hundred per cent. You're doing well considering everything." I put a plate of tea biscuits in front of him. We nibbled and sipped in silence for a moment and I struggled to remove the cobwebs, as well as a post-high depression, from my head.
"I'm not here with good news, Emily. In fact, I am probably just about an hour ahead of the Ottawa police." He paused, a long agonizing time it felt to me. I just barely held back from yelling at him to hurry up and tell me, no don't tell me, go away, I don't want to hear it.
Finally, "Walter Ryeburn appears to be missing" was the last thing I expected him to say. My mouth literally dropped open. I was unable to utter anything as I struggled to draw in a shocked breath.
"His wife managed to call 911 sometime very early this morning. She said he'd stormed out right after the police questioned him. He had left Annie without means to take her medication or to get out of her wheelchair into the bed. By dawn she was in agonizing pain. She apparently had to slink to the floor and drag herself down the stairs to a telephone. They only have one goddamned phone in that whole place. She's got a couple of broken ribs and a few bruises on her face. Annie wouldn't confirm she'd received them when she got out of the wheelchair or perhaps fell down the steps. Who the hell knows what Walter Ryeburn does in his own home? By the sounds of his poor screwed up son, Walter's a hell of a guy."
I took another sip of coffee to clear my throat from some obstruction that had suddenly cut off speech. "Edgar, this is—what is this?"
He shook his head. "I have no idea, Emily. It looks to me as though Walter Ryeburn is totally involved in his own son's death. I can't think of any other explanation. Ottawa has other thoughts, I believe. They are still suspicious of our own school principal and her husband for some reason." He looked me directly in the eyes. "I don't understand why they're targeting you and Langford. But that's the way it seems to me. They're coming over to question you on your whereabouts of last evening. They certainly don't trust me to do it properly. I shouldn't even be here and I certainly shouldn't be telling you any of this." A ragged breath sounded through his lips. "They think that because you fingered Walter, and now he's missing, that somehow you and Langford are involved in what happened. Emily, is there something I don't know?"
For a fleeting moment I did think of telling Edgar everything. This kind, thoughtful man who handled a tough job with integrity, fairness and feeling. Didn't he deserve the whole truth about why Ottawa might be interested in us? Yet I did not know for sure that Ottawa was 'targeting' us. Even if they were, it wasn't necessarily because of my husband's past. I hadn't known Edgar Brennan long. I had really no idea if this was the real Ed or if it was a technique he was using. I had reason to be suspicious of law enforcement. Looking back, as bad as events became, everything would surely have been worse had I given in to my desire to confide in Edgar. So I shook my head, fed the police officer more biscuits, and finished the visit with inconsequential chatter.
Thus when the OPP officers arrived at our home and asked to interview me, it was William (aka Langford Taylor), who sat by my side in a reverse parody of twenty-four years before. Little did the interviewers know that their interrogation was so mild in comparison that, if I'd had anything to hide, I would have had no trouble lying or exaggerating the truth. I'd had much greater, more gruelling, practice in the past. We didn't ask for a lawyer to be present, because I was not being accused of a crime, or so they told me. They didn't mention Will's past, but by law they were unable to bring it into the conversation anyway. To me, it floated there. I was convinced that someone must have discovered what happened in Vancouver. Our past collared the conversation orange and red and suspicious.
I answered their questions as truthfully as I could. There was really very little to tell. Nathaniel Ryeburn had hidden a dark, vicious life under one that could only be seen as routine and dull. Until reading his journal, I'd had no inkling of the persona behind my simple caretaker. I had been denied the chance to read the part of the journal that might have given detailed clues as to who might have killed him and his pony. It was clear that Walter Ryeburn was suspect number one, but only because of his disappearance. Constables Ducek and Petapiece also hinted very strongly that Walter might be a victim of the same clever killer or killers. Anything I could remember might help.
Whether real or imagined, I saw the doubt in their faces. Were they seeing two clever killers sitting in their lovely, middle-class living room, hiding as deeply as Nathaniel Ryeburn had, their involvement in criminal activity and their lust for power so strong they would kill? Had I murdered Nat in the school and then attempted to look like the innocent principal stumbling upon a gruesome sight? What better explanation for the missing gun, the missing diary, the pony by my office, the father now gone after I led the police to his doorway? Here were two people who had a deep secret and hid it well. Our masks of respectability and innocence were perfectly in place in this village. Had the Ryeburns threatened that? I could almost hear the other questions behind the ones I was asked out loud.
That night Will and I lay in bed, fingers touching, each lost in our own thoughts. It was impossible not to be frightened. We had been innocently accused and found wanting before. Would it happen again?
Where was Walter Ryeburn?
Is your real name William? Are you a convicted criminal? Tell us about your past, Mr. Taylor. Mrs. Taylor, where were you last night? Are you aware that Mr. Ryeburn had a crush on you? Don't you know that all his words in the diary were directed at you? Didn't you realize that he had a sexual fantasy about you, Mrs. Taylor? Did you taunt him by showering at the school every morning? I think we'd better arrest your husband and take him downtown for questioning. Call the lawyer, honey. I never showed this to nobody. You won't tell, will you? Angel, what's the matter? Why are you crying? If anythin' ever happens, Mrs. Emily, would you get rid of this here stuff for me? Wouldn't want nobody readin' my personal stuff, doncha know? Killing, cutting, playing, taking everything apart and putting it back together if I feel like it. Total, complete, control. Transcending them and me and our earthly bodies and joining a dance of destruction. The pony is dripping blood all over the carpet.
I awoke several times, shivering and perspirin
g. Will's hand reached out for me in his sleep, comforting me even from his subconscious. My dreams continued to be a tangled mix of present and past, of horror and pain, of degradation and hidden psychoses. By morning, I knew I had to do something or go mad waiting.
Chapter 19
I spent the day on school business ensuring parents would have year-end reports and interviews where necessary. I completed the class lists we'd begun earlier in the spring, readied all the other correspondence, and took them to May, who was also working from home.
Our visit was short, because she was watching me strangely. Her intuition and fair knowledge of the Emily Taylor I had let her see, were telling her that I was in some kind of trouble. She kept reaching out for my hand, squeezing my fingers, looking me straight in the eyes. Her kindness was almost too much for me to bear. I couldn't afford to cry right now.
I left her quickly, walking fast to wipe away any weakness, building up my strength for what I knew I had to do.
Will was still at work in the studio when I returned home. I went straight to the bedroom, Angel at my heels, and gathered the items I would need. Then I took the little dog in my arms, petting her and kissing her as if I would never see her again. I made a delicious dinner that night, avoiding the bottle of wine Will opened, and made love to my husband with every fibber of my body quivering with fear and regret. I didn't like lying to Will. I didn't want to disappoint him or make him angry. I knew he wouldn't agree with what I was about to do.
Long after dark, when Will and Angel were both snoring, I got up and headed for the bathroom. The little dog raised her head slightly, blinking at me, but I patted her head and she sighed, snuggling sleepily against Will once more. Slowly and silently, I dressed in the outfit I'd arranged earlier, left Will a note on the kitchen table, and locked my front door behind me.
It was a blue night, one just like the nights of my childhood at my uncle's cottage with its dark blue sky and white diamond stars. A light, warm breeze teased the tree branches, riffling my hair with gentle fingers. There was a deep silence at first, until my blocked city ears picked up the sounds of the night creatures. An owl murmured as she spotted a foolish mouse. Frogs cleared their throats. Waves licked the stones on the shore. Insects warned of my approach. No people lights invaded the darkness. Everyone I know was asleep, dreaming, perhaps innocently.
My footsteps were quiet and crunchy on the dirt and stones. My eyes began to open wider. I was able to see again as though a blindfold had been removed from around my head. Suddenly tree trunks were more than shadows and stealthy movements were visible in the grass ahead. Creatures unused to night disturbances raced away from my threatening presence. I couldn't help but jump now and then at their furtive escapes, but mostly I was unafraid, enveloped in the shawl of the warm night air.
The bridgeman's house was very dark and, even if I didn't know, I believe I would have been able to feel its emptiness. The blocks of the house were outlined in the blackness of the sunless sky and I wondered how people could have lived in such a cold, bleak building. I am somehow not surprised that this place had spawned a child whose inner self was twisted and evil.
The backyard was sinister but quiet as I poked around with my walking stick. It was a strong, smooth pole that I picked up years ago on a hike in the hills of the Rocky Mountains. It was with me now as both support and weapon. There seemed to be nothing for me in this former animal pen, this prison for pets. It was empty and sad, bereft of life.
I slip out the back door and drag my bicycle out of the shed. In the silence and under cover of the trees, I take the path across the country to our compound.
I remembered his words so clearly it was as if he spoke them in my ear. I headed straight for the shed, standing askew and cob webbed in the corner of the yard. Inside, the creatures of the night once again brushed against my hair and my collar, making me twist with fright, slapping at them unfairly, for it was I who had invaded their space. The animals that once stamped and cried and ate and lived in this little compound were now gone. Their smell still clung to the walls and the flooring. I could almost picture Angel and the pony looking up at Nathaniel with pleading eyes, the moon filling their irises with tears. I shook my head. It was not sentimentality that would carry me through this task.
The bicycle was old, built for a female, gangly and crooked as it leaned against the wall. I pulled it awkwardly out of the shed door, hearing the clangs and bangs in the silence as though a drum roll had begun in a deserted hall. I had not put on my flashlight, yet here I was making a noise that could wake the dead, I scolded myself, and then grinned perversely at the irony.
The gate in the fence around the yard was almost hidden by the shed. I had to push through ferns and overgrown bushes to get out. The foliage slapped back into place as if I'd never crossed this way, as if he had never been here night after night, on this very pathway, on this bicycle, pumping toward the obsession that held him so steadfastly that he wrought suffering on the very creatures that he adored. Reluctantly, after several awkward attempts, I had to leave my walking stick propped against the fence. There was no way I could steer this old bicycle and carry it with me. I stuck the flashlight in my pocket. I could use that as a weapon, I reasoned, and then cringed when I thought of Nathaniel and what he had done with such an instrument.
I couldn't help but be glad of my leather gloves, though my fingers perspired underneath them, but I didn't want to touch anything that he had touched. I tried not to think of his huge body perched on this bicycle, sweating and panting, excited by thoughts of the violence that he would perform on the poor animals in the darkness beyond.
I could not imagine anyone enjoying demeaning another creature, human or otherwise. It was so foreign to me. Sex has always meant love or affection, caring and mutual satisfaction. It had in turns been about fun or emotion or desire, not power, not debasement of another. I was somewhat naive, I guessed, but I was glad that life had not mangled my heart and thrust me into enjoying bringing harm to others. My thoughts were so intense, so inward, that I barely realized that I had found the path easily, that I was now bumping along the dirt mounds to a destination that remained in my mind as words on a page.
It is a perfect place for his operation. Surrounded by a huge bush of trees, it's accessible only through a dirt road that you can barely see from the highway.
I tried to picture the little map that had been scribbled onto the diary pages, but it was as if I were following the moon. I tried not to think as my shadow moved through the corn fields, the stalks just beginning to poke through the ground. I could see the tree forms in the distance, smell the damp earth, and feel the weight of the silence. Now and then my bike wheels got caught in roots twisted across the pathway, or a stone flew up and pinged against the frame, or a bird screamed at me from the field as it projected itself into the sky.
My skin was covered in goose pimples and my breath came fast, but I could not stop. I repeated my mission over and over to myself. I must see the compound. I must find out where everything begins and ends, solve the mystery that has shaken my new life and threatened to plunge me back into hell. I must take this chance in order to put everything back the way it was. And then suddenly, I was there.
The cottage looked so ordinary that at first I wondered if the path continued on the other side of this property to another one. It consisted of cedar shingles, a small front veranda, and several tiny windows with drawn curtains. The back porch seemed to have been built for a wheelchair, until I remembered with a surge of nausea the animals who'd probably had to track their way to the door. When I saw the chain link fence and the structures beyond, when I heard the whimpering of animals in the near distance, I knew I had come to the right place.
I remained behind the trees, listening, as if I could see through the dark and beyond the walls for human movement. If anyone were around, they would be asleep in the cottage, I assumed, or on guard near the compound. I decided to take the chance that the unseen, unknown per
son was asleep in the cottage. I propped the bicycle against a tree and used the light of the moon to guide me toward the structures shadowed by the edge of the forest to my right. I stumbled over roots and rocks a few times, but was always able to stay on my feet. As I approached the compound, it became more difficult to see, as the moon dipped over the trees and the rooftops.
The compound appeared to be a collection of small barns and sheds, about four buildings in all, with the largest very close to the tree line. I hunched over, some movie hero in my mind, and ran quickly from the safety of the trees to the doors of the barn. They were tall, wide and well sealed, obviously a delivery depot of some sort, for their size would allow large animals to pass through. I lifted the wooden bar and the door on my right swung noiselessly open.
Chapter 20
The odour hit me as soon as I slipped into the barn. My eyes began to sting and water. The air was so thick with urine and acidic smells that I felt as if I were pushing through liquid manure. I could hear the whimpering now and as I stepped closer, the pitiful yelping assaulted my ears. I forgot the danger I was in. Instead, I went from cage to cage, dazed, shocked, tears streaming down my face, my stomach twisted. If I'd had any food in the last few hours, I would have spilled their contents by now. My mouth and nose were choked with the sharp smells of feces and vomit and blood. Every breath I took was followed by a gag and a whimper of my own.
It seemed as though there were hundreds of cages. Many pairs of eyes gleamed at me from behind the netting, mouths open, panting, screeching, whimpering, crying. Even in the darkness I could see their matted fur, see the insect clouds burst from their bodies as the animals moved toward the human figure. They were crowded in on one another, but were too fatigued and weak to even bother pushing one another away. They simply leaned on each other, walked over inert figures, collapsed on each other. Many of the dogs appeared to be large with offspring, although their legs and faces were emaciated. Some of the bodies did not move and another acrid smell invaded my senses: death and dying, rotting flesh. I could not see them clearly. I knew you couldn't reach out to touch them or comfort them.
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