My sense of horror and futility propelled me forward. There was another door at the rear of the building and I clawed my way out into the night air.
Bent over, gasping, I inhaled as though coming up from under water. I gagged and vomited spittle, my mouth and nose still full of the overwhelming odour. At first I didn't think I could move, but soon I was stumbling toward the smaller building ahead. I was obsessed, moving stiffly and dazed. My mind did not register the danger in the cries emanating from the barn.
The next building was more shed than barn. The doors were as wide and large, but there was no peak. Its flat roof seemed to gleam in the moonlight as though made of tin. I pulled back the wooden slat and entered. Again my senses were assaulted with odours, but this time they were familiar—the heat of animals, the smell of wet fur, the sweetness of hay. There were several larger cages here, filled with pregnant animals and tiny newborns. The females looked at me silently, their eyes filled with defeat. Those puppies old enough to move around made small mewing sounds and then settled under the safety of their mother's fur. This prison was free from the death and despair, was cleaner, had trays of food and water. But this was stage one, and knowing where they might be stored in stage two made me want to vomit once more.
The third barn, similar in size to the first, was mostly empty. There was an assortment of animal stalls large enough for ponies, goats—a large collie?
Leaning the bike against the cottage, I make my way to the barn. The animals make soft snuffling sounds, rubbing against me, sniffing for their dinner. I can feel their heat in the twilight, smell their musty fur. Rubbing gently against each nose, warm and wet, I feed them carefully. When this is done, I choose the one I want, the pony, one of the goats, or the lovely collie.
I shivered at the memory of those words, at the reality of what faced me, and then I saw the dog in the corner of one of the stalls. Angel, I thought at first. She was the same color and size. Her aristocratic face was identical. But her emaciated body and spindly legs told a story not only of abuse but also of age. I realized that of course I was not looking at Angel. This was either her mother or an older sibling.
She lifted her beautiful head and growled at me, her teeth large and vicious, her eyes alight with fear and aggression. Angel's relative, twisted and abused. She strained against the chain that held her. I could see that she would have liked to tear me apart. I lifted my flashlight up to see more clearly. Suddenly, the dog turned away, her head hidden, her growls soft and helpless.
I was stunned by anger and grief, paralyzed by disgust and shock. This must have been the site of Nathaniel's 'menagerie'. Now suddenly I was awake and aware. I heard the noise, saw the shadow behind me. I realized too late the danger of my descent into this prison.
Chapter 21
I came to consciousness slowly, aware at first only of the blinding pain in my head. My eyes felt glued shut. I had to struggle to force them to open. For some reason, I could not move my arms or legs, could not feel my fingers or toes. When my eyes finally opened, I had to shut them again quickly, groaning aloud at the severe pain that shot through me. I was flat on my back on a rough surface, my hands and feet bound. Incongruously, a shaft of moonlight was pointing itself right at my face. I waited for what seemed an eternity until the throbbing in my head began to subside a little, slowly opening my eyes a tiny slit at a time. Eventually I was able to look straight down my prone body, keeping my eyes hooded against the light.
I was lying on rough slats placed evenly between insulation, as though I were being held prisoner in an attic. The roof above was constructed from rough-hewn logs, through which the bright moon grinned. My hands were tied behind my back, painfully squashed between my body and one of the planks. My feet were crossed, with what looked like rope and tape melding them together. I felt choked by the tape across my mouth.
I knew that I could not move yet, rolling over would be both dangerous and painful. I began to think of my stupidity and tears rolled down my cheeks. It will do no good to cry, I told myself, but I couldn't help myself. The tears kept coming until my nose was clogged and I struggled to breathe. I was very close to panic when I heard voices below me. I couldn't hear every word. They spoke in soft tones, and quickly, as though they too were afraid.
"...two now...where the hell do you think this is leading?" The female's voice rose and I could hear the last sentence spoken in harsh anger.
I tried hard to concentrate. Certain the voice was familiar, but unable to think clearly. I squeezed my eyes shut again and focused on breathing, clearing my nose, calming my slamming heart. When I was able to take longer breaths through my nose and had filled my lungs with oxygen, I began to listen to the words more closely.
"We have to get out of here. She hasn't seen us yet." The male voice, distant, muffled—Walter Ryeburn?? Still no image came to mind.
"Just leave her here?" Female, high pitched with anxiety. Clogged by the space between us and the pain in my head, I just couldn't tell who it was. At least she seemed to care, I laughed to myself.
"I'll finish him off. He's almost there anyway. Someone will find her. Maybe we can do one of those anonymous telephone tips."
"I never thought it would be like this." Still high-pitched, almost hysterical.
"Let's get packed while it's still dark, come back and take him with us. We'll decide how to do it later." Nervous, shaky, gruff. Who...?
Some frantic sounds of people moving quickly, throwing aside unwanted items, boxing others, and then silence followed. I thought I could hear a car start up. I waited a long time, or so it seemed, and then twisted my neck to look at my surroundings. There had been so many shocks this terrible evening that I barely reacted to what I saw.
Curled in the opposite corner, his back to me, was a man. He was tied in the same fashion, but he had rolled over onto his side. I could see his white hair curled over the color of his drab brown jacket. His shoulders rose and fell in rhythmic breathing. He was either asleep or unconscious. It was that white curling hair that told me instantly who this was. Walter Ryeburn.
Chapter 22
I had to get out of there. It took me several rocks, rolls and falls to propel myself to a sitting position. My head pounded until my eyes showed me only black and grey vistas and I had to blink, breathe, blink, breathe, slowly for several minutes until my heartbeat slowed and my head cleared a little. Only then was I able to open my eyes fully again and focus on a solution to my dilemma.
There was something not too many people knew about me. I was almost double jointed, thanks to my long legs and short upper body. I could twist into different shapes, do somersaults easily, and bend so that I could tuck my legs against my chest and wiggle my arms up and over them. This last trick was one I hoped I never needed to use again, but it came in very handy on that night in the dusty attic of a puppy farm cottage.
Slowly, I wriggled my arms up and over, until they were in front of me. Once again I had to spend several minutes calming my breathing and my heart rate. I used my stiff, puffy fingers to pull the tape off my mouth, an excruciating feeling when it's done slowly, piece by piece. I drank in several draughts of air and coughed from deep in my chest and lungs. Now I was ready to work on the tape and rope pinning my hands together. I chewed and tugged with my teeth, ignoring the pounding of my head, stopping often to refill my lungs with oxygen.
Eventually, the tape and the knots began to loosen. I cheered myself on with every movement of the restraints, concentrating all my strength on that tiny area. For those few moments, it became my whole world. All my senses were focused on being free.
I thought of the animals caged in those walls just beyond here, unable to move around, denied the ability to roam or be loved. Was Angel born here? Had Nat rescued her from this life, picked her from dozens of others, to give her life? Seems she was his favourite, Walter Ryeburn had mumbled at me, head down, eyes not meeting mine. Had he known about his son's proclivities? Had he known about the puppy mill? Was he one
of the partners? The one Nat had feared? If so, what was he doing a prisoner, here, with me? Who were the people downstairs? My mind refused to answer any of my questions. I couldn't think and tug and pull at the same time.
When the last of the rope and the tape snapped, I almost didn't believe it. I stared at my red swollen hands as if they were not mine. Then I shook myself and started on my feet. My toes and heels tingled and stung badly as I tore at the restraints. My fingers ached from the effort. Freedom suddenly meant pains shooting through my feet and calves. I doubled over, stretching and groaning, trying to rid myself of the prickles that tore through my veins. After a few moments, the pain began to lessen and I was able to sit up and look at my surroundings more carefully.
It seemed that we were definitely being held in an attic, probably one of the barns or sheds, as the roof was makeshift and rotting. There were no animal sounds or smells from here, however, which was confusing. It was a small area, filled with insulation and wooden two-by-fours. I knew I had to be careful to stay on the planks or risk falling through the ceiling. I sat very still, listening, hearing nothing but the distant wind and whimpering of the dogs in the compound. Then I began to crawl toward Walter Ryeburn.
He was very pale and cold. His breathing was shallow and fast. I tried to waken him by whispering in his ear, by gently shaking his shoulder. He smelled of urine and vomit. His clothes looked torn or frayed, but it was hard to tell, as he was huddled in foetal position. There was some dried blood that had come from his ear and stuck to his cheek. His hands had turned blue from the restraints. But it was definitely old Mr. Ryeburn. I knew I had to get help for him or he could die up here.
As I crawled forward over the planks, hand over hand, I realized that the space was actually a kind of loft. A few feet from where we lay, the attic gave way to the room below. I could see right into the small building. It appeared to be some kind of treatment centre. A large flat table gleamed with a stainless steel finish. A huge file drawer had been carelessly left opened and I could see the hint of instruments inside. Treatment for what, I wondered? Killing off the most diseased? Weird experiments on the most helpless? Anger propelled my bruised body into action.
Cautiously I leaned my head over the edge of the loft. No one inhabited the room, though a ceiling light blazed. I wasn't sure if anyone was around to see me, but I decided I had to take the chance and swing down onto the floor. When I hit bottom, a sharp pain went through both my legs, even though I had crouched appropriately in the jump. I lay on the floor for a moment, shivering and clenching my fists. Then I crept on hands and feet to the door, unable to trust myself upright.
Just as I pulled myself to a standing position and made ready to try the doorknob, I heard the noise of feet outside on the gravel. The dogs began to howl and cry. Someone was coming toward this building.
Chapter 23
Fear proved to be an even better energizer than anger. I quickly found the light switch, plunged myself into darkness, and propelled myself behind the large file drawer. I could hear a man's voice, heard the sounds of hands at the door, felt rather than saw the door swing open.
"Is anyone here?" the voice demanded, loud and angry, used to being in charge.
Relief filled my throat and eyes. For a moment I couldn't move. "Emily Taylor! Are you here? Answer if you can."
I burst from behind the files, sobbing, barely able to croak, "Yes, yes, I'm here, I'm here."
Edgar Brennan stood with a gun in his hand, pointed straight at my dark figure. I began shouting hysterically at him, not daring to take a step forward lest he mistake me for an aggressor, it's me, it's me, it's me. At once, he lowered his gun.
"Emily! Are you okay?" Then, over his shoulder, "She's here, Will!"
Suddenly my husband was there, stumbling toward me and I toward him. We wrapped each other in our arms, rocking instinctively to soothe. Tears covered Will's shirt and my face.
Edgar switched on the light and stood next to us, eyes lowered, muttering. "What the hell did you think you were doing?" was at least one of the sentences I caught.
We separated and the three of us huddled a moment, as if words could not sustain the shock.
"What the hell is this?" Edgar seemed to have a need to describe everything in hellish terms, not inappropriately, I thought.
My voice was shaky but the facts were firm. I told them about Walter Ryeburn upstairs, and as Edgar found a ladder propped against one wall, and placed it against the loft, I filled them in on the dogs that I glimpsed imprisoned here.
When Ed disappeared over the edge of the loft, I squeezed Will's hand. "How did you find me?"
"I followed you." He might have been sheepish about this, though the fact that I had been doing something very dangerous negated any regret he might've had. "I heard the door shut, went downstairs and read your message. By the time I threw on clothes jogged through the streets, I could just see you disappearing across the canal around the bridgeman's cottage. When I got to the house myself, I couldn't find you anywhere. I looked in the backyard, in the shed, and then I started banging on the doors. I had this irrational idea that Nat had risen from the dead or Walter had come back and was holding you hostage."
"I called Edgar on the cell and he raced over. Together we eventually found your walking stick and then the path. We decided to walk along, or run is more like it, to see if we could find any trace of you. Luckily, from the rain the other night, the pathway was pretty muddy and the bicycle tracks shone in the moonlight like a beacon. We saw the light on in this building, then it went out and…Emily, what the hell do you think you were doing on your own?"
Will's question was interrupted by Edgar's appearance at the edge of the loft.
"He's pretty bad. I've called 911 and for back-up from Ottawa."
It didn't seem to take much time before the entire compound was lit up with lights and the blinking of police cruisers, yet it was dawn by the time Walter Ryeburn was loaded into the ambulance. Afterward, with me leaning on Will and leading the way, we accompanied Edgar and Constables Ducek and Petapiece to investigate the other buildings. It was a far worse sight in the light of day.
The dogs were living in cages with no bedding. Their paws were covered in abscesses from standing on the unforgiving hard wire. Crusted, oozing eyes stared out at us with fear and distrust. They growled weakly, howled and cried as we passed by, sometimes baring teeth that were brown and cracked. Some of the dogs' fur was so mangled and mangy that their skin had turned into a mass of red scabs. The poor creatures hobbled painfully around their small spaces, trying to keep their balance, trying to see what these newcomers would bring to them. Dogs were crammed three or more to small cages that were elevated over mounds of feces. Matted fur covered some of their eyes as they rushed toward the front of their cages, barking at these uninvited visitors.
I couldn't help recoiling at the red and white ooze covering the dogs where open sores had erupted and insects crawled freely. I showed the police the other building, where the pregnant dogs and the females with their tiny progeny lay panting. Many of the dogs were weak, appearing to be malnourished and dehydrated. Some looked as though they were puppies themselves.
Constable Ducek spoke. "I've seen one puppy mill before this one. The female dogs start being bred at six months old. When they're too weak to breed any longer, when she's maybe five or six years old, she's disposed of."
I pictured the chrome table in the cottage. Did they put them to sleep there? Or simply dump their bodies in the garbage? Did they cut them up, squeeze their little hearts…?
We went through the building with the assortment of animal stalls. I dared not give voice to the things that probably had been done here. Judging by the silence as we passed through, they had all figured it out for themselves. The diary was no longer a fictional account. It was all too real. It was the odour, the sound and the sight of suffering, degradation and despair.
My head had begun to pound and my knees were shaking. The shock had beg
un to wear off and I was feeling the effects of my ordeal. Of course Will had noticed before I was willing to admit to it. His arm around my waist was testimony to his fear that I might topple over any minute. The unspoken questions about the voices I'd heard swirled around inside me. I couldn't think clearly enough to pinpoint why they'd been familiar. I was sick over the discovery of this puppy mill in our own community.
I was disgusted with myself at ever having believed that Nathaniel Ryeburn was an innocent, well-meaning person. And I was not only angry with a dead man but with two people whom I must surely have met at some point in the two years I'd been in Burchill. I shuddered to think that they might even be parents of students in my school. What would that do to our little town?
Constables Ducek and Petapiece were, I was happy to note, very concerned over my pale countenance and about my safety. They led me through a thorough but kind questioning, signing and recording of my statement. By eleven that morning, they sent me and Will home in a police car, which then stayed in our lane way, where the officer could see anyone approaching our property.
Langford Taylor brought me tea in bed, a sleeping pill, and held me until the sweet oblivion of a deep sleep overtook me.
The Emily Taylor Mystery Bundle Page 13