May loved the way he said 'tings,' his French upbringing and subsequent self-taught English giving his speech a lilting, purring quality. She placed her hand on his, knowing he was having difficulty putting his thoughts into words. She considered her husband the most interesting, amazing, sexiest man in the world.
Alain must have felt her vibrations of love and admiration, for the words suddenly tumbled more freely.
"I remember bits of my life, as if I am looking at pictures, but they are sometimes in the wrong order. Like these picnics."
He gestured at the newspaper articles outlining the events on the Church of Leviticus's lawn.
"I remember this house, the inside of it too. It always seemed like a huge cave to me, lots of secret halls and hidden spots. But maybe that's more the feelings I had rather than the actual space, because this is not a huge house. I am seeing many hours in the church. Strange rituals too, like sacrificing of animals."
Although startled by this statement, May said nothing, letting him get it all out before they examined possible meanings.
"The Preacher Man was always angry. He didn't beat me, at least I don't think so, but I can remember seeing him beat the older one, Elias. My brother."
Brother was a new admission for him, previously nothing but a word, now a shape, a personality.
"I have the memory that Elias was always trying to help me, to help my sisters. I think he fought with The Preacher Man once he was older. I keep having flashes of my sister Dorothée. We called her Doro."
He said this last piece in a wondering, amazed voice.
"We were very close, even though I was a lot older. I kept trying to reassure her. She was so scared, so little. She didn't even go to school. Then the baby…the baby was there for such a short time in my mind. I think she died and my father put her in the well. I mean the pond. I always change it to a well in my nightmares."
"Probably from the old Native stories," May suggested. "The one about the children who died when they were playing in the well."
Alain nodded and then lowered his head into his hands.
"You are probably right. In my nightmares before the hypnosis, I pictured an old-fashioned, broken-down clay well, something like a wishing well. It was surrounded by discoloured vegetation and sometimes I thought I could see eyes peering at me from the bricks. Now I know that the anger came from this death. I was so angry, May. I was frightened too. That he would throw her away like that. I had the feeling that he would do that to the rest of us."
He looked at his wife, drinking in her empathy and love for sustenance.
May let the silence comfort him for a moment.
"Do you remember anything about your mother?"
Alain looked thoughtful, reaching back for the memories that had been buried for so long.
"Not much. She seems like a ghost."
May had a great deal of training and exposure to family situations through the school.
"That would be pretty much classic. If Pastor Rob was an abuser, then he likely mistreated his wife even more than the kids. And she would have had to be what they call an acquiescent personality. Somebody who just puts up with everything and doesn't do anything to change the situation. No wonder she seemed like a ghost to you."
"In my more detailed memories, she was in the background, always silent and sad. Sometimes I also have a fleeting memory of her hugging us and smiling."
He pointed to the newspaper articles again.
"Look, here she is looking pretty and has a smile. Later, she stops smiling for the camera. And for us."
"When you mentioned the animal sacrifices, did you mean your father slaughtered animals in front of you?"
"I don't think so. I just remember blood and bits of flesh being offered up at some kind of altar."Alain shivered. "It's very strange. As Jacob said, Pastor Janot was involved in a very shady organization."
May noticed that he had not once called 'Pastor Janot' or 'The Preacher Man' his father. She couldn't blame him.
"No wonder you were mean to animals when you were a teenager," May said. "You were taught that they were nothing but fodder for the altar."
"I remember this deacon too."
Again, he gestured toward the articles.
"I believe he was there a great deal. There were others too. Mostly I remember the feeling that they were even more passionate than The Preacher Man about the church. Somehow more frightening, more evil."
"Maybe that's because you were used to the pastor. He was your father, after all."
She used the label deliberately, to help him face it.
The weight of this legacy fell on Alain like a heavy cloak. He bent his head again.
"I hate to use this word with him," he finally said in a low, choked voice. "It's no wonder I always thought I could not be a father. Look what model I had."
The tears flowed now. May got up and snuggled into the chair with him, wrapping him in her arms. When they were somewhat relieved, still cuddling together in the same chair, May spoke again.
"I'm noticing that you are sad, Alain, not angry. I think that's good."
He laughed mirthlessly, tightening his grip on her stocky, comfortable body.
"I figure that's the medication!"
"Could be. But maybe your anger has been replaced by a healthier response. I think you're handling it very well." She paused. "And Doro, your sister? Do you still think she's here in Burchill?"
Alain spoke from his position above and behind her, whispering in her ear. "Yes. And we love her already."
He paused, still afraid to commit the thought to word. "I think she is Frances."
May pictured the young blond woman whom they had befriended and practically adopted. She thought back to their first meeting, right after the death of the school caretaker. How distant she had appeared. How tightly controlled.
They had watched Edgar Brennan fall in love with her, romance her, convince her to stay in Burchill. Once she was there, they had begun to understand her and love her themselves.
Almost from the beginning, there was a connection. Was that bond an innate knowledge that she was Alain's sibling? The world was a strange and wonderful place, May thought. Six degrees of separation indeed. Burchill as nexus.
She reflected that her belief in the Native traditions of fate and pathways had only been strengthened by this experience.
"I was hoping they would come to Jacob's house last night," Alain continued. "I was hoping I could sit with her, talk with her, see if I am projecting or if I still have the same image that she is the little one running down that hallway. The little one I would tell the story to."
"Story?"
"Yes. I would comfort her by telling her a story about a nice house we would live in one day. One with a stream and a meadow nearby that we could run in. She cried a lot and that was the only story that would soothe her. I didn't want her to cry. It made The Preacher Man angry."
"Oh God, what a horrible man. How could he treat children that way?"
"Now it is your turn to be angry," Alain said gently.
She nuzzled her face into the side of his neck, smelling his clean, salty skin.
"Yes, because you are such a wonderful person. And Frances. If she is Doro, I would be so proud. She is magnificent. You should have been together all your lives, instead of torn apart by a madman."
"I have more pictures of that night," Alain admitted. "I didn't tell Doc everything. I just could not. In my memory, I can smell something, some horrible stink that comes from the direction of the kitchen that wakes me. I can see a mist as though my eyes are not fully open. Now I know it must have been the fire, but in my dreams, it is still so vague. I go and get Doro. I don't want her to be left in her room. I must have known that there was something terribly wrong, but that knowledge is gone from my mind. I am that scared by what I smell, but also by what I hear, though I can't remember the words. I take her with me down the hall and we see our parents. We see them get shot."
&nbs
p; May sat up straight, looking right into her husband's eyes.
"Alain! No! My god, you poor thing."
His resolve bolstered by her sympathy, he continued.
"I can see someone with a rifle. For a long time I couldn't decipher what it was in the person's arms. But now I can picture the long black muzzle of a hunting rifle, the kind farmers always kept. And I can see the face of the person holding it."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. It is my brother. It is Elias."
Chapter 46: Doro
She turned on the stairway and saw his face when Nicolas opened the front door.
He had a rugged appearance that only became more handsome with age. The lines spoke of laughter and empathy. She loved his thick hair, shot full of gray these days, always unruly and boyish. His eyes were large and deep, shaded by long lashes, his mouth wide and luscious. Right now, he was showing a flash of white teeth as he smiled.
She flew down the rest of the steps and flung herself into his arms.
Cynthia and Nic discreetly walked away from the front door toward the kitchen, a smile suffusing their faces.
Edgar lifted Frances up off the floor, holding her next to his heart, clinging as though he would never again let go. They nuzzled each other's faces, kissed and embraced with passion. She was not always this effusive and Edgar soaked it up like a sponge.
"I can't believe you're here," she finally said when he put her back on her feet.
"I had to see you," he replied, his arms still around her. "Both of you. Frances, please don't leave me like that again. Why didn't you tell me?"
He looked at her belly, placed his hand there, reassuring himself that the baby truly existed.
"I'm so sorry, Ed," she told him, looking into his eyes, letting him know that she had changed, that this experience had freed her from secrets and walls. "I thought I had to work all of this out on my own. I was wrong. I was so afraid to be a mother until I had confronted the whole past. I promise I will never, ever do anything this important without you again. I will never lie to you again either. Please forgive me."
"Oh my darling," he whispered in her ear. "Of course I forgive you. I would probably forgive you anything."
Tears slid down her cheeks and he brushed them gently away.
"I am turning into a mush ball," she said. "You won't believe it's the same woman that you married. Cynthia says it's the pregnancy, so be prepared for the next six and a half months."
"October? He'll be born in October. Same month as me! Maybe right on my birthday."
"Could be a she, too," Frances laughed at him. "You'd be great with a little daughter too. You're happy about this, then, Ed?"
"I am more than happy, my love. I am ecstatic. I won't really care whether it's a boy or a girl. Our own baby. Our child. I can't tell you how happy I am. I guess I never really thought we'd do it. I'm kind of an old father."
At that instant, Nicolas Denis walked back into the hallway.
"We have a story to tell you, son!" he laughed, putting out his hand to shake Edgar's. "Come into the kitchen. Cynthia has coffee and liqueurs."
They sat in the kitchen for several hours, sipping coffee laced with Grand Marnier for everyone but Frances, while they filled Edgar in on all the information they discovered yesterday. The tragedy of the Janot family. The lives Cynthia and Nicolas had lived.
Affable and outgoing, Edgar was immediately taken with the Denis couple and they with him. Their discussion was by turns interesting, shocking and revelatory. Edgar could understand his wife even more as he heard the tragic story of her family. Her usual reticence, her reluctance to commit, the walls that she sometimes put up around her. Everything was explained by the distressing, poignant circumstances of her childhood.
Still astounded by the events of the last day and night, he said very little, absorbing all the details and emotions that he could. He became even more alert when he heard the description of the religion to which Frances's birth father adhered.
"The Church of Leviticus?" he asked. "Weird, that's the second time in a few weeks that I've heard of it. And I never knew it existed before. There's one in Norvale."
"Where did you hear of this church?" Nic's tone of voice revealed that he was intrigued.
"Our school principal, Emily Taylor, is dealing with a difficult family and she called me in for a consult. The CAS worker in the area discovered that the father of this family is a preacher. For the Church of Leviticus in Norvale. It's the first I'd ever heard of such a religion."
"I have a bunch of information on the church," Cynthia said. "Don't forget to take it home with you, Dor—Frances. We can make copies of everything."
During this marathon of conversation, Kimmy and her friend, Tanya, came home, filling the room as only exuberant teenagers could do.
"You're not leaving tonight," Nic said firmly to Frances and Edgar, once everything had calmed down again. The older man was brooking no argument.
"First of all, we can't have a police officer driving with Grand Marnier on his breath and secondly, it's too late to make all those copies. So you're stuck here until tomorrow, Chief Brennan."
Edgar didn't argue. Marty Michano was quite capable of handling a Saturday evening in Burchill and by Monday, they'd have the full contingency back again.
Frances and Edgar cuddled in the small bed that night, feeling a little like teenagers sleeping in their parents' house for the first time. They didn't make love. They were both too tired, but they whispered and talked until they fell asleep. Frances slept better than she could ever recall.
The next morning, the entire group indulged in a huge traditional Sunday breakfast of French toast, real maple syrup, fluffy scrambled eggs and Canadian bacon. It was well into the gray, cloudy afternoon before Frances and Edgar were ready to depart.
They made copies of a great deal of information on Cynthia's little duplicating machine. They packed up Frances's things. They hugged and promised and cemented their friendship. Edgar and Frances were leaving this home more hopeful and in love than ever. And they were leaving with new friends in the little town of Brinston.
Kimmy and Tanya buzzed around them, chatting, giggling and helping with the box of files and Frances's case. With their boundless energy, they offered to race everything out to Frances's car.
Cynthia, Nic, Edgar and Frances were standing in the front hall, saying their last good-byes, when they heard the girls scream.
Edgar was first out the door, running to the two distraught girls, who stood on the other side of Frances's car. A feeble ray of sun struggled through the clouds, turning pieces of glass from the smashed passenger window into a rainbow of coloured dots.
It took a moment before he saw the man face down at the bottom of a small embankment next to the driveway. Blood gushed from a gaping head wound and ran in rivulets down the ditch. Edgar grabbed the girls by their shoulders, turning them toward the house where the adults were just stepping off the porch.
"Call 911!" he yelled out to Cynthia, who took the girls into the house to comply.
Edgar was in the ditch, his shoes soaked in the trickle of muddy water that ran from culvert to culvert. Soon his pants and shirt were splashed with rusty water. He rolled the man over and searched for vital signs. Finding none, he tried CPR.
When Frances reached him, they worked frantically together. The man was limp and unresponsive, but they continued in tandem, as they were trained to do.
Nicolas Denis watched ashen faced from the driveway.
Staring at the face of his friend lying in the ditch, covered in blood and sludge, he muttered to himself, "Paul. Mon Dieu! Paul!"
Finally, the emergency services arrived, a police car and an ambulance pulling into the driveway at once. Frances and Edgar were exhausted, soaked and stunned.
The paramedics worked frantically on Paul Marot and then very quickly transferred him to the ambulance, where he was hooked up to a myriad of machinery and tubes. The vehicle pulled out very shortly afte
r the doors closed.
In the meantime, three more county police cars, sirens screaming, skidded to a stop in the driveway. Officers were everywhere, taping the scene, setting up equipment, measuring and talking rapidly to one another. Neighbours poured out into the street, astonished and shocked, and were waved away by several burly policemen.
Soon two police officers led Frances, Edgar, and Nicolas, wet and shivering, back into the house.
Cynthia covered her two new friends as well as her husband with towels and blankets. She distributed mugs of steaming drinks to warm them up.
Kimmy and Tanya sat at the table too, their eyes wide and staring, hands clasped around cups of hot chocolate.
"I'm Sergeant Jack Sellenger and this is Constable Rita Gardiner."
The large, overweight officer, his face as red from the exertions outside as from the dusty wind, directed his statement to Edgar.
Constable Gardiner, who was large as well, with big meaty hands, took out a notebook, nodded at the group, but said nothing.
"The paramedics said you did a good job out there."
"We're police," Edgar said, pulling out his identification. "I'm Chief Superintendent Brennan and this is my wife, Constable Frances Petapiece. We work out of the Burchill OPP office. That's how we knew what to do."
Jack Sellenger looked at the identification, puffing his cheeks out as though to say he was not impressed by an Ontario Provincial Police Superintendent.
"Is Paul going to be okay?" Nic suddenly asked.
Huddled under a blanket, his face was ashen, his lips tight.
"I am afraid it doesn't look good, sir," Sgt. Sellenger told him bluntly. "You know who this man is?"
"Yes. His name is Paul Marot. He's a friend of mine."
Frances shivered, picturing Yellow Shirt in the café, his eyes so blue, his face inviting and attractive with laugh lines, and then lying in a murky ditch with blood pumping from the gash in his head.
Constable Gardiner took down Marot's name and address and then left to relay the message. Paul's family would be notified, Sgt. Sellenger told them.
"We'll find out how your friend is doing for you too," he added, surprising them with his sudden kindness. "Okay, let's start from the beginning," he continued, his blustery manner returning just as Rita Gardiner came back. "Who found Monsieur Marot first?"
The Emily Taylor Mystery Bundle Page 57