The Artist studied her with prurient interest, found out she was a teacher. He even followed her for a time. She didn't attend the second contest, but she was there at the third.
Perhaps she would like to experience pure creativity?
But then he saw the winner of that third contest and he forgot about The Wife. Linda Courtnell, Princess of the City, Daughter of the Devil himself.
The Professor and his judges had seen fit to present her with the prize. A debut at the Gallery In Gastown, the very thing she didn't need, the very thing he wanted most. The GIG—the Gig—his gig, his launching pad, his beginning.
She needed none of that. She had a name, money, a daddy to take her any place she wanted to go.
She could have at least allowed The Artist to win the Seattle International Art Fest. She had nothing to lose. But the stupid bitch simply would not let it rest.
He remembered precisely the minute the plan buzzed in his head.
Courtnell had the impudence to confront him with what she knew, to threaten exposure. All the pieces suddenly came together. He knew exactly how to gain satisfaction all round.
He didn't know why he chose the Crucifixion. After all, he wasn't a religious man. But it was fucking brilliant.
He had allowed her to slip into unconsciousness a bit too quickly. However, he enjoyed the rest of it thoroughly. He'd never raped one of his pupils before and she wouldn't be his last.
The explosion of sperm into the condom thrust deep inside the girl added a dimension to his Artistry he never thought possible. After that release, the tattooing and the painting had almost been too much, until he'd gotten his second wind.
What fun it had been hanging around the crime scene! Being helpful, professional, sad. The satisfaction that the trail led so deviously to The Professor was deep and exhilarating. He had done it! The perfect crime and the perfect patsy.
Two stupid, arrogant, judgmental people dispatched with a show that had all the shock and wonder of a fireworks display.
In the beginning, there was a flurry of activity that kept him keyed up and elated. The media went into overdrive, thrusting microphones into the face of anyone who would talk to them, milling about, careening in their cars to the scenes. The newspapers, radios, magazines and television were jam-packed with stories about the Courtnells and the horrible death scene. He loved it.
Then out of the blue he was hit with a depression he could not shake. He was upset, disappointed and unable to think of why. It wasn't as though the excitement about the case had abated. In fact, it was just about to rev up once the arrest made the news.
That night, sitting alone in his living room, everyone gone off somewhere else, he stared gluey eyed at the television while some announcer blathered on about the Courtnell Case. Suddenly he realized why he was down.
Having made such a huge splash—a cannonball of a murder that had sent ripples all over the province, let alone the city—how could he possibly follow up? How could he ever paint a body again?
Sure, none of the others he'd killed had been found. He'd made sure of that. But how could he regain the heights to which he'd soared as he not only tattooed his victim, but also made her into an artistic masterpiece even as her heart continued to beat, whimper, slow? He'd watched her last breath, felt her breasts sag into sloping hills as her life seeped away. How could it get better than that?
If he painted another one, and it was somehow discovered, they would know The Professor was not guilty. That was a chance he could not take. The Professor must stay in jail for the rest of his worthless life.
The Artist was livid. He had no idea where he could go from here. Back to the tattooing? Back to entering lame contests he wouldn't win? Back to looking at other people's inferior art hanging on walls his masterpieces would never grace?
At some point in that long agonizing night, he decided there was only one way to diffuse this frustration and anger.
He would kill The Professor's Wife.
Chapter 11
September 1980
Emily was frantic. As she tried to put the key into the ignition, her hand shook so badly she had to stop and breathe. She was having a difficult time believing what she had just heard.
Adeline had called her down to the office during the lunch break. She spoke quietly, ensuring she wouldn't be overheard.
"There's someone on the phone for you who called you Mrs. Thompson, so I figure they don't know you well. I thought it might be a lawyer or a police officer."
"Gary?"
She picked up the extension in Dennis's office, her anxiety coming through in a shrill bark.
"Mrs. Thompson, it's not Gary."
The voice sounded winded and sad, barely able to tell her.
"I am calling on his behalf, though. I have some bad news for you."
But Emily already knew. Her heart began to pound, choking off her oxygen, making her eyes blur. A sound, halfway between a sob and a moan, emitted from her clamped lips.
"They've charged your husband. They're holding him over until the preliminary hearing, which will happen in the Provincial Courthouse next week."
"Can I see him?"
"Yes," the man said. "But they have moved him to the Mountain Institution."
"Why would they do that?"
"For his own safety, ma'am. It's a more secure holding centre. It will take you about an hour and three quarters to get there. It's near Agassiz. Just take the Trans Canada to Cemetery Road."
"I can leave immediately. Thank you."
As soon as Emily hung up, she thought two things. What an apt name for the street that now represented the death of their previous life and she had forgotten to ask the name of the man who'd called her.
Emily said very little to her colleagues and they didn't ask. Adeline and Dennis were now aware of the arrest. She had to leave and they gave their full support without comment.
For the second time in a week, Dennis Maloney took over Emily's class. He hugged her fiercely, nearly lifting her off her feet, as though he could tuck her under his arm and save her from disaster.
Her students, tears in many of their eyes, stared uncomprehendingly as she gathered her sweater and tried to reassure them with a wave. She'd be back tomorrow, she said.
Adeline gave her a similar bolstering embrace. Elaine popped out of her classroom into the hallway to do the same as Emily hurried by. It took all of her resources not to break down, fling herself into her friends' arms and surrender to the sobs that were forming in her chest.
All of which explained why she was now barely able to insert the damn key and start the car.
Emily leaned against the headrest and closed her eyes. She had to regain control. Not only would her despair make things worse for Will, but she also had to think of what the tremors zinging through her nervous system might do to their baby.
When the murder charge was proven to be false, Emily did not want to have to worry that this enormous mistake, this terrible travesty, had harmed their unborn child too. Her stomach was knotted and cramped. She could not allow this baby to be affected by her anxiety.
The thought gave her strength and cleared her head. She loosened the seat belt along her lap, leaving more room to breathe.
Assembling her maps, Emily started the car and headed along Bidwell to Pacific Blvd., trying not to think about anything other than directions and driving.
Vancouver had fully divested itself of the unusually warm, sunny weather this week and reverted to its normal autumn drizzle and haze.
As Emily steered along the slick pavement, she watched grey clouds race across the sky, chased by flashes of stormy black billows.
Huge waves flung themselves against the rocks and sand of English Bay, stirring up a thick mist along the shoreline. It was chilly and damp, so the parks were deserted.
Emily took Burrard to Davie. She drove fast because she knew the street so well. Winging right past their apartment building, Emily should have taken her time, but storms w
ere chasing her too. She kept her foot steady on the accelerator.
She knew the roads beyond the city too. She and Will had traversed them on numerous occasions. Their "field trips" as they called them consisted of tours around the city itself, walks through Stanley Park, a ski trip to Whistler, enjoying the sun on the mountains lining the Sea-to-Sky Highway, excursions farther into the mountains.
Emily counted the streets—Mount Pleasant, East Broadway and all the side roads she whizzed by. Thankfully, it was Monday, the hour was early and the weather deterred other people's "field trips," so traffic was extremely light.
At last she was on Highway One, the Trans Canada, an artery of nearly five thousand miles in length that linked the country west to east.
Emily and Will had taken a coach bus tour to Kicking Horse Pass at the Alberta border, the vistas breathtaking and awe inspiring. It was wonderful when someone else was driving and the weather was sunny.
Even though she was travelling a fraction of that trip today, this would be long and gruelling. The drive would take over two hours in the rain.
She stopped twice, her bladder responding to her pregnancy, and ate two protein bars from the station kiosks. The drizzle continued unabated, all the way into Abbotsford, making the highway greasy, a misty cloud blocking any vistas.
When she emerged past the city, suddenly the mountains were on her left, tall majestic peaks of rock and tree. The rain disappeared, as though too awed to mar the view, and Emily felt bolstered by nature's heights.
When she looked up, and up again, she couldn't help but feel her problems would shrink in this domain. Who could convict an innocent man within sight of this breathtaking splendour?
The road began to tighten and wander alongside the mountains. Emily gave driving her rapt attention.
She couldn't remember when the vehicle registered in her rear-view mirror, but suddenly a large green truck, with an enormous front grill, loomed very close to her bumper. Too close, Emily thought.
It resembled an army utility vehicle or something that might be used in the mountains. She slowed right down, hoping he would go around her. After all, there was no other traffic. He could easily pass, even in that clunky machine. But it stuck to her bumper, hitching a ride.
Pushing the limit of her comfort on the winding road, Emily sped up instead. As though pulled by a towrope, the truck kept pace.
Surprised the heavy truck could move so fast, she tapped lightly on her brakes, letting the driver know she was not impressed with his game. Emily was annoyed, not worried.
When the huge grill struck the rear of her little car, her irritation transformed into horror. Emily was tossed forward, then snapped back against the seat. Her knees began to sting and drip blood. She'd hit the steering column.
Involuntarily, she jerked the car to the right, where the roadside dipped toward a steep gully. She pulled hard and straightened the shuddering car back onto the pavement.
Now absolutely terrified, Emily willed herself onto autopilot. She kept her arms stiff, trying to maintain control of her vehicle.
Suddenly the truck was alongside, hideous and massive, the tinted windows shielding its monstrous driver.
Metal howling and screeching, Emily's car was scraped and pushed to the right, heading for the ravine.
Emily slammed her foot on the brakes in a fruitless effort to propel the other driver forward and away from her. It was a huge mistake, as her car fishtailed and now pointed straight for the edge of the road.
Emily yanked the emergency brake straight upward, hanging on as though it were a lifeline.
The truck whipped in behind again, the front grill acting like a shovel as it nearly lifted the car, propelling it forward. The tires began to smoke from the effort of going against the brake.
The loose gravel of the shoulder quickly allowed the vehicle to pick up speed.
Too petrified to move or think, the world completely slowed down for Emily. She watched the action as though she were at home in front of the television.
The little car was hurtled into the chasm, smashing, grinding. The sound of its demise was ear splitting and discordant in the deserted valley.
Emily, ripped from the loose lap belt, was tossed upward, backward, and forward in succession, her body a rag doll thrown about violently with the motion. The sudden, crumpling halt as the car hit the bottom of the ditch hurtled her against the windshield in a cloud of dirt and dust.
Before she collided with the ground, however, Emily was gone. She disappeared into a dark, consuming unconsciousness.
Chapter 12
September 1980
Terry Somers didn't start out that morning planning to become a hero. In fact, he didn't even plan to drive up the Trans Canada at all. But he was a lumber salesman and times had not been easy lately. It was a last minute, potentially lucrative call that led him to an unexpected drive up the mountain highway in the rain.
His little company, which he'd started only last year with a group of close friends, had proffered a bid to provide the Kent Institute, a prison just outside Agassiz, with wood for an inmate furniture business.
Terry and his partners figured a deal with Kent could be their real beginning. The Old Mountain Prison was in this area as well, so a sale might be possible there, too. They believed success with the two institutes would lead to more federal contracts. However, their proposal hadn't been chosen initially.
Thus they were ecstatic when the unexpected cancellation by the winning bidder gave Somers Inc. the chance to meet prison officials face to face. Lead salesman and majority partner, Terry hopped in his car after they'd cobbled their presentation back together again. Amid the fog and pouring rain, he eagerly hightailed it up the mountain.
Despite the miserable weather, Terry was making good time. He was happy when the rain subsided to a sprinkle and the mist began to clear beyond Abbotsford. He was even happier the roads continued to be deserted.
Just as he began to think the mountainside had been evacuated ahead of a bigger storm, he saw a vehicle nearly ricochet out of control as it raced away from the roadside ahead. Spewing gravel in its wake, it resembled a guilty rabbit disturbed from plundering someone's garden.
As he told the police later, all he really saw were the taillights. It was a dark colour, some kind of utility truck. Its tires were enormous and soon found traction on the road.
Within seconds, it had vanished around a bend. Coupled with the drizzle and cloud, Terry didn't get a good look.
Asshole, driving like that in this terrain.
Terry leaned toward the windshield, as though proximity with it might allow him to see more clearly, when he noticed a column of smoke rising from the ditch where the truck had been stopped.
Puzzled, without really analyzing his actions, Terry pulled over to the side. Alighting, he gazed downward and froze in shock. Mangled and sputtering, a car smouldered far below.
Afterward, he couldn't explain how he got the nerve to scramble into the gully. Why he did it was obvious to him at least. There had to be someone in that car and they needed help.
Terry Somers was a big man, tall and muscled, extra fat equally distributed over his body. He wasn't in great shape these days, spent far too much time behind a desk, but he wasn't completely sluggish. Crabbing sideways, he dug his feet into the damp earth and inched his way along the steep sides. By the time he reached the bottom, he was covered in mud and bits of clingy weeds.
The car lay turtled on its roof, tires still spinning uselessly. The engine shuddered to a ruined demise.
Terry wiped his mud-soaked hands on his new pants and peered through the shattered driver's window. A woman was wedged in the front, almost standing up, the seat pushed against her legs. Blood poured from her head, which was crushed against the spidery windshield.
Terry paused for a few seconds and drew in a deep breath, his heading spinning with indecision and shock. Finally, he bashed his hip against the crumpled door, levering it as he would a tro
ublesome jar lid, and at the same time, yanked on the handle. The door almost fell off its hinges, very nearly pushing him backward onto the ground. Instead, he spread-eagled his legs and steadied himself.
Gingerly, afraid of causing more damage to her torn and bloodied body, Terry nudged the seat back, dragging it slowly into a semblance of its original position. The woman was now sitting up, though her head lolled forward and the red gush of her life continued to pulse out with every heartbeat.
Her legs looked mangled, but did not appear to be stuck under the steering wheel. Terrified the smoke might set the leaking fluids afire, he leaned in and cradled her in his arms.
At the same time, he slowly eased her sideways, twisting himself at the hips so he always had her firmly supported. In this ungainly fashion, he eased her outside, dragging her gently along the grass until they were a fair distance away from the now burning vehicle.
He removed his suit jacket and laid her tenderly onto the ground. His coat, size XXL, was enough to cover her back to front.
Her face was porcelain white and her skin felt icy. Blood dripped from an arm in addition to her head wound. He removed his crisp white shirt and his new, executive-powered dark blue tie, and used them to inexpertly staunch the bleeding. Despite his complete lack of experience with first aid, Terry was pleased to see that the spurts subsided.
He tried clumsily to find a pulse, but felt nothing. She didn't appear to be breathing. The only way he could think to prove to himself she was alive was that her heart was still strenuously pumping out that blood.
Now he had to find a way to get her up the hill to safety and help. He was afraid to pick her up in his arms, though he had an impulse to carry her as though she were a wounded child.
Just as he despaired about what course of action to take, a face appeared on the roadside above him, then another. Several other people had, mercifully, stopped to investigate.
He shouted and waved, and kept shouting and waving, even though they clearly had heard him, seen him, and were on their way down.
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