I tried hard to think of Agnes Lake's allegory. This was my seventh fire. This was the time for me to stride with strength and determination and to change our lives for the better. But I didn't know if I could go through one more test.
Hadn't it been enough that I'd been denied my husband for nearly twenty years? That I'd almost died in a car accident and lost the ability to have children? That my parents had not survived their crash? Surely I'd been through enough.
I heard the tap at the door just as I was building up for a long weep.
"Emily, are you okay?" Will asked.
"I'm okay," I answered in a voice clearly filled with anguish.
"Please let me in."
I unlocked the door and Will stepped into the cabin. Now it seemed to be a much smaller space, as his lanky frame filled it up. Yet I felt much less crowded. He wrapped his arms around me while I cried. Complete acceptance and understanding vibrated from his body to mine, soothing me instantly.
"I know this is horrible," Will whispered into my ear. "We'll call the girls every morning and night."
For the first time in our lives, I realized William Thompson had missed the point, at least as far as I was concerned. It didn't occur to him that, while I was certainly lonely for home, it was this journey that was most excruciating for me. He hadn't been aware I had lost my resolve over the years.
Except at the time of my parents' deaths, I hadn't let him know I just didn't want to fight any more. I wanted it to go away, yes, but I wasn't sure I had the strength to do it personally. I wanted the lawyers, the BCAWC and Montgomery to take the case and just do it.
"No, Will, it's only partly that. I'm very mixed up. I thought I wanted this done, but now we're going over the whole thing, I'm having so many doubts. I don't know if I can do it."
As soon as the words left my mouth, I was ashamed of my lack of courage. After all, I had been free all those years while Will had suffered the indignity and horror of prison.
He took a step back and held my chin in his hand.
"Emily, I know how you feel. Every once in a while, I get a twinge of abject fear. I'm not sure how I'm going to feel when I set foot on Vancouver ground again. But this appeal is the right thing to do."
I looked into his eyes, saw the fear there, the agony, all backlit by a fierce determination and love. Will was just as scared as I was, but he had amassed so much strength of character that he was willing to face anything to prove his innocence. Whereas I had hidden away and harboured nothing but anger.
Inwardly, I gave myself a good shake. How could I let my husband down, this man who was my soul mate, whom I loved more than anyone in the world? I gave him a fierce hug.
"You're right, my darling, of course you are. I'll be okay, I swear. I just need to wrestle these demons now and then."
"Hey, we'll wrestle them together."
After a couple of snide remarks about the Mile High Club, said mostly to dispel the tension and ignore the tear traces on my cheeks, the group resumed our analysis of the case.
"Were there any other players? What about Greg Hughes? Did he have anything to do with Linda or the other students?" Montgomery asked, pushing away his finished plate.
Will dabbed at his mouth with the kind of cloth serviette you might expect in a fancy restaurant.
"Greg didn't teach art. He taught music. The Three Arts Institute included visual arts, music and literature. Most of his students weren't the same as mine."
"So his studio was for teaching music?"
"No. He didn't give lessons there. He was renting the place for his own uses. He wrote music as well as dabbled in visual art. He used all kinds of media—oil, metal, sculpture, you name it."
"Greg was very popular with the students. He was talented, funny and eccentric. I think I told you Greg was…is…gay. In those days, most of the profs who were homosexual stayed in the closet, even though Vancouver was a free spirited town then. There was a fairly big movement toward gay rights, which we followed from the West Coast of the U.S., but most teachers didn't do anything overt."
"Did most people know about Greg anyway?" Jacob asked. "Would the students have known?"
"I think so."
"Did the research show where Greg Hughes ended up?" Monty asked Jacob.
Jacob licked his fingers before he scrolled through his computer files.
"Yes. Apparently he still has a studio in the Marketplace. He gained quite a following for his art, which, as Bill just pointed out, is very eclectic. He's also had a few songs published and performed. In addition, he belongs to a band called…"
Jacob scrolled a bit further and looked up with a grin on his face.
"The Gay Wags."
We couldn't help laughing, Bill most of all.
"I can just picture Greg coming up with that name. I really liked him. He was a bit odd, but witty and very talented. Once you got to know him, he was a pleasant kind of guy."
"Okay. Let's move on to some other players. What about your boss, Rachel Ouellet?"
"She's a great person. She really tried to help us," I said. "Rachel believes Bill is innocent. At the trial, she appeared as a character witness."
"How about these other girls, who corroborated Wendy's story that 'all the kids knew' you were having an affair with Linda? Silvia Parsons? Sharon Michaels?"
"All of their testimony was thrown out by the Supreme Court," Jacob reported. "The judges agreed that it was hearsay. The witnesses may have all believed Linda was having an affair with someone, but they hadn't actually heard the name of the man, and Linda had never confirmed an affair at all."
Montgomery shook his head. "Unbelievable. Again, proof the original police officers formed an opinion, then built a case around that belief. Rumours like the ones those girls were spreading suddenly became fact."
"Thank goodness there are better checks and balances these days," Jacob said, "and better training. What's your proposal, Monty? What's the plan of attack?"
Sipping on a cup of coffee with a side of Baileys, Montgomery looked relaxed, but his eyes were alight with enthusiasm.
"You, Emily and Bill are expected at the lawyers' offices tomorrow morning, as you know. They have a myriad of details to go over with you. In the meantime, I am going to pay a visit to a police officer who, I hope, has a very guilty conscience."
Chapter 16
March 2009
The Artist
The arrivals area of the terminal was jammed with reporters, curiosity seekers and friends. He watched as the Thompsons came down the escalator, looking like two performers who were descending from the heights of the circus tent into the applauding arms of their fans.
A ripple went through the crowd, a release of tension, as everyone made an audible sound at the sight of the two recluses. He was certain his sigh was one of the loudest.
Ex-Professor William Thompson was still handsome. Despite being over fifty, with nearly twenty years in prison behind him, he was striking—brown hair sprinkled with grey, body lean and tall, straight shoulders, exactly the right number of wrinkles that simply made him appear distinguished, brown eyes direct and bright.
The Wife, as he still named her, was even more eye-catching. Slim, blond, her oval face unlined from this distance, skin clear with an attractive pink dusting her cheeks, eyes wide and blue. Their hands were entwined. Their bodies leaned in for an intimate touch. King and Queen. Notorious, infamous, respected, renowned. Righteous, deserving.
Thompson was now a famous artist. Critics and aficionados all praised his work. Langford Taylor. Langford, of course! Such sentiment, so touching. Emily Taylor. How had he not been able to find them?
She was such a clever bitch. She hadn't died in the car accident after all. And everyone had conspired to protect her, hide her. They thought she was such a little angel.
He shivered with hatred, his face reddening with his own embarrassment. If only that car had not appeared above the ridge, he would have checked to make sure she was dead, and fi
nished her off when he found her still taking a breath.
Nineteen years and three months he had watched William Thompson languish in the prison. Thin and haggard and haunted. Then suddenly, the man had disappeared. No more news. No more appeals. Just gone.
How had The Artist not been aware The Wife was living in Abbotsford the entire time her husband was in prison? How had he not known she was a regular visitor at Kent? She had cuckolded him.
He wanted to wrap his hands around her skinny neck and choke her until the veins in her eyes exploded, until her face was red and blotched with the arrival of death.
He shook his head, slid through the automatic exit doors and gulped in the fresh air. He waited while the trembling abated.
He had only himself to blame. He'd been far too satisfied with his accomplishment, Thompson jailed, The Wife killed. He'd been content to keep tabs on Thompson's failed efforts to gain release, ignoring all else.
No mention had ever been made his wife was still around, goddamn it. What the hell was the matter with those BC bloodhound reporters? They were obviously incompetent. The RCMP had their man! That was the end of it for the media, other than the glorification of Linda Courtnell year after nauseating year.
He had been relegated to lowlifes again. Tattoos. But he had, now and then, added some very lovely pictures. Bodies hidden in acid, buried in cement, bricked into walls, never to be found.
Absolutely no one had missed those losers. Who could love the emaciated, drugged-out, useless excuses for human beings that made up his victim list?
Of course, that also meant no news, no thrills, no ecstatic rides. Nothing had ever given him the pleasure the Thompson case had. He had learned the art of rape, however, which had been the gift from the Thompsons that had kept on giving. Although he laughed at his own joke, only his eyes betrayed the flutter of mirth.
As he watched people scurrying through the arrivals doors or outside into the blustery day, heading toward buses and taxis, shouting to each other, arguing or embracing hello, The Artist felt only pity. They had no idea what it was like to be taken to a higher plane by the Creative Force.
He was now very close to his goal of one hundred souls who had been led to the Spring. Souls who would merely have spent their lives in misery, creating nothing but havoc and sorrow. In their last few hours, under his guidance, his technique of pain and slow death, those people achieved a greatness they would otherwise never have known.
They experienced a magnificent transformation in his hands—from groveling, malodorous freaks to works of art in a matter of hours or days. Pure, creative energy. As each of the subjects took his or her last breath, he could see the light in their eyes, the knowledge they were about to die setting them free.
The Artist knew something other "artists" did not. The only way to achieve perfection, complete creative perfection, was by suffering and dying. It was only at the point of death that creation exploded in your head, making you and Art one, taking you to a place of utter beauty. The Artist could not wait for his own death, but as long as there had been souls needing redemption, he was destined to be the Creative Force, The True Artist.
It was paradoxical that the death that had given him the most thrill was the only one born from hatred. The Artist had provided Linda Courtnell with a perfect creative experience, but his initial intention had not been at all pure. How odd he should have felt the highest rush from this particular act. Perhaps, and here again he felt a flutter of amusement, the rest was work while Linda had been strictly for himself. Settling of scores, self-preservation and most of all, pleasure.
He straightened his shoulders. He was taking a huge new step. In the last three months, ever since the whisper about Langford and Emily Taylor's existence, he'd experienced a dramatic shift. His days as the Creative Force were coming to a climactic end. Soon it would be his turn to experience perfection.
Calm now, he waited while the glow of his reveries passed from his face. He knew what he had to do. He walked confidently back toward the throng of supporters and curious bystanders, a face from the old days come to witness the Thompsons' return to Vancouver.
Chapter 17
March 2009
Charlie watched the tall black man stride purposefully toward his front door.
Here was a confident man, Charlie thought, someone who was at ease in his body, comfortable with himself.
Charlie had once been comfortable too. He'd believed in his view of the world. Policing people who had squandered their lives, destroyed their bodies, and even made their own children suffer, meant exacting justice. Tit for tat, eye for an eye. No matter what you had to do or say to accomplish it, they had to be punished.
In recent years, Charlie had lost his certainty. Nothing was uncomplicated any more. It was all grey, no black, no white. He thought it was ironic that, as a person aged, the rights and wrongs became less clear. Weren't the elders supposed to be wise? Or did wisdom mean embracing the notion that nothing in life is straightforward?
From the moment Tom called, Charlie knew what he had to do. In fact, he'd known for several years he should confess. But time had somehow marched inexorably on and the Thompsons had disappeared.
Charlie had convinced himself they must have found happiness, that they no longer cared about the difference between "you are innocent" and "we're letting you go because we screwed up and didn't properly prove your guilt."
Charlie had carefully studied all the cases of wrongful conviction over the years—the famous ones and the ones that passed under the public radar. He was well aware the majority of people who were victims of an overzealous or incompetent investigation did not normally rest until proven innocent. He certainly didn't blame them.
Perhaps he'd known deep down the Thompsons would be back, for he was not in the least startled by their private investigator's request for an interview. He'd hoped they would go to the minister with the evidence they already had, but he wasn't surprised they were being meticulous. In the same circumstances, he would be damn thorough too.
Montgomery Cardwell showed Charlie his identification, then perched gracefully on a flowered chair in the sunroom.
Joan, fluttering about nervously, her voice thin and high as a result, tried to act as if the private investigator were a typical guest. She brought them freshly baked banana bread and coffee. She almost begged to hang around, but Charlie dismissed her with his famous condescending nod, to which Joan bristled but obeyed.
Once the two men had stirred in their condiments and taken a bite of the moist cake, Montgomery dispensed with the niceties.
"Mr. Haynes, I think you have some information about the Thompson case you've never revealed."
He spoke gently, coaxingly, his eyes kind yet penetrating. The PI reminded Charlie a great deal of himself, the velvet hammer, a man who could intimidate yet cajole. Just the suggestion of menace rippling under the surface, with an offer of taking the friendly route instead.
As Charlie hesitated, Monty looked up, scanning the room, shifting his focus from the old man in the easy chair. He caught his breath.
The paintings covering the walls were shocking. Amid the flowers in vases and the lace curtains, the comfortable furniture, the art was, at first glance, nondescript. Monty had initially caught only a flash of colour and had ignored the detail.
When he took that second look, he realized with horror what the drawings depicted. Faces twisted in pain. Bodies surrounded by garbage. Blood, saliva and vomit speckling the decayed cityscape.
Despite the gore, one redeeming factor, hidden within each of the cityscapes, begged the viewer to look again. It was, ironically, that flash of colour Monty had noticed first when he merely glanced at the paintings.
A startling yellow flower poked through cracked pavement. A bright pink stuffed bunny was offered to a tearful child. A wrinkled old hand clutched a youthful one. Once the positive feature became evident, it also became the most prominent. It drew the eye toward hope.
Awestruck
, Montgomery audibly released his breath and looked more closely at the old man.
Charles Haynes still had his round face, though creases and age spots now dominated. His eyes were a deep blue, even more striking within his crumpled visage, almost like one of his paintings. When he smiled, you could almost believe he would tell you the truth every time.
The old man followed the younger man's eyes as he studied the paintings.
"These are the originals," Charlie told him. "I sell the prints. I've made an extraordinary amount of money trying to portray the dichotomy between dejection and possibility. It's as if I am apologizing to the drunks and whores and druggies I kicked while they were down, while I was in a position of trust and should have shown some kindness.
"As though by showing to my viewers, my fans, that these down-and-outs are victims, human beings, I can make up for being so self-righteous. Encourage others to be different from me. Demonstrate that a little bit of generosity can raise the poor and mentally disturbed from despair to hope. Just making that statement probably proves my continued arrogance, however. Nothing of course is that simple."
Montgomery was startled by the man's speech, the nuanced vocabulary and the self-effacing manner. As Charlie paused, the PI suddenly realized Constable Haynes had delivered exactly that—a speech. He'd rehearsed those well-chosen words. Probably spoken them many times at openings and presentations.
A wave of mistrust, along with a surge of dislike, kept Monty even more alert.
"I do have information," Charlie finally said in a soft whisper his guest had to lean over to hear.
Which of course was the retired officer's intent, Monty thought. Throw you just a little off balance.
"But first, please call me Charlie. Mr. Haynes is a rather stuffy title for an old man like me."
Montgomery had the feeling the last sentence was as much a self-condemnation as a statement of fact, but whether or not it was sincere was debatable. He took another sip of the excellent coffee and contented himself with eating the banana bread as he waited.
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