The Secrets of Black Dean Lighthouse

by Jack Dey

  Then as if a light had come on in his recall, Brett encouraged Becky to follow him. “Come on, Becky. It is a long shot, but it might just work.”

  “Where are we going, Brett? All this emotional stress is making me feel weak,” Becky complained.

  “It’s just around the corner,” Brett encouraged.

  Becky paused in the front of a clinic and froze, reading the name emboldened across the entry: Lamb of Life Baby Clinic. “A pro-life clinic?! I don’t want to get involved with a bunch of kooks, Brett. It is stressful enough.”

  “I’m just thinking that they may tell us a different story and we need a referral to an ultrasound anyway,” Brett persisted.

  Becky pulled in a huge breath and sighed heavily, obviously struggling under the stress, with a simple doctor visit turning out to be a murdering fiasco. Trusting Brett’s good sense, they pushed open the opaque green door and entered. Children were happily playing on the clean floor, surrounded by their expectant mothers waiting to see a doctor and when other pregnant women glanced up from their seats and smiled directly at Becky, she felt immediately at ease.

  “Hello, dears, may I help you?” an older woman dressed in a white clinician's outfit asked from the counter.

  “Um... I was wondering whether we could see one of your doctors,” Brett spoke up. “My wife may be having some troubles.”

  “Of course, let me take a look,” running her finger down the list. “Just so happens, Doctor Sarah has a cancellation in five minutes.”

  “Is she any good?” Brett’s concern was immediately conveyed to the woman.

  “Doctor Sarah is our leading specialist. I think you’ll be more than happy with her,” the older woman smiled and asked for their details. “She won’t be long. Please take a seat and I’ll call you when she’s finished.”

  A young woman waddled out from a room down a hallway and called to a thin, kindly older woman following her, “Thank you. That’s a great relief, Doctor Sarah. The hospital told me it was serious.”

  “Just keep with your routine, dear. It’s just a normal part of being pregnant.”

  Sarah had a whispered conversation with the receptionist and then she searched around the room, her eyes resting on Becky and Brett. She saw fear and tension clearly ingrained on their faces and her bright green eyes reflected a calm and kindly wisdom. With an endearing smile, Sarah walked over to Becky and Brett, introduced herself and shook their hands. Kneeling beside the couple, she chatted for a few moments and calmed the tension and when they seemed less strained, she called them into her room.

  “Please follow me, Becky and Brett,” Sarah whispered.

  Once inside, Doctor Sarah’s office was tastefully painted in warm colours, and a lounge suit set the room into a comfortable atmosphere. Offering Becky a specially designed chair to bring comfort to heavily pregnant women, Sarah waited for the couple to settle and then commenced. “Now, dears, what can I do for you?”

  Becky nervously explained what had happened the previous night with the pain and the advice Munroe had given her. Sarah listened with patient interest and then reclined Becky’s special chair with a touch of a button. When she was almost laying flat, Sarah lifted Becky’s shirt, exposing her stomach and gently manipulated her baby bump with warm but tender hands, carefully tracing the outline of Becky’s baby and cautiously turning Becky’s body from one side to the other. As the chair returned slowly to a sitting position, Sarah smiled and pulled Becky’s shirt back down, but both Brett and Becky were a mass of tension as they waited for Sarah to speak.

  “Have you been under any unusual stress lately, Rebecca ?” Doctor Sarah prodded.

  Becky glanced at Brett in surprise. “U..um... yes, some. In fact, quite considerable.”

  “Rebecca, your baby is fine. I think the little one was trying to tell you to calm down. I’m going to order an ultrasound to confirm my suspicions, but I wouldn’t add to your stress over this.”

  Becky’s eyes were swimming in relief, while Brett exhaled loudly, adding a forceful sense of reprieve.

  “How do you know from just feeling the baby?” Becky asked.

  “I’ve been in this area of medicine for almost forty years, dear. There have been a lot of major breakthroughs and new findings, but if you keep it simple, most problems the body deals with on its own. We know that our little ones react to what we are feeling, doing, eating and it all affects their development. We know that trauma to a mother can harm her little one’s development and there are even studies being conducted now with some alarming results on post-abortion pregnancies.”

  “What do you mean?” Brett sounded suspicious.

  Sarah washed her hands under a tap, wiped them on clean disposable paper and then took her seat again. “Abortion has many unknown effects on the womb—apart from infertility—on subsequent developing foetuses in particular. It almost seems that there is a permanent record of a trauma to a developing child inscribed on the womb. It can be likened to living in a house where a terrible massacre has occurred. It doesn’t bring comfort or peace to the occupant and often post-abortion pregnancies can have some form of emotional side effects to the newborn. Somehow, that child knows that they aren’t safe in the womb and problems can stem from that.”

  “I thought abortion was a humane way of getting rid of an unwanted problem,” Brett challenged.

  Sarah laughed. “Mr Redden, abortion is not humane. There is no nice way of getting rid of a problem, as you put it. Disregarding all that the media tells you, there are a number of ways the baby is aborted and some of these are forced onto unsuspecting women right up to the time of birth. Can I tell you about some of these procedures?”

  Brett glanced across at Becky. He didn’t know whether he was going to regret this, but they nodded anyway.

  “In certain cases, a circular knife is wrapped around the baby and literally, the living baby is hacked apart, limb by limb, inside the womb.”

  Becky and Brett gasped in shock. “You’re kid-ding!”

  “I wish I was, but there’s an even more brutal procedure the abortion clinics use. The most cruel procedure is saline injection, where the amniotic fluid is removed from the protective sack via a large syringe forced into the mother's stomach, then saltwater is injected into the womb. The baby simply burns to death in the saltwater or drowns, and it can take up to seventy-two hours for the baby to die and in some circumstances, the baby is momentarily still alive after the woman’s body forces the birth. Supposedly, the mother gives birth to a dead problem, in the form of a badly burnt and tortured baby. Of course, if that isn’t bad enough, there’s also potentially life-threatening risks to the mother if any of these barbaric procedures aren’t done properly.”

  Becky and Brett stared in horror at Sarah’s description and both swallowed down a sickening feeling. But in full newspaper mode, Brett challenged her with the scientific thoughts of the day. “Scientists tell us the baby doesn’t feel anything until they’re born.”

  Sarah could see the scepticism in Brett’s eyes and countered with correct information, “Research tends to point to the fact that the baby begins to recognise pain around week eight. The theory fed to the public by the media that your living, beautiful child is just a bunch of tissue and doesn’t feel anything... is just plain wrong. This information is hidden from the public and is often ridiculed by the very scientists who’d discovered it.”

  “I don’t understand. If what you say is correct, then why is the government pushing abortion?” Becky pleaded.

  “I can only tell you what I suspect, Becky. If you want to know the truth, the government is tight-lipped and I believe it all has to do with economics. The mighty dollar. When human life is reduced to a monetary figure, then human life has no value and is easily snuffed out, without conscience. It is mankind's desire to be the ruler of his own destiny and to be accountable to himself for what he does, instead of the God of the Bible, who created us. When we remove God from our governments and law institutes, s
chools and universities and tell Him we don’t need Him, then He takes the brakes off our society, hardens us in our folly, and allows us to follow our carnal desires and make our own rules. Instead of God’s rules, stating that every life is precious and accountable to Him, we say that every life is a useless burden on our economic wealth, taking food and prosperity away from the fancifully rich of the world. That’s when we humans create the horrors of Auschwitz and Dachau in the mother’s womb. So then, in this godless world, who decides whether you live or die? Or whether your baby is destroyed, as Munroe tried to sell you this morning?”

  Brett listened in amazement and disbelief at what Doctor Sarah had just told them. “So, the further we get from God, the more vulnerable we and our children are?”

  “I am sorry, folks, I’m passionate about protecting the unborn and didn’t mean to give you the medical lecture,” Sarah apologised. “Rebecca, just try to limit your stress and don’t let anyone tell you your beautiful baby is a burden to society.”

  “Can I give you a hug, Doctor Sarah?” Becky asked, relieved.

  Sarah wrapped her arms around Becky and shook Brett’s hand. “Enjoy this precious time in your lives.”

  *~*~*~*

  Chapter 44

  In the darkened room, Willis stared at the ceiling of his tiny apartment, unable to sleep. The seasons were changing rapidly, with summer just around the corner and the dawn was breaking earlier and earlier, with the sun’s first orange rays already peering around the heavy drape covering the single window to his bedroom. Next door, he could hear the neighbours’ children through the thin walls, making a racket and screaming at each other until their father’s voice re-established silent order. Willis turned to face the alarm clock and conceded the journey into the position as a detective with the Criminal Investigation Bureau was going to be a slow, torturous ride unless he found a way to grab the boss’ attention and draw the limelight his way.

  Taking another wearisome glance at his alarm clock, he determined it was almost time to get up and ready himself for his shift, but when he realised what the day would entail, Willis sighed in frustration: more files and data entry. Rolling over again, Willis fumed. If he'd wanted to be a secretary, he would have applied for a council job, with Missing Persons being like a trained chef permanently assigned to washing dishes.

  Fuelled by a sudden pang of frustration, Willis threw his legs over the side of his bed, kicked the blankets to the floor and rubbed his head. Ambition burned in his blood and he needed a way to quell the flames. In an effort to clear his head, he turned to face the alarm clock again, calculating he had just enough time to go for a run around the neighbourhood before he was due to start his next shift. The exercise would calm him down.

  Pulling on his running shoes and dressed warmly, Willis reached for the front door, turned the handle and stepped out into the growing morning light then closed the door with a determined plunk. Staring down the sidewalk, Willis debated... which direction? Then coming to a decision, he turned and headed down the street, planning to do a extremely fast loop around the block. As his stride increased and the pace forced his heart to pump furiously, the air filled his lungs and his brain began to shake off the growing sense of depression, feeling the frustration draining away.

  As he rounded a corner, he could see someone sitting on the doorstep of an apartment just ahead.

  *~*~*~*

  Marguerite lay awake until she heard Majiv and Mr Lieberman leave for work and then soon after, Ima’s quiet humming. She hadn’t slept much that night because the baby was resting on her bladder and she’d needed to make frequent trips to the convenience, but after her wandering, she tried to go back to sleep, yet sleep evaded her. Although she was desperately uncomfortable, she tried not to fidget too much and risk waking Katarzyna, but when the first rays of morning leaked around the bedroom drapes, she raised herself to her elbows, intent on escaping the prone position. Glancing across to Katarzyna, Marguerite could see she was fast asleep, with the young girl’s rhythmic, gentle breaths giving light to her restful enjoyment. Overcome with the need to break away from her bed, Marguerite threw her dressing gown over her shoulders and quietly opened the door to the bedroom, but an unruly creak echoed in the quiet and threatened her escape. She stopped and listened, then froze when Katarzyna stirred at the sudden noise, but settled again and continued on her restful sleep.

  Pulling the door closed quietly and descending the stairs, Marguerite desperately needed some fresh air and ventured toward the front door to the apartment. Marguerite would feel safe sitting on the step to the apartment with Ima close by, still humming and busy in the kitchen. Leaving the door ajar slightly and listening to Ima’s musical hum, she lowered herself to the step and groaned at the effort, with her stomach getting bigger each day, making movement more and more difficult.

  Glancing down the early morning sidewalk, Marguerite saw someone running toward her and as they came closer, she recognised the man who had interrogated her at the bakery. Trying to rise swiftly under the weight of the baby, she was too late. He’d seen her before she could make her escape.

  Puffing heavily, he drew to an abrupt stop and accosted Marguerite accusingly. “Hey, you're that girl from the bakery!”

  Marguerite’s face was alight with terror, struggling to understand who this person was and why he was continually harassing her. She held his impudent gaze, trying to struggle to her feet and eventually managed to stand unsteadily and without saying a word, she pushed the door open and quickly entered the apartment and slammed the door with a bang.

  Ima peered around the kitchen door. “Marguerite, what are you doing outside?!” Ima could see the fear on Marguerite’s face and rushed to embrace her.

  “I was just getting some air, Ima, on the front step and that man harassed me again!”

  Ima opened the door and peered up and down the sidewalk, intent on defending Marguerite, but he was gone.

  *~*~*~*

  Willis’ chest rose and fell as he struggled for breath, exhausted from the run and slowly climbed the stairs to his apartment. The sweat had moistened his jogging clothes and his brown, mousy hair lay dank at the fringe, but he couldn’t shake off the image of the frightened pregnant girl or their chance meeting. Her actions suggested she was definitely underage and trying to hide it. Pulling off his running clothes from his sweating body, Willis headed for the shower, but he still couldn’t dislodge the girl’s guilty impression burnt so indelibly into his memory. He’d recognise that face anywhere now. Because of the girl, he was running late and had to hurry if he didn’t want to miss his bus and turn up late for his second shift.

  As Willis hurried to enter the police building, a sudden thought brushed against his arrogance. If he could somehow prove the pregnant girl was underage, that might go a long way to getting him recognised among his superiors and kick-start his career as a criminal investigator... but where would he start?

  Checking his uniform in the mirror of the officers' change room and preening his appearance, if nothing else, Willis would at least look the part when his superiors eventually noticed him. Climbing the stairs to the third floor, Willis pushed open the doors to the CIB and made his way through a room brimming with suited professionals all busy at their desks and it didn’t take much to imagine these men were detectives finishing up at the end of a long night shift. Pausing for a moment, Willis glanced longingly at the faces, determining one day soon he would join them, too.

  When he was noticed gawking at the tired and hard-faced nightshift investigators, Willis quickly moved away and entered the Missing Persons section, walking briskly over to Roy’s office to collect a substantial pile of manila folders and begin the tedious task. Tapping timidly at Roy’s door, Willis’ head peered around the door frame, but Roy was exactly where he’d left him last night: phone to his ear and talking animatedly to a colleague. Roy acknowledged Willis with a nod, his feet comfortably perched on his desk and without breaking step with the conversat
ion, Roy pointed to the pile of manila files and the heavy, official Police Missing Persons file, now stacked neatly by the door.

  Willis sighed silently and then snatched up his work, noticing the pile had grown significantly since returning it to Roy’s office the previous afternoon. Finding the same room and table he’d occupied previously, Willis dropped the manila files on the desk, replicating Roy’s actions the day before and making it thud under the load. Then flopping into the chair, he opened the MP file and picked up the first manila folder, checking the name and then locating the corresponding page on the MP file. There he found a picture of a teenage boy pasted across the manila folder and the same photo duplicated in the MP file.

  Urrph! If I looked like that, I think I would run away, too! Willis chuckled to himself. Okay, let’s see. Disappeared August 1955. Last seen by mother in his room at midnight of the twenty-first. Possible sighting at the Colonial Bus Depot June 18, 1956... here we go, new evidence. Willis began to write. Involved in two vehicle accident and identified by police at Berkfield County Hospital after admission from ambulance. Willis continued to fill in the new information, then ticked the box at the bottom of the report... case closed. With an exaggerated huff, the rookie conceded, that’s one less I’ll never have to see again, then threw the completed manila file on the desk opposite and reached for another one.

  Opening a new manila file, he read, Marguerite Anne Dillon. Reported missing by Arthur Ian Dillon, Father. Last seen on the evening of January 20, 1956. No reported sightings since the disappearance. Willis glanced at the photograph and then took another stunned look, almost falling from his chair with his mouth hanging open as he studied the image, but there were no doubts... he’d recognise her anywhere.