by John Moss
Will backed off. Cameron untied the bag from the saddle and held it out to Lizzie.
“It must be important, whatever is in there,” he said.
She took the bag and turned to enter the main door of Wilson’s Hotel. She didn’t thank Cameron. He was, after all, her prisoner. She wasn’t sure of the legality of their relationship but they definitely were not friends. She did not like being indebted to a man she had placed under arrest.
Lizzie slept uneasily. She had nightmare visions of Rebecca Haun being murdered but her killer always stayed in the shadows. Even with flames licking the air all around him, he somehow remained concealed. When Lizzie awoke at dawn, she reached for the medallion on the bedside table and clutched it until her fingers hurt.
Twenty
Allison
Lizzie is smart and Lizzie is tough. But she doesn’t know much about the world beyond the Grand River Purchase. Except what she’d learned in her letters from Madge de Vere. She doesn’t know much about men. And she certainly doesn’t know much about warfare and murder.
Not that I do, either.
There haven’t been many men in my life. I mean, my dad lives in Vancouver. I just called him my dad. I usually think of him as father, not dad. And then there’s Jaimie Retzinger. I’m not even sure I would call him a man. He’s a boy who somehow got older.
And all I know about our famous war with the Americans is this: We didn’t defeat them but we weren’t conquered. That was a victory of sorts. And I know General Brock was killed at Queenston Heights in the autumn of 1812. There’s a big monument just up the river from my Nana’s place at Niagara-on-the-Lake, and his dead body is inside it. So is the body of Colonel John Macdonell, as far as I know. The two soldiers died on the same day before our troops chased the Americans back across the river to their own fort on the other side.
Nana took me to Brock’s monument several times. She told me about the War of 1812. I used to think she remembered it from her own childhood.
It’s funny how history and memories become confused. General Brock and Colonel Macdonell are history to me, but they are recent acquaintances of Lizzie Erb.
On the morning when Lizzie woke up at Wilson’s Hotel, the general and the colonel were still alive. She knew they were at Fort George. That’s where she needed to go, to deliver the saddlebag she had kept with her under the covers the whole night long.
All day today I’ve been worrying about Lizzie. I should be worried about me!
My executioner is close. She may not wait another seventeen days.
That’s how she must see herself, as an executioner.
I wonder if it’s because she’s insane. Or is she seeking revenge for some terrible thing that happened to her? Actually, I don’t think it matters. She wants me dead.
Why she wants me dead isn’t important. If I’m dead, knowing why won’t make me feel better. I’ll be dead.
But let’s consider the pattern.
If she is angry at the whole world, why not go out and kick a rock?
If she’s nuts, then how come she’s so organized? Every seventeen days! And why kill really sick people—until last night when she broke the pattern?
Does this mean she’ll begin killing whenever she wants to? Not when she has to?
I’m betting my life that she’ll wait for another seventeen days. Her fear and frustration last night got the better of her. She went out and killed someone who wasn’t sick. She might even regret doing it. I doubt if she regrets killing people like me, though.
Killing vegetables.
I mean, vegetables don’t really die, do they?
They get sliced and diced, cut, crimped, chopped, puréed, and julienned. Roasted, braised, boiled, broiled, stewed, and baked, fried, or eaten raw.
If I could eat French fries right now, would that make me a cannibal?
What about turnips? I don’t even like turnips.
I wonder where Jaimie Retzinger is? I need him to save my life again.
I confess: I miss Jaimie Retzinger. Even after we broke up, he was always around. And when I got shot, he spent hours in the hospital every night, ignoring me. But at least he was there.
He used to say he never got in a word edgewise. Whatever that means. So chattering away while I’m lying in a comma, that works for him.
For me, too. I’m not actually in a coma, but I hardly listen—I think that’s what they call irony. I’m desperate for diversion, but Jaimie drones on like a confused swarm of bees. I’d rather have silence.
So what’s wrong with this relationship!
That wasn’t a question.
David just came in. He taps the back of my hand. He must have kissed me because I felt gentle warm pressure somewhere. That must be where my left cheek is. I open my eye, but he has already moved out of my field of vision.
“Look after yourself, Potato. I’ll see you.” He is at the door, now, I guess he’s looking back in.
I try to understand. I mean, a person has to get on with his life.
“Look after yourself,” he repeats. He doesn’t mean this to be as stupid as it sounds. David is not stupid, he just isn’t thinking. He’s off to plant trees in Northern Ontario. Near Kapuskasing, way up there.
See you, David. Take care. Look after yourself. Watch out for the bears.
Lizzie
When Lizzie finished breakfast, she took some bread and jam out to the men. Will Richardson greeted her with a smile but Cameron and Beazley were gone.
“I sent them packing,” he said. “There’s a big fight brewing at Queenston Heights. The Americans have crossed over from Fort Niagara. Brock is heading that way and he will need every man he can get. Even them.”
“Why aren’t you there, then? Why didn’t you go, too?”
“It’s not safe,” he laughed.
“Of course.”
“I have to look after you, Miss Erb.”
“And my treasure.”
“Indeed, and your treasure. We’ll head south and then west.”
“No, Mr. Richardson. We must join General Brock.”
“He is about to be overtaken by the Americans. We would do better to go the other way.”
Will had already led Lizzie’s horse out of the stable and his own was saddled up and ready to go. He hoisted her onto Fleetfire’s back before she had time to protest. It was like he was tossing a bag of grain around and not a young woman in skirts.
She still had her saddlebag clutched in her grip. He reached out and took it. She didn’t protest. He tied it to the back of his saddle and mounted.
Lizzie hardly knew what had happened before he slapped Fleetfire on the rump and suddenly they were trotting down the road side by side. They must have been quite a spectacle, if anyone had bothered to notice. She was small and awkwardly elegant on her giant steed and he was large and powerful on his little one.
There was no question, Will Richardson had taken charge.
They passed through Chippewa and were halfway along the Portage Trail to Fort Erie before they drew their horses in and proceeded at a walking pace. Fort Erie was still in the hands of the British. Will Richardson made a point of saying it that way: Fort Erie was not in the hands of the Canadians but of the British.
“We are all British, here,” she proclaimed, “even Colonel Macdonell, who was born in Scotland. I’ve been told he’s now the attorney general of Upper Canada.”
“But he’s only second-in-command to Sir Isaac Brock.”
“Who is a great man, wherever he was born. The people of Elizabethtown renamed their community in his honor.”
“Brockville! It’s a village of transplanted Americans.”
“He was made a knight for capturing Fort Detroit for Upper Canada.”
“By a fool.”
“I beg your pardon, sir. King George is no fool.
You are speaking treason.”
“Hardly.”
“Then you are speaking like an American.”
“Perhaps.”
She wheeled around on Fleetfire’s broad back to look down at her handsome escort. His cheeks were smooth. He had obviously shaved that morning. His mustache was grand, his blue eyes were flashing. But he was not smiling. His lips were pursed in grim determination.
“Are you an American, then?” The quavering in Lizzie’s voice suggested anger and apprehension. “Are you a spy?”
“If I am, Lizzie Erb, you are my prisoner.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
“Damn you,” she said, swearing for the second time in her life.
She drew her horse to a halt. Will Richardson rapidly dismounted and seized her reins. She slid off Fleetfire’s back and stood directly in front of her captor.
“Be an American if you want,” she said, glowering up at him. “You can give me my money and I will be off. We’ll say no more about it.”
“Your money is for General Van Rensselaer and his American militia at Lewiston.”
“No, sir!”
“It is.”
“You’ve been planning to steal it all along!”
“I have.”
“You are an evil man and a rogue.”
“As I told you, Lizzie Erb. We have to choose sides. I chose long ago to be a Canadian.”
“An American!”
“A Canadian.”
“But you spoke to General Brock yesterday. He told you about my treasure. He trusted you.”
“You are mistaken, Miss Erb. I have never met General Brock.”
“Then how did you know about me?”
“Rebecca Haun told me.”
“My God,” said Lizzie. She wasn’t swearing. “It was you who killed her.”
Will Richardson embraced Lizzie with his eyes, showing unexpected warmth. It was as if he wanted to protect her. He remained silent. But Lizzie was determined to resolve her aunt’s fate.
“Is she dead?” Lizzie demanded.
“No,” said Will Richardson at last. “She is alive and on her way to Boston.”
Lizzie was confused, angry, and relieved. She waited for an explanation.
“Some foolish American sympathizers set her place on fire,” said Will Richardson. “It was still early morning when I arrived on the scene, although you were already on the road to retrieve your treasure. They were a drunken rabble; they didn’t know she was inside. She was in her nightclothes and she was furious at me when I saved her. At least when I rescued you from the flames, you wanted to be rescued.”
“She would not have wanted to die. She’s a fighter.”
“Well, she kept yelling about her medallion from Paul Revere. Damn it, I told her, your life’s more important. She didn’t seem to think so. She wanted to go back in. I wouldn’t let her. I’m glad to see it turned up.”
He gazed at the silver medallion on Lizzie’s breast. She glanced down at the medallion and, in spite of herself, she smiled.
“I don’t understand about the fire,” she said. “Was it because of the meeting last night Were they angry?”
“With General Brock, not your aunt. Some of them were, and some of them just wanted to raise hell. They had been drinking all night.”
“Did you force her to tell you where I had gone?”
“I didn’t torture her, Lizzie, if that’s what you mean. I got her some clothes from a neighbor. She said she had relatives in Boston. I gave her some money and sent her along to cross over to the American States.”
“She couldn’t, we’re at war.”
“Oh, there’s places she could. And she did.”
“But she’s a friend of General Brock.”
“That’s the point. Where better to hide than in the midst of the enemy?”
Lizzie was annoyed that his logic made sense. But did he mean, she hid among the British, here, or among the Americans, there? Which were the enemy? As Lizzie had noted before, loyalties could be very confusing.
“So, then what?” she said.
“Then I galloped full speed to meet you.”
“She told you about the money?”
“She was worried for you, Lizzie. She thought you’d be safe with me. Since I rescued her from the drunken louts, she assumed I was a loyalist.”
“But you’re not,” Lizzie declared.
“Depends what you mean by loyalist. I’m a Canadian patriot, through and through.”
Lizzie bit her tongue while she tried to think.
She was this man’s prisoner, but he was her guardian. She was under the care and protection of a thief and a traitor.
She decided she would see him hanged before she’d say another civil word to him.
She sat down on a stump at the side of the road.
He sat down on a boulder beside her.
He was smiling.
Twenty-one
Allison
Something wakes me! I’ve been dozing. I didn’t hear anyone come in. Suddenly I can hear breathing. I hope it’s Maddie O’Rourke. It must be late but the lights are still on. Anyway, if it was Maddie she’d talk to me. Maybe it’s a visitor for my new roommate. I don’t even know her name. They wheeled her in, plopped her in bed, and left her before the shift change at eight p.m. She must be in a vegetative state. Like me, they figure. Two peas in a pod.
No, the heavy breather is leaning over me. I can make out a fuzzy image. She’s in shadow. She moves away. The lights go out. The door closes and there are no more shadows. But she didn’t leave. It’s pitch dark. I see a small penlight beam. I wait for something to happen.
She is just standing there, staring, breathing through her mouth like she can’t get enough air.
I can feel her breath on my cheeks. Oh, good glory, I can feel where my cheeks are. What a time to make a discovery like this! I don’t know what I felt, really. Dear God, woman, go away—I need to think.
But she doesn’t go away. My left eye closes. I have to concentrate to make it open again. It’s not like I can wink and blink but if I focus all my energy I can make it open.
It opens. The room is still black but her penlight flashes in my face.
My open eye startles her. I can hear her gasp. She whispers and her voice is like razor blades. Sharp and smooth, all at the same time.
“You’re in there, Allison, aren’t you?”
There’s a long pause. I’m trying to sort out her voice. There’s something strange about it. It’s like a ghost speaking through a shroud.
“I’ll be coming for you very soon, dear Allison.”
Her words hang in the air. They’re a threat. She won’t kill me tonight. But she will before long. She’s making a promise. Like, she won’t let me down, she’ll return. I get it! To put me out of my misery.
Listen, listen! No misery, I’m not miserable. I’m Allison Briscoe. I am a human being. I want to live.
Shadows fill the room as the door opens. Then she’s gone and it’s dark again.
My eye closes. Time passes. I nearly fall asleep. Then, suddenly it’s light. I can see through my eyelids.
“Come on, now, Allie. Open your eye. That’s my girl.”
It’s Maddie O’Rourke.
“Somebody left you in the dark,” she says.
I guess it isn’t as late as I thought. It must be only midevening.
Maddie chats as she cleans off yesterday’s makeup. She dabs a cleanser on my face. I think I can feel it. I can feel pressure. The pressure is on my face. That means I can feel my face. It’s not like normal but it’s a beginning. It is a beginning.
My mind is swirling. I think I can feel where my face is. I’m discovering my body from the inside. And my killer has vowed to return. She’l
l drop in to see me from time to time, but in sixteen days I’ll be dead.
Well, not if I can help it.
“Easy, girl. You’re going to pop a blood vessel. Have you had a bad day?”
I can see Maddie as a blur, her black hair shimmers like a dark halo around her pale face. I can’t see her eyes or mouth because the light is behind her. She bends over me; I can feel the pressure of her weight. I can’t tell where the weight is, but it must be against my left side.
Of course, sometimes I forget Maddie O’Rourke is very short and her back is twisted. She must hoist herself up onto the side of the bed. She—
Hold it! What does she mean, I’m going to pop a blood vessel?
She can tell I’m upset?
Allison Briscoe! Think bad thoughts; think mixed up swirling awful terrible thoughts. Think about murder, whatever. Bad stuff. Make your blood pop.
“You’re doing it again, Allison. The veins in your forehead are pulsing like crazy. Sorry, sweet thing. Do you want me to stop? I’ll come back tomorrow?”
No, I’m pleading. No, please please stay. Watch my temples, watch my pulse. See, I’m thinking good thoughts. No popping veins. Maddie, Maddie, Maddie, please stay.
She leaves. After the lights go out and the door closes, I lie here listening to my blood run through my body.
Maddie comes back the next night and the next and the next. She makes up my eyes, she cleans the makeup off and makes them up again. She talks to me. She tells me my new roommate is an elderly woman called Kate. She’ll be gone by Christmas, they say.
Each day, I work at thinking miserable thoughts, then happy thoughts. Each evening Maddie comes in and I try to make the veins in my temples become bigger and smaller.
She notices. At first she worries that she’s upsetting me. I can’t shift my moods fast enough. She can’t see a pattern.