by J-F. Dubeau
As Randy drove off, leaving her alone in the cemetery, Venus slowly crept out of hiding. Curious, she went to see which of the stuffed toys her uncle had pilfered from the plush shrine to Audrey’s memory. As she suspected, the battered old bear with the red hat was gone. Less obvious, however, was why her uncle, a respected doctor and gentle human being, would stoop so low as to steal a dead child’s toy.
Venus was no stranger to the bizarre occurrences Saint-Ferdinand could serve up. She wasn’t originally from the village, having only moved there with her family a little over four years prior. To its residents, the little town seemed so normal, but through the eyes of a girl who’d spent most of her life living in the suburbs of Montreal, every little quirk and eccentricity stood out. It had taken her a while to figure out how deep the idiosyncrasies went, and after a few years she’d simply given up. There seemed to be no end to how weird the little village truly was.
Passing through the winding old roads that connected the farms, orchards, and occasional residential developments, Venus was reminded of the unique layer of personality that the village and its residents exhibited when you looked past the surface.
Riding by her friend Abraham’s place, she could see the large windows installed on the second floor of his family’s barn. Abraham’s father had gone from farmer to artist at about the same time she arrived in town, renovating the structure into an immense studio. Almost across from that farm was Old Man Richard’s orchard. The owner was a cantankerous old man who seemed to hate everyone yet took meticulous care of his trees, going so far as to name each of them. A short detour would lead her to Ms. Livingston’s house, a lady who raised rabbits for no reason in particular. Venus had never done it herself, but all the kids knew that if you went over for a visit and named one of the bunnies, she’d force you to take it home with you. But none of their eccentricities could explain her uncle’s disturbing behavior at the cemetery.
While the village didn’t have a school (all the kids had to travel over an hour away to Sherbrooke for their education), it did have a church. Easily one of the oldest structures on Main Street, the Jonathan Moore Church stood as the center of the community. Services were held there, but in the four years since she’d moved to the area, Venus had never heard of a priest or other church official ever residing in town. Rather, it seemed that a few of the more influential locals took turns playing the part. Of all the places in the village, the church was the only one that had never locked its doors, despite the threat of a serial killer terrorizing the area.
Venus could see the tall bell tower looming over the tree line, indicating that she was close to the village center and also nearing the ice cream parlor. For a moment she entertained the hope that Penny would give her another free ice cream cone. But her thoughts of cold desserts quickly vanished as she got closer to one of the crossroads that led to Main Street.
There, Venus spotted three other teenage cyclists. Her heart immediately sank. While the village was strange to her, Venus and her parents were, in turn, strange to some of the villagers. Some thought the McKenzies simply had weird city ways, but others weren’t as accepting. Particularly the three teenagers who were now blocking her progress.
Venus could put a name to each of their faces: Nick, Brad, and André. “Good kids” as far as anyone else was concerned, but Venus knew better. While they never picked on the other kids at school or in the village, when the three were together, they would torment her endlessly. They called her names, pushed her around, and the previous summer she’d gotten a vicious skinned knee after they’d run her off the road while she was riding her bike. These assholes weren’t intimidating individually. They weren’t even that rebellious. Venus knew each and every one of their families, and they were, by Saint-Ferdinand’s standards, normal people. While the McKenzies certainly could not be called that, her family’s “weirdness” wasn’t why the boys harassed her. It was out of jealousy.
The parents of Saint-Ferdinand kept all their children, no matter how old, rebellious, or independent, under a tight watch. Early curfews, constant supervision, and a demand for absolute transparency from their offspring were common—a well-understood consequence of having a killer loose in their town. For most, this had been going on since birth, and no one was exempt.
No one except Venus.
Even before moving from the city, Venus had always had more freedom than most kids. She could come and go as she pleased, whenever she pleased. For as long as she could remember, she never had to follow any family rules or give an account of her whereabouts. “Free-range parenting,” her parents called it, and even with the shadow of a gruesome murderer looming, they never bothered to tighten their watch on their only child. Of course, this garnered her no small amount of resentment from the other kids.
Preferring to avoid another unpleasant confrontation, Venus opted to take a longer route back to Main Street. She had her own kind of envy to deal with. For starters, the reason she couldn’t more easily ride through the woods or take a shortcut over rougher terrain was that her bicycle was designed for the city. With narrow, fragile wheels and a light frame that wouldn’t survive any of the obstacles common to Saint-Ferdinand’s back roads, her bike was yet another oddity that made her stand out. As she pedaled away from the bullies, Venus envied the more rugged mountain bikes that most kids rode around town.
Her alternate route took her through another part of the village, where the more successful members of the community, those who either owned businesses or chose not to live on their farms, resided. The styles of architecture ranged from large two-story Colonials, to modern aesthetics, to sprawling ranches. All were built on beautifully landscaped properties that boasted stone driveways, gazebos, and extensive flower beds.
This was where the Bergerons lived. On a normal day, their house would have been one of the easiest to distinguish. It had everything: plenty of square footage, a large inground swimming pool, and a beautiful tree house in the back. Weeping willows decorated the front lawn, barely hiding the plethora of brightly colored toys that littered the grounds. The immense stone construction was flanked by two large chimneys, and the pool house mirrored the design and architecture of the main house. Today, the Bergerons’ home was even easier to spot. It was the one with dozens of cars parked out front.
Venus couldn’t help but become choked up. For the second time today, she felt compelled to give William and Beatrice Bergeron her condolences. To let them know how she felt about Audrey’s death and try to offer some solace to the grieving parents.
She slowed her pace, hoping to catch a glimpse of what was going on inside. Looking through the house’s large windows, she could see dozens of people inside. It was the same group she’d been spying on at the cemetery less than an hour ago, except more villagers had joined them. A quick look at the guests’ cars told Venus that some of the visitors were from out of town. The Bergerons’ influence wasn’t limited to Saint-Ferdinand.
Her eyes settled on a large emerald-green Ford Taurus station wagon. It was cleaner than she had ever seen it. This was her uncle Randy’s car, and seeing it sent an unexplained chill down her spine. For a moment, she wanted to go peek inside the vehicle. See if perhaps her uncle had left the toy he’d stolen in there. Just as she was about to get off her bike, however, a car drove up the street.
It was another unfamiliar car, a shiny gray Acura sedan. As it passed, Venus couldn’t help but notice a rental sticker on its trunk. It parked in front of the Bergeron place, the driver being especially careful to stay away from other vehicles. The woman who stepped out was not an experienced driver, that much was clear.
With brown hair and wearing a gray suit, the woman looked to be in her late twenties. Too young to be one of the Bergerons’ friends. She glanced around for a moment, making eye contact with Venus. After an uncomfortable beat, the woman double-checked her phone for the address, a poor excuse to look at something else and break the awkwardness. Without looking back up, she made her way t
o the front door, where she was greeted and allowed in without question.
For the second time that day, Venus decided not to express her condolences. Between her uncle’s bizarre behavior, a house full of strangers, and simply not wearing the right clothes, she decided that this wasn’t her place.
Then again, the same could be said of Saint-Ferdinand.
RANDY
A CHILL WENT down Randy’s spine. Though it was a relatively cool night, sweat began to bead all over his body. He would much rather be rid of this unsavory task in the daylight. But at least the cemetery was out of the way, and most of the village had gone on to the reception to offer their condolences to William and Beatrice. Everyone, that is, but his niece, Venus, whose bicycle he’d noticed outside the graveyard as he’d driven away from Audrey’s burial plot.
It was pointless to hope she hadn’t seen him taking the stuffed bear from the grave, but that was a problem for another day. The business at hand would require his full attention, something that would be difficult enough given that it was past midnight and the old graveyard made him so uneasy.
It wasn’t that Randy had a problem with dead bodies. Part of his job was to perform the occasional autopsy or, as he’d been called to do the previous week, identify and sort through the bodies of the recently and not-so-recently deceased. What made the medical examiner nervous wasn’t the dark, either, though it certainly didn’t help. Nor was he superstitious. Superstition was fear born of ignorance, and he knew better.
No, what made Randy’s nerves fray was what would become of him if he were discovered, or worse, what would happen if he failed at his task. If the townsfolk learned what he was about to do to Audrey, their current rage toward Sam Finnegan, who had merely placed the girl’s dead body in a fridge, would be redirected at Randy. They wouldn’t understand.
Still, the doctor set himself to the task. First, he carefully removed the toys that covered Audrey’s grave. As emotional as this initial step might be, it was by far the easiest. He kept his mind busy by trying to memorize the exact position of each stuffed animal so that he could move them back into place once his work was complete.
Then came the more physical part of his job. Randy wasn’t an athletic man, and the two hours that followed underlined that fact. Measuring five feet nine inches, he had nurtured a modest but growing pot belly over the last two decades. As a result, his cardiovascular ability was far below what was necessary to shovel six feet of dirt off the child-sized casket. Thankfully, his arms had remained somewhat powerful; otherwise, he doubted he could have finished the job.
Having cleared off the coffin, Randy allowed himself a few moments to rest. Sitting at the edge of the hole he’d just dug, he stared at the box inside, where they’d put little Audrey’s body less than a day ago. It seemed to glow as the light of the moon hit the glossy white surface.
Once he caught his breath, Randy jumped back into the hole and stood on top of the coffin. He whispered an apology that seemed directed at the sightless stone cherub on the headstone above him, then struck downward with his shovel. The wood on the lid cracked like thunder. The doctor waited a few moments in silence, his ears pricked, listening for any reaction to the noise. Apart from the occasional cricket, however, it was quiet.
“Well, here’s hoping no one exhumes you again anytime soon, darling.” He was surprised at how loud the words sounded in the night air, but if anyone were going to hear his activities this far from town, they already would have.
Randy pried loose the top of the coffin. Underneath lay Audrey Bergeron’s body. His own autopsy had revealed that her little heart had given out while she’d been riding her bicycle. The scratches and bruising indicated that she’d fallen from her ride, but the pattern of her wounds suggested she’d been limp and probably unconscious when she fell. Finnegan claimed that he’d found her on his way home from the bar and, not wanting to abandon Audrey on the side of the road, had taken her with him. The child’s bike was recovered where Sam claimed he’d stumbled upon the body, and the medical examination supported his story. Oddly, Audrey’s death was the only one that seemed to weigh on Old Sam Finnegan’s shoulders, even though he had nothing to do with it.
It was difficult to look down at her and not expect Audrey to sit up and giggle. Even in the pale moonlight it seemed as if there were life in her tiny frame. A sudden, irrational fear took hold of Randy. Carefully, he kneeled down and gently peeled back her left eyelid with his thumb. What he was looking for in the child’s dead eyes no other medical examiner could have seen. In fact, only a handful of people alive would have believed, let alone understood, what the doctor was searching for.
“Still in there?” he mumbled to the cadaver. “Good girl.”
Reassured, Randy reached up and grabbed the leather bag he had left by the grave. He carefully untied the straps that kept the worn, tanned flaps closed, and opened the bag with reverence. In it, he found a handful of crude iron nails. Roughly four inches long, each seemed to have been forged long ago. A thick layer of oil prevented them from corroding. The doctor pulled out four of these nails before closing the bag and exchanging it for a hammer he had also brought with him. It, too, was an antique, its iron head worn and chipped, the wooden handle gray with age.
Gently, Randy laid down the tools on Audrey’s chest. He carefully took off the child’s shoes and then socks. The doctor picked up a handful of dirt from the loose soil around him and smelled it. Satisfied, he then vigorously rubbed the bottoms of the corpse’s feet with the earth, only stopping once both were thoroughly black with dirt. Anyone watching him would have wasted no time labeling the doctor a madman. Yet he still had one last insanity to perform. There was no point in stopping now. He kept reminding himself it was for the best.
With a deep sigh of resignation, Randy picked up the hammer and a single nail. Aligning the point of the nail between the middle metatarsals, he expertly drove it through the soft white skin of the child’s right foot. In two hits, the nail had gone straight through the delicate little extremity.
Either tears or sweat blurred the medical examiner’s eyes. Randy brushed the moisture away, picked up a second nail, and repeated the process on Audrey’s left foot. He then took up a third nail and touched its tip to her right eye, but hesitated. He cocked his head as if listening to a silent voice, then said, “Don’t worry, darling; you’ll be able to see in a second.”
Then he hammered the nail into her eye. Before he could take stock of what he had done, he picked up the final nail and drove that one through her left eye.
The deed was done. Randy McKenzie stood over his handiwork. He knew his actions were an abomination. All of it, a clear violation of the law, common decency, and his personal and professional ethics. Yet, despite the atrocities he had just committed, to have done nothing would have been far worse. How could doing the right thing feel so wrong?
Before climbing out of the hole, Randy bent down one last time. Tenderly, he brushed Audrey’s bright blond bangs away from her face. Her lovely eyes were destroyed now, punctured by ugly iron spikes. The doctor touched her cheek one last time before grabbing a pendant from around her neck, a gold medallion with two doves and a candle, and yanking it off.
“Sorry, love. Your father’s going to want proof I did as promised.”
It took most of Randy’s remaining will to pull himself out of the grave. He still had another hour of work ahead of him, refilling the grave and erasing as many traces of his unspeakable activities as possible. Before he started shoveling, however, he picked up one last item he had brought with him and threw it down into the hole. Once that was done, he picked up the shovel and began tossing soil back into the hole, burying little Audrey for the second time and, with her, a worn stuffed bear with a red felt hat.
CROWLEY
“MR. CROWLEY! WHAT an unexpected pleasure. Come in! Come in! Make yourself at home.”
Sam Finnegan gestured toward the door of his cell with an affable smile. He’d been cleaned up
and dressed in fresh clothes. The Saint-Ferdinand police station didn’t exactly have prison uniforms, but someone had found a loose-fitting jumpsuit and T-shirt, along with a pair of white socks and Velcro sandals.
The confessed murderer had spent the past few days recuperating from whatever drunken state he’d kept himself in for the better part of his life. He’d either been less of a drunk or was more resilient than assumed, and had sobered up quickly. Sanity, however, remained an elusive trait. In fact, Crowley quickly noticed that without the drink, Finnegan seemed even more on edge and disconnected from reality than before. He’d transformed from a bumbling, semicoherent old man to a somewhat cunning, ever-regretful husk. Behind his eyes lurked a silent threat while his face was nothing but remorse.
“I am at home, Sam.”
It was a matter of fact. Everyone in town knew how many hours the inspector spent working, whether on duty or not. It went far beyond that, however. While the station physically belonged to the municipality, its soul was Crowley’s. The building, facilities, and even officers were but an extension of himself. A status he’d built out of hard work and good will.
“Right, right . . . Well, welcome anyways,” Sam said. “I’m sure you’re here on business, but I wanted to thank you personally for treating me so well. Especially after . . . well . . .”
“After you spent eighteen years terrorizing my city, murdered . . . How many, Sam? Twenty? Thirty of the people under my care? Including my friend’s daughter?”
“Stephen.” Finnegan stepped up to the door and grabbed on to the bars of his cell. “I didn’t kill Audrey. You gotta believe me.”
Finnegan, the Saint-Ferdinand Killer, had eyes as blue as evening snow. Pale and cold. In them, Crowley wanted to read the man’s soul, but the curtains of madness covered all the important facts. It was tempting to let the old man dangle. Let him suffer in doubt as he’d tortured others with grief. It would serve him right, but Stephen knew that if he wanted to get something from Sam, he’d have to give something first.