by J-F. Dubeau
“So the inspector has a son?” Hagen said, delighted. “See? It was worth my dropping in here after all. A refreshing drink, good conversation, and a bit of work done.”
Hagen got up and fished in his pockets, pulling out five dollars in bills and coins before putting them on the counter. “Maybe I’ll see you guys around. Thanks for the float, Penelope,” he said, putting special emphasis on her full name before leaving with a wink and a smile.
The teenagers watched as the door closed. After a beat, Abraham turned to Penny.
“I’ll have another sundae if you don’t mind.”
Penny rolled her eyes, exasperated at her friend’s voraciousness.
“What?” asked Abe, sincerely confused.
VENUS
VENUS CARRIED A large bucket of water from the back door of her home and across the yard. As her arms strained not to spill the contents, she gave her father the stink eye. It wasn’t that Paul McKenzie didn’t offer to help, which was all part of his “hands-off” parenting style, but that he almost seemed to be openly mocking her intentions. As was often the case on these devastatingly hot days, he’d decided to close the tea shop for the afternoon. After all, scorching weather didn’t do much for hot beverage sales. Both of Venus’s parents had considered selling gourmet ice tea in the summer, but winter sales more than made up for slower months. There was no need to be greedy, they said.
Despite what everyone thought of Paul’s laid-back attitude, Venus’s father was a surprisingly hard worker. While his wife took care of the tea shop, he kept himself busy by creating handmade furniture for local businesses, tourists, and connoisseurs of artisanal carpentry. He also restored antique pieces and sold them back to antiquity shops in Montreal. His work was prized and admired by the nouveaux riches that inhabited the trendier parts of the metropolis. But this afternoon, he was taking the day off.
“You sure you want to move in there? Doesn’t seem that comfortable to me!” he shouted to Venus.
“Is that a parental decree?” she shouted back, huffing and puffing as she dragged the pail to her new home.
“Not at all,” Paul said, and laughed. “That wouldn’t be cool. You do what you gotta do, man. It’s just a real shitty shed.”
Venus dropped the bucket next to an arsenal of cleaning products she had already assembled at the door of the shed. Half the water spilled into the grass, but she didn’t seem to care. She dumped some all-purpose soap into the water and stirred it with a rag.
“Don’t care. I just want my own space for a while, Dad.”
Paul leaned back and kicked off his sandals before taking a swig of his lemonade. He’d always tried to raise Venus as an independent thinker. He and his wife figured there was nothing they could teach their daughter that life experience wouldn’t teach better. So far, the experiment had been rewarding. Venus was a smart and resourceful young woman. She had grown into more of a friend than a child. The three of them could talk and relate in a way most families didn’t, and he really felt like she was comfortable telling him anything. Sometimes, though, especially over the last year, Venus would announce that she would rather have “normal” parents. During those episodes, Paul thought it best to just let her have her way. Until it passed.
“Groovy,” he said. “Let me know if you need a hand.”
The job of cleaning out the shed was colossal, and Venus quickly decided that it would take more than one day. Simply emptying out all the broken-down junk that had accumulated over the years took the better part of two hours. To her delight, she found that the storage area was wired for electricity. An old electric lawn mower was still plugged into the single outlet. A simple test quickly confirmed that it had current, opening up a whole new realm of possibilities for her future domicile.
Soon after, Venus stumbled upon an unexpected surprise. Hidden deep behind the disused gardening equipment and forgotten lawn care products, where no one should have been able to find it, sat a bird’s nest, complete with five perfect eggs. Venus couldn’t figure out how a bird might have found its way into the shed, but it was a clever hiding place. She left it where it was.
It was only after another hour of vigorously sweeping and scrubbing the floor and walls that she saw the nest’s owner. Venus had been focused on her task of ridding a corner of cobwebs and dirt when a loud chirp echoed through the shed, nearly making her jump out of her skin. She turned to look but couldn’t recognize the species. Venus could pick out a blue jay or a red cardinal, but on average, if the bird’s name wasn’t color-coded, they all looked the same to her. This particular specimen was especially boring. A football-shaped bundle of gray feathers topped with a tiny head and eyes that reflected very little intelligence. However, the animal’s behavior enthralled Venus. It danced around its nest, chirping and flapping its wings to defend the unborn chicks.
Quickly but carefully, Venus abandoned the shed, coming back a few minutes later with her arms full of electronic equipment. Her hygienic endeavors had been forgotten in favor of an entirely different project. Her father, bearing witness to her rapid change in focus, bit his lip to stifle a laugh. Smart but scattered, that was his daughter.
Penny arrived just as Venus was plugging in the last cables to her setup. She looked appraisingly at the complete disaster the McKenzies’ yard had become. Cleaning products littered the lawn among piles of discarded junk.
Penny walked into the shed to see her friend perched on a stool, tying up some wires into neat bundles. The older girl held out a plastic cup of half-melted ice cream and put on her most disapproving glare.
“Y’know, Veen, for a straight-A student, you sure come up with stupid ideas.”
Venus was startled and nearly fell off her perch. “What are you talking about? This is a great idea.” The younger girl hopped off her stool and accepted the dripping treat.
“Oh, sure! If you’re planning on getting twelve more cats or writing a manifesto.”
“Speaking of cats,” said Venus, glancing around the area. “Have you seen Sherbet?” Sherbet was the name Venus had given to her smoke-gray half-Persian cat.” I don’t want him getting into the eggs.”
Penny gave her friend the same kind of look most people reserved for those with diminished capacities. “What are you even talking about? I thought you were moving into this . . . place, and now you’re going on about eggs?” She switched to a mocking tone. “Are you medicated? Should you be?”
“I don’t take drugs,” Venus said. “And I found this nest at the back of the shed and there’re eggs in it. Never seen this kind of bird around here. I want to see the babies when they hatch and how the mother takes care of them. So I’m installing a camera. Maybe I’ll cut the footage and put it on the Internet.”
“So you’re going to be spying on a bird in your own empty shed through your computer?” Penny asked, leaning on a wall while picking at her own cup of ice cream. “Oh yeah, that’ll really get back at your parents.”
“I guess. I don’t know. I just . . . I feel like it’s their fault I get picked on so much.”
“You get teased because you’re in high school. Everyone does. Besides, your parents aren’t that weird. I mean, they’re . . . unique, but in a cool way.”
“Unique?” said Venus, sitting back down on her stool. “You and Abraham only see the surface. Paul and Virginie aren’t just unique; they’re downright bizarre!”
“Oh?” Penny raised an eyebrow.
“They keep bursting into scenes from back in their theater days. And I don’t mean once in a while when they’re bored. I mean all the time. Do you know how annoying it is to hear Andrew Lloyd Webber at breakfast three days in a row?”
Penny giggled. “I can’t imagine, no.”
“They keep acting like horny teenagers, too. How awkward is that? I’m their daughter, not some . . . roommate! It’s gross.
“Do you remember last summer? When they up and left for three weeks without warning? Just a note on the fridge. ‘Dear Venus, gone on vacat
ion. Back soon. Money on the dresser for food.’ Aren’t there laws against that sort of thing?”
Penny was suddenly lost in her own family reminiscence. Her smile changed from amusement to melancholy as her eyes stared into the past.
“Oh . . . Penny. I’m so sorry.” Venus covered her mouth in embarrassment. “I’m such an ass . . . ,” She grabbed her friend in a tight hug. “I’m so selfish.”
“It’s fine. Just, y’know, remembering.” Penny shook her head. “Living vicariously through you.”
Venus finally let her go. “Fine, you can borrow Paul for the weekend. We barely use him anyways.”
“Funny. Still, you do have it pretty good, Veen.” She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. “My dad being gone aside, I don’t see my mom very often. She got home so late last night and left so early this morning, I didn’t even cross paths with her. Choosing work over her daughter yet again.”
“Okay, you’re right. I do have it good,” Venus said. “So . . . how high on the self-absorption meter did I score this time?”
“Nine? Nine point five?” the older girl confirmed with a smile. “That your bird?”
The mother bird had waddled through a small hole at the back of the shed that, with much effort, allowed her to come in and out. She looked around with apprehension, carefully moving toward her nest while glaring at the girls.
“That’s just a partridge. They’re absolutely everywhere around the Richards farm.”
“How come I haven’t seen one before?” Venus asked, trying to justify her ignorance.
“I don’t know. Maybe because you hate nature and stay indoors playing on your computer all the time?” Penny nudged her with her elbow. “Why don’t you join me at work tomorrow and we can go watch movies at my place with my mom when I’m done? Maybe that’ll remind you how boring normal parents actually are.”
GABRIELLE
GABRIELLE LAFOREST USUALLY didn’t walk home from work. In the wintertime she took her car, but during the summer, rain or shine, she made a point of taking her bicycle. Not that she was a dedicated athlete, but she liked to stay fit and her schedule didn’t allow her much time for exercise. So she made do with what she had, and the most efficient thing she could come up with was cycling.
It was a hobby she wished she could share with her daughter. While they were close, especially since Gabrielle’s husband had passed away nearly five years ago, they didn’t have much time to share common interests. Gabrielle was extremely busy putting food on the table, and as Saint-Ferdinand’s sole notary, her days and evenings were often full.
So it was particularly frustrating that Gabrielle’s bike chain had broken just as she’d left the office. She had planned on dropping by to see her daughter, Penny, for a cone sprinkled with a bit of quality time, but the broken chain had sabotaged those plans. At this rate, it would be well after dark by the time she got finished walking home. Twilight had already descended, and she could barely see the road in front of her as the sun bid its final farewell to the horizon.
Not much more than a week ago, Gabrielle would have been hesitant to walk alone after dark on such an isolated road. She would have jogged to the nearest farm, eyes peeled for shadowy figures, and begged for a ride. She would have gotten it too, no questions asked, even if her Good Samaritan didn’t know her very well. No one wanted to be responsible for the next Saint-Ferdinand murder victim.
Tonight that threat was gone. Sam Finnegan was behind bars, and while there were still many issues to resolve, such as finalizing the list of victims (of which her late husband might be one), the danger was behind them. There was an intoxicating giddiness at being able to walk alone in the night. Part of it, she had to admit, was the thought of seeing the monster who had nearly ruined her life hang for his crimes.
Gabrielle still had roughly half an hour of walking ahead of her. The lights from the Richards farm were far behind her, and she could see the glow of familiar porch lights from the Demers’ stables ahead. Her little house was just beyond that, at the edge of a small residential area on the north end of town. Though it looked close, she knew from experience that the distance was deceiving.
She was surprised when her meditative solitude was interrupted by a voice. The sound was so faint, so ethereal, that at first she thought she’d imagined it.
A familiar panic set in. All the fears that had plagued her for eighteen years rose from their grave, more powerful and more real than ever. Then she heard the voice again, and her soul was gripped with a different kind of terror.
The voice was that of a little girl. The words it repeated were unintelligible, but the recent death of Audrey Bergeron had left a deep scar on the community. Especially on those parents who had daughters of their own.
So Gabrielle’s motherly instinct overcame her fears, and she walked toward the voice. She had to step off the road and jump across a ditch, walking several yards into the forbidding shadows of the forest. As she looked behind every tree, she expected to find a wounded or lost little girl, terrified and alone, much like she thought Audrey must have been the night she died.
Before long, Gabrielle was deep enough among the trees that she could barely see the road anymore. She stopped, listening carefully for the voice. Again, silence was her only answer. Not even the rustling of animals or the chirps of insects could be heard. She was about to dismiss the whole incident when she saw the little girl.
She was a tiny little thing, with alabaster skin and pale ivory hair. She was wearing her Sunday best, but her feet were bare. Crude iron nails had been driven through the milky flesh and into the ground beneath her. Similar nails had been rammed into her eye sockets. In her arms she held a stuffed bear with a bright red felt hat.
As Gabrielle stared in stunned silence, the apparition spoke one more time. They were the same words as before, but she could now make them out clearly: “Run away . . .”
CROWLEY
CROWLEY STOOD AT HIS DESK. His office was air-conditioned, but still, beads of sweat were racing down his broad back before being absorbed by the cotton of his light brown shirt. He’d been standing like this for a few moments. Dedication commanded him to make the call, but fear of losing control of the touchy situation begged him to stay his hand. His thick fingers brushed the receiver of the office phone in almost soothing strokes.
The eyes. He could feel them on his back, freezing him in place, watching him through the window to his office. The entire station was tracking his every move. Officers from neighboring municipalities, the medical staff from Sherbrooke Hospital . . . Even his own staff was frozen. Waiting for him to make his next move, to give his next order.
First, however, he had to make the decision.
Crowley’s own eyes, tired as they were, could not look away from the corkboard behind his voluminous but tattered leather chair. It was filled with photos—photos of the eyes from the Finnegan crime scene were the freshest additions to the mosaic, but there were other things. Other eyes not from the crime scene.
The inspector pulled his fingers off the receiver, slapping a hand on the back of his neck to secure his choice, then turned to face his audience. The decision was made, the events set in motion.
“All right.” He addressed the exhausted professionals assembled in his precinct as he stepped out of his office. “It’s been a rough day. It’s going to be just as rough tomorrow. Anyone from out of town who doesn’t want to go home, ask Jackie, the lovely brunette at the front desk, and she’ll tell you where you can go for the night. There’s some room at the bed-and-breakfast down the street for a few people; for the rest, we got some locals to volunteer a spare bedroom.
“Because of the scale and duration of Finnegan’s murder spree, there’s good reason to think he might have been working with someone else. So before you go, I need to lay some ground rules.”
A rumble went through the assembly. Everyone in town wanted to believe the nightmare was finally over. Sam Finnegan had agreed to confess. The bodies had be
en found. The crime scene was under investigation. It was over. All that needed to be done was the cleanup. After nearly two decades of endless investigation, why could the inspector not let this one rest?
“I hope I’m wrong, but just to stay on the safe side, we need to keep the investigation out of the media until we know more. We do our jobs right, and we’ll either catch the accomplice or prove there wasn’t one in the first place. We fuck up, and there could be another murderer on the loose.”
Nods of approval replaced shrugs of confusion. The troops were reenergized, focused once more on the task. Years of coaching Little League for his son had done wonders for Stephen Crowley’s ability to inspire a small crowd. They would wake up early and be back at it tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. As long as it took to get all the clues and evidence. More important, everything would go through the inspector. Body parts, autopsy reports, crime scene photography: he would see it all and hopefully find answers to his own questions.
One by one, the officers and volunteers emptied from the station, some waving good-bye, a few taking a moment to shake his hand on the way out. They left behind a battlefield strewn with the eviscerated bodies of doughnut boxes and the bled-out remains of coffeepots. From the cacophony of work was born an almost-absolute silence, broken only by the soft click of the copy machine, signaling that it was out of paper.
Dutiful as always, Jackie started picking up the trash so the office would be ready for the second round of serial murder investigation in the morning.
Crowley considered going home. He’d need energy for the days ahead, and a comfortable, if lonely, bed would be the wisest decision. Unfortunately, when it came to his own health and well-being, Crowley was the kind of man who made bad decisions on the best of days.