Torch Song

by Jo A. Hiestand

  He emerged from the wood where the road bent. To his right, toward his house, he could see the small gleam of his porch light through the swaying tree branches. Why was he rushing about like a flaming berk? What was he trying to prove, either to himself or to Dena? Did he really believe he could find a man who was determined to stay hidden at night?

  The forest lined both sides of the road. The trees were tall and crowded together, brambles and cast-off leaves ankle-deep. Moonlight broke through the meager leafy canopy at irregular, infrequent intervals, but jet-black pockets still clung to the deeper recesses, harboring who-knew-what. McLaren swallowed and turned his eyes to his porch light.

  He’d taken several steps toward the light when he heard Dena calling to him. Her voice floated upwind, wrapped in the scent of pine needles and dry leaves. He yelled a response and dashed back to her.

  She met him at the foot of his drive, a torch in her hand. The brilliant light illuminated the gravel and her shoes. As McLaren jogged up to her, she handed him the torch. “I got it from the kitchen,” she said, her words coming quickly. “I saw him. He doubled back. Ran through the front garden and south, through the field.”

  He shouted his thanks at her and rushed across the lawn and into the open.

  The land stretched before him, open and bright in the moonlight. He vaulted over a low stonewall, exhilarated by the space. The beam of his torch swung in wide arcs ahead of him, picking out thistles and grass tufts and logs. He charged around them, the soft plod of his shoes on the earth a bass line to his unspoken chant. “Got to find him, got to find him, got to find him…”

  At the crest of the hill, he paused. The vista sprawled exposed, the tawny grasses and light gray stone walls silvery streaks beneath the dark sky. No shack or stand of trees offered a hiding place for the intruder. Which way should McLaren go?

  If the man had come this far, he could be huddled behind a section of wall. If he had gone just far enough to convince Dena of his route across the field, he might have doubled back and was even now back on the road.

  McLaren swept the torchlight ahead of him, playing it back and forth over the ground. It was a useless pursuit. He was leaving Dena unguarded.

  He turned toward his house, cursing himself for a fool. They had seen the man near Dena’s car; had he wanted to harm her? If so, McLaren had just given the git an excellent chance.

  He misjudged a dark spot in the soil and stepped into a small depression. He went down on his knee and grabbed it in pain. The night seemed to gather about him once more as he shook off the first wave of unconsciousness. He shook his head, grabbed his torch and stood up. Swearing loudly, he gingerly tested his knee. Nothing seemed broken. He jogged down the hill.

  Dena greeted him at the corner of his house, asking if he’d seen anyone. Noticing his uneven gait, she put her arm around his waist. “I knew I should have gone with you,” she said as they walked over to the front door. “What happened?”

  “I never found the bastard.”

  “No, I mean you. You’re hurt.”

  “Oh, nothing much. Just didn’t see a two-storey deep pit grabbing my foot.” McLaren tried to sound nonchalant but his voice was edged in concern. “You didn’t see anything else, I take it.”

  “Not a thing. I think you scared him off.”

  “At least I’m good for something.”

  “Where have you been, Michael?” They had stopped at the front door and the porch light illuminated the scrapes and cuts on his arms. Dena’s hand went to the doorknob but McLaren pulled her back.

  “It’s nothing. I’ve got something to do, first.” He went to her car and shone the torch beam over every inch of its exterior. Then he got on his stomach and flashed the light along the car’s undercarriage.

  Dena joined him and stood by the boot. Looking at him wriggling around the car, she said, “What are you doing?”

  “Just checking.”

  “Obviously. But for what? And why?”

  He had completed his circuit, got up, and dusted off his hands and clothes. Walking over to her, he said, “That man was here for a reason. He was standing next to your car.”

  “So you were checking to see that everything is all right,” she finished.

  “You didn’t want me to?” His voice came out of the darkness, close to her ear, warm and protective. She nodded and murmured her thanks.

  “I know it all happened quickly, but did you notice anything about him? Bulk of his body or perhaps an estimate of his height as he passed next to the corner of the house?”

  She knew he wanted a lead, something tangible so he could track this phantom. But she shook her head and told him she was sorry.

  “That’s okay, sweets. I saw him, too, and can’t say what he looked like.”

  He unlocked and opened her car door for her when she said, “Do you think my car was second?”

  McLaren paused with his hand on the door handle and stared down at her. “Pardon?”

  “We saw him at the boot of my car. It’s parked behind yours. Maybe he tampered with your car first, then was going to do something to mine, only we came outside too soon, before he could get to both cars.”

  McLaren gave her a nod, then searched his car as he had hers. At the back of the car, under the rear bumper, he located something. He stood up and shone the torch beam on the object.

  “What is it?” Dena asked, peering at his open palm.

  “A transmitter,” he replied, his tone between anger and awe.

  “What’s it transmitting? Who put it there? You?”

  “I think my friend the arsonist put it on my car, and it’s transmitting the route I drive every time I’m in the car and where I live.”

  “Where you live?” Her eyes widened and she grabbed McLaren’s hand.

  “I don’t know any other way my fire bug could track me to find my house.”

  “But when did he put it on?”

  “Early on in the investigation. Monday, probably.”

  “And Monday…when could that have been done?”

  McLaren stared at the road, blacker in the contrast of the torchlight on his palm. “At one of the houses when I talked to someone. Maybe at the pub. Yeah, the pub.” His voice trailed off as he recalled that day. “The man I was to meet there was late in arriving. He could have put the transmitter on my car then. Wouldn’t take but a few seconds.” He stared again at the tiny device. It was a round, plastic case attached to a small collar. The whole thing weighed probably half an ounce. It had been duct taped to the underside of the bumper. He carefully peeled the tape from the pet collar, knowing the tape would be excellent for holding fingerprints, and laid it and the transmitter on a flagstone.

  “I’ve seen those on wildlife shows,” Dena said. “They give out a signal that a hand-held receiver can pick up. That’s how they track” She stopped, aware she was about to compare McLaren to a wolverine or moose.

  “Yeah,” McLaren finished. “These are smaller, I’d bet, than your grizzly bear transmitters. But they’re good for pets or children.” Or even Alzheimer’s patients who might wander off, he thought, wondering if Nora would ever get to that stage. “They have several frequencies, so you can choose a specific channel for your broadcast. The range isn’t that great in town, but here, in open country, it could be around a mile.”

  “No wonder he could track you.”

  They stood in silence for a while, each mentally playing out a scenario. McLaren finally exhaled deeply. “Well, this isn’t helping your early evening. Give me a minute to grab my keys.” He ran into the house and emerged moments later with his jacket and keys.

  “What are you doing?” Dena asked as he helped her into her car and then trotted around to his.

  “Making sure nothing happens to you. I’m following you home.”

  “Michael, that’s not necessary. It’s an hour round trip for you.”

  “I’d rather spend the petrol and the time and know you’re safe than to worry for thirty minutes.
Don’t speed.” He got into his car, started the engine, and fell in behind her as she drove through the night-wrapped wood.

  * * * *

  The trip to Kirkfield was uneventful and McLaren unlocked Dena’s house door for her. He stepped inside, switched on the lights and walked through the house to the sound of Dena’s protestations.

  “I appreciate your concern,” she called out, taking off her jacket. “But it isn’t necessary. Really.” When no answer came, she said, “Michael? You still here?” She headed for the kitchen, the last place she knew he had headed toward, when he walked into the front room again. The door closed with a secure thud. Dena whirled around. “God, Michael, you scared me! Don’t do that!”

  “Sorry.”

  “I thought you were in the kitchen.”

  “Yeah, I was. But I went out the back door and checked out the garden and then walked around the house.”

  Dena shook her head. “No one lurking in the shadows, I assume.”

  He glared at her, his arms across his chest.

  Grimacing, she said, “Sorry. I know you’re concerned. I don’t mean to take it as a joke.”

  “After July’s little episode you think I’d take any of this as a joke?” His arms dropped to his sides and his eyebrow raised. “You think I’m that indifferent?”

  “No. Of course not. I didn’t mean to suggest that. I’m glad for your caring, Michael. Thank you.” She kissed him slowly, pressing herself against him. When they broke apart, she asked if he wanted a cup of coffee.

  “To cool me down?” He smiled and gave her a quick hug. “You wanted an early night, remember? I don’t want you blaming me tomorrow morning that I stayed too long. One more thing, though.” He checked out the remaining rooms in the house, opening closet doors, looking beneath the bed and behind the sofa. He walked through the garage and pronounced that clear, too.

  “Thanks, Michael.” Dena squeezed his hand and kissed him again.

  “If this is my payment, I’ll be over every night to make a sweep through your house.”

  “Out.” She pushed him toward the door.

  “First she offers me coffee, then she shows me the door.”

  “Out. My early night is fast turning into a normal night.”

  He bid her good night to the sound of her light laughter, and waved as he drove off.

  * * * *

  McLaren parked just down the street from Dena’s house and pulled out his mobile. He punched in Jamie’s phone number and thought of the evening’s events while he waited for the phone to be answered. Jamie was a terrific sounding board; he’d help sort through the mess.

  “Mike!” Jamie’s voice cut through McLaren’s contemplation. “What’s going on, mate? You need something?”

  “Can’t a bloke ring up a friend to chat?”

  “Not at this hour. Something’s going on.”

  “This hour? Why? What time is it? Did I wake you?”

  “It’s just on to nine.”

  “Glad to hear I didn’t interrupt your beauty sleep. You need it.”

  “Funny man.”

  He paused, not certain how to bring up the subject. When Jamie asked what McLaren wanted, he answered, “You able to meet me now?”

  “Sure. At the usual?”

  Glancing at his watch, McLaren said, “No. Meet me halfway, if you don’t mind. It’ll save time.”

  “Halfway…why? Where are you?”

  “Kirkfield.”

  “Oh, right. Well, how about Buxton? Take us both about twenty minutes or so to get there. That all right?”

  “Sure. Where?”

  “I don’t care. One spot’s as good as another. The Sleeping Fox?”

  “Super. First one grab a table and the drinks.”

  “That’s an old trick, Mike. I’ll put out an alert with the lads to look for a car traveling under the speed limit along the A515. Get there on time or you’ll buy the next two rounds.” He rang off before McLaren had a chance to comment.

  * * * *

  McLaren had time to think on his drive to the pub. The only logical opportunity anyone could have planted the transmitter on his car was at the pub on Monday. And the only people he talked to there were Miles and Ian. Had either of them a reason to threaten him with arson? Perhaps the more pertinent question was had either of them taped on the transmitter as a favor to someone. If so, that just about included everyone associated with Janet.

  He sang along to “There Is A Time” as the countryside rolled past him. Night lay across the land but it held no fear for him now. He moved through it, the car’s headlights cutting apart the frightening blackness, wrapped in the isolation of a traveler proceeding across the topography and not one with the land. A brook or pond sparkled when the moonlight lay just right upon the water, a quick glint of silver light as he moved past the otherwise dark water, but the bulk of the expanse slept immobile and shadow-shrouded. He glanced at the sky as he passed the turn off for Monyash. The stars winked knowingly, white-hot in the inky region, yet silent as the grave.

  The car tires sent gravel splaying as he drifted onto the verge. He jerked the wheel to the right and the car regained the tarmac. What the hell was he doing? Keep your eyes on the road, you berk, he told himself. You’ll do Dena no good if you wind up in hospital or paralyzed.

  Was he any nearer the solution of the case? He had suspicions but nothing Jamie could take to court. And he was no closer to knowing the identity of his own arsonist after tonight’s mishap than he had been Tuesday night.

  All of it had to be tied together, that was the one obvious thing he had. Would Nora recall anything else from Janet’s past that could give him a lead? He turned off the tape, now in no mood for music. The whole thing depressed him: Nora’s condition, her belief in justice, her struggle to be taken seriously by the police. McLaren slammed his fist onto the steering wheel. Damn everyone who dismissed her, who kept her dangling for five long years. Damn Charlie Harvester for his contempt and ridicule of her.

  McLaren was still fuming when he got out of his car at The Sleeping Fox. He slammed the car door and jammed the key into the lock with a recklessness that belied his usual care with his car. He thought about going home, ringing up Jamie and canceling their talk. He was in no mood for polite conversation but Jamie would end up angry for being dragged away from home.

  He strode across the car park, dodging slow-moving couples and families, his gaze fixed on the local. Several yards from the front door, he stopped. Charlie Harvester was leaving the pub.

  The anger and injustice of last year roared into life; the resentment and pity for Nora welled up in his soul. He closed the gap between them in several swift strides. His blood pounded in his ears, his pulse raced. The unfairness raced back to him and for a few moments McLaren was back in the Staffordshire CID. It was a June night. He drove to the pub owned by his 70-year-old friend. Harvester, the senior investigating officer for the case, was there, looking into the pub break-in. And arresting McLaren’s friend for assaulting the burglar. Their personal history had never been good—more like ice and fire. McLaren, the hard-working, popular officer, always came out on top despite the influence and assumed hand-up Harvester garnered with the help of his high-ranking daddy. The struggle and competition never diminished, whether in police training or in the job. McLaren lived with it, feeling the tension and hatred grow. Years of hatred that had simmered beneath polite conversations and flashed smiles erupted that June night in McLaren’s uncontrollable anger. With Harvester’s men watching, McLaren flung Harvester into a convenient rose bush. Harvester’s rage and embarrassment exploded, cooled only when McLaren resigned from the police.

  McLaren didn’t consciously relive the details; he didn’t have to. They were a part of his personality now. But seeing Harvester before him, the man responsible for his elder friend’s arrest and Nora Ennis’ contemptuous treatment, awakened his feelings and their history. Yet, he would not confront Harvester, he vowed to himself. He would not let Harveste
r win this psychological and emotional war.

  Stopping a yard from the man, McLaren took a deep breath, aware of his racing heartbeat. No matter what happened, he would not create a scene. He would not expose his wound to Harvester. Forcing a smile, he called out, “Always a pleasure seeing you again, Harvester.”

  Harvester turned his head, startled by the voice. Recognizing McLaren, he smirked and hesitated in his stride. “I could say the same about you, McLaren. So, I hear you’re employed…elsewhere now.”

  Despite his anger, McLaren laughed. “Yes. I’ve never been so happy.” He smiled again, assessing the man. Harvester had added some weight since their last meeting, and his hairline had begun to recede. He looked older than his thirty-eight years, the lines around his eyes more pronounced than McLaren remembered. The tops of his hands had aged, dry and veined. A slight stoop suggested itself in the roundness of Harvester’s shoulders and the forward thrust of his head. All in all, not a man who looked to be in his prime. The change fueled McLaren’s determination.

  Harvester inclined his head slightly at McLaren. “So glad to hear it. May I ask what’s caused this flowering of elation?”

  “You know how some cases just speak personally to you? How the victim’s joy or despair becomes your own?”

  Harvester stared at McLaren, not knowing what was coming. He cleared his throat, as though about to speak, but McLaren rushed on. “I’ve met the most engaging woman. Nora Ennis. Despite five years of unhappiness I believe some very good news is around the corner for her and that after all that’s happened to her, the old fashioned ideal of justice is still obtainable.”

  Harvester blanched and swallowed slowly. In spite of his reluctance to show any interest, he stared into McLaren’s eyes.

  “Well, I won’t keep you any longer, Charlie. Just wanted to say hello for old times’ sake.”

  “Glad you did,” Harvester squeaked. McLaren reached the door before Harvester could think. “Please give any of our…mutual friends…my best. Night.” He walked toward his car, his car key jangling in the quiet night.