by John Moss
She went straight to bed, but she tossed restlessly. The words in the binders echoed through her head in Shelagh Hubbard’s voice. Miranda felt she had been given an extensive tour of the innermost recesses of a psychopath’s mind and could not find her way out again. She had been enthralled as she read and disturbed to find herself understanding Morgan’s nearly lethal fascination.
Shelagh Hubbard’s prose was detached and precise. She described selecting her victims for their resemblance to the mutilated prey of murderers already on display. She described stalking her victims, befriending them, luring them to the chamber, poisoning them, bleeding and embalming the bodies, waxing, reconstructing their features, all as if she were recording daily activities in a diary. She wrote very well, with a curious blend of passion and restraint. Morgan had suggested all three binders read with the contrived disengagement of applications for scholarly grants, but he had missed the strong personality, evident by its absence. Staring into the darkness, Miranda could feel Shelagh Hubbard somewhere in the room. She did not believe in ghosts, but she recognized how inseparable in her mind the woman was from death itself.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Fire Road #37
Miranda woke up confused by images of the undead that flickered on the borders of consciousness. The undead. In the real world people were either dead or they were not. Life and death were mutually exclusive. There was being and non-being, with nothing between, except zombies and vampires. Nonsense, she thought. A stick of celery in the refrigerator was dead, but it had being — it existed. A body existed, no less in the world as a corpse than when it was alive. The Jewish man from the States and the young lesbian student who were posed in Shelagh Hubbard’s grotesque parody of the eternal embrace were more real from certain perspectives after they had died than before.
That is the problem with working homicide: the bodies have more significance than the lives they led. Miranda shuddered. We have that in common, she thought. Shelagh Hubbard and I, we both see life through the eyes of the dead.
The telephone rang.
“Morgan? Thank God it’s you. I’ve been thinking — ”
“What a destructive thing to do, this hour of the morning.”
“It really is. Is there such a thing as philosophical morbidity?”
“Philosophy is morbid by definition. Any concern with the meaning of life is inseparable from knowing how it all turns out.”
“That’s pretty profound for seven a.m.”
“What’s the problem?”
“What? Oh, I was lying here ruminating. I think I’m like Shelagh Hubbard in some ways. It’s very distressing.”
“I told you, she’s like my ex-wife. More so, the more we know of her. And you are nothing like Lucy at all. Ergo, you and the genius of depravity are nothing alike. You have nothing in common with Shelagh Hubbard except you both find me quite attractive.”
“She found you resistible, Morgan. I’ve read her account of your night at the farm.”
“And you?”
“You’ve got good bones.” She shuddered. “But I find you more useful alive. What’s up?”
“Up?”
“You called me.”
“Did I?”
“Yes.”
“I got a wake-up call from the superintendent. London’s in an uproar. It appears certain effigies in Madame Renaud’s Chamber of Horrors are human cadavers with a wax veneer. The museum has been closed down while every figure in the place is punctured with needles in a search for human tissue. It seems the tabloids are having a field day. They’ll even have to test out the queen in her various ages and stages. The British love cheeky scandals.”
“It’s only figures of murder victims who were replaced with corpses. I made that clear to Scotland Yard. Why bother with the rest? Shelagh Hubbard’s only interest was to replicate the obviously dead.”
“Also — ”
“There’s an also?”
“This morning’s Globe has a story buried — ”
“No,” said Miranda. “They’ve picked up on Alexander’s Virgin, haven’t they?”
“They have. How did you know?”
“Don’t you read waiting at the supermarket checkout? That’s how I keep up with current events.”
“Yeah, well the Globe names Pope as an authority on apparitions. As I read it, the Virgin Mary has appeared on a plaster wall of his church. Why, I cannot imagine. If she wanted to communicate with believers, why such an inept mode of expression? You’d think between Mary and God they could come up with something a little more substantial than blobs on a wall.”
“They work in mysterious ways, the celestials.”
“They do. But Alexander Pope seems unmystified. He’s declared the manifestation nothing more than a seepage stain from a fresco underneath the plaster. Sounds to me like he’s getting a bit of publicity for his reclamation project.”
“Which I cannot imagine he wants.”
“It depends, doesn’t it, on his motivation for restoring the paintings? It may be a labour of love, but love for what?”
“For a job well done? For giving us back a bit of our past?”
“You can’t give back the past. By definition.”
“Morgan, it’s too early for pedantry. What’s past is prologue, et cetera. Can I go now?”
“No. I called to tell you three things. Ready for number three?”
“Shelagh Hubbard’s been arrested?”
“No, but close.”
“Sighted?”
“Almost. They’ve found her car.”
“Where?”
“In the bush. Someone phoned Officer Singh — ”
“ Our Officer Singh? Peter the Pointer?”
“The same.”
“Why him? Was the car found in Owen Sound?”
“No, in scrub bush near Penetanguishene. It was an anonymous call — probably a local hiker. The boss asked us to drive up and take a look.”
“There was blood, of course.”
“Apparently.”
“Morgan, do you trust anything about this woman? It’s a set-up. What’s a little blood? She’s a master of special effects made from authentic materials. She’s still writing the story. She’s leading us on a wild goose chase. This is more fun for her than playing with corpses; she gets to manipulate real cops. Maybe you were her inspiration.”
There was silence on the other end of the line.
“Morgan?”
“I’m thinking.”
“About?”
“I think she’s been abducted; she could be dead.”
“When you play with life and death, you don’t easily give up control.”
“Are you thinking like yourself or like her right now?”
“As I said, I’m not sure there’s a difference, Morgan.”
“That’s scary.”
When they arrived at the scene, Morgan walked around the abandoned car in concentric circles, starting from a point where the car could barely be seen and slowly closing in. Miranda circumscribed the scene in an expanding spiral, beginning at the car and moving gradually outwards. The OPP had done the forensics, photographed the scene minutely, and as a courtesy had waited for them to appear before towing the car away.
Peter Singh, who turned up immediately after they arrived, explained in a low voice to the officer in charge that this is what made them such a formidable team. He made swirling motions with the index finger of one hand on the palm of the other, trying to replicate their complementary circuits.
“As fine an example of the difference between inductive and deductive investigation techniques as you’re likely to find,” he offered, going on to declare their legendary status. The OPP sergeant listened politely. She had never heard of them. But she was experienced enough not to expect a great revelation when they completed their perambulations and approached. Singh, however, anticipated a major pronouncement, and was briefly disappointed when neither had much to say.
“Is there anyth
ing else?” asked the sergeant. “Do you want to catch up over at detachment headquarters? I don’t think there’s anything we haven’t already sent on.”
Miranda bent down and peered in through the open door on the passenger side of the car. Morgan followed with his eyes on the trail that led through spindly hardwoods and gnarled cedars to the fire road they came in on that ran alongside a dense and orderly array of pines in a reforestation project. He shook his head.
“No,” he said. “That’s about it. I think we’ll head back.”
Miranda looked up and concurred. “Thanks for waiting,” she said. “Let us know if anything turns up. She’s long gone, wherever she is.”
“Okay,” said the OPP sergeant. “Sorry it wasn’t more productive. It’s a long drive.” She turned to the truck operator. “Let’s haul her away.”
Miranda and Morgan and Peter Singh stood in a small group to the side, watching the tow truck jockey into position, crushing scrub foliage in the process. Once it got a good purchase on Shelagh Hubbard’s car, the sergeant signalled goodbye and hopped in beside the driver, hitching a ride out to the highway where her cruiser was parked.
“Did you see that?” said Morgan, focusing for the first time on their friend from Owen Sound Police Services.
“What?” asked Peter Singh, pleased to be included.
Morgan looked at the young officer’s turban and smiled, wondering how he managed to get enough headroom in a car. He held himself tall, and the turban added several inches to his height.
“My turban,” said Singh. “Is it not clean?”
“Oh, yes,” Morgan answered. “Good to see you.” He reached out his hand and gave Peter Singh a hearty handshake, much to the latter’s bewilderment, since he had been on the scene for a half an hour or more.
“What is it I saw?” asked Singh.
“You can see this spot from the gravel road, there.”
“Yes, the fire road, number 37, for fighting forest fires.”
“But you can’t see it from the highway.”
“No,” said Singh. “The fire road has not been graded since last year. That is why we both parked at the side of the highway.”
“And?” Miranda wanted Morgan to finish his thought.
“And, it means I agree with you.”
“That’s nice. About what?”
“That Shelagh Hubbard set up this whole thing. She wanted the car to be discovered, just not too soon. She could be pretty sure no one would travel the fire road until the weather turned. Spring brings out hikers. Is it fishing season yet?”
“Walleye, last weekend, I think, said Peter Singh.
“I’ll bet there’s good water back there beyond the pine grove. She knew someone would come through. She could have driven another thirty feet and it might have been years before anyone found her car.”
“Glad to have you on side,” said Miranda. She paused, smiled at Peter Singh, and asked him, “Did you notice anything peculiar about the bloodstains in the car?”
“They weren’t hers?”
“Oh, yes, they were. You can count on it.”
“They were on the back seat?”
“Yes, but that’s where you’d expect them to be if she’d been abducted. There or the trunk.”
“And?” said Morgan. The two men looked at her expectantly, and for a brief moment she enjoyed the suspense.
“You didn’t look inside the car, Morgan.”
“I knew you would. So…?”
“The blood was spattered, not smeared.”
“Yeah?”
“Neat drops of blood distributed in a strategic design. Too neat, too strategic.”
“Then if she did it herself,” said Peter Singh, “how did she get out of here?”
“There had to be another vehicle,” Morgan suggested.
“That’s what we’re to assume. But Morgan, did you see any evidence in your meandering of a place where a car turned around?”
“Maybe he backed out,” said Morgan.
“Who?” Miranda asked.
“The person who abducted her,” said Peter Singh.
“Or he left his car parked at the road,” Morgan offered.
“Too suspicious.”
“He could have backed out,” said Morgan.
“Who?” said Miranda. “Listen to you two. I thought I had you convinced she staged this. She walked out. People walk. This isn’t a conspiracy.”
“Okay, so once she got to the highway, what then?” Morgan asked.
“She could have had a bicycle with her. No one notices someone on a bike. She looked in pretty good shape. She was in very good shape, wasn’t she, David?”
“Wherever she’s got to, she must have had transportation — maybe another car stashed near here or back at her farm.”
“We can check the registration,” suggested Peter.
“I don’t imagine she’d use her own name,” Miranda answered.
“Oh.”
“I like the bicycle explanation,” said Morgan. “But she’d need the other vehicle. This seems an extravagant device, dumping her car.”
“It’s ten years old, Morgan. I’ll bet she replaced it with a sports car.”
“A Jag.”
“I doubt it. Maybe a Miata.”
“There was a bicycle,” said Peter Singh, grasping imaginary handle bars. “I remember a very old CCM beside the back door.”
The layout of the summer kitchen came back to Morgan. “There were two bikes,” he said.
“No, for sure I know there was one bike only.”
“One bike, an old one,” said Miranda. “With a dropped crossbar, red with black piping, CCM, wide handlebars.”
“Not two?”
“No.”
“Well, there you are. She made her getaway on an all-terrain model.”
“Unisex, blue, wide tires with whitewalls?”
“Yes.”
“It was leaning against the inside back wall of the drive shed.”
“Oh, she moved it. There goes my theory.”
“Not at all, Morgan. It reinforces it, circumstantially. She had a bike, she rode it somewhere. It just means her other car was back at the farm, not somewhere closer.”
“Precisely,” said Morgan.
Peter was fascinated and a little annoyed. As soon as the OPP had left, the dynamic duo had swung into action, but not before. He had wanted them to be impressive, verifying his acumen as a judge of their worth, but they had waited until now to display their considerable skills. Still, he was flattered to be there.
“I think before you leave these parts of the country,” he said in an eager voice, “you would like to go to the church where the Virgin Mary is appearing. I have been there already and it is very strange. She can be seen by believers and non-believers alike.”
“In Beausoleil?” Miranda responded. “We know the man who discovered her.”
“The Virgin?”
“The image. He’s a friend of ours.”
“The man who is restoring the beautiful walls?”
“Reclaiming them, yes. His name is Alexander Pope.”
“I saw him there. I introduced myself. There were many, many people. He seemed quite disturbed, and he was relieved to see my uniform. This was today, on my way here. Very indirectly. He thought I would keep the people away, but I explained my jurisdiction is Owen Sound, not Beausoleil. Still, I helped him set up a barricade to keep them back. He was most gracious.”
“Okay, Morgan? Let’s go and see what Alexander’s come up with.”
“It could be a scam to raise funds for his project.”
“He’s got money. He has angels behind him.”
“Haven’t we all!”
Several concessions before they got to Beausoleil, even before the church spire was in sight, they noticed the traffic. Normally on a back road like this there might be the odd pickup or a tractor rumbling along, hauling farm implements or a hay wagon. But a modest congestion of cars such as this w
as remarkable. Morgan and Miranda parked a ten-minute walk from the church, but Peter Singh, who had followed them in his clearly marked cruiser, picked them up and drove right to the door, where he double-parked with the unabashed authority of his office.
What Morgan noticed most was the silence. There were crowds milling around in clusters outside, and parallel streams of people shuffling in one side of the double-door archway at the front and out the other, having organized themselves spontaneously to give everyone the opportunity to witness the apparition. But there was virtually no conversation among them. It was eerie how quiet they were. Even the children played noiselessly, either in deference to their parents’ solemnity or in imitation of their awestruck behaviour.
With Officer Singh leading, the three of them slipped through and into the building. The crowd was moving in an orderly column down the centre of the nave, so they cut behind the pillars to the side and past the frescoes they had seen before, all of them now beautifully illuminated. The scaffolding was still against the wall beneath the fourth panel that Alexander Pope had been working on a fortnight ago. The plaster had been peeled off entirely. Sister Marie Celeste appeared to be hovering in mid-air, toes pointed like a ballet dancer to display additional stigmata where nails had been thrust through the flesh of her elongated feet. Smaller figures could now be seen toiling at the ordinary tasks of a farming community. She was clearly one of them, yet divinely enhanced, with size and evanescent colour and an ethereal demeanour testifying to her inspired estrangement from the world.
Alexander Pope was standing in front of the window beside the fifth and final panel, which, from the oblique angle of their approach, was nothing more than hand-smoothed white plaster. He seemed an ambiguous presence. He might have been a security guard or Charon at the gates of Hades. He looked haggard, as if he had not rested in a long time, and yet somehow triumphant. Was this, Morgan wondered, what he had secretly been working for all along? The adulation of the masses for the gift of his genius?
Yet no one seemed to be paying him much attention, apart from responding to his solitary posture, facing away from the wall, as a warning not to approach too closely.
When Pope saw them, his wan smile suggested long-suffering forbearance. Miranda gave him an awkward hug, Morgan shook hands, and Peter Singh made incomprehensible gestures meant to indicate he had returned under forces over which he had no control, his pantomime ending with an open-palmed shrug.