After what seemed like an extraordinarily long reflection, Ben looked up at Peale. Peale licked his lips nervously. Ben’s face softened.
“Here’s what I can do. The RCMP will take over the investigation as I said they would. I’ll supervise their operation myself. If anything turns up that may be politically damaging but doesn’t tie you to illegal activity, I’ll see that it never becomes public.”
“Thanks, Ben, but you may not recognize what MacFarlane might have. You may overlook it without knowing. I should be there. I’m really the only one who could know the political fallout of a document.”
“Sorry, Fenton. You can’t be there.”
“Ben, that’s not enough. If you want to help, let me look. I have to do it myself. I can’t take the risk that something significant may be discounted.”
“Best I can do, Fenton.”
“Dammit, Ben, you’re being unreasonable.” Peale’s conciliatory posture was falling apart, anger very near the surface.
Ben looked over Peale’s shoulder. Two RCMP constables waited at a distance. He brushed by Peale and headed toward them.
Peale shouted after him: “Ben, what about the press? Townshend?” Fear and desperation had returned.
“He’s not an unreasonable man. I’ll have a reasonable word with him,” he said without looking back.
73.
Anne couldn’t remember her trip to the Queen Elizabeth Hospital in Linda Moore’s truck. She had slept through most of it, and she only vaguely remembered the initial examination and transfer to a general ward for observation. She was awake and alert but physically played out. Her throat was raspy and dry, and she coughed a weak cough. A tendril of hair fell across her eye. She whisked it away with her hand and felt gauze graze her face. Her hands were bandaged. Both of them. She stared at them uncertainly and sighed deeply and sadly as if she had lost a part of herself. She fidgeted in her hospital bed while trying to find a comfortable position. A twinge in her ankle recalled the turn she had taken. She recalled the fire, too, but another fresh memory of it was thankfully interrupted.
“Well, well, Ms. Brown. You’re having a busy week. Two visits in three days, isn’t it?” said Dr. Little. Anne had no time to respond. The doctor tilted her head back and shone a bright light into each eye. “Good, now open,” he said, inserting a tongue depressor into her mouth and examining her throat. “All good.”
“What’s so good about this?” she said sarcastically, holding up her gauze mitts.
“A few stitches. Nothing to be concerned about. What I suppose I meant was…a few more of your accidents, and I can afford another trip to the Caribbean…that is, if you don’t bankrupt the national health care system in the process.”
“Piña coladas, warm sands, steel drums, and eager señoritas, I get it.”
“No, actually, it’s more like dysentery, AIDS, malnutrition, and open sores. I volunteer at a medical mission a couple times a year, and now that you’ve re-entered the land of the quick and sharp-witted, there are a couple of people who would like to say hello. We’ll chat later.”
Detectives Iris Caine and Will Bryant were familiar faces to Anne. They had interviewed her two days before while pursuing the theory that Cutter had been behind the bombing at the gas station.
“What happened?” asked Caine.
Anne’s recitation of events began with her kidnapping by Jamie MacFarlane. Her recollection was cold and dispassionate like reading aloud from a high-school history book. Anne loathed dredging up details of the experience. She knew the pictures would come out dripping with emotion and pain. So she buried them beneath a mask of indifference.
Caine took notes, her face expressionless as well, her eyes intent, and her body scarcely moving, but she didn’t interrupt. Nor did her partner.
Finally, Anne stopped speaking. Caine looked up and saw that no more was forthcoming.
“Is Cutter dead?”
Anne nodded.
“You’re sure?”
“I watched him cook,” said Anne. Her words were flat and devoid of sentiment. Her expression was distant and solemn, and Caine squirmed uncomfortably in her chair.
“And you never saw MacFarlane after he left the cabin?”
“No,” said Anne.
Anne dozed for another hour after the police left. When she awoke she found Ben and Sarah sitting next to her bed.
“Feeling better, dear?” asked Sarah.
“I think I am,” said Anne. She stretched and yawned. She felt rested, even if not completely alert. She remembered everything from the night before, but now it all stood at arm’s length. Her grim adventure had not become diluted, dismissed, or reworked. Now it seemed more like an improbable dream, too fantastic to have occurred, yet too real for a fiction.
“Have you been here long? How did you find out?”
“About half an hour,” said Sarah.
“City Police phoned,” said Ben.
“He’s dead,” said Anne.
“I know,” said Ben. “So is MacFarlane. A house fire as well.”
“Ironic,” said Sarah.
“He got a phone call at the cabin,” said Anne. “Then he left. He was coming back. I’m sure of it.”
“We’ll check the phone records tomorrow. That may fill in some blanks.”
Anne’s new-found clarity dimmed with confusion. “Why tomorrow?”
“Today’s Sunday. Fat chance finding anyone to run with the ball today…especially when it appears to be an accidental death. Plenty of time to get the facts. No rush. Get some rest. Okay?”
Ben’s cell rang. He took the call. He said nothing, but his face lost some colour and turned as stony as his attitude. “Gotta go,” he said.
“Ben?” protested Sarah.
“It’s important.”
“Not again.”
Ben left Sarah at Anne’s bedside. Sarah was quietly angry, and Anne was puzzled, but Ben was in too determined a rush, and he bolted from the room.
A ribbon of yellow police tape shimmered in the sun and fluttered in a cool, light, autumn breeze. Several vehicles stood in front of MacFarlane’s damaged residence. The grey Lexus belonged to Fenton Peale. The two others were police vehicles—one RCMP cruiser, the other from the Stratford Police Department.
The two Mounties stood on the front doorstep. They looked embarrassed and uncomfortable as Ben strode up the concrete walk. The fury in his eyes made the Mounties even more apprehensive.
“I said, nobody, but nobody gets in the house! Why wasn’t that clear enough?”
“Did everything we could but shoot them, Ben. They wouldn’t listen. Peale is Minister of Justice for the Province. He brought them in.”
“He’s a politician. Not a peace officer.”
“But he authorizes who is and who isn’t, and it’s his signature that renews RCMP contracts on PEI. What else could we do?”
“I’ll show you. Let’s go.”
Ben brushed past them and stormed through the front door. The Mounties followed.
“Peale!” Ben shouted and the sound of the name resonated throughout the house. Peale was descending the stairs from the second-storey bedrooms. Ahead of him were Sergeant Schaeffer and another police constable. The constable carried a small cardboard box. It was half-full.
Ben blocked their exit.
“Schaeffer, I told you that the RCMP would be in charge of this site…,” said Ben.
Schaeffer didn’t respond.
“…and the RCMP secured it.”
“Justice Minister Peale countermanded that order. He authorized me to take over the investigation.”
“That’s not going to happen. You,” he said, pointing to the constable, “put that box down.”
The constable froze, but Schaeffer gave him a shove to move ahead and pushed him past Ben.
“You had your chance, Ben.” Fenton Peale’s voice rang with a clear air of authority and determination. “A little cooperation goes a long way. Schaeffer…,” he said, addressing the Sergeant, and nodding for him to keep going.
Ben grabbed the constable with his right hand and shoved Schaeffer back with his left.
“Arrest them. All of them,” said Ben.
The RCMP looked at each other and shrugged. Schaeffer pulled away and swung his fist at Ben. Peale recoiled in surprise. The constable shrank back, stumbled over a carpet edge, and dropped the cardboard box. Ben blocked Schaeffer’s swing and countered with a right to Schaeffer’s mid-section. It went deep into a soft belly, and Schaeffer crumbled to the ground.
“Okay, Ben, you can keep the damn box. It was inconsequential anyway, but this isn’t over yet. I can guarantee that,” said Peale. “Sergeant Schaeffer, constable, c’mon, let’s go.”
“Not so fast. Fenton Peale, Sergeant Ryan Schaeffer, and Constable Whatever-your-name-is—oh yeah, Sam Best,” said Ben looking at the man’s name tag, “You’re all under arrest. Suspicion of tampering with evidence and interfering with a police investigation.”
Ben motioned to the RCMP constables. They appeared slow to react until Ben walked over to Peale, turned him to the wall, handcuffed him, and searched his person. Then they fell into a familiar protocol with the other two. Schaeffer and his constable were disarmed and cuffed.
Ben’s final act was to snap a humiliating picture of the handcuffed trio against the wall in MacFarlane’s house. The RCMP constables read them their rights and led two of them to their cruiser. Ben led Peale to his own vehicle.
Out of hearing range of the detainees, Ben gathered the two RCMP constables.
“What’s the plan?” asked the one.
“We’ll take them in, hold them for questioning, and let them go when they’re penitent enough,” said Ben.
“Are we going to lose our jobs over this?” said the other.
“Not a chance. You did what you could under the circumstances. They couldn’t have applied more pressure if they tried. But if anything does come of this, it’s all on me. I was the last and most senior peace officer to give you a legal order, and you carried it out. That’s all that can be expected.”
“I hope you’re right,” said the first.
“That snapshot I took is proof they crossed a police line without authorization. If they get amnesia, the photo may magically turn up on page one of The Guardian. By the way, did you get a chance to toss the place?”
“You said look for anything that doesn’t fit, right?”
Ben nodded.
“Wasn’t much, but we found an old tin candy box.”
“And?”
“It was on top of a floor joist brace in the basement near the furnace.”
“What was in it?”
“Just a couple of old cell phones and a few trinkets.”
“Why did that catch your eye?”
“First of all, it was a peculiar place to store something. Second, one of the cell phones was pink. Don’t think it was MacFarlane’s,” he said and snickered.
“Where is it now?”
“In the trunk,” he said and pointed toward the cruiser. “Had no time to check the rest of the house.”
“Good work, fellas, and thanks for the timely heads-up.”
They nodded.
“Instruct your reliefs to finish the search…and…and I’m sorry I came down so hard on you earlier. A lot happened last night. You did a great job.”
74.
Fenton Peale’s mind raced like a mouse trapped in a maze. A mouse probably could find an exit. Peale couldn’t. His schemes led him round and round in shifting patterns, but they always revisited the same frightening dead-end—arrest, disgrace, prison; arrest, disgrace, prison. And time was not on his side.
With MacFarlane alive, he thought, at least there had been some glimmer of a hopeful future, even if it kept him in thrall to a manipulative, cruel, unscrupulous snake of a man. At least then he could have held onto his comfortable lifestyle and the leverage he wielded as a prominent leader. He could have kept the accolades, the respect, and the public esteem that came with it.
MacFarlane’s demise, however, was like a curse reaching back from the grave—a malevolent vine, creeping toward and clinging to the wickedness it had propagated. Peale could sense the sucking grasp of its tendrils. A disquieting chill touched him. Everything worthwhile in his life seemed as if they were bleeding ever so slowly away.
Somewhere MacFarlane had hidden Simone’s text messages with him. Their discovery would link him to her murder, the scandal would ruin his career and marriage and, Carolyn’s death linked to it all would suggest his clumsy effort to cover it up.
His attempt to find the text messages had failed, and, inevitably, they would be uncovered. How long it would take, he didn’t know, but the minutes until their discovery were ticking away. That he knew. The RCMP would conduct a thorough search. His shame and weaknesses would be uncovered. And now, locked up in a holding cell, he could neither protect himself from ruin nor flee from danger.
Peale paced back and forth tediously in his narrow cell. Thoughts trickled through his mind. Fragments of plans formed. Bits of hope fell away. He paced continually and purposefully. He felt like a caged animal and, like a caged animal, his footsteps led him nowhere, and his instincts pounced on no resolution.
Two hours later, a guard brought a tray of food. The guard seemed jovial and curious but said nothing beyond a cheerful greeting. Peale responded with an anxious flicker of eyes. The tray lay untouched. An hour after that, Peale had ceased pacing and was reclining despondently on his bunk. He heard footsteps on the shiny concrete floor. Then a voice.
“Smart move, not calling your lawyer,” said Ben, his suit looking especially rumpled, his face haggard and unshaved. “No point stirring up more dust than necessary. Time for a talk.”
Peale sat up slowly. He slumped back like a wilted plant against the wall behind his bunk. His mouth remained inexpressive, but his eyes were expectant, curious, and suspicious.
“Peale, you’re a stupid sonofabitch, pulling a stunt like that. I don’t know what was behind it, but I’m going to find out. Meantime, I’m giving you a chance to redeem yourself. I’m considering holding off on formal charges at this time…at this time…,” Ben repeated slowly with emphasis.
“Why would you do that?” asked Peale.
“I want you to come clean about what you were up to. I told you I’d protect you if I could.”
“I wasn’t sure where your fine line stopped. What shade of grey is too dark, Ben? Or do you even know yourself? I couldn’t take the chance. Sometimes when a fellow goes so far and stops and turns around, he realizes he’s already stepped too far…without even noticing it. That’s politics…that’s business…and I expect that’s law enforcement, too. It’s all a judgment call.”
“What was your judgment call, Fenton?”
Peale ignored the question and turned toward a blank wall.
“What next?” asked Peale after a handful of reflective moments.
“Nothing. You’re free to go,” said Ben.
“What’s the catch?”
“You behave yourself. Don’t go near MacFarlane’s house. Don’t interfere with me or Anne or anyone I designate as an investigator. As for the future, there’s an old saying: ‘Hew to the line, and let the chips fall where they may.’ The line I’m talking about is my line. It’s the only one I understand. The fallout…what happens to you…what you may or may not have done…well, that’s a job for pundits, lawyers, and philosophers. After all is said and done, I’m just a cop.”
“What about that picture?”
“It’s packed away somewhere. Might be hard to find. Maybe it won’t be found.”
“And Scha
effer and Best?”
“They’re licking their wounds and contemplating their future. Something to think about.”
75.
Mary Anne and Jacqui picked up Anne at the hospital after her discharge and drove her home. Home was solidly built, practical, and rather small—two bedrooms, bath, and a large linen closet upstairs; the kitchen, living room, washroom, pantry, and dining room downstairs. Anne did little entertaining. So the dining area off the kitchen had evolved into a room for television, reading, or chatting. Mary Anne and Jacqui naturally gravitated toward the family room, but Anne balked. That was the place from which MacFarlane had abducted her, and the memory was too fresh and hurtful. She headed instead for the living room.
Jacqui followed her mother down the short passageway. Mary Anne remained in the kitchen to make fresh coffee. Anne and Jacqui heard the clamour of cupboard doors and the clinking of cups and Mary Anne’s scurrying about the kitchen as they settled into the puffy upholstered chairs and sofa set. The floral pattern of the furniture had long been out of fashion, but that had never been a serious concern for Anne. Nor could she let it be, not with her income.
“I’ve never liked this room,” said Anne. “It’s so dark in here.”
“Neither have I,” said Jacqui, “and look at that pattern. It belongs in an old lady’s house. It’s depressing.”
“Maybe we could rent it to some film company that needs tacky period furniture from the seventies.”
“Or donate it to the Salvation Army.”
“Don’t think they’d take it,” said Anne. “There’s Barry’s Barter Barn. They say they’ll take anything for something.” Then she quickly added second thoughts: “No, even Barry wouldn’t take a risk on this stuff.”
“We could break it up for kindling. It’d make a great fire.”
The words were scarcely out of Jacqui’s mouth before she regretted them. She caught the flicker of recollected terror in her mother’s eyes. Then the flicker disappeared. Anne said nothing.
The Dead Letter Page 27