A Green Place for Dying

by R. J. Harlick

  At first I thought they were numbers, but when the light shone on the closest door, I was taken aback. The image was of two white trilliums, but they were far from ordinary trilliums. In fact they were more human in their stance. The one flower was inserting its highly suggestive elongated stamen into the centre of the other flower in a manner that would make a proper lady blush. If I’d had any lingering doubts about this fishing camp masquerading as a brothel, I certainly didn’t now.

  Underneath these flowers was a peephole, but it was dark, suggesting the room behind was unoccupied. I tapped gently on the door, and hearing no answering sound, tried to open it. It was locked. I had, however, noticed a cupboard similar to a medicine cabinet attached to the front of the building. I walked back. Inside, hanging from hooks, were keys, each identified by a piece of wood upon which was painted a wildflower. I grabbed the one that bore the trillium and two with the same colours as the markings I’d seen on the other doors, purple and orange. One turned out to be a violet and the other a daylily. I didn’t see any with a blue flower, the colour of the marking on the last door.

  I returned to the trillium door, inserted the key, and carefully pushed it open. I chuckled. If I had ever imagined the interior of a brothel, this would be it. The walls were covered in red velvet and sported bejewelled light fixtures. Fringes dangled from the lampshades. In the centre of the medium-sized room was a red porcelain Jacuzzi large enough to hold two people. It was surrounded by white tile flooring and white shag carpeting. At the far end, layers of fluffy white towels and what looked to be white terrycloth kimonos filled several shelves, while on another set of shelves lay what I was fairly certain were sex toys.

  I continued on to the next room, the one designated by violets also depicted in a state of sexual arousal. It was about the same size as the other room, and it too was dark and empty. But it held even more curious items. In addition to the queen bed filling the middle of the room, it contained a closet filled with outfits, ranging from little girl outfits to maid’s dresses and uniforms. There were also a couple of Indian princess outfits, complete with feathers and fluttering fringe. All had extremely short skirts and ridiculously low necklines. Most seemed to be an average woman’s size. There were, however, several outfits in a much larger size, a size that would fit a man. I even came across some giant diapers that no doubt went with the adult-size playpen filled with kid’s toys shoved into the far corner.

  I shook my head at the thought of what some men would do to get their kicks out of sex and was very glad that none of the men in my life had ever asked me to wear such attire.

  Then I stepped inside the room with the fornicating daylilies. In fact, I almost didn’t step inside, so disgusted was I by what it contained; chains, whips, handcuffs, hoods, and slinky black clothing. The entire theme of the room was black; black walls, black floor, and black sheets on the bed, where handcuffs were still attached to the posts at either end. The enormity of J.P.’s dying words now hit me. This was no doubt what he’d meant when he’d used the term “slave.” I had to stop myself from slamming the door in my haste to leave, while all I could think was heaven help poor innocent Fleur.

  Until this point, I hadn’t been paying attention to what was going on around me, so absorbed had I been in the contents of these rooms. But now I realized the quiet of the night had been broken by loud voices, more like shouting coming from the direction of the staff quarters.

  Will ran up to me holding his rifle. “Stay here. It looks like George and Teht’aa have run into some trouble.”

  Chapter

  Fifty—Three

  I didn’t know whether to obey the police chief’s orders and stay where I was or race after him to the staff quarters to try to help out. With one more room to check, I wasn’t yet finished with this snake pit, but so far the other three rooms had revealed nothing to suggest that Eric had ever been inside. And while Fleur had likely been forced to prostitute herself in one of these rooms, she certainly wasn’t here now.

  The shouting intensified and was now joined by ferocious barking coming from the dog pen. From the direction of the lodge, a door crashed open. Three men sprinted past an opening in the forest. One was Fran, the other Etienne. The third I didn’t recognize, but he held a rifle. I snapped off my headlamp and slunk further into the shadows.

  With no means of defending myself other than the bear spray, I would be useless. I would only be a distraction for my friends; plus it would be better if the bikers remained ignorant of my presence. Besides, someone had to keep searching for Eric and Fleur.

  I crept along the walkway to the last door, the one with the copulating irises. Since there had been no key for this door, I was hoping that it was unlocked. I had almost reached the door when I realized that a pinprick of brightness was coming from the peephole. The room must be in use, which would explain the missing key. But with no guests in the lodge, who could be using it? Was this where they were keeping Eric?

  I’d started to put my eye up to the peephole when I heard rustling in the trees behind me. I pivoted around, almost knocking over a shovel propped against the wall. I managed to grab it before it went clattering to the ground. I flicked on my headlamp and scanned the foliage but saw nothing. Meanwhile, the rustling stopped. Probably just an animal foraging through the underbrush.

  I returned my eye to the peephole. Like most security peepholes, I figured I wouldn’t be able to see anything inside the room, instead I found myself looking through a fisheye lens that brought much of the room’s interior into focus. However, the low light made it difficult to make sense of the jumble of equipment filling most of the room.

  “Now what do we have here?” a voice snarled from behind me in French.

  I whirled around to find myself facing the third man I’d seen on the porch, the one I suspected was also a biker. Tall, with arms as thick as stovepipes, he hadn’t bothered to cover up his disfigurement with long hair. Instead his bristling blond brush cut seemed to accentuate the scarring where his ear should’ve been.

  “Where have you come from, mademoiselle? You’re too old to be one of ours.” His protruding lips creased into a mocking grin.

  Perhaps it was instinct that dictated my next action, for I didn’t consciously remember making a decision. It was certainly fear, I know that much. The butt end of a gun had no sooner begun emerging from his pocket than I unclipped my bear spray and gave him a full blast in the face.

  He dropped the gun and jammed his hands into his eyes. He clawed at the fiery pepper stinging them and shook his head so much he almost lost his balance.

  He howled, “Câlisse! What have you done to me, bitch?”

  Although his gun lay at my feet, I knew I couldn’t use it. Instead, I reached for the shovel and walloped him hard on the head. He dropped like a felled tree. For a second I feared I’d killed him, but when I saw the rise and fall of his chest, I knew he was still alive. Even though I knew he wouldn’t have hesitated to kill me, I couldn’t bear to have his death on my conscience.

  But he would eventually regain consciousness, so I needed to ensure he remained out of action.

  I ran to the Daylily room with its restraining equipment and grabbed several unlocked handcuffs and some chains. I dragged his dead weight a short distance to where a couple of birch trees stood a few feet apart. I propped him against one, placed his arms around the trunk behind him, and snapped one pair of the handcuffs around his wrists. Then I stretched out his legs and secured his feet to the other birch by circling the chain around his ankles and around the tree. I snapped the two ends tightly together with another set of handcuffs.

  I glanced at his partially open mouth and realized I would have to silence him too, so I ran back to the Violet room, where I’d seen several silk scarves. I wrapped one of these around his mouth as a gag. Only then did I feel safe enough to return to the Iris room to find out if anyone was inside.

  But the door was securely locked with no sign of the key, either in the lock or
hanging on a nearby hook. Hoping that this guy had been coming to check out the room, I raced back to where he sprawled still unconscious between the two trees. I waited a minute to ensure he was not faking before searching his clothing for the key. I found it, clearly marked with its iris tag, in the outer pocket of his frayed jean jacket. I muttered “Ah, ha!” when I saw the grinning image of a red devil on the front of his black T-shirt. And then I spied a hunting knife clipped to his belt. I slipped it out of the leather sheath and stashed it away in my pack.

  I confiscated one more item. It had fallen out of the pocket that held the key. It was a small, paper-thin deerskin pouch with the beaded image of a fisher embroidered on one side. Eric’s treasured amulet. Final proof he was at the lodge and not of his own free will, for he would never have given this up willingly. I prayed I wasn’t too late.

  My heart racing, I sped back to the Iris room. Unable to still my trembling fingers, I dropped the key several times before managing to hold it steady enough to insert it into the lock and unlock the door.

  At that precise moment, a shot rang out from the direction of the staff quarters, then another.

  I slammed the door shut behind me and relocked it as my ear caught the almost inaudible sound of someone moaning. I turned around and gasped. This room, about twice the size of the other rooms, was a torture chamber with all the medieval paraphernalia of a B movie. Thick, heavy chains and massive iron hooks hung from the ceiling and walls, along with various lengths of leather straps with loops. In a corner of the room a black pillar rose from floor to ceiling, and in another a strange metal contraption. Protruding from both their surfaces hung more leather straps and chains. I tried not to think of the horrific use made of such hellish instruments.

  The single lit bulb on a wall didn’t provide sufficient light for me to see where the moaning was coming from, so I flicked on my headlamp and shone it towards the sound. From behind a large metal container with strangely positioned openings, a naked foot came into view. Around the ankle was clamped a thick leather strap.

  I walked around the box and froze in horror. Along the back wall stood what could best be described as a medieval torture rack, and spreadeagle along its wooden frame lay a naked man, his head covered by a black hood. His arms, gripped by leather thongs around the wrists, were yanked painfully above his head, while his legs, almost rigid, were attached to a roller placed at the bottom of the rack by taut leather straps tied around his ankles. I couldn’t bear to look at what they’d done with an electrode.

  Oh my God. I felt the shudder start in my legs and arms as my entire body convulsed. The man’s stocky, bear-like physique and the squiggly scar near his groin where a hockey skate had sliced him could only belong to one person.

  “Eric, it’s me, Meg,” I cried out.

  No response. No movement.

  I rushed to remove the hood. His eyes were closed, but I felt a soft whisper of breath coming from his nose and a faint murmur of a pulse in his neck.

  He was alive.

  But oh, his face was so thin, almost gaunt, and the side of his head was crusted with blood where he’d been hit. Several amoeba-like red splotches soaked the wooden frame beside his head. He no longer appeared to be bleeding, but he was shivering.

  It was only then that I realized my cheeks were wet with tears. “Eric, I’m going to get you out of this.”

  The first thing to remove was the electrical cord, in case it was emitting a shock. I followed the line to a metal box with a number of switches including a timer. I unplugged it. His body twitched when I carefully unwound the cord.

  “Sorry, Eric. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

  His body relaxed.

  “Can you hear me?”

  Still no response.

  I released the tension on the roller used to tighten the ankle straps, which released the pressure on his arms. I carefully removed the straps from his legs and arms, placed his limp arms by his side, and brought his legs together. The straps I threw in disgust on the floor. He remained unconscious.

  While the faint red marks circling his wrists appeared to be new, the raw redness and bruising around his ankles suggested that he’d been wearing manacles for a long time. Where a soft cushion of flesh had once comfortably filled out his abdomen, ribs and hipbones poked through. And there were bruises liberally sprinkled over his body. Some bore the yellowish colour of older beatings, while others were the angry purple of more recent ones. But his knuckles were scraped and bruised, as if he’d given as good as he’d got.

  “Oh dear God, what did they do to you?” I leaned down and hugged him as best I could.

  He continued to shiver.

  “You’re cold. I need to find something to warm you up.” I looked around the room but saw nothing that would work.

  “Eric, there’s some towels and kimonos in another room. I’m going to get those. I won’t be long, okay?”

  I thought my talking might help him find his way back to this world, and if it didn’t, at least help soothe him.

  I unlocked the door and quietly opened it. The night’s quiet had returned. I heard no shouts or gunfire, not even barking dogs. In their stead was an unsettling calm.

  What if Teht’aa, Will, and George were hurt? What if they were dead?

  But I needed to make sure Eric was safe before I could investigate. I ran back to the first room with the Jacuzzi and grabbed several towels and a couple of kimonos. Then remembering the bed in the room with the weird clothes, I picked up the duvet and half-dragged it behind me as I headed back to Eric.

  He lay on the rack in the same position I’d left him in. I would’ve loved to remove him from this horrific piece of equipment, but it kept him off the cold floor. I wrapped him tightly with the towels, shoving them underneath him as best I could. After slipping one under his head, I draped the duvet over his body and tucked it under. Still he didn’t move.

  “Oh, my sweet dear love, I’m here and I’ll never leave you again.”

  I brushed my lips against his, hoping for a response, but received none.

  I caressed his much-loved face and felt the prickle of a beard that had not seen a razor for many days. I ran my fingers fondly over the scar beneath his eye, the one caused by an errant hockey puck. His people had named him Angry Scar Man because it turned white when he was mad. I smoothed out his long, thick mane of hair, careful not to dislodge the thick crust of blood on his scalp, and brushed away wayward strands. I wiped my tears from his face. I ached to lie with him to pass on my strength and warmth, but I didn’t dare. I had to get help.

  Having no idea how long he’d been unconscious, I worried that he might have a serious brain injury. Without immediate medical attention, it could grow worse. But the earliest medical help could arrive was tomorrow morning, when it would be light enough for the plane to land. Still they might be able to give me advice over the phone.

  I reached into my pocket for the sat phone and felt Eric’s amulet. His source of spiritual strength. Knowing it no longer contained at least two of his sacred items, I wondered how many more were missing.

  The only item I found inside was the faded red petals of a dried cardinal flower. I smiled. I hadn’t realized he’d kept it. I was certain it was the flower I’d laughingly placed in his hair one day several summers ago while we lay beside a burbling stream deep within the woods, making love on a carpet of moss. That was when he’d first called me Miskowàbigonens, “my little red flower.”

  I added his grandfather’s fisher to the amulet and placed it on his bare chest under the duvet. I couldn’t tie it around his neck, for the leather thong was broken, leaving behind noticeable marks where it had been yanked.

  “May this bring you strength, my love.”

  As I started to walk outside to use the satellite phone, a voice whispered, “Help me … please.”

  Chapter

  Fifty—Four

  I should’ve realized there was another person in this den of iniquity. After all, it w
as moaning that first alerted me to Eric’s presence. But he couldn’t have made the sound, not while he was unconscious.

  “Where are you?” I cried out.

  “Over … over here.” The voice, which I now realized was a woman’s, was barely above a whisper. “I’m … I’m tied up.”

  If I hadn’t been so focused on Eric, I would’ve noticed this woman, also naked, with the smooth, unblemished skin of youth. Although a black hood also covered her face, I didn’t need to remove it to know her.

  Fleur.

  Sweet, young Fleur, tied up like a sacrificial offering, her back arched in a revoltingly obscene position over a barrel-like structure and her arms and legs shackled as Eric’s had been. At least the monsters had given her support for her head and not let it flop loosely over the end of the barrel.

  I shuddered at the depths of depravity to which men could go to treat a young woman so despicably, anyone for that matter.

  I hastily removed the hood. Amber eyes, wide with shock, stared back at me, while tears trickled over a face tinged with a light dusting of bronze. Long tendrils of silky dark hair clung to her wet cheeks and neck.

  There was no hint of recognition in those beautiful eyes. “Fleur, it’s me, Meg Harris. I’m gonna get you out of this mess.”

  I untied the straps holding her ankles and wrists. She remained arched over the barrel as if not realizing she was free. I raised her carefully upright and wrapped one of the kimonos I’d brought around her shoulders. Her body trembled, either from the cold or fear or both.