Harvest of Ruins

by Sandra Ruttan

  Which was exactly what made this spot ideal for the teenagers. Not many people used the path, which meant not many people knew about it. If an officer hadn’t been there to point it out to her she might not have even noticed it. It wasn’t likely that someone passing by would stumble across the site. The location ensured a degree of privacy.

  This was another big difference between children growing up in the city and those who spent their formative years in a smaller town. In the smaller towns there were so many places to disappear. There were more spaces to escape from watchful eyes. As a police officer, Hunter knew this only too well. How many times had she been called to a pit party or a beach bash that had gone wrong? There had been the incident last summer, when a teenage boy died at the cliffs. Jumping in the darkness, from black air to blacker water. Drinking. Autopsy results suggesting he’d had a cramp. Under the thick blanket of the moonless night his friends couldn’t see well enough to find him.

  She knew it was unfair to brand small towns as danger zones for youth, that if she worked in Toronto or Mississauga she’d be scraping dead kids off sidewalks and pulling them out of abandoned buildings. Still, she couldn’t help but wonder how she was going to deal with this phase when her daughter was a little older.

  In addition to the vegetation encroaching on the trail, Hunter found herself avoiding man-made items: an empty pack of cigarettes, an empty prescription bottle, beer bottles, a skin mag that was in pretty good shape, which suggested it hadn’t been exposed to the elements for long.

  As she turned she shone the light from one side of the path to the other and something else caught her attention. Like the spider’s web, something vulnerable, but this wasn’t a creation of nature. She pointed the beam back until she found the object. A used condom.

  Fingers fished through her pocket until she had a tag in her grasp. She crouched beside the trail and marked the spot. A condom offered the possibility of DNA, and DNA was critical to her investigation, and could be extremely valuable in court. Offending the crime scene guys by inferring they might miss something wasn’t as important to her as the potential information she could gain by ensuring the condom wasn’t overlooked.

  As Hunter turned back to the path she reached out with her arm and stooped as she pushed the branches back. She rose on the other side of the low arch in a small clearing. A few large rocks served as a sitting area. The smoldering remains of a fire were in the center. On the far side of the pit there was a mound of earth, and Hunter had a pretty good idea what it was: a dug-out. Bikers used them, for what might be defined as recreational purposes; sex, drugs, drinking. Sometimes, the bikers used the dug-outs to lay low after a crime. Curious youth had discovered them - the youth who were motivated more by a challenge than common sense and didn’t have enough life experience to take the idea of trespassing on biker territory seriously. Word spread. They’d figured out how to make their own, digging out an area for as many as half a dozen teens in the larger ones, a place where teens took shelter while they drank or smoked up, or where they went to have sex.

  Occasionally, the dug-outs were where they went to hide out when they were in trouble, or where they went when they cut class.

  The door, which was made of wood, was open. It was a makeshift bit of work, apparently utilizing scrap lumber. The position of the door made it hard to tell more than that from where she stood. It had been placed on the far side, close to the trees, probably so that it wasn’t as visible when shut. Throw a few loose branches over it and the odd, random passerby who actually did stumble across the clearing by accident might not even notice. Grass and plants were already growing in the soil. These kids had outdone themselves. They appeared to have made every effort to ensure that this lump of earth would blend in.

  Hunter nodded at the uniformed officers on scene as she crossed the clearing and stopped behind Noah, who was squatting and holding the door open. She could see that the door did a good job, because the interior looked pretty dry. On a cold or wet day she could imagine the dug-out would look inviting to the teens seeking shelter from their parents and school officials.

  “As much room inside as there is in some trailers.”

  Noah wasn’t exaggerating. It was bigger inside than the outside suggested, because of how deep the pit had been dug, and because it was longer than it appeared. More scraps of wood had been used inside, to brace the ceiling.

  Yes, the kids really had outdone themselves.

  Two paramedics were already inside, working on the girl. Their overdose victim was tiny, probably just over five feet tall. Hunter knew some women with forearms that were thicker than this girl’s legs.

  “What’s the prognosis?”

  Noah shrugged. One of the paramedics – Ben – looked up. “Still holding on. We’re ready to move her.”

  This part of the process was more difficult than it sounded. They had her on a portable stretcher, which had clearly been easier to get into the dug-out than it was to extract with someone strapped to it. However, with a bit of careful maneuvering the first paramedic was soon backing out while Noah stood to the side, holding the door with one hand and pointing his flashlight at the ground with the other.

  Hunter was close to the brush, also trying to give as much extra light as possible, when the stretcher was fully removed. That was when she saw the girl’s face and swallowed hard.

  “Do you have a confirmed ID?” she asked. Even as she said the words she knew she didn’t need to ask. There was no doubt.

  “Evelyn Shepherd. Fifteen years old.”

  Hunter looked up. Ben had stopped. Noah stared at her.

  “Thomas Shepherd’s daughter,” she said.

  Noah looked at Ben. “A cop. Used to be local, moved to Barrie. The parents are divorced.”

  Even in the dim light Hunter could tell Ben's eyes had widened. “Aw, Christ.” Ben’s face tensed and he gave a curt nod. “We’ll fight like hell.” They continued moving across the clearing, to the path.

  Noah turned to the officers on scene. “I don’t want a thing missed. I don’t care if it looks like it’s been here since dinosaurs roamed the earth: bag it.”

  “And bag what’s along the trail,” Hunter said. “Magazines, cigarette packets. I already tagged a used condom. Make sure you get everything.”

  “Preferably before it’s trampled to the point of being useless,” Noah added. His cell phone rang and he glanced at the display before he flipped it open. “Wilmott.” He glanced at Hunter. “Shit, you’re kidding me. Already? No, we’re on our way.” He flipped the phone shut. “The media.”

  “How the hell…?”

  “Seems our Good Samaritan was anxious to tell her story.”

  “We haven’t even covered the scene.”

  “First things first. Let’s deal with the damage control before this gets out of hand, and you can call Tom and tell him.”

  Hunter felt her mouth go dry. “N-no. I’ll call his station. Let them tell him.” She refused to meet Noah’s gaze. “He doesn’t need to hear this from me.”

  They walked back to the main path in silence. Noah didn’t raise the issue, although she sensed he wanted to.

  “What the hell?”

  Hunter’s head snapped up at Noah’s words. They’d accessed the path to the hangout through the woods that bordered the old farm. The old Colville Farm, where as a child, Vinny Shepherd had fallen and broken her arm. Part of the fields stretched along one road, and part of it was hemmed in by a secondary road that didn’t handle nearly as much traffic. The road was a direct route to the city, and local residents who commuted used it on a daily basis.

  The street would normally be busier on a Friday morning, with buses and parents taking children to school in a few hours’ time. Since it was Saturday, the traffic shouldn't be as bad.

  This morning, the road was already busier than usual. Cars and vans filled the gaps between driveways on the far side of the street, and at the gate to the farm property a group was gathering.

>   It wasn’t just local media, or county papers that were on the scene. A van from a Barrie TV station was already present.

  She turned to see Noah looking at her, his expression grim. He nodded without a word and she held back as he approached the reporters.

  As Hunter removed her cell phone from her pocket she noticed her hand was trembling. She told herself it was just the chill but she knew that was a lie.

  Cops learned to have a certain level of detachment from the job. It was necessary, in order to survive. Your job wasn’t to empathize with the victims’ families or get personally involved. Your job was to solve the case.

  You couldn’t afford to let your emotions cloud your judgment.

  But no officer would be able to look at this as just another call. A lot of local officers had been there since the days when Tom worked locally. They knew him.

  She knew him. Knew him well enough that she couldn’t look at Evelyn as just another victim reduced to evidence and a case file.

  And she knew him well enough to resent media intrusion for pulling them away from the crime scene. If it was this bad already…

  She sucked in a deep breath of cold air, then flipped her cell phone open and called directory assistance to get the number of Tom’s station.

  WEIGHTY GHOST

  - Wintersleep -

  Hunter was pulled into a new nightmare. It was the strange thing about a dream; she knew she was seeing the world through Rose Chadwick's eyes, and there was nothing she could do to escape the mind of a woman she loathed.

  ***

  “Police are investigating an overdose that may have been part of an alleged suicide pact between local high school students. A teenage student was discovered early this morning by a jogger at a popular party spot in the woods near Colville Farm, which has been abandoned for more than thirty years. According to a witness who was jogging in the area and arrived on scene shortly after the police were notified, the girl was found amidst “a sea of liquor bottles”. The witness, who did not wish to be identified, initially thought the student had passed out.

  “It was local high school student, seventeen-year-old Heather Whitby, who made the grim discovery and notified police,” the announcer said before cutting to an audio quote.

  “I tried to wake her up,” Heather said, “but she just, just… didn’t respond, so I called 911.”

  The newscaster’s voice returned. “Police would only state that other evidence located at the scene suggested local high school students may have been planning to commit suicide. Police and counselors will be on site at Sagamo High School this morning, as well as searching the woods near Colville Farm, where the fifteen-year-old was-”

  Rose Chadwick turned the radio off. She’d wanted to hear the weather forecast, so that she could make sure Lily was properly dressed, but it sounded like they were doing an extended news segment instead of just recapping the top stories. She didn’t want to listen to that. She didn’t want Lily to listen to it either. She needed to get Lily ready before they left the house.

  Despite all the gloom and doom talk about global warming, summer hadn't come easily this past year, and fall had returned with a vengeance. They would enjoy a few nice days and then a cold front would come back to blast them the minute they left their warm coats at home. She didn’t want her daughter to catch a chill. At that moment it looked like it would be a nice, if modest, Indian summer day. Rose wasn’t really expecting the kind of weather you abandoned your jacket in, though the sun had a strength to it and she couldn’t see many clouds. It was the kind of day that gave her hope the weather would soon be gorgeous, although she didn’t soak up the sun as much as she used to. Not since her father had died of cancer.

  The woods limited her view of the horizon, and the leaves that still clung to the trees were rustling steadily. She expected the wind would still be nippy. Without actually going outside it would be hard to tell, and she didn’t have much time.

  She squatted down in front of her younger daughter and adjusted the beret over the fair curls that framed Lily’s elfin face. 7:07 am.

  “There we are. Cute as a button.” She leaned forward and rubbed her nose against Lily’s. Her daughter giggled and tipped her head wildly from side to side. "Who's making silly eyes?" Rose laughed and pulled her face back from her daughter’s.

  At least her baby was a source of comfort. Long, dark eyelashes framed sea-blue eyes. Her hair gently swirled into perfect ringlets. She was, in every respect, a little lady, the kind of girl other mothers called angelic and darling. From the first moment Rose held her second-born she’d felt a surge of relief. Not because there had been complications with the pregnancy or the birth, but because children could be such a disappointment to a parent.

  But mothers weren’t supposed to say that about their children, were they? Children were uncontested bragging rights. The parents you met in the store or the post office or in passing at school plays… These parents didn’t bitch and moan about the low grades on the report cards or the number of times their son got suspended. No. They never talked about that. It was all:

  “His hockey team won the division title.”

  “Top of the class in every subject. We’re doubling the educational fund. Never know, she might want to get her PhD…”

  “She has the lead in the next school play, too.”

  “Won first place in the science fair.”

  “First runner-up in the Little Miss Muskoka contest.”

  Everything Rose had been deprived of with her first-born had been made up for with her second child. In school, Evelyn had been politely called spirited. Lily was enthusiastically called delightful. In dance class Evelyn had been diplomatically described as energetic. Lily was graceful. On photo days Evelyn had been disheveled. Lily was picture-perfect. Evelyn’s smiles even had a way of looking hostile while Lily’s whole face lit up for the camera.

  Evelyn had been a tomboy. Lily was a doll. Rose remembered all the times she had to wrestle her first-born to get her into jean skirts and stockings, and then Evelyn would ruin the look with running shoes. Lily adored wearing frilly skirts and pretty tights and always wore her dress shoes eagerly.

  Yes, from the moment she first held her in her arms Rose simply knew Lily wasn’t going to be like Evelyn. She was certain Lily would grow up to be curvaceous and elegant, with honey-blonde hair and perfect teeth… The spitting image of her mother.

  It was now 7:14 am. The hospital was a twenty-minute drive. Most of the specialty stores weren’t open yet, and even Stedmans wouldn’t open until 8, so she supposed she’d have to make do with Wal-Mart. It wasn’t on her way, but she had to admit they had a reasonable selection of children’s books and toys, and she wanted Lily to have something new to keep her occupied while they waited.

  Lily shouldn’t have to suffer just because her older sister was always causing trouble.

  She sighed as she lifted Lily up and set her on the counter. “Stay right there, sweetie. I’m just going to get your bag.”

  It was a short walk from the kitchen down the hallway to the bedrooms. Rose turned automatically into the second-largest room. A pink canopy princess bed matched a pink dresser and desk and chair. The bookshelves and trim were white. In the far corner there was a trunk with golden trim and a play mat, a three-story dollhouse and another bookshelf lined with stuffed animals and figurines.

  The room had been painted pink, except for the far wall, which was wallpapered. The pattern was of a little girl having a tea party with her dolls. Lily had picked it herself when they’d redecorated the room the previous summer.

  Rose smiled. Such a happy memory. Lily had been so excited by the thought of having a new, pretty room. It was always good when children appreciated all your hard work and efforts to make them happy.

  Rose picked up Lily’s backpack, which was pink with flowers on it, and began to select her daughter’s favorite books. A handful of fairy and ballerina stories went into the bag, one by one, along with classic
fairy tales: Snow White, Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, but not Jasmine. She wasn’t a real princess.

  She paused, and removed Sleeping Beauty from the bag. Maybe that one wasn’t such a good idea. Snow White might not be the best choice either. Then again, maybe they’d help Lily not to worry. Rose pushed Sleeping Beauty back in and turned her attention to other toys. Lily had a collection of Polly Pockets, which weren’t as popular now as they’d once been, but they were just another example of all the things she’d bought for her eldest that Evelyn had never appreciated. Rose had held on to them, along with several other boxes of toys, just in case. Truth be told, she’d never given up on her plan to have another daughter.

  Perhaps even then, when she’d been packing the toys away, she’d had faith that one day, she’d have the daughter she wanted.

  She was glad she’d kept the Polly Pocket toys because Lily loved them, and they were convenient for days like this, when Rose wanted to pack as many things as possible without taking a second bag.

  As she walked back down the hall toward the kitchen she paused long enough to look into Evelyn’s bedroom. It was the polar opposite of Lily’s bright, sunshiney room, and it was a complete mess.

  Rose closed the door. It might be best to clear it out and turn it into a guest room. Or take out the window and put in patio doors so that it also opened up to the front porch and make it a sunroom. It would need to be re-painted. That dark green was another way Evelyn had hurt her mother. She always chose things she knew Rose would loathe.

  A sunroom might be a nice idea. There were a lot of options. She’d think about it later.

  Lily was exactly where Rose had left her. Rose put the backpack down on the counter, beside Lily, where her coat and purse had been set out.

  “There’s my girl. And who is the best little girl in the whole wide world?”

  Lily’s face radiated. “Me,” she said, pointing at herself.