by Bob Kroll
“How often?” Carmichael pressed.
Peterson locked his hands behind his head. “Sometimes I’m too drunk to dream.”
Chapter
EIGHT
New Look Hair Design took up the ground floor of a four-storey condo complex in an upscale neighbourhood, not far from where Mrs. Harding lived. The building faced north, and that orientation held its facade in shadow.
Peterson was parked three doors down and across the street. For more than half an hour, he had watched the comings and goings at the hair salon. He had wanted to get a read on the clientele.
He had allowed his prejudice to shape his expectations. As it turned out, none of the half-dozen women he saw were young tattooed damsels draped in chains and wearing heavy black coats cinched at the waist by belts with metal studs. They were mostly middle-aged and upper-middle-class devotees of low-fat menus and gym workouts.
He climbed from the car and went in.
The receptionist gave him a double take. And another when he flashed his badge. Then she suggested he take a seat until Mr. Fisher finished with a client.
Peterson looked the place over. Bright lights and mirrors made up for the lack of sunlight. Rose-coloured walls had a settling effect. And the three female stylists in pastel tunics further brightened the room with their light-hearted chatter about the everyday of life.
Fisher was the odd one out. He was thin, almost frail-looking, and dressed completely in black. Though easy in his movements, there was something stiff about the way he held himself, as though he had a board strapped to his back. It was not until Fisher repositioned himself on the far side of his middle-aged client that Peterson saw his face — pasty and solemn, perhaps even joyless, with a pencil-thin beard that must have taken him a long time, certainly a steady hand, to trim with a razor.
With an exaggerated flourish, Fisher tore away a sunburst apron covering his client and released her to her new hairdo. Then, at the receptionist’s gesture, he made for Peterson. Fisher offered his hand, and Peterson showed his badge. And that brought about a hasty retreat to Fisher’s office and living quarters.
This was more to Peterson’s expectations — black walls in a backroom closed to the little daylight that entered the building. A spot of incandescent light over a computer desk and monitor. The monitor had a screen saver of an astonished-looking gypsy woman decked out in bangles and beads, endlessly pouring brown liquid from a flagon into a flaming brazier. On the wall behind the desk was an elaborate drawing of a three-headed bat. And on the one behind Fisher was a shelf with a few books prominently displayed — among them The Confessions of Aleister Crowley and Crowley’s Holy Books of Thelema.
Fisher lowered himself into a high-tech desk chair that had more knobs and levers than the body had contortions. Peterson finished giving the room the once over and sank into a straightback side chair. He stared at Fisher.
“The word is you’re in a satanic cult,” he said.
Fisher smiled. He spoke softly, each word distinct. “Not even time to offer a cup of tea.”
“I saved you the effort.”
“Who says I am?”
“We asked around.”
“Not quite.”
“How quite?”
“We don’t worship the devil. We are beyond good and evil.”
“Free for all? Anything goes?”
Fisher clasped his hands in front of him. He wore the smile of someone tired with the same run of questions and with delivering the same pat answers.
“We recognize the sustaining force of human will,” Fisher said. “We do not think in duality but in oneness — two sides of the same coin. Most cults worship one side or the other. We worship both.”
“Straddling the moral fence,” Peterson said. “Sounds like corporate Canada.”
Fisher gave him a disdainful look.
“Worship must be fun,” Peterson said, “half praising the Lord, the other half calling him a wrathful old bastard.”
Fisher ignored the cynicism. “We hold ceremonies at sunrise, celebrating the birth of nature, and at nightfall, welcoming the death of it.”
“Beginning and ending,” Peterson said. “Alpha and Omega.”
Fisher nodded.
“What kind of ceremonies?”
Fisher shifted his weight, and Peterson realized the man was in pain. “We pray, sing, dance, and make offerings to the forces of light and darkness.”
Peterson pointed at the high-tech chair. “Do much dancing?”
“I broke my back in a skiing accident six years ago. But I can sing and pray.”
“And make offerings?”
The sarcasm was not lost on Fisher.
“Already down to the nub of it,” Fisher said. “No beating about the bush.”
“Does the bush need beating?”
“Only if you don’t know what you’re looking for. I suspect the crime rate is up.”
“As of two nights ago it is.”
“And we’re the ones you blame.”
“Who’s we?”
Fisher curled his lower lip. “If Christians had not come to dominate the world, they would be the ones under the microscope, with their eating and drinking the body and blood of the man called Jesus.”
Peterson let Fisher have his little harangue. He stayed impassive — the look he used in interviews — unemotional, uninterested.
“Are we talking sacrifice here?” Peterson asked with just the right touch of innocence. “Is that what your offerings are all about?”
Fisher saw through Peterson’s act. He shook his head. “Not the hocus pocus of the bread and wine. And we don’t sacrifice animals, if that’s what you are getting at.”
Peterson leaned forward. “What about menstrual blood? Is that part of the offerings?”
Fisher flinched then recovered. “That would be Janis Low telling tales out of school.”
Peterson’s face gave nothing away.
“We don’t believe a menstruating woman should be abhorred,” Fisher said. “Her monthly blood is a symbol of nature’s endurance. To sacrifice what is freely given is a sacred act.”
“What about washing church floors in blood?”
Fisher suddenly looked as nervous as an old man in need of a toilet. His voice crept up a note. “Do you want to tell me what this is about?”
“It’s about ceremonies and rituals and whether you performed one two nights ago?”
“We hold ceremonies every night.”
“And where was the one two nights ago?”
“In a park in the north end. There’s no law against it. We’re allowed in the park until a half-hour after sunset.”
Peterson pulled a photograph from his hip pocket that Father Ronny had provided. “Do you know this man?”
Fisher took the photo. “A priest, I take it.”
“Do you know him?”
“No,” Fisher said. He returned the photo.
“Ever seen him before?”
“No.”
“Many people doing the mumbo jumbo the other night?”
“That’s offensive.”
Peterson shrugged. “How many?”
“I don’t have to tell you anything.”
“No you don’t. But I can ask it again in a more confined space.”
“On what charge?”
“I have twenty-four hours to think one up.”
“You give a farmer a badge and he is still a farmer.”
Peterson let it go. “I only ask once.”
Fisher glared. “About forty.”
“That’s more than a lot of Christian churches.”
Now it was Fisher’s turn to be stone faced.
“Of course, they’ll confirm you were there?” Peterson asked.
That question pricked Fisher
a bit. “What is this about?”
“Just answer the question.”
“Yes! I officiated the ceremony. I always do.”
“You were there between what hours?”
“We gathered around six thirty, and sunset was about an hour later.”
“And after that?”
“A group of us went to a downtown pub. It must have been one in the morning when we left.”
“Come straight home?”
“No. One of the women invited me to her place.”
“She have a name?”
“She does. But unless you tell me what is going on, I will not involve others in whatever it is you think you are doing.”
Peterson returned the photo to his pocket.
“His name is Father Andre Boutilier, a Roman Catholic priest. Someone killed him in St. Jude’s church the other night.”
Fisher showed his indignation. “And you think it must be the occult?”
“They desecrated the altar and a statue and laid out candles on the floor.”
“Satanism! That was your first thought!”
Peterson shrugged. “No, my first thought was weirdos; the ones who take whatever they believe too far and start hurting other people. Those are the ones that land on my desk.”
Fisher shifted uneasily and caught his breath at a spasm of pain. Then he released it. He took another long, slow breath. His faced relaxed.
“We do not use churches. We celebrate in the open air, rain or shine, summer and winter. Because we are not Christian or Muslim or Hindu or Buddhist, you call us ‘weirdos.’ Well, we are not much different than any other spiritual sect. We are law-abiding people with regular jobs and businesses. We worship forces beyond ourselves just like every other religion. We do not engage in blood sacrifice and we do not murder priests. Will there be anything else?”
Peterson nodded by way of compliment. “Did that just come off the top of your head, or did you practise it?”
The cords in Fisher’s neck tightened. His face reddened. But his voice remained calm. “I believe it is time you left.”
Peterson rose. “You once claimed human sacrifice was the ultimate sacrifice. And you said it should be done in a church.”
“That would be Janis Low again making false accusations.”
“Why Janis Low?”
“Because anything negative said about us usually comes from her.”
Peterson liked the quick response, so he tried again. “And of course there’s that little thing about digging up a human skull from a grave in New Brunswick.”
Fisher gasped, either from the pain in his back or the verbal shiv slipped between his ribs.
“That was a long time ago,” Fisher said.
“Yeah,” Peterson said, “but it helps paint a picture doesn’t it? One you wouldn’t want hanging on a wall out front.”
Chapter
NINE
At the upper end of the Strip, just before the railway underpass, where the boulevard changed gears into a six-lane highway speeding out of town, far enough from the action but not too far to miss the fun, there was a 24/7 coffee shop spilling homey yellow warmth from its windows.
Peterson and Danny sat in a blue vinyl booth at one of the windows. They took turns looking out across the six lanes at the Broken Promise country bar, a stand-alone cinder block bunker with frosted windows, a heavy steel door, and a blinking bar sign with the word “Promise” looking as though it was cracked and the last three letters were falling off.
“Did you believe him?” Danny asked.
Peterson nodded. “His answers stacked up, and he has an alibi, but he’s no innocent. We keep his name at the top of the list. Circle it.”
“You think the old priest caught him in the church.”
“Someone was in that church performing a blood ritual. Whether killing the priest was part of that ritual, I don’t know. We have no hard evidence that links anyone to the murder. All we have is supposition and our own prejudice. We don’t like Father Ronny, and I don’t like Fisher.”
“We also have the five girls the priest took photos of.”
“And how close are we to finding out who they are?”
Danny smiled. “The archdiocese couldn’t help us enough. Pedophilia scares the hell out of them. In 1962, Father Andre Boutilier was right here, at St. Jude’s. He got transferred to Barrie, Ontario, a year later. He was there over five years. He had three more transfers before being sent back here three years ago. And you know who was in his congregation in 1962?”
Peterson toyed with the rim of his cup. “I wonder if she’s in one of those photos.”
“We have a motive if she is?”
“We have a motive for each one of them,” Peterson said. “What about the undeveloped one?”
Danny withdrew a photo from a file folder and passed it to Peterson. “Another girl. This one is crying.”
Peterson studied the photo. “This is why he stopped taking pictures.” He held the photo out for Danny. “Look at it! She’s scared to death. Bawling her eyes out. And the photo is blurry. His hands are shaking.”
Peterson’s cell phone rang. He pulled it from his jacket pocket and checked the number. He let it ring.
Danny didn’t miss how Peterson’s expression weakened and the way he shut his eyes to close himself off from the ringing phone.
“How often is she calling now?” Danny asked.
Peterson didn’t answer. The phone stopped ringing, and he set it on the table and leaned back in the booth.
Danny checked his watch and got up to go. “Do you want to ask Angela Harding about the photos or should I?”
Peterson forced a smile. “I’ll go first thing in the morning, before she has time to make up her face.”
Danny left Peterson stirring his coffee, stirring his thoughts.
Ten feet away, a middle-aged woman in a beige blouse with a wooden crucifix around her neck sat in another booth, slouched in thoughts of her own. The space between her and Peterson was accentuated by the similarity of their distant and trapped expressions and by the way they took turns lifting their eyes and fixing them on the blinking bar sign.
The waitress was boxing donuts and filling a Thermos for a truck driver who was too tired to give her the time of day. The truck driver left and she made the rounds topping up coffee. She caught Peterson by surprise, staring out the window at the Broken Promise bar sign.
“That sign tells the story of my life,” she said.
Peterson covered his mug with both hands to stop her from pouring. “Nobody keeping them?”
“Nobody making them. Not anymore.” She stepped back from the table and flared out her arms in a sensual gesture to mock her widening girth. “Sooner or later it catches up.”
“Sooner or later it does,” Peterson said and turned toward the middle-aged woman, but she was on her feet and making her way to the cash to pay her bill.
His cell phone rang again. Unknown number. He tensed and clicked for the image and saw the fleabag room with badly stained walls and an unmade bed.
“Katy?” No reply.
The woman fumbled for the exact change. She could not help overhearing Peterson.
“Say something. Anything.”
The woman saw his face strain under the silence.
“Why do you call if you don’t want to talk?” Peterson begged.
The woman turned from the waitress to leave the coffee shop and heard his brittle words like notes bent and broken off a violin.
“Say something. Don’t make me hang up. Katy?”
A while later, Peterson still sat in the window booth, nursing what was left of his coffee, cell phone on the table. His feelings ran a four-minute mile at memories that hung in his mind like his wife’s dresses on her side of the closet. His daughter’s room behind a do
or he never opened.
He mindlessly watched a teenage girl walking in the halo of passing headlights along the dirt path that ran between a chain-link fence and the highway. She had come from the direction of the highway exit for a low-rent suburb and a trailer park, carrying a jacket in her hand. She moved sluggishly as though her knees were locked and her feet each weighed a ton. She was slouchy too, and tired looking, but not her eyes. Her eyes were knife points in a thin face, and they were fixed on the bright lights of the Broken Promise.
A horn blast from a semi made Peterson pay closer attention. The girl was crossing six lanes of traffic. Awkward in her movements. Not checking the oncoming vehicles.
Dropping a five spot on the table, Peterson quickly made for the door, watching the girl on the highway, expecting the worst and feeling helpless to prevent it, like the helplessness he felt during the Skype calls from his daughter, or when he’d heard the dispatch for the Rescue Team to the shore road for an accident involving an overturned cement truck and a blue Buick.
The girl kept walking, her steps unsteady on the pavement, crossing over the double yellow lines. Headlights swirled by. Horns honked. Brake lights blazed on and off.
Peterson was on the street with his own barrier of traffic to cross. He watched her in the gun sights of an SUV that swerved in time to pass her by. The driver gave a finger that she didn’t see. Her eyes were fixed straight ahead on the flashing bar sign. A moth to a flame.
Two guys hanging outside the bar were smoking joints and watching the girl on the highway. Neither moved a muscle to help. They were juiced and squirming to see her smeared on a windshield like a bug. Horny as hell when she made it across. They both laughed and imitated the awkward way she walked, feigned grab ass as she went by. They followed her into the Broken Promise.
Peterson couldn’t find a break in the constant traffic and gave up the idea of crossing the six-lane. He hurried to the coffee shop parking lot and climbed into his car. He swung down a service road to the overpass that would take him to the opposite side of the highway and to the Broken Promise.
Inside the bar the music was hard and crusty. And it was loud, so loud the bass ached in the bones of the two dozen people scattered through the place. It had them shaking and tapping with the beat, drinking and blowing their minds on the fantasy images powered from a video wall. Two girls gyrated on barstools. One looked liked death; the other like death’s sister. Two cheating hearts sat in shadows in a corner. Other customers, young guys mostly, were parked at tables near the oak bar that had a stained-glass canopy over top and at lottery terminals around the perimeter of the room. Some of those not gambling were there to grind their nuts on the street girls who strayed in for a free drink and the chance of getting something more. Others came to drink and blow dope and let the numbing music and the blanket of coloured lights loosen their fears and inhibitions.