by L E Fraser
FROM THE DARKNESS, JB heard them. He knew they were very close, but he couldn’t see them. Sister Sylvia was advising Mandy to stay in the ditch, and her voice was thick and wet sounding. He heard her pain, and it made the hair rise on his neck.
Mussani ignored them and continued to lean against the front bumper of the Jeep. He was merely waiting, like a lion carefully stalking its prey. After several motionless moments, he reached into the Jeep and switched on the headlights.
In response, JB heard Mandy cry out, “Sylvia, I see a car!”
They watched in silence as she crawled up the ditch, standing at the top to wave her arms. A frayed piece of braided hemp circled her right wrist.
Mussani slid through the darkness to the girl. “Find the other one.”
JB reluctantly jumped into the ditch, walking ten metres before his boot hit something solid. He carefully slung Sylvia across his shoulder and trudged up the steep slope to the road where Mussani waited.
“Move her by the tree and wake her.”
JB lowered his friend to the ground, and, from the corner of his eye, he saw Mussani take Mandy’s hand. She blinked and shaded her eyes from the glare of the car’s lights but stood silent and still. Her eyes widened with horror when she looked from Mussani to Sylvia, who was now visible in the harsh light.
JB propped Sylvia against the thick trunk of an elm tree and groped for her hand. She tensed at his touch but didn’t open her eyes. He pinched her arm and wept.
His pinch drew her back to consciousness, and she struggled to stand before giving up and slumping weakly against the tree trunk.
He studied her in the harsh light from the Jeep. Her lower teeth and gums were visible through a gaping tear in her lip. Pink foam coated her lips and dark blood stained her chin. It had flowed down her neck to pool in the hollows of her collarbones. Her left eye was black and swollen closed. Blood covered the hand he held, and one of her fingernails was missing.
Her head slowly turned toward him, and recognition flickered in her eyes. They’d been friends and lovers, and he could tell she believed he’d betrayed her.
JB grasped her hand hard and tears dripped down his cheeks. “I d-d-didn’t t-t-tell. He knew.”
“It wasn’t her fault,” she whispered. “Swear you’ll protect her.” She gasped for breath. “Swear you’ll get her home to her sister.”
He turned away from her and stared at the dismal scene in front of the Jeep. Mandy was sprawled on her back against the gravel, with her robe around her neck in concertina folds. Her young, lustrous skin was translucent in the cruel white light from the Jeep. Mussani knelt before the girl, anointing her trembling flesh with the initiation oil, pinching her nipples and forcing her legs apart. He grabbed her hips, thrusting himself inside her. Mandy’s screams cut JB’s heart. He covered his ears to block out the terrifying cries. After a few minutes, Mussani violently turned her to her stomach, grabbed her around the waist and pushed himself inside her from behind, pressing her naked body against the sharp stones on the road. She was no longer screaming, and JB prayed she was unconscious. He dropped his hands from his ears and held tightly to Sylvia’s hand, averting his eyes from the brutality he’d vowed to witness.
Sylvia raised her head to the heavens. “Lord, we are still your children. Why have you abandoned us?” The light faded from her eyes. Her broken body drooped to the ground.
A bolt of lightning lit the sky, and a single star, lonely in solitude, twinkled in the darkness. JB watched the star blink once and twice, and then it vanished like an angel’s tear.
When Mussani completed the initiation ceremony, JB stood and went to the Jeep. He felt sick to his stomach, and his skin was crawling with goosebumps. Mussani tightened the gold, braided rope around his thick waist, lit a cigarette, and smiled.
“What about h-h-h-her?” JB nodded toward the dead woman sprawled at the base of the giant elm. He swallowed the sour saliva gathering in his mouth and wiped the back of his hand against the clammy sweat on his forehead.
Mussani unscrewed his flask of whisky. He took a long drink and shrugged.
JB swallowed hard and let grief wash over him. Sylvia had never teased or rejected him. For the first time since joining the life at Bueton, he felt doubt.
As if aware of his disloyal thoughts, Mussani laid his arm across his shoulders. They stood together in the artificial light from the Jeep’s headlights.
“It’s sad,” Mussani said, and his expression showed deep sympathy. “Her death was an accident, Brother. The woods are dangerous and off limits.”
“There w-w-was blood on her l-l-lips.”
“Sylvia was a traitor. Brother, hold tight to your faith and remember that not everyone is worthy of rising to the next level.”
Mussani flicked the cigarette toward the Jeep, and the smoldering filter fell on Mandy’s grubby robe. She crawled across the road toward her Messiah, guttural whimpers tearing from her throat. She reached for him.
He grasped her hand and pulled her to her feet. “My poor child, look at how betrayed you were by Sister Sylvia. Come, it’s time for you to go home.” He was smiling, but JB saw no kindness in the expression.
JB turned his back and went around the front of the Jeep to the passenger door. “I swear,” he whispered to the wind.
With a final glance at his lover’s dead body slouching against the giant elm tree, JB climbed into the Jeep and closed his eyes.
CHAPTER ONE
Estelle
ESTELLE GAZED OUT the large kitchen window over the sink. She didn’t care about the maple, oak and birch trees dressed in their fall finery. The sun skipped across the smooth surface of the pond, and the frost painted the grass in the fields with shimmering patterns of light, but it didn’t move her. She wasn’t grateful for nature’s seasonal gifts. She’d grown up poor, with an abusive father who took pleasure in controlling his family. What Estelle cared about now was ownership. She knew money was power, and power meant obedience. That was exactly what she wanted, and she didn’t care how reluctantly people offered the obedience.
She stood beside the dishwasher and, with a twitch of irritation, realized it was still making a weird noise. She’d asked Duncan to fix it, and he’d mumbled that their ranch hand could take care of it. The machine continued to clank and groan, like an old man shuffling to the washroom. She suspected Duncan broke it when he steamed trout in the dishwasher. Her foodie husband had arrived home from the city excited by the bizarre recipe he’d negotiated from the chef of a five-star restaurant, and now the bloody dishwasher wasn’t working. The trout hadn’t even tasted good. There had been a hint of detergent in every bite.
The dogs started barking, and she peered out the library window to see who was coming up the lane. Maybe it was Dean, and maybe he was planning to fix the dishwasher. She disliked Dean Crats because he made these peculiar remarks blanketed with subtext, which he’d drawl with a snide smirk.
Instead of Dean’s truck, it was a delivery van, although the directive on the gate clearly stated that the stable office received all deliveries. Angry, Estelle stomped to the mudroom, snagged a jacket from the cedar closet, and stepped out the French doors.
The weather was unseasonably cool. Summer had arrived early, but the warm weather had departed fast. Winter was now nipping at October’s tail, and the Farmer’s Almanac warned that it would be a long season permeated with blizzards. The inclement weather made her unhappy because it was wreaking havoc with her renovation plans. She didn’t care that the cold weather had destroyed most of the local crops. Her neighbours’ financial worries weren’t her concern. Estelle didn’t believe in counting other people’s money.
A cheerful male voice was drifting across the crisp air. Her uninvited guest was chatting to the dogs and addressing them by name, which meant he was someone local. She walked down the path that ran through the meticulous gardens and met the man at the wide driveway. Estelle rubbed the chill from her hands and waited for him to state his business.
“
Hello there, Mrs. Reid, fine bright day today. How have you been? How’s your family?” He strolled around his van to the back doors and extracted a wrapped box of flowers.
She didn’t reply. She didn’t like visitors, especially chatty visitors.
“It’s a bit cool for the month. These are for you. The order came in from Italy.”
He looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t place him. His hands were calloused, and his fingernails were dirty. His face was weathered, and grey stubble decorated his jaw line. He had an accent that might be Scottish, but it was difficult to tell. The short, thin man was dressed in a grubby pair of denim overalls and a plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up. She thought it was an unprofessional outfit for a deliveryman.
He passed her a large bouquet wrapped in festive paper and tied with maroon twine. “I think you’re the first person around here who has ever received flowers from overseas.”
She took the box. The wrapping was creative, and the bulk of the packaging and weight of the vase implied that it was an expensive arrangement. Her husband always bought her flowers from the city. She doubted that a florist working in Uthisca had any design skills, but she could smell roses on the cool wind so perhaps it wouldn’t be too bad. If the order came from overseas, it was probably a birthday gift.
“I suspect it’s from my daughter, Veronica. She and her family frequently travel in Italy,” she said.
“How’s your other daughter doing?”
Estelle looked up at the man. The box with the towering vase started to slip through her fingers. How could a simple question be so complicated? She wrapped the palm of her left hand more securely around the bottom of the box and glared at him.
He shuffled his feet against the pebbles. There was no judgment or malice in his face, only simple curiosity. The intensity of her stare, coupled with her refusal to answer his question, seemed to embarrass him. He dropped his eyes and turned away to shut the van doors.
“Okay then, you have yourself a good day,” he mumbled.
It occurred to her that she should tip him. “Wait here,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”
She turned around and marched back to the house. Once inside, she placed the vase on the quartz countertop of the shelving unit in the mudroom, closed her eyes, and focused on slowing her racing heart.
After they’d bought the ranch in the town of Uthisca, their youngest daughter had lived with them for nearly six months. It wasn’t surprising that someone from town would remember her, which was why Estelle drove an hour to an adjacent town to shop. She hadn’t been in a Uthisca store in over two years.
Her chest felt tight, and she was having trouble catching her breath. The smell of scorched coffee made her stomach roll. She tried to concentrate on the sweet strains of an aria from Puccini’s Madame Butterfly playing from the wireless speakers. How’s your other daughter doing? The question kept bouncing around in her head, drowning out the opera like a ridiculous jingle you can’t stop humming.
With a steadying breath, she grabbed a few coins from the dish on the table and went back to the driver, who was leaning against the bright Gerbera daisy logo on the side panel of the van.
He stepped forward to meet her and seemed about to say something. Then he glanced at the coins in her outreached hand, frowned, and looked back at her face.
“Thank you for delivering the flowers.” She waved her hand at him, annoyed that he didn’t just take the money and go.
Instead, he looked as if she’d slapped him across the face. “Neighbours don’t take money ‘round here for a simple kindness, Mrs. Reid.” He glared at her.
Why would a tip offend the stupid man? He seemed angry when he climbed behind the wheel of the van and recklessly raced down the gravel lane to the main road. She watched the van disappear around a clump of trees. Etiquette dictated tipping for deliveries this far out in the country. She’d done nothing wrong.
Her hand shook when she tucked the coins into the pocket of her jacket, and the weakness infuriated her. She would call the store and complain. Clearly, they’d made the right decision by purchasing their flowers from the city. Nevertheless, she may as well open the arrangement and see what it looked like.
Back at the house, she stopped in the mudroom to pick up the box. She placed it on the marble countertop of the kitchen island and opened the wrapping to caress the pink roses, white tulips, and Cymbidium orchids. Orchids were her favourite, especially exotic orchids. Much to her surprise, it was a lovely arrangement. Veronica had excellent taste, and the flowers would look spectacular in the living room on the side table.
She selected a Waterford crystal vase that would highlight the delicate orchids. After arranging the flowers, she tossed the florist’s vase into the recycling bin and eagerly plucked the card from the forked stick. She read the card once, blinked and read it again. She eyed the flowers with suspicion. The card read, Happy Birthday, Mother. Jasmine.
Estelle retrieved the original vase from the recycling bin and shoved the flowers into it, jamming the forked stick into the arrangement, and crushing an orchid. She picked up the large vase, carried it into the sunroom, and plunked it onto the cluttered table. Water sloshed out and soaked the morning paper.
“So, we’re expected to believe Jasmine is in Italy,” she said to the dogs trotting at her heels.
More than likely, her daughter had contrived an elaborate plot to make it look like she was in Italy. Chewing on her lower lip, Estelle eyed the arrangement. She picked up the vase and went outside to the deck, depositing the delicate flowers on the outdoor table. She rubbed the chill from her arms and scurried back to the kitchen. She could still see the flowers. She closed the mahogany blinds to the deck and went into the living room.
She hadn’t spoken to her daughter in years and tried very hard never to think about her. Was Zach in Italy, too? She ran her fingers through her short hair, wandered back to the kitchen and sat on a barstool. Estelle made a point of never sending presents to Jasmine and wished her daughter would return the favour. She and Duncan had opened a trust fund for their grandson, Zach, and made a generous deposit for each occasion, but that was it. She cursed her daughter’s obstinate nature. Why couldn’t she leave well enough alone?
Duncan would ask if she’d phoned to thank Jasmine. If she said no, he would scamper to the damn computer and email her, regardless of the fact that he had no interest in a relationship. Every time a gift arrived, Estelle lost control and lectured him about his hypocrisy, but he still ran to the computer.
Her morning was ruined, and she felt anxious and irritable. She pulled on a jacket and tugged on a pair of heavy-soled walking boots, a morning ritual that preceded the dogs’ daily run through the fields. As always, the two bullmastiffs gathered around her with unconditional love and sharp barks of excitement. She tugged on their floppy brown ears, gave them each a generous pat, and ushered them outside. At the steps leading from the deck, she watched them take off in a gallop to the fields.
She turned and studied the flowers. There they sat in all their glory, mocking her. Carefully selecting her favourite flowers wasn’t a thoughtful gesture. It was Jasmine’s passive aggressive way of reminding her mother that she didn’t care enough to send meaningful gifts herself. Oh yes, there was lots of subtext woven around those seemingly innocent blossoms.
Estelle tilted her head and studied the crooked table. She nudged the teak table leg with the toe of her boot. The heavy table didn’t move. She grasped it and shoved. The arrangement tumbled off, and the glass vase smashed against the deck. She smiled slightly, collected a garbage bag from the mudroom, and returned to stuff the squished blossoms and shards of broken glass into the sack.
Whenever her mind drifted to Jasmine, Estelle thought of Amanda, and she didn’t like thinking about her either. She looked across the rolling green fields and spied the dogs in the far south paddock. They were chasing something. Probably a rabbit. If she went to the mailbox, they wouldn’t notice. She never took
them to the mailbox because she worried they’d be hit by a car. North Road rarely had traffic, but she worried just the same. If they decided to have an adventure and took off down the road, she wouldn’t be able to control them.
She hurried down the lane to the mailbox with the jaunty red flag pointing up at the bright blue sky. There were several greeting cards, but there was nothing from her youngest daughter.
“Well, isn’t that nice. Not even a card for her mother on her birthday,” Estelle muttered.
Amanda had left home two years earlier. At first, Estelle and Duncan had assumed it was adolescent defiance, and they’d waited for her to come home. Five weeks after her disappearance — two weeks after her sixteenth birthday — Duncan involved the police. During her interview, Estelle told the Inspector that Amanda was with her sister. It was important to her that no one gossiped about her daughter running away because that would imply there was something negative in her home.
The truth was that a month before she disappeared, Amanda had grown obsessed with non-traditional religious doctrines. The fanatic sermonizing hinted at a mental health issue, and it bewildered and scared them. They did their best to ignore the behaviour, assuming Amanda’s extremist attitude was because of their recent move to Uthisca from Toronto. They figured she’d return to her quiet personality once she settled into their new home and made friends at school.
Instead, Amanda had refused to decorate her new room, claiming every stick of furniture was wasteful and excessive. She systematically drove away anyone who tried to connect with her, claiming they were materialistic sinners. Not a single teenager graced the doors of their new home, which left her unhappy parents the sole audience for her to regale with unorthodox views on communal love and peculiar ideologies of collective consciousness.
Duncan found a boarding school that would accept Amanda mid-semester, but she disappeared the night before she was to leave. They believed she was with her sister, and Jasmine was lying to them. They’d agreed that the best plan was to move on with a stiff upper lip, until Amanda came to her senses. That was two years ago. They were still waiting.
