"You could tell them yourself."
"No, it would sound defensive. Besides, I have to leave Burchill. I'll return in my casket some day. In the meantime, my sister Sara wants me to be with her. She's been a widow for a while now. We can both enjoy her grandchildren, I hope, and take care of each other. I can't burn this filth, either. I'm stuck in this wheelchair for life. No, it has to be left up to you."
"But I'm not Burchill-born. I'm a true stranger here."
Her eyes fixed on mine. "Oh, but you have the soul of a Burchill native. And you had Nathaniel's high regard and devotion. You'll do right by him. Besides, you know the people who will spread the word." She winked. "Like that Ruth McEntyer, the waitress, you know?"
I chuckled softly, holding the diary tightly. "I'll do right by Nathaniel, Annie. Thanks for trusting me. And for giving me Angel." I leaned over and kissed her on the forehead, startling her, ignoring her instinctive reaction to pull back. "I think Sara's grandchildren will be very fortunate to have a second grandma like you."
Chapter 29
It was the middle of summer, one of those for which central Ontario is famous—hot, clear, with the kiss of lake and river in the breeze. It was unlike the clamminess of Toronto or the rain-soaked days of Vancouver. The air was California fresh, as if we could walk to the ocean from here. My ribs had almost completely healed and I felt my old energy returning as I walked over the bridge toward the cemetery.
The trials of William and Marjory Percival were still months ahead, stuck in preparatory motions. The two of them were vying to see who could tell the best story. Marjory was indeed laying all the blame on Bill, asserting that he beat her and intimidated her into doing his dirty work.
The puppy mill had been cleared away, leaving nature to crawl back and sit upon the empty land, bringing the life of smaller, freer creatures. Sadly, many of the animals had been unable to survive their ordeal and were reluctantly put to sleep.
The Ontario Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals had moved in to assist those dogs and puppies who were still open to trust and who were healthy enough to be adopted. People from Burchill and all over the province opened their hearts and their homes to these poor little souls. We all learned a great deal about puppy mills and how to avoid inadvertently supporting them.
Later that year, a certain 'Den' in Toronto was uncovered and quietly razed. Most people in Burchill still don't know about that aspect of the incident and I truly think it's better that way. Such evil does exist in the world, but I'm not sure we can totally eradicate it, and I have to believe that only a minority of people sinks to such levels. So I wasn't about to reveal the entire sordid story to anyone.
The village Inn was undergoing some renovations, just enough to leave behind the taint of Percival tastes.
Frances Petapiece was often seen in town, sometimes hand in hand with Edgar Brennan, watching the ships go through the locks.
The bridgeman had been replaced with a computer and a series of electric switches, which one of the villagers had been hired to oversee and repair. No one seemed inclined to stop and talk with him. He was all business, a computer geek they said. The bridgeman's house had been sold to the town as a heritage site for one dollar and was going to be turned into a museum.
Annie Ryeburn moved away quietly, with no one to wave farewell. She took all her belongings and her memories, hopefully the good ones.
Somehow the rumour got started that Bill Percival had lied about Walter Ryeburn all along and that the old man thought he was working to help the animals instead of harm them. Even further, it was said that Walter Ryeburn had no idea of what actually went on at the mill until that fateful day when he went to see it, and got beaten to death for his efforts. By the time the villagers were finished with the story—which, if truth were told, they never did tire of telling—Walter and Nathaniel Ryeburn were practically heroes.
It didn't really bother me that Walter had gotten away with so much, at least in the eyes of the villagers. He had paid for his sins with his life, in so many different ways, even as he lived. As long as Nathaniel was known as kind and brave and innocent, I made my own private judgment that the scales of justice were even.
Edgar had been right when he said that they had enough on Bill and Marjory to put them away for life. They didn't need the scribblings of an old diary. Even the leathery bits had melted in the large fire I'd built in our back yard.
Before burning it, I'd peaked inside at the very last page, at the words written by this tortured man not so very long ago. The growing distrust of his wife's love, his terror at losing her and his little boy if they ever discovered his past proclivities, leapt from the pages.
In his twisted way, he had thought the puppy mill would be a better use of the land. He'd actually believed they would treat the dogs with kindness, or at least with self-serving attention and care. But Bill's greed led them to overproduce, resulting in neglect, torture and abuse, something Bill Percival (Pervertival, somehow I liked to recall) seemed to enjoy.
Walter had stopped recording in the diary long before attempting to remove himself from the puppy mill. He had, however, made it very clear who the lead in all this despicable activity was—one William Percival. After reading it, and following the Ryeburn legend as it grew throughout the village, I was secretly pleased that the rumours about 'heroism' were a little closer to the truth than I'd imagined they could be.
The cemetery is very old. It was originally divided into two distinct sections, one that served as a burial ground for the reservation, and one for the rest of the folk. Now, we are all together in death, even if there are still barriers in life. I walk to the end of the eighth row, where a small monument stands just to the left of a tree. Nathaniel has his own space here, his own testament to his life. N. Walter Ryeburn, Senior, lies three rows over, waiting for his wife, who will someday finally prove in death that she will always be with him.
I sit down on the warm, dry grass and pick a couple of tiny weeds, placing my new, fresh flowers in the little vase that popped out from the marble.
'Nathaniel W. Ryeburn, Junior, the last true Bridgeman' reads his epitaph. Ruth McEntyer has informed me that, in the last few days since this headstone was completed, many people have visited Nathaniel's grave. They stand, or sit as I am, talking to their bridgeman. I don't tell Ruth that I think they should leave him alone. In actual fact, I never knew if Nat liked his role or not. Perhaps he did like listening. Perhaps he is happy that people still wish to confide in him, give him their trust. And Nathaniel was certainly deserving of that honour.
I stand and look toward the ice blue sky, the creamy clouds, the birds drifting above. Perhaps Nat has even made peace with his tormented father by now.
A crow boldly circles my head. He settles on the tree next to Nathaniel's grave, straightening his wings and gazing peremptorily around the cemetery.
You know, Mrs. Emily, birds are actually very smart. Especially crows.
The crow winks at me, his head cocked to one side. He opens his beak and lets out a small, gravelly greeting.
After that crow's wing healed, he hung around people like he was one of us. I had to capture him again and take him way out to the reserve so he'd get used to the woods again. He looked at me with such hurt eyes when I told him to fly away, just turned his head sideways and listened to me talkin'. He knew what I said. He just didn't want to believe that I didn't want him around. But he was gettin' too close to the kids in the park and all the parents was complaining. I figured sooner or later someone'd shoot him. I hope he's happy out in them woods.
I stand up and look back at the crow, smiling. If anyone is looking and listening, they might think, appropriately perhaps, that the school principal has lost her mind.
"I hope there are animals and birds where you are, Nathaniel, our last true bridgeman," I say to the crow, who continues to look at me sideways, eyes blinking as if he is listening and reacting to my words. "And I hope you're happy too."
With that, the bird lifts his huge black wings and sails upward, circling the cemetery for a few minutes, and then heads into the sun.
~ * ~
If you enjoyed this book, please consider writing a short review and posting it on Amazon, Goodreads and/or Barnes and Noble. Reviews are very helpful to other readers and are greatly appreciated by authors, especially me. When you post a review, drop me an email and let me know and I may feature part of it on my blog/site. Thank you. ~ Cathy
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Message from the Author
Dear Reader:
This is not an easy book, because of the terrible way that animals are treated. Unfortunately, the scenarios are steeped in truth. I hope you will plough through those sections, to get through to the message: that human beings might all be capable of evil, but very few really act upon those urges, thank goodness.
There is, in the end, hope for all people and for the world for which we should be acting as shepherds. My admiration to all those who care for abused animals.
According to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals, there are approximately 300 puppy mills in the province of Ontario alone.
Here are some tips on what you can do to help shut them down:
ADOPTION from the SPCA is the only absolutely certain way to avoid inadvertently supporting a puppy mill. REPORT any case of animal abuse, neglect or suspicious living conditions to your local SPCA.
LOBBY by joining in the letter campaigns that are initiated from time to time through the SPCA websites. DONATE to the registered charitable SPCA organization in your area (you can get sympathy cards when a beloved pet dies, for instance).
—Cathy
VICTIM
An Emily Taylor Mystery
Catherine Astolfo
This book is dedicated to my beloved father, James, and my sister, Candace, whose spiritual energies continue to guide us; and to the real Agnes Lake, a true shaman for her family.
Acknowledgements
My husband, Vince Astolfo, is truly the wellspring of my creativity, as well as the love of my life. My daughter, Kristen, gives me constant support, love and inspiration. None of these books would be complete if it were not for her encouragement and myriad of skills. My son James and my daughter-in-heart Meredith continue to be my champions. They have given me so much love and affirmation in pursuing this writing obsession. My mother Maureen has always believed in me. Her faith and support give me a determination that I would otherwise not possess.
Thanks to Sandy Duplassie and his siblings for the use of their mother’s name, Agnes Lake, and for their counselling on Ojibway folklore. Agnes was the motivation for my interest in Native history, ever since that trip into the woods!
My friend Merci, who wrote the wonderful poetry, is a part of my heart where dreams and creativity arise and flourish.
My sisters and brothers-in-law and my wonderful nieces and nephews give me such positive energy, true love and happiness. My stepsons, step-daughters-in-law-and-heart and my mother-in-law give Vince and me their love and support, something we never take for granted. Someday soon, Kelly, it will be your turn for happiness.
Our grandchildren are a constant delight, a source of pride and faith that keeps us young and joyful.
My best friends, and first editors, always listen to me, love me, and are more of a source of joy and confidence than they can know. I am so very fortunate in friendship!
Everyone at Imajin Books, especially Cheryl Tardif, for their advice, the wonderful e-product that 'Victim' has become, and for their incredible support of Canadian writers.
We, like the birds, fly in a certain direction,
and in spring, the jackrabbit starts his way.
Through the hare's eyes, I see.
Prologue
Frieda waited until the police had finished searching. She did not even make the journey up the road until all the sightseers and relatives had drifted back to their homes. By the time she began walking toward the house, the woods had gone back to their natural quiet.
The sun made diamond patches on the crisp snow as she trudged up the hill. Overhead, several birds circled, silently searching for mice indiscreet enough to take a run through the leafless trees. Frieda's breath came in puffs of white clouds and the cold tingled her nose into a reddish blush. Crunching across the brittle ground, Frieda's eyes and ears told her countless stories about life in the forest.
Just to the side of the road, a small rabbit had been seized by an owl. Frieda spotted the frantic tracks racing to the trees, the sweep of the bird's wings as it grazed the ground and then flew off with its prey. A little further on, Barry Mills' son had destroyed a sparrow. She could see the boy's footprints and then a smattering of feathers and blood, which had once been a bird. Frieda smiled at this. Bobby Mills was learning to be a real hunter.
The thrill of the hunt shivered through her body. She could picture the huge deer she had caught last week, flattened against the snow, eyes bulging and fearful. Waiting, felled by the pain, the victim was at Frieda's mercy. It was left up to her to end the misery, to decide between life and death. At that moment, she was the one in control. She was the god, the arbiter of fate. For Frieda, the power of those moments was the reason she loved to trap and hunt.
The native woman prided herself on her keen powers of observation. She had spent most of her life in the woods, first trailing after her father, the man whose quiet aloofness had taught her to be silent and watchful. Her mother, frail and self-pitying, always lay pale and sighing in her bed when they arrived home, scrutinizing her daughter as though Frieda were an object of great perplexity. Frieda would spend hours in the woods alone, too, or in the shed out back, abiding by the stern lessons that her father had taught her about skinning and drying animal carcasses.
Later, when she was almost a grown woman and her parents had died, Frieda followed in Oona's footsteps. At the thought of Oona and the traps, her heart swelled with pride. Oona had shared her knowledge with anyone she thought worthy of it, and Frieda had proven her best pupil. Together, Oona and Frieda had travelled and camped in these woods several thousand times. They knew it the way most people know their living rooms. The two women had similar builds—strong and stocky, muscular and round from walking and hiking through hills and forest. They could scale walls and ford streams, build campfires from scratch, and create wooden structures that withstood most storms.
Frieda stopped at the bend in the road and sniffed the air. She might have been a bear whose den was being threatened, for only when she did not hear the saw whining in the distance or smell the dust of a fallen tree did she relax her stance. Her round, serious face was creased with sun lines and now, worry and curiosity. Her small brown eyes were inquisitive, almond-shaped, overshadowed by thick eyebrows. Her gaze was disconcerting to most. She had the ability to freeze conversation with her stare. As far as anyone knew, due to the woman's irascible and detached nature, Oona had been Frieda's only friend.
The layer of ice that had fallen over the snow yesterday must have thwarted their efforts to build again today. Frieda smiled maliciously. Along with other Ojibwa natives and Burchill residents, Frieda hated the encroachment of the new subdivision on their communities. As most of the villagers did, Frieda dreaded the increased population as an intrusion on their quiet way of life. But she had other reasons for her reactions. Although the threat of competition in the trapping business was very real, Frieda was also secretly energized by the idea of a more modern life. She had her own secret agenda and the guilt made her uneasy and filled with anger. She knew, however, that the subdivision was not destined to last. Not if she could help it.
The winter this year had not lent its sympathy to those opposed to the construction. Instead, it had been unusually warm, with very little snow, allowing the contractor to continue building. Over the last three days, a blanket of snow had coated everything, and then a sheet of ice had fallen on top. It was probably the first time in histo
ry that the Burchill Village residents, native and non-native alike, had welcomed the snow and cheered an ice storm.
By the time she came within sight of the camp, Frieda had warmed to the hunt. Her breath was steady, the blood pumped excitedly through her veins. She went first to the little house. The door was open as always. Frieda stepped into the quiet warmth and waited until her eyes adjusted to the dim light.
Everything was as Oona had left it. The rusty kettle sat abandoned on the black pot stove. Her cup, crusted with tea stains, perched nearby, a withered bag curled, forgotten inside. Oona's gun, shining and ready, gleamed from the corner.
Frieda went in slowly, touching everything, drinking in the silence of the cabin. She thought she could see the outline of Oona's body on the thin mattress of the single bed. The cupboards were simple and few, constructed of raw wood that had never been finished, although each cup and plate and foodstuff had been organized neatly inside. There were utensils for only three, a small aluminum table with two uneven, unmatched chairs and one rocking chair with the stuffing held inside by duct tape. Even as she took in every object in the small room, Frieda found herself thinking of her own new home, and of how foolish Oona was to live this simply when she could be living in comfort as Frieda was now doing.
She pictured Oona sitting here, smoking the wooden pipe that had been in her family for centuries, avidly reading whatever book she'd been given or borrowed, her face barely illuminated in the light of the kerosene lanterns. Slightly taller than Frieda, broader at the shoulders and hips, her face wide and open, her eyes impossibly large and disingenuous, only Oona had been able to defrost—at least temporarily—the frigid gaze that Frieda turned on the world.
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