Again, Peter nodded. "Yeah, though Oona was doing some of the Walking Bear stuff too. As I said, I think she really began to believe she was Walking Bear reincarnated by Manitou. She began speaking Ojibwa again with Agnes and Frieda. She was happily living the old ways in the cave. She had no idea of what was swirling all around her."
"How did Fobert and his gang find out where the sacred caves were, Peter? Did you take them there?"
Peter's head drooped further. "Yes. I did. I…if I'd known…I like to think…" He stopped for a moment. "I took them there and they went in and they…I thought they were just going to take Victor back out, having taught him a lesson, and convince him to play nice. I didn't go into the cave with them. When I heard the gunshots, I tried to help, but they kept me back. I knew all was lost then. I knew I was completely gone, that Ellie would never forgive me."
"Did you burn down the subdivision?" Frances asked.
"No, Fobert's own people did that. They wanted an excuse for not rebuilding in that area, because they discovered the biggest vein of gold is there. They took Victor out into the woods on the same night, so it served as a distraction too."
"Why didn't you come to us after they killed Frieda and Victor Reeves and almost killed Oona?" Frances demanded.
Peter's tears gushed forward. His nose was running and he didn't bother to wipe anything away. He looked and sounded both weak and pathetic, and I felt a rush of abhorrence for him at that moment. "They came to my house and they took Ellie captive," he whimpered. "I am such a loser, and Ellie is so good and kind. All I've ever done is spend her inheritance and run us into debt, and all she has ever done is love me." He lowered his head entirely and wept for a moment. "They also had Agnes. I…about the only good thing I did was save her from being killed in the cave. I told them she was a shaman and that if anyone knew where the scroll was, it would be her."
Frances drew some tissue from her pocket and forced it into his hand. We both looked away as he blew his nose and wiped his eyes.
"I ransacked Oona's house and tore apart this one looking for that damn scroll. I couldn't find it. They took Ellie somewhere out into the woods and tied her up in a hunter's cabin, threatening to let her starve to death or be torn apart by animals if I didn't find a way to get that scroll. I don't know where she is…I looked when I could, but I don't know where. Those huts are always being ransacked and rebuilt in different locations…" Peter seemed to resolve himself not to break down again. He lifted his head and looked at both of us.
"Eventually, Fobert started believing me about Agnes. That she would know where the scroll was and that she would tell me, especially once she found out about Ellie. I convinced them to let me stay with her and question her. And she did tell me, as I knew she would."
"It was hidden under the tree that Oona had raced around. Frieda had found it right before Oona disappeared, but she'd decided she didn't trust Reeves and the boys. It was pretty symbolic that she buried it under that tree, but I assume she knew that. I think Frieda always, on some level, loved Oona."
"They let me go and dig up the scroll on my own. They knew it would look strange if someone saw me with those men, but that my presence alone near Oona's place or in the woods would go unnoticed. And they knew, of course, that I would never put Ellie's life before mine. So I left the headdress where I knew someone would find it. And I searched around for Ellie. If I could've found her, I would've come to you, Frances, I really would have. I left Chief Dan a clue too, but I don't think he's gotten it yet, or maybe he just hasn't interpreted it the way I meant him to."
We were silent in the little room, each with our own thoughts. My mind was racing with the information. All the little pieces of the puzzle had flown together, all the hideous betrayals, the greed that had led us to this place. I couldn't imagine how these people expected to get away with any of this. It seemed like madness to me. Did they really believe that they could set Peter up to be the culprit? I couldn't see Edgar accepting any of that as the explanation. And yet, as Peter had said, his actions over the last few days certainly made him not only look guilty, but he also did actually share in the blame. Maybe Edgar wouldn't believe it, but could he prove otherwise?
Frances got to her feet and tried yanking on the plywood covering the window.
"I already tried that, Frances," Peter said morosely. "They used huge nails to seal it shut. I could barely budge it. I also tried making noise. These old walls are so thick and those bricks just seem to muffle the sound. Besides, they'll hear us if you start kicking or screaming or pulling down that board."
Frances ignored him and continued pulling on the board, so I went to the other side of it and yanked as well. There was a tiny creak as it gave somewhat, but not enough to make much of a difference. When I stretched up and cocked one eye to the crack, I could see the darkening shadows in the yard, and make out the trees bordering the lawn.
"No one could see us from the street," I said, "even if we could get our hands in there to signal someone. Which we can't."
Frances turned away, her face flushed with anger, and listened at the hallway door. "What the hell are they doing out there? I can't hear a single sound."
"They're just waiting until night," Peter told her, again in that defeated, self-pitying tone. "That's when they'll stage whatever scene to make me look like the sole culprit. We will probably shoot each other or something, Frances."
I almost burst into hysterical laughter at his last sentence. "This is ridiculous," I hissed, keeping my hysteria at bay with great difficulty. "This cannot be happening." My shoulders shook with silent laughter. Peter and Frances stared at me as if I'd just gone insane.
"Emily, I know it's something we'd normally see in some stupid movie, but you have to hold it together, hon, or we're finished for sure."
I looked up at Frances, tears rolling down my cheeks that had begun as laughter and were now turning to tears of dread and frustration. "I'm sorry. I'm just…"
"I know." Frances tugged on the door handle, which did not budge an inch. She walked over to me and put her hand on my shoulder. "It's insane. It's so insane and so awful that we absolutely can't let them get away with it."
I nodded my head, drying my tears on my sleeve, and straightened my shoulders. She was right. I had to keep my resolve. I had to get back to my husband. I turned back to the window and squinted out, more to have something to do, and a reason to turn my back as I composed myself, than to look for rescue. To my astonishment, I could see dark shapes moving across the lawn, in and out of the periphery of my vision.
"Frances," I said urgently, trying to keep my excitement down to a whisper. "Look."
I handed over the small opening as though it were a telescope. When Frances turned around after peering through the opening, her body was rigid with excitement. "I can't see who they are, but there are more of them than that bunch out there," she whispered. "Maybe Chief Dan got your message after all, Peter."
It was amazing how that statement caused a sudden and rapid transformation in Peter Smallwood. When I think back to it now, I believe it was this turn of events that got him through everything, and might even have prevented Peter from committing suicide. He had done at least one thing right. He was suddenly on his feet, scrabbling at the wood, peering through the tiny slit, anxiously whispering to us about what we should do next.
"We have to warn them," he said. "We have to signal to them that we are in here and stop them from being hurt."
"Or going away," Frances added. "That probably explains why no one is moving out there." She jammed her thumb in the direction of Evan Fobert and the two huge men who accompanied him. "They're keeping their eyes on the activity outside, ready to do something drastic if they have to. And of course Chief Dan wouldn't try to break in or anything. He will go through the yard and try to look into the house, but he won't come in unless he sees something wrong."
I had been looking around the small room at the paint cans, the drop sheet, the brushes, the old cur
tain rod standing in the corner. All waiting for a decorator's hand that had been stilled. "I've got an idea," I said, cementing my thoughts as I spoke. "We can take that drop sheet and somehow attach it to the curtain rod. Paint a message on the drop sheet and shove it through the cracks—there—and there." I pointed to the small openings that we'd been able to make at the top of the board. "They just might see it, and even if they can't read it they'll know it's a signal."
Frances's and Peter's faces lit up. "Excellent plan, Emily. Let's do it."
"What will we say?" I asked. "What will the message be? We can't just say help. They won't know those men are out there with guns. They'll walk into a trap."
"I've got a suggestion," Peter said.
We pried the lid from one of the open cans, tore open a package that held a thick paintbrush, and slathered a huge DANGER on the drop sheet. The paint was a shiny bright green, a colour that seemed inexplicable, something I would never have used inside my home. But for our purposes, it was perfect, almost glowing in the dark as we slapped it on.
Peter was able to stab a hole in the cloth with the end of the curtain rod. We held the right side up as he threaded the left end of cloth through the opening, poking and prodding, coaxing it through, the curtain rod becoming heavy as it carried the drop sheet across the window, getting caught on the board here and there. It seemed to take hours as we shoved and nudged the cloth along. But at last we had most of it threaded through, the curtain rod poking its head out at the other end. Peter was able to force the curtain rod all the way through, and then we were able to rest it on the board where it hugged the window frame. We left it there and waited.
It was not long before we heard the sounds at the front of the building. There were popping noises, like fireworks, and I knew I was hearing gunfire. The shouts were a meaningless racket because we could not understand a single word. We could hear boots and running feet in the hall. The little house seemed to tremble under the violence that was ravaging its insides.
Frances and Peter and I huddled around Agnes. I am ashamed to say that all I did was pray. The god that I ignored most of the time received a litany of promises, regrets and entreaties from me during those minutes, in which we had no idea what kind of scenario was playing out all around us. Agnes's slow breathing, her warm, motionless body, kept us focused and calm as we waited. The energy that appeared to emanate from her was patient and certain. Her god had already answered.
When someone began to jiggle the door handle, we all peered with terror in the gloom of that small space. My heart raced and pounded. I could feel Peter and Frances stiffen with fright.
"Peter? Are you in there?"
It was the voice that broke us. Chief Dan's strong, deep, clipped tones surrounded us and brought the tears to our eyes. Peter sprang to his feet, followed by Frances.
"We're in here, Chief. We can't open the door." It seemed an inane thing to say, but Chief Dan responded immediately.
"We're coming in, Peter. Stand away from the door."
A loud ripping noise, the shattering of the wooden frame, and suddenly the light from the hallway splashed in on us, along with a refreshing burst of air.
The first faces we saw were those of Chief Dan and Basil Fisher. Their large, comforting frames filled the doorway as they embraced us all, talking incessantly, questions flowing from them about how we got to be there. We were all speaking and moving at once. But when Chief Dan knelt down beside Agnes, the room was immediately silent.
"Shaman," he said, "wise one, awaken. It is over."
Agnes Lake stirred first and then sat up, her back ramrod straight, her face serene yet alight with joy.
"I knew you would come, old friend," she said to him, placing her hand on his cheek. "I knew you would hear me."
The talking began once again. The delirious chatter was more mine than Frances's or Peter's, but the questions kept coming and getting answered. I was dizzy with relief and anxious to call Langford.
In the living room, Evan Fobert and the two others were face down on the floor, hands cuffed behind their backs. Martin Michano was talking rapidly into his cell phone. Burchill's two other new officers, Ron McNeil and Helen Jackson, stood over the captives. Everyone was ignoring Evan Fobert's muffled and frantic attempts to speak.
Somewhere at the edges of my awareness, I saw Barry Mills and Michael Lewis, our police volunteers. Henry Whitesand, as well as several other members of the Native Council, hovered in the house and outside in the yard. Doc came charging through the front door at one point and threw his arms around me, asking if everyone was okay.
The circus of voices and people came to order when Frances and Marty pulled Evan Fobert up to a sitting position. Frances squatted down in front of him, her face severe, her eyes bright with anger.
"If you tell me where Ellie is, I might be able to talk to the judge about how cooperative you were," she hissed at him through closed lips. "No deal making, no promises, no hesitation. Now."
Evan Fobert was smart enough to know when he was defeated. There was no hesitation. Nor did he beg for mercy. He simply told her. Immediately, the three men were thrust to their feet and placed in the various police cars that surrounded the house. Chief Dan, Barry, Frances, Peter and several other of the Native Council members were gone in short order, heading for the woods where Ellie Smallwood lay suffering. Marty and Michael remained in the house, talking on phones and writing notes.
I stood outside in the twilight with Doc, Agnes, Henry and Basil, watching the parade of vehicles race away. It seemed that most of the neighbourhood had come out too, including Mary Jo and Nick Samuels as well as Maire Murphy. Very soon, the tall figure of my husband leapt from our car, along with a small dog that raced into my arms before even Langford could get there. A huge, reassuring embrace was all the lecture he gave me. His eyes told me that he had questions that could wait until we were alone.
Henry and Basil were solicitously looking after Agnes, even though Doc had reassured them of her completely good health. As they took her by the arm to guide her toward Basil's car, Agnes turned back to come and stand by my side. Her hand was warm and silky smooth on mine.
"Child, do not linger in the past," she said, her voice soft, her eyes clear and wise. "Come to see me soon, Emily. I can help."
Once again the tears sprang to my eyes. I was startled and touched and amazed by her perspicacity. All I could manage in response was to nod my head. Langford and I were both quiet as we watched her walk away with her two friends, politely refusing their assistance as she stepped carefully down the sloped lawn toward the car.
Angel sat close beside me, her beautiful little head lifted so she could keep her eyes on me. The fact that I'd been gone far too long, along with Langford's fearful response to my call, had been enough to make her very nervous. I kept bending down to reassure her and pat her head.
Later that night, when questions had been answered, and Langford had spoken his mind, when forgiveness had been granted and reassurances made, our lovemaking was slow and tender and fulfilling.
Chapter 40
The next morning, the weather had changed dramatically. Instead of sunshine, clouds had gathered menacingly over Burchill. The wind was whipped up into frenzy, blowing old withered vegetation in swirls through the streets and lopping the heads off little plants that had blossomed prematurely. The temperature had dropped so drastically that the townspeople who'd put their winter woollies away had to drag them back out again. Hats and mittens and winter coats were donned once more if they needed to venture outside.
Those of us who had been involved in some way in the Walking Bear affair, as it came to be known, were asked to gather at the police station.
Langford and Angel stayed at home. The little dog was fast asleep at my husband's feet when I left. The painting that had absorbed Langford's mind lately was a stunning replica of the view from our bedroom window. The colours were silver and blue with touches of golden and red sunlight as it hovered just above th
e horizon and fingered the water. The perspective was from our balcony, so the viewer was in direct line with the waning sun. Below, on the lake, two white swans floated cheek-to-cheek as though dancing. Their frame suggested a heart. At the moment, he was calling this work Ogeechee, but as soon as I gazed upon it, I suggested that the title be, Devotion.
I walked to the police station, clad in scarf and hat, mittens and my big ski jacket. Buffeted by the wind and the debris being tossed about, my face was chapped and red by the time I reached my destination. As I pulled off my gloves in the reception area, I was glad of the heat that wafted out from both the furnace and the people gathered in the foyer.
I was relieved, too, to see that Doc Murphy's cream had begun to work, for the rash on my thumb and palm was dried and far less itchy. At that moment, I saw May.
We flung our arms around each other and stood that way for a long time, both of us in tears.
"How is Oona?" I asked, pulling myself apart from my friend and looking into her tear-filled brown eyes.
"She's getting there," May answered. "She's eating a little on her own, sitting up a lot of the time and talking. At first she was pretty incoherent, and she kept saying strange things, but eventually she was able to recognize us, and tell us what had happened. The doctor said she might be able to come home soon, as long as she has care. Henry is going to move her into his place for awhile, and Alain and I will help when we can. Doc said Maire offered to come by every day."
"Count me in too, and Langford. We'll all take turns," I told her, squeezing her hand with my good one. Only then did I look around at who else was gathered in the room.
Edgar stood at the front, talking to Frances, Marty and Chief Dan. The Burchill Regional police officers and volunteers were scattered amongst the Native Council members, everyone seeming to talk at once. Only one of the major players in the drama was missing: Peter Smallwood. Under the watchful eye of the Ontario Provincial Police, he had been allowed to maintain a vigil at Ellie's bedside in the Ottawa General Hospital. Charges, I presumed, would soon be laid.
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