He was silent for a moment.
Doro could feel rather than hear Cynthia's intake of breath. She was suddenly aware of the reasons for Nic's silence in the store. This couple probably had no other secrets between them.
"My friend Samuel Perrault," Nic continued. "His son Steven becomes good friends with Elias Janot at school. Even when Elias is taken from the school, he continue to see the boy. I think they sneak out at night. All this Sam finds out later."
After the fire is unspoken but understood.
"But Steven, he is seventeen and he is wild, out of control. Sam and his wife Rita are crazy with worry but everything they do does not help. It seems only to make him worse. They worry about drugs, but they see no sign of it, though in 1976 we are pretty naïve about those thing."
He scratched his head, as though wondering how they could have been so innocent, then went on.
"Steven is nowhere around the night of the fire. Then he appears just before dawn, covered in soot, sobbing and crazy with fear. Sam and Rita clean him up and settle him down. He tells them that he thinks Elias is dead, that Elias has killed his parents with the fire. He tells them that he arrived at the house to go out sneaking around the town as usual and smoke is pouring out of the place. Elias meets him at the front door and tells him the mother and father are already dead, but can he help the brother and sister?"
"Together, they drag the boy, who is hurt bad, and the girl out of the house to the cornfield, away from the fire. Then there is a kind of explosion, probably the propane tanks, and the back of the house is ripped apart. Ashes and soot are everywhere, covering the boys and the lawns around the home. Elias tells Steven he must go back, he will be right back, please stay with his brother and sister."
"Steven says he tries to say don't go, we'll get help, but Elias gives him a strange look and says no, he must go inside. So Steven waits with the two younger ones, thinking Elias is going back after the baby, but he does not come out."
"More exploding and soon the whole house is a ball of fire. Steven runs out into the roadway and flags down a farmer, who says he will get the fire department. Steven tells him there are two children in the cornfield. The boy waits for help to arrive, running between the children in the field and the house, screaming for Elias."
Cynthia's voice was infused with astonishment.
"No one ever reported that Steven was there."
"Ken Patterson, who called it in, always think the boy was Elias. When the fire trucks arrive, Steven told his parents he was scared and sick. He just raced home. Right or wrong, Sam and Rita have remain silent all these years. And as it turned out, one of the reasons they never seriously go after Elias as the killer of his parents was that he was seen on that road and they say he must have gone back into the house to save the rest of the family. You have information on the inquest, ma chérie?"
Cynthia roused from her astonished silence.
"Oui, oui," she said. "Do you want to finish looking, Doro? Are you okay or would it be better to continue tomorrow?"
"Is Kimmy home yet? What time is it?"
Doro felt drained and stupid, as though she had been asleep for twelve hours.
"Kimmy called to say she will be staying at her friend Tanya's until very late, so no worries," Cynthia reassured her. "It's…" she leaned into the kitchen doorway to check the clock "…almost eight o'clock. Is it too late to keeping going?"
Doro was still feeling dazed, but at the same time, too wired to sleep. "I would really like to finish this," she said. "But it's up to you, Cynthia. You have already been so kind to me."
A tear slipped through and slid down her cheek before she could swipe at it. "I'm not used to being this emotional!" she said shakily. "You'd never know it, but I'm usually very reserved." She gave a rueful laugh.
Cynthia came over and put her arms around the younger, slighter woman.
"I think our meeting was meant to be," she said. "I believe that I was meant to be obsessed with your family history so that we could become friends. And don't worry, you are entitled to be emotional, not just because of this little one." She patted Doro's stomach. "Think of all the shocking information that you have learned today."
Doro wept quietly against the woman's shoulder.
Chapter 32: Emily
Walking along the bridge after school, I peered down at the swirling brown water as it struggled out from under clinging bits of ice. As always, I glanced over at the Bridgeman's House, which was converted to a tourist information office after the tragic death of the last original lockmaster.
Now activated by a computer, no physical work was involved in the raising of the bridge. The information center employees, usually young people in the heavy traffic times of summer, were able to handle it all.
I thought often of Nathaniel Ryeburn, his wretched life and death, and now and then in a secret part of me, I still shed a tear for that tortured family. Each morning, as I jogged to school, I recalled the morning when my fragile life in Burchill almost came to an end. And every afternoon, when I headed back to Beatty House, as our residence was known historically, I couldn't help but walk slowly, drinking in the sustaining atmosphere of this beautiful town. I always kept my destination in mind: the thought of our home relaxed me completely, flooding my system with peace and contentment, no matter what the day had wrought.
As I walked, I pictured the huge wooden porches, the tranquil lake nearly at our doorstep, the lovely old trees. Painted a light blue with white shutters, the house was modernized but not spoiled. It maintained its grandeur and majesty, but was comfortable and contemporary. Beatty House was my sanctuary, my dream home, my source of inspiration and solace. It was also where I would find Langford and Angel.
Although just a few hours ago I'd been talking nonstop with Renae and Edgar about the social worker's latest and as things turned out, her last, visit to the Sandersons, I was no longer thinking about school that particular afternoon. Instead, I was enjoying the rare freshness of the air. It had been an odd month for weather, dry and unusually warm. At this moment, though, I was enjoying that tease of warm weather on the breeze, the flow of the river as I sauntered slowly over the bridge.
The village had, in many ways, withstood the passage of time. Relatively small and quiet, its architecture had been lovingly preserved. In the 1800's Burchill threatened to become an industrial force in the area, but suddenly the train supplanted the canal and the little town nearly died. The system of locks continued to provide a bypass over the wildest sections of the Kanawhe River, which sliced through the town and the reserve, but slowly tourist boats replaced cargo vessels.
The Native reserve, called Sahsejewon, which meant 'rapids' in Ojibwa, provided a huge, untouched space of land, where a fairly large number of residents lived, most of whom were ardent environmentalists. Lake Ogeechee, relatively unspoiled and unpolluted as a result of the continuing ban on motorized vehicles, lay along Burchill's outer edges next to our own house, its sandy beaches pristine and stocked with plenty of healthy fish.
A provincial park, another source of untamed and tranquil land, extended from the lake to the Native land. During the summer, Ogeechee was always adorned with colourful sails and graceful canoes, while the motorboats used the locks. North of the lake, stretching all the way to Ottawa, were over a thousand hectares of beautiful mixed forest.
The only industry remaining was a small brick factory, the Burchill Mills. The town quickly morphed into an artists' settlement. These days, many artists lived right in town, often beside or above their stores. The old woollen mill was converted into the Burchill Inn, not only a beautiful place to stay but also a popular and thriving restaurant.
In the summer the town filled with tourists, who arrived by every possible means of transportation. They flooded the inn, motels just outside the village and various bed-and-breakfast accommodations. Money spent on crafts, gifts and souvenirs, not to mention the cash spread around in the restaurants and pubs, kept the villagers and reserv
e inhabitants happy with the annual invasion. Thus the many people who made their living from the tourist trade balanced out those who resented the increase in traffic, noise and general bedlam that often accompanied the visitors.
A few years ago, a subdivision was begun just on the outskirts of the town, much to the chagrin of the council and its residents. In a complicated twist of events, May's Aunt Oona discovered that she was the rightful owner of the land, which was not only ripe for development but also held the secrets of an unusual gold deposit in its folds. Along with the assistance of their lawyer, Jacob Finch, Oona and May compromised on the subdivision. Those people who'd already purchased their homes were allowed to continue to build. Those plots that were in the planning stages only, however, were forever banned. This agreement had cheered both 'Burchillians' and the potential new arrivals.
Shortly after the decision had been reached, construction began again and twenty new houses had been completed. The new villagers appeared to be grateful and delighted and a positive addition to the town. Some of the 'original' villagers' adult children now occupied a few of the homes, which certainly meant that the area had received a stamp of approval.
Our school had been the beneficiary of the new subdivision, too. The houses were fairly small and therefore moderately priced. Thus lots of families with young children moved in. Burchill Public School had undergone renovations in the last couple of years, including the addition of the portapak.
In the meantime, negotiations were being waged over the gold. Jacob Finch had researched companies who employed the latest environmental methods for mining and on Oona's behalf, was brokering a deal. In a few months, Oona and therefore May would be very, very wealthy.
All of this was playing through my mind as I stood on the bridge, the soft breeze whipping my hair gently around my face. I was listening to the water bubble past, noisily breaking through the remaining ice patches. Daydreaming.
All of that explained why I never heard him come up behind me.
Chapter 33: Brimstone
Somehow Brother was there, sitting on the bed beside her, stroking her hair. She could not see him clearly. It was dark and there was a haze over her eyes. She was so tired that she could not move to receive his caresses, but her fingers tightened around his wrist.
Softly he told her the story again, about the meadow and the stream, about the nice house they would live in. She slept.
Big Brother had changed. He did not come near her now. She wondered if he too was angry with her. Sometimes she found him sitting on his bed, fists clenched, knuckles white. Trembling. He would not speak to her. Stared vacantly. She became frightened that he hated her too, the way the preacher did.
She had not seen Baby for some time now. Hungry and tired, she stayed in her room most of the time so that she could not hear the preacher's shouting or see the stiff, distant back of Big Brother.
Mother stood in the kitchen, the spoon in the bowl going around and around and around. The little girl allowed the repetitive sound to lull her once more. The darkness soothed her into the safety of sleep.
Chapter 34: Jacob
A week after Jacob proposed to Kristen, he was presented with a case that took him into very different territory.
Alain Reneaux was a tall, handsome man with large yet delicate hands. Shot with gray, his dark hair was still thick and wavy. His face had a timeless quality: rugged and creased, not old and not young. Jacob thought that Alain would look the same way his entire life. His eyes, a light-green color, added to his attractiveness. He was a gentle giant. Quiet, reserved, with a finely honed sense of humour that he shared only now and then.
Although he and May did not appear to fit one another physically, there was such an aura of togetherness about them that Jacob couldn't even imagine one without the other.
This day, however, Alain was standing alone at the door of Jacob's office, twisting his hat in his hands. He looked nervous and shy. His usual smile was absent.
"Hey, Alain, come on in," Jacob greeted him, holding the door wide open and leading the way. "Want a coffee? Helen makes the best."
"Sure."
Alain's voice was gravelly, as though he had just awakened. He cleared his throat.
"Hey, congratulations again, Jacob. We're very happy for you and Kristen."
"Thanks, Alain! I'm so happy, I can't tell you. It's been great the way everyone is supporting us too."
Jacob waved him into one of the comfortable leather chairs that surrounded the small conference table. He poured them each a coffee. "Sugar? Cream?"
Alain nodded for both. Jacob dressed the cups and then brought them over. They sat around the table in silence for a moment, sipping the steaming dark roasted drink.
"So what's up?" Jacob finally asked, which might have sounded abrupt had he not used such a soft, friendly tone.
"May told me to come and see you," Alain said, his French Canadian accent giving a faintly exotic touch to his speech. "She says that you may have time to help me. Help us."
"Always," Jacob replied sincerely. "Not only is May my employer, but as you know, she has become a great friend to me and the kids. So whatever you need, Alain, just tell me. If I don't know the answer, I'll dig it up for you."
Alain drank another satisfying swallow of his coffee before he responded.
"I haven't told you this. In fact, I haven't told very many people, probably just May and Emily and Langford and now Doc, but I spent most of my life in foster homes. I remember very little about my younger years, more about when I was a teenager. I was not a very well behaved fellow, to put it mildly, and I had to undergo a great deal of therapy. In the last few years some memory has been seeping in. And it's not good."
He set the empty cup on the table, the tips of his long fingers beginning an unconscious, delicate drumming on the shiny wood.
"May has been so understanding and supportive, but I…well, first of all, I can't continue to awaken us both with my dreams. It's just not good for our relationship, for any relationship. Second, I am terrified of what I might find if the revelations continue."
Jacob made no comment, continuing to sip his coffee, allowing Alain time to think before speaking. The other man stood up, driving his hands into his pockets, and began to pace.
"When I was fifteen, a psychologist told me that I was likely psychotic or a sociopath."
Alain's voice was hard and fierce.
Jacob could not help but draw in his breath noisily. "That's ridiculous," he blurted out, immediately regretting the outburst, wondering how the other man would react.
But Alain gave him a grateful look. "After all these years, I'm inclined to agree with you. I have a temper, it's true, and sometimes I feel so angry…"
He paused thoughtfully. "May and I have discussed this with each other and with Doc Murphy at great length. I have never erupted the way a psychotic person would. I do have empathy and compassion and a sociopath would not. I now believe that the psychologist was wrongly reacting to something in my file, but I don't know what it was."
He sat down at the table again. This time, he looked his companion in the eyes.
"For many years, Jacob, my only memory was of the foster homes. I was an angry boy, with no explanation for the anger. I lashed out. I hurt other people. I wanted to hurt them. It has taken me a long, long time and the love of a wonderful woman to work past all of that. To…well…to trust myself. I stopped worrying that my Mr. Hyde would suddenly appear. Now…"
Again he paused, lowered his eyes, blinking rapidly.
"Now I'm afraid again. If the dreams continue, will I unearth that evil person that I may have been?"
Jacob, though he was analytical and objective by trade, knew a great deal about fear, guilt and grief.
"I need to uncover my past, as painful as that may be," Alain finished.
"You've come to the right place, so to speak. You see, I'm adopted," Jacob admitted. "Though I haven't yet looked up my background, I've certainly researched
how you can do it. Or not do it, as the case may be."
He gave a low chuckle that was rueful rather than amused. "There are lots of protections around the privacy of the birth parents. Unfortunately for people like you and me, that makes it difficult. But not impossible."
This time, it was Jacob who stood. He grabbed a pad and pen from his desk and returned to the table. He agreed that Alain needed a pathway, something to cling to while he dealt with his demons. An objective framework to place the confusion upon.
"Tell me everything you know and all about your dreams. I think if we lay it all out on paper, we'll be able to brainstorm a plan of attack. I agree that researching your past might help with the nightmares. Maybe we can find an explanation that will set your mind at ease. At least it's a place to start."
Jacob's intuition was right. Alain's face cleared. His eyes looked less haunted.
"That's what May and Doc said too." He cleared his throat.
Jacob handed him a bottle of water, which he drank gratefully. Alain began to speak and the lawyer began to write, using his own shorthand to keep up.
"The dreams started about four years ago, infrequently at first, then weekly and now nightly unless I take sleeping pills. We've tried to identify a trigger for them with Doc Murphy's help. We know that they intensified around the Walking Bear incident, but I dismissed them as a result of the stress over Oona's disappearance and all that happened afterward. There are two events from that time that seem to recur in my dreams. The bones in the well and the subdivision fire."
Two hours later, the two men had gone through Jacob's interpretation of Alain's meanderings. They rehashed everything, sorting out what might tell them something about Alain's past from the exaggerations of his subconscious mind. By the time Alain had exhausted all he knew, Jacob believed he had enough information to do some useful research.
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