"Well, Aaron, there was your mistake. When you did your office training, I'm sure you recall Mrs. Reneaux telling you that you must never, ever put your hands on the students. You are an authority figure in the office now, but you are also still a student yourself. If you use any kind of physical reinforcement, you confuse the child and can also frighten them, as you did in James's case."
"Since I've been in the office, Mrs. Taylor, I've noticed that you and Mrs. Reneaux and Mrs. McLeay touch the kids a lot."
If anyone had been in the hall and heard Aaron's comment, they would have noticed a deferential, questioning tone that appeared to reflect confusion and the desire for clarification. Only I could see the flash of anger that he could not force away from his eyes. The contempt for a lesser being who dared to suggest that he was incorrect.
"Unfortunately for you, Aaron, it's a little different for adults. We are parental figures. And we never touch the students for correction purposes, only for comfort. Unless of course we have to break up a fight or prevent someone from hurting others. I would never poke a student's stomach to discipline them, when they are doing nothing more than causing a mild disturbance. Please don't do it again."
He was seething. I could tell in the tightness of his limbs, the straight line of his lips, the glare in his eyes.
"I certainly won't, Mrs. Taylor. I'll refer all these problems to you."
"Thank you, Aaron, you can go into class now."
I deliberately turned my back on him dismissively. I knew I was baiting him. I thought that perhaps I could break through the control and finally get to some of the complicated layers that surrounded Aaron Sanderson.
"Oh, and another thing."
He had not moved from his spot, but I could see that he was re-establishing his self-control. His stance relaxed. He was restrained once more, slightly stooped, bland, and unassumingly obedient. He was careful not to look up at me or to speak.
"Please stay away from James. You have shaken his security and he's afraid of you, rightly or wrongly. I think it's best if you keep your distance."
Silence. He refused to look at me, to move, or to speak.
"Got that, Aaron?"
"Got that, Mrs. Taylor," he mumbled, sounding contrite and even sad. "Is it still okay for me to work in the office or have you lost faith in me too?"
There were tears in his voice.
Just for a moment, I thought perhaps I had misread him. Maybe he was an unhappy, abused, misguided little boy who needed kindness and sympathy. Had I been too rough on him? I softened my voice.
"Of course I haven't lost faith in you, Aaron," I stated kindly. "You are a great worker in the office and I appreciate your help immensely. We all make mistakes."
He nodded once, his shoulders still hunched, and headed toward his classroom door. I walked away, feeling chastened that I had perhaps come on too strong, confused about this boy and who he really was.
At the corner, a large picture frame hung on the wall. The sun happened to be blazing upon it, causing a mirror effect down the hallway. I could see Aaron Sanderson's reflection very clearly. He stood outside the entrance to his class, straight, towering and stiff.
His hand was raised, his middle finger pumping up and down toward my back, his face twisted in hatred.
Chapter 43: Brimstone
Confused and frightened, she was in the hall with Brother, her feet cold and shivery on the floor. He led her silently toward the kitchen, where they could see The Preacher Man and Mother sitting at the table.
They were like shadows in the darkness. No one moved or spoke. The clock ticked nervously.
The first bullet ripped into the woman's head, knocking the chair over backwards.
The little girl stared numbly at the mass of red splatter and globs of something that looked like sacrificed offerings.
The second explosion hit The Preacher Man as he loomed out of the chair. It caught him in the stomach and splattered paint-like chunks against the kitchen wall. Red rushed into his eyes as he crumpled across the table, hands outstretched to reach the figure with the long black pipe in his hands.
She couldn't see any more. Brother spoke urgently.
"Run. Run."
She did as he commanded, but she could not help looking back at him. Suddenly he was down on his knees. Something heavy and massive crushed his head. She reversed her flight and tripped, sliding on the floor to touch him.
Out of the darkness, Big Brother was there. He scooped her up in one arm, tucked Brother under another, and they were swept into the cold dark night, a black fog blinding her.
Someone else was there, dragging them away from the house. When she could see again, she looked up at spindly stems in the cornfield.
She was wrapped in Brother's arms. Whispering, she told him the story of the nice house they would live in. About the meadow and the stream. A black cloud floated over them. The cornstalks whisked it away from their faces, hiding them from harm.
Brother smiled.
Chapter 44: Jacob
They didn't find it until morning. Ground against the cement, the pathetic remains resembled the charred residue of an unfinished bonfire meant to burn unwanted material.
It was Jordan who found the head. He squatted down on his haunches, his little body rigid, staring and mumbling to himself. When Jacob tried to lead him away, he screamed loudly, throwing his head backward in an effort to untangle himself from his father's grasp.
Helen rushed out onto the porch. She scooped the little boy into her arms, where he thrashed against her, continuing to screech until he was hoarse.
Quickly, Jacob scraped the rest of the pigeon's wings and body parts into a bag. When Helen released him, Jordan came right back to the same spot, fixated as though the bird's dead eyes were still staring back at him. Without a word, they didn't disturb him. Instead, Helen sat on the porch swing and watched him silently.
Kristen had already left, after helping Jacob and Helen clean the kitchen. She took Ennie with her as a little experiment in bonding. This afternoon, Kristen was taking Adrienne to her friend Leslie's birthday party.
Jacob was restless, buoyed by the success of the dinner last night, but anxious to continue his research into Alain's past. As usual, Helen read his mind.
"You go on and do whatever needs doing, Mr. Jacob," she said. "Me and the little mister will find things to do once he's ready."
Jacob squeezed her shoulder gratefully and crossed by the driveway to his office, depositing the bird remains in the garbage on his way past.
He wondered why anyone would strip such a harmless creature of its wings and then burn it. Even more puzzling, why on earth would they leave it on his porch? He assumed it was left after everyone had departed last night. Or rather, early this morning. Or else they hadn't noticed it in the dark.
Why his porch? Was it some kind of message? He tried to think of anyone he'd angered since coming to Burchill and couldn't. A disgruntled customer? He really only had one client and she was thrilled with him.
There were several people in town who wanted him to be their lawyer, but they had gone to other legal firms. He didn't think anyone was still clamouring to be his client.
A student with a crush on Kristen who was jealous? The last thought made him smile, but he considered it a possibility. Or kids who knew she was spending a lot of time here and decided to make a nuisance of themselves? He'd mention it to Edgar or Frances when he saw them next.
Back in his office, Jacob continued reading the transcripts of the inquest. In Ontario, a coroner always called an inquest when death that was the result of violence.
In this case, two people had been murdered and at least one other died as the result of arson. In response to the multiple deaths, the chief coroner decided not to conduct the inquest by himself, but had summoned a jury. Generally, Jacob knew, the purpose of an inquest was to determine the names of the deceased and how they died and to gather evidence that can subsequently be used by the police in pros
ecuting a suspect if death ensued from a criminal act. Clearly something criminal had occurred here.
Reading the transcript over, Jacob was intrigued by the questions posed by members of the jury. He got the sense, both by the small number and the vagueness of the inquiries, that the jury believed Elias Janot was the murderer-arsonist.
Several of the jurors asked about abuse. Had there been any reports of mistreatment toward the children? Although Police Chief Duplessis answered in the negative, a couple of the jurors continued to head in this direction with their questions. Finally, the coroner asked them to move on.
Jacob looked over the list of jurors. A coroner's jury was usually summoned by warrant but may be summoned personally by the coroner. It looked to Jacob as though it was the latter in this instance. There were five jurors, a normal number, and each of them lived in Brinston.
Within the verbatim lines of the transcript, the jurors often called the coroner "Marc." This was definitely not normal. Although the doctor corrected them, politely requesting that they refer to him as "Dr. André," they were either very good friends or relatives, so accustomed were they to calling him by his first name. Jacob found this fact very interesting.
There were two female and three male jurors. The list of names included their occupations and ages: Sarah Goodwin, twenty-five, secretary; Paul Marot, forty-five, accountant; Rose Maurice, thirty, teacher; Michel Pardie, thirty-eight, factory worker and Sandford Haineau, forty-three, farmer. Jacob decided to look them up in the local telephone directories to see if any of them had stayed in the county.
He didn't find either of the women. Perhaps they were unmarried at the time of the inquest and had now taken their husband's names. Michel Pardie had an address in Ottawa, while Sandford Haineau and Paul Marot were still listed as living in Brinston. God, Jacob loved this technological age. Big Brother is watching you!
He dialed Sandford Haineau's number. He'd be 71 years old now, certainly not ancient. A gruff male voice barked hello in English.
Jacob didn't want to sound like a salesman and have the man hang up. He decided to be upfront from the beginning.
"Did you serve on the Janot inquest in 1980?" He rushed on. "My name is Jacob Finch and I am a lawyer for one of the survivors."
An echoing silence followed, then a clearing of the man's throat before he spoke again.
"Yes. What the hell do you want? That was a long time ago and I was just doing my duty."
"I'm interested in knowing how you came to be on the jury and what you thought of the proceedings."
"Why would you want to know that? Is this some kind of lawsuit thing?"
"Not at all, sir. By law, an individual can't be held accountable for being a juror. My client is investigating his past and we're interested in details that might help us find his relatives."
"So Ithamar survived, eh?"
This time the voice was clear and tinged with curiosity.
"Yes, he did. He has given me permission to be honest about who he is with anyone who can help with our inquiries. So, Mr. Haineau, how did you come to be on the jury?"
"Dr. Marc," Sandford answered simply. "He called in his neighbours, basically. I lived on the farm next to him. Still live here as a matter of fact, though Dr. Marc moved away some time ago and has recently passed on."
"What did you think of the experience? Any insights that a juror wouldn't have been able to give, but that a witness to the proceedings could tell me now?"
"You writin' a book?" he asked, the suspicion back.
"No, as I told you, I am representing Ithamar Janot. He wants nothing more than information that will lead him to find his sister or other relatives."
Haineau gave a sound that was probably meant to convey disbelief, but kept talking anyway.
"I always thought the older brother did it. I think he killed his parents and then set the house on fire. He didn't want his brother and sisters to die, though. He just wanted that mean bastard preacher to go back to hell where he came from."
Jacob was stunned by the ferocity of the man's voice.
"Pastor Janot was not a nice man, I take it," he prompted.
"That's putting it mildly. He was a fierce, scary old bastard. I wouldn't put it past him to have beaten those kids. That's probably why the older boy murdered him. And his wife, because she obviously did nothing to help them. Janot set up a church in our community and preached all this nonsense. Then he upped and stole a bunch of money from the poor suckers who joined. It could've been one of them that killed him, but why would they wait so long? My bet is still on the kid."
"Do you think most people would agree with you?"
"All of us on that jury did, to tell you the truth. Dr. Marc picked his neighbours because none of us were ever fond of Pastor Janot. He wasn't going to put any sympathizers on the jury just in case we found evidence of the kid's guilt. He didn't want that angle pursued. There wasn't enough evidence anyway, so it was left as an open case."
"You've been really helpful, Monsieur Haineau. Do you have anything else to add?"
"Well, that I figure he picked our town because of its name."
"Who did?"
"Janot. Brinston. Fire and brimstone. It comes from the old English word, brynstan, which was a burning stone that was made of sulphur. Put fire with brynstan and you'd have a huge smelly bunch of smoke. Which is what I think Pastor Janot was all about. Something stunk about him. He was always screaming about atonement and punishment for wickedness, which he saw in everyone, even his poor little kids."
He paused and Jacob thought he was finished.
"But brimstone is also the name of a beautiful butterfly," Sandford Haineau added in a thoughtful voice. "If those kids survived, I hope they turned into butterflies and that something good came of that tragedy."
It was a beautiful symbol, one that Jacob would remember for many years to come.
He next tried Paul Marot, with a very different result.
When a woman answered with a heavily accented, "Hallo," Jacob switched to his rudimentary French and asked for Monsieur Marot.
A man came on the line immediately with a gruff, "Quoi?"
When Jacob stumbled to explain in French, he got an even angrier response.
"I speak English. What do you want?"
"I'm not selling anything," Jacob assured him and proceeded with the same forthright explanation that worked so well with Sandford Haineau.
This time, all he got in answer to his spiel was a dial tone.
Chapter 45: Alain
Although Saturdays and Sundays were the busiest days for the service station, Alain's manager, Joey Featherstone, was more than capable of handling the business. They also employed several college students on the weekends, male and female, who had an interest in automobiles or who pumped gas and changed oil for part-time wages. Alain took the whole weekend off.
May and Alain sat in the living room for hours the morning after the dinner party. Normally at this time of the year, there would have been several bouts of rain that carried wafts of clear spring air, foretelling flowers and sunshine and freshness. Instead, the dusty residue of the oddly stifling March continued as the calendar flipped into another month.
They had the windows wide open, though the air was not really refreshing. They read and reread the papers that Jacob had given them, sometimes aloud, sometimes to themselves.
May was anxious for Alain to confide in her. To tell her what he was thinking. Who was the woman he felt was his sister? But she respected his need for privacy and knew that he would tell her when he could.
"Listen to this article, May," Alain said after a period of quiet reading.
"A young man from Ottawa, describing himself as Assistant to Pastor Rob and known only as Deacon, has announced that the annual Church of Leviticus fund-raising picnic will take place in spite of the allegations levied against the church leader. 'The true believers have continued to support the one true church by their attendance,' Deacon stated. "They will
surely rally around their pastor.'"
Alain paused for a moment. "I wonder who this Deacon person was."
May, whose formal religious training was scant, nonetheless had some familiarity with Christian traditions.
"I think deacon is a position in the church rather than a name," she told her husband. "Here, I'll look it up."
One of their favourite books was the dictionary. They spent hours playing Scrabble when time permitted and they had a selection of word finders—a huge dictionary that claimed to be encyclopaedic, a thesaurus and a Scrabble dictionary. May found deacon and read off the meanings.
"In the Anglican, Greek Orthodox and Roman Catholic churches, a clergyman ranking just below a priest," she quoted. "In various other churches, a layperson who assists the minister in various functions."
"That would make sense. It says in the article that he was Pastor Janot's assistant."
"Oh and listen to these other interpretations! 'To read aloud verses of a hymn to help the congregation sing along.' Ha! 'To arrange fruits and vegetables for sale so that inferior items are concealed.' Now I know what to call it when I buy a package of strawberries and find the middle layer is bad."
They both laughed.
"Here's the last one. 'To adulterate.' Wow. The word comes from Middle English, Old English, Latin and Greek. In Greek, it meant servant."
"So which one was this Deacon?" Alain mused. "A servant, a singer, a fruit arranger, or an adulterer?"
"That sounds like a line in a song. Maybe he was a combination of those. I wonder what happened to him after the church closed up?"
Alain leafed through the photocopies of the newspaper articles, staring at the pictures as though to imprint the images on his brain.
"My love," he said slowly, tasting each word, testing meanings before he spoke them aloud. "I have been remembering other things."
The Emily Taylor Mystery Bundle Page 56
