"How's Will?"
"He's going to be fine. He'll have a sore throat for a while and some blisters on his neck, but he actually fared better than you did."
"I answered their questions eventually, didn't I? I think I kept going in and out of consciousness last night."
Jacob chuckled.
"I can't believe you demanded to have me with you before you would talk to them. You have a lot of chutzpah, girl."
"Thanks. But after what we've been through with the legal system, I never take any chances."
"The way that bastard kept coming at you. Unbelievable. Good thing you had some stuff to throw at him in defence. Unlucky for him he knocked that pail of sulphuric acid off the table. It must've splashed all over the place. I'm glad it only splattered on your arms. He got a dose of it right in the face, it sounds like."
I will not think about it, I told myself. I willed that cold, pitiless side to return, but it was hiding, leaving me wondering about what I had done. Instead I had to stomp on my thoughts, stick to my story, protect myself.
"He did have his mouth wide open when the pail fell off the table," I said. "It seemed like such a small spray, but he just dropped to the ground. He's still alive, right?"
"Yes, but barely. Apparently, even if you swallow a small amount, sulphuric acid cuts off your breathing."
I nodded as though I had never taught science, never memorized the properties of acids and bases, never become familiar with the effects of that colourless liquid on the monster's table. Sulphuric acid is highly corrosive. Swallowing can cause severe burns of the mouth, throat and stomach, leading to death. Can cause vomiting, diarrhea, circulatory collapse...
"Then of course, he collapsed right into the puddle on the floor," Jacob continued, repeating what I'd told the police. "He's in horrific pain. They can't even give him enough morphine. They've got him on all kinds of fluids and have performed some surgery. I know we shouldn't wish these things, but it doesn't look like he'll survive much longer. The doctors are surprised he's still alive."
I know we shouldn't wish these things…But I had. Not only had I wished it, but I had made it come true.
"I didn't even try to save him," I said, sounding as regretful as I could manage.
"Good thing you didn't, Emily. Once he knocked over the pail and fell, he was literally covered with acid. Even if you'd had the strength to pull him away, you would've been burned far worse than you were."
I looked at Jacob's kind face and tears stung my eyes. If he could only glimpse inside my head, my heart.
Just then, Will struggled to a sitting position. At the same time, Montgomery opened the door and went straight to his side, helping my husband swing his legs over the bed.
Before I knew it, Will was lying beside me, his arms around me, the sobs shaking his chest because he couldn't allow the sorrow to touch his throat.
I felt a wave of sympathy from Jacob and Monty. The two men surrounded the bed, hovering protectively until Will was calm again.
A few moments later, we sat up together on my bed, while Jacob and Montgomery pulled their chairs in close. We all sipped juice and talked.
Montgomery did most of the speaking, filling in the blanks, astounding us with the information that had been gathered in the last twelve hours.
Greg Hughes had taken over Will's studio shortly after Linda Courtnell's murder. No one else would rent it, but Professor Hughes said he would do it "to honour his friend Bill."
Last night, the police discovered a mountain of evidence in that studio. Whether he had always kept it there, or whether he had moved it recently during his disintegration phase, no one knew.
More paintings, more pictures, more letters. Forensic evidence on the tattoo needles and clothing. Linda Courtnell's old portfolio, which had provided a nice surprise for her family, as it contained some hitherto unpublished paintings.
Although Greg Hughes could no longer speak, in fact was literally clinging to life by a thread, his confession was loud and clear.
Professor Hughes had actually helped with the 1980 investigation. He was already a good friend of Charles Haynes. The investigators could only guess that Greg's knowledge of the carotid hold had been gleaned from the former policeman, because of course Charlie wasn't saying. After the murder, Hughes established himself as Charlie's sounding board during the investigation. He therefore had a great deal of influence on the case through Haynes.
After listening to the description of the body's landscape painting, Greg wrote in his diary that he noticed the similarity between Will's style and the killer's. "Perhaps Charlie should mention this to the prosecutor?" he had written. "Rachel Ouellet would make a good expert witness. What if she testifies for the defence? Show her a picture of the body's landscape and she might be forced to comment on the similarities…such as the use of a certain colour? Her testimony would be a gift to the prosecution."
Charles Haynes refused to confirm that Greg had imparted these thoughts, though the path of the trial spoke for itself.
Afterward, Hughes stayed in touch with the officer, even teaming for art shows. Charlie and Joan had attended several of the Gay Wags's appearances. When the former Constable became ill, Greg often visited or called. It was during one such call that Charlie told him about the Taylors and later advised him of their return to Vancouver. Friendly, innocent conversation between two acquaintances, Charlie claimed.
Greg Hughes had played the part of an eccentric, flamboyant artist-musician. However, he had told me the truth. He was not gay. The prostitutes on Hastings recognized his picture when the police proffered it and confirmed he often hung around, paying for sex, particularly with young women.
Some of his band members, the Gay Wags, confessed to wondering about Greg's sexual orientation. His affectations were often exaggerated and more Gemini-worthy than natural. They had also never seen him with a man, but then again, they hadn't seen him with a partner of either gender. Whenever they thought about Greg's sex life, which apparently wasn't often, they assumed he was somewhat asexual.
Charles Haynes gave every appearance of deep shock when they awoke him—and Joan—in the middle of the night to interrogate him. But there was no question, in Montgomery's opinion, that Charlie had to have recognized his friend's "voice" in those letters.
He must have realized Greg Hughes was the killer, yet he did nothing to assist the investigation other than hand over the evidence. Who knows how many people Hughes had tortured and murdered in the months before Charlie met with Monty?
And would Haynes have actually come forward if the PI hadn't called for an interview? If any of the allegations about obstruction of justice were proven, Charlie Haynes could face a prison sentence in his waning months. The agreement with the Vancouver Police Department not to prosecute was null and void because of the layers indicating a deeper involvement with the killer.
In any case, his family was no longer unaware of Charlie's "sins."
Greg's victims were numerous and largely unknown. There was no way to truly know how many had died or where their remains might be found.
He'd used sulphuric acid in his metallurgy, so the presence of the substance in his studio didn't raise any flags. However, in reality he stored a large amount of an illegal, highly concentrated form.
Will, his voice still rough and low, abruptly interrupted Montgomery.
"I know how many."
We all stared at Will. Suddenly, I remembered Greg's words. One Hundred, Emily. And he will not cooperate.
"Ninety-nine," I said. "Greg must have had ninety-nine victims. He told me that Bill would be his one hundredth."
My husband began shaking his head. He took a long sip of water, then spoke softly once more.
"No. I wasn't supposed to be his One Hundred. He was. He wanted me to kill him and paint his body."
We all sat stunned, trying to digest this revelation.
"I didn't really believe him at first. Once I'd refused him, though, he threatened to
shoot me if I didn't get up on the table and put the noose over my head. I figured I had a better chance on a rope than with a gun…"
Will swallowed more water. The rest of us waited patiently, knowing he had to talk it through, even though his words were slow and difficult to hear.
"I thought I could stay alive long enough to be missed. I kept hoping someone would come along and rescue me."
He grinned, his eyes looking deeply into mine.
"I just didn't expect it to be a cute little blonde. Not that I remember much about your heroic efforts, my love. I was semiconscious most of the time."
Montgomery and Jacob chuckled at the image of little me being the rescuer, but I could only force a slight smile. I had inadvertently given Greg Hughes what he wanted—a long, painful death. All night, I had expected the guilt to overtake me, but it never happened. I just kept telling myself I was not going to think about that.
"Don't ever do my job for me again, Emily," Monty said, putting his massive hand gently on my shoulder.
"Don't worry. I won't. I think I'll have some scars to remind me about going where I shouldn't go."
I lifted my arms in demonstration.
"As for you." Monty turned to my husband, who had been nodding while I was "scolded." "Why in hell did you go racing off to that studio instead of calling me?"
Will raised his shoulders in an I-don't-know shrug. "The only thing on my mind was to make absolutely certain I was right. 'My dear boy,' Greg said into the telephone, and I suddenly remembered how often he used that phrase when we worked together. The exact same phrase that was repeated in the letters. I just reacted. I went over there to confirm my suspicion. It was really stupid."
"Yes, it was, but thank god you're both safe."
Montgomery was letting us both know his true reason for being angry. We'd both seriously jeopardized our safety, even after we'd been warned to be careful.
"Why was he so twisted?" Will whispered, his face reflecting the shock that a man he'd known and worked with could be such a monster.
"Apparently his mother took off on the family when he was a small boy," Montgomery said.
"She ended up on the streets of Vancouver, drug-addicted and tricking for her habit. Greg's father used to drag his son around Hastings at night, supposedly looking for the mother, but it seems he was just emphasizing the contempt he felt for his former wife by showing Greg what scum she and the other women all were."
"As far as anyone knows, Mrs. Hughes was long gone before Greg was very old. But his father kept taking him to the worst parts of the city, always teaching some kind of lesson. The dad died when Greg was in his late teens."
We shook our heads, overwhelmed by the horror that can be inflicted upon children, some of whom grow up to be even greater monsters than their parents.
"The legal team is going to hold a press conference this afternoon," Jacob said, thankfully changing the subject.
"There is a huge group of reporters hanging around the hospital, which poor Montgomery had to wade through. Lucky for me, they have no idea who I am. Judge Belle called earlier to say that the minister of justice is going to be directly involved again, given the new developments."
"Of course they have to go through the wads of evidence first, but I'm sure it'll be quick. You might even hear the words this afternoon, Bill. William Edward Thompson is innocent of all charges."
Will tightened his arms around my shoulders. He was silent, maybe because he'd talked too much, but more likely he was overcome with the emotions that Jacob's last statement evoked.
We talked a while longer about the legal processes and the press conference.
Greg Hughes's family, who were few in number, had been informed. His students had been told. It was a testament to his acting skills that the reactions were mostly of disbelief.
I thought of the number of times we read in a newspaper report, Neighbours said Jeffrey (or some other monster) was such a quiet person. Were we so easily fooled, or were we just not paying attention?
Endless thoughts swirled around my head. What about me? Did my actions last night make me a bad person? Why didn't I feel tremendous guilt? Was there something wrong with me?
I held it together until I saw her in the doorway. Round, light-brown face, eyes deep and shining with love and sorrow. Arms wide open to embrace me. My best friend, who accepted me for the person I am, failings and talents, good and bad.
"Emily, Langford…I've come to bring you home."
"May!" I cried and burst into tears as we hugged.
As I lay there on my bed, unable to give my friend an equal hold because of my wounds, I let everything go. I cried for the missing years of loving my husband wholly, the lost babies, the death of my parents.
I sobbed for Greg's tortured victims, the vulnerable, addicted, mentally ill people on whom he inflicted his hatred.
I wept for Linda Courtnell and all her never-realized potential.
I shed tears for my husband whose near-death experience would haunt him forever.
I cried for myself. I had been pushed into committing an act that had taken a little piece of my soul with it.
When I was a little calmer again, May took me for a spin in a wheelchair out onto a balcony overlooking the courtyard of the hospital. She sat in the sun with me, holding my hand, not speaking, knowing instinctively I had to work it out for myself.
I thought of the Ojibwa Seventh Fire legend and of Agnes's tale. In that fierce seventh test, as the world shifted, there was no one to guide our way. Even my own morals, the way I tried to live my life, had not been enough to keep the anger from bursting through. I'd held the rage, nurtured it, far too long. I remembered the words that Agnes had used to describe the predictions.
"The young Anishinaabe will turn to the elders for direction in the traditional ways, but many elders will have lost the spirit in the suffering of the past. The persistence of these eager youth in the meditative silence brought about through the drumbeat will be rewarded as they come to hear the spirit of the forefathers in their hearts. With the knowledge of the forefathers reawakened, they will once again be as they were many moons before. In this time a new people will emerge."
I thought of listening to the beat of my husband's heart in that studio of death, as he drew his life back again.
I recalled some words I had read about the Eighth Fire.
"There will come a time when more and more people will be reborn in the ways of the ancients. These rekindled spirits will once again flow in harmony with the Eternal Spirit of the Grandfather and of Mother Earth. This Eternal Fire is the Eighth and Final Fire. Not everyone will find healing through its radiating warmth."
As I sat in the radiating warmth of the sunshine, with my friend's hand solid and supportive in mine, with the future ahead with my family, I decided I would find healing.
Chapter 27
June 2010
The old Burchill Courthouse was not used as a seat of justice any more. In the past, the late Victorian brick structure had been the town jail as well as the community hall and courthouse. Nowadays, it was normally the venue for our village's amateur theatre.
However, on this very warm day in June, its former significance was being resurrected to a certain degree. All the legal presence was pomp and circumstance only, however, because the papers had all been signed and sealed beforehand.
Every seat in the stately old building was filled with friends and family. A contingent from Vancouver and of course, many, many people from Burchill and Sahsejewon were here.
Media swarmed the big stone steps at the front, but they were not permitted entrance.
Into his microphone, turned to face the cameraman, one newspaper reporter hinted that the presence of a famous private investigator, by the name of Montgomery Cardwell, demonstrated "a paranoid level of defence."
However, it wasn't true. Monty, with his wife and their two children, were invited guests, not security measures. Someone else had been hired for that j
ob, mainly because of the intense media interest. Although the curiosity about our story had waned in the last few months, this ceremony was drawing the attention back again.
Cate walked up the aisle of the stately old building first. Her long red hair was piled high on top of her head. She chose a soft-green dress with frilly sleeves, and she looked very feminine, very grown-up.
Carly followed behind, walking steadily and skilfully with her artificial limbs, only the cane belying her difference. She decided to dye her hair back to its original colour, so the white no longer glared. Instead, the braids that fell gracefully down her back shone red and gold in the sunlight from the high transom windows.
Trevor, dressed in a grey suit, tall and smiling, walked behind his sisters with more confidence than I thought possible.
Benjaman, bouncing after his brother, waved and shook hands with people as he passed by. May and I thought he was hilarious.
Meghan brought the line of children to a close, looking happy and calm, her hair cut short to show off her beautiful eyes.
Next, May and Alain walked hand in hand, once in a while catching one another's eyes as close couples do. They looked ecstatic, delighted to be able to celebrate this life-changing event with the community that nurtured and supported all of us.
Later, the entire congregation would retire to the Reneaux country home for barbeque, games, and lots of "beverages of a social nature" for the adults.
I took my husband's hand and we, too, started down the aisle. Unsuccessfully, I fought the tears stinging my eyes as I smiled at the people surrounding us.
In the last year and a half, many things had changed and some, by choice, remained the same.
William Edward Thompson received not only a complete exoneration but also an apology in the form of six million dollars from the British Columbia government.
Charles Haynes died at age eighty-one from cancer. Charges against him had indeed been dropped for humanitarian reasons.
Gregory Hughes died three days after his tragic accident.
My husband chose not to revert to William Thompson. That name had been used in vain for too long. He had become famous as an artist using my name. So he added William to Langford Taylor and we began a matriarchal tradition.
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