Scare the Light Away

by Vicki Delany

  We stopped talking to listen as a car drove down our road and pulled into the driveway. Sampson lifted her head and pricked her ears up.

  “Guess they’re back.” Dad sighed. “You finish your tea there. They’re early. They can wait a while. Oh, by the way, your office called. Girl named Jenny, sounded real nice.”

  “She is.”

  “I told her you couldn’t be disturbed.”

  I pushed aside the tea tray and swung my legs over the edge of the bed. Dad left the room in a rush, no doubt to avoid seeing me in my dishabille. I was in no mood to dress for company. The cops would have to interview me in the clothes I’d slept in. They were professionals: They should be able to stand the shock.

  They were waiting for me in the living room. Sergeant Reynolds and the female constable with the enviable hair and cringe-inducing voice.

  Cups of tea sat on the coffee table in front of them, accompanied by generous slices of the wonderful fruitcake laid out on a plate. Despite the seriousness of the situation, and my thick head, I smiled to myself. My dad might make it on his own after all.

  “Thank you for meeting with us, Ms. McKenzie,” Reynolds said, licking the last of the cake crumbs from his fingers. The constable pulled out a notebook.

  Nice of him to make it sound like I had a choice. I went straight to the point. “Do you know who it is?”

  “What time did you discover the body?” Reynolds also could come straight to the point.

  “I’m not exactly sure. We, my dog and I, left the house around nine this morning. Found the… it… on our way out. I ran straight home and called 911. So it was probably about ten minutes before the 911 call, I’d say.”

  “Did you touch anything?”

  I shivered at the thought. “Are you kidding? I took one look and ran for home.”

  “Did your dog touch it?” the constable asked. Her high voice made it sound like a question asked during story time at nursery school.

  “She might have. She got there several minutes before I arrived. I went to see what was going on because she was barking and wouldn’t come when I called. But I didn’t see anything in her mouth.”

  “Did you pick anything up at the scene? Leave anything behind? Drop anything?”

  “No. Only my coat as a place marker, but your constables saw that.”

  “Did you walk up to the body, look around a bit?”

  My laughed came out broken and strained. “Dad, do you think I could have another cup of tea, please?” He rose from his chair reluctantly. He’d been hanging on to every word. “Certainly not. I didn’t even get to the high ground. Soon as I could make out what Sampson found, I ran. Like any person with half a brain.”

  The constable wrote furiously. “You’d be surprised,” she mumbled under her breath, probably not intending to be overheard.

  Dad brought more tea and cake, and the police asked a few more questions. Basic stuff: Did I see anyone in the woods today, did Dad or I hear anything unusual in the last few days?

  Finally Reynolds got to his feet and thanked us for our time. The constable put away her notebook.

  “I have a question, if I may?” I asked.

  He eyed me suspiciously. “Yes?”

  “Have you identified the body? Is it Jennifer Taylor?”

  “We can’t say at this time.”

  “Can’t or won’t? Come on, Sergeant. The news will be all over town by breakfast time tomorrow, you know that better than I do.”

  “Unfortunately, yes. It is Jennifer.”

  I would have been surprised if it wasn’t. “Thank you for telling me. If—when—the news does get around, it won’t be from me.”

  They paused at the door to struggle into their coats.

  “One more thing.”

  “Only one, Ms. McKenzie?”

  “Why didn’t you find her before now? Your people have been all over the swamp the past few days. How did they manage to miss such a tiny detail as the dead body they were actually out searching for? You even had dogs. We heard them. Drove Sampson here nuts.”

  “At first glance, it would appear that the body was held down by that log you saw. What with all the rain we’ve had lately and the last of the snowmelt running off into that swamp, the log rose to the surface. And what was under it, rose with it.”

  “It seems to me that my dog is doing a good deal of your work for you, Sergeant. Perhaps I should start billing you for her time.”

  The constable grinned. Reynolds didn’t.

  “A homicide inspector will be in town tomorrow, Ms. McKenzie. You can be sure that he will want to speak with you. Please don’t leave without informing us first.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “I have a question for you, Ms. McKenzie,” the constable said. “How did you get that nasty bruise on your face?”

  Instinctively my hand reached up and touched my cheek. “Tripped over the dog and fell into the edge of a door.”

  “Is that right?” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “If you ever want to talk about it…”

  “About tripping over my dog, I don’t think so. Goodbye.”

  I stood at the window watching them go, the would-be police dog by my side.

  For dinner I heated a can of soup and threw together cheese sandwiches. Neither of us ate much. From the kitchen window we caught the occasional glimpse of dark shapes moving through the woods. The rain started up again. The police were in for a miserable evening.

  After we finished eating, Dad collapsed into his chair and switched on the TV to a black-and-white movie. I have no interest in old movies, but to keep him company I curled up on the couch with the intention of reading the last of the business press newspaper clippings that Jenny had thrown together for me. But the clippings were boring, and the movie soon caught my attention. It was Casablanca, which I had certainly caught bits and pieces of but had never seen in its entirety. Dad fell asleep about half way through, but I watched to the end, loving it.

  When I get home, I might look up some more old movies. People in those days really could act.

  “Wake up, Dad.” I shook my father’s shoulder. “Time to go to bed.”

  He stumbled down the hall mumbling goodnights, and I returned to my papers.

  Sampson, like Dad, was on the verge of collapse due to the excitement of the day. But that wretched nap had ruined my sleep pattern. I went into the kitchen to make more tea and peered out the back window. It was dark now, the activity in the woods had ceased, but the police would be back tomorrow. I gave a thought to poor Jennifer Taylor and particularly to her parents. I hadn’t known her, but I had seen her dead body, wet and muddy and so vulnerable. Those five little white toes. I shook my head in an effort to dispel the image.

  I wondered if her father was the Dennis Taylor who had been in my class at school. Nasty boy, tiny eyes, too long limbs, greasy hair, acne-spotted face. I’d dated him a couple of times—yes, I was that desperate. One night when he had been walking me home from a dance at the school, he’d suddenly pulled me into the bushes at the side of the road and knocked me down. He fastened his greasy lips onto my mouth and stuck his tongue down my throat. Then he stuffed his hand up my skirt and sort of moved his fingers around over my panties. It was disgusting. I wanted to pee. Instead I yelled and gave a good solid push to get him off of me. I was no shrinking violet even then: I’d grown up fighting with a much older brother. Dennis rolled to one side and just sat there watching me scramble through the woods back to the road. He tried telling everyone that I had put out on the first date and been really hot for it. Fortunately for me, no one had believed him. He’d tried that story too many times before.

  But regardless of how nasty a teenage boy he had been, Dennis Taylor didn’t deserve to live to see his daughter murdered.

  As I returned to the living room with my tea, a set of headlights drove by, heading up the hill to Aileen and Jimmy’s house. They passed and all was calm and dark once again. For once
my work held no interest for me. I hadn’t checked my e-mail all day, nor returned Jenny’s call. They could do without me for one day. I flicked through the TV magazine. I hadn’t watched TV in so long that none of the programs listed meant anything to me. And the paperback that I bought at the Vancouver airport was boring when I was high in the air and fresh for the journey. It would be excruciating with my mind as restless as it was. My thoughts full of dead bodies and feeding insects, I wasn’t in the mood to venture back into the cellar to get more of the diaries. I’d made sure to slip the volumes I’d brought upstairs back down as soon as I finished them, worried that Dad or someone else might find them.

  The ringing phone pulled me out of my self-pitying funk.

  “Rebecca? You have to come. Now. Please.”

  “Aileen, what’s the matter? Are you okay?” A stupid question. The woman was obviously not okay.

  “Please.” Her voice broke on the word, and she swallowed a sob. “They’ve taken Jim.”

  The lights on the road. Jack and Pete. Aileen had a right to be terrified. “I’ll be there as fast as I can. I’ll bring Sampson. Have you called the police? They won’t get far.”

  “The police took him, Rebecca. They’ve arrested him for killing Jennifer Taylor.”

  Chapter 34

  The Diary of Janet McKenzie. September 20, 1954

  Today I did the most incredible thing. I actually yelled at Mr. M. Even as I was saying the words, and looking right into his hateful old face, I knew that I would run into the sewing room as soon as I could safely get away, and pull out my diary.

  He arrived home late from work for some unknown reason. (I am being sarcastic here —he smelt like a brewery.) The dinner stew was painfully thin tonight. Nothing like we had in the war, of course. How Aunt Betty could make an egg stretch! I never thought I would need to know all her tricks once I came to Canada! Bob is out of work again and meat is so expensive. I added lots of potatoes and vegetables but it was hardly enough. The children, particularly Jim, wanted more. So I gave them more. He wasn’t here to eat his share. Let the children have it. They need it.

  Finally he came stumbling in and shouted for his dinner. Mrs. M. pulled the remains of the stew out of the oven—mostly gravy and potatoes and carrots and turnips—and put plenty of bread on the plate, but he started yelling to beat the band. “A man needs his meat,” he shouted at her. And he actually threw the plate full of food onto the floor. Bob and I were just getting into bed, but we could hear the crash from our room. Bob ran into the kitchen and for some crazy reason I followed. Well, there she was, down on her arthritic old knees, cleaning up the mess and him looming over her all red in the face and still yelling curse words and insults. Bob spoke all soft and comforting (like he always does) and offered to make some bacon and eggs for his dad.

  After all these years, I finally had enough. I pushed (pushed!) Bob out of the way, and pulled Mrs. M. to her feet.

  “Enough food has been wasted in this house tonight,” I said. I looked down at Mr. M. “Why don’t you just go to bed and sleep it off? You can have eggs for breakfast.”

  He turned even redder, if that were possible. Then he slapped me across the face. It was a shock that. The pain seemed to radiate right down to my toes. Mrs. M., of course, started to cry and ran out of the room, a tea towel held to her face.

  His face twisted with an expression I still can’t describe. Angry, yes. But something deeper. Even more frightening than his anger. I stepped back and felt behind me for the cutlery drawer.

  Bob stepped forward and touched his father’s shoulder. “Time for bed, eh, Dad?” he said. “Little Jimmy’s asleep. Don’t want to wake him up.”

  I pulled open the drawer and touched a knife. But, to my surprise, Mr. M. deflated right before my eyes. Instead of slapping his son’s hand from his shoulder and slurring something insulting, he simply walked away.

  It’s late now.Mrs. M. crept out of her room to clean up the kitchen, but Bob and I had already done it. We looked at each other over the broken dish. I swear that my heart leapt and I had a flash of a vision of Bob at that dance so long ago, stepping forward ever so hesitantly, wanting to ask me for a dance, but afraid I would turn my nose up at a man shorter than me. Better I had, I reminded myself, as I scooped up a lone piece of potato and smiled back at my husband.

  June 2, 1955

  I will call her Rebecca. I loved the book Rebecca. I read it long into the night in my father’s house. I don’t remember if it was before the war, or during it. The book itself captivated me so, I was scarcely aware of what was happening in the world around, war or no war. Rebecca, of course, wasn’t a very nice person, not someone you would choose to name your child after. But I loved the name, if not the woman. Therefore I will name my daughter Rebecca. Mrs. M. doesn’t like it (so… Jewish, she says in her thin voice). Mr. M. doesn’t care. It isn’t a boy. And Bob wouldn’t voice an opinion to save his life.

  So Rebecca it is. She is beautiful. Beyond beautiful. She will be tall, like me. The nurses measured her and weighed her and said that she was ‘long’. Tall, like me. But she will be strong, where I am not.

  If I were strong I would be long gone from this place. Off to the city to make my fortune. But that’s a dream and nothing more. For what could I accomplish in any city with three children in tow? I dream sometimes that it is suddenly discovered that I am a great actress, or an opera singer of incredible power, and my children and I are whisked away to a life of luxury and favor.

  But then Rebecca dirties her diaper, or Jim rips the head off Shirley’s best doll and I am brought back down to this dismal, hopeless earth.

  May 8, 1956

  A letter arrived this morning. From Anne Johannsen. A name I scarcely remember. It will be ten years in September since we all came across on the Queen Mary. Anne has this idea of everyone writing down everything that has happened to us since we parted and she will put together a collection to send to us all.

  After I read the letter, I left the children with Mrs. M. and went for a long walk. To my surprise, I find that I have quite fallen in love with these woods. There is usually no one about and I can walk and think in peace. It is spring now, so around me everything is growing. The tiniest of buds are spreading on the waking trees; grass and the first few trilliums are poking their heads up from the forest floor. I can hear birds again, and it is wonderful. I hate this horrid place and long constantly for the tidy green fields of Surrey. But when I am in the woods, alone, I know that I am longing for my father’s home, and my Aunt Betty’s cooking, and the warmth of their fireplace, and their love. All that is gone now. And miles and miles of neat hedgerows, perfectly cultivated fields, and contented cows can’t bring it all back.

  I imagined, as I walked, what I might say for the Queen Mary War Brides letter. “Things are better here since I held a kitchen knife to my father-in-law’s throat and told him to stay away from me. My husband has a job now; fortunately whenever he loses one job he finds another quickly, but he doesn’t make much money. I suspect that what little there is goes to help his mother with the housekeeping. He can be sober for weeks at a time, but then he falls off the wagon, and when he’s on the bottle he scarcely glances at our children. We still live with his parents, my husband and I and our three children. He has no ambition to leave this dead end of a town and better himself. But he doesn’t beat me, and I suppose that’s a blessing.”

  I was composing the never-to-be-written letter in my head when a deer, a beautiful doe, stepped out of the woods directly into my path. She looked at me for a long time, studying me with her wonderful, expressive brown eyes. I looked back, struggling to communicate. But then we heard a truck, grinding its gears as it drove up the hill. She flicked her tiny white tail and with a flash of dotted rump disappeared.

  I hate this place with all my might. But I love these woods. Is that possible?

  Chapter 35

  I flew into my bedroom for my car keys. Sampson yawned and lifted her head of
f the pillow, jumped off the bed, and stumbled after me.

  I scribbled a note for Dad, in case he woke up, and put it on the kitchen table under the pepper shaker, half of a set of particularly unattractive ceramic pigs. They were so out of synch with my mother’s taste that they could only have been a gift from a friend, probably made by said friend.

  “You stay and look after Dad,” I told Sampson. She yawned and didn’t look particularly disappointed at the command.

  This wasn’t the first time the police had come in the night for my brother.

  I ran out the door.

  Aileen had left the house and walked down the road to meet me. She opened the door and clambered in before the SUV came to a full stop. She still wore her pajamas, cheerful, cuddly polar bear cubs skating and tobogganing and skiing across the white flannel. A colorful shawl had been tossed over her shoulders, and her long hair tumbled wildly around her head, half in and half out of its bun. Her eyes looked like those of a horse I’d seen once—rearing back in terror as a car rounded a corner in front of it. The driver saw the horse in time and pulled out of the way. I wasn’t so sure that disaster could be avoided this time.

  I made a three-point turn and headed back down the road.

  “Did they actually arrest him? Formally, I mean, with a legal warning and such?”

  “No. They said they wanted him to come in and answer some questions. They’ve talked to him before, but this is the first time they’ve taken him to the station. That’s not good.”

  I agreed. But what the heck did I know? My sole experience with criminal law could be found between the pages of a Peter Robinson mystery.

  The sun had long ago taken its nightly bath in the smooth orange waters of the lake, and the stars hung like the most precious of diamonds over the black water. There was no moon.

  There was also no traffic on the highway, and I pushed the car as fast as it could go. Dark, foreboding pine trees lined the roadway in a solemn, macabre honor guard.

  “Thank you for coming, Rebecca,” Aileen said, the words muffled, her face turned to her window, to the forest lying beyond the reach of our lights. “Jim told me not to drive because I’m too upset. He told me to call you, said you’d help. He said I could count on it.”