by L E Fraser
“You plan on sitting out here all day?” Harry asked.
Reece got out and shook the man’s hand. “Just admiring what you’ve done with the place. The white paint on the shutters is great.”
“The hardware was a son of a bitch.” Harry stuffed his hands into the pockets of his plaid jacket and gazed at his big yellow house. “We never close the damn things so it’s pointless. But Betty squawked about how my great-great-grandfather forged the iron, so I spent over a week on a damn ladder.” The smile of pride on his face diluted his gruff tone.
Reece followed Harry through the back door and they stripped off their winter boots and coats in the mudroom.
“Coffee?” Harry offered as they entered the kitchen.
Reece sat on a vintage 1950s chair with a green Naugahyde vinyl seat. “Love some. Where’s Betty?”
A shadow crossed the man’s grey eyes. “She’ll be along.” He poured water into a percolator and filled the basket with ground beans.
“Kids at school?” Reece asked.
“Margaret, Will, and Hope are. Is Bart?”
Reece shook his head. “You still haven’t heard from him?”
“Not since Christmas. That wouldn’t bother me because of the disagreement we had, but it bugs me that he hasn’t contacted Margaret.” His face darkened with anger. “It’s damn inconsiderate that he hasn’t called his mother.”
“Why did you argue?” Reece asked.
Harry sighed and placed a jug of milk and a bowl of sugar on the table. “Margaret told you Miss Angel Stuart came over during the holidays, right?”
Reece took the mugs Harry handed him. “It sounds unpleasant.”
Harry grunted and reached for the carafe of coffee. He sat, poured himself a cup, and handed the pot to Reece. “I accept people at face value,” he said. “But that little gal, well, there’s something wrong with her.”
“Why do you say that?”
Harry held Reece’s eyes. “Sam might be able to figure it out.”
“Angel has psychological problems.” Since he knew that was true, Reece left it a statement.
“I don’t know why Bart would treat us this way.” Harry stirred his coffee with more force than necessary.
“Because of that girl.”
Reece turned to find Betty standing in the kitchen doorway. He hoped his expression didn’t display his shock over her appearance.
Betty was a buxom woman with a full figure and blond hair that she kept impeccably styled. Her skin was rosy and her wide blue eyes always shone with a joyful twinkle. But today, her complexion was ashen and her eyes were dull and bloodshot. Crows’ feet and vertical lines on the sides of her lips aged her in a harsh way. She’d tied her limp hair into a tight ponytail at the nape of her neck. The severe style accentuated deep furrows in her forehead.
Reece stood and gave her a hug, cringing inwardly at how frail she was in his arms.
She pulled away. “If Bart could contact me, he would. She won’t let him.”
A spark of anger in her blue eyes reassured Reece that the strength he admired was still there, despite her broken appearance.
“Sit down and we’ll figure out what’s going on.” Reece pulled out a chair.
She sat, crossed her legs, and wrapped her arms around her waist.
“What happened at Christmas?” Reece asked.
Betty laughed without humour. “That girl marched in here like Cleopatra and hung all over Bart. When she wasn’t sharing gruesome details about Incubus and his terrible crimes, she interrogated us about you and Sam.”
“What did she want to know?”
Betty shrugged. “Why you left the OPP, if you had any family, how you met Sam, where you lived. Personal questions.”
Angel knew his parents and twin brother had died in a car accident when he was twenty-four. There was no reason she’d need to ask. But her interest in Sam wasn’t a surprise. Reece’s cheeks warmed as shame engulfed him. He should have tried to help her work through her troubles after what happened. Instead, he’d run away like a coward. But Angel was hard to help. She was prone to deception and Reece couldn’t tolerate lies.
“She was making Bart change his major to business,” Betty continued. “She threatened that I’d never see my son again unless I kowtowed to her demands, and she was nasty to Hope.”
“Will was ready to tear Angel apart for the mean things she said to his sister.” There was pride in Harry’s voice that his sixteen-year-old son had protected Hope. “She made our baby girl cry, when all Hope did was to try and take Angel’s picture.”
Angel had always struck Reece as being on the verge of an emotional outburst, but he couldn’t recall her being cruel. When she wasn’t fabricating wild stories, she was withdrawn. Her family had made her that way.
“She laughed at my nativity scene,” Betty said. “Told me that religion is for weak-minded fools who require a crutch to get through life.” Betty pulled her cardigan close against her chest. “She was French-kissing Bart and running her hand into his crotch. She wouldn’t eat what I’d prepared and I had to make her pasta. She didn’t eat that, and then refused to clear her own dishes. Bart wasn’t finished, but he leaped up and cleaned her place setting.”
People changed in adolescence and early adulthood, Reece knew, but the behaviour Betty was describing didn’t resemble the girl he had once known. The inconsistencies disturbed him.
“The boy was thinking with the wrong head,” Harry said. “We had a private chat in the barn, for all the good that did.”
“Now he’s gone and he’s going to lose his scholarship.” Betty’s voice cracked.
Harry patted his wife’s shoulder. “There’s still time for him to get things sorted.” Turning to Reece, he asked, “Why are police involved? Toronto detectives are visiting tomorrow. Margaret said you’d explain.”
Reece was certain that Bart and Angel were together, but it was clear that Angel wasn’t mentally stable. Bart had his own issues and could be in over his head. As a cop with the OPP, Reece had been a first responder at a suicide pact. He didn’t want to share that concern with Bart’s parents. But police were trying to eliminate Bart as a possible frozen statue victim, which would come as devastating news. Reece owed it to his friends to warn them.
“You’ve read about the murdered University of Toronto freshmen.” He kept his voice impassive. “Well, police are following up on all missing person reports from campus.”
The colour drained from Betty’s face and Reece rushed to add, “Toronto Police Service asked professors to report first-year male students who have missed multiple classes without explanation. Bart’s name was on the list.”
Betty wrung the hem of her sweater between her hands. “The Frozen Statue Killer could have my son?”
“No, this is just procedure and nothing to worry about,” Reece said.
Her eyes were wide with terror and her mouth slackened with shock. Harry’s face was a sickly grey colour and he clenched the edge of the table as his body slouched.
Searching for something reassuring to add, Reece parroted Sam’s argument from the other night. “All evidence points to Bart being with Angel. They aren’t returning calls because they’re angry over what happened at Christmas.”
Betty straightened her shoulders and wiped her cheeks with a napkin. “You’re right,” she said with conviction. “That girl is making good on her threat. She’s proving she controls my son.” Her eyes blazed with anger. “How can she love my son if she wants to isolate him from everyone who cares about him and take away his future?”
“How long before Bart’s scholarship is at serious risk?” Reece asked.
“Margaret explained to his professors that there are exceptional circumstances,” Harry said. “They’re keeping him on the enrolment roster, for now.”
“Why is he doing this?” Betty asked, and Reece again glimpsed a flash of anger beneath her shroud of worry.
“Bart thinks he’s teaching us a lesson.” H
arry paused. “Or he’s taking the road of least resistance with his girlfriend in order to avoid conflict.”
“Can’t you and Sam find him?” Betty asked Reece.
“We’ve been ordered to stay out of the investigation.” Before she could argue, Reece offered a compromise. “But when police agree that Bart left on his own volition, they’ll be happy to surrender your inquiry to private investigators.”
Reece peeked at his watch. It was twenty past four. He needed to get moving to make it back to the city for his date with Sam.
Harry stood. “Is there anything you recommend in the meantime?”
“Yes.” Reece focused on Betty. “Don’t overreact. When I was with the OPP, I saw these disappearing acts often. The kids were thoughtless but fine.”
Betty’s face tightened and Reece instantly regretted his example. When he ran the OPP detachment in Uthisca, sixteen-year-old Amanda Reid had disappeared. He’d tracked the girl to Bueton Sanctuary, a cult run by a sociopath. It was during this investigation that he’d met Sam.
“Did I ever tell you I was stupid in love when I was in university?” Reece asked Betty.
She shook her head.
“Sarah was so hot she could melt ice, but her personality…” Reece rolled his eyes with a grin. “My mother would not have liked her one bit.”
Betty smiled.
“A nightmare girlfriend leads you straight into the arms of a good woman.” He cocked his eyebrow at Betty. “Take a look at who I’m with today.”
Her smile broadened and it erased ten years from her face. “And don’t you forget how lucky you are.” She stood and hugged him tight.
“I’ll walk you out,” Harry said.
Outside, Reece said, “If Bart contacts you, give me a call.”
Harry nodded. “Thanks for settling Betty’s mind. It’s easier to accept the truth from an objective observer. I could beat Bart’s hide for what he’s putting his mother through.”
Reece got in the car, started the engine, and opened the window. “Keep telling her he’s fine and try not to worry.”
As he drove away, he wished he could follow his own advice. The truth was that if Bart was in love with Angelina Stuart, he was anything but fine.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
In the Cellar
Angel
THE OTHER CAPTIVES hate Bart. He refuses to obey the rules—and he talks. Sometimes, he just yells his name through the penetrating darkness. Other times, he cries for his mother until he collapses from exhaustion. Doesn’t he understand that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction? The penalty for disobedience is the music. It is voice activated. When the system detects the cadence of speech, the music commences. It loops for fifteen minutes at a time. The hammering crescendo in the bridge drives the captives to the brink of madness. As an extra deterrent, a strobe light flashes with brilliant bursts of blinding white illumination that pulse on and off. Since Bart arrived, there is seldom a reprieve from the torture.
The others would kill Bart if they could reach him. It takes very little to turn reasonable men into killers—all you have to do is remove physiological and safety needs. Leave them in the cold darkness of the unknown and debase them by forcing them to urinate and defecate within the cells that imprison them. Stripped of compassion, people transmute into animals. But men are already animals. I learned that at a young age.
My father enjoyed a challenge, until he conquered it. He would haul us out to cross-country ski in the dead of winter when the wind shear dropped the temperature to arctic conditions. Whenever I fell, my family would leave me behind to flounder in a swirling blizzard as Dad pushed onward, driven by his mission to beat his best time on the trail.
In the summer, we’d pile into the car and drive five hours into the wilderness. He’d make us portage through mosquito-infested bush with a thirteen-metre, fifty-two kilo skull rowboat. With Dad at the bow and Mama at the stern, my sister and I would try to support the middle. We’d tramp through thorny brush with the boat crushing our shoulders and my sister complaining that I wasn’t carrying my share of the weight. At the choppy lake, Dad would remove a stopwatch from a deep pocket of his cargo pants and begin the timer. Together we’d push the boat into the frigid water and his booming voice would command, “Sit in.” Before I managed to settle into my allocated seat in the coxed four, I’d hear, “Sit ready.” I’d clutch my oar in tense anticipation, but my arms would tremble with exhaustion from the terrible hike. Perspiration would sting my eyes as I waited for the dreaded call of, “Ready all—row!”
He’d grow frustrated and annoyed with my ineptitude, even though he’d never taught me sweep rowing and I was too young to compete. By day’s end, I’d be in agony. Mama would be furious at me for spoiling everyone’s fun. She’d threaten to give me something to cry about if I didn’t stop blubbering. During the trip home, I’d sit with my blistered hands clamped over my mouth and nose to muffle my despair.
My sister was six and a half years older than I was, so Dad had already instructed her on the intricacies of any childhood milestone I was ready to tackle. He tolerated me, but didn’t enjoy my company. It’s hard to hide that from a child. But until that night when I was thirteen, I hadn’t accepted how disposable I was to my family.
When my sister entered university, she entered a rebellious stage and defied Dad by dating an older man. It was a magical time! I’d huddle on the pink carpet of my bedroom floor and press my ear against the closed door. The sound of arguing would pierce the air from downstairs, and my heart would soar with glee. My imagination conjured scenarios that would ingratiate me to my parents. I’d gush over the spongy polyester dress with the heinous dropped waist that made me look like a deformed troll. I’d try harder at school and earn top marks. I wouldn’t talk too much or too loud, I wouldn’t exaggerate, and I’d never tell another lie or make up another story. If I could be what they wanted while my sister disappointed them, my parents would learn to love me.
After my sister took a job that enraged Dad even further, I did everything I could to be the perfect daughter. When I brought home an A+ on my first chemistry test that September, Dad actually congratulated me. I held that tiny bit of praise close to my heart, but I ached for him to tell me that I made him proud.
A week before Halloween on a Sunday night, I was home alone. My sister was at her part-time job, serving lifelong alcoholics watered-down beer in a dismal bar that I imagined smelled of urine and vomit. My parents were out—I don’t recall where—and I was in my bedroom rolling smoke bombs for my Halloween costume. I was going as a smashed television and had cut the bottom off a large box, made holes for my arms and head, and painted the box black. I wanted fumes to ooze from the crumpled tinfoil screen, so I was using ammonium nitrate, which I took out of a drugstore cold pack, mixed with a bit of water to dissolve the granules. I’d soaked folded sheets of newspaper in the solution and sun-dried them on the patio. When I lit the rolls, the smoke would enthrall Dad. He’d be so proud.
With the costume finished, I crept down the hallway to my sister’s room. She’d tossed an array of colourful blouses and dresses across her double bed. A slew of makeup and hair accessories littered her bureau. Hung over the corner of her mirror was a necklace that her boyfriend had given her. Tiny blue gems twinkled on a gold pendant. I snagged the chain and ran to my bedroom. I wanted to try it on and watch the light reflect off the miniature tanzanite stones. I longed for the day that someone would love me enough to bestow gifts.
The necklace, along with the other gifts, had upset Dad. He claimed that men did not give presents without expecting something in return. But those same tokens had charmed Mama. Shiny baubles turn a woman’s head and make her vulnerable to seduction, regardless of her age.
From below me, I thought I heard the front doorbell ring. I froze with the pretty necklace draped across my fingers. A few seconds passed before the doorbell chimed again. I stuffed the trinket into my sock drawer and ran downstairs. Peekin
g out the window, I saw my sister’s boyfriend standing on the porch with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his motorcycle jacket.
Confused, I opened the door. “She’s at work,” I said. “She won’t be home until after ten.”
He smiled. “Yeah, I know. She told me your parents were out tonight, too.” He stepped into the foyer. “Didn’t you invite a friend to hang out with you?” He peered over the top of my head and into the living room. “Aren’t you afraid to be here alone in the storm?”
I was unaware of the thunderstorm because I’d turned up the volume on the radio before going upstairs. I glanced out the open door at the dark night. We were the last house on a dead-end street and mature trees shielded our property from our neighbours. The light from the front porch illuminated a sea of gold, orange, and red leaves blowing across the yard. A flash of lightning lit the skeleton branches of a sycamore tree. A sharp reverberation of thunder followed and I shuddered.
He took my hand and tugged me inside, out of the doorway. He reeked of cigarette smoke and something strong and skunky that made my nose crinkle. I tried to wiggle out of his clutch but he tightened his grasp and his sharp fingernails dug into the back of my hand.
“How about I keep you company.” He winked.
Before I could figure out what was happening, he’d locked the front door. I thought about running, but I heard Dad’s critical voice reprimanding me for my overactive imagination. I felt the sting of Mama’s slap, punishing me for being melodramatic. This was my sister’s boyfriend. He wasn’t a stranger.
“I don’t suppose your dad has a beer around here?” He strolled into the living room, took off his jacket, and dropped it onto my mother’s velour chair.
“You have to go.” My voice was shrill and I wrung my hands together. “I don’t want to get in trouble.”
He laughed. “It’ll be our little secret. Don’t you want to get to know me better? Isn’t that the dream of every little sister, to be friends with her big sister’s boyfriend?” His eyes roamed over my body and I hugged my arms against my pyjama-clad chest, wishing I’d put on a housecoat.
