A small breeze came up, lifting and swirling the fog. The eerie churn of dampness, shifting and changing, was like walking through ghosts.
Four
The singer’s eyes became accustomed to the dark and she was able to pick out details. She realized that the ditch bordering the road had ended and the sheer rock wall was closer to the pavement here, so close she could reach out with her fingers and touch the cold, damp surface. Another twenty feet and huge ferns and brambles slapped against her and caught on her clothes, sending her farther out onto the pavement to avoid the green fingers reaching out for her.
Every few yards she stopped, straining to hear the sounds of an approaching car, afraid that in the switchbacks she wouldn’t hear them until they were on top of her. But there was no car. A road with no cars was unnatural for the singer, but then being so far from a city was beyond her normal experience. She decided on a plan if a car did come along. She pulled a white T-shirt out of her backpack. She would wave it at anyone who might be on the road, so they could see she was there.
Along the gritty, sloping surface, pebbles rolled beneath her feet and threw her off balance. Her gait turned to a shuffling pace. She cursed the night, the road, and the sins that brought her here, but most of all she cursed a man.
She questioned if revenge was worth it. Had she hung on to her rage for too long?
Suddenly she became conscious that there was no longer a rock face beside her. She reached out a hand and then she felt with her foot. Not even a ditch. A paved surface went off to her right. She sighed with relief and edged cautiously forward before she hesitated. Was it wise to leave the road for this lane? This narrow driveway, like so many others she’d tried before finding the road up the mountain, might end at an empty clearing in the woods, leaving her worse off than she was now. But none of those detours had been paved. This small detail gave her courage. Guardedly, she followed the drive, which curved upward.
Now that she was surrounded by trees, the night came alive. Somewhere close a twig snapped. She paused and listened. An owl hooted and small things scurried in the leaves along the drive. The sounds of nature were magnified by her dread and fear.
She moved faster. Trees and bushes were knitted together along the path, trapping her. The barrier they formed was too dense to break through, so continuing on or going back were her only choices.
She hummed softly to herself, needing some human sound. This road was far steeper than the one going down and soon her calves were burning, her thighs screaming in pain. No longer chilly, she pulled the extra shirt off and stuffed the limp garment in the canvas bag.
Something crashed in the shrubbery beside her before a giant creature burst out of the trees. She yelped and fell back. With one enormous leap, the animal was gone, crashing into the thick brush on the far side of the drive.
“It’s a deer, a deer,” she whispered, but her heart raced just the same.
What had frightened it? Were there wolves in these woods? She wasn’t strong enough to fight off a wild animal or fast enough to run away. She stood fixed to the spot, waiting for whatever was chasing the deer to appear, straining to hear and to see. Sweat cooled on her skin and she shivered.
A dog barked. At least she thought it was a dog, but the fog distorted and changed the high-pitched sound. Was it up ahead or behind her? More sharp barking. It seemed to come from higher up, in front of her. She moved the backpack around her body and held it before her like a shield, struggling to hear and to figure out where the danger was, but there was no more barking.
She was too tired even to curse. Her breath was labored and raspy, her legs were on fire. Exhaustion told her to sit down, while terror pushed her forward and told her to hurry. But where was she hurrying to? What waited for her at the end of this lane? The only thing she was certain of was that whatever she was moving towards had to be better than what had already happened to her. At least that’s what she told herself.
The fog, wispy and fine, took on a yellow glow above and beyond her. A radiance like a soft halo—surely it was a light. The sight renewed her strength and joy pumped adrenalin into her veins. She followed the curve of the drive to the left as more security lights flicked on, illuminating her way. Ahead was a dim outline of a house. Safe now.
Soft beacons shone upward along the front of the building towering over her. A circular garden, protecting the front of the structure, also showed small pools of light set near the ground. She hobbled around the bed of greenery and stood before the broad facade of a two-storey, cedar log house with a double front door. The windows on either side of the door were dark and empty, but off to the left a flagstone path led to lighted French doors emanating comfort and security.
She bypassed the front door and went eagerly to the entrance off to the side, knocked, and waited to be welcomed.
The door was flung back. A tall young woman stood there. In her hand she held a gun.
“Come in,” she said.
Five
The woman holding the gun had a long, sculpted face with bones that were strong and prominent. Her fine hazel eyes, blazing beneath black brows, demanded attention, but it was the gun that held the singer’s eyes.
The woman with the gun stepped aside. Behind her on the dark wood floor, a man lay spread-eagle on his back. She gestured with the gun and repeated the words, “Come in.”
Still standing outside the door, the singer glanced from the man to the woman and back again before stuttering, “Is . . . is he dead?”
“I don’t know but I certainly hope so.”
It was a cruel answer. It was said as if they were talking about an ugly stain that had suddenly appeared on the dark walnut flooring, something that must be dealt with, rather than a human being. The woman, in her late twenties and dressed in a black turtleneck sweater and dark jeans, turned away from the singer. The light caught her mahogany hair, long and full and shining damply.
The singer hesitated on the slate step. Would she be shot if she tried to run? It was possible, but the hard truth was she was too drained to even try. She stepped into the room and lowered her pack, letting it slide from her hand to drop onto the floor.
She stared at the body then moved her backpack aside with her toe. “I’ll check . . . see if he’s still breathing.” She moved slowly forward, keeping her eyes on the hand holding the gun.
When she got to the man she bundled her long, orange skirt in her left hand and knelt stiffly. The man’s head was turned away from her, so she couldn’t see his face. A dark hole, a thin trail of blood and ooze leaking from it, was high in his left temple. It seemed such a tiny wound to end an existence, but there was no doubt in her mind that life had fled. Still, she put out her hand and pressed her fingers to his cold, lifeless neck.
“He’s dead.” Using the oak desk, the singer pulled herself to her feet, wincing as she straightened her left leg. “He was shot in the head.” It seemed a stupid thing to say. The woman with the gun could see this for herself.
The singer stared down at the corpulent body. Her wiser self was telling her to get out of there and disappear. It was how she normally handled trouble, disappearing into the background or down a dark alley, or hitching a ride out of town until the trouble blew over, but those options had been taken away from her. She asked, “Who is he?”
“John Vibald.”
Surprise overcame the singer’s normal wariness and she blurted out, “Johnny Vibes?”
The young woman lifted her head like an animal sniffing the air for danger. “You know him?”
“Oh, yeah.” She stared down at the body. Revenge had slipped through her fingers. “Knew him back in the seventies when he was a long-haired rocker.” The whole trip had been for nothing. “He was beautiful when I knew him, twenty years ago.”
The young woman waved the gun at the prone figure. “You mean before he turned into this bloated piece of crap?�
�
The singer started in shock. She wasn’t the only one in the room who hated Johnny Vibes.
The smell of the blood, in addition to other human matter she didn’t want to identify, was making her stomach unreliable. “Could . . . could we go somewhere else? Could we go in there?” She gestured to her left through an archway to another room. “I need fresher air.”
“All right.” The tall woman crossed the room with a fluid grace, unconcerned if the stranger she’d just let into her home was following.
The singer went to retrieve her backpack, which she’d abandoned by the still-open French door. She wondered, for a brief moment, if she could run out into the fog ahead of the gunshot that would surely follow her. Could she hide deep in the woods and wait for morning? Then what?
She stared into the night. The creatures out there were just as dangerous as the one in here, and there were still things she wanted to know about her old enemy. She picked up her backpack and limped into the second room, relieved to be away from the body of Johnny Vibes.
The singer said, “Who are you?”
The beautiful young woman slid the pocket door closed behind her and leaned back against it. “I’m Lauren Vibald.”
“Are you his daughter?”
“I’m his wife. Now who are you and what are you doing here?”
It was too late to pretend she didn’t know Johnny, just as it was too late for what she’d come here to do. “I’m the . . . I’m Singer.” She drew in a deep breath. “Singer. My name’s Singer.”
“Singer?”
“Yes.”
“Singer what?”
She normally excelled at lying, even prided herself on it, but the night had knocked her off stride. She gazed at the room, all walnut paneling and hung with grotesque tribal masks from multiple cultures. Two tobacco-colored leather couches sat facing each other on either side of a stone fireplace.
“My name is Singer Brown.”
Lauren Vibald pushed her hair back from her face. “Good thing the room isn’t puce. Singer Puce would be a hell of a moniker to go through life with.”
Singer smiled in spite of herself.
Lauren pushed away from the door and swept past Singer, trailing a cloud of exotic perfume.
Strangely, for all her ranting and anger, there was nothing threatening about Lauren Vibald, even with a weapon in her hand.
Singer clutched the canvas sack to her chest. “How about putting that gun down before we have another accident?”
Lauren pivoted around to face her. “Accident?” Hope flamed in Lauren’s face and her voice was full of an eagerness to believe, like a child wanting to be told it was only a bad dream and she was safe. “Yes,” she said, nodding. “An accident.”
Six
Singer eased slowly towards Lauren, not wanting to startle her. “Put the gun down. Please.”
A puzzled look came over Lauren’s face. She glanced down at the firearm. “Oh,” she said and set it on the coffee table.
Singer sprang forward and picked up the revolver.
Lauren barely seemed to notice. “Do you really think it was an accident?”
Singer walked backwards away from Lauren, holding the gun in front of her with both hands. “No, it wasn’t an accident.” Singer bumped into something. She turned and placed the heavy revolver on the table behind her and planted herself firmly between it and Lauren. “I think it was suicide.”
Lauren threw her hands in the air and gave a snort of disgust. “Don’t be ridiculous. John would never kill himself. He might kill someone else but not himself.”
“Would he accidentally shoot himself?”
“Not even dead drunk and tonight he wasn’t as drunk as normal.”
Singer watched closely. “Then if it wasn’t suicide and it wasn’t an accident, it has to be murder.”
Lauren gave a sharp little gasp as her hands went up to cover her face and she sank down to the couch behind her.
An eerie whine, followed by scratching, came from the second entrance to the room. Singer swung wildly, scrambling for the gun and pointing it at the door.
Lauren ignored the noise, smoothing back her hair and saying, “I’ll call the police.”
“We got a minute.” Singer kept her eyes on the door. “What’s out there?”
“Missy.”
“Missy?”
“My dog, a miniature poodle.”
“Having met you, I would have expected at least a Rottweiler.”
“We have to call the police.”
“Johnny can’t be helped. We need to chat.”
“About what?”
“Well, we’re two . . .” Singer hesitated, then her mouth twisted into a grin. “Two ladies with a problem.”
“You’re no lady, and I haven’t got any problems, not anymore.” Lauren went around the coffee table and started for the door. “My troubles just died.”
“Just ’cause he’s dead doesn’t mean he still isn’t going to bring you grief.”
Lauren stopped and swung around to face Singer. She opened her mouth to speak but then crossed her arms and waited for an explanation.
Singer nodded and again placed the gun behind her on the table. “You were here when he was shot. You were the only person in the house besides Johnny, so you just became the most likely candidate for his murderer.” Singer pointed at Lauren. “Being alone, that’s your problem.”
“Who says I’m alone?”
“Honey, if you weren’t the only person in the house, someone else would be in this room with us right now.”
“So if that’s my problem, what’s yours?”
Singer said, “I’m here and I got dumped in this. When did you last see Johnny alive?”
Lauren lifted her arm and studied her watch. “Almost two hours ago, around eleven thirty.”
“So, tell me where you really were.”
“Excuse me? What business is it of yours?”
“Look at it this way, if there’s just you and me here with a dead body, which one of us did it?”
“It wasn’t me,” Lauren whispered. Her eyes went to the gun. “I didn’t kill John, so that leaves you.”
Singer laughed. “And it wasn’t me, that’s for sure. So who was it?”
Lauren’s forehead wrinkled. “I don’t know. I didn’t hear a thing.”
“How could you not hear a gun being fired?”
Lauren’s eyes shifted. “I was in my room with the TV on. Loud.”
“If you can’t lie better than that, we’re in big trouble.”
“What do you mean ‘we’?”
“You weren’t in the house, were you?”
Lauren’s jaw hardened and her chin went up.
Singer raised a hand to stop Lauren speaking. “You were outside with the dog. I heard it bark, thought it was the hound of the Baskervilles.” Singer laughed at her fear. “And your hair’s still wet from the fog. You were out there for a while.”
“So, Sherlock, tell it to the Mounties.”
“Mounties? What have the Mounties got to do with anything?”
“The Royal Canadian Mounted Police are in charge on the islands. When they get here you just tell them I was outside when Johnny was killed. That’s an alibi. We can alibi each other.”
“They’ll want to know what took you out in this weather and who you were with.”
“I was walking the dog.”
“I didn’t meet any cars. So he’s still up here someplace.”
“Who is?”
“The guy you were meeting,” Singer said. “The guy you’re protecting.”
Seven
“You’re only guessing.”
“And that’s what the Mounties will do too.”
“I’m alone here.”
“Aw, but when
you opened the door, you thought you knew who you’d see. It must have been quite a shock to see me there. So who were you expecting?”
Lauren pointed her finger at Singer. “Maybe you killed John and then went outside. When I came in the room you knocked, pretending you had just arrived. That’s it, isn’t it?”
“Possible. Or maybe I just have really bad timing. What do you think? Did Johnny let me in, or did I just walk in?”
“It works either way; the doors are never locked. How do I know you didn’t kill him?”
“The same way I know you didn’t.”
“And that is?”
Singer smiled. “Because you have an honest face.”
Lauren gave a bark of laughter. “You aren’t fooling me. By giving me an alibi, you give yourself one. You don’t want the Mounties digging around anymore than I do. So what have you got to hide?”
“I’m just trying to save myself some hassle and the cops a little time. That’s all. If they suspect us, they won’t dig any deeper for Johnny’s killer. Might just as well start them off right.”
“Very public spirited of you.” Lauren folded her arms. “Just why are you here anyway?”
“Johnny invited me. I called him a few days ago, said I was heading in this direction and I’d like to talk about old times.”
“He didn’t say anything to me.”
“Slipped his mind I guess. He just told me to come ahead.”
“I doubt that.”
“Well to be honest I was hoping to hit him up for a few bucks for old times’ sake. That’s why I’m here.”
“So out of nowhere, after how many years, you just show up?”
“Yup.”
“He never mentioned you. When did you last see him?”
“Twenty years ago, back in the seventies, like I said before.”
“How did you know where to find him?”
“Oh, I’ve always known where Johnny was.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Singer knew she’d made a mistake, knew it was an admission that would come back to haunt her. Usually she was better at hiding the truth but exhaustion was taking its toll.
Long Gone Man Page 2
