Floating in water.
Then the flame extinguished.
Nothing.
As it was in the beginning…
Before the spark. Or the invention of the turkey baster, whatever its variety of uses.
Hy left the hospital before Jamieson. There was no point in sticking around unless Jamieson was willing to let her into Newton’s room while she was questioning him. She wasn’t willing. Hy also felt it was advisable to leave while Jamieson had not yet charged her. Hy was confident she wouldn’t. After all, she’d cracked the case, hadn’t she? Maybe that pissed Jamieson off.
On the long drive back to The Shores, Hy had a chance to think about the deluge of information unloaded from Google and Ed and those ultrasound shots – what it all said about Newton, the man who remembered his conception and his birth, who longed for the surrounding warmth of the womb from which he had been ripped, who had found fetus-like pleasure in the arms of fat Fiona. Had he killed Fiona after he killed Viola because she failed to substitute as a mother, even a mother as cold as his own, a mother who had tried to kill him?
There was only one word for it.
“Bizarre,” said Ian, after she had unloaded on him.
“And complex,” said Hy.
“You’re right about that. Let’s see.” Ian began tapping the keyboard.
“Viola is artificially inseminated with another man’s sperm, because her husband is sterile.”
Hy picked up the thread.
“Five months later, she changes her mind about motherhood and has an abortion. There are twins. They don’t know and they only remove one. By the time they do know, it’s deemed too late for an abortion and she carries it to term.”
“It is Newton,” says Ian and Hy nods.
“She abandons husband and child within months, and the marriage is over within a year.”
“Okay, let me get this down.”
Hy paused, and then continued:
“Husband meets another woman. Sues for divorce. Is granted custody of Newton.”
“Forward thinking for those days. Custody to the father, and to a non-biological father at that. Obviously the judge frowned on the mother’s abandonment, as well as the artificial insemination.”
“Then there’s the whole suicide attempt or cry for help when his wife leaves him.”
“The ultrasounds, the claim he remembered his conception and birth, the whole Joseph and Mary thing…” Ian had stopped typing.
“So Viola was his mother?”
“I think the name thing clinches it.”
“And he killed Viola?”
“I think so. He had discovered her attempt to do away with him – the ultimate betrayal of his safe place.”
“And Fiona? Her, too?”
“Yes. There’s no hard evidence. I don’t suppose there ever will be. I think that after he killed his own mother, Fiona proved a poor substitute. He was clearly ashamed of his liaison with her. She may have become dizzy because of the wind turbine. They may have had a spat that ended up in a stupid, thoughtless manslaughter, a killing without intent. A push, a shove, getting her off him, and then – ”
“Dead.” Neither Ian nor Hy knew that Newton himself had now joined the list of casualties.
Jamieson headed straight for the dome when she got back to The Shores. She took the shortest route next to the fields, and parked on the far side. She wanted to see what else she could find. She was sure Newton had killed Viola, and just as sure he had killed Fiona, perhaps by accident, in some clifftop lovers’ tiff. But she had to have as much evidence as she could gather to create a murder case.
Even if the killer was a dead man, he should be brought to justice in name, at least. Jamieson had seen too many cases buried by lack of digging on the part of police. Of that, at least, she would not be accused.
The cape was hauntingly silent that night, no wind, no whirring from the turbine, so quiet that her footsteps echoed loudly in the round building with its arched roof. She had the keys from Newton’s belongings at the hospital. She fumbled for a light switch.
The lighting was strange. Recessed. Low wattage. Like a fog inside. Eerie.
Then footsteps, not hers. Footsteps outside.
She moved softly to the far end of the room.
The footsteps sounded closer. The door creaked open.
Hy? Snooping around again? She should charge her. Teach her a lesson. Although she had to admit Hy had been helpful, again, on this case. Maybe she herself would never have gotten hold of that journal in a legal way, so perhaps it was a good thing that Hy had stolen it.
The lights went out.
It wasn’t Hy. She was glad she hadn’t called out.
Jamieson ducked down and slithered under the bed. The cold blue light of an LED flashlight pierced the black interior, deep as night, but with no brightening stars or moon.
She couldn’t see who it was, so she put all her concentration to her ears, to listening to the movement.
A drawer opening. Closing. Another drawer. Opening and closing. A third drawer. Some papers rustling. The drawer closing. The desk. Whoever it was, was putting something in the desk. Returning something? Planting evidence?
It was dusty under the bed.
Jamieson sneezed.
The flashlight sliced across the room and into her face.
Not Newton. Newton had not killed his mother. Newton was dead, and the person in this room was very much alive and connected to the murder. The person in this room, she realized, as a chill spread down her back, was the murderer. Of Viola. Of Fiona. One. Or both.
Why she thought these things she couldn’t explain. It was that intuitive part of her brain acting up again. She felt as sure now as she had moments ago that Newton was the killer, that this was the real murderer, someone who knew something about Newton, who had taken something from the desk, or slipped it in.
The light was aimed right at her, blinding her, so she couldn’t see who it was. She continued to focus on what she could hear.
Creaking floorboards. A presence casting a black shadow in the dark, erasing all light from the space it occupied.
Coming closer.
Stopping.
Jamieson swallowed. She wanted to speak, but if there were any chance he couldn’t see exactly where she was, she must not guide him to her by her voice.
“I can see you under the bed. The dust made you sneeze. Not a good housekeeper, our friend Newton, but a good killer, a very good killer.”
So she spoke.
“You – ”
He squatted down. Shone the light directly in her eyes so that she was forced to close them hard. He grabbed hold of her hand and caressed her palm with his thumb.
A chill suffused her body.
Her fear triggered hiccups. Embarrassing.
“What were you doing in those drawers? Taking something? Leaving something behind?”
“A valuable piece of evidence I thought you should know about. I didn’t want to be the one to give it to you. It would be…uh…indelicate. I miscalculated. I hoped the evidence would be waiting for you, but you are already here.”
There was something in the way he was talking. Too ingratiating.
“What is it, this evidence?”
He shrugged. His tone changed. Spoiled. Petulant. “I suppose I must show you, but I wanted you to discover it for yourself.”
Why was he planting evidence? Why did he not want to appear to be pointing the finger at Newton? Was it that he was the guilty one?
Anton. The killer of Viola? Of Fiona? Of Newton, too? Why was she having these thoughts? What logic was there to them?
The fact that he was here, for starters. And threatening a Mountie.
He saw the dawning of knowledge in her eyes. He dove for her, yanking her up from beneath the be
d, and throwing her against the rounded back wall of the dome.
He pressed his body up against hers, thrusting Jamieson into an agony of disgust and fear. He felt it, and kept her pinned to the wall.
“I brought you evidence. You should be grateful.” His flashing smile bore down on her. “A thank you of some kind? Perhaps a kiss?” Anton had had no success with any of the women at The Shores. It shredded his pride. Perhaps he would have this one before he killed her.
“Show me. I’ve already been through that desk and removed the contents of the third drawer, so I would have known your evidence had been planted.”
“But you would not have known it was I who put it there.” He gripped her harder, pushed himself into her, grinding. She felt hot, dizzy, about to faint with disgust. She struggled to free herself from his grip, but it was useless. He was too strong.
“I’d have figured that out eventually. Why would it matter?”
“Because you’ve been looking at me, suspiciously.”
“This isn’t helping you,” she said. “Look, I’m willing to forget this if you let me go, and let me be the judge of your evidence.”
“I can’t do that. Not now.”
Anton, the sophisticate, had lost it. Condemned himself with his behaviour. What did she have to lose? An accusation might bring a confession.
“You killed Viola.”
“No, Newton did. I’ll show you why.”
Turning her and holding her arms behind her back, he pushed her toward the desk, the light of his flashlight bouncing off the walls, making Jamieson dizzy, distracted, and unable to think. At least she was free of his body pressing into hers.
He sat her down at the desk, and used her handcuffs to secure her to the chair.
Even though she was in a vulnerable position, she kept up the pressure.
“You killed Fiona.”
“No.”
“Newton. You killed him, by pushing him off the tower.”
A spark of interest in his eyes.
“Oh, is he dead? How unfortunate. Then he won’t suffer from being branded a killer.”
“No.” A long silence.
“Are you going to kill me, too? That would be very foolish.”
He gazed around the curved roof of the dome. “Should go up in seconds. And you’ll go down as a cop who shouldn’t have been here, searching the place without a warrant.”
“I do have a warrant.” Technically, she did.
“Show it to me then.” He smiled, meanly.
“You know I can’t do that.” She tugged at the handcuffs.
“I won’t let you die without satisfying your curiosity.” He opened the third drawer and pulled out what he’d placed in there.
The Journal of Viola Featherstonehaugh.
I feel as if I am carrying a parasite inside my body. Sucking the life out of me. Claiming my blood for his own. I see now I was not meant to be a mother, but is there no way out?
The baby kicked today, for the first time. Am I to put up with this for another four months? It makes me sick, sick to the bone. I want it out, out, out.
Anton flipped the pages for her, to the most significant passages. All of it she had read at the hospital.
“Do you know what happened next?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. Did Newton ever see this?”
“I don’t know.”
“By planting it here, you hoped to suggest he had, to cast suspicion on him. Away from you.”
Anton said nothing.
“If he had seen it, he might have killed Viola and spared you the trouble.”
“If she had known he would kill her, she’d have made sure to kill him in the womb. But she didn’t. And look what happens. Matricide. Offends the sensibilities.”
“Murder – of any kind – offends mine.”
“Anyway, you have the general idea. A motive to kill his mother.”
“There’s nothing he didn’t know in here.”
“He didn’t know it was his mother who wrote those awful things. Viola. But he did in the end.”
“How?”
“I told him. Up on the tower. Before he jumped. I told you I didn’t push him.”
“Not physically.”
“I don’t believe you can commit a murder mentally.”
“I do.”
Anton had been leaning over Jamieson’s shoulder. Now he stood straight.
“You can’t deny it anymore. Besides, there’s no point if you’re going to kill me.”
“What?”
“Admit that you killed Viola…”
The flashing eyes burned with malevolence. The ingratiating smile disappeared altogether, twisting into an ugly shape, full of hate. She’d correctly gauged his pride and his anger.
“Stupid bitch and her bloody fish. She was lucky to have someone like me catering to her every whim.”
“For money.”
“Yes, for money. If it hadn’t been me, it would have been someone else.”
“Who used her? Or who killed her? How did you do it?”
“I didn’t do it. Not really. It was just luck. I knew there was too much saffron in that rice. I took a chance on serving it to her and the others. She was old and frail. There was a good chance she’d snuff it.”
“She did, laughing all the way to the bank.”
He frowned.
“It was now or never. She’d either changed her will or not. A fifty-fifty chance that I’d inherit. If I didn’t, at least she’d be dead. You couldn’t really call it murder.”
“I could. And I’m pretty sure you murdered Fiona, too.”
“Stupid bitch and her bloody fudge. Wallowing in Newton and her own self-importance as a business-owner on the cape. I didn’t mean to kill her, you may not believe that.”
“I don’t.”
He shrugged. “We were arguing about what I owed her, about the land, about the ugly trailer, and her harassment of me and my guests. She went for me. I defended myself. She went over.”
“And the rock jumped down and followed her.”
“I may have given it a push.”
“Like Newton. You might have given him a push, too.”
He didn’t say anything.
He flashed one of his brilliant smiles. “So a few people died in unusual ways. That doesn’t make me a murderer.”
“So you say. And me? What are your plans for me?”
“Oh, I won’t kill you either. I’m not a murderer, in spite of what you may think.”
Deluded. He was deluded. The walking crazy. Acting – mostly – normal. Except at killing time. Jamieson wondered if he’d killed before.
“I’m going to give you a fighting chance.”
He held up the key to the handcuffs. He slipped it into her breast pocket, and patted her breast.
She shuddered and quickly began scheming about how she might use the key to unlock the cuffs. Impossible.
“I’m afraid I have to leave, after performing a slight function.”
He made it sound as if he were going to pee.
Of course that wasn’t what he was going to do. He was going to do something much worse than that.
She thought of the ring of batteries around the dome. The acrid smell of smoke floated through the dome. It began to thicken.
Fire. Her nemesis. It was a fear she had overcome that had once paralyzed her, frozen her to the spot. Jamieson was working her mouth around the button on the shirt, not knowing what she would do if she got the key, but unable to sit there, a passive victim.
The smoke was billowing from all directions, insinuating into her lungs, though she tried not to breathe, taking in the bare minimum to live. How long, before an agonizing death?
Whoosh. She heard the flames take hold of oxygen. It
came from Hy, opening the door.
Thank God. Thank God for McAllister’s incessant interference.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Jamieson,” Hy called out. She ran across the room as the flames rose and smoke billowed.
“The key’s in my pocket,” Jamieson shouted. Hy fumbled to open the lock on the handcuffs, her fumbling fueled by Jamieson’s impatience.
The fire roared, taking on new and more deadly life.
The handcuffs dropped to the floor.
“Get on the ground,” Hy ordered. She knew of Jamieson’s history with fire, so she kept talking and moving her along, hoping she wouldn’t freeze, or worse, despair.
The smoke was thick and full of another stench, the chemicals from the batteries. When they got to the door, Hy hauled Jamieson up off the floor, and put an arm around her to help her balance as they fled the dome. A surge of fire followed them through the door, leaping at them, licking and flaring with a new feed of oxygen.
From a distance, they turned to look back. The dome was fast becoming an inferno, flames leaping up its centre, like sound rising to reach the highest point, its shape seeming to embrace the fire.
“Anton,” whispered Jamieson.
“He’s in there?” Hy leapt forward, but Jamieson grabbed her by the arm.
“I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. Let it be. He’s a damn murderer. You’re not going to die for him.”
“A murderer?”
“He as much as admitted it in there. He was certainly trying to kill me.”
“But I thought…”
“So did we all. Newton. He had lots of reasons, lots of sound psychological reasons, but he was a victim.”
“Was?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“So I was wrong.” Hy felt as if she had mounted a vendetta against an innocent man, labeling him a murderer in the last hours of his life.
Jamieson clasped her arm.
“We were wrong.” Solidarity. “It was a tough call, McAllister, a tough call. But we know who it was. You don’t always get that. If Paradis is dead, so much the better. If he got away, he’ll live a lifetime of knowing I’m tracking him down. Even if I never catch him, he’ll always be looking over his shoulder.”
Something Fishy Page 22
