One arm supported Sally, the other gestured to one of the medics. He rushed over and he and a young cop, fairly new on the job, carried her back up to the house on a stretcher. The house was already secured with police tape. Feeling both angry and helpless, Al followed close behind.
They carried her into the living room and laid her on the sofa with its chintz cover of cabbage roses. She had come to and was crying softly. The cop was asking her if there was anyone they could call to stay with her, and she just kept shaking her head no, the soft cries rising into howls so filled with grief they bore into Al’s soul. Al told them his dispatcher, Betty Clair was already on her way over.
“We’ll get them, Sally,” he promised, kneeling down beside her, taking her cold hand in his. “We’ll make the bastards pay for what they did.” When she didn’t answer, just looked at him with those grief-stricken eyes, their pupils dilated with shock and horror, he could only tell her again how sorry he was and then he rose and wandered with heaviness of heart into the kitchen.
Last night, peering through the window, this kitchen had looked spotless to Al, the way Ethel always kept it. But this morning, with sunlight streaming into the room, Al had spotted a seam of what proved to be blood running along the wall by the stove. From the strong smell of bleach, it was obvious someone had tried to wash away the evidence, but got sloppy and left more than a trace behind. He had hopes the blood might match up to the killer or killers, but he had a strong hunch he wouldn’t be that lucky and that it would belong to either Ethel or Hartley, or a mingling of both. They’d know for sure when the results came back from the lab.
Leaving Sally in the capable hands of the medics, and knowing Betty would be here shortly, he headed back to the truck. Betty had called in Harry Knowles to cover for her. Harry was a retired cop and gentleman farmer who occasionally filled in for Betty, and was always happy to do it. Betty hadn’t arrived yet when Harry’s wife showed up in the van, and without any fuss and only a sad nod at Al, gathered up the chickens and took them back home with her in the van.
Al had been back here at first light of dawn and found the truck with little trouble. The perp had driven it out of the yard and straight across the road, barreled on into the woods. All Al had to do was follow the track. This was an old logging road, the path still pretty wide, but whoever had been behind that wheel wasn’t much of a driver. The grass edging the path was flattened, bark scraped from birches and alders on either side, leaving the sides of the truck itself scratched and battered. They might as well have dropped breadcrumbs like in the Hansel and Gretel story he had never much liked, even as a kid. Ovens weren’t always a bad thing though.
Al sighed, thinking how he wasn’t ever going to enjoy another of Ethel’s warm chocolate-chip, raisins cookies that she could bake like no one else. He visualized the boy he had been back then, sitting in her kitchen and Ethel smiling at him as she set out a plate of those cookies, (that you could smell as soon as she opened the door,) and poured him a glass of milk. His dad would be outside talking with Hartley on any number of issues, mostly though to do with the farm. The sweet memory hurt. You just never knew where the next pile driver to the gut would come from. Or when. Or how you would ever recover from it. Poor Sally. We all go through rough things in life, but this was beyond rough. He repeated her own question to himself: Who would do such a thing? He didn’t know. But he damn well intended to find out and make them sorry they ever stepped foot in Three Brooks.
On his way back to Hartley’s truck, Al had to work his way through a clot of rubberneckers before he could enter the hive of grim activity. Photos of the bodies were being snapped from every conceivable angle. More photos were taken of the truck, boot prints and anything else that might, when examined, give them some answers. Two officers fine-combed the surrounding area for evidence.
Near the door on the driver’s side, one of the techies was down on one knee making a cast of what looked to be a near perfect shoeprint. There should be fingerprints inside the cab too, Al thought, other than the victims’, unless the perp had worn gloves. Guilt needled him, realizing he’d just thought of Ethel and Hartley as ‘victims’ rather than as his old friends. But he needed some objectivity if he was to do his job.
Despite the remoteness of this place, the crowd was growing like fungus, all along the road. Cars snaked back about a quarter of a mile. Mumbled conversation reached him, the closing of car doors. But the morbidly curious were being kept effectively away from the scene. How do they find out so damn fast about these things? he wondered, feeling a measure of disdain for his own species. We want to know, he answered himself. We want the gory details. We want to be glad it isn’t us in the truck.
“Any thoughts on the culprits?” Ed Halliday, another detective, asked him.
“Negative. We get mischief around here from time to time, as you know, Ed, hunting out of season, breaking into camps, but nothing like this.”
Halliday nodded. “Could have been anyone. Maybe just a burglary gone bad. Or a thrill kill. A modern day Bonnie and Clyde running around.”
“Maybe. Those three escapees are still on the loose.”
“You think...”
“Don’t think nothing,” Al said, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Only that they’re still out there. And by the shoe prints, there was more than one of them.
Ed nodded again. “Yep. You’ve got a point, Al. They could have headed in this direction. Wouldn’t be the first. They were good folks, the Nichols’. Didn’t know ‘em well as you, but well enough to know they didn’t deserve this. Damn shame,” he said, shaking his head. Detective Halliday was short and bald, with shrewd blue eyes and an understated way of carrying himself. He was plainclothes like Al.
After more speculation and theorizing, the detective moved off to talk to one of the medics who was zipping the bodies into body bags. He gave Al a brief wave over his shoulder that said later. Al watched after him for a few minutes, more anger building in him. He had often heard the phrase ‘Not on my watch’. Well, it had happened on his watch, dammit. Again, he vowed to find those responsible and bring them to justice.
He left the techies to their work which was just wrapping up and went back up to the house to check on Sally. Just seeing Betty’s Rambler in the drive made him feel better. She’d make Sally an herbal tea to help calm her. Then she would listen while Sally talked. Or Betty just might hold her while she cried. Betty Clair had a good heart and she also had a way with people. For sure, she was a lot better at this sort of thing than he was. But he was doubtful that even Betty could comfort Sally in these darkest of days.
Chapter 16
They’d heard nothing from Pete’s friend on the matter of a deed to the cabin, but Karen wasn’t ready to give up. Which was why she was back here in Abby’s apartment this morning, desperate to find something on her sister’s laptop that might be helpful in locating her sister. But after checking the history and turning up only a few book promotion sites that Abby had visited before all their lives changed — along with a You tube video of the late Ray Bradbury giving a talk at a college — Karen gave it up. Apparently, Abby ignored the computer the way she did everything else, which came as no surprise to Karen. She’d lost interest in pretty much everything since she’d lost Corey and Ellie. Including her apartment, which she’d always kept so perfect, unlike her younger sister. Karen took in the champagne walls, hardwood floors with Persian scatter matts here and there. Splashes of color provided by fluffed up pillows on sofas and chairs. There was a layer of dust on everything, including the rare brass antique healing Buddha sitting on the glass-top coffee table Karen had bought her for her birthday. About five inches tall, it was gorgeous with turquoise stonework and other multicolored stones and Abby loved it. She bought it on Ebay. The stones were cloudy with grime. The same with the silver picture frames on the cabinet surface and her crystal candle holders. Nothing had meaning for her anymore.
The hanging plants were mostly dead for want of water. The only thing sti
ll thriving was the tiny cactus plant on the mantle. I should have helped her more, she thought. But she was so busy herself with her hair-styling business, there was little time. Don’t lie to yourself, Karen. The truth is you hate housework. Not that Abby couldn’t have afforded to hire help; she just didn’t care.
She hesitated a moment at the door to Ellie’s bedroom, then slowly opened it. The room was decorated in pale lavender and white, just as she remembered. It was kept like a shrine. As if Abby were expecting Ellie to walk in the door at any minute.
A dozen dolls lined a wall shelf, from a blonde Barbie in a fireman’s outfit to a fashionable Victorian doll with red curls spilling out from a fancy lace bonnet. A blue and white mobile airplane was suspended from the ceiling by wires. Her niece had many interests. She was a smart kid and an ‘A’ student. She had been a little girl on the cusp of becoming a young woman, one sign being a massive poster of Justin Bieber (in better days) hanging on the wall above her bed. Tears pressed against Karen’s lids. She missed Ellie. She’d bonded with her from that moment she first saw her in the nursery. That squirming scrap of humanity had wrapped herself around her heart and never let go. She had loved being Ellie’s Aunt Karen. And Ellie was more like a sister to the boys than a cousin. It was hard on them too.
My God, how horrible to wake up to this thundering silence every day. She had always known how devastating losing Corey and Ellie was to Abby, but now she knew it on a deeper level. No one could blame Abby for running away. For trying to outrun the relentless pain.
I just want to know where you are. That’s all. I just need to know you’re okay.
In the washroom, Karen opened the medicine cabinet. Her worried reflection flashed by in the mirror.
She moved bottles and jars around, but the sleeping pills weren’t there. She shifted everything around again, as if that might make them appear, as if by magic. Oh, God, Abby, what have you done? No. She was jumping to conclusions. Why wouldn’t she take her pills with her? After all, Doctor Gregory had prescribed them for her to help her sleep. She had to stop thinking the worst.
Then why doesn’t she call me? They were sisters, best friends.
Karen had loved Granny Mina, but it was Abby who was her protector, her rock. Abby had always been there for her and now Karen wanted to be there for her.
How could she leave me no way to get in touch with her? Maybe because she really doesn’t want to be in touch with you, a small voice told her. No, she wouldn’t accept that.
She remembered the policeman’s words when she reported Abby missing: “She’s an adult, ma’am. She can come and go as she pleases. And she sent you that email. So she’s not really missing, is she?” He’d given her a patronizing smile. “Give us a call if you come up with any proof that she’s in trouble.”
She shouldn’t have told him about the damn email.
The battery in the laptop was running low so she plugged the adapter into the wall socket. While it charged, she sat thinking, asked herself: What about her bank account? She knew Abby did her banking online. Wherever she was, she’d need things, wouldn’t she? Any purchases would be recorded on her account, either from her debit or credit card. She’d definitely need gas and food. If Karen could track those purchases, she’d have some idea where she’d gone, at least the general vicinity.
But she couldn’t get into the account without a password, and the bank was unlikely to accommodate her.
She was sitting at the desk in a small alcove off the living room, where Abby wrote her novels. Built-in bookshelves covered the wall on the right, floor to ceiling. Fiction, classics, murder mysteries. Some writers’ books: On Writing by Stephen King, another by Patricia Highsmith of Ripley fame. References books. Biographies. The Journals of Lucy Maude Montgomery. She could easily have scribbled her password in any one of her books. If that was the case, she had no chance in hell of finding it. She tried a few variations on family names and birthdays, but to no avail.
About ready to give up, her eye wandered to the corkboard on the wall, just to her left of the desk. She rose from the chair, wheels squeaking, and peered at the writing — scribbles mostly, on scraps of paper and yellow post-it notes. Damn, she needed glasses. But it was the sheet of letter-sized paper pinned to the board that held her attention. Examining it closer, she scanned what appeared to be a list of abbreviations. Could those be passwords beside them? Some were crossed out, others added beside them. One simply the letters NS. Bank of Nova Scotia? She knew that was the bank Abby dealt with. She unpinned the paper and took it back to the laptop. But after an hour of trying one possibility after the other, typing letters in backwards and forwards, she was no further ahead in finding out where her sister had gone.
Sighing, she pinned the sheet of paper back up on the corkboard and went to get the vacuum cleaner out of the closet. She spent an hour tidying up, vacuuming and dusting. Every so often, she’d stop as a new idea struck her and rush back to the laptop. The last light-bulb idea prompted her to type in ‘hideaway’ as the password, but no luck. She tried it with various combinations of numbers and characters. Still nothing. Finally, she put the vacuum cleaner away, watered the plants she thought might survive, and drove back home. Discouraged but still not defeated.
~*~
That night at supper, sitting across from Pete at the kitchen table, Karen said, “Pete, do you know anyone who could hack into an account for me?”
He raised a ginger eyebrow, fish stick partway to his mouth. “Like whose?”
“Abby’s. Her bank account.”
He set the speared piece of fish stick down on his plate with a small clink and looked at her. “You’re joking, right?”
“No, I’m not joking. I’m serious as hell. Dead serious, Pete.”
She argued her side, trying to convince him how important it was that she get in there to find out if Abby had made any purchases, and when and where. But there was no budging him. He thought she was nuts and remained stone faced, frustrated with her. “If I did know someone — some criminal — slick enough to do this, I wouldn’t tell you, Karen. And I actually don’t know anyone like that, believe it or not. You’re not thinking straight, honey. You’re letting your imagination run away with you. Do you have any idea of how furious Abby would be if she found out you invaded her privacy like that? It could wreck your relationship forever. Or end it. No. No way, babe. Besides, you’d be breaking the law. You could go to jail. And I’d go with you.”
“That’s ridiculous. Abby would never press charges against me.”
“Maybe not. But the bank could. Regardless, we’re not going to do this. No way. Not even if we could.”
Pete was rarely so adamant against something Karen wanted. But in this situation, neither tears, passionate persuasion nor verbal abuse would move him. In fact, he was looking at her almost as if she were someone he’d never seen before.
Chapter 17
Everyone in Langston and beyond had heard about the two people who were so savagely murdered in Three Brooks, which was not that far from the town of Erinville. There was unending speculation as to who the culprits might be, but most suspected that it was the work of the three escapees from Pennington. Detective Al Redding was in agreement.
Al sat across the desk from Officer Joe O’Malley, full name Joseph Patrick O’Malley, discussing the case over coffee. Canadian Irish to the core, Joe was tough as shoe leather and a good cop. He’d come to Canada with his family when he was just twelve. He had thinning red-blond hair, what there was of it, a ruddy complexion, thick neck, and just the faintest trace of an accent. More a lilt than an accent, Al thought. He reminded Al a little of the actor Brian Dennehy in his prime.
“You really think they got this far?” O’Malley asked.
“Why not? Wouldn’t be the first time a prisoner has escaped and headed in this direction. They wouldn’t be buying a ticket for a train ride though. And someone would have spotted them if they were hitchhiking, and reported it. Unless they split up. I
figure they hopped a freight. Can’t imagine anyone picking up Big Jim Ellison on the road. He’s crazy as a freakin’ loon from what I read, and his mug shots reflect it. Goes by the name of Tattoo.” Aside from the information faxed to departments across the country, Al had read a number of articles online. And he had the flyer with their photos. “Got a big snake tattooed on the side of his face. Pretty.”
“Heard one of them’s a retard,” Joe said.
“Has some mental challenges,” Al said, flinching at the term ‘retard’. Good thing Betty didn’t hear him. She’d be on him like ants at a picnic. “Name’s Donnie Leaman. Got the name of Dog in the pen. In and out of foster homes all his life. The other one is Ken Roach, considered to be the ring-leader. He’s a bad dude and worse because you might not suspect it at first glance. Slick as slime. A real con. Lived off women when he was out. Suspected of murdering his wife some years back but couldn’t be proved. His story was that she met some guy and took off with him. Oddly enough, he was in for fraud this time. Stealing cheques from the woman’s desk and making them out to himself for large amounts. She turned him in.”
“Guess she just wasn’t that into him,” O’Malley grinned.
Al just shook his head. “I guess.”
“Kind of personal to me to get those bastards,” Al said.
“Yeah. I know. You were friends of the Nichols.”
“I was. They were good folks. And now it seems those assholes might have kidnapped a woman. Abby Miller, the novelist. It did cross my mind that it might be a publicity stunt, but her younger sister’s been trying to make a case for her abduction and I’m beginning to believe her.”
“Any recent activity on her debit or credit cards?”
“We’re waiting for results on that.”
Joe nodded. Then he asked him if he wanted to go for a beer but Al took a rain check and headed out to Three Brooks. For some reason he had an urgent need to see Betty, one he didn’t quite understand in view of his recent assessment of his situation. Apparently, his decision on that particular issue wasn’t set in concrete.
The Deepest Dark Page 8
