Текст книги "Shroud of Roses"

Автор книги: Gloria Ferris

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 1 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

This story is dedicated to my friends in Bruce County, Ontario. I continue to be inspired by the area’s beauty and mystery.

Table of Contents

Dedication

CHAPTER one

CHAPTER two

CHAPTER three

CHAPTER four

CHAPTER five

CHAPTER six

CHAPTER seven

CHAPTER eight

CHAPTER nine

CHAPTER ten

CHAPTER eleven

CHAPTER twelve

CHAPTER thirteen

CHAPTER fourteen

CHAPTER fifteen

CHAPTER sixteen

CHAPTER seventeen

CHAPTER eighteen

CHAPTER nineteen

CHAPTER twenty

CHAPTER twenty-one

CHAPTER twenty-two

CHAPTER twenty-three

CHAPTER twenty-four

CHAPTER twenty-five

CHAPTER twenty-six

CHAPTER twenty-seven

CHAPTER twenty-eight

CHAPTER twenty-nine

CHAPTER thirty

CHAPTER thirty-one

CHAPTER thirty-two

CHAPTER thirty-three

CHAPTER thirty-four

CHAPTER thirty-five

CHAPTER thirty-six

CHAPTER thirty-seven

CHAPTER thirty-eight

CHAPTER thirty-nine

CHAPTER forty

CHAPTER forty-one

CHAPTER forty-two

CHAPTER forty-three

CHAPTER forty-four

CHAPTER forty-five

CHAPTER forty-six

CHAPTER forty-seven

CHAPTER forty-eight

CHAPTER forty-nine

CHAPTER fifty

CHAPTER fifty-one

Acknowledgements

Also by Gloria Ferris

More Great Fiction from Dundurn

CHAPTER

one

Knees and elbows pumping, the two men shot out of the building like a dragon’s fiery breath was scorching their asses. As the shorter of the two reached for the door handle of a battered Ford pickup truck parked at the curb, his feet lost traction and he skidded into a snowbank. His companion leaned against the tailgate and pulled a phone from his pocket. When he saw the Cherokee bearing down on them, he ran toward it, waving his arms.

Neil Redfern slammed on the brakes and stopped his vehicle in the middle of the street. When he got out, his hand automatically went to his Glock. “What’s the problem, sir?”

The man leaning on the Ford had a tall, lean build, and sported a black beard and moustache. Both men wore heavy plaid shirts with black toques pulled down low on their foreheads.

Seeing a uniformed cop, the bearded man slumped over, inhaling lungfuls of icy air. He motioned with a flashlight at the two-storey brick structure behind him. For now, he seemed incapable of speech. Neil looked at the other man, who was sitting on a mound of snow, rocking back and forth, hands shielding his eyes. He was mumbling non-stop, but Neil couldn’t make out the words.

“I’m Police Chief Neil Redfern. Is someone in danger inside?”

The two men looked at each other, then shook their heads.

“Am I in danger if I go in there?” He wasn’t wearing a shoulder radio, or a vest, and didn’t want to walk into a shitstorm without backup.

Vehement head shakes from both men, but Neil wasn’t risking his life based on what they thought.

The lettering on the truck spelled out davidson and cutler salvage, and a heavy chain led from the bumper of the truck to the entrance of the building. The double entrance doors had been pulled away from the frame and lay on the ground. The words Lockport H.S. 1961 were incised on a stone arch across the front of the building. The windows had been boarded up and fitted with iron bars.

The bearded man gestured to the old high school with one arm and poked himself in the chest with the other hand. “I’m … I’m Fang Davidson. That’s my cousin, Larry Cutler.”

“Why are the doors on the ground?”

“We bought the salvage rights for the building. It’s going to be demolished next week. We have to take what we can now. Nobody gave us keys, so we had to break the doors down.”

Cutler had regained coherency. “Tell him what we found, Fang.”

Fang clamped his lips shut again, looking as though he was going to pass out or puke.

“Take your time,” Neil told him. If one of them didn’t spit it out fast, he was calling for backup. The day shift was already spread thin due to a flu bug and the Christmas parade about to start over on Main Street. He didn’t have to strain his ears to hear the Salvation Army band trombones warming up with “Good King Wenceslaus.” The parade was the reason he had been using the back streets to get home from the station.

Neil turned toward the curb to try his luck with Cutler. Davidson clutched at his arm. “No, I … I have to show you.”

Neil shook Davidson off and focused on Cutler. But now the man refused to meet his eyes.

He called the station on his cell. “Lavinia, I’m about to enter the abandoned high school on the corner of Brant and Chippewa Streets. Two men, Larry Cutler and Fang Davidson, requested assistance. Yes, I said Fang. If I don’t call back within ten minutes, send backup.”

“Okay, let’s go.” He led the way inside, his Glock in one hand and Davidson’s flashlight in the other. Davidson and Cutler followed close behind.

Cutler crowded against Neil. “Straight down the hall. At the end, hang a right. Second door on the right – the girls’ locker room.”

“You won’t need the gun,” Davidson contributed, his voice cracking.

“Stay back,” he ordered them.

A few metres inside and it was dark as a crypt. Staying close to the wall, they passed an opened door leading to the offices. Metal lockers lined both sides of the hallway. All were wide open and empty. He stepped cautiously over buckled flooring and fallen ceiling tiles. The hall ended in a T-intersection. Neil swept the weak beam of light to the left before turning the other way. About twenty metres in, he passed the closed door of the boys’ locker room. Another ten metres and he faced a yawning blackness.

“In here?” Neil indicated the opening with the flashlight. The door had been propped back. Without stepping into the room, he couldn’t see an identifying sign.

“Yeah,” Cutler confirmed, pushing up against Neil. “In a locker.”

Neil elbowed him back. “Stop breathing down my neck.”

He edged into the space, back against the wall. Only the sounds of the salvagers’ breathing behind him broke the silence. On the left bank of lockers, the first half-dozen doors had been flung open, some hanging loose from one hinge.

Neil swept the light inside the opened lockers. They were empty except for a few items of stained fabric and some tattered textbooks. He sniffed: mould and stale air.

He indicated the first closed locker. “This one?”

“Yes.” It was Cutler’s voice.

Davidson’s respiration increased. Neil’s skin tightened and he moved farther away from the men.

“Was it closed when you got here?” Neil positioned himself in front of the locker.

“Yes. They all were.”

“So you closed it again?”

“Guess so. Must have been reflex.”

Neil reached out with his left hand and grasped the handle. His right hand tightened its grip on the gun.

Davidson croaked, “It’s … It’s …”

Neil threw the door aside and jumped back.

He didn’t expect the dry, brown heap of bones that lay on the bottom of the locker. The rib cage had settled gently onto the smaller bones and cradled the skull on top, like a pyramid-shaped Halloween decoration.

With a soft clacking sound, one long bone and a few smaller ones tumbled out onto the chipped tile floor. The rest of the skeleton shifted, releasing puffs of dust and fragments of cloth or paper. Leaning in, Neil observed a layer of dehydrated body fluids and decomposed flesh under the bone heap. Some of it had dripped out and dried in a half-metre-wide stain on the floor.

The skull tipped off the rib cage and dropped onto the edge of the metal locker, rocking twice before falling to the floor. It rolled across the tiles and stopped, the teeth resting against Neil’s boot.

He flinched and backed up another step. The mandible broke away from the skull, as if the mouth had opened wide in soundless laughter.

Neil shook off his revulsion and noted the rows of flawlessly formed teeth. Then, his attention fastened on the left temple. The area near the orbital bone was a jagged black void. He reached for his phone.

The Scene of Crime team had set up lights powered by a small generator. Like an alien sun, the artificial daylight shone mercilessly on the floors and walls, reaching into every corner.

From the hallway, Neil leaned over the police tape and called to the coroner squatting in front of the locker. “Any thoughts yet, Ed?”

“Interesting,” the man replied. “This is the first time I’ve examined skeletal remains at a crime scene.”

“Same for me, Ed.”

Dr. Ed Reiner took a small flashlight out of his pocket and rammed his head and shoulders into the locker, avoiding the pieces of skull and other bones on the floor. He hummed and sniffed like a bumblebee with hay fever.

Neil shoved numb fingers into his pockets. He moved back a few feet to speak to the officer who had been first to respond to his radio call.

“What’s the story on this place, Bernie?” His gaze swept the room with its rows of metal compartments and scarred wooden benches.

Bernie watched the coroner for a moment. “They built a new high school in the south end of town about fifteen years ago and boarded this one up after the last graduation party. The town council tried to sell the building, but no bites until recently, when it was bought by a developer who plans to put up a seniors’ residence.”

Bernie Campbell was a twenty-year veteran of the Lockport Police Service. He was methodical, reliable, and marginally respectful. His ears were bright red from the cold as he watched the coroner.

When it was clear Bernie was done answering his question, Neil asked another. “What do you know about the two guys who discovered the remains?”

Bernie didn’t consult his notebook. He pointed his chin at the two men standing in front of the boys’ locker room. “Left to right, Larry Cutler and Fang Davidson. Cousins. They’re from Dogtown. They bought the salvage rights and have a week to strip the place before the wreckers arrive. Construction for the new residence starts in the spring.”

The Davidson and Cutler names meant nothing to Neil, but he knew Dogtown was a collection of house trailers and outbuildings scattered over five or six acres of countryside west of the town limits. Its residents kept to themselves, married each other, if rumours were correct, and stayed out of trouble for the most part.

“Fang?” Who gives their kid a dog’s name?

Bernie consulted his notebook for this one. “His real name is Rupert. I’d rather be called Fang, myself.”

Cutler and Davidson huddled together, the colours of their plaid shirts blending into a riot of conflicting patterns. Both men drew rapidly on cigarettes, expelling plumes of smoke into the frigid air of the corridor.

Under the harsh lights, Cutler seemed younger than Neil had thought, maybe late twenties, and Davidson a few years older, around Neil’s own age. They didn’t look much alike except for identical sets of white, even teeth.

The younger man rocked up and down on his heels, seemingly recovered from his fright and anxious to speak. In contrast, Davidson continued to stand motionless, his face drained of colour, his dark eyes red-rimmed. The cigarette shook in his fingers.

Neil asked Cutler to wait and motioned Bernie to stay with him. He drew Davidson back to stand in front of the police tape. “Please describe how you came to find the body, sir. From the beginning.”

Davidson took another drag on his cigarette. “We started in the offices and took out a few things. Trouble is, most of the wood stuff has rotted and anything metal is rusty. We’ll be lucky to make our money back.”

During his account, Davidson’s attention remained fixed on the floor of the room beyond. On the separated sections of skull. The coroner’s body concealed the rest of the skeleton from view. Ed continued to hum contentedly, but he had stopped sniffing. Neil took Davidson’s arm and pulled him away from the doorway.

“Go on.”

“We worked our way up the main hall from the office, checking the lockers for anything we can sell. When we reached the gym wing, we went into the girls’ change room first …. Well, that’s when we found it.” He dropped his cigarette butt and ground it into the floor.

Davidson hunched his shoulders and fingered his cigarette pack. Neil exchanged him for Cutler and heard the same story in different words. Knowing Bernie had contact information for both men, he dismissed them.

“Chief, do you need me for anything more?” Bernie kicked his toes against the wall to restore circulation.

“Yes. Stop at the station and write your report. I want to read it later this afternoon. Don’t leave until I get there.” He ignored Bernie’s exasperated expression and turned back to the locker room. Ed mumbled incoherently.

“What?”

“I’m stuck!” Ed’s narrow shoulders hit the sides of the opening as he tried to pull his body free.

Constable Thea Vanderbloom appeared at Neil’s side. At his instructions, she had photographed the rest of the school.

“You got photos of the locker and bones before Dr. Reiner arrived, didn’t you?” he asked.

She nodded. “Do you want me to suit up again and take more shots inside the perimeter?”

“Yes. You can help Oliver with the evidence collection. But, here, give me the camera.”

Holding it by the strap, he called to Oliver Mendez, the SOCO working beside Ed. “Give this to Dr. Reiner. Ed? Can you take some close-ups of our vic’s bones while you’re in there, before they’re disturbed any further? Change the setting …”

“I got it!” Half a dozen light explosions followed before the camera appeared over Ed’s hooded head again.

Oliver handed the camera back to Neil, then pulled on Ed’s shoulders and twisted his head until the coroner popped free. A few more bones spilled onto the floor.

“Well, shit,” Ed said, “isn’t this a party?” He pulled his mask down. His lips were blue from the cold, and he inspected a tear in his coveralls. “I hope my new down jacket isn’t ripped, too.”

Neil leaned against the door frame. “Learn anything, Ed? What did you smell in there?”

“Nothing. No odour of decomposition. A few bits of tissue are still adhering to the bones but not much is holding them together. Poor little girl.”

“This is a child?”

“A female. And she’s small. We’ll need a forensic anthropologist to better define the age range, but she’s not a prepubescent child.”

Ed Reiner was an OB/GYN with a thriving practice in town, making his on-the-spot determination of sex and age range more reliable than that of the average small-town coroner.

Ed stooped for a closer look at the skull. His gloved fingers probed the splintered bones of the depression. “Pretty safe to say this is the cause of death. I’ll take some more photographs at the hospital morgue.” His phone rang and he stripped off his gloves before answering.

“I have to go. Patient in labour. I’m all done here, anyway.”

Thea and Oliver transferred the bones into a body bag, then spent another hour collecting samples from the bottom of the locker and floor. Finally, they disappeared around a corner into the area that held the showers and toilet stalls.

Thea came out and spoke to him. “Chief, we found a discolouration on the edge of a porcelain sink. I took some swabs before spraying it with Luminol. The stain reacted, but it could be something other than blood, like fecal matter or even fossilized horseradish. Other than that, I don’t see anything that matches the size and shape of the wound.”

When the EMTs arrived, Neil asked them to take the body bag directly to the hospital morgue. Ed wanted to conduct a quick exam before sending them to the Provincial Forensic Pathology Unit in Toronto. The Unit would make it a priority to identify the victim. The evidence bags would be driven to the Centre of Forensic Sciences by one of his officers. Meanwhile, he needed an unofficial ID to work with.

The chill in the building seeped into his core, and he knew his team had to be feeling it, too. He planned to keep the scene secure for at least tonight, so he needed to arrange for coverage.

“Thea, where’s Dwayne? He can help seal this building off while we go back to the station to write our reports and get warm.”

“Dwayne’s working the Christmas parade. He’s driving the 4 X 4, flashing the lights and blasting the siren to give the kids a thrill.”

“Call him in, please. Priority.”

Leaving Thea to contact her partner, Neil opened the set of wide doors off the hallway and entered the shadowy gym. The ghostly imprints of basketball lines segmented the floor. Rims and nets hung on either end of the space. Tiers of benches sagged against the far wall, the wood splintered and rotting. A half-dozen folding tables defined the perimeter.

Metal trash cans stood beside each table and Neil looked into the nearest one. It was filled with shredded paper. He transferred the flashlight to his left hand and rummaged through the bin with his right, gloved hand. Before the mice moved in, the can had been filled with paper plates and cups. Plastic utensils had dropped to the bottom of the container.

The beam from his flashlight swept across the ceiling and stopped when something glittered back at him. What the hell? Memories of his high school years rushed back. The dances in the gym. Music, streamers, banners, spotlights. Spotlights aimed at …

He laughed at himself and watched the silver disco ball sway slowly in the air current flowing through the open doors.

After the final dance, did the graduates leave behind one dead classmate?

CHAPTER

two

My feet were freakin’ freezing, and the parade wasn’t half over. I wore long johns under my elf costume and wool socks on my feet. But the soles on my curly-toed shoes were so thin and smooth that I felt every wad of gum littering the parade route. And I was losing traction as the snow accumulated on the pavement. Everyone loves snow on Christmas Parade day. Everyone except this elf.

I had no scarf because “elves don’t wear scarves,” according to the parade führer and my ex-cousin-in-law Glory Yates. I donned red earmuffs but Glory took them away and handed me pointed, thin felt ears which hooked on over my own. As a result, my ears were as numb as my toes.

Glory had ordered me to walk along the parade route on the left side, smile at the children, and hand them candy canes. I tried that for a while, but it was more fun to toss the candy into the crowds of sugar-high kids and let them fight over it.

Glory trotted up ahead like a thoroughbred filly in a white designer ski suit and fur-lined boots. Her red hair exploded from under a green toque with a white bobble. She looked very Christmassy. And warm.

My cousin, Dougal Seabrook, worked the right side of the street. He was dressed like The Cat in the Hat and pushed a grocery cart to collect non-perishables for the food bank. He had complained bitterly about the costume, but I would have traded in a minute. At least his costume covered most of his body and nobody could recognize him.

I shuffled over to him, trying to stifle the ringing of the bells on the tips of my shoes. “Why is Glory wearing a headset? Who’s she talking to?”

Dougal snatched a can of tomatoes from a tot with a copiously running nose. The kid stuck out his tongue at Dougal, who shoved some candy at him and backed away. I heard him mutter, “Hope your teeth rot out, you snot-faced little shithead.”

To me he said, “Who knows? She’s probably hooked up to CSIS, identifying home-grown terrorists for them. Oh, hell, here she comes. Try to look like a home-grown patriot.”

Glory cantered up. Clipboard under her elbow, she managed to clap her hands together. “No fraternizing! And don’t forget the staff meeting at the greenhouse tomorrow morning.”

I marched in place and felt a painful tingling in my toes. “Why do we need a post-parade debriefing on Sunday? Can’t we do it another time, and another place?” Like in the summer, around her pool, with lime coolers to deaden the pain of listening to her voice.

She reached over and straightened one of my frozen ears. It was a miracle it didn’t snap off. “The parade is only one item on the agenda. If you see Rae, remind her as well. Now, you two, get back to your posts. Dougal, shoulders back! You’re supposed to be a role model. And, Bliss, I noticed you aren’t interacting with the crowd. Move, both of you, and whip this crowd into the Christmas spirit!”

She caught sight of a group of junior baton twirlers on the brink of a collective meltdown, and darted off. Once she was out of earshot, Dougal called after his ex-wife, “Fuck you.”

“Yeah, and the gas-guzzling Corvette you rode in on,” I added. Our voices may not have been the whispers we were trying for, since Glory turned around and started back. Fire burned in her sea-blue eyes.

I abandoned Dougal and ran up the street past the Salvation Army marching band to the head of the parade. On the way, I passed my friend, Rae, dressed as a chipmunk. Which one? Who cared? I didn’t stop to give her Glory’s message about the meeting. I eased in between the police Blazer 4 X 4 and the lead convertible, and threw a handful of candy canes at some hooting teens.

Well, geez, I couldn’t stay there either. The mayor and his wife, Mike and Andrea Bains, rode in the back seat of the convertible like a couple of royal poobahs. Mike, a.k.a. the Weasel, was my ex-husband, and Mrs. Weasel had been my lawyer during the divorce proceedings. It took me two years of living at poverty level before I persuaded them to hand over my fair share of the matrimonial assets. I had to use a smidge of blackmail and the resulting transaction hadn’t been profitable for them. A cold war still raged.

Taking aim at the top of Andrea’s faux fur hat, I winged a candy cane. Whoa, perfect shot. The hat flew into the street. His Honour the Asshole said something to his wife and they both looked around. I gave them a big elfin grin, then turned my head and smiled at all the people crazy enough to stand around on the main street on a snowy December Saturday with the temperature hovering around -12°C.

A Shriner on a miniature golf cart reached down and scooped up Andrea’s hat. He presented it to her with a flourish and puttered away. Where did he come from? Lockport didn’t even have an Ancient Order of Mythical Masons Temple.

A short siren wail sounded from behind me. I dropped back and tried the passenger door of the 4 X 4. It was locked. I rapped on the window and kept rapping until it lowered a half inch. “Open the door, Dwayne. I need to warm up.”

“I saw what you did, Bliss. I could charge you with assault, and I would if you weren’t the Chief’s girlfriend.”

“Well, I am, so deal with it. Unlock the door.”

“No. I got orders to keep unofficial personnel out of the vehicle, especially Bliss Moonbeam Cornwall. Keep marching, elf.”

“I’m in no mood for negotiations, Dwayne. I’ll jump on and ride this thing like a hood ornament. If I’m not mistaken, the photographer from the Sentinel is standing just up ahead.”

Snick. The door unlocked. I pulled myself in and cranked the heat up. The toe bells jingled merrily as I put my feet over the vents. Helping myself to a cookie from the open package lying on the console, I said to Dwayne, “Thanks, I appreciate this.”

The Cat in the Hat trotted alongside. His cart was overflowing and, still, people thrust groceries at him. He motioned me to get out and help. I sent him an air kiss and took another cookie.

“You aren’t supposed to be in here. Get out.” Dwayne moved the cookies to his lap where I sure wasn’t following them, so I nibbled at my second to make it last. The radio emitted a string of static and Dwayne pushed a button to silence it.

“No, I’m sitting out the rest of this parade right here. You can let me off at my house.”

“You look hilarious in that costume, Bliss.”

“Yet, here you are, a big bad cop driving four kilometres per hour, tooting your little siren once in a while to excite the tots.”

“The Chief promised I don’t have to do this next year. Can you say the same?”

He had me there. No doubt, Glory was already planning how to torture me in next year’s parade. She was big on the local food bank, which was only fair, since she had never gone hungry a day in her life – not that I’ve ever seen her actually eat. She liked to remind me that I had relied on the food bank during my darkest, post-separation days when I worked five jobs to keep a trailer roof over my head. The elf costume was going to be a December must-have for the rest of my life. Unless somebody kills her first.

My cell rang. I took off my elf hat and scrunched down so Glory wouldn’t spot me. It was my sister. Blyth lives in Rexdale and is blessed with two toddler sons and a husband in pursuit of a doctorate in psychology. She’s a full-time librarian at the University of Toronto and gaggingly efficient at everything.

“Bliss? Hi. What’s that racket I’m hearing?”

“I’m marching in a parade. I’m the head elf, in charge of all the other elves.” Beside me, Dwayne snorted, and I cupped my hand over the phone.

“Oh. Good for you. I just called to ask if you’d heard from the parents lately. It’s been a while and I’m a bit concerned.” From the noises in the background, she should worry more about her kids fluffing George, the gerbil, in the dryer.

Dougal’s stovepipe hat galloped past, pursued by Glory’s white bobble. I slid onto the floor. “A couple of weeks ago, I texted Dad. The eavestrough along the front of the house is loose. He replied to get it fixed and use the maintenance fund he set up at the bank to pay for it.”

“A couple of weeks ago? Okay, that makes me feel better. I haven’t heard from them in at least two months. I wish they’d call once in a while.”

“Yeah, or even visit. That would be nice.” Our parents left three years ago to tour the West Coast in an RV and we haven’t seen them since. Blyth was pregnant with her first child when they left, so they have never even seen him, or his brother born a year later.

The radio hiccupped again, and a female voice clearly stated, “Officer Rundell, pick up the damn radio.”

I said to Blyth, “Got to go. Important parade stuff to do.”

Dwayne fumbled the hand-piece, dropping it twice before finally speaking into it. “Sorry, Lavinia. Go ahead.”

I turned my head politely before snickering. How this idiot got through Police College was a mystery.

When Lavinia finished with him, sweat ran down Dwayne’s face and his lips trembled. I felt sorry for him and turned down the heat.

He rolled his eyes from side to side. “I have to get out of this parade.”

“Now you’re talking. Hit the siren and we’ll nudge our way through the mob blocking the next exit.”

“You can’t come. I have a hot shot. Get out, Bliss.”

Hot shot is police-speak for “get your ass over here PDQ.”

“I’ll wait in the car for you. Just leave the cookies.”

“Please! This is serious.”

“Oh, all right. Geez!” I tossed a handful of candy canes at him, then hopped out and watched him swing the 4 X 4 around the convertible and punch the siren. He leaned out the window and shouted at the crowd to get clear. Children screamed and covered their ears. Some elderly folk stumbled trying to jump out of his way. Finally, he had open pavement in front of him and the vehicle roared off.

Holy mama! The hot shot better be calling Dwayne to a murder scene or Redfern would be fielding public complaints by the shitload.