Forty Words for Sorrow (20 page)

31

A
LGONQUIN BAY’S GOVERNMENT
dock is a quiet place on a winter evening. The only sounds are likely to be the sawtooth buzz of a passing snowmobile or a sudden quake in the ice as massive plates shift against each other, emitting an otherworldly sigh, a slow-motion squeal, sometimes a horrendous gasp.

Eric Fraser and Edie Soames huddled side by side in a corner of the wharf out of the wind. Lake Nipissing stretched out into the grey like some bleak Nordic vision. Eric wasn’t saying anything, but Edie was luxuriating in the thrill of knowing another mind so well that no words were necessary. In fact she knew what Eric was going to say—he would say it any minute now. He’d been restless and irritable all morning and into the afternoon. And now, although taking the photographs was calming him a little, Edie knew where things were headed, even if Eric didn’t. Any minute now he would say it.

But Eric moved away to stand below the
Chippewa Princess
, a tour boat that had been turned into a restaurant. At least, during summer it was a restaurant; in winter it hung clear of the ice like a white whale on a hoist. Eric adjusted a lens, cursing the cold. Edie fussed with her hair, trying to get it to hang across one eye like Drew Barrymore’s in a movie she’d seen. Some hope, she thought bitterly. But at least it would hide some of her face.

Watching Eric in his long black coat, she wished they could sleep together. The problem was, Eric didn’t like it. His entire body would go stiff as a board when she touched him—not with desire, but with revulsion. At first she had thought the revulsion was directed just at her, no surprise there. But Eric seemed revolted by sex in general. Sex is for weaklings, he always said. Well, she could live without it, especially now that they shared this other, deeper excitement. He would say the word within the hour, she was sure.

“Move over.” Eric motioned her to her left. “I want to get the islands in.”

Edie turned to look. Out there, where the sky and the lake met in mutual shades of ash grey, lay the islands.
That
island. Windigo. Who would have thought such a tiny island could have a name? Edie remembered the dead girl, the curve of her spine against Eric’s duffle bag. So momentous it had seemed at the time, the
murder;
such a grim weight to that word. But it was amazing how little it mattered, the actual event, when you got right down to it. A human life had been extinguished, but no pillar of flame had descended from the sky, no maw of hell had opened. The cops and the newspapers got a little excited, but essentially the world went on exactly as before, minus Katie Pine. I wouldn’t even remember her name, Edie thought, if they hadn’t yammered about it day in and day out on the news.

She moved a little to the left, just as the ice shifted with a squeal like tearing metal. Edie let out a cry. “Eric, did you hear that?”

“The ice moved. Give me a smile now.”

“I don’t want to smile.” Cameras were no friend to Edie, and the ice had rattled her—as if the island had spoken her name.

“Look grumpy, then, Edie. I don’t care.”

She gave him her biggest grin, just to spite him, and he clicked the shutter. Another one for the record.

They’d started their photographic expedition out at Trout Lake, up near the reservoir. Eric had snapped one of Edie making an angel in the snow right over the spot where they’d buried Billy LaBelle. With all the snow there wasn’t the slightest trace of anything untoward. The hill, with its view of the lake, the deep blue sky, would have looked good on a postcard.

Then they’d driven down to Main Street and taken a few shots in front of the house where they’d killed Todd Curry. One of Edie, one of Eric, and then one of the two of them (Eric had used the timer for that one). A man had seen them—a man walking his big woolly dog, and Edie had imagined for a moment that he had glared at them. But Eric had reassured her: just a young couple playing with a camera, what’s the old fart going to care?

They moved to the lee of the bait shop so Eric could light a cigarette, cupping his hands around the match. He leaned against the wooden wall and looked at Edie through narrowed eyes. She could hear the words he was going to say before he said them, as if she had already dreamed the scene, as if she had created Eric, constructed the dock and the cold and the smoke all in her own mind. She sensed the same dark thrill running in his blood as was running in hers now. She could smell it, like the metallic smell of ice that quivered on the frigid wind. Seeing the house again had set her nerves humming. Seeing the island. She was shivering with cold, but said nothing. She didn’t want to spoil this moment.

They got back in the van and turned the heat up full blast. It felt so good, Edie laughed out loud. Eric dug a book out of the glove compartment and handed it to her. It was a large paperback, very grimy, with a
used
sticker on it.

She read the title.
“Dungeon
. Where’d you get this?”

He told her he’d picked it up last time he was in Toronto. It was a historical document he’d been looking for, a catalogue of torture devices used in the Middle Ages. “Read it to me,” he said. “Read page thirty-seven.”

Edie flipped through the glossy pages of photographs and drawings. The photographs showed the chair, whip or restraint; the drawings illustrated the device’s use. Hooks to yank out guts, iron claws to tear the flesh, saws for splitting a human in two. The illustration for that one showed a man hanging upside down while two others sawed him from crotch to navel.

“Read page thirty-seven,” Eric said again. “Read it to me. I love it when you read to me. You read so well.”

Oh, he knew how good his praise felt. Like coming home to a roaring fire after freezing half to death. Edie found the page. It showed a sort of helmet that was fixed over a wooden bar. Above the helmet was a huge screw.

“Skull crushers,”
she read.
“The accused’s chin is braced against the lower rod. As the screw is turned, the iron cap is forced downward, smashing the teeth together and gradually into the upper and lower jawbones. As more and more pressure is exerted, the eyes are pushed from their sockets. Eventually the brain itself is forced through the splintered cranium.”

“Yes. The brain squirts through,” Eric breathed. “Read another one. Read about the wheel.”

Eric had his hands deep in his pockets. Edie knew he was touching himself, but she knew better than to mention it. She flipped through the pages, the pictures of old iron instruments, the funny little woodcuts with their cartoon-like expressions of horror.

“Come on, Edie. Read about the wheel. It’s near the end.”

“You seem to know this book very well. Must be a favourite of yours.”

“Maybe it is. Maybe that’s why I want to share it with you.”

Oh, I know what’s coming, Eric. I know what you’re going to say. Finding the page, she felt a throbbing in her belly like a second heart.
“The wheel. Stretched out, naked, on his or her back, the victim’s arms and legs were fixed to the outer rim of the wheel. Blocks of wood were placed beneath all the important bones and joints. Wielding an iron bar, the torturer smashed arms and legs into pulp, using all his skill to avoid actually killing his victim.”

“They just smashed people to bits,” Eric said. “But keeping them alive the whole time. What a thrill it must have been. Can you imagine? Read the rest.”

“The report of one eyewitness described how the victim was turned into ‘a sort of huge screaming puppet writhing in rivulets of blood, a puppet with four tentacles, like a sea monster, of raw, slimy, and shapeless flesh mixed up with splinters of smashed bones.’ When there was nothing left to break, the limbs were woven among the spokes of the wheel. The wheel was then raised horizontally on a pole. Birds of prey pecked at the eyes and tore off bits of flesh. Wheeling was probably the slowest and most agonizing death the human mind has ever conceived.”

“Read what comes after. Bottom of the page.”

“Wheelings were extremely common and were considered good fun. Woodcuts, drawings, and paintings through four centuries depict crowds of people laughing and chatting, clearly enjoying the hideous pain of a fellow human being.”

“People used to love it, Edie. People still love it. They just won’t admit it.”

Edie knew. Even Gram loved watching wrestling or a boxing match. Well, it was better than staring at this godforsaken sea of ice. You bet Gram loved it. Watching some guy get beaten half to death.

Perfectly normal, according to Eric. It just didn’t happen to be perfectly legal at the moment, that was all. It had fallen out of fashion. But it might come back—look at the United States. Look at the gas chamber, the electric chair. “You can’t tell me people don’t love it, Edie. It would have died out centuries ago if people didn’t get a big bang out of inflicting death. It’s just the biggest thrill known to man.”

It’s coming now, Edie thought. I can see the words forming in the air before he even says them. “I agree,” she said quietly.

“Good.”

“No, no. I mean I agree with what you’re
going
to say. Not just what you said.”

“Oh, you do, do you?” Eric smiled slyly. “What was I going to say? Come on, Madame Rosa. Tell me my thoughts. Read my mind.”

“I can, Eric. I know exactly what you were going to say.”

“So go ahead. Tell me my thoughts.”

“You were going to say, ‘Let’s do him tonight.’”

Eric gave her his profile. Blew smoke in a thin stream into the gathering darkness. “Not bad,” he said quietly. “Not bad at all.”

“I don’t know about you, Eric, but I’d say it’s party time.”

Eric rolled down the window and flicked his cigarette into the snow. “Party time.”

32

T
HE HOUSE WAS MUCH SMALLER
than it had looked from the outside. The upstairs had only two bedrooms—Woody could have sworn there would be three—and a tiny bathroom.

As he had so carefully explained to that foxy Officer Delorme, Arthur “Woody” Wood was not in the burglary business to enhance his social life. Like all professional burglars he went to great lengths to avoid meeting people on the job. At other times, well, Woody was as sociable as the next fellow.

He had seen the weaselly looking guy from the music store coming by here all the time. In fact, he had followed him home from the mall one day, after watching him load a tasty looking Sony box into his van. He knew the couple was out, now, because he had sat outside in the van for the past hour and a half. It was perfectly safe to watch a place that way. Nobody worries about a beat-up old ChevyVan labelled
Comstock Electrical Installations and Repairs;
nobody pays the slightest attention. Even so, Woody changed the lettering every three months, just to be on the safe side.

So he had sat out there listening to the Pretenders on his tape machine (a Blaupunkt he’d happened across while doing a little inventory enhancement up in Cedarvale last winter. Man, those Germans knew their engineering!) and reading the sports pages of the
Lode
. In between worrying about the Maple Leafs he was thinking about his shopping. Woody, besides being an industrious thief, was also a conscientious father and husband, and it was time to pick up a little something for the son and heir, whom he referred to affectionately as Dumptruck.

The kid needed a nifty toy. A set of blocks would be nice; he’d see what was around. Of course, this couple didn’t have any children—he’d watched long enough to know that—but you never know what people will have cluttering up their closets. He’d picked up a little plastic Yogi Bear a couple of weeks ago that Truckie carried with him everywhere.

The side-door lock had presented no problem: twenty-seven seconds—not a record, but not bad either. Woody had proceeded directly to the top floor, his usual practice; he had a superstition that you were working with nature then, letting gravity assist you on the way down. He moved now in his quietest Reeboks toward the back bedroom. Reason and observation had told him this had to be where the happy couple slept.

It was not what he expected. This was a single girl’s room, not a couple’s. The walls were pink, the bed was white wood, and the dresser was littered with pots of cream, mostly medicinal. The wallpaper—ancient, and peeling in more than one corner—had at one time been pale yellow with a motif of little parasols. A stuffed tiger on top of the dresser caught his eye—Dumptruck might like that—but on closer inspection it proved to be a mangy, dog-eared tiger, clearly clutched and drooled on through many an illness. He could hardly take that home. “What were you thinking?” Martha would say. “It’s completely unhygienic.”

He paused for a moment, alert for any sounds. No, the old lady wasn’t stirring. Probably deaf, too. Poor old girl hadn’t been trundled out for at least three days.

The headboard of the bed had an interesting feature: built-in bookshelves with little sliding panels—exactly the sort of cubbyhole people like to stash their jewellery in. Woody, an inveterate optimist as all of his trade must be, slid back the little panel full of expectation.

And met up with his second surprise. He had expected a couple of Danielle Steel novels (Martha read them all the time) or maybe a Barbara Taylor Whatshername. But this was a grim little library indeed:
History of Torture, Japanese Atrocities of World War II, Justine
and
Juliette
—both by the Marquis de Sade. He’d heard of that guy.

Woody always allowed himself one lingering moment on each job, a moment when, holding some treasured or peculiar object, he would indulge his imagination and picture the life he was invading. This was that moment. He pulled out
Juliette
. Wasn’t the Marquis that guy who liked to prance around in whips and chains and things? Woody flipped through to a page that had the corner turned down, and read a passage that had been marked in the margin:
I grasp those breasts, lift them, and cut them off close to the chest; then stringing those hunks of flesh upon a cord …

Woody flipped through a few more pages and saw that things only got worse. The flyleaf bore an inscription in cheap ballpoint:
To Edie from Eric
. “Jesus, Eric,” he said under his breath. “This is not a book you give a woman. This is one sick book, and you are one sick puppy.” Woody vowed strict professional deportment for the rest of the job.

Martha would have shivered with revulsion at the bathroom: the sink was rust-stained, the tiles scummy. You could smell the towels from the hallway. The cabinet was chock full of Pharma-City sleeping pills and tranquilizers, just the sort of happy accident that could make a man’s day. Unfortunately, Woody was not into drugs. Didn’t use ’em, didn’t sell ’em, thanks to Martha. But oh, he thought wistfully, there was a time….

A noise from somewhere. Voices. He froze in front of the cracked mirror, head cocked to one side. Just the old lady’s TV. Lonely damn business, watching soap operas all day. She had the front bedroom, he knew from his vigil, and there wouldn’t be anything worth taking in there, some horrible old black-and-white TV with a terrible picture.

He went downstairs and took a quick, disappointing inventory of the kitchen. The handful of old appliances would net him nothing. Even the dark little living room was a bust, just a lot of overstuffed furniture that looked like one too many dogs had died on it. Woody ignored the funny old clock on the mantel—not into antiques. To his disgust there wasn’t even a VCR; now, that is truly an anomaly in this day and age.

He was batting zero, and the place was nearly done. He’d totally misread the situation. The music-store guy didn’t even live here. Guy worked at the fucking music store, for Christ’s sake, he had to have some great equipment stashed away somewhere. Woody had seen him with that Sony carton just the other day; pulled it out of the back of that spiffy old Windstar he drove.

“Truly fucked up,” Woody murmured. “A TV table and no TV.” The dust pattern showed that there had been a TV in the spot until a day or two ago. And the small stack of videotapes beside the table sang to him of a VCR. Either both items were in for repair—big coincidence there—or they’d been shifted to another part of the house, maybe Granny Goodwitch’s room.

Well, he couldn’t disturb Granny, so he was stuck with the basement. Woody’s optimism hadn’t deserted him, not yet—basements sometimes yielded unexpected dividends: a case of tools, an outboard motor, sets of golf clubs, you just never knew—but basements were cold and dank, and the shivers they gave you felt a lot like fear. You couldn’t hear as well in a basement, either, which is why a lot of his colleagues got caught in basements; it was a vulnerable position. They were the anal sex of burglary, basements: not without interest, but not his first choice, either. Not on a bright, sunny day.

At the bottom of the steps Woody paused amid the Wellington boots and battered skates and rusting snow shovels, waiting for his eyes to adjust. The basement smelled of laundry and old cat piss. Outside, it was dark; a light would be seen. The windows, he noticed with a flutter of nerves, were high and tiny, probably not big enough to climb through should a sudden exit prove desirable.

Gradually, various objects took on form: an old washer with a wringer attachment, a filthy furnace, a pair of broken skis, a battered aluminum toboggan, a woman’s bike with the front wheel missing. He considered the bike for a minute. Just that fall Martha’s ten-speed had been stolen. Martha had gone into her hell’s-own-fury mode, especially when Woody had taken the detached view of a professional. This wreck of a bike was out of the question, though; it would take more work to fix than it was worth.

He turned and saw across the gloom a door, a solid slab of oak leading to—well, here Woody allowed his optimism free rein. It would lead to—yes, that’s it, his studio. The weaselly-looking guy with the cameras and tape recorders kept a studio in his girlfriend’s basement. This room, with its Medeco lock and its three solid bolts, would contain cameras, tripods, recording gear, TVs and VCRs. Woody, my man, you’re on the threshold of paradise.

Of course, if there was equipment in there, the bolts were on the wrong side of the door—you wanted to keep people like Woody
out
of your treasure trove, not invite them
in
— but even while Woody was aware of this, it didn’t slow him down. The bolts took no time at all and the Medeco, well, you could grow old trying to pick a Medeco, so Woody used a locksmith’s tool to yank out the whole thing. He pushed the door open and saw, instead of treasure, a naked boy sitting on a heavy wooden chair.

Woody’s first thought was, Oh, fuck, I’m in for it now. But then, by the light of a pictureless TV, he saw that the boy was actually tied to the chair: mouth taped shut, wrists taped to the chair, and naked as a goddam jay. He was struggling at the tape and groaning. His eyes were wild.

This sort of thing will throw a burglar, even a seasoned professional. Not thinking clearly, Woody went straight to the TV and disconnected the VCR. Okay, the kid’s caught up in some heavy-duty sexual escapade, it’s none of my business. But as he was wrapping the cord around the VCR (Mitsubishi, four-head stereo, only a year old), several aspects of the situation pressed themselves on Woody’s attention: the kid was naked; there were no clothes in this room; there was piss and also, from the smell, that was shit in the basin under his chair. Not a game, not a practical joke.

Woody paused at the door, VCR tucked under one arm. “I get it,” he said to the kid. “Drug deal went bad, right?”

The boy struggled furiously at his bonds. Woody leaned forward and yanked the tape from his mouth. Instantly, the kid was screaming. It was mostly incoherent, but certain phrases were repeated:
maniacs, perverts, they’re going to kill me
.

“Hold on, now. Hold on. You’re going to have to put a lid on the screaming. Going to have to shut that up right now. You can’t be screaming.” This last Woody screamed himself.

“Get me out of here, you fucking bastard!” Tears poured down the kid’s face. He was squealing about a videotape, a murder. The details were crazy, but the terror was real. Woody had seen some sick-making things in his stints in the Kingston pen, but he had never, not in the weakest, most victimized inmate, seen such abject terror.

Woody’s reaction was not complex: you see a man tied up, you untie him. He looked into a tiny bathroom for clothes and found none. “Where the fuck’s your clothes, man? It’s twenty below out there. And that’s not counting no wind chill factor.” He was already opening the Swiss Army knife when he heard the car pull up outside. The kid was screaming like a rock star:
set me free, set me free, set me free
.

“Shut up, man. They’re right outside.”

“I don’t give a fuck, get me out of here!”

Woody slapped the tape back over the kid’s mouth and made sure it stuck. The side door of the house was already opening, and he could hear the couple talking. He shut the door and snarled in his meanest voice, “You make the slightest fucking noise, I mean it, I’ll stick you myself. You got that?”

The kid nodded furiously: he’s got it, he’s clear.

“Make one fucking sound and we’re both up shit creek. There’s only one door out of here, and if we lose the element of surprise, you can kiss that exit goodbye, I mean it. Make a noise, I’ll poke a hole in your liver.”

The kid was nodding like a maniac. Shit, Woody could dash up the basement steps and be out the side door in a flash and—Oh, Christ, we got footsteps right overhead.

“Here’s what we do,” he said, slitting the tape around the kid’s ankle. “I cut you free, you put on my coat, and we’re out the side door. I got a ChevyVan waiting across the street.” He wouldn’t have to tell the kid to run.

He sets the other foot free. Already the kid was trying to stand up, still attached to the chair. “Hold on. Hold on, for Chrissake!” Were those voices closer? One wrist was free, and before he could finish with the other, the kid ripped the tape from his mouth and was out of control again, setting up a holler. Woody slammed a hand over the kid’s mouth and brandished the knife, but it was too late: the voices upstairs were suddenly charged, the footsteps fast and heavy.

Woody started on the last of the tape—fuck the kid’s noise—but the kid didn’t wait for him to finish. He was on his feet, still attached to the chair by one wrist, and he was pushing past Woody, taking the chair with him. He flung open the door and there was the weaselly-looking guy with a gun.

The kid shoved past, the chair clattering with him up the stairs.

“You can’t get out,” the man said over his shoulder but staring at Woody. The kid was already at the top of the stairs, bare-assed, banging his shoulder into the door, but Woody knew there wasn’t a door on earth that breaks like they do in the movies.

“Be cool,” Woody said to the weasel guy. “No need for violence.”

Weasel looked him up and down, no rush about it. “Maybe I like violence.”

“Here’s the deal: I leave your VCR and shit, and you let the kid go. I don’t know what he did—probably you have every right to kick his ass—but you can’t keep a kid tied up in a basement. It ain’t right.”

The kid was still slamming away at the door, still doing the banshee thing.

“Shut up,” the man said toward the stairs. “Guy’s fucking hysterical.”

“Yeah, he’s definitely upset. Look, man, I gotta go.”

The weasel left the doorway and went to the bottom of the stairs. “Keith,” he said sharply. “Get downstairs right now.”

“No way, man! I’m out of here!”

The man went to the bottom step, held the gun a foot away from the boy’s leg and pulled the trigger.

The kid shrieked and fell down the stairs, clutching his thigh. He was rolling on the concrete floor when the man kicked his chin like he was trying for a field goal and the kid went still.