My Temporary Life (25 page)

There’s a ladder leading to a loft upstairs in the barn. I climb up, testing my footing on the old planks of the loft, making sure I don’t fall. My breathing is starting to return to normal. It’s as though some kind of survival mode kicked in and all I knew to do was run. I throw my wet shirt over a rafter on the roof, and settle in a corner of the loft, wrapping the remaining material from the sack around me, trying to warm up.

I reach in my pocket and pull out Michael’s business card. I think of the library, all the faces of all the little girls. Emily was there. She was in the library, and now she’s gone, and so is Heather. I think of possibilities, some far-fetched and some almost plausible. Nothing makes sense anymore. Heather must have seen Emily, must have spoken to her, and somehow she left with her. I try to think of anything that she might have said that would tell me why or where she would have taken her, and why she would have left without me.

The wind hits the old boards of the barn, and makes them rattle, and with every sound, I shiver more. I rub my legs, trying to keep them warm, trying not to cramp up in the cold loft. I hug the material against me, holding it, trying to will it to warm me up. I think I hear sirens in the distance, but then realize that it’s just the rattling of the barn. I hear a dog, barking, coming closer, but as I strain to hear I realize the sounds of my own heavy breathing and the howling wind outside is playing tricks on me.

I stand up and gingerly put weight on my leg again, testing the resolve of the loft with every step I take. I try to think about what’s happened. I need to get to Heather, and more importantly, I need to get myself some help. If I can get to a phone, I’ll call Terry. I’ll ask him to contact his lawyer. I’ll tell him everything. A missing child is big news, and if they haven’t found Emily and Heather yet, and cleared up whatever misunderstanding has happened, there will be people searching everywhere. I wonder what they think my part in all of it is. What do they think I was doing, talking to a different little girl? Do they think I was a diversion?

I think of warm nights in my bed, back in Vancouver with Heather. I think of our view of the water from my bedroom, the safeness, the comfort. I can’t stop shivering. I lie back down in the corner of the loft, holding myself again, trying to warm up.

When you stop making sense, and start to go into a state of shock, a strange sensation comes over you. You absolutely know that your thoughts aren’t making sense, but you also know that there’s nothing that you can do to stop them. If you try to stop your mind from going sideways, it actually starts to go there faster. So, you give up, and just carry on with the ride. I keep holding myself in the corner, trying to imagine that I’m lying in bed with my Heather again, and not in the cold loft of a barn. I listen to the almost rhythmic slamming of the boards of the old barn as the wind hits them. I listen to the way the wind whistles through the half-open door. I can hear them in the distance, coming, getting closer. I touch my knee, and feel how the blood has dried over already. The wind keeps slapping the sides of the barn, and the partial light that shines through the slats in the wood gets fainter and fainter, and in the distance, I hear them coming. I hear them getting closer.

I close my eyes tighter and can actually feel Heather’s body, sidling up to mine, joining it as though we’re one, the way we like to do. I can feel her settling into me, pushing the covers under her chin, and then pulling her chin back down to cling to me even tighter, and I still hear them getting closer. I’m shivering, but Heather is pulling her arms around me now, trying to warm me up. I try to stop my teeth from chattering; try to sigh, the way she likes me sighing when we’re locked in our bedtime embrace. I open my eyes and close them again, and I can see her in our bedroom. I’m lying back, watching her as she places all her little glass figurines of mothers holding their children, all around the room. The noises are closer now, they’re almost here. I try to get my mind to stop, to get it to listen to the other noises. I strain and strain, and still they’re getting louder, closer.

I hear dogs now as though they’re right outside the barn. I push myself up and kick the ladder down from the loft, then crouch back down in my corner. I hear vehicles, but no sirens, just dogs, lots of dogs barking. It’s some time before I hear the voices along with the barking. I huddle in my corner, back in survival mode. I try not to breathe, as I listen to the muffled sounds of men talking, giving orders, asking for advice. I hear a word here and there, but the wind carries most of them away, until I hear the door being pushed open, and the dogs sniffing in the barn.

There are heavy footsteps, and men giving encouraging words to the dogs. The dogs bark and keep sniffing, not giving up. One of the men tries to get the dogs to leave, but they won’t. They keep sniffing and yelping and barking. Finally, one of the men speaks, “He’s here. They smell something.”

The man and I probably look up at the roof of the barn at the same time, and see my wet shirt hanging in the rafters. “Get a light in here. Now. If he’s not here, he’s been here. Get a light, and make sure your weapons are drawn, gentlemen. We don’t know what we’re dealing with, remember.”

I draw my breath in, realizing that I’ve been found. I wait. It seems like an age, until the strong light shines on the back walls of the loft, and the man’s voice reaches me. “Show yourself very slowly, Mr Wilson.”

I raise my hand, and hear a loud, simultaneous, clicking noise. “Hands down, asshole. Get on the floor, and crawl towards the edge of the loft. And if you raise your hand again, I’ll blow your fucking head off.” His voice is confident, commanding.

I crawl in inches, slowly and carefully towards the edge of the loft. I keep my hands on my head, and my face down. I can’t see them. All I can see is the battered floor of the old loft, but I can feel the anticipation of the men down below. I can hear their breathing, and it feels as if everything is happening in slow motion. Nothing matters other than getting to the edge of the loft, without making any sudden moves that might cause one of them to shoot me.

Suddenly, I don’t feel anything below my hands, as I reach the edge of the loft. I stop, waiting for their instructions. “I should just let you keep crawling, you prick.”

I lie there on the cold floor of the loft, shaking, shivering, waiting, for the man’s instructions when I hear the ladder being placed against the side, and the sound of a dog trying to get up the ladder. “Hold onto that ladder and come down backwards.” His commands are more measured now that he can see me, see my fear.

I slowly make my way down the ladder, and as I reach closer to the bottom, several sets of strong hands, pull me to the ground roughly. They keep me on my stomach, emptying my pockets, searching me, patting me everywhere. Then, they turn me to face them. I open my eyes, and see a crowd of police officers, two of them holding dogs on leashes. The dogs are yelping, trying to get at me. My face is covered in sweat again, and the drops are falling into my eyes. I blink the sweat away, not wanting to move my hands.

They pick me up and tighten the handcuffs roughly around my wrists. One of the dogs is allowed to jump up on me, growl at me. I pull away in panic, as the officer gives the dog some leash, and lets it intimidate me. Another man pushes me from behind to the door of the barn, and back outside.

I’m shoved towards a police car, but before the door is opened, one of them turns me around. I don’t recognize any of them from my trip to the police station the other day. They all look the same. They all look like angry, young policemen. The officer who told me what to do, takes off his hat, and slowly, looks at me. He clenches his fists as though he’s about to strike. His eyes are menacing and he leans into me, “I’ve only got one question for you. Just one, where is she? Where’s the girl, asshole?”

My back is against the car, and I start to slide down. I buckle from the exhaustion, the cold, the unanswered questions. It’s worse than I thought. They still haven’t found Emily. They don’t know where she is. I’m picked up from either side by an officer, just before I hit the ground. “I don’t know. I really don’t know.” It’s all I can say. It’s all that I know.

He stares at me for a moment, then looking at the other officers, motions for them to put me into the back seat of the car. I slide in and feel the warmth and temporary relief from whatever harm is about to come my way.

CHAPTER 25

The police station is buzzing with activity, and the room they put me in this time is different. It says ‘Interview Room’ on it, and as I’m pushed through the door, one of the officers slides the sign to read ‘Occupied’. My handcuffs are taken off, and I’m handed a clean, grey t-shirt to put on in place of the old sack. There’s constant activity in the room as I’m pushed into a chair, and handcuffed once more. The officer who spoke to me at the barn, sets up a tape recorder on the small table between us while the others watch, placing chairs, or standing, around the room.

He seems ready to proceed when we hear the noises. Loud banging noises come from the outer offices, along with yelling. I can’t make out the words, but I can hear the anger. Somebody is very angry. The noises get louder as the commotion gets closer to us. The officer with the tape recorder bristles and hesitates as though he doesn’t want to turn it on yet. I can hear somebody saying, “Get out of his way,” just as the door is thrown open.

He stands in front of me and looks me over for only a moment. His mouth is frothing with anger, and his teeth are clenched. His breathing is heavy, and he’s exhaling, powerfully. He unbuckles his belt and quickly slides it from his pants, wrapping it around his right fist. His eyes are glazed over, but I know the eyes. I’ve seen them before. They’re Heather’s eyes. His nametag reads, ‘John Postman, Commanding Officer’. “Hold him down. Hold him the fuck down.” His voice is breaking, and as he says it, his eyes dart around crazily.

The two officers on either side of me flinch, until he repeats his order, and they each grab my shoulders from the top, and push down heavily. I squirm in my seat and try to use my legs to push up, but it’s no use. These are big strong men holding me down. I manage to turn my head and his first punch grazes me, but as I try to right myself in my seat, his second one comes faster than I anticipate, and hits me square in the face. I feel the pain in my mouth, and blood trickling down my chin.

He adjusts the belt around his hand, as I try to stand, but the officers are steadfast and keep pushing down on my shoulders. I look up and can see the disbelief on their faces, as though they can’t believe what they’re witnessing. I try to speak before the next round of punches comes towards me. “You don’t understand. It’s Heather. The little girl, Emily, she’s with Heather. She’s with your daughter.” John Postman has to be Heather’s father. The resemblance is uncanny.

He cocks his fist back and hits me again and again. I feel the blows against my eyes, my mouth, my cheeks, and when my head droops, he punches me on top of it. He’s grunting between punches. “I know who she’s with. I know she’s with that little bitch. Where are they going? Where are they going?” He keeps asking the same question, and hitting, again and again.

The question rings in my ears, as he stands, ready to strike again. Nothing makes sense. Every bit of me wants to find a way to explain things to the man, but I can’t even explain it all to myself. I feel as though I can’t stay conscious any longer just as the door opens.

“
John, for Christ sakes, John, think. Think.” Macklin, the sergeant from the previous day, is standing at the open door, behind Postman, looking at me, then, looking at his commanding officer. I hold my head up, trying to show him what’s happening.

Macklin cautiously lays his hand on Postman as though he’s afraid to touch him.

Postman, stops and looks at Macklin, then at the other officers, before speaking, looking like he’s been awakened from a daze. “I want to know, Sergeant. I want to know where she is, and I want to know within the next five minutes, or I’ll see this son of a bitch leave here on a slab.” His hands fall to his sides. He’s almost vibrating from pounding me. His gaze never leaves my face, and he looks at me with disgust as he talks to Macklin. He just keeps staring. I want to spit my blood in his face, push away the other officers, and hit him as hard as I can, but every time I try to stand, the officers push me back down. I have no energy left.

I take a long look at him through my sore eyes, as he leaves the interview room. He’s probably in his mid fifties, and isn’t a big man, but from the way he carries himself, and the power of his punches, I know that he’s solid, strong. It seems to take every bit of determination that he has, to pull himself away from the room, saying to Macklin, “Five minutes, sergeant, and them I’m coming back in for him.”

It feels like no one in the room breathed while he was here. The only thing I heard was
his
breathing, and the slap of the belt, and his fist against my face. I try to catch my breath and start choking as the two officers release their grip on me. I can see blood, soaked on my t-shirt.