No Cherubs for Melanie (30 page)

Watching Margaret as she carefully re-tied the bandage, it struck him that it was no wonder her mother had committed suicide. Ten years of living with the knowledge that one of your daughters killed the other was far more than any mother should have to bear. What could she have done? Informed the police and lost the other daughter as well.

“What about your mother?” he asked, expecting her to shatter yet another of his illusions and confirm that Betty-Ann did indeed commit suicide.

Startled, her head shot up as if she'd been stung. “I didn't kill her,” she protested, with indignation.

“I didn't — ” he started, but she picked up the gun threateningly and froze him into silence.

“Don't look at me like that,” she said.

“Like what?”

“Like you pity me. I don't want your pity.”

“What
do
you want?”

“Nothing from you. I just wanted you to leave me alone but you couldn't, could you?”

“Your mother?” he tried again tenaciously. There was something he had not grasped, and he was determined to get to the bottom of the matter despite his perilous situation. “What exactly happened that night? You were there weren't you?”

She sat back on her haunches and weighed her response carefully. “I put her out of her misery, if you must know,” she said finally, then warned him against responding with a cautionary wave of the rifle. “And before you say anything — There is a difference.”

Too flabbergasted to respond, he lamely enquired, “So what happens now?”

“I don't know. I've got to talk to someone.”

That's interesting, he thought. “What happens to me in the meantime?”

“Stay here, you're safe enough. Don't wander around; I don't want to have to save your life again.” Her tone suggested she actually believed what she was saying, that after shooting him, she had saved his life.

“I'm hardly likely to run away,” he said. “Could you help me to the house?” he added, hoping to have a chance to grapple the gun away from her.

She eyed him from a watchful distance, her forehead creased in deliberation, making him wonder if she was contemplating putting him out of his misery as well. “No. Just stay there. I'll be back.”

Then she and her dog evaporated into the trees and left him to wonder once again if any of what was happening was real. Pinching himself was useless, he reasoned; if this was an illusion, it was so well constructed he would expect to feel pain. However, if everything was fabricated, the designer of the subterfuge had apparently fallen down in the background noise department. The soundtrack was missing and he was struck by the utter silence and stillness. He was also stunned by the lack of wildlife. It wasn't just the absence of Margaret's animals that perturbed him, it was the absence of any creatures of any kind. No birds tweeting in the treetops, not even a butterfly noisily beating its wings against the air. He almost laughed at the thought of hearing a boisterous butterfly, then realized that in this deathly still forest he just might. That was it, he realized, this forest was deathly still, as if frozen in time — petrified. It was a sound stage without the sound. His mind swung back to his previous expedition through the forest, when Margaret had exposed the bear pit. There had been no animals then either — none.

Bliss made up his mind; he wasn't going to wait like a wounded duck for her return. She'd killed her sister and mother, even if she had managed to rationalize their deaths. Surely she'd rationalize his death as well if she so desired. He had to escape or somehow summon assistance, and his initial instinct was to wait until dark and take the canoe, then he remembered the smashed hull. Swim then… Crazy. Build a raft? It would take weeks.

Was there a better idea?

The design of a raft was already taking shape in his mind when a faint buzzing sound cut through the forest
and interrupted his deliberations. He was so immersed in his own thoughts it took a few seconds for him to catch on. It's an engine of some sort, he deduced dreamily and had almost dismissed it before jerking himself alert. “It's a plane you fool!” he said aloud, and snatched a look at his watch: it was nearly six-thirty. Alice was returning to the settlement to collect him.

“Down here,” he shouted, peering up through the spindly canopy. He drunkenly pulled himself upright against a tree, cautiously testing his weight on the injured leg, and waved frantically as the small plane hopped over the island. She'll never see me, he realized, but ripped off his shirt and flagged it around his head anyway. Within a second the little plane had zipped across his field of vision and his spirits plummeted. He was almost certain she had not seen him; he recalled what difficulty he'd had spotting things from the air on his arrival, how he had even missed the family of bears playing in the open on the beach at their first pass. The beach! That's it, he thought, I must get to the beach. Then she'll see me on her return. Which way? He panicked. Where's the beach? Which beach? Any beach.

Steeling himself against the pain he crashed through the forest. Dismissing the threat of an ambush from Margaret or her dog he cursed his dragging leg and ignored the danger of a bear trap. His good foot, pounding the ground with all his weight, thudded dully on the rain-softened earth and suddenly the forest was vibrant with noise — but only his noise. Twigs crackled underfoot, dried leaves rustled, branches whooshed back into place behind him, and the sound of his own breathing seemed deafening as the sharp breaths whistled in and out. Sounds that would have been swallowed amid the music of a normal forest resounded in his sensitive ears. And in the
background the constant drone of the plane's engine faded slowly into the distance.

Stopping for a moment to catch his breath, Bliss anticipated the resurgence of silence but was surprised to hear the engine growing stronger, deeper, and richer. It was louder now — much louder. The plane was returning; momentary confusion clarified into joyous relief. She's coming back. She's landing, coming to pick me up.

Drawn by the booming engine he thrashed his way through the last of the trees toward the beach. He was going to make it, he realized, spying the lake ahead. What luck, he thought, assuming he had misunderstood about meeting at the settlement. Alice must have meant she'd pick me up here. I can still make Toronto by Saturday. Rushing excitedly through the final few yards of bush, eyes and mind on the heavens, he tripped headlong over an exposed root and flailed wildly at spindly shoots, fearing for just an instant that he was falling into one of the deadly bear traps. Be more careful, she'll wait a few minutes, he cautioned, pulled himself upright, and reached the shore in a few strides. The droning of the engine thudded with a sound so palpable that even with his hands clamped over his ears it still beat into his brain, yet he stood transfixed, bamboozled, staring skyward. The vacant planeless sky, as sterile as the forest, stared blankly back at him. His wounded leg crumpled slowly under his weight and he closed his eyes and sank to the sand, now firmly convinced everything around him was a hallucination.

Superintendent Edwards wore the mantel of martyrdom with a superior air at the Monday morning prayer meeting. Remaining at his post, arm encased in plaster, had, he believed, bolstered his credibility over that of Bliss, whose disappearance clearly proved his culpability.

After nearly two hours of crime stats and arrest reports, the room cleared of officers faster than a scuttled ship, but DCI Bryan lingered over the dregs of his coffee.

“Is Mr. Bliss still AWOL?” asked Edwards, falling neatly into the trap. Bryan put down the cup with a clatter and nodded.

“Give him another day or two, then start the ball rolling,” continued Edwards with a glance toward his plastered arm. “Forget this, let's just get rid of him on an AWOL charge.”

I'd bet you'd love that, Bryan thought to himself, knowing that a disciplinary charge for being absent without leave wouldn't offer Bliss a public pulpit from which
to broadcast his side of the story. “Have you a few moments, Sir?” he asked, defying Edwards to protest.

Edwards waved him to a chair. “What's on your mind?”

“A couple of things that Bliss said. He couldn't understand why no witnesses were brought forward to provide Gordonstone with an alibi after his wife's death.”

Edwards jerked upright in his seat. “How did Bliss know that?”

“Search me.” He let his face play dumb.

“Well, Chief Inspector,” Edwards insisted defensively, “you can take my word for it. Martin Gordonstone had a cast-iron alibi. He could not, and did not, kill his wife.” With that, he started to rise, the words “Now push off” written all over his face. Bryan was unmoved, carefully counting the grounds of coffee in the bottom of his cup. “He was also concerned about the absence of a suicide note.”

Strike two, he thought as Edwards deflated like a stuck balloon. “It happens,” he replied sinking back into the chair.

“True, but most people on the verge of topping themselves usually made it fairly obvious to friends and family beforehand.” He looked up with a scrutinizing stare. “Had she?”

“Are you questioning me, Chief Inspector?”

“It seems that way, Sir,” Bryan said with deliberate insolence, then decided that Bliss should give Edwards something else to consider. “Inspector Bliss also says that there was no evidence of booze or drugs. Most suicides —”

Edwards cut him off, yelling, “I know what most suicides do, Chief Inspector, I've dealt with enough of them.”

“So did anyone come forward to say she was contemplating doing herself in?”

If looks could castrate, thought Bryan, yet was surprised by Edwards' submissiveness as he answered, “Not as far as I remember.”

“Did you ask?” Bryan probed, feeling that he had the upper hand. “It's just that Bliss was so certain. He was also sure that Gordonstone killed his daughter.”

“Kept it to himself though, didn't he?”

“He had his reasons.”

“How do you know so much? That girl of his been blabbering?”

“She's concerned that's all. And I'm beginning to think that Bliss should be considered a missing person, not AWOL.”

Edwards grunted in disbelief. “Misper my eye. The coward's fucking hiding.”

“I hope you've got good news,” Peter Bryan enquired when Samantha called a little later.

“No. I've spoken to the bank again. The money was definitely returned on Friday afternoon. Apparently the Canadian bank said that they had no knowledge of Dad.”

“What sort of place is it, do you know?”

“The sort of place where everybody would know everybody and all their business from what I can make out.”

“It doesn't make sense. Why don't you call the place — ask 'em what's going on.”

“I'm in court…” she started.

“Let me have the details then and give me a bell when you're free.”

Stacy was not in the best of moods when Bryan called enquiring about Bliss. “Geez man it ain't light yet,” he
complained, and added that he had never heard of anyone with that name. “An English cop out here, you gotta be kidding,” he declared, though his tone said, “You gotta be mad.”

“His daughter sent some money last week.”

Stacy's silence marked a moment's deliberation. “Oh yeah. I remember,” he said eventually, as if he had just had a brainwave.

“You do?”

“Yeah. I sent it back. Thought it must be a screw up. Sorry, you've got the wrong place.” The impatience in Stacy's voice suggested he was about to hang up, so Bryan shouted, “Wait a minute, there's obviously been some mistake.”

“Your mistake bud.”

“What about Margaret Gordonstone?”

“Who?”

“Margaret Gordonstone.”

Another moment's silence. The transatlantic delay, Bryan assumed.

“No one here by that name…Sorry bud.” He had finished, the inflection in his voice made it absolutely clear the conversation was over. A foreign-sounding buzz in Bryan's ear reinforced the point.

“The case has been adjourned
sine die
,” Samantha said when she returned Bryan's call. She sounded more relaxed, he thought. She was more relaxed; a simple negative pregnancy test had taken a huge weight off the rest of her life. “The police claimed that they needed more prep time,” she added with obvious disbelief. “Anyway, that gives me all day to find Dad.”

“You might need more than that.”

Panic filled her voice. “Why?”

Bryan sighed. “The bank in Canada say they've never heard of your dad or the Gordonstone woman.”

“Impossible.”

“I can't argue now, meet me for lunch.”

She would have persisted but the battery on the cellphone was warning her that it was tiring. “OK,” she agreed.

“Not that Tornado place…” he started.

“The
Typhoon.
No, you choose. It's your turn to pay anyway.”

That's a change, he thought, but offered willingly. Then he stuck his toe in the water, adding a hint of laughter so that he could make out it was a joke should it backfire. “Maybe, when this is over, we could have a romantic dinner somewhere without having to worry about your dad?”

“Maybe” she said tentatively, then kicked herself for not being forthright. But what should she have said: “I'd love that and if you behave yourself, you've got a good chance of a fuck?”

“Indonesian, Italian, Chinese, or Indian for lunch?” he asked.

Doesn't anybody eat English anymore she thought but cast her mind back to the
Typhoon
and understood why. “Italian,” she suggested, figuring it would be difficult to disguise cat or kangaroo as fusilli.

He knew a little place off Oxford Street.

“Doesn't everyone?”