Scare the Light Away (19 page)

Chapter 33

Not until long after, when the shock started to fade and it was me, not a rescued puppy, sitting in the warm kitchen, wrapped in a blanket, food and drink pressed upon me, did it occur to me that perhaps I should have checked the body for signs of life. I have never seen a dead body before, not counting those dressed in their best, neatly made up and laid in a casket, but I found that a person knows. This one was well and truly dead.

I’d grabbed Sampson’s collar, keeping my eyes averted from the half-submerged object. The dog followed me, reluctantly, and we waded back through the swamp to the path. Once again, I stripped off my coat and hung it on a branch before sprinting through the woods for home, Sampson loping ahead of me. She didn’t even pause to chase a squirrel that crossed her path.

We stumbled through the back door, a stream of mud marking our progress. I grabbed the phone and dialed 911. My father sat at the kitchen table, a cup of coffee frozen on the way to his mouth, the Saturday newspaper spread out before him. Upside down, I recognized the face of the Prime Minister, who was shaking hands with some foreign dignitary.

The conversation was brief. I declined to stay on the line and, after offing the pertinent info, hung up before collapsing into a hard kitchen chair. Sampson gulped back stomachfuls of water. My father looked at me, open-mouthed, his eyes reflecting the confusion and despair in my own. Without a word he pushed his chair back and left the room, to return moments later with two thick, fluffy towels. He pressed one into my shaking hands and lowered himself on arthritic knees to kneel on the floor beside my dog. He murmured softly to her, all the while rubbing her coat vigorously with the towel. I followed suit, rubbing at my own face and hair. Sampson attended to, Dad poured the remnants of the morning’s pot of coffee into a chipped mug, took the towel out of my hands, and replaced it with the mug.

It was awful, the dregs of the pot, and lukewarm to boot. I drank deeply, wanting only to soak up the warmth. Then Dad knelt again, his face wincing with the pain in his knees, and loosened the laces of my shoes. I held my feet out, one after the other, and allowed him to peel off the dripping socks and rub my feet with the towel. I closed my eyes and luxuriated in the feeling of being truly cared for: the one thing that money can’t buy. You can purchase a day at the spa or hire a masseuse, but when your time is up or your money runs out, you’re shown the door, ready or not.

Sound of a car on our road, tires crunching the gravel driveway. Doors opening and slamming shut.

Too soon.

Groaning, Dad pulled himself to his feet and went to open the door, Sampson following at his heels. I shook my head and tried to pull myself back to reality.

Two OPP officers marched into the kitchen, holding their wide-brimmed hats in their hands. One female, one male. I didn’t recognize either of them. He was young, fresh faced but prematurely balding; she had long black hair gathered back into a perfect French braid. In my younger, much younger days, when I had long hair, I tried so hard to do it like that. Weeks of trying and buckets of tears of frustration passed before I gave up.

“I was expecting Bob Reynolds. He came the last time I called. You’ve heard about the scarf I found?”

“Sergeant Reynolds is in court in North Bay today, ma’am,” the female officer said in a voice as high-pitched as a child. Internally I cringed. That voice will kill her professional future in what is still a man’s world as surely as a round of tears at a crime scene.

“If there is anything to report, we’ll let him know,” the young man offered.

“Well let me assure you, you’ll have more than enough to report. It’s out that way.” I waved my arm in the vague direction of the woods behind our property and through them to the swamp. “I left my coat as a marker. Can you bring it back please? It’s rather a good one.”

“If you could show us what you saw, ma’am? That would be more convenient.” They looked at me.

“One minute,” Dad waved his hands in the air and hustled out of the kitchen. He returned with a handcrafted cable-knit sweater, two pairs of thick woolen socks and high rubber boots.

“Thanks, Dad.” He was smaller than I, but his feet were bigger. With both pairs of socks my feet fitted into the ugly boots, although leaving a bit too much wiggle room for the toes. They would do.

Sampson made no effort to follow us. I almost wished she would: this was starting to become a habit. I led the police through the woods and into the swamp. There hung my lovely shearling coat, hanging on the branch of a naked tree.

Past the coat and down the incline to the moving boundary of the rising swamp, I stopped at the water’s edge and pointed.

“There, there it is. That log. Do you see it?”

“I see lots of logs,” the male officer said, taking a few tentative steps into the water. The squelch of mud as he pulled his boot free with each step was clearly audible.

On the patch of high ground there was a flash of movement at the sound of our voices as something, some animal, scurried away from no-need-to-contemplate-what.

His partner followed, the edges of her mouth turning down and her nose crinkling in disgust, as she put one foot into the water. “We see it, Ms. McKenzie. You don’t have to come any further. If you could stay at your home for a while? Someone will be around to take your statement.” She looked over her shoulder at me. The other officer waded through the muck. Frogs and birds and early insect life set up a cacophony of protest at the human invasion of their muddy paradise. Part of the evidence was visible from where I stood, particularly that one foot held down by the log. But regardless of my revulsion, I felt a twinge of regret for the creatures that called this swamp home. The invasion had only just begun.

“I’m not going anywhere.” I stumbled back through the woods, cursing the police for leaving me to find this… thing… after they’d supposedly spent the weekend scouring the swamp, and trying to keep from throwing up until I was out of sight of the two officers, although I had no reason to care about their opinion of me. My heaving stomach held out until I reached the tree holding my coat, and there I vomited into the soft mud around the roots. A lifetime passed, but my stomach did eventually settle, and my panicked breathing returned to a semblance of normal. With one hand holding the small of my back I straightened up.

I kicked mud over the puddle of vomit until it was completely covered. A nice meal for the insects burrowing around the tree roots. The thought brought on moments of dry heaving. But nothing remained in my stomach to come back up.

I gathered my coat and stumbled up the path to my family home.

I never again wore the lovely chocolate shearling coat with the beige cuffs.

***

Naps make me bad tempered and grumpy. Give me six to nine hours in the dead of night, and I’m a happy woman.

But on this day, I walked through the house in my father’s mud-encrusted boots without saying a word. His worried eyes followed me. I slammed the bedroom door in my dog’s face and collapsed fully dressed onto the bed, remembering only to pull off the boots before I hit the sheets.

I slept badly, disturbed by the sounds of the house. Dad turning on the TV. Sampson scratching at the door. Her toenails clicking dejectedly down the hall. The phone ringing. A heavy knock at the back door. Dad grunting as he pulled himself out of his best chair. Murmured voices. The sound of a car engine starting up and the crunch of gravel as it pulled away. Then gentle tapping at the bedroom door and my father’s soft voice.

Thinking about it made me realize that his voice is soft. Soft and gentle like the man himself. “Girly man” my grandfather called him once, in my own hearing. My father had flushed and looked at me, embarrassed. Not at the insult but at his daughter overhearing it. Of course I didn’t know what a “girly man” might possibly be. A man who liked to play with girls, perhaps? Nothing wrong with that. Men were fun to play with—not Grandpa of course, never Grandpa—they would swing me around and around by the arms until I screamed with delight. Or push me on the swing that my brother Jimmy, in a rare moment of kindness, had made and hung under the biggest tree that could be found for miles around. Push me so high I both feared and hoped that the swing would break and I would fly over the lake and into the setting sun. Men played in a way that women never did.

The door squeaked open on a hinge in need of oil and Dad smiled in. “Time to wake up, sweetheart. I’ve brought you a bit of toast and some tea.”

I struggled to consciousness and tried to sit up. “Come in, Dad. What time is it?” Sampson landed on the bed with enough force to knock the breath out of me. I scratched behind her ears.

“The police wanted to talk to you earlier, but I sent them away. They said they’d be back at five and it’s almost that now. Some tea and toast will help you get yourself up.”

I settled a mound of pillows behind my head, and Dad put the tray onto my lap. The toast had burnt and he’d tried to scrape most of the black bits away. An open jar of cheap, mass-produced marmalade sat to one side, the knife stabbed into the sticky, aromatic depths. A tea bag floated in the cup. If Mom could have seen it she would have passed out. My throat closed.

Girly man
.

It should have been offered as a compliment.

Praise of the highest order.

“Thanks, Dad.”

He grinned shyly and his cheeks burned. “Better hurry up and eat that, my girl. The police said five o’clock and you can be sure they’ll be here right on the dot.”

I nibbled at my toast. “Anything happening at the swamp?”

“Too much. Too much. Cars coming and going; people and dogs tromping through the woods. Everyone and their dog phoning me to ask what’s going on. I wish your mother was here, Becky. She’d know what to do.”

I doubted it. My mother could handle almost anything, but a dead body would be out of even her league. I smiled anyway. “That she would, Dad. That she would.”

We stopped talking to listen as a car drove down our road and pulled into the driveway. Sampson lifted her head and pricked her ears up.

“Guess they’re back.” Dad sighed. “You finish your tea there. They’re early. They can wait a while. Oh, by the way, your office called. Girl named Jenny, sounded real nice.”

“She is.”

“I told her you couldn’t be disturbed.”

I pushed aside the tea tray and swung my legs over the edge of the bed. Dad left the room in a rush, no doubt to avoid seeing me in my dishabille. I was in no mood to dress for company. The cops would have to interview me in the clothes I’d slept in. They were professionals: They should be able to stand the shock.

They were waiting for me in the living room. Sergeant Reynolds and the female constable with the enviable hair and cringe-inducing voice.

Cups of tea sat on the coffee table in front of them, accompanied by generous slices of the wonderful fruitcake laid out on a plate. Despite the seriousness of the situation, and my thick head, I smiled to myself. My dad might make it on his own after all.

“Thank you for meeting with us, Ms. McKenzie,” Reynolds said, licking the last of the cake crumbs from his fingers. The constable pulled out a notebook.

Nice of him to make it sound like I had a choice. I went straight to the point. “Do you know who it is?”

“What time did you discover the body?” Reynolds also could come straight to the point.

“I’m not exactly sure. We, my dog and I, left the house around nine this morning. Found the… it… on our way out. I ran straight home and called 911. So it was probably about ten minutes before the 911 call, I’d say.”

“Did you touch anything?”

I shivered at the thought. “Are you kidding? I took one look and ran for home.”

“Did your dog touch it?” the constable asked. Her high voice made it sound like a question asked during story time at nursery school.

“She might have. She got there several minutes before I arrived. I went to see what was going on because she was barking and wouldn’t come when I called. But I didn’t see anything in her mouth.”

“Did you pick anything up at the scene? Leave anything behind? Drop anything?”

“No. Only my coat as a place marker, but your constables saw that.”

“Did you walk up to the body, look around a bit?”

My laughed came out broken and strained. “Dad, do you think I could have another cup of tea, please?” He rose from his chair reluctantly. He’d been hanging on to every word. “Certainly not. I didn’t even get to the high ground. Soon as I could make out what Sampson found, I ran. Like any person with half a brain.”

The constable wrote furiously. “You’d be surprised,” she mumbled under her breath, probably not intending to be overheard.

Dad brought more tea and cake, and the police asked a few more questions. Basic stuff: Did I see anyone in the woods today, did Dad or I hear anything unusual in the last few days?

Finally Reynolds got to his feet and thanked us for our time. The constable put away her notebook.

“I have a question, if I may?” I asked.

He eyed me suspiciously. “Yes?”

“Have you identified the body? Is it Jennifer Taylor?”

“We can’t say at this time.”

“Can’t or won’t? Come on, Sergeant. The news will be all over town by breakfast time tomorrow, you know that better than I do.”

“Unfortunately, yes. It is Jennifer.”

I would have been surprised if it wasn’t. “Thank you for telling me. If—when—the news does get around, it won’t be from me.”

They paused at the door to struggle into their coats.

“One more thing.”

“Only one, Ms. McKenzie?”

“Why didn’t you find her before now? Your people have been all over the swamp the past few days. How did they manage to miss such a tiny detail as the dead body they were actually out searching for? You even had dogs. We heard them. Drove Sampson here nuts.”

“At first glance, it would appear that the body was held down by that log you saw. What with all the rain we’ve had lately and the last of the snowmelt running off into that swamp, the log rose to the surface. And what was under it, rose with it.”