The Dead Letter (26 page)

69.

It had begun to rain, not a heavy driving rain, more of a thick mist, which obscured vision, fogged the glass, and made it difficult to judge distance. Fenton Peale turned on the wipers and redirected the warm airflow to the windshield.

He drove past MacFarlane's house and continued slowly along Bunbury Road. He wasn't absent-minded. He hadn't been distracted. He was preoccupied. His well-planned life was unravelling, and he was losing control. He could feel it. He could see it in his own reflection. In his rear-view mirror, a worn, aging man stared back at him. He had a deeply receding hairline, prominent wrinkles, and lacklustre eyes and, more troubling, a complexion drained to a paleness so haunting that he conceived of himself as slowly disappearing, fading imperceptibly into oblivion. And it all seemed to happen in just days.

His personal habits had been neglected, too. He smelled of sweat and the stink of whisky. He was dishevelled and untidy as an old bachelor. His suit jacket and trousers were wrinkled. He had clawed his necktie away from his collar. The knot was misshapen, the collar unbuttoned, and wiry chest hairs sprouted in the breach.

Peale winced at the tightness in his waist. He felt trapped. A whiff of fear and desperation swept over him in a flash of heat. He unbuttoned his jacket and rolled down the window halfway. The renewed air was cool and fresh. He breathed more freely. But the wind suddenly loosed a nasty gust. It blew the front of his suit jacket open. The oiled wooden handgrip of the Webley .455 revolver sticking from his waistband glinted in the light of a passing streetlamp.

Peale had not travelled the upper Bunbury Road in eleven years. What he had done there had repelled him too much, and he had struggled to put the deed behind him.
Out of sight, out of mind
was a lie, as it turned out. But the passage of time helped blunt his conscience and deaden his memory and, for short periods, allowed him to rationalize his crime, but the ghost of it never departed. Its presence, in some form, was always there, and, like a boil beneath one's skin, it wanted to work its way out.

It had happened eleven years ago this month. On 19 October 2001. It had rained that night, too. He had not wanted to be there, but MacFarlane had him over a barrel. It had been foolish of him to agree, but he saw no other way out. So he borrowed a pickup truck, smeared mud over the rear plate, and waited in the parking lot of a fast-food restaurant near her workplace. MacFarlane had provided him with Carolyn's work schedule and a description of her car.

Peale sipped coffee in the cab of the truck but tasted nothing. The coffee was hot, but he felt nothing. His nerves were ragged, his mind detached. Then he spotted her. Carolyn's black Saturn coupe passed Peale's position exactly three minutes after midnight, the scheduled end of her shift. He put the truck in gear and followed her down the street, past the intersection to the Hillsborough Bridge, and onto the Bunbury Road. A battered red Ford Ranger bolted from a side street
and cut off his truck. It drove maddeningly slowly, and Carolyn's
Saturn disappeared around a bend in the road. He couldn't pass. When the Ford finally turned off, Peale tromped on the gas to catch up. The speed limit changed to highway limits as the city houses began to diminish, and he hoped that she hadn't made it too much farther.

The highway glistened from the rain that had fallen earlier that evening, and the moon had not shown signs of rising. He increased his speed, and several minutes elapsed before he caught the glimpse of her tail lights.

A good scare will do
.

Those were MacFarlane's instructions.

Run her off the road. She'll get the picture.

Peale felt the knot in his stomach as he approached the designated spot. A long stretch of road. No houses in sight. No traffic. No witnesses.

Do it quick. Don't give her a chance to think about braking.

Peale quickly glanced ahead and behind for other vehicles. There wasn't a glimmer of light. He turned on his truck's high beams. Their brilliance framed her head in the rear window. He overtook her car, blasted his horn, and eased across the dividing line into her lane. He saw the fear in her eyes as the side of his cab loomed toward her, forcing her to the road's edge. Suddenly her car jerked to the right. Her tires caught the shoulder, softened by the rain. The wheels dug in and dragged her toward the ditch. Her car fishtailed on the edge, straightened momentarily, then hurtled off the incline and into a culvert. The force of the impact crumpled the front end.

Then don't stop. Get the hell out of there. No witnesses, no problem.

Peale noticed an orange glow from the wreckage. It was short-lived. Darkness followed quickly and completely.
This wasn't supposed to happen
, he thought, and touched his brakes.
What if she's badly hurt
?

Peale saw a dim glow of car lights somewhere far behind him. It reignited his fear—fear that MacFarlane would reveal his affair with Simone, fear that Simone's pregnancy would point to him as a suspect, and fear that he would lose his family, his reputation, and his business. He had too much to lose. Hairs bristled on his neck. His foot hit the gas pedal. His truck lurched forward and vanished beyond the thicket of trees lining the dark country road.

Eleven years later, Peale's neck hairs bristled again. Peale's stomach convulsed, but there was nothing to toss up. It happened as his car passed the white cross that Edna Jollimore Hibley had erected and tended as a memorial to her sister Carolyn's “accident.” The moment passed. Then his thoughts turned to the present, his rendezvous with MacFarlane.

Peale was late for the meeting, but he didn't care, and it would have been quicker to backtrack, but he vowed never to travel that stretch of road again. So he drove on, circled around, and arrived at MacFarlane's home by another route. Sickness and guilt no longer plagued him. Hatred stood in their place.

Peale buttoned his jacket and pressed the buzzer. He saw a curtain shift. Then he heard the click of the front door.

MacFarlane filled the open door frame. He wore dark sweats and a white T-shirt. His arms and neck were muscular, and his waist solid, but lacking the trimness it had once had. He stood a head taller than Peale and presented a formidable, if not intimidating, figure to him. MacFarlane scrutinized Peale, took a step back, and smirked.

“You look like shit,” he said. Peale pushed by him in silence.

“You've been blackmailing me for over a decade, you sonofabitch!”

“Congratulations. I've got your ten-year pin around here…somewhere,” he said, looking around the room mockingly.

“And it's all been a lie. You conned me.”

“Don't know what you're talking about, Fenton.”

“She wasn't pregnant. You convinced me that she was. Lies! All lies!”

“I didn't lie. She did. She told me she was pregnant, and I believed her. If you've been conned by anybody, it was her. Now get a grip on yourself.”

“You can't push all this off on Simone. It was you who was blackmailing. It was you who forced me into this godawful mess.”

“You wouldn't be in a mess if you had stayed home and played with your wife and not someone else's woman…especially mine. You must have had a death wish back then. You could have guessed what would happen if I found out. You're lucky I was satisfied with blackmailing you. I had a better idea at the time…shoulda killed you.”

“Why didn't you?”

“I decided to give you a break. She was just a slut after all…”

“I would have been better off dead. At least then I wouldn't have become a murderer.”

“The price you pay,” said MacFarlane.

“Well now's the time for you to pay!”

Peale reached for the revolver in his waistband. MacFarlane jumped forward, grabbed his wrist with one hand, and drove his other fist into Peale's belly. He crumpled to the floor gasping for breath. MacFarlane removed the Webley from Peale's belt and set it on the end table next to a reading chair behind him. He sat down in the chair and waited while Peale blubbered and whimpered pathetically on the floor.

“Did you think I wouldn't notice that bulge? A bag of carrots would have been less obvious.”

Peale was too stunned and shaken to be aware of MacFarlane's sarcasm. He pulled himself half-up and leaned against a sofa. His shoulders slumped, and he stared emptily at nothing.

MacFarlane continued: “At the time, I hadn't intended to harm that woman. That culvert being where it was…that was just fate. But it
was
a bit more leverage on you. I hated you, your money, and your arrogance, and when you killed Carolyn Jollimore, you became my own little marionette…and you still are.”

Peale had ended his pathetic little noises of pain and despair. He looked up at MacFarlane. The fear had left his eyes. A helpless emptiness remained.

“I don't hate you anymore, Fenton. Time puts things in perspective. Simone played you just like she played me. Simone loved Simone, no one else. And her text messages? They prove that she was still workin' her way up the food chain even when she was bangin' you. Didn't know that, did you? You were just the last pig at the trough.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Like I said, Fenton, I don't hate you anymore.” MacFarlane pointed to a second chair and motioned Peale to take a seat. Peale rose from the floor, still gripping his stomach, and limped painfully toward it. He eased himself down. Hopeless exhaustion coloured his face.

MacFarlane continued: “I never used those text messages against you, did I?”

“No, but I can read between the lines.”

“And who brought out the vote when you were running for town councillor and for the legislature?”

“In return for my support for your appointment to police chief.”

“You win, I win. Nobody loses. And that's how it will continue to work, Fenton. You continue to do what you do. I keep those messages stashed away and, while I'm alive, nobody will find them. Win, win. So clean yourself up, and get a grip, and I'll continue to cover your political back. Win, win. Forget and you'll lose everything…lose your family…lose your job…lose your reputation…your legacy…your freedom…everything. Understand?”

MacFarlane had a gathering urge to laugh at Peale. The more he had talked, the more shrunken Peale had become. He looked pathetic. He looked small. He looked broken. But MacFarlane quelled the urge with the satisfaction of knowing that he had defeated him.

“Understand?” he repeated.

Peale's nod was subtle, almost nonexistent, but there nonetheless. He stood slowly and hobbled toward the door.

“Wait!” said MacFarlane. “Aren't you forgetting something?”

Peale turned. MacFarlane pointed toward the pistol on the end table. Peale offered a blank look. MacFarlane picked it up and tossed it toward him, but his reflexes were slow. He fumbled, and the gun fell to the floor. Peale jumped fearfully at the noisy clatter it made. MacFarlane chuckled. Peale bent slowly, picked it up, turned, and headed out the door. It had begun raining again.

MacFarlane smiled. He hollered after him: “If you feel the urge, kill yourself someplace quiet and out of the way…save the family from scandal.”

70.

“I'll send someone back for you,” said Anne as she stood up. Cutter turned and stared with the same surprise as someone viewing an apparition of the Virgin Mary.

Anne held up her unshackled arms. “Tada!” she said, confirming her achievement with a vocal flourish.

“Get me loose,” he demanded.

“Can't do that,” said Anne. “You haven't earned the trust.”

“What if he comes back?”

“Then the first part of your plan has been accomplished. I won't be here to bait his trap to frame you. Anyway, I'll be quick about it. Gotta be a phone somewhere near here.”

Anne took a few steps toward the cabin door. A sudden gust disturbed the air, and the flame in the kerosene lamp on the table fluttered wildly. Shadows raced across the walls like a disturbed colony of bats. They distracted Anne. She hesitated. Cutter lunged. This time his steel bed didn't catch in a loose floorboard and fetch him up.

“You're going nowhere!” He sounded desperate and menacing.

He heaved up his end of the bed with his cuffed arm and hurled himself toward the door like a football lineman. The bed followed. His strength and speed were surprising and unexpected, and his sprint left him within arm's reach of the door. He blocked her escape.

“I haven't finished with you yet.”

Anne was alarmed at his agility and strength, and she would be no match if he grabbed her. She froze in place, closer to the other end of the metal frame, nearer the middle of the room. Cutter's eyes burned with rage as he assessed his next move. The lamplight glowed harsh and yellow. Cutter's skin took on a sallow, oily cast. His eyes were blood red, but unkind shadows turned the hollows of his face as black as a spider's hole.

Anne took another slow cautious step back. Her foot came down on a dried spruce cone. She faltered, and Cutter attacked again. Awkwardly, Anne threw herself back and spun further away. As she did, she heard the shattering of glass.

Cutter's last lunge had carried the bed with him, and it collided with the table. The table shook, and the oil lamp toppled, rolled, and crashed to the floor. For a fraction of a second, near-total darkness consumed the cabin. Then a spark in the wick caught the spilled kerosene, and the room filled with light. Anne and Cutter watched as the pool of oil spread thinly in every direction. Flames followed the trail. The blaze flared hungrily and smoked. It fed on kerosene and scraps of tinder and bits of trash scattered about the floor and, having fed, spit out an even more malevolent flame.

Cutter abandoned his vengeful assault on Anne and backed away from the fire. He tried frantically and unsuccessfully to free his hand from the bed, but managed to pull himself closer to the cabin door. Freedom was only a few taunting inches away. His eyes blazed wildly with fear. The smoke thickened. It gripped him, and he hacked and coughed to spit it out.

Anne was amazed at the speed with which the fire grew, and her eyes scoured the room for a way to escape. Within a minute or two the flames had formed a wall that spanned the width of the room. She could scarcely see Cutter through the gathering smoke. So even if the door was undefended, she could not reach it now. Instead, she hurled herself once or twice against the boarded wall of the ancient cabin, but the boards were sound and the nails stubborn. Her only other option was at the end wall, a fixed window to let in morning light. It was the only one in the cabin, but it was high, too far up for Anne to reach.

Cutter's screams paralyzed Anne. Her thoughts fell apart. At first his screams were ones of horror, as if he had just stumbled into a nest of snakes, their eyes glinting in the moonlight, their movement against his clothing shrivelling his skin. When the first of the flames touched his trousers, they danced with orange delight. Then horror turned to terror with the first bite of their searing tongues. Then his shirt caught, and he recoiled at the lunge of death toward him. He twitched and shuddered and beat against the lapping of death against his flesh. Then he loosed a scream so wretched that Anne nearly collapsed with dread. More screams. Gasps. Whimpering groans. And a final shrieking litany of gibberish and paradox spilled from his mouth: “O god, o my god, o god, ohmygod, godammit, o god, godamn you…you…you…godamn you…o my god damn you…oh, oh…ohhh!”

Cutter's long hair caught and burned with a distasteful smell and crackle. He screamed a long, tortured howl. Then he gasped to wail once more but, with that second breath, his mouth and throat and lungs filled. He tasted the flavour of pain, and his agony quenched itself in a writhing death.

Anne remained transfixed by the horrors before her until a sharp crackle of burning wood snapped her attention back to her own perilous condition. Her thinking became crystal clear. The window was her only escape route. Anne seized a wooden cabinet and dragged it to the wall below the window. Still, she could not reach the glass after she stood on the cabinet. The chair with the broken back was nearby. So she grabbed it and climbed once again onto the cabinet, hauling the chair up with her. Above floor level the air was thick with smoke. She retched and coughed. The fire grew closer. The heat flashed toward her in waves. It became intense.

From her cabinet-top perch, Anne swung the chair above her head and beat the window as savagely as she had strength to do. The first swing shattered the glass and, as it broke, Anne heard a startling whoosh. The fire was vented. A stream of oxygen flooded in and fed the conflagration. The flames roared with a fresh vengeance and, in a ghastly flight of fancy, Anne imagined Cutter's dead soul somehow driving the ravenous sweep of fire toward her. Anne shuddered at her own madness, but fear bristled inside her, fuelled her desperation, and she swung the chair with renewed force. Her second and third swings cleared shards of glass and jagged splinters from the window frame.

Anne set the chair on the cabinet top and climbed carefully up on the chair. From that height she could easily grip the newly made hole. Anne muscled up until her head stuck out the hole. She took a long breath of fresh air. Then, with a firm grasp on the empty frame, she rolled forward. She lost her grip as she tumbled out, but her fall was softer than she had expected, and she managed to land on her feet.

Anne staggered, stumbled, and crawled from the foot of the cabin toward a semi-dark cluster of withered spruce trees. She leaned against scarred, coarse bark and drew a deep breath. It was cool, clean, and fresh, and she felt exhilaration, the electrifying euphoria of being alive. It lasted for a few short moments. Then her hands began to tremble. Palsy gripped her, and the horrors she had endured the past evening forced themselves once more into her mind.

Anne was helpless to defend herself. She felt as if she had been viciously slapped and forced to acquiesce and live through it again: the terror of rousing from sleep at home, a dark figure enveloping her, choking her, drugging her; her desperate efforts to control her body, to quell the nausea that would lead unquestionably to asphyxiation; the dread at finding herself face to face with death at the hands of two brutes; the horror of Cutter's pitiful screams as he burned; and the eerie haunting echo of Cutter's last utterance, his last wish—his final desire to send her into the fiery hell with him.

Anne curled into a ball on the damp ground, the horror, the anger, and the hatred of it all swirling in her mind. Tears streamed from her eyes. Her body convulsed with sobs, and her hands shielded her eyes as if they could shut out the debilitating impact of her experience. For a while Anne had felt as if she had left her body altogether and was floating freely and terrifyingly in a sea of all-too-real memory, and she had wondered if she were going mad.

But those feelings were dissipating now—like the back side of a wave—and she could feel herself once again. Her fingertips sensed the texture of the ground beneath her. Her ears heard the crack of burning timbers, and again she drew strength from the feeling that she really had survived.

Then a sudden roar, like a speeding car passing too closely, startled her. The sound had come from the cabin. The fire had broken through the roof. Smoke billowed. Flames shot skyward. The ground all around her glowed with a yellow-orange light, and shadows danced eerily beside spruce saplings and blueberry bushes.

The roar of the fire had heightened Anne's vigilance. Her attention leapt from past terrors and present reprieve to future survival. First, she had to get out of there. MacFarlane would be back soon, and if he found her he would have to kill her, and the woodlands surrounding her were vast enough to hide a small body. No one would find her remains…ever.

Anne quickly gathered herself together and made for the rutted trail that led out of this place. Her ankle ached as she hobbled up the path. She was confident she could walk it off. If she was going to die, she would go out kicking and screaming, she thought.

Once the cabin dropped from sight, the path she took cut through thick stands of spruce and endless acres of reforested white pine. The light from the cabin fire gradually diminished. Darkness closed in upon her, and it wasn't until then that she realized it had started to rain. The rain was light and soft and welcome. It was clean and cool. Refreshing.

Anne moved slowly and steadily along, careful not to turn her ankle again, but the road was uneven and seemed never to end. Darkness had dimmed her sense of time and distance, and she stumbled around for almost an hour. Impatience started to dog her. Then she spotted the intersection, a few yards ahead. At the sight of it, her pulse quickened, and expectations mounted. Even this late at night, the odd car would be travelling the road. A house would be near at hand.

The paved road, however, was a disappointment. Anne peered to the right and then to the left. There was no sign of civilization in either direction, but a glow of light against the overcast sky suggested that Charlottetown was southwest, and that was the direction she chose.

Anne trudged along. The highway cut through endless fields of potatoes and the stubble of freshly cut grain. The few houses she encountered were summer residences, unlit and unoccupied. Several long laneways branched from the highway, but they promised nothing but darkness. No porch light or barn lamp offered hope, and there was no assurance that a house lay at the end of any of the lanes. Anne heard the occasional barking of a dog. She also heard the baying of coyotes and, for that reason, she resolved to remain on the road and await the chance of a passing vehicle.

The ache in her ankle had not yet worked its way out. Running, if she had to, was not possible. Add to that, the rain. It was still light, but it was no longer refreshing. She felt the cold creeping into her bones. Her hair was dripping and her light sweatshirt was heavy with dampness.

Then, at a downcast moment, Anne saw the lights of a car rounding a bend in the road. She felt a jolt of elation. The car was heading her way. Its cold blue halogen lights raked the trees on the bend. Anne waved excitedly. Just as quickly, though, a pang of fear swept over her.

What if it's MacFarlane? He'd use the same route to return
, she thought,
and he was due back. Long overdue
, she thought.
What if it's him?

The car's headlights had not yet illuminated her figure on the side of the road. Fear won out. Anne limped off the shoulder and slid into the ditch, and the car passed without incident.

It might have been MacFarlane…and it might not have been.

She couldn't tell.

Anne climbed the bank and resumed her hapless trek and, like a gambler walking empty-pocketed, she dreamed the sweet victory of a win, but felt only the cold regret of loss.