Читать книгу The Defilers - Deborah Gyapong - Страница 5

Chapter 3: The Preacher

With the file clamped under my arm I stumbled across the snow-covered grass clumps back to my house. Thin clouds raced beneath the full moon. Tears stung my eyes but the wind dried them up. Feeling sorry for myself was out of the question. I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d cried.

I tossed Catherine’s file onto the kitchen table and headed straight upstairs to run a bath. Into the churning tap water I threw a handful of Epsom salts and sprinkled several drops of lavender essential oil. I avoided my reflection in the mirror.

In my bedroom I stripped off my clothes. Every item had a place and every action was part of a sensible routine that kept me sane and my house tidy, no matter what stress work threw at me. Catherine had convinced me candles, hot baths, and essential oils relieved stress, so it was off to the bathroom with the box of wooden matches.

The vanilla-scented candles Catherine had given me flickered on the bathtub’s edge as a cool draft blew the flames sideways. Fragrant steam wafted up from the full tub. My house was chilly and my skin prickled with goosebumps as I slid into the water.

I leaned against the back of the tub, feeling the water seep into the hair pinned up at the back of my neck. Despite my efforts to relax, David Jordan dominated my thoughts. Why did he trigger such a vivid memory of Ron? Ron seldom crossed my mind anymore, and when he did I usually felt nothing. My mind replayed the way David’s wife had either flinched or shaken his hand off every time he touched her. The men from South Dare called him a pervert, a child molester. Said he set his own house on fire. Yet how credible were those swamp dwellers? I surged out of the water.

Five minutes later I was downstairs at the kitchen table reading Catherine’s file, shivering in a white terry cloth robe. I cranked up the heat and filled the ceramic kettle with water. The oil stove fan rattled. The headline of the first yellowed article read: Pastor claims miracle cured his cancer.

The picture of David Jordan sick, emaciated and bald shocked me. His basset hound eyes, even in the old newspaper photo, had a compelling stare. Another picture showed a smiling Jordan, his hair growing back, no beard, and his smiling new wife Anne. Happier days. What a change from the radiant young woman in the picture to the angry woman I’d met at the fire.

Thumbing through more of the articles I came across a copy of an affidavit signed by a woman named Barbara Jordan. As I skimmed the pages it dawned on me that Barbara Jordan was David’s first wife. I clamped my fist against my mouth. In her sworn testimony taken during their divorce proceedings she accused David of sexually abusing their seven-year-old daughter. I thought of Catherine’s sweet little daughter Grace sleeping innocently in her upstairs bedroom. My knuckles pressed against my teeth. I tried to slow my breathing.

There he was again. Ron. Memories of how he discarded me like a used condom after he raped me, and moved onto his next victim. It was like stitches in a deep wound had torn open and pain gushed out like hot blood. The water boiled in the ceramic kettle. I had overfilled it, and droplets bubbled out of the spout and sizzled and bounced on the stove’s smooth hot surface. I jumped up, bumping my knee against the chrome table leg. With shaking hands I poured water into a mug over a peppermint tea bag.

Scraping the chair across the linoleum I sat down again and flipped through the remaining articles, looking for information about any criminal charges against David. I pulled out an article from The Halifax Daily News.

Police charge anti-abortion pastor with firebombing abortion clinic. I peered at the picture accompanying the yellowed article. It showed David Jordan chained to the stair railing under the abortion clinic’s sign.

Jordan pleads not guilty in clinic firebombing, read another headline. The article showed a picture of David walking away from the Halifax law courts accompanied by a priest and a female lawyer wearing a black legal gown.

Then I read: Police drop charges against anti-abortion pastor; Abortion clinic firebombing remains unsolved.

Under the articles were copies of handwritten notes from an interview between Catherine and a Halifax police detective.

“Jordan’s a fanatic,” I read. “He believes doctors are murdering babies when they do abortions. People like him see bombing an abortion clinic on par with blowing up railroad tracks to a Nazi concentration camp, though he denies the comparison.”

“The Crown couldn’t pin anything on him,” the note continued. “He had an alibi, but he could have been part of a conspiracy. Other anti-abortion types accounted for his whereabouts. These groups are tight-knit, so it’s hard to infiltrate them.”

David Jordan came across like a fascist vigilante. I clutched my stomach, willing my body to stop trembling.

My instincts told me he was the firebomber, but I needed to calm down, develop a strategy, and prove a case against him. I grabbed a notebook and wrote down the detective’s name. When I noticed some transcripts of TV news reports by a journalist named Heather Franklin I made a note to contact her as well.

That night my thoughts raced like a revving engine. Over and over I rehearsed my questions for the appointment Will and I had with David Jordan in the morning. Whenever my mind slowed down it filled up with memories of Ron’s muscular body pinning me to my creaking bed, his mouth crushing mine. I could feel his teeth clacking against mine and his probing tongue making me gag. I choked for air. I shifted my thoughts to the fire, to David Jordan, to anything but Ron.

Early the next morning thin shapeless clouds raced across the dark sky as streaks of white and pink light glowed in the east. A warm damp wind blew in from the south, carrying the smell of woodsmoke and wet leaves. I hadn’t eaten breakfast or made my lunch the way I always did before leaving. Nor had I gone for my usual morning run. I tried to blank my mind by focusing on my senses, centring myself in the present as best I could.

At the detachment I changed into my uniform, donned my Sam Browne belt, and stuck my pistol in the holster. I flicked on the fluorescent lights in the office area and logged onto one of the three computers we shared. The keyboard felt tacky. Grimy fingerprints surrounded the on/off button. I downloaded information on David Jordan and then printed it out. There wasn’t much. Nothing about sexual abuse allegations.

Catherine’s file would have to be returned so I made copies. As I leafed through the first stack of copied pages, still warm from the copier, I saw a woman’s magnified eyes behind thick glasses staring at me from a newspaper photograph. It was the same woman who had driven the Jordans away from the fire in her station wagon.

Social worker fired for whipping up devil hysteria.

The article quoted David Jordan as saying, “Margaret Roach had the courage to call our attention to abuse that has been going on for years in South Dare. In my opinion, the hysteria comes from her accusers. They’re lying. A lot of people around here are in deep denial.”

The copier whirred. As I copied further sections of the file I tried to read some of the articles I hadn’t looked at the night before.

Judge throws satanic ritual abuse case out of court.

Satanic ritual abuse! Come on! Making a face I slapped the article onto the glass, closed the cover, and pressed print.

That wasn’t the only article about satanic ritual abuse, or SRA as I’d seen it referred to somewhere. I copied them all and then leaned against the copier to read them. The accused man, Reginald “Rex” Dare, was from South Dare. Yellowed newspaper pictures showed him having a thick moustache and slicked-back hair. I didn’t recognize his face or name from the fire at David Jordan’s. And Constable Will Bright was mentioned as one of the investigating officers. That explained his connection to David Jordan and the social worker. My already low estimation of Will plummeted even further. How could he believe this satanic ritual abuse garbage?

I darted into the conference room that doubled as the staff lounge and plugged in the electric kettle. While the water came to a boil, I paced. Once I’d made myself tea I tried to read the Halifax daily paper. The print swam in front of my eyes.

At 8:15 Will came in with a fried egg sandwich and a large Tim Horton’s coffee. He eased into a chair across from me, his big teeth bared in a wide-mouthed grin as he unwrapped his breakfast. His copper-coloured hair was damp and he smoothed it, probably trying to get rid of the imprint from his hatband.

We exchanged greetings, but I looked away so as not to encourage him. When he’d first seen me the day before he’d done an involuntary double take and then stammered, “I, I didn’t expect you to be so, so stunning.”

No matter what I did to downplay my looks guys like Will never took me seriously. Some female Mounties were happy in what I called the “pink ghetto,” assigned to counselling battered wives and sexual assault victims. Not me. Socially my looks weren’t such a great advantage either. I became the object of gossip and sexual innuendos. I didn’t want the problems I’d had in British Columbia to start all over again. My mind drifted back to the satanic ritual abuse case and our upcoming interview with David Jordan. Will’s voice jarred me back to the present.

“I hear you bought the Harrison place in Cornwallis Cove.” His deep blue eyes crinkled around the edges.

“That’s right.” I glanced at my watch.

“Beautiful spot.” His voice had a Nova Scotian twang. “That house must be 150 years old. Have you done a lot of work?”

“Some.” My shoulders stiffened.

“Now that the leaves are gone I bet you can see the water from some of your windows.” He sipped his coffee. “I’ve got a place out in Cornwallis Cove too, but on the other side of the village. Sterling County’s God’s country, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is beautiful.” I still avoided looking at him.

He studied my face, which made me self-conscious. “You were out in Surrey, right?”

My heart sank. Had he already been checking up on me with members in British Columbia?

“I hear the cost of living out on the West Coast is something terrible,” he continued. “How did you ever save up enough money for a down payment with the rent they charge out there?”

“I won the lottery,” I quipped, then plunked my notebook on the table. “I have some questions.”

“Shoot.” A tiny piece of Kleenex clung to a little dot of blood on his neck. He must have cut himself shaving.

“Why would a firebomber fill a cocktail with kerosene?”

“To keep from getting injured. Gasoline fumes can explode prematurely.” He wiped some egg yolk off his chin with the back of his hand.

“Exactly. You know Jordan was charged with firebombing an abortion clinic?”

“So?”

“Maybe he did his own place too.” Could Will see how my temples throbbed?

“That case in Halifax was a joke! Everyone in the pro-life movement was a suspect. Little old ladies with blue hair were suspects. The media propelled that bandwagon.” He gulped his coffee, then took another bite of his sandwich. “David didn’t firebomb the clinic. Or his house, if that’s what you’re getting at.”

“We shouldn’t rule him out.”

Will stifled a burp. “I wouldn’t put too much weight on anything the people from South Dare told you yesterday.” He stood. “One of them did it.” He glanced at his watch. “We’re not raising the abortion clinic angle.”

He crumpled the trash from his breakfast and tossed it at the wastebasket. He missed, but had already swaggered out the door. Mimicking his last words I scooped up his trash and hurled it into the wastebasket.

David Jordan arrived at 9:06 a.m., a little later than expected. A smarmy air of serenity and charm replaced the sad, stunned manner he’d shown at the fire. He was too calm, too cheerful. His emotional state under the circumstances seemed weird to me, like a sociopath’s. David’s heavy-lidded eyes moved from Will’s face to mine, then rested there.

“Why didn’t you notify us when you moved to South Dare?” Will asked.

“Notify you?” David grinned. “Why would I do that?”

“Didn’t it occur to you that Rex would be out to get you?”

David shrugged, his attention still focused on me. “I wasn’t worried about Rex.”

Will shook his head.

David’s stare made me self-conscious. “Why did you move out there?” I asked.

“We wanted to develop trust because we saw the need for a church there.”

Need for you to rip them off? I felt my face grow hot. “Your wife said your place got vandalized?” I tried to keep anger from leaking into my voice.

“Someone broke the windows in our woodshed. We had our tires slashed. Sometimes people threw rocks at our car. I think someone poisoned our dog.”

Will leaned on his elbows. “You should have reported this.”

“What for? I expected resistance. We decided to trust God for protection.”

I snorted. “Obviously God wasn’t protecting you when your house burned down.”

An uncomfortable silence settled over the room. David looked down at his long narrow hands and made a steeple with his tapered fingers.

“You seem awfully calm for someone whose wife and kids nearly died in a fire.” We locked eyes.

“I thank God for getting us out of there safely.” David emphasized every word like a hypnotist.

“You put your family at risk by living out there.” My voice rose. “Your house burns down and you barely get out with your lives and you’re…”

David’s eyes bored into me.

I steeled myself and stared back until he looked down.

“God led us to South Dare. Placed a burden on our hearts. I thought we’d be safe.” He spoke softly, gazing again at his steepled hands. He was good! He had the hypnotic showman shtick down pat.

A derisive smile crept across my face. “God told you to go?”

“I’m happy to answer your questions. But I didn’t come here to have my beliefs ridiculed or things I say twisted.”

Will shook his head. He slouched in his seat as much as his muscular body would permit. “No one’s trying to ridicule your religious beliefs.” He shot me a warning glance.

I concentrated on my pen scratching words on the page, feeling oddly anxious and disoriented. Ron flashed through my mind again. I saw him take off his black clerical shirt and hang it on the doorknob. Goosebumps covered my knees. I hugged them to my chin, feeling the tightness of my bra and white cotton panties.

I remembered the rumble of his voice. “You are so beautiful. Remember, you are the Bride of Christ. And I am the Bridegroom. There is nothing wrong with what we are doing, but we have to keep it a secret because this is like the confessional, right sweetheart?” I remembered being spellbound, knowing something was terribly wrong, but worshipping him and assuming if he thought it was okay, it must be. He unbuttoned the fly of his faded Levis, stripped to his jockey shorts. The bed springs jangled. The vividness of the memory nauseated me. I shook it off. I glanced at David, terrified he’d been reading my mind. But he and Will were deep in conversation. How long had I zoned out? I glanced at my notebook and saw I’d been recording their conversation, even while lost in the awful flashback.

“The satanic ritual abuse is still going on,” David said. His eyes kept coming back to me, like searchlights.

“You know we’ve investigated the rumours,” Will said. “We’ve never been able to find any proof of a cult. Sexual abuse, yes. But no cult.”

“Most cases of SRA have been proven to be bunk,” I said.

David leaned toward Will. “Look, I share your reservations. I know these things can be blown way out of proportion. But something unspeakably evil is still going on out there.” David’s eyes were on me again.

The hairs on the back of my neck lifted. You! You’re the evil.

The room seemed to lose oxygen. The green walls started closing in. I felt an almost overwhelming urge to run out of the room. My heart was firing like a machine gun. This is crazy. Get a hold of yourself. I looked down at my ballpoint pen and noticed the ink was almost gone. To drive off my panic I concentrated on it. Told myself my blood sugar must be low because I’d skipped breakfast. Flipping a page I peered at the questions I’d prepared, focusing on them. I forced myself to breathe slowly so I wouldn’t gulp air.

I squared my shoulders. “People in the community think you set your house on fire.”

“I heard that.” David continued to study me.

What is his problem? He was making me angry now. “This isn’t the first time you’ve been suspected of firebombing a building, is it Mr. Jordan?” My voice was steady now, even hard.

He looked hurt. “Are you considering me a suspect?” he asked Will.

Will glared at me. “No, we’re not.”

After David left I offered to bring the car around. I needed a few minutes alone to collect myself. When I’d calmed down I drove to the front door and waited for Will. Our next stop was an appointment with David Jordan’s wife who was staying with the children at the Baptist parsonage in Cornwallis Cove.

I checked my watch again. What’s keeping him? A few moments later Will burst through the front door, barrelled down the short flight of stone steps, and heaved his large body into the passenger seat.

He twisted his torso to face me, baring his teeth in a wide crooked smile that didn’t match the cold look in his eyes. “I thought we agreed the abortion clinic bombing was irrelevant.” He pulled the door shut.

I shrugged and flicked on the turn signal. “I don’t recall agreeing.” Looking straight ahead I inhaled slowly, and released my jaw when I realized I was clenching my teeth.

Will was still facing me. “Don’t you think you were a little hostile back there?”

“Hostile?” I adjusted the rear-view mirror. “Maybe I was compensating for how nice you were. He a friend of yours?”

“David Jordan did not firebomb his own house.” His knees scraped the dashboard, even though he’d pushed the seat back. He sprawled, his shoulders almost touching mine.

I kept my mouth shut. No point arguing.

Cornwallis Cove Baptist Church was built into a steep hill that fell to a narrow tidal inlet. The parsonage, a huge three-storey red house, loomed over the sidewalk just up the hill from the church. The parsonage’s small laneway, just big enough for two cars side by side, was empty so I parked there. We climbed out. Without saying anything to me Will bounded up a steep flight of wooden stairs to a door on the second level.

My muscles were tense, so I stretched my arms over my head and brought them slowly to my sides. The snow melted into a rushing, rattling torrent along the gutter and gurgled into a big storm drain. I tried to imagine my anxiety going down with the water, being carried out to sea with the tide. The village below was laid out like a scene from an old-fashioned Christmas card.

Wooden houses clustered on the hillsides. Main Street cut sharply down the hill, crossed a causeway and a narrow bridge over a creek that emptied into the cove, then climbed the steep hill on the other side. Old wooden buildings perched on pilings lined the causeway, housing the Cove pharmacy, the Co-op that sold groceries and hardware, the Cornwallis Craft Association gift store, the Royal Bank, and the Crow’s Nest bookstore. Since it was now high tide blue-grey water almost licked the bottoms of the buildings.

When a matronly white-haired woman answered Will’s knock I sprinted up the wooden stairs to meet Ruth Harwood, wife of the senior pastor at Cornwallis Cove Baptist.

We stepped onto a plastic boot tray inside the orderly kitchen. Years of scrubbing had faded the green and white counters. A portable dishwasher hooked up to the sink whirred and hummed, sending the abrasive odour of detergent through its vent. The smell competed with the scent of cinnamon and fresh bread baking. Will surprised me by unlacing his boots, stepping onto the kitchen floor in sock feet, and heading for the living room. Why hadn’t he asked for Anne to come to us in the kitchen? What if there was an emergency call and we had to make a quick exit? But I was the newbie here, so I reluctantly stepped out of my boots too and followed Ruth and Will into the living room, where Anne sat in a green upholstered rocker.

Her narrow face was blotchy, her eyes red from crying. She wore a black turtleneck under a long brown corduroy jumper. Will asked her many of the same questions I’d already gone over with her the previous day.

“You’ve been through a rough time.” I sat across from her on a wooden chair.

Her trembling hand reached for a tissue. She blew her nose. “We really believed God called us there.” She sounded like her husband’s parrot. “Then something like this happens.”

Will shifted in his seat on the couch. He flung his arm across the back.

Anne sniffled. “Before this happened I thought I was afraid because my faith wasn’t strong like David’s.”

“Maybe your fears were trying to tell you something.” I tried to sound kind.

Anne burst into tears. “I’m sorry. I really can’t help you. I don’t know who started the fire. My husband might know.”

“Why is that?” I asked.

Anne reached for another tissue and wiped her nose and eyes. “People confide in him. But he won’t tell me or anyone else what they say. I don’t know anything.”

“Could your husband have set the fire himself, Mrs. Jordan?”

Will groaned and shook his head.

Anne set her shoulders. “Absolutely not!”

Ruth stood in the doorway, twisting her hands in her apron. “You couldn’t possibly think that David…”

“These are just routine questions, ma’am.” I turned back to Anne. “Do you have insurance?” I felt sorry for her, so I made my tone as gentle as I could.

I had to ask. Maybe he had a policy she didn’t know about.

“No, we don’t. We lost everything.” She sounded defensive.

Will cleared his throat. “David says you’ll be moving temporarily into the church in South Dare.” His voice sounded syrupy with concern. “Is that where we can contact you?” He stood to indicate the interview was over.

Anne shook her head. “David is. The children and I will be staying here until we find an apartment in Sterling.” The little girl with the high round forehead peeked around the door. Ruth shooed her upstairs. So, I was right. There was big trouble between Anne and David. Will was eyeing me, so I slipped my notebook into my pocket and stood up.

Ruth brushed past us and wrapped her arms around Anne who had started sobbing.

“We’ll show ourselves out,” Will said.

He clomped out the back door and down the outside stairs, making the old wooden building vibrate. Still inside, I laced my boots, collecting my thoughts. I could hear Ruth trying to soothe Anne.

“Where is God right now?” Anne sobbed. “Why didn’t God protect us? What are we going to do?”

Ruth murmured something.

“I have no home for my children. We have no money, unless I can get more work at the hospital. I’ve been providing. Not God. I’m the one carrying all the weight of this family, while David tries to save the world. I’m sick to death of it.”

As I closed the back door behind me with a gentle click I remembered the Infant of Prague replica in my childhood bedroom. The doll-like figure had a crown and royal robes, with his little hand raised in blessing. It was supposed to represent the Baby Jesus. The Holy Child. The Infant of Prague sure didn’t protect me when Ron pinned me to the motel bed and tore my panties. Neither did the Virgin Mary.

And God didn’t protect me from getting pregnant either.