Читать книгу Blood Wine - John Moss - Страница 7

Mr. Savage

“We nearly drowned. We nearly suffocated in wine fumes. We nearly burned to death. We’ve been riddled with bullets. Miranda, your leg has been riddled with bullets. We’ve nearly been decapitated with a propeller. What’s next?” Morgan looked cynical, smug, and wretchedly dirty.

They stood by the open trunk of the car. Miranda was being helped into the slacks she had bought for Elke after having water from a plastic bottle slopped over her wound, which was just a graze but quite bloody, and then having alcohol and a bandage applied from a first aid kit. The two women changed into the extra T-shirts. Morgan took off his shirt and tossed it in the dirt, retrieving an old police windbreaker from the depths of the trunk.

He slid into the passenger seat to call for help. Undoubtedly neighbours would have already phoned 911 and volunteer firefighters would be on their way. He wanted to make sure the police came as well. He wanted to make sure Spivak knew what was happening; he felt the need to be grounded in a world he knew.

Miranda opened the driver’s side and turned with her injured leg stretched away to lower herself onto the seat. Elke had a grip on her shoulders. Just before contact with the seat, Morgan lunged, reaching out and twisting in the air so that he lifted against her with one of her buttocks in each of his palms. She squealed indignantly as she reeled away into Elke’s arms and the two women staggered backwards.

“Morgan, you fool! Have you lost it?”

“Stay back,” he yelled.

“Damn, that was undignified, Morgan!”

“Back off,” he declared vehemently as he strode around the car. “Over there.” He pointed to a picnic table a couple of car-lengths away. Both women were frightened by his weird behaviour. “Over here,” he repeated, walking to the table himself and flipping it onto its side.

When all three were behind the table, he picked up a brick-sized boulder and heaved it towards the car, swinging underarm. It fell short. He picked up another, the same size. Stepping out well in front of the table, he put all his weight into the throw, and while the boulder was still in the air he dove back over the table. There was a split second pause, then the boulder hit the driver’s seat and there was a teeth-jarring explosion as the car lifted into the air and disintegrated, descending in a rain of fiery debris.

“That’s it,” said Morgan as the raging din subsided. “That’s enough for one day. You guys okay?” Neither woman said anything as all three rose to their feet and surveyed the damage. Morgan was still in wine-stained pants and Elke in a wine-stained skirt. Miranda’s clothes looked a bit dusty but clean, in stark contrast to her face and arms, which, like the exposed flesh of the other two, were smeared with wine residue, filth from the fire, and particles of exploded stuffing from the car seats.

“No wonder they flew off unconcerned about whether they shot us,” said Miranda.

“Yeah,” said Morgan. “They didn’t leave much to chance.”

“Morgan …”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t say ‘what’s next?’”

They could hear a siren off in the distance, coming from somewhere down near Lake Ontario. They turned and walked toward the house. Morgan needed a phone, Miranda wanted to sit somewhere comfortable and wait for medical assistance, Elke was anxious to clean up. They were sure the house was abandoned. People don’t fire off machine guns and torch sheds or explode police cars and then go back to the dinner table.

They were astonished, then, when as they reached the garden gate that opened onto a lawn in front of the house, the main door slowly began to swing open. All three dropped to the ground, rolling to the side for cover behind shrubs, which of course would not stop bullets but might obscure the shooter’s view. They waited. The door seemed to groan on its hinges, although it was a massive slab of glass framed in cedar. There were no shots. The cicadas in the meadowlands between the lawn and the vineyard trilled loudly in anticipation of nightfall. Flames from the fires behind them had subsided, but the car remnants and the crumpled shed smouldered, and columns of smoke rose straight upwards and pooled in clouds overhead.

There was a sudden blast and the burning shed exploded in a renewed swirl of smoke and flames.

A creaky voice called over their heads. “Hello…?”

Morgan glanced across at Miranda under her shrub, massaging her thigh above the wound. She nodded.

“Hello…?” he called.

“Is that you, Mr. Savage?” The timbre of an old lady’s voice, ancient but strong, shaped the words in the air, but still no one appeared in the doorway.

Morgan stood up behind his small cover of greenery, head and shoulders exposed. “No ma’am, it’s us.”

“Well, who’s us,” said the old woman, stepping into the light so she was framed by the door opening. She was diminutive, stooped, but with her head tilted erect. “Who is it?”

“You don’t have a gun, do you?” said Morgan.

“Yes, I do,” came the answer, then a pause. “It’s upstairs. Do you need it? It’s only a shotgun to scare away birds.”

Morgan stepped out onto the walkway.

“You stay there, now,” said the old woman. “I’m not to have visitors.”

“Well, could you step down here, ma’am, a little closer. We’re the police.”

“You look like filthy rag-tag brigands,” she said.

“I’m sorry,” said Morgan, “but we’ve had a bit of trouble.”

“And haven’t we all,” said the woman. “Do I smell something burning?” she asked, moving out under the trellis in front of the door. “Where’s Mr. Savage?”

“Could you come down here where we don’t have to shout?” Morgan asked.

“You don’t have to shout, young man. I can hear you.”

“Could you come down here, please?” said Morgan patiently. Elke helped Miranda rise out of the shrubbery and they stood by his side.

The woman slowly made her way to confront them, feisty but anxious, and to ease her anxiety they stepped back outside the gate, then pulled it shut between them. She seemed unconcerned by the fires down the slope that had leapt now from roof to roof, so there was an awesome conflagration, with flames and smoke obscuring the eastern horizon.

“Did they fly away?” she said.

“Who?” Morgan asked. “Was that Mr. Savage, is Mr. Savage your son?”

“Oh, no, dear, I wouldn’t call my son Mister,” she said, smiling radiantly. “We don’t have any children.”

“You and Mr. Savage?”

“No dear, Peter and I, we don’t have children.”

“Peter is your husband?”

“Yes, dear. Peter passed away. Mr. Savage looks after me.”

“Really,” said Miranda.

“May I go in and clean up?” Elke asked the old woman, reaching over the gate and taking her by the hand. “I really need to use your bathroom.”

“I’m sorry, dear. Mr. Savage said I wasn’t to leave the house.”

“But may we come inside?” said Miranda.

“Mr. Savage didn’t say not to come in. He told me I wasn’t to leave.”

Sirens wailed in the background as fire trucks bumped over country roads, tracking the fire by sight. Cars were pouring down the long laneway as volunteers arrived before their equipment. Several had already pulled up but kept their distance from the fiery sheds, their headlights redundant in the clear evening air. The house was to the west of them, in shadow with the setting sun glaring from behind the escarpment. From down by the fire, no one could see the curious group negotiating by the garden gate.

“You see, my husband died after we tore up the orchards. It broke his heart. But Mr. Savage insisted. Mr. Savage owns the property, you see. It was in my husband’s family since 1791. But we have no children — are you all right, dear?” She interrupted her narrative on seeing the bloodstain spreading on Miranda’s thigh. “Perhaps they can help you.” She indicated the activities down by the sheds. “I never know what’s going on down there. I don’t leave the house.”

“Mr. Savage doesn’t like it?” suggested Morgan.

“No, he does not.”

“And where is Mr. Savage, now?”

“He told me to stay in the house,” said the old woman. “I’m Mrs. Peter Oughtred. Peter was a Haun on his mother’s side.”

Miranda felt dizzy with pain and blood loss. Elke helped her to sit down on the grass outside the gate. Morgan’s concern for her reflected in his voice.

“You’ll have to let us in, Mrs. Oughtred, my partner needs help.”

“What was all the noise, was that you? Did you make those loud noises? I heard explosions down by the winery. I stayed in the parlour. I was watching television.”

“Mr. Savage told you to stay inside?” Morgan asked.

“Yes, he did,” she responded. Her voice quavered with exasperation. She had told him this already.

“And Mr. Savage owns Bonnydoon Winery?”

“He built this house for us. They tore down the old house and built this one in its place. Peter never liked it.”

“No?” said Morgan.

“We had the parlour and the bedroom downstairs and the kitchen and a bathroom.”

“But it’s a huge house —”

“Yes, and they needed the rest.”

“When did your husband die, Mrs. Oughtred?”

“Three years ago. I’ve been here alone since then.”

“With Mr. Savage?”

“Mr. Savage comes and goes, sometimes by car and sometimes by airplane. He makes sure I have supplies. I can clean up after myself. Peter was ninety-four, I’m ninety six. He was a year older than me but I’m older now.”

“Does Mr. Savage have a first name?”

“I’m sure he does.”

“Would you mind telling me what it is?”

“No, I would not mind at all.”

Morgan waited. “Uh, what is it?”

“I don’t know, dear. Mr. Savage is Mr. Savage.”

Morgan paused. “Was your husband a vintner?”

“Oh no, we’re farmers. We had orchards. These vines are only four years old.”

Morgan looked around at the firefighters. An ambulance had arrived. It was sitting on the edge of the scene in case of an accident. An OPP car was lumbering up the laneway.

“Police are coming,” said Morgan to Miranda and Elke. “Provincials. There’s an ambulance, let’s get Miranda down there.”

He stopped and turned back to the ancient Mrs. Oughtred. “My name is Morgan, ma’am. I’d like to talk to you again. We’ll have someone look in on you. I don’t think Mr. Savage will be back.”

“Well, of course he will, he owns everything here until we both die. He promised me when Peter passed away, Mr. Savage promised I could stay until I died too.”

“He did. Well, I’m sure you can stay. Don’t worry, we’ll track Mr. Savage down.”

“He always comes back.”

“Mrs. Oughtred —”

“Now you go along with your friends, Mr. Morgan. They don’t look too steady on their feet. And you all should wash up, you know. You don’t make a very good impression.”

She waved at him with a hankie in her hand, even though he was just on the other side of the gate. Apparently unconcerned about the billowing smoke and flames behind him or the frenetic activities of the emergency crew, she turned and started walking back to the house. Morgan trudged down the walkway, glancing back at the old woman as he caught up with the other two. She was already at her door, and when he looked around next she had gone in and shut it firmly behind her.

As they emerged out of the gloom of the escarpment a cluster of police, firefighters, and medics surged up the slope towards them.

“We must really look like we need help,” said Miranda.

“We do,” said Elke. “We’ve been through hell.”

They stopped, leaning against each other, waiting for the emergency crew to reach them. Morgan turned and looked back at the house.

“She was determined to stay,” he said.

“Mr. Savage told her she could, until she passes away.” Miranda looked back as well.

“Mr. Savage told her to stay inside.” A tremor of horror crossed his face.

“Morgan?”

“My goodness!” he exclaimed.

“Morgan, no!”

Miranda shouted at him as he swung around, took a stride back towards the house, stumbled, and as he was rising to his feet the entire escarpment exploded into a blistering, deafening inferno. For an instant the house was outlined in flame, as if it were hovering against a fiery backdrop, then it smashed into a billion points of light as the shock waves hurled Morgan and Miranda and the blond woman down the slope toward the emergency crew huddled on the ground against the blast, with the burning sheds behind them.

Nothing seemed to move for a suspended instant, until the cicadas resumed their urgent thrumming; then the entire scene burst into a flurry of activity. It was like a war zone in the aftermath of a bombing raid. Flames billowed against the oncoming darkness and smoke curled in mindless strands through the thick, acrid air. Men and women, some still dressed from work, scurried around, drowning smouldering fires, gossiping, trying to figure out what had happened. Told there were two deaths, a body in a tank in the wine-shed debris, and old Mrs. Peter Oughtred in the inferno where the house had been, they summoned the Fire Marshal from Niagara-on-the-Lake, and the OPP officers took charge.