Judgement By Fire (12 page)

            Lauren saw Jon’s face
flush with anger, but he said nothing.

            “One thing that does
bother me is that a company like yours must have lots of employees who’d be
happy to do a favor for the boss. You wouldn’t actually have to dirty your
hands yourself.” Ohmer said, ruminatively.

            “I won’t even grace
that with a response, Chief Ohmer.” Jon replied, his eyes hard. The police
chief glared at him assessingly, and then abruptly returned to business at
hand.

            “There’s not much we
can do here now, Lauren,” Paul said, gently touching her arm.

            “No, I want to stay,
start tidying up. I’ve got to finish that picture for the exhibition.”

A sob caught
in Lauren’s throat. Even the best repair artist in the world, and she knew at
least one of them, would have a hard time doing anything with the bobcat
portrait, at least in time for next week’s exhibition. And even if she had the
heart to start again, there simply wasn’t the time to finish a whole new work.

            “Come to our place,
you can use the spare room, and get back to everything again tomorrow,” Paul
urged, his eyes sad for the pain he knew she was experiencing.

            “I’ve a better idea.
Come back to Toronto with me,” Jon put in quickly. “Mary would love taking care
of you, and the twins would be ecstatic to have a visitor. In the morning, you
can make whatever changes you need to the exhibition arrangements, and I’ll
bring you back here. In the meantime, we’ll get a cleaning team in here during
tomorrow morning to get started on putting everything back together.”

            “Why would I want to
come to Toronto with you, Jon Rush?”

            “Yeah, that could be
something like walking into the lion’s den,” Paul interceded.

            “Do you really
believe that?” Jon asked. The two men stared at each other for a moment, silent
messages passed between them, and then Paul rubbed his hands over his face.

            “No, I guess not. Not
really. And it would be a good idea for Lauren to be away from here, at least overnight.
The cleaning crew’s a great idea, but I think all her friends here will pitch
in, too.”

            “I wish you’d stop
talking about me as if I wasn’t here,” Lauren interjected peevishly. “And why
would it be better if I wasn’t here tonight?”

            “In case your visitor
returns—and finds you home,” Jon told her grimly. “Or decides to go through
your friends to get to you. People could get hurt.” He climbed into the
driver’s seat.

            All the arguments
Lauren had ready suddenly fell to dust on her tongue. If the creature that had
destroyed her studio turned that kind of viciousness on her or on another human
being…she shuddered, feeling sick.

            As Jon started the
engine though, she cried out for him to stop. “I need some things from the
house, some clothes, and things. And I could take the picture in to Judy
Harris, see if she can do anything with the damage.”

            Mike Ohmer, who’d
stopped by the truck, looked at Lauren. “You don’t want anything from in
there,” he told her brusquely. “But if you need the painting, I’ll have one of
the guys get it.”

            They waited in
silence until they saw Andrew Chalmers, one of Ohmer’s officers from the local
Ontario Provincial Police detachment, heading towards the Jeep with the
unwieldy canvas oblong dwarfed in his muscular arms. Jon got out and opened the
rear doors. While he loaded the canvas, Chalmers came around to talk to Lauren.

            “Ms. Stephens, I just
wanted you to know myself and the other guys are all really sorry about this
happening to you. I know this is a bit of a hick community,” Chalmers gave a
big grin to disarm his words. “But you know, most people do realize how
valuable the artists are to the area and would hate to see you all gone from
here. One thing you can be sure of, old Chief Ohmer’s hopping mad and he’ll
have a few choice words to say to the guy who did this when we catch up with
him. And we will, no doubt about that!”

            Lauren was touched at
the kind words of support from a man she knew only to speak to in passing and
tears sprang into her eyes. To cover them, she closed her eyes, leaned back
against the soft leather upholstery and pretended to rest as Jon guided the big
Jeep out of the Haverford Castle laneway and onto the township road.

            She thought she was
just resting her eyes until the tears had dissipated, but when she opened them
again Lauren was shocked to see that they were stopped at traffic lights in a
familiar-looking street. Glancing out of the driver’s side window, Lauren
gasped as she recognized the lovely old Victoria Hall in the lakeshore town of
Cobourg.

 Built as a
replica of the Old Bailey in London, England, the hall was the venue for many
concerts and plays that Lauren had attended with friends over the years.
Cobourg, with its gentle harbor on Lake Ontario, was a pretty town popular as a
home base for artists and writers, and Lauren had several successful friends
who lived in the area.

            Jon noticed she was
awake as the lights changed and he drove forward. Reaching down to the tray
between the seats, he offered her a large polystyrene cup.

            “I had to stop for
gas, and thought I’d pick up coffee before getting back on the 401. I guess you
could probably use this, or something stronger.”

            Lauren took the cup
gratefully and wriggled into a more comfortable upright position. She’d slipped
down in her seat as she slept, and had the uncomfortable feeling that she’d
probably spent at least some of the time with her head resting trustingly on
Jon’s shoulder.

            “We’re in Cobourg? I
must have been asleep for hours…”

            “I think it was
probably more of an emotional escape than a sleep, although you’re probably
exhausted after the day you’ve had,” Jon replied, his long, slender fingers
sliding deftly on the steering wheel as he negotiated a difficult turn from the
main street onto the road that would lead them back to the highway.

Lauren
realized suddenly that she could watch those hands for hours. In fact, she’d
like to sketch their shape, charcoal, perhaps, or pen and ink, and then it hit
her.

Her studio,
trashed, her possessions ruined. The last work she had almost finished probably
damaged beyond repair…

            “What will happen
now, about your exhibition?” Jon asked her softly, as if he had sensed reality
flood back into her mind and wanted to start her back on the road to practical
solutions.

            “Well, thank God, my
agent’s a real stickler. In fact, some unkind people call him a damned old
nag.” Lauren smiled fondly as she thought of Alex Waters. “But he insisted that
all the finished work for the exhibition be shipped a couple of days ago, so
now he can hassle the framers as well as myself, the gallery staff, and anyone
else who walks into his path.

“The only
outstanding work was the poor old bobcat in the back here, and I can maybe get
that fixed up. If not, we’ll just have to go ahead one canvas short of a full
exhibit, which won’t please the Harrison Gallery people much. But in the
circumstances, I think they’ll understand.”

            Jon whistled through
his teeth. “The Harrison Gallery? That’s where you’re exhibiting? Well,
congratulations, they pretty much only take the cream of the crop,” he said
respectfully, reaching over to squeeze her fingers.

            “Yeah, it’s quite a
career breakthrough. But I can’t help thinking, what if that maniac had got
into my studio a few days ago, when all my canvases for the exhibition were
still stacked around the walls? I’ve worked so hard for this. I’m not sure I’d
have the heart, the sheer psychic strength, to pick myself up and start all
over again. “

            “It means that much
to you?”

            “It’s really my life.
I am rarely as happy with anything as when I’m painting, or planning to paint,”
Lauren told him.

She could have
added that there had been times, in the last few days, when she’d been as happy
in his company as she had been at her easel. However, something nagged at her,
and she fished around over her memory of the past few hours to find it.

            “I’m so glad you’re
coming home with me, Lauren, although I wish the circumstances were better. But
I’d like you to see something of my life, to get to know me better…” his voice
was a soft caress in the darkness of the vehicle.

           
Coming home with
me,
the words went straight to Lauren’s heart and sent that now familiar
feeling of heat coursing through her veins. But still something nagged at her,
and then she caught it.

            “I thought you told
me you weren’t married?” she demanded, straining against the seat belt to watch
his face.

            “I’m not,” he
replied, nothing but puzzlement in his voice.

            “So who’s this Mary
and the twins you want me to meet?”

            She could see his
grin, even in the dim dashboard light, and could tell he was pretty pleased
with himself. “Oh, Mary has lived with me quite a while now, and you’ll just
adore the twins.”

            Try as she might,
Lauren couldn’t get another word out of him. But a deep gloom had settled over
her heart. Jon Rush was obviously drawn to her as she was to him, but he’d been
living with another woman for a long time, long enough to have twins.

She closed her
eyes, imagination painting on her eyelids two tiny twin replicas of Jon. Were
they boys, girls? One of each? He wouldn’t answer further, went so far as to
switch on the radio to prevent further conversation. As she began to drift back
into sleep, Lauren felt a deep, aching need, a sadness in her chest, and a
longing she had never believed she would know.

A longing to
hold a tiny blond child in her arms. A longing she could never fulfill, for
another woman already held Jon Rush’s twins, and so he would be bound to this
mysterious Mary forever by their tiny fingers.

            Tears that had been
balanced under her eyelids finally slipped down when Lauren opened her eyes,
feeling the Jeep slowing down as they moved from the main road along a driveway
lined with neat white fencing. Small lights winked along the driveway, and
larger lights on wrought iron posts, like old-fashioned street lamps,
illuminated a large white clapboard farmhouse that looked charming in its
tree-sheltered setting, more like a Christmas card in its snowy glory than a
real house.

            Lauren stared at the
building, loving every elegant line of its massive turn-of-the-century shape,
and wondered what it would be like to share such a home with Jon Rush. The
house was such a contradiction to the man she’d assumed him to be—an ambitious
corporate executive should have a brand new condo or a $1.5 million loft
conversion in the middle of Toronto, not a secluded farmhouse with what looked
like a working farm attached.

Looking around
as she stepped from the Jeep, she could see only dim, snow-covered fields and
the dark huddled shapes of trees. Not another house in sight. Then the door of
the house opened, spilling warmth and light down the stone steps towards the
Jeep, and a stately older woman walked towards them, her face wreathed in
smiles, accompanied by two bounding Labrador retriever pups. The dogs launched
themselves straight at Lauren, and she bent to rub the amazing softness of
their ears and run her hands along their sides, still soft with puppy fat.

            Jon came alongside
her then, and with a perfectly straight face, introduced the older woman.

“Lauren, I’d
like you to meet Mary Wilson, she’s taken care of this old house and me, too,
for the past nine years or so. And I see you’ve already met the twins. Down,
boys!”

            From her squatting
position between the two pups, Lauren looked up and saw the big, knowing grin
on his face. He’d planned this, the rat! He’d known she’d think Mary and the
twins meant something completely different.

            “Jon Rush,” she said
quietly and plainly, “I think I am going to kill you.”

* * *

Snow was
still falling as he parked in a side street near her apartment building.  It
had been an awful rush to get here and for a few tense moments, he’d thought he
was too late. Then the bus pulled in and he saw her moving down the center
aisle to the middle exit doors. It paid to take an interest in people, he
thought grimly, as he watched the petite woman in the long black coat walk out
from behind the Toronto Transit Commission cream and red bus.

She was the
only passenger to get off at this stop, and carried a bulging briefcase along
with two heavy looking plastic shopping bags. He’d learned from coffee time
chats that Pippa Williams always visited her elderly mother on Friday evenings
and then picked up groceries on her way home.

“Too bad,
Pippa—such a creature of habit. Such a good worker, too. Much too conscientious
for your own good. Another betrayal. Why didn’t you come to me first? I could
have explained everything.”

Then he
gunned the engine and the big vehicle leapt forwards. The woman in the street
had barely time to look in his direction and register the danger she was in
before thousands of pounds of metal bore down on her. The right wing caught her
with a bone-shattering thump and her fragile body was thrown sideways, seeming
to arc gracefully before hitting the snow-covered tarmac with a sickeningly wet
thud. Her briefcase flew from her grasp, and vegetables, yogurt, hamburger
meat, a newspaper, scattered from her shopping bags and fell into the street.

He stopped
the vehicle, looked around him to spot prying eyes. No one had noticed. In the
city, no one ever did. He got out of the vehicle, careful to slide his feet so
as not to leave shoe impressions in the snow, and walked back to where Pippa
Williams lay in the roadway. Looking down on her, he was moved to compassion at
her pathetic plight.