The Defilers. Deborah Gyapong

David Jordan’s burned-out house early the next morning. I had to see if there was any way Alan could have seen David set his own house on fire.

      Then I’d go see Alan.

      Chapter 6: The Body

      At 4:17 a.m. I was delighted to discover a light snow falling. That meant weather conditions were similar to those the morning of the fire. I decided to put on my whole uniform – gun, bulletproof vest and all – so I wouldn’t violate Canada’s strict anti-gun laws. I would call it voluntary overtime since I was supposed to be off duty.

      Big flakes drifted slowly down, swirling in the glow of my headlights as I pulled into the clearing where David Jordan’s house had once been. I drove behind the charred rubble to hide the Jeep from the road.

      Tramping through the wet snow I made my way toward the wooded path from South Dare. The moonlight behind the clouds was bright enough for me to navigate without a flashlight. At the edge of the woods I stopped to survey what was left of the Jordans’ former home. If Alan Dare had been out inspecting his snares before dawn, could he have recognized David Jordan, or anyone else?

      The burned shell of the house stood out like a dinosaur’s ribcage against the snow. I could make out the silhouette of a fir tree in the small meadow beside the former house, and could see the outline of the bushes where Will had found the baseball bat the previous day. A shadow flitted in the corner of my eye. I whirled around, feeling goosebumps creep up my sides, to see a fir branch waving in the wind. I turned back to the blackened ruins. I might have been able to make out the silhouette of a person in these conditions. Might. Maybe Will was right and Rex had cooked up the story about his eyewitness nephew. Besides, it would have been weird for Alan Dare to check his snares this early in the morning.

      Heading back toward the house I played my flashlight on the fresh snow, searching for rabbit tracks and snares. Finally, I noticed some fresh rabbit tracks near the fir tree in the meadow and followed them to the edge of the clearing. The underbrush was thick. Would someone set snares in a tangle like that?

      Suddenly, a roaring grinding noise came from the direction of the road. Heart hammering, I shut off the flashlight and rolled under a fir tree’s snowy boughs. The noise grew louder and bright lights lit up the sky on the other side of the house. What is that? When a huge eighteen-wheeler whizzed past, I felt silly. What did I expect, a spaceship? I shook off a sense of foreboding. When I could no longer hear the truck engine I emerged from under the trees, dusted the snow off my parka and hat, and turned on my flashlight.

      With tense muscles and a jittery feeling, I continued searching, playing a beam of light into the brush, looking for signs of rabbit snares. Then I heard what sounded like the engine of a pickup truck, and a snapping rumbling sound as it bumped through the woods in the direction of South Dare. Shutting off my flashlight again I ducked behind a birch tree.

      The truck’s headlights and a row of lights on top of the cab illuminated the woods separating the house and the settlement. The lights stayed on after the pickup stopped. Several minutes later the sharp crack of gunfire made me dive to the ground, my heart beating so fast and hard I could feel it pulsing in my head. After a terrorizing few seconds I realized the person or people in the truck probably weren’t aiming at me, but likely using the bright lights to stun deer. Will had told me deerjacking was a big problem when hunting season opened. A few more loud cracks broke the eerie stillness. The truck lights went off a few moments later.

      I wanted to get closer to the deerjackers – if that’s what they were – without them seeing me. If I could make an arrest without endangering myself, fine. If not, I could at least try to identify them. Several paths led through the woods to South Dare. The truck headlights, now off, could easily illuminate the paths nearest the house, so I couldn’t risk taking one of them. Then I remembered David’s church and the path Cindy Dare had taken when she ran away from me. That path might allow me to circle around behind the illegal hunters. I wished I’d broken my pledge to never own a cellphone. Then I remembered Will saying they didn’t always work out here anyway.

      The church occupied the corner where the road weaving up the mountain ran through the ramshackle settlement and met the back road from Cornwallis Cove. David’s house on the back road was separated from the church by a swampy patch of alders, now bare of leaves.

      Staying under cover I ran to the road and used the eighteen-wheeler’s tracks to guide me to the church. Behind it I sprinted across the meadow to the path I’d seen Cindy take the previous day. I could see the deerjackers’ flashlights bobbing through the trees.

      In the dim moonlight I stumbled along the wooded path. When I came within fifty yards and could hear the low rumble of their voices, I drew my gun. I assumed they were disembowelling the deer they’d just shot. My ears rang from adrenaline. A snow-covered fir bough brushed my face, nearly taking off my hat. I should call for backup. Or get out of here.

      The truck’s lights came on again. They lit the scrubby woodlot in harsh white light making the stunted trees cast jagged shadows. I ducked, momentarily dazzled. I was right. The men dragged a deer carcass to the truck. The doors slammed. The headlights disappeared as the truck drove off. Then silence.

      I snuck forward again, feeling my way in fits and starts, temporarily blinded by the light. They’re gone. Why not go back home now? Then my boot hit what felt like a tree root, only it had more give. I lurched forward, sprawling into the wet snow, hitting something that felt like a sandbag. I rolled slightly, and the smell hit me – the thick odour of blood and a sweet smell like rotten milk. I scrambled to my feet in revulsion, brushing myself off, a cold sweat trickling between my shoulder blades. It’s an abandoned deer carcass. Get a grip. I willed myself to calm down by focusing on my breathing, relaxing my shoulders, and emptying my mind of thoughts. Except for a slight rustle in the trees I heard nothing, so I turned on my flashlight.

      The light revealed a carcass alright, but no deer. It was Rex Dare. He lay crumpled on his back, his body dusted with snow, his mouth gaping in an o of surprise, and his eyes half open.

      Resisting the desire to bolt I doused the light. I listened for any signs Rex’s murderer was hiding nearby. The darkness grew eerie. Branches creaked in the wind. After a few minutes I squatted and turned the flashlight on to make a quick examination. My fall had knocked some of the snow off Rex’s body. Congealed blood covered his shirt and solidified into a frozen liver-like pile beside his ribcage. The odour made me retch. I steadied myself by putting my hand on the snowy ground.

      Standing up, I backed away from the body, careful not to disturb more of the scene than I already had. My knees trembled, making me wobble as I tried to fit my feet back into my own footprints.

      Keeping my flashlight low I raced through the woods to the church, aware I was making myself a moving target in a place where the residents hated strangers. I banged on the church’s back door, then kicked it open.

      After I flicked on the lights my eyes took a moment to adjust. The chairs were neatly stacked against the side wall. In the kitchen I used the phone to call the detachment, but hung up when I realized no one would be there and my call would patch through to Yarmouth dispatch. Shaking, I hung up. I leaned against the wall to collect my thoughts. Will would be appalled I was in South Dare.

      Fumbling with the phone book hanging underneath the phone I looked up Will’s name and dialled his number. A sleepy-sounding woman answered.

      “Is Constable Bright there, please?” I tried to steady my voice.

      “I think so. Hold on a minute.” Bed springs groaned and the woman yelled, “Will! Phone!”

      His hoarse voice came on the line. I identified myself.

      “Hey, what’s up?” The concern in his voice almost made me cry.

      I swallowed, refusing to let him hear how vulnerable I felt. “Someone shot Rex Dare. I just found his body.” I made my voice flat, almost mechanical.

      “No way! Where?”

      “Behind the church in South Dare.”

      “What are you doing out there?”