The Defilers. Deborah Gyapong

me I cried in his arms because he seemed to understand how I felt about Dad abandoning me. Hugs and handholding led to cuddling and kisses. Because he was a priest I did what he wanted me to, even though some things shocked and embarrassed me.

      Soon we were meeting not only in my second floor bedroom – Gran couldn’t easily climb the stairs by then – but also among the cedars at the Arnold Arboretum. When winter came he started driving me to a motel in Quincy.

      That was where he raped me.

      He made me feel guilty, like I was to blame for his tremendous needs. Even though he hurt me I felt drawn to him, and went back for more. I was like a zombie with no mind of my own. I couldn’t break free.

      Ron told me I had to keep what we were doing a secret, as secret as the confessional. But the secret came out when I got pregnant. Turns out I wasn’t the only one, and some of the other girls were even younger than I was.

      Dad forced me to testify against him. At his trial Ron’s lawyer tried to blame me for what happened. Made me feel like dirt. And while he tore me apart on the witness stand the baby was kicking inside my huge belly.

      Dad and Veronica insisted I move to Nova Scotia with them and give my baby girl up for adoption. After that it was as if I took Gran’s iron and seared my heart so I would never feel pain like that again. Dad sent me for professional counselling, but that kind of help meant nothing to me. I’d counsel myself. Around that time going to Mass ceased because I no longer believed in Jesus or the Blessed Virgin.

      After finishing high school I got a psychology degree from Dalhousie University and became a Canadian citizen. When I was twenty-three I became a member of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, one of the most prestigious police forces in the world.

      When, years later, other victims of abuse by priests started coming forward I didn’t see much in common with them. Why didn’t they just move on with their lives like I did? I could understand filing a lawsuit because I thought the Church should pay. But I didn’t understand why people were suing for loss of religious faith as part of their pain and suffering. So you discover the Christian religion is a sham. It’s a hard truth, kind of like learning Santa Claus is really Uncle Fred dressed up in a red fat suit and fake beard. Get over it, for crying out loud. I especially had contempt for people who complained of flashbacks – until I started having them.

      It’s only recently I’ve been able to examine my past, or anything about Ron, without feeling like I was about to tackle a suicide bomber with his hand on the detonator.

      Fifteen years after the abuse, far from Boston and anything reminding me of my past, my careful cloak of sanity began to unravel. I faced an enemy far more evil and dangerous than Father Ron – a supernatural enemy. Nothing in my police training could help me. This evil used people as pawns and destroyed them. When it gained a choke hold on my soul, I had no choice.

      I had to cry out to a God I no longer believed in.

      Chapter 1: Consuming Fire

      The day my life began to unravel, I was driving my police car through Nova Scotia’s first snowstorm of the season with Constable Will Bright directing me from the passenger seat. The call came in as we pulled into the Irving Gas Station parking lot. Someone had firebombed a house while a couple and two children slept inside.

      How long had it been since I’d felt that adrenaline rush? It was still intoxicating. I became the old Linda, hyperfocused, intent on rescuing those children and catching the bad guys. Don’t get in the way of my fix. My foot pressed the gas pedal into the rubber mat and the car skidded onto the highway. The slippery road, fog patches, and big wet flakes drifting onto the windshield demanded concentration. Besides, it was still dark. The sun wasn’t even up yet.

      Will hung onto the handle over the passenger door. “Watch you don’t hydroplane.”

      Ignoring him, I switched on the flashing lights. “How far is this place?”

      “A half hour.”

      I swore under my breath. At least Dispatch had advised us a couple of volunteer fire departments were on their way.

      By the time we fishtailed into the clearing the sun had struggled up behind heavy clouds. Half the house was a roaring inferno and the other billowed black smoke. No one trapped inside could have survived.

      Orange flames licked at the grey Nova Scotia sky through the peaked roof and crackled through heat-shattered windows. The blaze cast a lurid glow on the wet snow plastering the surrounding forest. The fire fascinated me, consuming me as if I myself were on fire. Big snowflakes drifted down, creating dots like static on a TV.

      I burst out the driver’s door and splashed through ankle-deep slush to the trunk. Will plunged around from the passenger side. When I opened the trunk he smacked into me, all two hundred plus pounds of him, and bumped me aside causing me to accidentally bite the inside of my cheek.

      “Hey!” I sputtered, tasting the rusty tang of blood.

      Will rummaged through the trunk, grabbed a battered video camera, and swung the strap over his shoulder.

      Before mouthing off any more I clamped my jaws shut and searched for body bags on the muddy snow. Be a team player, Linda. The smoke’s acrid haze stank of burning asphalt shingles but, thankfully, not burning human hair or flesh. I brushed my stinging eyes with my forearm.

      Will prodded my shoulder. “You’ve got crowd control.”

      I spun around.

      He tossed me a roll of yellow police tape and then slammed the trunk shut.

      We slogged toward the red fire engines parked helter-skelter in the clearing. A dozen firefighters in yellow helmets sprayed streams of water onto the blaze.

      Will headed toward the fire chief, a short wiry man standing next to one of the pumper trucks. I decided that Will’s “orders” to string tape could wait until after the chief had briefed us both.

      “Someone threw a cocktail?” Will shouted over the roar of the diesel engines.

      “Yup, that’s what the man said.” The chief nodded in my direction. We hadn’t met, but my navy blue uniform parka and Royal Canadian Mounted Police cap were introduction enough. I wore the yellow roll of police tape like a giant bracelet.

      A red-hot beam collapsed throwing a cloud of glowing cinders into the air. The interior shimmered a gaseous yellow, the posts and beams glowing like a red skeleton. A ripple of excited shouts passed through the small group of spectators. Sharing their awe I peered through the smoke, wondering if the perpetrator was admiring his handiwork.

      “A couple and their two kids were in there!” the chief shouted. “It could’a been real bad!”

      About ten feet away, a man with a faded quilt draped over his shoulders held hands with a small girl who was leaning against his thigh. Next to him a woman rocked a chunky toddler in her arms. The baby stared at me over her shoulder. The cold had turned its round cheeks bright red. When the man laid his arm across the woman’s shoulders, she shook it off.

      “Is that them?” I gestured with my chin toward the family.

      “Yup!” the chief shouted. “The man says someone threw an incendiary device through that window.” He pointed toward the inferno. “There are some footprints in the snow. I’ve tried to keep my men away from them.”

      Will leaned so close to my ear I could feel the warmth of his breath. I flinched and stepped back, trying to disguise the flinch as a stumble. He raised his lopsided eyebrows. He stepped toward me again and leaned into my ear.

      I forced myself to stand still, even though my stomach seized and my heart thumped.

      “Can you handle crowd control by yourself?”

      “Of course.” I squinted. Does he think I’m a rookie? He was the same rank – constable – and probably didn’t have any more years in than I did, so he had no right to order me around, except for the fact that I was new to the detachment.