The Defilers. Deborah Gyapong

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,