Chapter 8

 

Harry dropped onto the centre cushion of the brown plaid couch and propped his feet on the coffee table. “Sit.”

Ruth chose the rocking chair. She glanced at Harry, and a mocking smile crossed his face. “Going to have to get closer to me soon.”

She shuddered, then pressed her lips together and stoked her anger. Only bullies and cowards taunted the weak.

Harry winked at her and aimed the remote at television. He scanned through a slew of talk shows and cartoons before finding the opening sequence of a newscast. “Is this one of your local channels?”

Ruth squinted at the number on the screen. “Yes.”

“I used to watch TV to see what the press said about me.” He snorted. “Now, I just want to know if the cops have any idea where I am.”

He slid a package of cigarettes from his pocket, lit one, and tossed the rest onto the coffee table. Ruth’s nose wrinkled at the sharp smell.

The picture on the television screen zoomed in to a close-up shot of the smiling co-anchors and the opening theme swelled to a dramatic finish. “Good afternoon, and welcome to Global’s Thursday edition of the News at Noon. I’m Moira Simmonds, here with Dennis O’Neill.

“Today’s stories include a look at a group of local students who have taken a creative approach to the summer job search. Kevin Findlay has a report on the Provincial government’s latest efforts to boost the tourism industry, and we go behind the scenes at Nova Scotia’s oldest advertising office.

“But first, our top story. Dennis?”

Dennis O’Neill adjusted his glasses and faced the camera with a look of grave concern. “Nova Scotians were shocked today to learn that the subject of a Canada-wide manhunt is at large in our province. Harry Silver, convicted serial rapist and murderer, was spotted last evening in a Halifax area convenience store. He abducted a local woman.”

On the couch, Harry raised two fingers in salute, then cocked them at Ruth. “There you go, your fifteen minutes of fame.”

Ruth held her tongue. Would they say anything about Tony?

The picture split to show Dennis on the left side of the screen, with an image of Harry’s face on the right. “Please familiarize yourselves with this man’s picture. He is armed and extremely dangerous. Police are advising women across the province to take extra safety precautions and to avoid going out alone.”

“They could have picked a more flattering photo.” Harry sounded offended. What did he expect, a publicity shot from his glory days?

Cut back to Dennis. “Now to Moira, who has more details about last night’s incident.”

Moira, an attractive chocolate-skinned woman in her mid-thirties, spoke with controlled anger. “At approximately ten o’clock last evening, Harry Silver walked into a convenience store on the Bay Road. A female cashier was alone in the store at the time.

“Police speculate that the cashier, a blond teenager, was Silver’s original target. There was a power failure, caused by last night’s high winds, and Silver may have panicked. He fled, abducting one of two customers who had just entered the store.”

Ruth remembered the terror in the girl’s eyes, her shaking shoulders. How she’d pulled away from a comforting touch as if Harry had already abused her. If his threats could do that, what would they do to her future? Lord, please protect this young woman’s heart from fear and anger, and from guilt.

On the television, Moira consulted the paper in her hand. “Here’s what we have so far, Dennis. The abducted woman is Halifax resident Ruth Warner.

“The police report describes her as average height, with short, brown hair, and in her mid-forties. There is some degree of hope she may be released unharmed, since Silver’s past offenses have shown he preys on younger, blond women.”

Harry’s mocking laugh made Ruth jump. “Don’t get your hopes up. We’ve been through that. You’ll do.”

Ruth steamed. So many times growing up, she’d wished to be prettier. Taller, blond like her sister Lorna. Now here she was, wishing to be full-out ugly.

Moira set the paper down. “Ms. Warner’s husband is unavailable for comment, as is her companion at the store last night. Neighbours describe Ms. Warner as friendly and outgoing, but say the couple only moved into the neighbourhood within the past year.

“Frank Carter, who lives next door to the Warners, spoke with me this morning.”

The picture changed to show a middle-aged man in a grey trench coat, talking with Moira outside his home. Talons of wind snatched at Moira’s fashionable rain bonnet and slapped the man’s briefcase against his legs.

He moved away from the house. “I’ve gotten to know the Warners a bit since they moved in. Nice folks. Ordinary people, the sort these things shouldn’t ever happen to. I don’t mind saying, I’m finding all this hard to believe.”

Was this what it felt like to hear her own obituary?

“Have you been able to talk to Mr. Warner? Any idea how he’s handling this?” Moira held the microphone closer to Frank’s mouth.

“I went over this morning as soon as I heard the news, but he didn’t come to the door. I imagine he’s taking it pretty hard—who wouldn’t?”

The man edged toward his car. “That’s all I can tell you. If I don’t get moving, I’ll be late for work.”

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Carter. One last thing. Can you tell me where Ms. Warner works, or where I might find some of her friends who could give my viewers more background?”

He paused, then shook his head. “No, the name won’t come to me. I’m sure she told me. Fabrics or crafts or something. I don’t remember. As for friends, I’ve seen them, but I wouldn’t have a clue as to their names. Oh, wait, I suppose you might try her church.”

Moira brightened. “Which church would that be?”

“Up on Highlands Avenue. It has a different sort of name, for a church. Lighthouse, or something like that. We went with her at Christmas. Nice people, and she goes regularly. Maybe someone there could help you. Now, I really must go.” He ducked into his car and closed the door against the rain.

The television screen switched back to the news studio, where Moira continued her report. “That was my conversation with Frank Carter earlier this morning. Since then I’ve been unable to get through to anyone at Ms. Warner’s church, but we’ll keep on making every effort to learn more about this family, caught in such a horrible situation. And now— Yes, Dennis?” She turned her eyes away from the camera.

Her co-anchor’s face replaced her. “This just in. One of our reporters has finally made contact with the minister at The Beacon Church. He knows Ms. Warner, and is willing to talk with us. Before our next item, we’ll go live to Philip Gordon. Phil, you’re on.”

The young reporter wore a tentative smile, as if this were the first news story he’d covered on camera. He adopted a solemn expression and cleared his throat. “This is Philip Gordon with Global News. I’m here at The Beacon Church in Halifax with Rev. John Linton.”

The sight of her pastor made Ruth’s eyes well. John represented comfort, a haven. He’d become a mentor since the night he challenged her to pray for Harry Silver. Tony had been so uncomfortable in that meeting. But he’d made her go because he knew she needed help. God, nobody knows where I am. I’ll never see the people I love again.

Philip Gordon turned to the man beside him. “Rev. Linton, I understand you’ve known Mr. and Mrs. Warner for some time. Can you elaborate on the details of this tragic situation?”

John Linton still had on the blue shirt he’d worn at the prayer meeting the night before. He needed a shave, and his pale eyes burned in his pockmarked face as if he hadn’t slept. “I got a call late last night from Norma Martell, who was with Ruth when she was abducted.”

He raised one hand to ward off the question Ruth could almost see forming on the young reporter’s lips. “Mrs. Martell is quite upset about the whole thing, and does not want anyone from the media questioning her.

“As I understand it, the two women stopped at the store on their way home from church. Silver threatened to kill them. The power went off, and the cashier escaped and called the police. When they arrived with lights to search the store, Norma realized Ruth was gone.”

Harry snorted. “That was one twitchy woman. Probably would have died of fright on the way here. Or driven me nuts. Guess you’re not a worst-case scenario after all.”

Ruth ignored him. She focused on the television, where Philip nodded sympathetically at the pastor. “Can you give us a more personal look at Ms. Warner? Our viewers are naturally concerned about her in this tragic situation, and want to know her a little better.”

John Linton paused, the shadow of a smile chasing across his acne-scarred face. “Ruth is an active member of our church family. She works at Harrington’s Fabric Hut, downtown. And she makes the best blueberry pies I’ve ever tasted.”

His lips twisted. “There’s a horrible kind of irony to this. When I got to know Ruth, she and her husband were working through a deep personal tragedy. It could have crushed her, but instead she chose to allow God to use it to deepen her faith and teach her to pray.”

The reporter bobbed his head in two quick nods of encouragement, clearly hoping for more. Pastor Linton passed a hand over dark-rimmed eyes. “We’ve organized a round-the-clock prayer vigil at the church. I’ve been here most of the night. The last few years have made Ruth a survivor. Harry Silver got more than he bargained for this time.”

Ruth gulped. They were praying for her. Her spiritual family cared, hadn’t given up. Her lips trembled, and she couldn’t hold back her tears. She peeked at Harry, hoping he’d be looking at the screen and miss her reaction.

Their eyes met. He lifted an eyebrow. “Survivor, huh? You’re no match for me.”

Ruth knew it. She looked back at the television. What did John mean, more than Harry bargained for?

On the screen, John Linton seemed to grow taller. He faced directly into the camera and raised his hand, palm forward. “Harry Silver, I command you, in the power and the name of Jesus Christ, to leave His servant Ruth alone. You have no authority over her, and you will not harm her in any way.”

The young reporter’s jaw dropped. Blinking rapidly, he pulled the microphone close to his chest. The transmission ended abruptly.

In the cottage’s living room, there was the sharp hiss of indrawn breath. Harry’s feet dropped to the floor. He half rose from the couch, fists clenched.

On the television screen, Dennis ignored the sudden break in the interview. “Thank you, Phil, and a special thank you to Rev. Linton for giving us more insight into this story. I’m sure Ms. Warner will be in all our thoughts and prayers in the days ahead.”

He glanced down at the desk. “Now, our next item. I spent yesterday afternoon at the home of Jeff Conrad. He and some of his friends at Sackville High have come up with an unusual approach to finding a summer job—”

Harry’s thumb on the remote control cut him off. He turned on Ruth with a look that held all the hatred of a wolf at bay. “You didn’t tell me you were a Christian.”

The banshee shriek of the wind, hurling rain against the sides of the cottage, echoed his fury. Tension arced in her stomach. “Does it matter?”

“No.” He stuck another cigarette between his lips. The hand holding the lighter shook. “And don’t think what that fool preacher said will make any difference. Words are useless.”

He sprang to his feet, glaring at her. “The last one tried that trick. And it didn’t do her any good. If there is a God, then He either isn’t interested or isn’t able to save His own people.”

The last one. Susan. Grief clogged Ruth’s throat, pushed her thoughts out in a whisper. “Her body was so badly battered... worse than your other victims. Is that why?”

“It can happen to you, too.” Despite the hatred in his tone, it was Harry who looked away first.