Chapter 31

 

Ruth’s free hand bunched the phone cord. The answering machine beeped. Was he screening calls so he didn’t have to talk to reporters? She’d better say something, fast, before the machine reset. If he didn’t pick up, she’d try his cell. “Tony, it’s me. I’m—”

Another click cut her words. Tony’s voice, his real voice, alive and warm, came through. “Ruth! Oh, thank God. Where are you, babe? Are you all right?”

She wilted against the couch and her words caught in her throat.

“Ruth?”

“I—I’m okay. I’m at the RCMP station in Chester. Can you come?”

“Try to keep me away. You’re really okay?”

“Really.” She nodded, even though he couldn’t see her.

“What about Silver?”

“He’s here, he turned himself in. You’ll never believe it, but he surrendered to the Lord.” She was talking to Tony as another Christian. What if—? “Tony, I saw you on TV. Did I misunderstand what you said... about you and prayer?”

His rich chuckle wrapped around her like a hug. “Nope. Surprise. I’m still not used to it, myself. I stopped fighting God and asked Him to take over. I was...”

Ruth dabbed her eyes as she waited for him to get himself under control.

He drew a shuddering breath. “I was out of my depth, and desperate.”

“We’re going to be all right now.” Ruth’s voice wobbled. “I want to come home. Please hurry.”

The door opened and Constable Weber walked in. Ruth looked up and smiled, then continued. “I have to go, and give a statement. See you soon. I love you.” She replaced the phone, Tony’s voice warm in her mind.

“Thank you, Constable. He’s on his way.”

Weber tossed a pen and a clipboard of lined yellow paper onto the coffee table. “You’re welcome. Call me T.J., by the way.” She poured coffee into a flowered porcelain cup and set it in front of Ruth, then joined her on the couch.

“You must have had a pretty rough time.” Her voice was low, sympathetic.

Ruth nodded, and reached for her cup. The sharp, everyday coffee smell soothed her nerves.

T.J. cradled her own mug, no longer smiling. “It shook me when Harry Silver escaped. I knew he chose blond women, and I’d read some pretty detailed reports about his crimes. Then he shows up here, and I’m involved in the search.” She gave an exaggerated shiver.

The coldly professional officer who held a gun on Harry was gone. This side of T.J. Weber felt safe, comforting. Ruth’s muscles began to loosen their knots.

“May I call you Ruth?”

“Of course.” She took a tentative sip of coffee.

“Okay, Ruth, we need to take a statement from you, and you have a choice. All statements have to be videoed, and our interview room downstairs is in use. So, we can set up a camera here, or we can transport you to the Bridgewater Detachment and use their facilities.”

Ruth frowned. Recording would be standard procedure, but still...

“The wall cameras are more discreet,” T.J. offered. “It’s no trouble to run over to Bridgewater if you want to go.”

Ruth looked around the cozy room. A formal interview set-up would be sterile and intimidating. “I think it’d be easier to talk here. This is where Tony—my husband—expects to find me. And I don’t want to go any farther from home.” She longed for a hot bubble bath and her own bed.

“Okay.” T.J. grinned at her. “What’s the first thing you’re going to do when you get home?”

With a feeble smile, Ruth shared her thoughts. They chatted over their coffee, and discovered a mutual interest in sewing. Ruth settled deeper into the couch as she described the quilt she’d hoped to finish before summer. It was so good to feel safe, to have a normal conversation again.

Cup empty, the young officer pushed herself up from the couch. “Get you a refill?”

“Sure, please.”

As she poured, T.J. said, “I’ll go get the camera now.” She gestured toward the bathroom door. “If you need to freshen up, it’ll take me a few minutes to get things ready.”

When Ruth emerged from the bathroom, T.J. was attaching a video camera to a silver tripod. “Make yourself comfortable on the couch. I’ve hooked this up to the television. Once we’re sure everything’s set up right, off goes the TV, and we’ll forget about this baby here.” She gave the camera a brisk pat.

Ruth found it disconcerting to watch herself, live, on the television screen. T.J. made some quick adjustments to the apparatus, then turned off the set.

Seating herself on the couch, the officer touched Ruth’s hand. “This won’t be so bad. Your husband will be here by the time we’re finished. What’s his name again?”

“Tony.”

“I’ll bet he was ecstatic to hear your voice on the phone.”

“You should have heard him—he kept asking if it was really me—was I really okay?”

“And are you?”

Ruth stared into her coffee. “Compared to what I could be, for sure. There’s a bump on my head, and my knee’s killing me—” how could she use that word so lightly? “Physically, I’ll be fine. Emotionally—” The lump swelled again in her throat.

T.J.’s brows drew together. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to see someone at the hospital? Even a prescription to let you sleep tonight might help, and they can refer you to a counsellor for longer-term healing.”

“I’ll phone my own doctor tomorrow. If I went to Emergency I’d be there forever. I can ice the knee myself, and as for the wreck inside me, I just want to go home.” Her voice sounded like a little girl.

T.J. nodded. “Why don’t you tell me what happened from the time you entered the store? Try not to leave anything out.”

Ruth closed her eyes. In retrospect, there wasn’t much to tell. Just long stretches of fear and panic-filled incidents. She spoke slowly, objectively, almost as if the woman in her story was someone other than herself.

T.J. listened without interrupting, scratching notes on her pad. Ruth said nothing of Harry’s conversion. That was a deeply personal experience, and he should be the one to share it. It was true he’d wrestled with his decision to surrender himself to the authorities. She left it at that.

When she finished, she watched T.J. scribble a few last lines. Then the policewoman looked up, her brow creased.

“Ruth, are you sure you haven’t missed anything? You’ve been in a very difficult situation, and it’s only natural to try to block out the memories.”

Ruth pushed into the corner of the couch.

“He’s a dangerous man, yet he didn’t harm you in any way? You told me about the men at the other cottage. Don’t be afraid to tell me everything that happened with Harry. It’s important that I know the truth.”

Ruth focused on the point of T.J.’s pen. “He didn’t rape me, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“I know.”

Ruth’s head jerked up at the calm words. T.J. grinned at her. “If he had, you wouldn’t be trying to protect him now. The trauma would be too great.”

The faint whir of the camera grew louder in Ruth’s ears. She felt the blood rush to her face. “If I were trying to protect him, wouldn’t I have helped him meet that boat?”

“I didn’t mean it that way.” T.J.’s tone was apologetic. “All I meant was you’re very careful not to make his part sound any worse than it has to. If he raped you, your attitude would be different—you’d be trying to dig him in as deeply as possible.”

Like she’d done with Denny’s part of the story. With an effort, Ruth met the other woman’s eyes. “Sorry to be so sensitive.”

“That’s okay.” T.J. flipped through her notes. “I’m just trying to make sense of what happened. He tried to assault you, but got sick. You escaped, were caught by his associates and returned. You planned to escape after dark, but you waited for morning.” She looked up, frowning, and Ruth braced for another round of ‘Why?’

Instead, T.J. shrugged. “Now, when he regained consciousness, he didn’t try anything else?”

Cold shivered up Ruth’s back. “He’d recovered more than I knew overnight. I planned to get away before dawn. He grabbed me when I came out of the bathroom. I thought he was asleep.”

T.J.’s face relaxed, betraying a hint of satisfaction, as if she’d known there must be more. “Go on.”