74.

Fenton Peale’s mind raced like a mouse trapped in a maze. A mouse probably could find an exit. Peale couldn’t. His schemes led him round and round in shifting patterns, but they always revisited the same frightening dead-end—arrest, disgrace, prison; arrest, disgrace, prison. And time was not on his side.

With MacFarlane alive, he thought, at least there had been some glimmer of a hopeful future, even if it kept him in thrall to a manipulative, cruel, unscrupulous snake of a man. At least then he could have held onto his comfortable lifestyle and the leverage he wielded as a prominent leader. He could have kept the accolades, the respect, and the public esteem that came with it.

MacFarlane’s demise, however, was like a curse reaching back from the grave—a malevolent vine, creeping toward and clinging to the wickedness it had propagated. Peale could sense the sucking grasp of its tendrils. A disquieting chill touched him. Everything worthwhile in his life seemed as if they were bleeding ever so slowly away.

Somewhere MacFarlane had hidden Simone’s text messages with him. Their discovery would link him to her murder, the scandal would ruin his career and marriage and, Carolyn’s death linked to it all would suggest his clumsy effort to cover it up.

His attempt to find the text messages had failed, and, inevitably, they would be uncovered. How long it would take, he didn’t know, but the minutes until their discovery were ticking away. That he knew. The RCMP would conduct a thorough search. His shame and weaknesses would be uncovered. And now, locked up in a holding cell, he could neither protect himself from ruin nor flee from danger.

Peale paced back and forth tediously in his narrow cell. Thoughts trickled through his mind. Fragments of plans formed. Bits of hope fell away. He paced continually and purposefully. He felt like a caged animal and, like a caged animal, his footsteps led him nowhere, and his instincts pounced on no resolution.

Two hours later, a guard brought a tray of food. The guard seemed jovial and curious but said nothing beyond a cheerful greeting. Peale responded with an anxious flicker of eyes. The tray lay untouched. An hour after that, Peale had ceased pacing and was reclining despondently on his bunk. He heard footsteps on the shiny concrete floor. Then a voice.

“Smart move, not calling your lawyer,” said Ben, his suit looking especially rumpled, his face haggard and unshaved. “No point stirring up more dust than necessary. Time for a talk.”

Peale sat up slowly. He slumped back like a wilted plant against the wall behind his bunk. His mouth remained inexpressive, but his eyes were expectant, curious, and suspicious.

“Peale, you’re a stupid sonofabitch, pulling a stunt like that. I don’t know what was behind it, but I’m going to find out. Meantime, I’m giving you a chance to redeem yourself. I’m considering holding off on formal charges at this time…at this time…,” Ben repeated slowly with emphasis.

“Why would you do that?” asked Peale.

“I want you to come clean about what you were up to. I told you I’d protect you if I could.”

“I wasn’t sure where your fine line stopped. What shade of grey is too dark, Ben? Or do you even know yourself? I couldn’t take the chance. Sometimes when a fellow goes so far and stops and turns around, he realizes he’s already stepped too far…without even noticing it. That’s politics…that’s business…and I expect that’s law enforcement, too. It’s all a judgment call.”

“What was your judgment call, Fenton?”

Peale ignored the question and turned toward a blank wall.

“What next?” asked Peale after a handful of reflective moments.

“Nothing. You’re free to go,” said Ben.

“What’s the catch?”

“You behave yourself. Don’t go near MacFarlane’s house. Don’t interfere with me or Anne or anyone I designate as an investigator. As for the future, there’s an old saying: ‘Hew to the line, and let the chips fall where they may.’ The line I’m talking about is my line. It’s the only one I understand. The fallout…what happens to you…what you may or may not have done…well, that’s a job for pundits, lawyers, and philosophers. After all is said and done, I’m just a cop.”

“What about that picture?”

“It’s packed away somewhere. Might be hard to find. Maybe it won’t be found.”

“And Schaeffer and Best?”

“They’re licking their wounds and contemplating their future. Something to think about.”