Seven Days Dead by John Farrow Page A

Such thoughts wing past him before he asks, “Miss Orrock, do you know this man?”
    “What does he want?” She also whispers.
    She possesses the same internal authority her father possessed.
    “Miss, he has information about Reverend Simon Lescavage. Do you know him, this man?”
    “His father,” she says, then finally breaks from her spell and looks at the Mountie rather than at Roadcap. “A long time ago, his father murdered my mother.”
    Ten seconds tick by before Louwagie even thinks to react. He says, “Bugger,” and walks over to the man from Dark Harbour to lead him to the dead body of one of the town’s many pastors. He knows that if the town has an overabundance of professions, they are, in no particular order, layabouts, fishermen, and clergy, but apparently the latter group has just been diminished by one. He’s thinking also that if Maddy Orrock’s mother was slain by Aaron Roadcap’s dad, then a little bad blood might flow between them. But he doesn’t think it’s worthwhile to ask about that on the drive up to the Whistle, nor does he believe that it serves a useful purpose to revisit the bad blood of the past. He’s mulling things over and advising himself to keep his mouth shut for now when they climb into the squad car, yet the moment the doors slam shut, Louwagie blurts out, in a casual tone that suggests his question has no bearing on anything, “Did your father go to prison, sir?”
    The man seems nonplussed, not in the least put out by the question. “As a matter of fact, he did. Why do you ask?”
    “Is he out now?” If a convicted killer is living on the island and a murder has taken place, he might wrap this crime up in no time flat.
    Aaron Roadcap deflates that ambition. “No, sir. My father never got out. He died in prison.”
    Corporal Louwagie murmurs that he’s sorry. He doesn’t know what to say. He starts up the car. Sadness, he’s thinking, lies all around. Some days it’s inescapable. Inside, outside, on the skin, under it. He’s hoping that he will be able to cope, with both the sadness to come, and with what he must now see—the entrails of the poor Reverend Lescavage spilled upon the morning’s sodden earth, high above the sea. Driving up to the Whistle, he’s thinking less about the crime on his doorstep than about the woman, the rich one, the tall drink of water, and he does feel sorry for her, for losing her father, but he really can’t help his idle mind. He ponders again what it might be like to kiss and touch someone like her, that tall, that rich, or even, he admits to himself, what it might be like to kiss and touch someone not like her, but her.
    *   *   *
    Over the hump of the Whistle, after its long climb, the road descends a short distance to butt up against a homemade, yet well-made, wooden barricade. After that, the drop is sheer off the towering cliff into the bright blue bay below. Clouds are clearing out nicely and the sea is continuing to settle. Having initially pulled over to the side, Louwagie changes his mind. He performs a three-point turn, switching off the motor only when the Dodge is pointed straight back uphill. A clever move, to prepare for a quick getaway, as though he knows what to do at this place. He and his witness disembark.
    “Come here often, do you?” Aaron Roadcap kids him, and slams the side door shut.
    “Not if I can help it.”
    In a sense, the island is dry, as no bars exist. Yet the government-run liquor store sells more booze than any in all of New Brunswick. This despite an impossibly small population. So the people themselves are not dry, they simply choose to drink in their own places, be it in their homes, or on their boats, or out here in the wild. The Whistle is a favorite hangout. On any given summer evening, folks gather in numbers. A barrier has been built to prevent the most inebriated from tumbling over the ledge, probably laughing all the way to the ground and creating a thud so distant as to be