Reds and blues flash in the black of the night, casting an eerie
glow on the highway. The cruiser’s hi-beams point up toward
Old Camp Road, spotlighting the gruesome remains of a body.
Down the road, in the opposite direction, a car is pulled over
on the shoulder. The driver’s door is open and a young
girl sits with her head in her hands. Her clothes, muddied and
torn, beg explanation.
I am newly arrived on the scene. The Sergeant phoned thirty minutes
ago saying, "This one might need a woman’s touch." And
me, being the only female officer assigned to this branch of
the RCMP, I got the call.
I stop to talk briefly with the first officer on the scene; he
can’t tell me much. So I approach the young woman, squat
down in front of her and wait. Eventually she looks up; her face
white and tear stained.
"
Want to tell me about it," I ask. And then, I wait. Experience
tells me that she will; if she feels she can trust me; if I don’t
push it.
She stares at me and I can see the shift. See her decide to talk.
"
I can tell you what happened. Believe me? Please believe me?" She
begins.
This is her statement:
We drove to the campsite on the hill overlooking Vermilion Lake.
We spread a blanket and snuggled together, waiting for the fireworks
to begin. Here, we’d have a bird’s eye view as they
exploded from the beach below.
The final rays of the July sun disappeared from a crimson sky
and the cloak of darkness descended. With the deafening crack
of exploding gunpowder, the sky filled with bursting clusters.
Streaks of light rained down, only to be followed by bigger,
brighter, multicolored clusters. Blooming and dying, and blooming
again. Awe. Awe. Awe.
I felt his arm tighten, his shiver of excitement. And as I turned
to look, I saw fireworks reflected in his eyes. And awe froze,
turned to fear.
His mouth came down on mine, hard, demanding. I struggled. He
pushed me down. Tore at my clothes. The weight of his body, claustrophobic.
I tried to push him off. It only excited him more. He swore at
me. Threatened to choke me. To kill me.
He said, "Quit fighting me. You want this. You know you
do."
My screams drowned beneath wave after wave of explosions. His
hands groping. Raking my body. Hurting.
My fists pounding him. Hurting back. And finally connecting with
his right ear. He screamed and rolled off. Blood ran down his
face. He reached up and wiped at his ear with his hand. It came
away smeared red.
“
You bitch,” he said.
I rolled onto my hands and knees. Started crawling, fast and
then on my feet, running; running for the car. I could hear his
feet pounding on the ground as he pursued me. I flung the car
door open and scrambled in. His hand snaked toward me as I slammed
and locked the door. The sleeve of his jacket caught. He screamed
curses, struggling to free himself.
A feeling of power surged through me. I turned the key in the
ignition and revved the engine; inching forward, dragging him
along. Down the gravel road, picking up speed until he was running
beside the car. Screaming at me, trying in vain to free himself.
Then, turning onto the highway, I gunned it.
As the spectacular finale exploded in the night sky over Vermilion
Lake, the sleeve tore. He fell. His head hit the pavement and
exploded in a shower of blood and bone.
"
And that, officer, is how I killed Murray Johnson. And as surely
as summer follows spring, justice follows evil. I have no regrets."
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Susan Flemming is a Canadian writer currently living in the US. She's
had stories and articles published in such diverse publications as
the children's magazines, Kids World, Hopscotch and On the Line, the
specialty magazine, Alberta Diver and the newspapers –The Vermilion
Standard and The Wainwright Star Chronicle. For two years, she wrote
a bi-weekly column called The Crisis Connection that also appeared
in those newspapers. Her current work-in-progress is a mystical fantasy
novel and her website and blog can be found at www.susanflemming.com.
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