Judgement By Fire (21 page)

Lauren
squirmed at the memory of those misleading photographs. Before she could
protest, the Chief carried on relentlessly. “Your studio gets trashed—with a
very obvious calling card left behind suggesting that Mr. Rush here is
responsible. Yet he was miles away. Now, I’ve heard his version of this
incident when you were pushed off the road—you thought it was him, yet again he
was miles away, talking to one of your own good buddies at the time. What I’m
saying is maybe you didn’t reckon on his having such good alibis. Maybe you
thought you could discredit him and score points for your side. Maybe you
engineered these incidents yourself!”

Lauren
couldn’t help herself—she laughed outright, a short, nervous outburst of alien
sound that caused heads to turn in the crowded medical clinic. She found
herself gripping the hard edge of the examining table she sat on, sitting bolt
upright and staring in disbelief at the police chief.

When she was
finally able to speak again, even though she was sure everyone in the room
would be able to hear the anxious thudding of her heart, she managed to project
some suggestion of calmness.

“Chief, is
what you’re saying that you think I’m in some way responsible for the things
that have been going on? For trashing my own studio, for running myself off the
road, for getting blown across the road, cut and bruised and nearly run over?”

“That’s
ridiculous…” Jon interjected angrily, but Lauren held up a restraining hand.

She was calm
now, because the whole situation
had
become so ridiculous. Anger was edging
fear out of her mind.

“Well, you
must admit, it looks pretty damning, Lauren. You yourself were involved in an
incident in which Mr. Rush here was assaulted, and which brought a lot of bad
publicity for the ABC committee and yourself. Did that make it personal? You
went to Toronto and had a very public fight with the head of Rush Co., and when
you get home, you apparently find your studio ransacked and Mr. Rush’s business
card displayed prominently. No one’s word but your own for what had
happened—and conveniently, all but one of the paintings for your upcoming
exhibition shipped off to Toronto a couple of days previously.

“Then there’s
this unsubstantiated incident when a Rush Co. vehicle apparently runs you off
the road. You were Johnny-on-the-spot when something that was probably a
Molotov cocktail is thrown through the window of Rush Co.’s new offices, which
you must admit seems tailor made to send a pretty strong message to Rush Co.
that they aren’t wanted. And you’re again trying to pin the blame on the
company president.

“You’re
telling me that you saw a man who you thought was Jon Rush leaving that
building minutes before the whole thing was blown sky-high. I’ve a number of
injured people here so you must forgive me for getting pretty snarky about this
whole thing, because it’s escalating from a minor,
possibly
,” Lauren
winced as he emphasized the word. “
possibly
accidental assault at a
protest meeting that turned into a riot, to a terrorist-style attack.

“And you, Miss
Stephens, are sitting pretty right in the middle of everything.”

Lauren gasped, shocked at the harshness of his words. Before she could
say anything, Ohmer continued, “And for the record, at the time you say he was
lighting the device that blew up his own information office, Mr. Rush here was
in my office. We were there discussing all these events and trying to figure out
a whole lot of things including how we could keep you safe.

“But I guess
the real question here is, just who are we keeping you safe from?”

            After a full two
hours of further questions and discussion, Chief Ohmer finally conceded that there
was little real evidence to mark Lauren or the other members of the ABC
committee as the perpetrators of the frightening events which had taken place
in sleepy West River over the past week or so. Jon had backed Lauren’s argument
that the whole chain of events seemed inextricably linked to events taking
place at Rush Co. over the past few months.

            “Think about it - do
you really think I’m dumb enough to trash my own studio in order to blacken
Rush Co.’s name? I had too much to lose.  Besides, I couldn’t be in two places
at once – wrecking my home in West River and running down that poor woman in
Toronto,” Lauren had insisted wearily. “Now, you and everyone else seem to be
convinced that this poor woman was run down—if the eyewitness evidence is to be
believed—because she knew something about some goings on at the company. Her
missing briefcase seems to back that up. According to the witness, someone
driving a large, dark colored vehicle like a Jeep ran her down quite
deliberately. A dark-colored Rush Co. Jeep ran me off the road. Doesn’t that
make me more of a victim than a criminal?

            “What really scares
me, though, is while you’re concentrating your efforts trying to prove I’m
behind all this, there’s some madman out there who’s maybe getting ready to
strike again.”

            Both Chief Ohmer and
Jon Rush had looked uncomfortable at those words, and shortly afterwards, Ohmer
agreed that she could leave.

            “But keep yourself
available in case we need to ask you more questions, Lauren,” he told her, his
voice more friendly but still firm. “One last thing—we’ll be keeping an eye
over you at the studio. I’ll have a car out there just in case anything else
starts up.”

            “Is that to protect
me or to gather evidence in case I go berserk again?” Lauren  inquired with
false sweetness, her temper frayed and hanging on by a thread.

            The three men laughed.
Jon took her elbow to steady her as they walked from the medical clinic. Once
outside, Lauren sagged against him, relieved the unexpected ordeal of a police
interrogation was over. All she wanted now was to breathe deeply of his heady,
male scent, and to rest in the safe harbor of his arms.

            And for a moment,
that’s all there was. Jon’s arms tightened around her and he bent his head to
drop a light, comforting kiss on the top of her hair. Lauren snuggled deeply
into him, embracing him under the covering warmth of his open parka. The night
was chill but vividly clear; the spring sky awash with stars in the early
evening. The injured had been gathered up and taken home, the sightseers had
left; the street was empty except for the police and fire department vehicles, and
two ambulances parked near the medical center.

Tape fluttered
around the empty lot where the wreck of the information unit stood gaunt
against the sky, and a van with the Ontario Fire Marshall’s office insignia was
parked on the grass alongside it.  Debris from the fire littered the area but
little was visible in the darkness to bear witness to the horrific events of
the day, except for the raw tang of burnt metal, wood, and plastic which still
hovered over the street like a ghostly wraith.

In this
moment, time stood still and all her problems drained away as Lauren clung to
Jon and breathed deeply of his essence, filling her mind with him, reveling in
the hard strength of his supporting body.

            So it was a shock
when, without warning, he sighed deeply and pushed her away from him. Although
he still maintained the protective support on her arm, his body, mind and heart
seemed to pull away into a distance, leaving Lauren bereft and alone in the
empty street.

            “Jon…?” she faltered,
not knowing what words would heal the break between them.

            “It’s pretty awful,
isn’t it? To be interrogated by someone who makes it obvious he doesn’t believe
you, to be questioned by someone who has already jumped to conclusions that
aren’t very flattering, especially when you’re innocent.” Jon’s voice was raw
with pain.

            Lauren understood.
Jon was talking about the way she had interrogated him, mistrusted him and been
quite willing to jump to conclusions about him without giving him a hearing.
She swallowed the guilt that welled up in her throat and fought back the tears
that threatened to flood her cheeks. The essential difference between the way
she’d treated Jon and the way Chief Ohmer had treated her was that she had
wanted
to believe Jon was in the wrong. That way she need take no chances on being
hurt or rejected. She could slam the doors of her heart shut against him as
finally and as tightly as prison doors closing behind the guilty. The lump in
her throat grew to immense proportions, choking her, stopping her from
speaking. After all, what could she say?

            Lost for words,
Lauren hugged Jon’s unresponsive form briefly, then turned and ran towards the spot
where her small car was parked, its once shiny paintwork now smeared with dirty
grey ash from the fire. Yanking at the locked door, she realized that she
didn’t have her purse with her keys. It was either still in the medical clinic
or the police station, or had been lost in the confusion after the blast. She
looked back towards where the blue light shone above the station and
illuminated the medical center car park and knew she could not face going back
in there again. She had to get away, get home, bury her face in a pillow, and
howl and howl until maybe, just maybe, the pain lessened.

            Then a gentle hand
came down on her shoulder and without turning around she knew Jon stood behind
her. Tears were streaming down her cheeks, and she couldn’t bear to look at his
beloved face or let him see the depths of unhappiness written on hers.

            “I don’t know where
my purse is—my keys are in it,” she muttered, keeping her face averted.

            “You’re in no
condition to drive. Come on, I’ll take you home, and then you can sort something
out about the purse and your keys tomorrow.”

            How could she explain
to him that being with him was the one thing she dreaded the most in the
world—and wanted the most? She couldn’t bear to see the hurt she knew must mark
his face—hurt she had put there with her lack of trust and love. No, no, not
lack of love. If anything, she overflowed with love for the man who stood
beside her, his hand still resting on her shoulder, its warmth burning through
her jacket into her very bones. At this moment, however, she had no words to
tell him so.

            Mutely, she nodded
and began to walk alongside him towards the police station where the big black
company Jeep stood sentinel. Tears were still streaming down her cheeks on the
silent drive back to Haverford Castle, and she tried to avert her face as she
jumped out the moment they stopped in front of her studio.  She wasn’t fast
enough though. Jon caught up with her on her doorstep, his eyes haunted in a
pale face washed with weak moonlight. When he saw the tears on her cheeks his
look softened, and he rummaged in a jacket pocket to pull out a large snowy
white handkerchief.

            As he mopped the
silver droplets from her cheeks and eyes, Lauren looked up into his face and
saw the love, the hurt, and the terrible need that shone there, and knew she
was lost. She didn’t need words to mend this breach between them. Her arms went
up of their own accord, weaving around his neck as she rose up on her toes to
kiss his cheeks, his eyes, and his forehead. He stood stock still before her,
his arms down at his sides, as her hands moved downwards, inside his jacket,
and smoothed the hard muscles that rippled at the touch of her fingers through
the lightweight fabric of the dress shirt he wore.

            When her lips wove a
moonlit path from the base of his throat, over his jaw, and captured his lips
with their sweetness, Jon groaned in surrender, his arms wrapping tightly
around her as he lowered his head, the better to devour her mouth. His lips
joined with hers, a dance of love, and then his mouth claimed the kiss,
possessing hers in a capture that demanded she give him everything.

Now it was
Lauren’s turn to surrender and she did so with joy. It seemed a long time later
when the headlights of an oncoming car captured them still locked together in
each other’s arms, and they parted reluctantly. Lauren’s cheeks burned with
sudden embarrassment as she realized they were framed in the harsh glow of the
headlights from the police car Mike Ohmer had promised to send to watch over
the studio and Lauren.

            “The least he could
do is dim his damned headlights,” Jon muttered, and Lauren laughed aloud.

            “It’s awful cold out
here, and the front door’s locked. Should we go inside where it’s at least a
little warmer?” Lauren invited the message in her eyes clear enough for Jon to
read even in the dim moonlight. At his nod, Lauren led him around the back of
the cottage and bent to retrieve the spare key that lay beneath a clay pot of
newly sprouting nasturtiums on the doorstep. Handing it to him, she smiled to
hear him murmur a less than admiring comment about her security system, but as
the door swung open Lauren drew in a sharp breath.

Swallowing
hard against the memory of the last time she’d walked into her home, Lauren
swung her gaze to Jon.

“Would you mind—would
you go in first? I know it’s bound to be all right, and I know everyone chipped
in to clean the place up, but…”

            She was grateful to
see his understanding nod and braced herself as she followed him through the
doorway and into a room she didn’t recognize. Jon flipped on the lights, and
Lauren choked in a breath.

            Nothing was the same.
Her bright Afghans and the heavy, old-fashioned armchair and sofa they’d
blanketed were gone. The old farm weigh scale she’d used as a coffee table was
still there, but a discreet lace cover managed to camouflage the worst of the
terrible scratches that tapered off on the visible edges of the wood. Gone were
her small ornaments and knickknacks; gone was most of a lifetime’s accumulation
of bits and pieces. An unknown television set stood in one corner, and an
unfamiliar bentwood rocker with a soft pillow on the seat guarded the space
near the big black woodstove. An easel that wasn’t hers stood empty near the
north-facing window, and the forlorn sight made Lauren sigh deeply in her breast.