Murder Down The French Line

By R.M. Ferrier

The French Line - a road best not traveled. 
 
Ex Toronto cop Rick Fagan has returned home to the Lanark Highlands from the chaos of the big city but it's far from the charmed life he imagined.  
 
 
A local woman, Lacey Whittaker, has gone missing – and worse than that, she's disappeared down the French Line, the most notorious road in the County and the absolute last place you'd want to find yourself stranded. 
 
Did Lacey simply wander off, or was she a victim of more foul means than that? If so, then who took her and why? Rick has his suspicions. He knows of two families in particular on that road who he's certain aren't to be trusted – and one is to be downright feared! If they got their hands on Lacey, she's as good as dead! 
 
Follow Rick on his desperate quest to find Lacey Whittaker before it's too late. The search may be well under way, but the mystery is only beginning! 
 
Brace yourself - you're about to enter a nightmare. On second thought, perhaps you should reconsider.

• Language: English
• Publisher: R.M. Ferrier
• Release date: Nov 18, 2016
• ISBN: 9780994821430

Book preview

DEDICATION

Je dedie ce livre a mon enfer et a ce petit garcon mort j’ai perdu il y a longtemps.

CONTENTS

1 BLASPHEMOUS BLOOD

2 A Mouth Full of Soars

3 Black Riders upon Motorized Beasts

4 The Lavallette Camp

5 On Blueberry Mountain

6 A Dark Stain

7 A Dark Threat

8 The Hounds of Hell

9 The Cage

10 Her Name is Helen Hunter

11 A Dark Little Man

12 The Quarry

13 How Dangerous Do They Think I Am?

14 Kaila

15 What They Don’t Know Can’t Hurt Us

16 The Interrogation

17 A Lot of Horrible Things

18 Capable of Killing

19 Another Chance

20 Something from Auschwitz

21 A Lack of Silence

22 A Bony Black Hand

23 Coming Clean

24 Porridge-pot Clouds

25 Believe Me at your Leisure

26 The Pathway to St. Deacon’s Church

27 A Ghost in the Woods 

Books by R.M. FERRIER

The Crow Flies South For The Winter

The House Of The Black Goat

Cemetery Side Road

The Crow’s Nest Lies Beneath The Snow

Murder Down The French Line

KENTUCKY ROSE GARDEN

ROAD KILL

CHAPTER 1

BLASPHEMOUS BLOOD

IT HAS BEEN UNCOMMONLY warm for autumn. It’s already early October, yet few leaves have changed. Witnessing the first light of dawn washing over the sky and smelling the damp scent of morning after a night’s rain takes me back a while – back to when I was still a kid out checking traps before school. I grew up not far from here, just two concessions over on the Sugar Bush road. My father and I trapped muskrats, mink and beaver every fall along the Clyde River. I didn’t have to check the traps every morning; we used mostly drowning sets, so that meant the animals would be waiting dead in the water. It was more a matter of me not wanting to wait until after school. The thrill of the catch was too strong a pull; I compulsively had to know whether or not I’d caught something during the night.

It seems like ages ago now. It’s funny how a particular scent can take us back in time...or how such a simple thing can unearth a long forgotten memory. The air smells the same, though. Its sweet, pastoral perfume triggers visions of newly plowed fields and seagulls soaring high in the sky. That unmistakable damp, earthy aroma and the freshness of early morning can’t deny the lingering feel of summer; it is too present a memory for such nonsense. The air is too warm, the trees have far too many leaves and the grass is too green in the ditches along the roads. The air smells and feels like the past; there is no way getting around it. It has simply been that kind of fall.

I moved back to the area a few years ago. I had been away for nineteen and was a cop in Toronto for almost seventeen of those. I’d had enough of wading through all the dishonesty and bullshit that goes along with living and working in a big city and wanted to get as far away from that sort of life as I possibly could.

I should have known better than to come home; there are things I need to get away from here too. Being gone for so long, I’d forgotten about that. The phone call waking me out of my sleep at five thirty this morning reminded me in a big hurry. It forced me to remember a lot of things awfully fast.

When I left the Lanark Highlands, I was only eighteen. I was fresh out of high school, and I remember feeling as though I couldn’t leave this place behind fast enough. My mom had just died, my old man was falling off the rails and, oh yeah, there was a girl... I needed to get away from her too.

You’d think after seventeen years in Toronto, things would be different when I came back. The only thing different was that my dad was dead. Otherwise, I was coming back to the same old dilemmas.

Hearing Joe McDermott’s voice on the other end of the line felt kind of surreal. Hearing it at five thirty in the morning made me question the decade I was in. He sounded a little older and more wrung through, but I knew right off it was him. It had been a long time, but his voice is one of those things I can’t seem to forget.

Lacey is missing... She went out last night, and she’s still not home.

What? What are you talking about?

My sleep drunk mind was desperately trying to make sense of the situation.

What does that have to do with me? I asked, well knowing it had everything to do with me. I knew Lacey. She was a girl I’d gone to school with. She grew up just down the road from me... She was the first girl I kissed.

I’ve run into her a few times since moving back. She’s not the same girl I used to know; she’s changed a lot...and too much has changed her.

Joe McDermott knew his daughter and I used to be friends. It wouldn’t surprise me none if I was the only real friend she ever had. He figured as much, and knowing I used to be a cop, thought that if anyone could help him, I’d be the one.

I don’t have anyone else to turn to, and besides, I figured you’d want to know, he said.

I paused at that point; I wasn’t sure what he was getting at or what he expected me to do.

Responding to my silence, Mr. McDermott clarified his intentions.

"I know it doesn’t seem like she’s been gone that long, but, you see, she told me before she left that if she didn’t come home last night, I was to go out looking for her. She has never asked me to do that before. She always takes care of her own business and never talks about it, and I don’t ask questions. I figure it’s better that way. There are certain things I don’t want to know. This time, though, she insisted. It stuck with me because she sounded so scared. After she left, I couldn’t stop thinking about what she had said. I waited up until midnight, and when she didn’t come home, I imagined the worst. I tried telling myself she was only late and would be home before morning, but that didn’t prevent me from tossing and turning all night. I got no sleep at all, and when morning came, I couldn’t wait any longer.

I can’t go to the police; I don’t want her getting in trouble, and she hasn’t been missing long enough anyhow; they won’t do anything for at least forty-eight hours.

Actually, that’s not true; you can report someone missing at any time, but I didn’t see the sense in picking at details right then.

You can’t track her down yourself? I asked hopefully.

I was all set to before I realized the battery was dead in the truck. I’m telling you, I’m stuck. I wouldn’t be calling you at this hour of the morning if I didn’t think it absolutely necessary. Believe me; this cannot wait.

Why? What’s the emergency?

She was going down the French Line.

Joe McDermott didn’t have to say anything more. As soon as the words French Line dripped from his lips into the other end of the phone line, I knew there was no time to lose. That particular road is notorious around these parts. It is not considered a safe place to be stranded at any time of the day, yet alone after dark – for a woman or any other creature on two or four legs. Some of the most dangerous characters in the county call the French Line home. They are men you wouldn’t dare cross paths with anywhere for fear of being robbed, raped or murdered. They’ve been accused of them all at one time or another. They’re the sort of men whose own mothers wouldn’t feel safe being locked in a room with them; they’re that disagreeable. Even the police do their utmost to avoid them. They tolerate their lesser crimes in hopes they’ll distract them away from committing worse. They sell drugs, steal anything that’s not bolted down and sodomize their neighbours’ livestock. Those are the kind of degenerates we’re dealing with here.

Now, don’t get me wrong; not all the folk living down that wicked road are spawn of the devil – many are fine, descent living people. A lot of them are quite tolerable, but some are very bad indeed.

Clearly, a few of the old French families that settled there were of blasphemous blood. Their lineage must have sprung from cutthroats and convicts. They surely were the worst of the worst les Québécois had to offer – or maybe the area they settled in made them so, it’s hard to say. Scratching a living out of the dense bush bordering the Clyde River could have fanned the flames of their madness and added to their deprivation. Some people don’t do well in isolation. Regardless of the reasons for their lack of human decency, they are what they are, and they’re not safe to be around. Those people are monsters, and that poor girl has gotten herself mixed up with them. That was my motive for dragging my half-conscious carcass out the door at six o’clock this morning. I knew I needed to get to her as soon as possible. It already may be too late, but I’ve got to try, nonetheless. The McDermotts need my help, and I still feel some loyalty in those quarters. I didn’t hesitate when Joe asked; it was the least I could do for an old neighbour. After all, I used to do this sort of thing for a living. However, now that I sit here on the road with dawn breaking in front of me, the focus of my attention hits too close to home. I grew up around here. I know these people.

I stop my truck and get out to have a better look. Even in the thin light of morning, I can tell that there’s a car up ahead. It is parked along the side of the road, and its fourways are flashing, though they’re growing dim. They might have been left on for some time. There couldn’t be a worse place to be stranded. My only hope is that it’s Lacey and she’s still there.

I get back into my truck and drive closer. As I approach the parked vehicle, I can see that the driver’s side door is open. I pull up alongside it and peer inside. It’s just what I was afraid of; the car sits empty. There doesn’t appear to be anyone around – just miles upon miles of bush along both sides of the road. The driver could be anywhere.

I pull my truck onto the shoulder and shut the engine off. I already have a sick feeling about this. Come to think of it, I’ve been feeling that way ever since I received the telephone call, but it’s getting worse by the minute. Viewing the car from the rear, it appears slightly lopsided. I get out of the truck to have a closer look. Walking around to the passenger side, my suspicions are confirmed; the front right tire is flat. Upon closer inspection, I notice a jagged shard of metal lodged in the tire’s wall. That would do it. Seeing this nasty piece of handiwork reminds me of stories I’ve heard about how the boys from the French Line used to play tricks on unsuspecting motorists unfortunate enough to wander into their neck of the woods. They’d scatter old bits of wire, nails and other metal piercings about on the road in order to cripple the trespasser’s machines. Often faced with more than one flat tire simultaneously, most found themselves entirely overwhelmed. Those who realized the job was beyond them but were wise enough to leave their vehicles and get back out onto the main road to find help fared markedly better than those who settled on a more contained approach. Finding the vehicles abandoned, the French Line terrorists would simply strip them bare and leave it at that. If those experiencing the car trouble thought it an adherent idea to abandon their four wheeled treasures and, instead, waited for help to arrive or – worse, went looking for it among the local social order, woe be upon the architects of stupid mistakes. The morons would find themselves, like their prize vehicles, stripped and then raped, murdered and buried at the bottom of some bog just north of here.

I wonder if the boys are up to their old tricks again. Perhaps they’ve grown tired of watching reruns on television and sodomizing the neighbor’s livestock, so they decided they once again wanted to play with something possessing a human touch.

What was Lacey thinking? What could have possibly been going through her head to make her want to risk getting involved with someone from this godforsaken place? She grew up around here, the same as me; she knows what kind of people these folks are. They’re thieves, cutthroats and degenerate creeps – and those are the best of them. The worst are outright monsters! They are the kind of demons that skulk about our dreams and grow like cancer in our memories. Once witnessing their mere existence, they won’t allow us to forget. They live there in the shadows among our fears and loathsome worries. We only hope we never have to actually meet them alone in the dark. Few of our hearts are fit to bear such a fright as that. Even in the daylight, it’s an abundance to tolerate.

CHAPTER 2

A MOUTH FULL OF SOARS

LACEY WHITTAKER IS a prostitute. It’s a fact well known around these parts. As discreet as a person can try to be, word gets out and is passed around like a sticky candy bowl at Christmas. Everybody knows what kind of girl Lacey is and the kind of business she attends to. Changing her last name to Whittaker couldn’t hide it; everyone around here still refers to her as Lacey McDermott. They probably always will.

When I moved back from Toronto, I heard all the unpleasantries. She had changed a lot over the course of nineteen years. She sure wasn’t the same girl I’d left behind.

Those bastards! There are nails and bits of metal strewn about all over the road. They laid a trap for her...or someone.

I run back to check the tires on my truck. Phew! Nothing is flat yet, and I can’t see anything stuck in them. I’ll have to be careful getting out of here. I don’t think I’ve changed the spare in the back since my last blowout, so it won’t be of any use. I knew I’d be kicking myself one day for not doing it. I just hope that today is not the day.

They must have lured Lacey out here under false pretenses. She was expecting something else... She should have known better.

Inside the car, a woman’s handbag sits propped up in the passenger seat awaiting my inspection. It’s a red leather bag with silver studs around the edges. Lacey always liked the color red. I almost make the mistake of reaching for the bag without first donning my leather gloves. I don’t want to leave my fingerprints on anything in the car and risk having the local police thinking I had anything to do with whatever this is.

After retrieving my gloves from the truck, I return to the car and open up the purse to find the wallet still inside. Even before opening it, I know it belongs to Lacey, yet I persist with every last formality. Sure enough, the driver’s license has my old girlfriend’s name on it. In the I.D. photo, she actually looks good. Not that she wouldn’t; she always was a pretty girl. I think it was more a hindrance to her than a help; it was far too easy for her to attract men. It gave her a false sense of power when, really, she was the one being used. It wasn’t always that way, though; I treated her better.

She must have left in an awfully big hurry to leave her handbag behind. Maybe if I wait here a while longer someone will come back to claim the rest of their spoils. I expect they will, but there is no time for such luxuries; I’ve got to find her before it’s too late. I only hope I can get to her in time – for her and her father’s sake, not my own; I’m too far past that now.

I put Lacey’s purse back in the car and turn the key in the ignition to the off position to shut off the blinkers. There’s no sense drawing anyone else’s attention to the car; if they don’t know about it already, it’s best to keep it that way – or else the local thieves will be out in force. Within an hour, this car would be gone – lock, stock and barrel, like it was never even here in the first place. It would disappear without a trace. The only question would be who would get to it first. You could count on there being a fight over it; there would be that much interest.

As I go to get out of the car, the part of my wrist exposed between my glove and the cuff of my shirt brushes up against a used Kleenex scrunched up on the seat. I recoil immediately. I stand beside the car unsure of what to do next. I stare into the vehicle at the repugnant little ball of filth. My eyes focus in on it like a pair of laser beams cutting through glass. There is a dark reddish stain on the tissue. I stare at my wrist. I hope I didn’t touch the contaminated part... There’s no telling what could be on it. I stand here frozen and my stomach starts to feel sick, but in a different way than before. I feel as though I’m breaking out in a cold sweat. Realizing nothing can be done at this point; I make up my mind not to think about it and begin to walk back to my own vehicle.

I get back into my truck and decide to go for a little drive down the road. I know of one family who live just a little