He closed his eyes, and saw her face again, burned. Silently screaming, staring at him.
Help me, she seemed to say. You found me. I’m inside you now.
You breathed my body into yours. You denied me before, but you can’t deny me now. You are responsible.
Taylor closed his eyes. There was no escape from this voice. There was no escape from these thoughts. He knew that all too well.
You are responsible.
Taylor was becoming restless. This was taking far too long. Looking at his watch, he realized that only fifteen minutes had passed since he had sent Juan to call for the police, but it seemed to be twice as long.
Still sitting beneath the apple tree, he pulled a cigarette from its pack and slipped it between his lips. His stomach turned as soon as he lit the paper, and he forced the smoke from his mouth with disgust. He squeezed out the smouldering ember between his fingers, letting it drop into the grass next to his knee. He stared at the small brown shreds of tobacco jutting from the end of the broken paper. Even from this distance, he would catch an occasional smell of smoke and charred flesh.
Taylor was watching where the sunlight fell in splinters on the leaves when the sound of muted rock music began to waft towards him along with the sound of an engine and the sound of tires rolling across packed gravel. A gleaming white Ford Dakota pickup rounded the corner at the edge of the orchard, approached the pump-house and idled to a halt beside Taylor.
Michael Voracci opened the driver’s door and stepped onto dried earth and gravel. Looking around, Voracci slid his cell phone into his back pocket, hoisted his pants up, then pulled a slightly crushed pack of Marlboros from the front pocket of his red golf shirt. As his eyes locked onto the pump-house a few yards away, his shoulders drooped, and he began to rock from his heels to his toes. A gold bracelet flashed as he lit his cigarette with a blue disposable lighter, the flame invisible in the bright sunlight. He leaned against the white hood of his truck with a hand as fleshy and soft as a toddler’s. He smoked his cigarette and occasionally looked at his watch with distraction as he surveyed the burnt pump-house.
“Taylor!” he called finally and took a step forward. “You in there?”
“Here.” Taylor came from behind the truck.
Michael Voracci patted Taylor’s shoulder. “You okay, pal? You look pale.”
“Better than she is.”
“What the hell happened?” Voracci asked.
“Looks like someone cut her throat then tried to cover it up by setting fire to the place. Too much rain, or too little gasoline, I’m not sure. But it didn’t work.”
Voracci nodded. “Juan told me, but he wasn’t very clear. He was pretty panicked. You sure it’s her?”
“Yes. Are the police on the way?”
“Of course. I called them right away. I was just getting into my truck when I saw the kid coming up the road on the tractor like his hair was on fire.” Voracci shook his head. “It’s an awful thing.” He took the last drag from his cigarette, threw it down and ground it into the gravel. “I suppose I should see for myself.”
“That’s for the police, isn’t it, Michael?”
As good-natured as he usually was with his employees, Michael Voracci was not accustomed to being addressed by his first name, let alone being told his place. He tilted his head and squinted thoughtfully at Taylor before replying.
“She was a family friend,” he said. “Her father is my employee and my friend.”
Taylor listened without expression, standing close enough to him that Voracci had to look up to address him. “And it’s a crime scene,” he said.
“And it’s my property.” Voracci’s voice was soft. “I appreciate your loyalty to her. I’m not going to touch a thing. But I am going to look.
And you aren’t going to stop me, Mr. Taylor. In fact, I think it’s time you went back to work now. I’ll wait here for the police myself.”
Taylor froze for a moment then stepped back. He did not have a badge, so he had no right to stop Voracci. However, there was no way Taylor was going to leave the crime scene to anyone until the police arrived.
Where the hell were the police, anyway?
Michael Voracci, the owner of Tanglewood Vineyards, was the eldest son of Senator Anthony Voracci, former cabinet minister and a one-time hopeful for the leadership of the Liberal Party and the office of Prime Minister. Michael Voracci had been something of a celebrity himself in the late Eighties, known for his nightclub exploits and his outspoken conservative views on politics, which contrasted sharply with his father’s liberal stance. Now in his late forties, the boyish good looks the young Michael Voracci had exhibited in his youth seemed to have been stretched and exaggerated with age, making him a caricature of his younger image. With thick thighs, rounded shoulders and a belly that had taken on the shape and texture of bread dough, he was in the midst of a fast, hard slide through middle age.
“Just don’t touch anything,” said Taylor as he watched Voracci approach the doorway. “The police will want to look for fingerprints.”
“I know that.”
Voracci stepped into the shadows of the pump-house, emerging a few moments later, pale and visibly shaken. A gold fly clung to the collar of his red golf shirt.
“Horrible,” he said. “Just fucking horrible.”
Taylor nodded.
Voracci’s nod mirrored Taylor’s. He began to rock on the balls of his feet. “We should cover her up.”
“That’s a nice sentiment,” Taylor replied. “But tampering with evidence won’t help her at all.”
“No, no. I suppose that’s true.” Voracci kicked a stone. “Had you seen anyone around here?”
“Not a soul.”
Voracci rested his back against the front fender of his Dakota.
Reaching into the front pocket of his shirt, he pulled out his cigarettes. After lighting one, he offered the pack to Taylor.
Taylor shook his head. “No, thanks.”
“If she’d been alive, I’d have happily paid you the reward, you know. All five thousand. Every penny.” He exhaled a plume of smoke high into the air as he shook his head.
“I wasn’t worried about that,” Taylor said.
“The reward I posted was for finding her safe, remember?”
“I remember.”
Taylor turned away and clenched his teeth against the smell of the smoke. He fought to stay focused, fought to keep Anna’s face from appearing in front of his eyes again.
Voracci turned towards the front fender of his vehicle and unceremoniously unzipped his pants.
“My grandfather built that shed himself, you know,” he said, looking over his shoulder. A thin stream of urine splashed against the tire.
“He was a good man,” Taylor said, keeping his eyes from his employer. “I liked him a lot.”
“That’s right,” Voracci from over his shoulder. “I forgot. You used to work here in the old days.”
“When I was in school. For the summers.”
“Then you would remember him.” Voracci rolled his shoulders as the stream of urine slowed before zipping up his pants and turning