“Did he see her again? What happened?” I asked.
“He said they met lots of times. Although he never met her parents. Said she told him they wouldn’t understand.”
“He never named her?” Steph asked.
“No, never. I pressed him a couple of times, but he wouldn’t say.”
“Did he tell you anything else?” I asked but Jeremy shook his head.
“Mr. Lawson, you of all people should understand what I mean when I say that you can see into a man’s soul by peering into his eyes. You looked into those eyes while he was still out there, free. Tell me, what did you see?” I did understand, and I knew what he was talking about, because I too, had reservations about whether he was Lucifer. It had been one of those situations where you are completely sure of one thing, but still found the minutest niggle from confirming the truth. For me, I was sitting at exactly 99/1.
There was a knock on the front door of the shop then, and Jeremy looked toward the sound.
“I’d better open, if that’s OK with you?” He stood, holding out his hand to us. I took it and shook, as did Steph.
“Thank you, Jeremy, we really appreciate you talking with us,” she said as she let go, turning to walk out of the room.
“If you remember anything else, please let us know. Anything at all,” I said as I walked through the door and into his storefront.
“I will try. I doubt there is anything else that could be useful to you. If I was to make a suggestion though, it would be for you to talk to Dr. Levinson.”
“Who?” I asked.
“He is the visiting psychiatrist that came in to see specific prisoners on occasion. One of his main patients was Harry Lightman. Although most of what he got up to was pretty hush hush if you know what I mean.”
“Ok, we’ll be sure to follow up with him. Thank you, Jeremy.” As we neared the front door, he paused for a minute, the expression on his face lighting up, as if remembering something comical.
“Funny thing. The only thing that I do remember is probably something I’d rather forget. It used to drive me crazy about him.” He chuckled a little as he spoke. Steph unlocked the door and was about to step out when Jeremy spoke his last bit of information. I now wish he hadn’t.
“He always whistled that dam song. Day and night.”
“What song?” I asked.
“Fur Elise,” he said. In front of me, Steph froze.
3.
“Steph, you don’t know,” I said, trying to sound logical. She was driving now, a cigarette in one hand as it held the steering wheel, her face stern as a brick.
“I don’t fucking believe this,” she screamed. A woman walking along the footpath heard her, looked at us as we passed and began shaking her head. “Do you have any idea what this could mean?”
“You don’t know. Just because he whistled that song doesn’t mean anything. Lots of people whistle that dam song.”
“My mother told me she had been sitting behind her house by the river, singing, when Eddie first found her. He had been crossing the field, using it as a shortcut. THAT FUCKER COULD BE MY FATHER!” She swerved the wheel sideways and came to a halt in the gravel, the car jolting as it stopped. She opened her door and climbed out, slamming the door with such force, that for a moment, I thought the glass would surely shatter and come flying into my lap. I climbed out after her and tried to calm her. There was an abandoned house sitting 50 yards away from the gravel pit we stopped in and Steph was throwing rocks at it, her tears falling freely around her shoulders with each rock that she launched. I walked behind her, grabbed her wrist and pulled her into me. She resisted at first then submitted, sobbing into my shoulder. I could feel her anger, her shock, her terror. Her body felt tensed up and rigid. I thought she was going to collapse to the ground, but then she managed to regain control of herself.
“Shhh,” I whispered into her ear, “It will be OK, Steph. I promise, things will be OK.”
She pulled away a little, then began to giggle. I looked at her, confused. She peered up at me and smiled.
“Well, this certainly wasn’t the birthday present I was hoping for today.”
4.
The drive back to Cider Hill took a little longer as there was more traffic. At one point, a truck loaded with hay bales blocked our path, crawling along at an astounding 20 miles per hour. Steph asked me to drive, something I gladly agreed with, considering her emotional state. I felt much more comfortable having her sitting in the passenger seat, her emotions still coming and going in long waves that were tense one minute and confused the next. We listened to the radio for the most part, when the signal allowed for it anyway. Other times, we drove in silence, the scenery slipping past us with every turn of the wheel.
We stopped about 20 miles or so out of Cider Hill. An Esso fuel station stood there, run by Margaret Robertson. Her husband had opened the fuel stop ten years prior, figuring it would be good to have two businesses on the same land; the farm and the fuel. The farm is what proved to be his downfall, killing him back in 51. Like so many farming accidents of the time, heavy machinery played a contributing factor. In James Robertson’s case, a hidden rock, a fast-moving tractor and a tired farmer taking a shortcut across an unkept paddock at the end of the day would all combine to ensure that was one work day, Margaret’s husband would not be returning from.
“Hi Officer Connor,” a young lad of about
