Wagner was only eighteen years old. She had disappeared ten days ago. Her boyfriend, David Quiring, was also missing, and the Andover Police, after a three-day investigation, had decided that the two had run away together, either to Mexico, based on what his family had said, or to Alberta, based on what her few friends had said. Anna’s father, Abe Wagner, had rejected this theory, adamant that his daughter would never leave without telling him, but his protests to the police had gone largely ignored. Whether she had run away with her boyfriend or not, Abe Wagner wanted her home. To this end, Michael Voracci, Wagner’s employer and the owner of Tanglewood Vineyards, had posted a five thousand dollar reward for information leading to her safe return.
One of the last times Taylor had seen her, she had been having lunch outside at a picnic table on a sunny day much like today. She had smiled and waved as he walked by. He could still hear her voice, see her smile and her expressive blue eyes. She was such a beautiful, carefree soul, one of those girls who could have been sixteen or twenty-five depending on the expression on her face. He could hear her laugh now. Taylor dug his heels into the ground as the sound of her laughter turned into a sob then a muffled scream.
Again, he fought the urge to get up, to go to the warehouse, to find out what had become of Juan. He needed to be here, to protect the crime scene, in case Juan returned with some curious workers before the police arrived.
For a moment, he considered covering her naked body with his flannel shirt. But these emotions pass, he reminded himself. It was best just to sit here against the tree. He had seen enough. There was nothing he could do to help her now except to ensure no one else went inside before the police arrived. He clenched his jaw when he remembered how easily Juan had stepped past him to get inside to satisfy his morbid curiosity. What had he been thinking of, letting down his guard like that? Perhaps he had been here too long. Perhaps he had spent so much effort trying to convince himself that he was just another farm hand that he had actually come to believe it.
Taylor shook his head with a surge of self-disgust. What had he been thinking of, coming here, trying to convince himself that he was something he was not? Just two nights before—the night of the thunderstorm in fact—he had been thinking of quitting this job and returning home to Ottawa, thinking of putting the pieces of his own life back together, and finally leaving this fantasy of a simpler life behind. Why had he not come to his senses a few weeks earlier, he demanded of himself now, when he could have done something to help Anna before it was too late?
He knew the answer to this, of course. He had fallen in love and had become too busy trying to find a new place for himself in an old, over-used fairy tale—the white knight trying to save the damsel from a tower of her own making. Dammit, Ben. So he had entrusted Anna’s fate to the local police—men, it turned out, who had put less thought into her case than they did trying to decide what to order for lunch.
When Taylor had told the Andover Police Chief, Tom McGrath, that he did not think Anna was the kind of girl to run out on her father without saying a word, McGrath had scoffed at him.
“And who are you again?” McGrath had asked, amused. “These Mexican Mennonites, they’re just like the migrant workers. They float from place to place. In fact, they’re worse than the Mexicans because they don’t carry any papers. They’re just blonde-haired, drug-selling gypsies.” McGrath had grinned at him, the sun reflecting from his sunglasses into Taylor’s eyes. “Don’t worry. Her dad will get a postcard from her in a few weeks. Just you see.”
Taylor understood well enough the prejudice against the farm workers. Tanglewood Vineyards employed over a dozen migrants from Mexico and sixteen Mennonites, most from Mexico, one family from Alberta, and Anna and her father who came from Argentina. To everyone in town they were all from Mexico. They lived the same simple lifestyle. The men were all thin, and all seemed to wear the same cheap brands of fertilizer caps. The women all wore handmade dresses, black shoes, white socks, and handkerchiefs tied over their hair. They lived and worked in a world of their own, apart from anyone who lived in town. There was nothing Taylor could say to McGrath to dispel a lifetime of prejudice. Many of them in town dealt in drugs, yes, but not the ones who worked twelve to sixteen hours a day on the farms, and certainly not Anna, or her father. There was nothing Taylor could say to show McGrath that Anna Wagner deserved as much respect as any girl from town.
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.”
