54. Confronting A Killer

Kathy turned off the highway onto a narrow, tree-lined road that led to Channel Lane Point and the cottage. She thought carefully about how to approach Rivers. She was not going to be the next victim.

About half a mile along the winding road she spotted his car and pulled up beside it. It was still a hundred yards from the cottage. There was a clearing off to the left with a rustic, carved bench in the centre. The sun bathed the old bench with light. She quietly got out of the car clutching her phone. She looked left and right, not really expecting to see anyone but her self-preservation instinct was on high alert. She moved quietly. She didn’t want to startle Ken Rivers.

As she walked, she thought it was a good idea to have her hands free so she could defend herself if Ken tried anything. She tucked the phone in her front pants pocket.

The bench was thick and heavy with deep carving on the back. It was positioned to catch the late afternoon sun. Someone was sitting there, bent forward, head in his hands. It was Dr. Kent Rivers.

Kathy stopped and speed dialled Brampton. Voicemail. Her heart sank. She spoke quickly and softly. “He’s here at the Channel Point Lane cottage. He’s sitting in a clearing before you get to the house. You’ll see our cars. He’s alone, but you’d better bring backup. No sirens. I’m going to talk to him.” She disconnected, straightened her shoulders and walked calmly to the bench, stopping a few feet away.

“Hello Ken.”

The man started and turned around. His eyes were wide, like a startled animal, then they drooped and his face fell. He looked tired, weary and haunted.

“Kathy Chatsworth. I thought you might come,” the words rattled from his throat. Then he smiled. “Kathy. Of course you are here. You are the Blessed One. You can take this curse from me.” He began to rise, but she motioned him to sit back down and walked slowly to the bench. She perched at the opposite end.

“Ken. Do you want to talk about it?” She was keeping her voice steady, trying to sound encouraging, trying to sound unafraid. She saw him thinking about what to say. He reached out his hand to her, but stopped and put it down on the bench between them. He was wearing the deerskin gloves. It took all she had to not pull back, to not move her hand away.

He sighed. “It’s true. I am cursed. And it’s all come unravelled. I am a slave to my fate, but you, Kathy Chatsworth, you held my beautiful Shaye as she died. You are blessed. You are here because you are the one true love.”

This was unexpected.

Kathy fought down her panic. She watched his chest swell as he pulled in a breath, then sink as he let it out in a long weary sigh. He pulled back his gloved hand. He had the dagger in his right hand and laid the blade deliberately across his left hand. She recognized the movement. The ceremony was unfolding. A chill coursed through her veins and she tensed, ready to defend herself, but he remained slumped, unmoving, staring into the distance.

“I really thought Shaye was the one to help me continue the blood line,” he turned to her, his eyes narrowed. “As the mystery cousin I am part of the bloodline you know.” He patted the seat of the heavy oak bench. “And this, this is a Stormont bench. I had it made and put here. There’s a crest on the back.

What was he talking about? This was news. She raised her eyebrows, said nothing. She forced her face to show nothing, she hid her curiosity. She just nodded. He needed to talk at his own pace – and he did.

“My father,” he was staring at her now. “My father was the bastard son of Clive Benson Stormont. Clive Stormont supported my grandmother and the child, but he never acknowledged us. He never acknowledged us, but my father was a Stormont,” he was shouting now. “I am a Stormont!” He raised the dagger and Kathy drew back, but the blade fell back onto the open palm of his left hand and he said softly, a sob in his voice. “I am a Stormont, and I am part of the legend, and I am cursed.”