by Alex MacLean
Head lolling, the hooker continued to groan in front of him.
For a moment, he didn’t want to let her go. Somehow he felt peculiarly united with this woman. She, like himself, had been a victim of life’s misfortunes.
He shut his eyes tightly.
I’m sorry.
Then with a rush of power, he hurled her into the water. The splash kicked up spray onto his hands. Below him, the hooker was an indistinct mass floating face down, head submerged, shoulder blades above the surface. Ripples spread out from her body. Suddenly, as if jolted back to life, her arms and legs began thrashing. Her head came out of the water, coughing, gasping.
“Help…”
The hooker’s anguished voice came to him, so soft that perhaps he had imagined it. A natural instinct urged him to leap in and save her, but he couldn’t move.
It has to be done.
Helpless, he watched the water close over her head and she was gone.
Moments later, farther out, she broke the surface, spitting out the brine, sucking in the air in huge gulps. Her arms beat frantically now; she clawed and blindly grabbed for anything to keep her afloat.
“Somebody.” Coughing. “Pleeaasssse!”
She went under again.
He scanned the murky harbor, short-lived breaths of frost exhaling from his mouth. Over the rolling water, he could hear the rush of his blood, the thump of his heart. Seconds passed, then a minute.
The hooker never came back up.
All at once, he felt sick, weak. He just made it to the side of the wharf before he started vomiting. Propped up on his hands and knees, he retched until the dry heaves racked his body. Shivering, he stood up and wiped his mouth. He couldn’t bring himself to face the water again. He snatched the duffel bag and hurried back to his pickup. The echoes of his footsteps followed him.
The key was still in the ignition. He put the duffel bag on the passenger seat and got inside. Locking the doors, he rested his forehead against the steering wheel. He was soaked. His clothes stuck to his skin. Breathing heavily, he sorted through his emotions—fear, confusion, regret. This night seemed surreal, a bad dream. For his own survival, he knew he had to shove his feelings aside. Focus on the job at hand.
You had no choice, he tried to tell himself. No choice.
He leaned back in the seat. Then he looked at the red jacket on the dash, the tank top and thong on the seat, the red purse on the floor. Back home, he would have to destroy these items. Clean the seats and wipe down the dash and door. No trace could exist of the hooker ever being in his vehicle. For now, he piled the items into a heap on the floor.
Snapping on the dome light, he picked up the hooker’s purse. Inside were a hairbrush, red lipstick, eye shadow, mascara, nail file, a small mirror, Clorets, condoms, a pack of cigarettes, a cell phone and a canister of pepper spray. The pepper spray he decided to keep. The cell phone, he shut off and removed the battery pack.
He dug out some loose change and the one hundred twenty dollars he had given her earlier. From a black wallet, he pulled out an additional two hundred dollars. He crammed the money into his pants pocket.
As he rifled through a compartment inside the wallet, he found the hooker’s birth certificate and driver’s license. Her name had been Trixy Lynn Ambré, twenty-six years old. She lived in Halifax. From another compartment, he pulled out a color photograph. The woman captured within it looked much older than her age. She was gaunt and sickly. Her curly black hair was cut short. Her eyes appeared bruised from lack of sleep. She had a thumb held up for the camera.
She sat on a sagging gray sofa with worn arms. In the foreground, on a glass-top coffee table, was a birthday cake. Several lit candles were stuck in it.
He flipped the picture over. On the back scrawled someone’s handwriting, Cathy, February 12, 2010. Age 23.
A sudden movement caught his eye. Turning, he saw a beam of flashlight crossing the sidewalk across the street. Behind it, a faceless form. He could tell by the shape that it was a man. He hoped it wasn’t a cop.
Automatically, he shut off the dome light, put the photograph back in the wallet and then the wallet back in the purse.
The shaft of light swept over the truck, spilling through the windows. Nervous, he reached into the duffel bag.
As his fingers found the handle of the knife, a tap came at his window.
8
Halifax, May 9
5:02 a.m.
“Security,” a voice said from outside his window.
Security. Not the police.
For that he was grateful. Fumbling, he wound down the glass separating them. With his other hand, he slowly removed the knife from the bag, concealed it by his side.
Because of the light in his face, he couldn’t get a good look at the guard, but he sounded young. Maybe early to mid-twenties.
“What are you doing down here at this hour?” the guard asked.
“Sorry man. I stopped down here to catch a nap for a bit,” he replied. “I’m too tired to be on the road.”
“Have you been drinking?”
“No.”
The light left his face and he could now see the guard better. He’d been right—the guard looked to be about twenty-five, with short brown hair and a neatly trimmed moustache. He wore a black jacket, white shirt and navy blue trousers. A two-way radio was clipped to his duty belt.
The guard gave him a long, level stare before finally saying, “How long have you been here?”
He winced at the time. 5:04.
“An hour, maybe.”
“Can I see some identification?”
He swallowed.
Can’t let him know who I am. Where I live.
With some hesitance, he reached into his back pocket and removed his wallet. He took out his driver’s license and handed it to the guard.
“Herb Matteau,” the guard said. “Says here that you’re from Acresville.”
Herb looked at him. “That’s right.”
“You’re a fair distance from home, mister. What’s your business in Halifax?”
Quickly, Herb thought of an excuse. “I was at the casino.”
“They have rooms there, you know.”
Herb shrugged, a light twitch of his shoulders. “If you can afford them. I lost most of my money.”
The guard jabbed the flashlight into the pickup, moving the beam around. Muscles tight, Herb watched the light glide over the heap of clothes, the purse, and the duffel bag. He felt the weight of the knife in his hand, the moisture of his palms against the handle.
The flashlight came to Herb now, making him squint.
“Who do those clothes belong to?” the guard prodded.
Snapshot images. A hand jutting out of black water. Clutched fingers.
Herb shuddered.
How long would it take for the body to surface? Days? Weeks? Would she be forever lost to the Atlantic?
“Sir?”
“My…” Herb cleared his throat. “My girlfriend’s.”
The guard fell quiet for a moment.
C’mon buy it and just go away.
“Well, you can’t be hanging around down here,” he said at last. “I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
Herb could only nod.
The guard walked away without another word. In the side mirror, Herb watched the dark figure round the back of the pickup, light bobbing over the pavement in front of him. His movements were slow, hesitant. Herb turned toward the rear-view mirror. The guard lingered near the tailgate, aiming the beam down at the license plate. Chest pounding, Herb saw him reach into his jacket and produce a notebook. The guard was going to record his plate number. Herb touched his eyes and shook his head. This night had gone gravely wrong.
His life, with his future hanging in the balance, now seemed to concentrate itself on this guard and that notebook in his hand. If the body of Trixy Ambré washed ashore somewhere, Herb could become a suspect. They would know he wasn’t from Halifax, a stranger with no connect
ions here.
He imagined the police, guns drawn, storming his farmhouse, clapping handcuffs on his wrists, grilling him with their questions. He would remain steadfast in his innocence. Deny everything to the bitter end.
He knew their subsequent investigation could uncover the rest—a case beyond their imaginations.
Suddenly, he saw the avalanche of consequence—the loss of his property, his name and face plastered all over the news, scorned by a society of hypocrites, locked away behind bars like an animal. Trapped. Afraid. Alone. Much like he had felt as a child.
Herb looked back at the rear-view mirror. As fresh as yesterday, a haunting memory crept into his sight, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He saw a frightened little boy, kneeling at his bedroom window and gazing out at the night sky. With no moon, the stars were bright and close. Tears in his eyes, the boy prayed to a God he didn’t know existed for the protection against his father’s violent mood swings.
Then, as if transported in time, the image of the boy became a young man. He stood in the north pasture of his farm at the base of a lone crab apple tree. Its naked branches were like jagged cracks in a drab sky that threatened rain. The surrounding mountains were a splash of green, red, orange and yellow. In the late afternoon hour, shadows were encroaching in the hollows of the pastures. A brisk autumn wind chased fallen leaves around.
In his shaky hands, the young man held a shovel. His face was streaked with dirt and sweat. Before him lay the shallow pit he had just dug. Piled beside that was a mound of soil. Exhausted, he began to toss spadeful after spadeful of soil into the pit. As he watched it slowly fill, the young man felt a sense of deliverance mixed with a stab of sorrow. Deliverance and freedom. Sorrow for the love and support he had sought but knew he would never have.
From that moment on, there would remain only one certainty in his life—he would never be a victim again.
Herb snapped out of his reverie. Goose bumps rippled his arms. He returned his attention to the guard and forced his mind to go cold. Knife in hand, he stepped out of the pickup.
The guard was stuffing the notebook into his jacket when Herb came around the back of the truck. Seemingly surprised, the guard shot the beam at him.
“Is there some kind of problem, man?” Herb asked him.
“What do you mean?”
Herb concealed the blade behind his leg. “Why are you recording my plate number?”
The guard lowered the flashlight. The two men stood facing each other. Six feet of grainy darkness separated them. Through it, Herb saw the guard’s face was tight with fear and strategy.
“Just precautions.” A tremor carried his words. “If you don’t leave, I’m getting the police down here.”
Slowly, Herb took a step forward, then another. “I don’t think that’s going to happen.”
The guard put up a hand. “Stand down, mister. Don’t make me get on the radio.”
Herb seemed not to hear. He moved closer still.
Four feet.
Three.
Easy now.
He could see the guard’s throat working, the flitting movements of his eyes, the stiff shrinking away of his body, as if he were ready to run. To Herb, he looked pathetic, a coward.
“Sir…”
Herb brought the knife out from behind his leg. The steel blade flashed.
A frightful understanding registered in the guard’s eyes. His mouth formed words with no sound. Scrabbling at his side for the radio, he turned to run. With lightning quickness, Herb was upon him, driving the knife between the guard’s shoulder blades.
The guard’s scream shot through the air.
The next few moments passed in slow motion. Back tensed, the guard toppled forward, arms flailing. Hitting the pavement face first. Another sound, one of glass shattering as the flashlight tumbled across the parking lot.
Herb stood over the guard and watched as his legs made pedaling movements. Gurgling sounds came from the guard’s throat.
The knife was lodged in his back.
Herb knelt and glanced around the lot along with the empty streets around it. He knew he had no time to dispose of the body. At any moment, the headlights of a passing car could expose him.
After patting the guard down with the backs of his hands, Herb found the shape of the notebook hidden in his jacket. Carefully, he slipped it out. In the semidarkness, the notebook shook in his hands as he began turning pages. It was a journal containing a chronological list of dates, times, and observations the guard had made during his shifts. At the last entry, Herb stopped abruptly. The handwriting was scribble, that of a man hurrying to record facts.
Date: Sunday, May 9, 2010
Time: 5:08 am
Location: Impark lot, Lower Water St.
Herb Matteau from Acresville. D.O.B. August 14, 1973. He’s 6 feet, possibly a little taller. Was sitting down. Hard to tell. Heavy-set build, muscular. Short wavy brown hair. Brown eyes. Pale complexion. Clean-shaven. No distinctive features. Wearing a black T-shirt and jeans. A gold framed watch with Roman numerals.
Herb felt himself swallow as he read the next few sentences.
Man acted very suspiciously. Sitting alone in his truck with a poor excuse to be there. A navy blue sport-like bag and women’s clothing, he claimed belonged to his girlfriend’s were inside.
The entry went on to describe the make and model of Herb’s truck. Below that, his license plate number.
Herb’s eyes filled with animosity. He closed the notebook with a snap and shoved it into his back pocket. Then he drew his face close to the guard’s ear. Only then did he see and hear the blood bubbling on the man’s parted lips.
“You should’ve left me alone,” Herb whispered.
He saw the guard’s stricken gaze turn toward the sound of his voice. His legs no longer pedaled. Instead, they just made slight spastic movements.
Herb placed one fist on the guard’s shoulder for support and reached for the knife. Through the handle, he could feel the blade throb, as if with its own life. With one powerful tug, he wrenched it free.
The guard let out a moan so low it was barely audible. A gush of blood flowed from his mouth and then he lay still. Expressionless, Herb stared as the guard died in front of him. He felt no pity. The guard had only meant to destroy him and to possibly reap the accolades for doing so.
Herb wiped the blade off on the guard’s jacket and stood up. Without looking back, he walked to his truck, got inside. The engine started. Headlights off, he turned around. When he reached the corner of Lower Water Street, he took a left and turned the lights on.
The guard had changed his escape route. Herb realized someone would soon discover the body. He imagined police vehicles swarming the waterfront, the shrill cry of sirens splitting the air, the incessant blue and red strobe reflecting off the buildings. He knew that he couldn’t go back over the MacDonald Bridge. The guards at the tollbooths might remember him—a lone man who perhaps looked out-of-place, in a hurry to get somewhere at such an early morning hour. There could be no witnesses.
Herb was now unsure of how to get out of Halifax. The streets and lights seemed to close in on him. A maze that both trapped and confused him. Signs had no meaning. The refuge of his farmhouse in Acresville felt like a thousand miles away.
Near panic, he stopped at the curb past Historic Properties on Upper Water Street to check his map. He found a route leading into Bedford and then to the 102 Highway. By memory, he drove toward it. Blocks passed without notice. His thoughts were filled with images of the hooker drowning in the harbor and the guard twitching on the pavement.
Get a grip, he told himself. That’s the key to survival. Don’t lose it. Just be cool.
Up ahead, signs directed where he should go. Within minutes he skirted the Bedford Basin and left Halifax behind.
On the horizon the first light of dawn touched the sky.
9
Halifax, May 9
6:18 a.m.
Can a
civilized society ever exist? Allan wondered.
In a job where he had seen the true detritus of man’s morality, he didn’t think it possible. There were simply too many disturbed people in the world living on the fringe of ethical judgment, poisoned by greed, hatred, and indifference.
Beyond the crime scene, the early sun spread across the harbor water. The location was a paved lot that served as a convenient parking facility for customers of many waterfront merchants. On this day it was the site of mindless carnage, of man’s unbridled brutality against another.
In the solitude of his car, Allan marked down his arrival time in his spiral notebook: 6:18 a.m. Only twelve minutes earlier Sergeant Malone had paged him about this homicide.
Parked close enough to view the general outline of the scene, yet far enough away to not disturb it, Allan watched those already at work. He saw familiar faces of uniformed officers in the swirl of red and blue lights as they busied themselves stringing up barrier tape around the perimeter of the lot. Black on yellow repeated the words, Police Line. Do Not Cross. The Special Identification Unit van sat across the street in front of Alexander Keith’s Brewery. Two figures, sheathed in full Tyvek coveralls, pulled equipment out of the back. Several yards from the body, Sergeant Malone talked to a uniformed officer. In the sergeant’s hand, he held a clipboard. Close-by, another man watched all the activity around him with intense interest. He was heavy-set with a pushed in face. Allan noted the radio clipped to his belt, the shoulder patch on his black jacket with the word security embroidered in silver. At that point, he realized the man wore the same type of clothing as the victim.
A witness or suspect?
To him, everything appeared to be in order. The integrity of the crime scene was being well protected. Only the body, face down in its absolute stillness, looked out of place here. Everyone avoided it. Doctor Coulter, Allan saw, had yet to show up.
Tired, he rubbed his eyes. It felt like weeks since he had a peaceful night’s sleep. His face in the rear-view mirror showed the strain of exhaustion.