Grave Situation

by Alex MacLean

  And how will I be remembered? The ugly person I became or the decent person I used to be? I know I could’ve chosen a different way, but couldn’t think of any that would be this befitting.

  God, it breaks my heart when I think of my parents. They are what truly make this so hard to do. I’ll never see them again. I can only hope they don’t feel guilty about this. None of it was their fault. I’m just glad they have each other to lean on for support. I pray they won’t hate me.

  I have everything laid out on the bed, ready. So I must get this over with. At last, I will break free of these shackles. This stuff nearly killed me in April. Odds are it will this time. If not, I have a backup plan.

  My dearest diary, I will now bid my final farewell to you, my friend.

  25

  Halifax, May 12

  11:15 p.m.

  With a heavy heart, Allan closed the diary. He stared at the sunflowers on the cover and winced.

  If only I could’ve helped her.

  Behind him, Coulter and Sodero finished putting Cathy’s wrapped body inside a black bag. As Allan watched the zipper being pulled shut, the finality of the tragedy gripped him.

  “Will you be attending the post, Lieutenant?” Coulter asked him.

  Allan felt himself stiffen. “Not this time. I’ll wait for your report.”

  Coulter paused, giving him a quiet look of understanding. “I’ll be in touch tomorrow.”

  Allan simply nodded.

  Coulter pushed the gurney outside and then he and Sodero were gone.

  Jim and Harvey began gathering up the drug items and packaging them separately. They put a cork over the tip of the syringe before boxing it. When they lifted the blankets and sheets from the bed, they carefully folded them so no trace evidence would be lost.

  Allan gave them the diary and then headed for the second bedroom. It was much like the first one, only absent the night table. The blind was drawn, the bed neatly made.

  Jewelry, cosmetics and perfume covered the top of the dresser. One thing among the items caught Allan’s eye. Moving closer, he looked down at a glass ashtray. Inside it laid four crumpled cigarette butts.

  “Does your sister smoke?”

  “Yes.”

  “What brand and how often?”

  “Du Maurier. She smokes roughly half a pack a day.”

  Allan lifted the ashtray and stared at the partial imprint of the name Du Maurier above the filter tip on each cigarette.

  “Jim,” he called out. “Can you come here?”

  Jim poked his head in the doorway. “Yes, Lieutenant?”

  “Can you gather up these butts and forward them to Serology?”

  “Purpose?”

  “I believe these belong to Trixy Ambré. She’s the prostitute who went missing a few days ago. We don’t have a blood type listed on file for her. If the lab can extract DNA material from these filters, we’ll not only have her blood type, but also a genetic profile of her in case we may ever need one to identify any remains found. God forbid.”

  “We’ll need verification that it’s her DNA.”

  Allan thought a moment. “There will be a DNA profile made up of Cathy Ambré. Have Serology compare hers with Trixy’s. They’re full siblings. So on average, the two women should have fifty percent of their DNA in common.”

  “I’ll get right on it.”

  Within moments Jim came into the room with his field kit. He used a pair of tweezers to pick out the butts from the ashtray and place them in separate containers.

  While he did that, Allan continued his search of the bedroom. In the dresser drawers were frilly bras, thongs, and garter belts. Some still had the price tags on them.

  He looked under the bed and found books and magazines, shoes and an empty suitcase he duly noted. Near the headboard, he found two photo albums. Quickly, he looked through them. Faces of someone’s life with no names stared out at him. Grade school portraits of both Trixy and Cathy. Vacation photos. Christmas photos. Two little girls in Halloween costumes: one as a witch, the other as Cinderella. Ten people spanning three generations captured inside a single frame.

  In the closet, there were more books on the floor, mostly romance novels. A box full of miscellaneous items. And more shoes than anyone could ever wear in a lifetime. Allan never understood the fetish some women had with shoes. Melissa had been the same way.

  From the hangers hung an assortment of mini-skirts, corsets, bustiers and crop tops. At the back of the closet was a mesh belly dancer’s costume. On the top shelf was a gray metal box. Allan opened it and found receipts for electric and telephone bills, Visa and MasterCard statements, various sales slips from clothing stores.

  Hands on his hips, Allan looked around the room one last time. There was nothing more to search.

  He went out to the hallway and walked up to Malone.

  “I’m heading out now,” he said.

  “Okay, Lieutenant.” Malone gave him the clipboard. “SIU is just about finished here.”

  Allan timed out. “Enjoy your time off.”

  Malone smiled. “I will, thanks.”

  The corridor was empty of tenants. When Allan went outside the air seemed cooler. At some point, it had rained again. Around him came the sounds of water beating a steady cadence in gutters.

  Allan climbed behind the wheel of his car and started the engine. Before pulling away, he checked his spiral to verify the address of Cathy Ambré’s parents.

  And here comes possibly the worst part of all this, he thought, reaching for the gearshift.

  26

  Acresville, May 12

  11:30 p.m.

  A heavy chain, secured by a padlock, was draped across the main entrance of the Acresville Public Park. The grounds were closed at dusk. During the day the tarmac paths were busy with couples pushing baby carriages, kids riding bicycles, men and women out for a stroll or a jog, old men heading to the central pond to sit on a bench and feed the ducks.

  Herb hoped everyone would be gone by now.

  He parked his pickup at the curb outside the entrance. For a moment, he stared at a sliver of moon above the treetops. He felt nervous, hesitant. He cranked down the window and breathed in the fresh night air.

  He wondered if he should take the duffel bag with him. Would the park allow him the time and privacy to do what he needed?

  Can’t take the chance that it won’t.

  Slowly, he slipped out from behind the wheel. When he closed the door, the sound carried. He thought he heard a car and snapped around at the sound of it.

  The road was empty.

  He waited a moment longer, completely still. Only the trees, giving voice to a light wind, broke the pleasant silence.

  Quickly now, he hurried across the open lot. On the other side of the chain three tarmac paths branched out into the woodland. Two were dark; lampposts bathed the third.

  Herb took that one.

  Walking slowly, his gaze carefully swept the area. Every ten paces or so, he would look behind him, afraid that he might come upon someone. That was something he wanted to avoid. The only sounds were his own breaths, the repetition of his footsteps, accentuated by the silence.

  The path was like a tunnel. The sky was no longer visible, closed off by a canopy of branches overhead.

  Suddenly, Herb froze in mid-step. There was something ahead, a movement. Far up the path he saw two dark figures walking in his direction.

  Herb veered to the right and stumbled into the woods. Arms raised to protect his face, he entered a close stand of spruce and pine. All around him he could smell the tangy forest mast. He could see almost nothing. The trees, so thick at their tops, allowed no moonlight to filter through. In the deeper depths of the woods, the blackness seemed absolute. Only the light from the path afforded him a few yards of sight.

  Moving carefully, he stepped over a length of deadfall, trying hard not to make a sound. He crouched behind it, waiting, listening, trying hard to breathe evenly.

  Did they
see me?

  A drop of sweat slipped into an eye, stinging as he rubbed at it.

  From the path came the sounds of scuffing footsteps and of voices, one talking, the other laughing. Eyes narrowed, Herb spotted the two figures through a latticework of branches.

  As they got closer, their profiles became clearer. They were teenaged males, wearing ball caps, oversized T-shirts and baggy jeans with dropped crotches. The one on the inside smoked a cigarette.

  Herb didn’t move or make a sound as he watched them.

  They walked past, not even casting a glance in his direction, and soon Herb lost sight of them. The sounds of their voices and footsteps faded and all was quiet again.

  Herb rose to his feet and began to fumble his way back to the path. After reaching it, he looked around. Nobody.

  He continued on. As he touched it, the feel of the knife through his shirt bolstered his purpose.

  The path ended at a moon-drenched clearing. Herb wiped the sweat from his face. His watch read 11:52.

  Straight across the clearing a gentle rise centered the park. On the top sat a bandstand, with its pitched roof silhouetted against the backdrop of sky.

  Herb followed a garden path that cut through a circular bed of tulips blooming in a riot of color. He climbed to the top of the hill and dropped to a crouch a few feet from the bandstand. From here he could see much of the park.

  On the opposite side of the hill, there was the park’s central man-made pond; the dark shape of a footbridge arced over it. Under the moonlight, the water was smooth and reflective, black as obsidian.

  Herb’s gaze wandered further and then settled on the dark shape of a bench across the pond. Upon it lay an indistinguishable mass.

  He swallowed.

  He stood up and his shadow fell across the ground beside him, spiked by the grass. He started down the slope to the bridge. The echo of his footsteps followed him across.

  Closer now, the mass on the bench took on human form, a vagrant dressed in a ragged trench coat and legs covered with a blanket of newspapers.

  A sudden cough cut through the still air.

  Herb paused, watching the poor man beginning to stir. The vagrant raised his head, held it there. Even though Herb couldn’t see the man’s eyes through the textured dark, he knew he’d been spotted.

  For a moment, the pair regarded each other; neither moved.

  Herb turned away. He realized that he could leave before it was too late. If he went through with this, there would be no going back.

  Slowly, he walked to the bridge. He hoped the vagrant would follow, would come begging.

  Another cough.

  Herb heard the man groaning, struggling to his feet, the newspapers crumpling to the ground.

  “H-hey, b-buddy.” The vagrant’s voice was hoarse, labored.

  Instinctively, Herb’s fingers grazed the handle of the knife through the fabric of his shirt. His heart drummed in his ears.

  Halfway across the bridge, he stopped and put his hands on the parapet. He looked down over the edge at dark water below. Huddled together in the shallows of the pond was a polyglot of mallards, teals and black ducks.

  Senses alert, Herb became aware of many sounds around him—the faraway barking of a dog, the whine of a tractor trailer streaming down the 104. Nearby, the blast of a car’s horn, answered by another and closer still, the gust of laughter.

  Herb cocked his head toward the sound.

  The kids again?

  With narrowing eyes, he searched the trees on the far side of the pond for signs of movement. Suddenly, out of the dark, flared the orange tip of a cigarette. Herb could just make out two shadowy figures standing there.

  Beneath him the bridge vibrated with footsteps.

  “Hey, buddy.”

  Mind filled with fear and calculation, Herb turned to face the vagrant.

  As he spoke, his mouth was dry. “How are you doing, friend?”

  “Good.” The man held out a hand. “Couldja spare a dollar? You take with you what you give to the poor when you die.”

  Herb feigned a smile.

  Is that so?

  He fished a twoonie from his pants pocket and handed it to the man. With a curt nod, the vagrant took the two-dollar coin.

  “Thank you.” The twoonie clinked as he dropped it into a coat pocket.

  “I have a better proposition for you,” Herb said. “How about a nice warm meal, a soft pillow to rest your head on? There’s a lot of rain coming tonight. You shouldn’t be out in it.”

  The vagrant moved closer, looking up into Herb’s face. Five feet separated them now. Herb watched the man’s mouth parting, the slow recognition creeping into his eyes.

  “I know you,” the vagrant said. “You gave me a lift into town on Monday.”

  All at once, Herb realized that he’d just crossed the line. He couldn’t turn back now.

  “I got talking to my wife about you.” Inwardly, this stranger who couldn’t possibly be him, smiled at the sinfulness of the lie. “She does some volunteer work at one of the homeless shelters in Halifax. Cooks meals. Stuff like that. She made a big stew for supper. Lots of leftovers. What do you say?”

  The vagrant blinked, pausing a moment. An instinct for caution.

  Sensing this, Herb tried to make his voice sound persuasive. “C’mon, friend. We’d love to have you.”

  The man’s eyes brightened. He smiled, lips parted, revealing crooked teeth.

  With a measured undertone, he asked, “And a hot bath too?”

  Herb chuckled. “Why not?”

  He glanced sideways, searching the far side of the pond for the two figures. But he saw nothing, heard no voices. Only when he scanned the area a second time was he sure they were gone.

  Where?

  Herb knew that he couldn’t risk running into them on the way out. One glimpse and this would be all over.

  Footsteps on the bridge pulled his attention back to the vagrant. The man was shuffling toward the bench.

  Worried, Herb called after him. “You don’t want to come out?”

  The vagrant paused, turned to him. “Just have to get something.”

  A cloud crept across the face of the moon and the man seemed to merge with the new fallen darkness. Herb could just see his dim profile reaching for something beneath the bench. Even before he saw it there came the rattle of bottles and cans. The vagrant started back, an outline with a bag slung over his shoulder.

  Together, the two men crossed the bridge, topped the summit of the hill, and then made their way down the other side. The sky opened and moonlight soaked the area again.

  There was no one around but them.

  As they reached the lighted path, Herb checked the time—fifteen minutes past midnight. With each step closer to the parking lot, the mounting tension chafed Herb’s nerves, tightened his muscles. His pulse raced in his neck.

  On the street his pickup was a dark shape. There were no other cars around.

  For the first time since leaving the bridge, the vagrant spoke, “Where can I put this, buddy?”

  Herb saw him holding up the bag of cans and bottles.

  “You can put it in the back, friend,” he said. “Against the tailgate, so they won’t blow off.”

  As he approached the pickup, Herb fumbled in his pocket for the keys and unlocked the passenger door for the man. Then he went to the driver’s side.

  “You’re a good man,” the vagrant told him.

  The sincerity of the man’s tone stopped Herb where he was. Across the roof, he watched the vagrant’s head dip inside, felt the truck move with his weight as he climbed onto the seat.

  Strange. No one had ever called him that. For a split-second, Herb considered calling it off.

  He got in behind the wheel with his heart in his throat. As he turned the ignition, his fingers were awkward. He flipped the headlights on and then made a U-turn in the street. Three blocks west, he swung right onto Hanover Street.

  A moment later, he made
another turn at Preston, Acresville’s main drag. In the downtown core, only a handful of cars crawled back and forth.

  The two men passed a drugstore, a barbershop with its striped pole lit up outside, a Laundromat, and the decrepit building that accommodated the community’s only movie theatre. A group of kids loitered outside in the parking lot. Herb noticed a police cruiser near them. He instinctively eased up on the gas pedal. As he drove past, he saw the driver’s door fling open, the long legs of an officer emerge. In the rear-view mirror, he watched the cop walk over to the kids.

  There were no signs of life further on. The streets, the sidewalks were all empty. Preston ended at a T-intersection and Herb braked for the red light. Opposite him loomed the monolithic shape of a Catholic Church that dated back to the eighteenth century.

  As he stared at it, Herb felt a swell of sadness, years deep. The sight evoked a visceral memory of a little boy sitting inside next to his mother at Mass.

  Eighteen years had passed since Herb last stepped foot in the church; three weeks before his mother died, he had returned to his faith and to God, to pray for her recovery.

  A green arrow flashed on the traffic light ahead and Herb turned left, motoring north for the outskirts of town. The country road he took wound through farmland. Here he opened up the truck a little. Fence posts swept by at eighty kilometers an hour. Behind him, the skyline of Acresville grew distant.

  Miles passed.

  Within minutes trees bound both sides of the road, broken only by a few scattered houses. Herb shot over a plank bridge. The Elm River flowed beneath. The road ahead twisted with the river for a full two kilometers and then the two branched off into different directions, the road continuing north, the river abruptly veering east. Six more kilometers and the road itself forked in two. Highway #12 diverged to the right.

  Herb took it.

  Foothills rose up to surround them. In the rear-view mirror, Herb saw headlights of a lone car, hanging back, keeping distance.

  At the side of the road, a sign on a canted post warned of a rough section ahead. The speed limit was reduced to thirty kilometers. He hit the brights and slowed accordingly, bumping his way over pothole after pothole.