Grave Situation

by Alex MacLean

  “Have you given any thought to your parents?” he asked. “My God, man. What if they find out what you’re involved in? And to top it off, you would’ve been responsible for killing your best friend.”

  Slick’s face contorted. “Don’t bring them up. Not ever.”

  “Why not? Odds are you’ll eventually get caught. That’s the one thing you’ve always done well.

  “Imagine the unwarranted attention your parents are going to suffer through. The shame, the embarrassment they’re going to feel. You know what Acresville’s like. The idiots here will ostracize them. Look what they did to me.

  “I know your parents well. They’re good people. Hard working. Loved you even with your many follies. They don’t deserve what all this will bring them.”

  Blinking back tears, Slick’s throat moved in one convulsive swallow. At this, Herb realized he had tapped into a well of emotion he never knew existed in this man.

  Slick lowered the pistol. “They are ashamed of me,” he choked, tone barely audible. “They never say anything. They never have. But I can see it in their eyes. The way they look at me. I was always the black sheep.”

  When Herb saw Slick’s eyes move away from him, he lunged forward, shifting his body to the outside of the gun hand. Slick tensed, but before he realized what was happening, Herb had clutched his wrist with one hand and delivered a powerful strike with his other on top of the gun, tearing it from his grip.

  As the pistol clattered to the gravel, Herb punched Slick across the jaw, knocking him to the road. Then, with a deliberate calm, he reached around his back and pulled out his revolver.

  He stepped toward Slick, gun aimed at him. “Does the man you’re working for know who I am?”

  Slick stared up at him, his face filled with worry and surprise. Blood trickled from his lips. “What the fuck?”

  Herb jerked the revolver. “Answer me.”

  “He doesn’t know who you are. I never told him your name.”

  “How many more are there?”

  Eyes watchful, Slick said nothing.

  “Tell me.” Herb’s shout echoed in the trees.

  “Just the two of us,” Slick said at last. “He gives me the cemetery’s name, the person’s name and a list of the body parts needed.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Why?” Slick gave a nervous laugh. “You going to kill him too?”

  “Don’t play with me.”

  Slick raised his chin. “You go to hell, pal.”

  Herb smiled coldly. “You first.”

  He winced as he squeezed the trigger. Almost stunned, he watched a hole appear in Slick’s forehead, and then an explosion out the back that sprayed the ground with blood, bone and brain matter. His body twitched and then was still.

  Heart pounding, Herb knelt beside Slick. His eyes were still open, lifeless. Blood spread beneath his head in an expanding pool. Nausea filled Herb’s stomach; sadness filled his heart.

  Goddamn you for making me do this.

  He patted Slick’s jacket for the shape of his cell. There it was, in the inside pocket. He brought it out and removed the battery pack.

  Suddenly, he remembered the tire marks he had seen on the road. Someone could come along at any time. He hurried to his truck, climbed inside and tossed the pieces of Slick’s cell onto the seat. Fumbling, he missed the ignition with the key. Only after fighting the tremor in his hand, did he manage to insert the key.

  The engine sparked to life. He drove away, hands tight on the wheel. As he emerged from the trees, he stopped at the edge the highway. In the rear-view mirror, he could no longer see Slick’s car.

  He wondered how long it would be until someone found the body. What evidence had Slick left around for the police to find?

  Herb could feel himself shaking with anger. How the hell could Slick stick a gun in his face?

  Checking the roadway, he saw one car heading in the opposite direction. All clear the other way. Foot off the pedal, he idled onto the road. When he reached the southbound lane he stepped on the gas.

  He scarcely remembered the drive home. Cars and trucks went by half-noticed; the hitchhiker at the side of the road, lifting a thumb at everything that passed became a mere fragment on his consciousness.

  Herb parked in his yard and shut off the engine. He stayed there for minutes, unable to move. Through the windshield, he gazed out at the empty pastures, the grass swaying under the gentle push of a wind.

  Absently, he looked over the barn, the milk room, the silo, the machinery storage building and finally settled on the feedlot.

  Empty, he thought, wincing. Empty and dead. Like me.

  Herb tried hard not to tear up but found it difficult. The last month of his life replayed in his mind, like watching a movie he already seen a thousand times.

  Stepping from the truck, his legs were weak. He walked into the kitchen and went straight to the refrigerator. He brought out a chilled bottle of beer, twisted off the cap and took a quick swallow.

  At the table, he pulled out a chair and sat down. Today seemed surreal, an ugly nightmare in which he wouldn’t wake from. The grief he felt was so overwhelming, so powerful, that perhaps death would be its only remedy.

  He suddenly felt sick. He shot for the staircase in the living room, taking the steps two at a time. Down the hallway, he reeled to the bathroom. He just gripped the porcelain rim of the toilet when he began to throw up.

  He sat on the floor, back pressed against the bathtub. His stomach hurt. The vomit tasted sour in his mouth.

  Slowly, he got to his feet and stumbled to the sink. His hand shook as he tried to turn the faucet. He splashed cold water on his face, rinsed out his mouth. Lifting his head, he stared at himself in the mirror. This man, this stranger could not possibly be him—pale, weak, pathetic.

  Slick’s astonished voice came to him. “What the fuck happened to you, pal?”

  Herb flinched.

  He realized that he was alone now. Not a friend left in the world. Surrounded by enemies.

  He sank to his knees and wept.

  44

  Acresville, May 23

  4:35 p.m.

  The dead man lay sprawled on his back with his head tilted to one side. His eyes were open, the corneas already clouded over. As Doctor Fitzgerald examined him for signs of trauma, Allan stooped to one knee for a closer look.

  There was a single entry wound just above the victim’s right eye. The fact that there was no burning or soiling around the wound suggested that the distance between the gun and the victim had been at least three feet. The tear-shaped laceration in the skin also made Allan believe the gunshot had come at a downward angle.

  Was the victim kneeling when shot?

  He took notice of the man’s swollen lower lip, the caked blood on the chin and the two oval bruises around the mouth.

  Punched?

  The blood pool beneath the victim’s head, Allan saw, looked dry and had already separated from the serum.

  “How long has he been dead?” he asked Fitzgerald.

  “Not sure. Three to seven hours, maybe.”

  Allan checked his watch, calculating the time. That would put the murder between nine and one.

  His gaze focused on the position and condition of the victim’s clothing. There were no rips or tears in the leather jacket or the black T-shirt underneath. No stains of any kind. The same with the faded jeans the dead man had on.

  Allan considered the black pistol on the gravel by the victim’s feet. A Glock, he recognized.

  Is that the murder weapon or the victim’s own?

  He guessed he wouldn’t find the serial number in the gun registry. Black market, most likely. One of the many such weapons that had found their way onto Canadian streets from abroad. He searched the ground for a spent casing, but came up empty. Did the killer pick it up or was another weapon used in the murder?

  He glanced over his shoulder at the black Honda Civic with the driver’s door flung open. It was obvious the
dead man had come here to meet someone. The location was far enough off the main road so not to be seen by passersby and the road itself wasn’t in any shape—too bumpy a ride—for regular street vehicles. A truck maybe or even an all-terrain vehicle, but not a low-riding Civic.

  Allan stood up, giving a thorough look around. Other than the body and the gun there didn’t seem to be any other evidence. He gazed up at the vault of sky, rimmed by white smears that were thin as smoke. In a few hours the woods up here would be pitch black.

  He hoped James Bentley would finish by then. Artificial light from portable arc lamps wasn’t comparable to natural daylight when searching a crime scene for evidence.

  Allan took out his spiral and recorded the particulars:

  Time of arrival: 4:35 p.m.

  Location: Mountain Point Road. Acresville, Nova Scotia

  Weather: Sunny. 20°C

  Pausing for a moment, he shaded his eyes with a hand and surveyed the crime scene, the people present. Near a Ford F-750 service truck, David and Sam were interviewing three forestry workers in fluorescent orange jackets and matching protective trousers. Willy was cordoning off the road with barrier tape, while two Ident techs were snapping pictures and taking measurements. Pretty standard procedures.

  Allan turned back to Fitzgerald. “Any ID on him?”

  “I’ll look, Lieutenant.”

  From a front pocket came some loose change and a set of keys. Fitzgerald straddled the body and gingerly rolled it over. Allan moved closer, observing the large exit wound in the lower part of the skull. Clumps of dirt and gravel were stuck to the blood and brains that soaked the hair.

  Fitzgerald withdrew a ragged wallet from the victim’s back pocket and gave it to Allan without opening it. The wallet was fat with 10s, 20s and 50s, a considerable sum for anyone to be carrying around. Tucked into the gusseted slots he found several credit cards.

  Robbery is out.

  Allan took out the driver’s license, staring at the thin face in the picture—lank, dark hair, clenched jaw, and serious eyes. It was the dead man all right. No doubt about it.

  “Stephen Victor Eagles,” Allan said, recording the info in his spiral. “Born August third, nineteen seventy-four. Lives on the Bedford Highway.”

  Fitzgerald raised his head. “He’s a ways from home, isn’t he?”

  “That he is.”

  “So what’s he doing up here?”

  Allan slid the license back in the wallet. “My guess, he came out here to see somebody.”

  “Drug deal gone bad?”

  Allan shrugged. “Maybe. Considering the location, I don’t think either party wanted to be noticed.”

  From another slot inside the wallet Allan slipped out a photograph. It was old and worn around the edges; a wrinkle line creased the front. The photo showed an older couple, perhaps in their fifties. The man was conservatively dressed in black pants and a white shirt with the cuffs turned up at the wrists. His gray hair was neatly combed, his chin clean-shaven.

  At his right stood a slender woman in brown curls and a heather gray portrait dress. Spirited blue eyes enlivened her pretty face.

  Allan flipped over the photo to see the words: Mom & Dad.

  At the edge of his vision, he saw David walking over. Allan slid the photo back inside the slot and gave the wallet back to Fitzgerald so he could process it through the proper chain of custody.

  As David reached them, he said in a disgusted tone, “I think Acresville is going to hell in a hand basket. It’s been nearly fifteen years since we last had a murder here and now look at this mess.”

  The Chief didn’t need to say more. Two men were dead, a grave desecrated.

  In Allan’s view, David looked like he was under great stress. He appeared tired and sad and lost somehow. His complexion was pale, his eyes withdrawn.

  Allan imagined the turmoil that now surrounded David—his peaceful town suddenly thrust into the spotlight, revealing not only that violence could touch anyone, anywhere at any time but also the glaring inexperience of a small police force compelled to investigate it. Allan felt David’s burden on his own shoulders.

  “What did they tell you?” he asked, indicating the forestry workers with a lift of his head.

  David folded his arms. “They found the body at three forty-five on their way back from work.”

  “What were they doing?”

  “Clearing bush on the mountain.”

  “How far up were they?”

  “A couple of miles.”

  Allan paused, taking in the open mountain range around them. Out here, he figured, the report of a firearm would carry a great distance.

  “Did they hear anything that resembled a gunshot?” he asked.

  David shook his head. “No. They were all wearing hearing protectors.”

  “Where does this road go?”

  “It joins a network of other roads on the mountainside.” David told him. “Fire crews use it to gain access to the mountain. No one lives up here.”

  Allan watched James work over the Civic.

  “The victim’s name is Stephen Victor Eagles.” Allan gave David the info from his spiral. “Lives in Bedford.”

  David’s frown deepened the creases in his face. “Eagles? I know that name.” He read over the birth date. “Thirty-five years old. The age is about right.”

  “You knew him?”

  David blinked, seemingly lost to him. He walked over to the body and peered down at it with narrowing eyes.

  “Could be him,” he observed quietly. “Years can change appearances.”

  “Chief?”

  David turned to Allan. “Pardon?”

  Allan waited a moment. “I asked if you knew him?”

  “Through the justice system I did. He used to be in all kinds of shit. Stealing. Drug dealing.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  “Fifteen years or more.” David motioned Sam over and gave him the information on Eagles. “Run a background on this man and let us know what it turns up.”

  “I’ll get right on it, Chief.” Sam walked off to the side of the road, keying his mike.

  Just then, James called out to Allan and David. “Gentlemen, can you come over here please?”

  Both of them looked to see him holding something in his hand. Allan followed David over and as he got closer, saw the object in his hand to be a spiral bound notebook with a blue cover.

  “What is it?” David asked the tech.

  “I found this in the glove box,” James said, handing the notebook over. “Not sure what it means.”

  David opened it. As he began leafing through the pages, his brows bushed together.

  While waiting, Allan asked James if he found the car’s registration. He did; the car belonged to Stephen Eagles.

  “We also found a cell phone charger,” James added, “but there’s no cell in the car.”

  “None on the body either,” Allan said.

  “This doesn’t make any sense to me,” David mumbled. He closed the notebook and gave it to Allan. “You have a look, Lieutenant.”

  Inside the notebook Allan saw jagged handwriting, the scrawl of someone in a hurry. On each page there was a name of a cemetery along with a person’s full name below it. Allan found it odd that each page he turned to had a check mark.

  He recognized many of the cemeteries listed as being in the Halifax and surrounding area. As he reached the final entry, he felt time stop abruptly. He read: Dartmouth Memorial Garden, Cathy Ambré.

  Allan found his throat dry when he tried to swallow. Unlike all the other pages before it, this one with Cathy’s name had no check mark.

  What does that mean? And how is Eagles affiliated with her?

  “Can you make heads or tails of it?” David asked.

  Allan shook his head. “No, I can’t.”

  There came the clunky sound of a lock disengaging. Allan looked over to see James opening the trunk of the Civic. James paused there, staring at something inside. T
hen he looked over at the two men.

  “Maybe the guy was a grave digger,” he said.

  Curious, Allan and David walked over.

  “What’d you find?’ Allan asked.

  “See for yourselves.”

  James moved out of the way. Inside the trunk were shovels, rubber boots, coveralls, tarps, a pry bar, a chest cooler, and a hacksaw with the blade wrapped in a rag.

  “Wonder if he has any cold ones in there.” James smiled, gesturing to the cooler. “What do you think?”

  Allan didn’t crack a smile. “Open it.”

  The tech dutifully stepped toward the Civic, reached into the trunk and pulled the cooler forward. When he removed the lid, he suddenly staggered back in shock, dropping it to the ground.

  “Fuck me!”

  Since David was closest, he peered into the cooler first.

  “Oh my Jesus,” he muttered.

  One of his hands rose to his open mouth. As he slowly turned to Allan, his eyes were astonished, his face filled with sudden revelation.

  “What is it?” Allan asked.

  Quiet, David moved aside so Allan could see for himself and what he saw made his breath catch—two human arms, sawed off at the elbows. Allan stared in disbelief. He felt a chill walk over his skin.

  The arms belonged to a male, he realized. Their size and muscularity, coupled with the mat of dark hairs on them told him that. He bent to the cooler for a careful inspection of the wounds when a pungent odor struck his nostrils and he snapped his head back at the abruptness of it. It wasn’t the smell of death or decomposition; it was chemical-like.

  Embalming fluid?

  Allan shook his head, stunned and confused. The notebook trembled in his hands as he opened it to the entry before Cathy’s. The name said: Cecil Drake. The page had a check mark on it.

  Are those Cecil’s arms?

  Allan looked from the notebook to the items in the trunk to the dead man on the road, his mind reeling.

  What the fuck is going on here? Is Cathy next on the list? Goddamnit, I don’t want to get an exhumation order.

  David’s worried voice came through to him. “Think this is our man?”

  Allan responded with a small shrug, unable to think straight. He knew he had to recapture that professional part of himself that allowed him to observe things like an investigator. He turned away from everyone and read the entries over again. One name that wasn’t there stood out to him—Hector Walsh. What was that telling him? Why was it important?