by Alex MacLean
He returned to the front of the house and gathered up his things from the step. Then he went inside, the screen door bouncing off the jamb behind him. He crossed the living room to the kitchen. On the table lay a black leather sheath. After picking it up, he slid the knife into it.
A black duffel bag rested on the floor. He had it already packed with everything he needed to complete tonight’s job: cuticle scissors, a spoon, a small mason jar filled with a watery preservative, rags for cleanup, and a flashlight. He put the knife inside the bag and zipped it.
He began to pace the floor in tight circles, nervous, unsure of how everything would turn out. To calm himself, he poured a glassful of whiskey and walked to the kitchen counter. Peering out the window that overlooked the backyard, he saw the last edge of sun had nearly retreated behind the mountains, leaving the horizon tinged red and indigo.
Soon the sky would dim to gray.
Soon it would be time for someone to die.
3
Halifax, May 8
17:15 p.m.
Allan felt tired, discouraged even, as he drove home. Earlier that afternoon, he shelved the Mary Driscow case away in the evidence room. He would continue to review any new information as it materialized.
A sense of failure lingered—a murderer still walked the streets. Allan saw a long road ahead before he would be able to live with the frustrations and ambiguities of the investigation. He’d never put so much effort into solving a case. Yet it seemed the greater the effort, the greater the frustration.
Traffic was bumper to bumper. Inching his way west along Cogswell Street, Allan looked at the pedestrians on the sidewalks. Men and women in T-shirts, tank tops, and shorts. Businessmen in suits. Off to the right on the North Common, oiled bodies tanned on blankets. Kids tossed a Frisbee back and forth. Everyone seemed to be out enjoying the nice weather. Everyone but him.
After edging into the outer lane, Allan cut south onto Robie Street. In moments, he reached Garden Street—a neighborhood of mature trees and well-tended lawns.
Home sweet home, he thought moodily.
He turned into the paved drive of his two-story home and cut the engine. He stepped out, squinting into the late-afternoon sun. The smell of someone’s barbecue wafted in the air. Children’s shrill laughter came from next door.
Allan walked to the front box to check for mail. He thumbed through a few bills and then stopped at a letter postmarked from Toronto. The scrawl on the front reflected a child’s untrained hand. Allan smiled fondly.
Brian.
Quickly, he tore open the envelope and unfolded the letter inside:
Dear Dad,
How are you? I am good. Mom is helping me write this letter. I called you three times. You were not home. I miss you. I want to come down next week to see you and Buddy. I do not have school on Monday, May 24. Is it ok? Mom is sending me down on the airplane. I am so happy. I can stay for 3 days. Please call me.
Love,
Brian
Allan folded the letter and slipped it back inside the envelope.
It sure is okay, son.
He stared at the driveway with his jaw clenched tight. Unbidden, a memory flashed in his mind. Like pieces of a filmstrip, he watched an image of a special time unfold before him. It was a Saturday afternoon in June. The sky was clear, the sun lava white. Melissa, his wife of seven years, watered her begonias along the front of the house, while Allan stood in the driveway with Brian. He had just bought his son a new bicycle for his sixth birthday. It was to be Brian’s first time on a bike without training wheels.
Allan held on to the handlebars and seat as Brian tried to get a feel for the bike. The boy balanced himself and pedaled his little legs. He started down the driveway with his father still holding on. Confident in his son’s ability, Allan let go. For a moment, Brian rode awkwardly.
“Look, Dad,” he yelled enthusiastically. “Look.”
Then he fell to the lawn by the drive.
Allan’s thoughts snapped back to the present. In a pensive mood, he started around the house for the back door. He found Buddy, a Chantilly with bright-yellow eyes and a mottled coat of white and cinnamon, waiting patiently inside for him. With a loud mew, the cat slinked between Allan’s legs, brushing its head against his shin and leaving scattered hairs on his pant leg.
“What’s the matter, Buddy? You hungry?”
Another mew.
Allan looked at the dishes on the floor; both were empty. He scooped a can of Friskies into one, poured fresh water into the other. As Buddy settled down to his supper, Allan put Brian’s letter on the table.
He went upstairs to his bedroom and put his gun away in a safe hidden in the closet. He took his pager off his belt and placed it on the night table. Whenever it chirped, Allan’s heart would start racing. Someone was either dead or dying.
He walked down the hall to the bathroom and doused his face with cold water. He sputtered, doused again, and then reached blindly for a towel. After drying off, he hung the towel over the bar next to the sink, took hold of the porcelain basin, and stared into the mirror, into the hard face of a man beginning to show his age. He appeared exhausted and drawn. Perhaps even a bit haggard. Dark crescents stained his eyes. It seemed like forever since he’d had a good night’s sleep.
After a light supper of soup and tea, he sat down in the living room to call his son.
Last fall, shortly after he and Melissa had separated, she accepted a management job at a retail store in Toronto. That was fine. It was her chance at a new life, a chance for success. But she decided to take Brian with her, and that bothered Allan. He couldn’t imagine life without his son around. At least in Halifax, Brian was close and Allan had his weekend visitation rights. Now he would have to wait for holidays and summer vacations. He couldn’t help but feel that he’d miss a great part of his son’s life.
On the third ring, Melissa answered. Allan tensed as he heard the familiar voice of the woman who had been his wife.
“Hello,” she repeated, louder.
At last, he spoke. “Hi, Melissa.”
A pause. “Al? It’s been a while. How have you been?”
“Great,” he lied. “Yourself?”
“Fine. I’m doing fine.”
An uneasy silence followed.
Why do I find it so hard talking to her?
For a brief, depressing moment, he thought about the chasm that had developed between them.
He said, “I received Brian’s letter today. He says he wants to come down for a visit.”
“He’s a bit homesick. I told him that I’d fly him down for the Victoria Day weekend. He’s a brave little guy. Not afraid to go on the plane by himself. A stewardess will look after him on his flight down. Is it okay?”
“Sure it is.” Allan smiled into the telephone. “I’d really love to see him again. Can I speak to him?”
Another pause. In the background, Allan could hear music. The opera, he realized. Melissa had always been a fan.
“Brian’s gone out, Al. Tom took him to see the new Iron Man movie.”
“Tom?”
“Tom Godfrey.” Melissa became quiet again. Something about her silence made Allan wonder what she was hiding, if anything.
“Who’s he?”
“A man I’ve been dating.” Melissa’s voice conveyed an edge. “Didn’t Brian tell you?”
Allan felt himself wince. How often had he wished to have those final days before the separation to live again, to have chosen a different route?
“Al?”
“He never told me.”
“We’ve been seeing each other for a few months. Brian had a hard time adjusting to him at first. But now he seems to be taking to him.”
Allan shut his eyes. In a flat tone, he said, “That’s swell.”
“I know you’re probably not happy about this.”
“No, not really.” Allan gripped the phone tighter. “Another man is taking my place.”
On the other end,
Melissa exhaled. “He’s not taking your place. He’s a nice man.” Her voice turned softly bitter. “Besides, he’s been there a helluva lot more than you ever were.”
Allan clenched his jaw, fighting through a maelstrom of emotions. He realized he had never truly recovered from the hurt and anger when Melissa left, nor had she, he supposed, for the absent husband burdened by obligation and a delusive belief he could somehow make a difference to a faltering society.
With a weary patience, he answered, “Let’s not get into this again. I didn’t call up to get into a fight. I know I was selfish, that I was neglectful. But you should know I had never intended to be that way.”
“I’ll get Brian to call you when he gets home. If it’s not too late.”
With that came a click in his ear. The sound of dead air. Then the dial tone.
Allan cradled the handset. “Jesus Christ.”
Absently, he stared at Buddy curled up on a chair by the fireplace. The thought of Brian’s coming visit brought a smile to Allan’s face, but the thought of someone else in his son’s life bothered him. He felt a thrust of jealousy and a pang of heartache that went a lot deeper.
He sat back, lifting his gaze from the cat and settling on a silver-framed picture on the mantel of the fireplace. All at once, his mind tapped upon a fleeting memory.
> > > < < <
Melissa sat on the edge of the bed with her head lowered and a tissue crumpled in her hands. Her hazel eyes glistened in the light from the bedside lamp. Allan had just walked in after coming home late.
“Is something wrong?” he asked. “You’re not usually up this late.”
“I can’t take this anymore, Al,” she said in a broken tone. “What happened to the man I married?”
“What do you mean?” He walked closer. “I’m here.”
“When?” she shot back. “When are you here?” She lowered her voice, as if remembering Brian in the other room. “Sometimes we don’t see you for days. Your son in there keeps asking me when you’re coming home. Where’s Daddy? Why isn’t he home yet? I’m sick of making up excuses for you.”
“Excuses? You know the demands of this job.”
“You’re obsessed, Al. Only you don’t see it. Things were much easier when you worked patrol.”
“Let’s not go there again.”
“At least you were home,” she said. “You worked your shift. Then you came home. Everything was great.”
Allan knelt beside her. “Listen, after we wrap up this case, I’ll take some time off. We can go on a little vacation somewhere. Me, you, and Brian.”
Silent, Melissa rose and walked to the window, gazing out at the crisp fall evening.
“Promises, Al. You know before this case is solved, there will be another one knocking at the door. And it’ll be you who answers.”
Allan sat quiet, stunned. He saw himself balancing on a tightrope of hope and harsh truth. Melissa turned around, tears rolling down her cheeks. For as long as he lived, he would never forget her face at that moment or the words she said.
“I’m leaving you, Al.”
Two nights later, Allan came home to find Melissa’s hatchback missing from the driveway.
> > > < < <
For a few moments more, Allan stared at the picture without expression. Then he reached for the remote and flipped through some programs on the television, settled back and watched a stupid sitcom, only partly absorbed. He still reflected on his conversation with Melissa, even as his eyelids grew heavy.
Several hours later, he awakened to the sound of static from the television. He didn’t even remember falling asleep.
The clock on the wall read 2:45 a.m. Allan picked up the remote and stabbed the off button.
He rose to his feet and crossed the room to the bay windows. In the dark, he gazed out at the empty street. Through the branches of the elm tree on the front lawn glowed a bright three-quarter moon. There were no sounds in the neighborhood. Everything was peaceful but his thoughts.
Eyes sad, he turned around and looked at the dark shape of the telephone on the coffee table.
Brian hadn’t called back.
4
Halifax, May 9
3:35 a.m.
Killing time.
The hooker took a quick pull on her cigarette. Restless, she paced the sidewalk at the corner of Barrington and South Street, her nightly haunt. She was tall and elegant, with long flaxen hair that framed an unblemished face. A narrow waist accentuated the gentle flare of her hips. Her long, shapely legs resembled those of a dancer.
She wore clothing meant to allure—red leather jacket, black mesh stockings, and red shoes with stiletto heels. Her black miniskirt was cut high enough to reveal a peek of cheeks. Her white halter-top was draped low in front so eyes would be drawn to her cleavage, and her nipples were visible points under the fabric.
Business was slow for a Saturday evening. In the last five hours, she had received many looks from action seekers, but only one taker—a lousy executive who had always looked down on her, always talked down to her, and she always ended up feeling like trash when he left for home to his wife and kids, but he paid well, and that was all she cared about.
A cool breeze sent a chill up her spine. Shivering, she buttoned up the front of her jacket. A few minutes more, and then she would call a cab to take her home.
She finished the cigarette, tossed the nub to the sidewalk, and ground it out under her heel.
The neighborhood around her was dead. The early-morning hour had killed it. Some cars came and went. The last of the drunken patrons had left the bars and cabarets. A few had staggered home on foot, while others rode off in taxis.
Sudden headlights drew her attention. A car slowed to a crawl across the street. The face of a young man appeared behind the windshield, staring out at her with narrowed eyes, as if considering. She blew him a kiss.
“C’mon, honey,” she muttered under her breath. “Come get some sugar.”
The left signal light flashed, and the car turned down South Street, passing only feet away. As she watched the taillights head down to the waterfront and then vanish around a corner, the hooker sighed. She wondered if the young man would come back. Often the younger ones would circle the block several times before working up the nerve to approach her.
A minute passed.
Two.
Then three.
No sign of the young man.
Discouraged, she reached into her purse and removed a pack of cigarettes, tapped the bottom, and pulled out a stick with her lips. After this smoke she promised herself she would call it a night.
She gazed across the street at the dark area of Cornwallis Park. The grounds, a tree-bordered square a block in size, were still and empty. Someone had left a beer can on the statue of Edward Cornwallis. On Hollis Street, a limousine pulled up to the front entrance of the Westin Nova Scotian. Moments later, a chauffeur emerged, opening the rear door for a couple in business wear.
Another car drove by, this time so fast the woman didn’t have time to register it. She turned and glanced left down Barrington. No one there. The same in the opposite direction.
She checked her watch: 3:50.
Ten minutes more, and she’d call a cab.
5
Halifax, May 9
3:52 a.m.
Adjusting the center dial of the binoculars, Hoss brought the hooker’s face into sharper focus.
“Nice,” he whispered. “Very nice.”
His palms were damp. A strange blend of fear and desire coursed through him. Breathing in, he shifted around, feeling the stiffness of sitting in the same position for too long.
He had the radio turned low, and the twangy voice of a country singer floated out from the speakers. The clock read 3:53. He knew he had to make his move before dawn cast its first light.
For a brief moment, he thought about how lucky he’d been to find the hooker. In retrospect, he realized it had been entirely by accident.
He had
arrived in the city four hours ago and found the downtown to be a beehive of activity—surging crowds gathered outside nightclub doors, taxis lined up at curbs.
As if in a dream, he crept along block by block, up and down steep hillside streets, scanning faces of people on the sidewalks, a mixture of men and women, mostly young, some older, of different shapes and races. They were only alike in their shared interest in Halifax’s vibrant nightlife. Looking at them heightened his feelings that he didn’t belong here. As long as no one noticed, he would be fine.
He saw several hookers standing on street corners dressed in rather provocative clothing. For some he slowed down to look them over. The younger ones, a bit eager to turn a trick, would step to the outer edges of the sidewalks, gesturing for him to pull over. Only the older ones, harder looking, restrained, street-wise, stayed where they were.
Self-conscious, he drove on. He had to protect his anonymity. There could be no room for error.
Many of the women were in pairs. Hoss saw some men in cars watching other women. He guessed they were either their pimps or undercover cops. Too risky. He needed to find one alone.
After two in the morning, he parked in the vacant parking lot of a Superstore on South Barrington Street. Beyond the reach of lights, he cut the engine and sat.
Waiting.
Watching.
Though his heart raced, he felt calm.
A few hookers had taken up shop in Cornwallis Park across the street. Mechanically, he took the binoculars out of the duffel bag and pressed them to his face, focusing on a stage show of degradation, seduction, and exploitation. Some of the hookers would leave in cars, only to return a short time later. Others would drift away on foot with their johns, seeking a dark alley to conduct their business.
Watching them, he thought of himself as a voyeur; they, in turn, were unable to see him.
Around him, he became barely conscious of the activity of a city passing by—cars pulling in and out of the Westin Nova Scotia; a drunk man stumbling through the parking lot near the gas pumps, babbling to himself; and sidewalk people hustling along with urban energy. No one noticed him.