Stanton- The Trilogy

by Alex MacLean

  Allan swallowed.

  This home. This woman and the life they had. This little boy with whom they had shared their love. Everything that defined who Allan was. Gone.

  He had taken the photograph on Christmas Day, a year and a half ago. The memory of that night seemed so long ago, so surreal.

  Face haunted, Allan fell into a deep reverie.

  > > > < < <

  “Say cheese.”

  Voices in perfect synchrony, Melissa and Brian obliged.

  Through the viewfinder, Allan framed their smiling faces. A flash lit up the room.

  They had just finished opening their presents. Wrapping paper lay torn and strewn everywhere. Brian rushed back to the toys Santa had left him, while Buddy playfully swatted at a low-hanging ornament on the tree.

  Allan handed the camera to Melissa. Flipping it over, she checked the count on the film.

  “Roll’s almost finished,” she said. “I’ll take an extra one to Mom and Dad’s. I want to get lots of pictures. Kevin and Mary are over there with the kids.”

  “How’s your brother doing?” Allan asked, watching Brian sort out pieces of his Lego set.

  “Don’t know. They just got in last night. I imagine he’s fine. Mom told me he had a hard time getting Mary to go on the plane, though.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. She never flew before.”

  “A couple drinks would cure that.”

  Melissa laughed. “I’m not sure about that.”

  Brian looked over. “When are we going over to Grampy and Nana’s?”

  “In a few hours,” Melissa told him. “ You can still play with your toys for a while. Then you’ll have to get a bath and get dressed.”

  “Aww, do I have to?”

  “Yes, you have to, young man. We can’t have you going over to see Grampy and Nana in your jammies.”

  With a child’s earnest concentration, Brian was pushing the Lego pieces together, forming what looked to be the wall of a house or perhaps a castle. Watching him, Allan smiled.

  Just then, a beeping sound came from the kitchen. All three looked. Allan realized that it came from his pager. He went over and picked it up off the counter. Reading the message, he winced.

  Melissa appeared in the doorway. “What is it?”

  “Work.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  Distracted, Allan read the address at the bottom of the message.

  At last, he said, “Afraid so.”

  “My God, Al. It’s Christmas. Can’t they leave you alone for one day?”

  Expelling a breath, Allan pocketed the pager.

  He said, “Tragedy honors no holidays, sweetheart. Some people find this time of year very stressful. It was my turn to be on call. Audra Price did it last year.”

  Melissa folded her arms, staring at the floor. “How long will you be?”

  Allan shrugged on his coat. “It’s an apparent suicide. So it shouldn’t take long.”

  Brian came into the kitchen. “You’re leaving, Dad?”

  “I have to go to work for a bit, son. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  Brian followed him to the door.

  “When can we put my train set together?”

  Allan picked him up, and Brian wrapped his arms around his father’s neck.

  “You get it all out and ready,” Allan told him. “We’ll put it together when I get home.”

  A big smile lit up Brian’s face. “Okay, Dad.”

  Allan put him down, watched him scamper back to the living room. He didn’t wish to leave.

  To Melissa, he said, “See you in a bit.”

  “Try not to be long.”

  Allan opened the back door. “I’ll try.”

  “Gun.”

  Allan blinked. “Wha...” Instinctively, his hand moved to the inside of his coat. He turned around and gave her a funny half smile. “Thank you.”

  When he passed her in the living room doorway, he stopped and kissed her on the cheek.

  “I don’t know what I’d do without you,” he whispered.

  “Perish, probably.”

  Allan chuckled. Upstairs, he retrieved his pistol from the safe in the bedroom closet. Then he went back downstairs and left.

  A light snow fell, big flakes that coasted listlessly from a colorless sky. Half an inch had already piled on the ground.

  Cleaning off the windshield, Allan stepped into his car. His watch read 9:46 a.m.

  His callout took him to an empty warehouse lot in Bedford where an alert patrolman had found an idling Pontiac with tinted windows. There was a middle-aged man dead in the front seat with a single bullet hole in his head.

  At first glance, it had all the markings of a suicide. But as Allan started his investigation, he quickly realized that the large amount of blowback on the gun didn’t extend to the hand holding it. Not a speck. An ID tech’s swab tested positive for GSR on the frame of the gun behind the cylinder. The web of the hand between the thumb and index finger was negative.

  A collective hush fell over those at the scene as their thoughts fused into one realization—this wasn’t a suicide, but a homicide staged to look like one. That meant no quick wrap-up to the case. No quick return home for roast turkey and rich desserts. No exchanging of gifts and greetings or family visits. All that would have to wait.

  Allan checked his watch. 11:03 a.m. He exhaled, his breath clouding in the frigid air. He took out his cell phone and called home.

  On the fifth ring, the answering machine kicked in with Melissa’s voice. “Hi. You have reached the Stanton residence. Sorry, we are unavailable at the moment. But if you want to leave a message, we’ll be sure to get back to you.”

  At the beep, Allan said, “Hi, honey. You must be getting ready to head over to your parents’. It looks like I’m going to be later than I had anticipated. I’ll do everything I can to make it. Bye.”

  It was after nine that night before Allan could make his way home. By then the wind had come out of the north, a steady blast that numbed bare skin in seconds. The snow had accumulated. Inside Allan’s car, the heater couldn’t kick in fast enough.

  Snowplows, he found, hadn’t reached most of the side streets, only the main ones. Across lawns and parking lots, the white powder had drifted in undulating dunes. Here and there, gusts of wind whipped up snow devils.

  The storm was keeping people in. Only a handful of vehicles crawled back and forth. To Allan, that was a good thing. Stay indoors and enjoy the spirit of the season with loved ones.

  There was no sense going over to Melissa’s parents. She would have taken Brian home by now. Allan knew she would not hazard driving in such weather.

  A gust of powder swept over the windshield. Slowing down, Allan took his time. The drive home felt like an eternity.

  Pulling into his driveway, he saw the blinking lights of the Christmas tree through the living room window. Melissa’s car was there, buried in snow.

  Tomorrow, he decided. He would shovel tomorrow.

  He found Melissa in the living room, leaned back in the sofa with her arms crossed. In profile, she seemed sad, troubled somehow. Allan stared at an empty wine glass on the coffee table in front of her.

  Muted, the television flickered in the corner. On the screen, Peanuts characters skated around a frozen pond. The only sound came from the wind and snow buffeting the window.

  Walking to the fireplace, Allan held out his hands to the warmth of the hearth.

  “Some miserable weather out there,” he said.

  Melissa never answered him.

  Turning to her, Allan said, “You seem tired.”

  “Just a hectic day,” she mumbled.

  Allan detected the pinch of melancholy in her voice. For the first time, he noticed the red flush in her face. He glanced once more at the empty wine glass.

  “Everything all right?” he asked.

  “Fine.”

  Discomfited, Allan looked into Melissa’s eyes. From across the r
oom, her return stare was level and silent. There was something as yet unsaid, and he knew what it was.

  He said, “I tried to make it for supper. I left a message on the answering machine. You know it’s hard to keep a timetable with this job.”

  Melissa said nothing. Then something changed in her eyes. When she spoke again, her voice carried a hint of strained patience. “I know how it is. I listened to your message when I got home.”

  Allan puffed his cheeks, exhaling softly.

  “You missed a good dinner,” Melissa added. “We decided to have it early because of the snow. There’s a plate wrapped up in the fridge for you. You can nuke it if you’re hungry. Dad gave us a bottle of his homemade merlot.” Pointing to the wine glass, she added, “As you can see I already dipped into it. There’s still a lot left. It’s chilling in the fridge.”

  “Maybe later,” Allan said. “What time did you get home?”

  “Four thirty or five. Just when the snow started getting bad.”

  “Is Brian in bed?”

  “Yup. All the day’s activities wore him out, I think. He waited up for you as long as he could. He wanted you to help him put his train set together. He actually fell asleep down here.”

  For a moment, Allan paused. Under the tree lay an open box. Neatly piled beside that were tracks, boxcars, a steam engine, a caboose. Staring at them, Allan felt suspended between guilt and shame. It was difficult, he found, to look at Melissa now.

  Stiffly, he moved to the sofa and sat. He resisted the urge to reach for her.

  “I’m sorry, honey,” he whispered. “I’ll try to make it up to him tomorrow.”

  “Try?”

  “I have more canvassing to do in the morning. Hopefully, I won’t be too long.”

  Quiet, Melissa gazed off into some middle distance.

  “I heard the same thing earlier today,” she said at last. “You should really make an effort to spend more time with your son. Things were so much better when you were in Patrol.”

  “Did you want me to spend the rest of my career confined to a radio car?”

  She turned to him, her face angry. “At least Brian got to see you. And I got to see you. I’d hate to think your son is beginning to feel like he’s losing his father.”

  Unspoken was the sense that she was losing her husband as well. Without more, she stood up and left. Hurt by the sting of her cutting remark, Allan watched her retreat up the stairs. Then he slouched back in the sofa.

  On the television, Snoopy was tacking decorations to his doghouse. Allan stared until the image blurred.

  > > > < < <

  Allan realized it was soon after that night the chasm began to widen between him and Melissa.

  Heartsick, he put the picture back on the mantel and went to the kitchen. He removed a bottle of rum from the cabinet above the refrigerator, unscrewed the cap, and tipped the bottle to his lips. The rum burned his throat going down and settled in his stomach like a hot coal. Within minutes, he could feel the warmth radiate out to the rest of his body.

  Allan reached inside his jacket and fished out his badge case from an inside pocket. Then he went back to the living room.

  Buddy, he saw, lay asleep on the chair. Allan set the bottle on the coffee table and lowered himself onto the sofa. Hands shaking, he opened the case and stared at his badge and identification card.

  “You have your job, Dad. Mom told me that before...”

  Slowly, Allan shut his eyes.

  “You have to catch the bad guys.”

  In one angry motion, Allan threw the badge case across the room. It skittered across the top of the television and struck the wall behind it, dropping to the floor. Buddy’s head snapped up, eyes wide, ears twitching.

  Allan reached for the bottle of rum.

  For the next hour, he sat in a slump. Through an inebriated fog, he watched the twilight diminish to darkness. He let the rum numb his body and his mind.

  What’s this all for? How long can I continue like this?

  He turned on a tableside lamp, gripped the arm of the sofa to prevent falling, and heaved himself to his feet. His coordination was gone. The room swayed around him.

  Weaving, he moved to the chair by the fireplace. Buddy lifted his head, looking up at him with eyes like saucers. He let out a soft mew as Allan reached down and stroked the cat’s head.

  “Don’t mind me,” he muttered.

  Allan stretched his hand past Buddy and carefully lifted his shoulder holster over him. He pulled out his 9mm and dropped the holster to the floor. In his hand the gun looked slick; it was cleaned and oiled from a recent requalification. The magazine was full. But for this Allan would need only the round in the chamber.

  With the gun in hand, he moved to the sofa and sat down. He thumbed off the safety and shut his eyes.

  There were things much worse than dying.

  Like loneliness, for one.

  Or a life that has lost its hope.

  When he opened his eyes again, ten minutes had passed. He held up the gun in front of him. Under the lamp, an asterisk of light rolled along the barrel. Transfixed, Allan stared at it, and then he raised the gun to his head. As the cold muzzle touched his skin, he shivered.

  Inhaling a long breath, Allan closed his finger around the trigger. His tearful eyes were involuntarily drawn back to the picture on the mantel. Through a blurry vision, he stared at Melissa and Brian’s faces, frozen in time.

  Allan whispered, “Good-bye.”

  He wondered what Brian would think of him if he went through with this. Would he be angry? Would he grow up hating Allan for abandoning him? Would he grow up thinking his father was weak, a failure, a man who couldn’t handle the tragedies of life? Would Brian eventually forget him?

  Hand trembling, Allan lowered the gun from his head and put it on the coffee table.

  What the hell am I doing? Have I gone crazy? Goddamnit, man, you’re falling apart.

  He knew this grief had grown too heavy to carry. The months of repressing it now broke loose. He crumpled back into the sofa and wept.

  34

  Halifax, May 19

  10:48 a.m.

  Allan felt weak, shaky, not quite himself. His head throbbed; his stomach was raw. Last night seemed surreal to him, the residue of a bad dream. He still felt a crushing guilt about Brian.

  He sat surrounded by a throng of mourners inside the Immaculate Conception Church in Dartmouth, listening to a gray-haired pastor talk about Cathy Ambré, of life and death, and of God.

  “Our lives are not like the flame of a candle, which is snuffed out, but they belong to God, came from Him, and return to Him. Cathy is now in the presence of the Lord...”

  Allan had never been a man of faith, but sitting here amidst the pleasant colors, the stained-glass windows depicting the Stations of the Cross, and the religious statuaries, he was filled with a serenity that he couldn’t explain.

  Cathy’s casket was painted ivory with pink highlights. Embroidered in the head panel was a set of praying hands. A colorful spray of carnations, chrysanthemums, and ivies adorned the lower part of the casket.

  With a sad expression, Allan looked at Cathy lying inside with her hands folded over her chest.

  Such a tragedy. She had died never knowing how many people actually cared about her.

  As the pastor wrapped up his sermon, Allan stared at the shimmering flame of the Paschal candle near the coffin.

  “This morning we gather to bid farewell to you, Cathy, a beloved daughter, sister, and friend, and we bid you go in peace with the prince of peace, Jesus Christ. Walk with him until we all meet again, face to face at the breaking of the dawn of the new creation.

  “This is the promise of God. Thanks be to God. Amen.”

  A choir broke into hymn, and many in the church began singing along. When it finished, Philip Ambré carried himself to the pulpit. A hush came over the church as the people looked on, their faces furrowed with sympathy.

  To Allan, Philip looked
weary and haggard, even worse than he had two days ago. He adjusted the microphone and then cleared his throat.

  “To quote Henry Van Dyke,” Philip said in a parched voice, “Time is too slow for those who wait, too swift for those who fear, too long for those who grieve, too short for those who rejoice, but for those who love, time is eternity.”

  He paused to drink a mouthful of water from a glass. “Those we love don’t go away. They walk beside us every day. Unseen, unheard, but always near. Still loved, still missed, and very dear.

  “There’s no greater misfortune than losing a child, and no greater sorrow.

  “I haven’t slept much since Cathy’s death, as you can all probably tell. I went into her room last night, lay down on her bed, and closed my eyes. I waited. I prayed. I felt nothing but emptiness.”

  Allan saw tears forming in the eyes around him. Philip’s words, he found, stirred emotions deep within him; he could feel just how devastated the man, the father was.

  What a horror to lose one daughter. But two?

  Allan lowered his head, feeling a hole in his heart. He wondered where Philip would find the strength to return here again to eulogize Trixy.

  Philip said, “Carol and I couldn’t have asked for a more wonderful daughter. Everything Cathy did made us proud. From the time she was born, she brought joy and laughter, not only into our lives, but the lives of others.

  “Carol and I used to read a lot of bedtime stories to Cathy when she was little. By the time she was three she was reading small books on her own, and it was soon after that she would sit on my knee in our living room and read to us.” Philip glanced around the quiet church with a smile. “Imagine that. A three-year-old reading to you. Carol and I would look at one another and shake our heads in amazement.”

  There was a light ripple of laughter from the crowd.

  “But that’s how Cathy was,” Philip went on. “She wanted to learn everything she could. I rarely saw her without a book in her hands. Such a gifted child she was. One with so much promise and energy. School was a breeze for her, and she graduated with honors. When she went to university, she was studying in the field of biophysics. Then one stumble brought it all to an end.” He paused, his voice choked up, and then he stood straighter. “Daddy is so proud of you, Cathy. My little girl. You will always be in my heart.”