Stanton- The Trilogy

by Alex MacLean

  “They’re making headway.”

  “How much longer do you think it’ll be?”

  “Should be soon.” Reflexively, Allan looked at his watch: 12:53. “I’ll let you know what I find out.”

  There was an intake of breath. “Thank you, Detective.”

  Allan snapped his phone shut.

  Without the mask, he could smell the damp earth and rotting leaves. He positioned it back over his nose again and walked toward the edge of the grave, peering down with an anxious sigh.

  Time, he realized, was fast becoming his enemy. He had no evidence. No leads. No suspects. Simply nothing. Now the suspect might’ve robbed a grave right under his nose.

  James continued removing soil by the bucketful, and soon the contoured shape of the casket began to appear. He eased forward onto his knees, brushing the dirt off the top with his gloved hands.

  “We have something,” he called up.

  Allan crouched for a better look. “What is it?”

  James leaned back and pointed to a crescent-shaped indentation in the lower lid of the casket.

  “Looks like the tip of a shovel got stuck here,” he said. “Round-point shovel, I’d say.”

  Allan felt tightness in his chest.

  “Have the lids been tampered with?” he asked, trying to keep his voice calm.

  James reached down and gave the lid a gentle tug. “Lower one’s secure.”

  He maneuvered around and tried the upper lid. For a moment, he became still. Then he leaned over and dug out the soil several inches below the edge of the lid, examining something very closely. Allan looked on in suspense.

  “What’d you find?” he asked.

  “There are pry marks on the underside of the lid,” James said without raising his head.

  Allan breathed in once, closing his eyes.

  What’d he steal?

  Allan wasn’t sure he wanted to learn the answer.

  Fitzgerald walked over to him.

  “Is it what we were fearing?” he asked.

  Allan rose to his feet, his voice quiet as he said, “Yeah. I’m afraid so.”

  Within half an hour, James had dug out the soil around the perimeter of the casket. He gave Greer the signal to bring over the backhoe and then slung heavy straps around both ends of the casket. As the bucket of the backhoe was lowered over the grave, James secured the other ends of the straps to the arm behind it.

  He climbed from the hole and gave the signal with his thumb. “Take it up.”

  Working the levers, Greer slowly and carefully brought the casket out of the ground. He lowered it onto the bed of a trailer he had attached to his lawn tractor nearby. After James undid the straps, Greer shut off the backhoe and jumped onto the tractor, starting it up.

  Allan and Fitzgerald followed him out to the front entrance, where the three men loaded the casket into the back of the coroner’s van. Fitzgerald closed the doors and walked around to the driver’s door.

  “See you at the morgue.”

  As Allan drove behind him toward Acresville, his cell phone rang again. He pulled off to the shoulder of the road and answered. It was the serology department at the forensics lab in Halifax.

  A female lab tech said, “I have some results for you, Detective.”

  Allan tensed with anticipation. “Go ahead, please.”

  “Trixy Ambré’s blood is a match to the samples taken from the Eastern Canadian Tugboat wharf on May ninth.”

  Even though it was something he’d suspected, hearing the confirmation still gave him pause.

  “Detective?”

  “I’m here,” he said. “Thank you for the info.”

  Hanging up, he sat there for a moment, thinking about what Coulter had told him.

  “Miss Ambré was struck with a blunt, cylindrical instrument. I found a single impact injury to the side of her head. When I examined the skull, I found a linear fracture in the temporal region.”

  “Was the blow hard enough to cause death?”

  “Varying levels of unconsciousness, yes. But not death.”

  “Would a wound like that bleed much?”

  “Oh, yes,” Coulter said. “Nothing bleeds like the scalp.”

  Allan pulled his car back onto the road. He figured Trixy had been knocked unconscious in the Impark lot and carried to the wharf, where the suspect had removed her eyes. He then disposed of Trixy in the harbor. That would explain the larger blood pool at the end of the wharf.

  Allan arrived at the morgue ten minutes after Fitzgerald. He waited in the anteroom while the coroner inspected the body. When at last he came in, Allan knew it was bad. The color had drained from Fitzgerald’s face. His forehead was scrunched up, and his lips were pursed into a tight line.

  “What is it?” Allan asked.

  Fitzgerald shut his eyes, and his throat bobbed once. Allan didn’t wait for an answer. He brushed past, walking into the autopsy room. He had just gotten past the doorway when he stopped abruptly.

  The pallid, gaunt body of an elderly man lay on the stainless-steel dissection table. His clothes and a Bible were set out on the counter. Allan blinked, not sure at first what the hell he was seeing. He thought it might be a trick of the surgical lamps. They were too bright and were washing out certain parts of the body. But as he took another step forward, Allan realized that wasn’t the case at all. Just when he thought the world couldn’t get any worse, he saw this.

  Hector Walsh’s head was missing.

  Allan didn’t know how long he stood there. He didn’t even hear Fitzgerald come back into the room. Only saw him when he appeared on the other side of the body.

  “Mr. Walsh was autopsied,” Fitzgerald said.

  Allan managed to shake off the stunned feeling and walk over. He gazed at the stitched-up Y-incision in the man’s torso.

  “He was from Halifax,” he said. “Would’ve been Coulter.”

  “Do you know how he died?”

  Allan shook his head.

  “This is strange.”

  Allan nodded. “If you can excuse me, I need to make a call.”

  He stepped into the anteroom and took out his cell phone. He called Coulter’s office. Lawrence Sodero answered.

  “Hello, Lawrence. Can I speak to Coulter, please?”

  “Detective Stanton. Hang on a sec.”

  Within moments, Coulter came on the line. “What can I do for you, Detective?”

  “Hector Walsh,” Allan said.

  “Walsh?”

  “Yes. W-a-l-s-h. Did you perform an autopsy on him?”

  A pause. “Yes, I did. Last Sunday. Why do you ask?”

  Allan said, “What can you tell me about him?”

  “Mr. Walsh passed away in his sleep. His wife couldn’t wake him up on Saturday morning. That’s how he ended up with me. To see what he died from.”

  “And what was that?”

  “Heart attack.”

  Allan became quiet.

  “Why are you inquiring about him?” Coulter asked.

  “I’m currently in Acresville. Been here since Wednesday. Promise me what I tell you doesn’t leave our discussion.”

  “I promise, Detective.”

  “I came here to check out the murder of a homeless man. He had his arms removed from the elbows down. Presumably, the suspect took them. They haven’t been located. Last night, someone dug up Hector Walsh and removed his head.”

  Coulter breathed into the phone. “Jesus.”

  “I think this is all connected to Trixy Ambré’s murder.”

  “Because of the eyes?”

  “Yes.”

  “I can see why you would.”

  Allan shook his head. “I don’t know what’s going on here. I never dealt with anything like this before.”

  Coulter said, “Well, if anyone can figure it out, it’ll be you.”

  “Thank you for your time, Doctor.”

  “Anytime, Detective.”

  Allan walked outside to the parking lot and climbed
into his car. He rested his forehead on the steering wheel. Confusion and helplessness warred inside him.

  What was he not seeing? What the hell was this man up to?

  43

  Acresville, May 23

  9:35 a.m.

  When the phone rang, Hoss was sitting on the sofa with a half-empty glass of whiskey in hand. The wall clock showed 9:35 a.m.

  He decided to ignore it. Probably one of those pain-in-the-ass telemarketers running the latest scam.

  Two rings. Three. At four, the answering machine kicked in. Through its speaker came Slick’s voice. Slowly, Hoss turned his head toward it.

  “Hey, pal. I need to see you.” There was a mix of urgency and edginess in his friend’s tone. “When you get this, call me right back. It’s important.”

  The answering machine clicked off. Hoss downed the last of the whiskey in one gulp. He got up and dialed Slick’s number.

  “What is it, man?”

  “We need to meet.” Slick seemed different somehow. “Now.”

  “What’s this about?”

  A pause. In the brief silence, the connection seemed to fade in and out. Hoss imagined his friend talking on his cell phone while driving in his car.

  “Something’s come up,” Slick told him. “It’s important that I see you. Right away.”

  “Why?”

  “Not over the phone. Meet me where we always do. In half an hour.”

  With that, Slick hung up. Frowning, Hoss set the phone down. Something was definitely up.

  He went to the kitchen counter and retrieved his revolver from the linen drawer. He snapped the cylinder open, giving the chambers a quick glance. The revolver was loaded as usual. He closed the cylinder again and shoved the revolver into the back of his pants, pulling his shirt over it.

  Hoss felt foolish taking it with him whenever he met Slick; they were friends, after all. But with everything that had happened to him these past few weeks—the loss of his farm, the start of this twisted job—his paranoia and mistrust of people seemed to have only gotten worse.

  He drove to the forest service road on the outskirts of town. As he turned onto it, he saw fresh tire marks in the dirt ahead. He wondered if Slick had beaten him here.

  A quarter of a mile in, and there was no sign of him. Perhaps some forestry workers had come through. Hoss knew of clear-cutting going on in these parts.

  He turned the pickup around at the meeting spot and cut the engine. While waiting, he rolled down the window. He leaned his head back against the rest and shut his eyes, breathing in the pleasant smell of pine and spruce. In the trees around him came the sounds of birds singing. Farther away, somewhere on the mountainside, he could hear the faint buzz of chainsaws.

  He opened his eyes at the rumble of an engine. Through the windshield, he watched Slick’s car drive slowly toward him. Unlike the previous times they met, he didn’t pull up next to Hoss. Instead, he parked on the other side of the road several yards away. Hoss knew something was wrong.

  A few moments passed. Behind the wheel of his car, Slick watched him. He made no gesture for him to come over.

  After checking the road behind him, Hoss slipped out of the truck. As he shut the door, Slick emerged from his car. Right away, Hoss noticed his tight-muscled walk and heavy-lidded stare. Slick’s right hand was tucked away in the pocket of a black leather jacket that seemed inappropriate for the weather.

  Without preface, Slick said, “Tell me where you got those eyes and arms.”

  “What?”

  “Tell me where you got them.”

  Hoss paused, trying to remember the name on the paper that Slick had given him before starting his first job.

  “Cecil Whitewood,” he said. “That was it.”

  Slick shook his head. “You’re lying.”

  Hoss tensed as a spurt of anger shot through his body.

  “Watch your tone with me, man,” he said. “Go out there and check him for yourself.”

  Slick stepped back. His hand remained in his pocket.

  “And what if I did? Would I find him all there?”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “You never went anywhere near Whitewood’s grave,” Slick said. “I just heard from a reliable source that the hooker they pulled from the Halifax harbor last week was missing her eyes. Her fucking eyes, Hoss.”

  Hoss spread his hands. “So?”

  Slick tilted his head. “So? Is that all you got?”

  “What do you want me to say? Coincidence. That’s all.”

  “Oh, I got more,” Slick said. “That park hermit they found here in Acresville. He was missing his arms.”

  Hoss swallowed. He watched Slick’s eyes searching his face with quick, nervous movements.

  “Who said?” he asked.

  “Poindexter. He told me the cops are getting close. They found the Walsh grave you dug up. Why’d you leave a fucking mess there?”

  “It started pouring too hard. It couldn’t be helped.”

  “You could’ve waited for another night.”

  “Meh, it is what it is.”

  Slick’s eyes narrowed. “There’s a Halifax detective here in Acresville. He’s on your trail, man. If he catches you, he catches all of us.”

  Heart racing, Hoss tried to fight back a wave of panic. Slick took another step back. Hoss watched that hand, still inside his pocket.

  Slick said, “Tell me you never killed those people.”

  Sweat dampened Hoss’s forehead. He opened his mouth but found he couldn’t answer. Slick gaped at having his suspicions confirmed.

  “What’ve you done?”

  Hoss bit down on his lip, fighting back a sudden rush of emotion. With great reluctance, he looked Slick straight in the face.

  In a voice laced with regret and humiliation, he said, “The less you know, the better.”

  Slick blinked. “You’ve gone fucking crazy. I mean, I always knew you were on the violent side. But I never thought you could do something like this.”

  Hoss just stared at him. He didn’t say a word.

  Slick said, “Murder was never part of the job.” He winced as if his head hurt. “What happened to you, man?”

  Hoss shot him a look of marvel. “What happened to me? What happened to you, Slick? When you were a kid, is this how you saw yourself? Is this what you saw yourself doing?”

  “No,” Slick said through clenched teeth. “Don’t put this back on me. I never murdered anybody.”

  Hoss could see the sense of betrayal that had spurred this venomous anger in Slick. How many times, he wondered, had he stared into this same face and questioned all the shitty things his old friend had done? The shoplifting. The robberies. The drug dealing. All of it committed as if it were second nature.

  A bitter calm entered Slick’s voice as he said, “You’ve become a liability to us, man.”

  “Who? You and Poindexter?”

  “Yeah. Me and Poindexter. You committed two murders. Now we’re all involved.”

  Hoss watched the comprehension of Slick’s own exposure and subsequent prosecution begin to overpower him. He also saw something change in his eyes. They became cold, calculating.

  “Sorry,” Slick said. “But I have to fix this problem now.”

  Jaw clenched, Slick took one step backward, then another. As he withdrew his hand from the pocket, Hoss froze at the sight of a black pistol.

  “You going to shoot me now?”

  Eyes moist, Slick raised the gun. “Yes.”

  Instinctively, Hoss put up his hands. The reality of a loaded weapon aimed at his chest jolted him. He could feel his pulse racing. A bead of sweat rolled down the side of his face.

  Around him, the world went still and silent. What he saw was an intense and painful image from his past—a frightened little boy lying facedown in the grass of his backyard, his breath coming in harsh gasps. At any moment, the boy expected to feel the hard jab of his father’s rifle barrel against his head.

  Now, year
s later, the man that boy had become, wondered once more what it would be like to be shot.

  A sudden click pulled Hoss from his reverie. Focusing again on the man before him, he realized Slick had cocked the pistol’s hammer.

  “So this is how it’s going to end,” Hoss said. “At the hands of my only friend.”

  Anguish began to fill Slick’s face. “Sorry. But I’m not going down for this.”

  Watching the gun, Hoss saw it begin to tremble. Six feet, he estimated, separated the two men. He tried to summon the courage to make a lunge for the pistol. Could he manage to reach it before it went off?

  He unlocked his knees, inched one foot forward.

  “Do you really want my death on your conscience?” he asked.

  He saw that his question seemed to give Slick pause. Briefly, the purpose left his friend’s eyes, replaced by the hesitance of someone facing doubts. Hoss wondered if he was seeing the first chink. He decided to take it a step further.

  “Have you given any thought to your parents? 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.”

  “Shut up, man. Just shut up.”

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

  As Slick blinked back tears, his throat moved in one convulsive swallow. At this, Hoss 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. 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 Hoss 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, Hoss 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.