Stanton- The Trilogy

by Alex MacLean

  As the pistol clattered to the gravel, Hoss 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. “I always thought I was an idiot for bringing this with me when we met. After all, we’re friends, right?”

  Slick stared up at him, his face filled with worry and surprise. Blood trickled from his lips.

  He said, “What the fuck?”

  Hoss jerked the revolver. “Tell me where Poindexter lives.”

  “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, man.”

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

  He yelled at the dead man, “You did this, Slick. Not me. Not me.”

  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 of the highway. In the rearview 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 cops to find?

  Hoss 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, mere fragments on his consciousness.

  Hoss 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.

  He winced as he looked over the barn, the milk room, the silo, the machinery storage building, and finally settled on the feedlot. They were all empty. Empty and dead. Like him.

  Hoss tried hard not to tear up. The last month of his life replayed in his mind, like watching a movie he had already seen a thousand times.

  As he stepped 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 that 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 had 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 happened to you, man?”

  Hoss 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 Dr. 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.

  He wondered if the victim was kneeling when shot. It sure looked that way.

  Allan took notice of the man’s swollen lower lip, the caked blood on the chin and the two oval bruises around the mouth. Looked like he’d been punched too.

  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. Was it the murder weapon?

  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? Maybe the Glock wasn’t the murder weapon after all.

  Allan 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 as 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.

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

  “I’ll look.”

  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 tens, twenties, and fifties, a considerable sum for anyone to be carrying around. Tucked into the gusseted slots
he found several credit cards.

  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 notebook. “Born August third, 1974. 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 handbasket. 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 as if 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.

  Allan indicated the forestry workers with a lift of his head. “What’d they tell you?”

  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. “They were all wearing hearing protectors.”

  “Where’s this road go?”

  “It joins a network of other roads on the mountainside. 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 trouble. 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.

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

  David opened it. As he began leafing through the pages, his brows bunched 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.”

  Allan said, “None on the body, either.”

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

  Inside the notebook Allan saw jagged handwriting, the scrawl of someone in a hurry. On each page there was the 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 Halifax and surrounding areas. 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 did that mean? And how was 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. Then 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 what’s in that cooler?” James said.

  Allan said, “Open it.”

  James 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 said in a voice not his own.

  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.

  Allan frowned. “What is it?”

  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 much. 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. Was that 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.

  Allan wondered if the arms belonged to Drake. He also considered John Baker.

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

  What was going on here? Why was Cathy’s name the last one on the list? Why was she even on a list? And what exactly was the list about?

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

  Allan gave him 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?

  David walked over to him. “Detective, you okay?”

  Allan ran a hand over his chin. “I need to go back to Halifax.”

  “Is there something I should know?”

  “I can’t say at this point.” Allan swallowed. “Find out who Stephen Eagles is and his history. Also, check with all the cell phone carriers in the province to see if he has an account with any of them. We need to find out the names of this man’s associates.”

  “We’ll get right on it.”

  “Thank you, Chief.” Allan held up the notebook. “Can I take this with me?”

  David nodded. “By all means.”

  “I’ll get back to you when I have more information.”

  Allan hurried to his car. He took out his cell phone before he left and called Captain Thorne.

  “Can you have someone check on Cathy Ambré’s gravesite at Dartmouth Memorial Gardens?” Allan asked. “I need to know if it has been tampered with. And if not, could you post someone nearby to keep an eye on things?”

  There was a long pause on the line. “What’s going on up there, Al?”

  Allan told Thorne everything—the murder of Stephen Eagles, the items in his trunk, and most conspicuously, the notebook.

  “I need to search Eagles’s residence,” Allan said. “Can you pull a form five for me?”

  “I’ll do one better,” Thorne replied. “I’ll get the search warrant for you.”

  “Thank you, Captain.”

  Allan hung up and started the car. For a moment, he stared through the windshield at the scene ahead—David talking to Sam; Fitzgerald pulling a gurney from the back of his van; James taking pictures of the items in the trunk of the Civic; the forestry workers sitting in their truck, as if waiting for the okay to leave.