Stanton- The Trilogy

by Alex MacLean

  Thoughtful, Allan inhaled a deep breath. He found something very unsettling about this case. If Eagles was the man behind it all, then who killed him? Someone trying to frame him? Someone else who might be involved and was trying to cover his or her tracks?

  Allan felt a growing uneasiness about where this could be heading. Was there something much bigger at work? Something much more disturbing?

  Allan stepped on the gas and raced for Halifax.

  45

  Acresville, May 23

  7:27 p.m.

  Hoss sat amidst the wreckage of his life and wondered how he could go on. He had neither eaten nor slept in what felt like forever. His mouth was parched, his stomach raw. On the kitchen table before him was a half-empty bottle of whiskey. Next to that lay a revolver with five bullets and one empty casing neatly lined up beside the barrel.

  There was nothing left to live for. He had no friends, no family, and no future. Consciousness was a misery that not even alcohol could relieve anymore.

  Only, he thought, the gun in front of him could do that now.

  Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.

  Tears surfaced in Hoss’s eyes. It was all bullshit, every bit of it. God. Religion. Thirty-six years on this earth had taught him that.

  His hand trembled as he reached for the revolver and pressed it to the side of his head. With slow deliberation he wrapped his finger around the trigger and squeezed.

  Click.

  It would be that easy.

  Click.

  One quick pull would end a lifetime of suffering.

  Click.

  Then why was he so afraid?

  Hoss took the revolver from against the side of his head, opened the cylinder, and fed the five bullets into it. Then he closed it with a sharp snap and laid the gun on the table.

  He rose and walked slowly to the window. Dusk was settling over the countryside. On the far side of the mountains, the sky glowed with gradient colors.

  Hoss’s gaze wandered the empty fields of his farm and settled on an area where the north pasture met a belt of trees and shrubbery. It was rank with overgrowth. On a gentle slope a lone crab-apple tree stood. Years ago its branches had flourished with fruit; now they were bare and gnarled.

  As Hoss stared at the tree he felt a cold chill that bristled the hairs on the back of his neck. A sudden memory, unbidden and unwanted, flashed before his eyes.

  He leaned heavily on the handle of a shovel, peering down into an open grave at the foot of the tree. Autumn leaves swirled around his feet, and a crisp October breeze chilled the sweat on his skin.

  For the past two hours he had dug the grave to a depth of three and a half feet. Not the standard measurement, but one that would serve its purpose.

  He mopped his forehead with the sleeve of his plaid shirt and turned around. A huge gunnysack lay sprawled next to the mound of earth he had shoveled from the hole. It had taken him every ounce of strength to carry the sack up here. At times he had to stop to catch his breath, as the contents inside were heavy and awkward. During the last few legs of his trip, he was forced to drag it.

  He threw down the shovel and walked over to the sack, looking at the bulges within. Here and there red blotches stained the coarse fabric. He reached down and, with a grunt of effort, hauled the sack over the edge of the grave. As it landed inside with a heavy thump, part of a seam tore open, and a human arm, limp and bloody, fell out.

  He stared at it in silence. He wondered if he should push the arm back inside the sack.

  Let the bugs take care of it, he decided.

  He bent over and picked up the shovel then paused a moment to stare up at the crab-apple tree, its naked branches like jagged cracks in the dreary sky. Darkness was fast approaching, and he had to finish while he could still see.

  He began shoveling soil into the grave. Soon the top of the sack was covered; only the curled fingers of the hand could be seen. After a few more shovelfuls, even those disappeared.

  Half an hour passed quickly. When he finished, his face was streaked with dirt, and his body trembled with nerves and exhaustion. The day seemed surreal, a bad dream. He felt that he should be happy or relieved in some way—he was at last free of the fear and abuse. Still, his heart ached with a deep sorrow and regret.

  Tomorrow he would have to come up with a story and stick to it—his father, overwhelmed by his wife’s passing and the pressures of running a failing dairy farm, just up and left. People should believe him. After all, he was a good boy who had never been in any trouble before.

  Hoss shut his eyes. He ran a hand over the coarse stubble on his jaw and realized that he was still trembling.

  The sudden ring of the telephone startled him. He swung around. The clock on the wall said 7:45 p.m. No one should be calling here.

  With slow steps, Hoss approached the living room. On the fourth ring, the answering machine cut in. He waited for a message, but whoever it was didn’t leave one.

  Seconds later, the phone rang again. He caught it on the second ring.

  “Hoss?”

  He paused. At first, he didn’t recognize the voice. It sounded familiar, but older and rougher somehow, one that he hadn’t heard in many years. Only the pain and urgency in it was unmistakable.

  “Mrs. Eagles?”

  “Yes, it is. I’m calling about Stephen. I have bad news.”

  Hoss became very still. They found him.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  There was silence. Then, quite softly, she said, “The police were just here. Stephen’s dead.”

  Hoss steeled himself against his own emotions, tried valiantly to keep his own tone from quavering.

  “How?” he asked. “When did this happen?”

  She sniffled. “Sometime today. They told me Stephen was murdered. But they wouldn’t say how.”

  “Murdered?” Despite his best efforts to sound astonished, his voice came out flat to him.

  “Yes. The police were asking all these questions. I thought Stephen was staying out of trouble since he got out of prison.”

  “Did the police tell you that he was involved in something?”

  “No, but they alluded to it. You and him were always good friends, did he ever tell you about any enemies he might’ve had?”

  Hoss felt his stomach knot.

  Only me.

  All at once, he was hit by a wave of shame, guilt, and anguish. He knew that he would never be able to face this woman or her husband again; a couple who had once treated him like a second son.

  “No, Mrs. Eagles,” he said. “He didn’t.”

  “If you think of anything, could you tell the police?”

  Something caught his eye—a wash of lights over his front windows. Someone was here.

  “Hoss?”

  “Can you hold on for a second?” Hoss set the phone down without waiting for the reply.

  Heart pounding, he crossed the room to the windows and peeled the curtain back an inch with his finger. He first saw the white sedan and then the roof light bar of an Acresville Police car.

  Hoss’s breath caught in his throat.

  The headlights dimmed. The engine silenced. Both front doors opened in sync.

  Paralyzed with fear, Hoss watched an older, stout man with a graying beard emerge from the passenger’s side. Out of the driver’s side came a youngish cop with a slim build and dark hair.

  Hoss rushed back to the phone. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Eagles, but the police are here.”

  “I thought they might visit you,” she said. “They asked me for the names of his friends. You’re the only one I could think of.”

  Hoss wished she hadn’t said anything. “If I can help in any way, don’t hesitate to call me.”

  “Thank you.”

  Hoss hung up the phone. He heard the cops on the front steps, and then came a knock at the door. He knew he had to get a grip on himself. They knew nothing about him. They were just here to ask some questions about Slick. That w
as all.

  Hoss hurried to the kitchen and took the revolver from the table, tucked it into the back of his pants, and pulled his shirt down over it. The empty casing went into his front pocket. He left the bottle of whiskey on the table.

  More knocking.

  Hoss released a shaky breath. He felt sober enough to answer, but before he did, he must compose himself. He splashed cold water on his face at the sink and dried with a dishtowel. Then he walked into the living room, switched on the light against the impending dark, and went to the door.

  The older cop stepped forward, holding out his hand. “I’m Chief David Brantford with the Acresville Police,” he said graciously. “Are you Hoss?”

  The question stopped him for a brief moment. Slick’s mother must’ve given the cops his nickname.

  Hoss accepted the hand with a firm grip. “That would be me. How can I help you?”

  “Do you know Stephen Victor Eagles?”

  Hoss paused, forcing himself to look David in the eye. “I do. It’s tragic what happened to him.”

  David tilted his head. “You heard already?”

  “His mother just called me.”

  “I’d like to ask you a few questions. May I come in?”

  Grudgingly, Hoss stepped aside. He watched David walk into the middle of the living room, take a seat on the chesterfield, and motion the young cop to wait by the door.

  “This won’t take long, Sam,” David told him.

  As he reached into a shirt pocket and produced a notebook and pen, Hoss sat down on the chair across from him.

  “Okay,” David began, “how long have you known Stephen?”

  “Twenty-eight years or so.”

  David raised his eyebrows. “That long? You were close friends?”

  “Closer when we were kids than as adults.”

  “Why is that?”

  Hoss paused to choose his words. “People grow apart. Our interests became different. He was always in trouble during his teenage years, and my mother was after me all the time to stay away from him. Then he left Acresville in his twenties and spent most of the years since in and out of prison.”

  “Did he have a violent side?”

  “None that I saw.”

  “Were there ever any conflicts between the two of you?”

  Hoss felt himself swallow.

  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.

  “No,” Hoss said, trying to keep a deadpan expression on his face. “There were never any conflicts.”

  David scribbled in his notebook. “When was the last time you heard from him?”

  Reflexively, Hoss’s gaze wandered in the direction of the answering machine. He had forgotten to erase Slick’s message from earlier. He wondered how much the cops knew. Were they even close to him?

  He couldn’t take the risk of lying.

  “He called me this morning,” Hoss told him.

  David looked up. “Really? Tell me about the conversation.”

  “It was short. Stephen told me he had some business to take care of in town and that he might stop by later in the day.”

  “What was his demeanor?”

  “He sounded normal enough. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

  David seemed to consider this.

  “Did he tell you what this business was about?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Did it seem odd to you that he never came by?”

  Hoss gave a listless shrug. “Not really.”

  David frowned. “He’s done this before? Just never showed up after saying he would?”

  “All the time.”

  David stared at Hoss with probing eyes, as if appraising him.

  The last person to hear from a dead man. Hoss wondered if he was now a suspect.

  He became mindful of the hard bulge at the small of his back. He could do it—pull out the revolver and shoot both cops dead before they even knew what hit them. Make that one final statement to everyone.

  David pocketed the notebook and pen. Then he leaned forward and briefly tapped a finger to his pursed lips.

  He said, “When I saw the sign at the end of your driveway, I thought I recognized the name of your farm. I’m just remembering it now. You were in the Gazette a while ago. You had an environmental issue here, didn’t you?”

  Hoss breathed in. “That’s right.”

  “What happened exactly?”

  “I had an effluent pond overflow. It polluted the Elm River. Killed a bunch of fish.”

  “Some heavy fines were levied against you, weren’t they?”

  A slow, sick anger began to well up inside Hoss. “Over a hundred thousand dollars’ worth. Had to sell my herd to a competitor so I could pay them.”

  “So, you’re out of business?”

  “Yeah. It wasn’t a lucrative business to begin with. There’s no money in dairying. Sixteen- to nineteen-hour days. No vacations. But I loved it.”

  David hesitated a moment. “What are you doing now?”

  Hoss flipped his hands over. “Trying to survive.”

  “Accidents happen, son. Sorry you lost the business.” David shook his head. “Your father used to run it, didn’t he?”

  Hoss licked his lips. “Yeah.”

  David gave him a faint smile. “I knew him. Well, knew of him, I should say. That was in my younger years as a constable. He must’ve passed on, did he?”

  Hoss felt sweat trickle under his shirt. “I imagine he did.”

  David’s eyebrows perked up. “Oh? You lost touch with him or something?”

  “He just left one day. Handed the business over to me and said good luck.”

  David frowned. “And you never heard from him again?”

  Hoss paused, wondering what to say, how much to say. Would the cop believe any of it?

  “My father was never a rational man. I watched him struggle for years, trying to pay the bills. Trying to put in those long days. It wore him down. I think he put this place and me behind and never looked back.”

  “He was an angry man.”

  Hoss nodded. “Very.”

  “Liked to drink too. I remember that about him.” David smirked, and a distant look crossed his eyes. “He hung around Gary’s Tavern a lot.”

  “His refuge from home.”

  David’s smirk widened, the distant look still there. “He was a big man. Hands like bear paws. You remind me of him. Only you’re a little more mild mannered.”

  Hoss smiled in spite of himself. He watched David prepare to leave and was grateful for it.

  “I won’t take up any more of your time,” David said. “Thanks for talking with me.”

  Hoss saw him to the door. “Thank you for stopping by.”

  He watched the two cops head back to their car and get inside. The headlights came on. The engine started. Then the car drove away.

  Hoss realized the only thing standing between him and arrest was the potential evidence Slick had left behind.

  He prayed his old friend had been careful.

  46

  Halifax, May 23

  9:13 p.m.

  Allan didn’t know what carnage lay inside the apartment Stephen Eagles had rented, but the thought of encountering a macabre collection of human parts rippled his skin with a strange frisson.

  At the rear of the van, Allan, Jim Lucas, and Harvey Doucette prepared for a potential biological hazard. They put on Tyvek coveralls with attached hoods and booties over their street clothes. They slipped their hands into latex gloves. Jim handed out anti-putrefaction masks, but no one put them on just yet.

  The evening was cool and breezy; under a crescent moon the sky glimmered with a light spattering of stars.

  Allan inhaled a deep breath as he looked over the three-story brick building they were about to enter. Most tenants, he saw, were still up. There were only a few darkened windows.

  “Since we don’t know what’s i
n there,” he said, “we’ll treat this like any other crime scene. We have only one chance to do it right.”

  Jim checked his high-resolution digital camera. “Understood, Detective.”

  Harvey gave a nod and picked up two cases containing different field kits.

  “Are we ready?” Allan asked.

  In unison, Jim and Harvey said, “Yes.”

  “Then let’s do it.”

  The three ghostlike figures crossed the parking lot toward the apartment building, their coveralls rustling with each movement. Jim stopped briefly to photograph the front entrance, and then he followed Allan and Harvey into a small foyer. Mailboxes covered the right wall; political flyers littered the floor beneath them. Beyond a locked glass door, one set of stairs went down, another went up.

  The landlord who let them in was a chubby man with a round face, close-set eyes, and a smooth chin. After a brief exchange of handshakes and introductions, the man led them to the right apartment. Their footsteps echoed throughout the stairwell as they climbed to the second floor.

  Allan instructed the landlord to stand off to the side, while Jim and Harvey took up positions on either side of the door. He knocked, three hard raps that were loud in the quiet corridor. By reflex he unzipped the front of his coveralls and gripped his service pistol.

  “Police,” he yelled. “Open up.”

  He waited. No response.

  He knocked again and pressed his ear to the door. He could hear no movement inside the apartment.

  “Okay, open it,” he told the landlord.

  The man produced a key and unlocked the door.

  “Thanks for your help,” Allan said. “We’ll handle it from here.”

  When the landlord left, the three men put on their masks. Jim hit the light switch on the inside wall, and then he and Harvey entered first. Allan stayed in the doorway a moment, looking around. The apartment was an epitome of bachelor living—empty beer bottles and an open jar of peanut butter on the kitchen table; dishes piled in the sink with food crusted on them; clothes tossed over the backs of chairs.