Stanton- The Trilogy

by Alex MacLean

  He recognized the older man as Chief Brantford, and he could see that there was a folded sheet of paper in his hand. The slim-built cop next to him was the same one who had been here the night before.

  Hoss didn’t recognize the third man getting out from the unmarked car behind them. He looked middle-aged, with graying hair and tired eyes. He wore black slacks and a tweed sport coat.

  The chief moved toward the front walk, stopping briefly to look at something on the paper. He checked his watch and then headed for the veranda. The young cop followed him.

  The unknown man lingered near his car. With a slow sweep of his head, he seemed to be inspecting the property.

  Damp with sweat, Hoss backed away from the window. His legs were weak. Fear roiled inside him like a fever.

  Footsteps now. Then a tap came at the door.

  Near panic, Hoss stared across the room at the revolver on the kitchen table.

  > > > < < <

  Warrant in hand, David knocked on the door a second time. Waited. Put his ear close to the door. He heard nothing from within.

  Sam stood on the other side of the door, one hand on his sidearm.

  “Maybe he’s not home, Chief,” he said.

  David looked at him. In a muted tone, he answered, “I think he is, son. He might know why we’re here.”

  > > > < < <

  Hoss heard the rattle of the doorknob, watched it turning. There came a gentle nudge at the door. He wondered if the cops would kick it in.

  A muffled voice came to him. “Mr. Matteau? This is Police Chief David Brantford. We spoke last night. Can you open up, please?”

  Hoss released a breath. He felt crippled by indecision.

  It was all over now.

  He was cornered, unable to escape. Life behind bars awaited him. Caged like an animal. No matter what, he couldn’t let that happen.

  He dashed to the kitchen and picked up the revolver from the table. He’d intended to end this, but there was something he wanted to do first. He tiptoed back into the living room.

  Gun in hand, he used his other to pick up the phone. Clumsily, he punched numbers. When he heard the voice of Slick’s mother, Hoss winced.

  “Hello, Mrs. Eagles.”

  “Hello, Hoss,” she greeted. “How’re you doing?”

  Hoss swallowed, licked his lips.

  He said, “I just called to tell you that I’m sorry.”

  There was a pause. When she spoke again, there was a note of interest in her voice. “Sorry for what?”

  Hoss shut his eyes, feeling an ache in his heart.

  “Sorry for what, Hoss?”

  “For everything.”

  Without another word he hung up the phone and wrenched the cord from the wall.

  > > > < < <

  Allan walked to the front lawn.

  “I’ll check around back,” he called over to David and Sam.

  As he rounded the side of the house and reached the backyard, he caught sight of a blue pickup truck and stopped abruptly.

  All at once, a sick comprehension appeared as a slow widening of his stare, a parting of his mouth. His mind flashed on part of Greg O’Dell’s story the morning he had found his work partner, Brad Hawkins, dead.

  “I’m going to check out a truck sitting here on the waterfront.”

  Greg looked at the time. 5:01 am. “What’s your location?”

  “I’m coming up to the Impark lot by ECTUG.”

  “Anyone around?”

  “No one outside that I can see. The dome light is on in the truck. Only see one person inside that I can tell. Could be someone beside him.”

  “Is the person male or female?”

  “Male. Guy is probably drunk and came down here to sleep it off.”

  “Do you want backup?”

  “No. I can handle it.”

  There was no question now.

  Allan reached inside his coat and unholstered his pistol.

  > > > < < <

  Hoss stared at the revolver in his hand. This was the moment of decision, the time to finally bring this nightmare to an end.

  He closed his eyes momentarily.

  If I walk in darkness without one ray of light, let me trust the Lord, let me rely upon God.

  Steeling himself, he cracked open the back door.

  > > > < < <

  Allan heard the creak of a door and then saw a big man step out. When he noticed the revolver in the man’s hand, he automatically brought up his own weapon to the high ready. With leaden steps, he moved out onto the lawn, aware that he was leaving his cover and putting himself in the open.

  “Freeze!” he ordered. “Put down the gun.”

  > > > < < <

  Slowly, Hoss turned to the man on the grass. The cop’s hands were stretched out in front of him, and in them he held a black pistol aimed right at Hoss. Across the twenty feet between them, their eyes met.

  Hoss didn’t move.

  It was funny, he thought; yesterday morning, when he had last faced the same threat from Slick, he felt scared. Now he felt an odd calmness, a stillness of mind and emotion. A lifetime of heartache was near a close.

  “Put down the gun,” the cop repeated. “It’s over.”

  With exaggerated slowness, Hoss swiveled his head from one side to the other.

  The cop said, “You don’t want it to end like this.”

  Hoss kept the revolver by his leg. Though his eyes were serious, he managed a thin smile.

  “Go fuck yourself, pig.”

  > > > < < <

  Allan’s finger tensed on the trigger. All at once, a gallery of troubling images filled his mind—the mother of Brad Hawkins doubling over in the doorway of her home and emitting an anguished wail when informed of her son’s death; Cathy Ambré in Allan’s arms, clinging to him in quiet despair; the young woman later lying atop her bed, the victim of a successful suicide attempt; her imploring postscript on the note she had left him: Please find my sister; and finally Phillip Ambré identifying his other daughter at the morgue.

  If there had been no witnesses, Allan was certain that he would have shot Herb Matteau without a second thought.

  Stay calm, he told himself. Keep it professional.

  He said, “No one has to get hurt here.”

  “Then turn around and get off my property.”

  Allan shook his head. “You know that’s not going to happen.”

  “Do you really think I’m going to surrender? Let you put me in prison?”

  “That’s pretty much how it works.” Allan fought to control the feeling in his voice. “Life is but choices. You chose to take four innocent lives, and under our laws that’s totally unacceptable.”

  Matteau didn’t respond.

  “Drop the gun, Herb.”

  Allan saw a flash of anger in Matteau’s face.

  “Don’t ever call me that.”

  “Why? It’s your name, isn’t it? Herb Matteau.”

  Sam came running around the corner of the house, followed by David, who was huffing. Matteau snapped his head toward them, as if startled.

  “He has a gun,” warned Allan.

  At this, the two men drew their pistols and brought them up to a firing position.

  “Drop your weapon, sir,” Sam yelled. “Drop it now.”

  Allan saw Matteau brace himself. Intently, he watched his gun hand, the flexed muscles of his arm.

  “Drop your weapon,” Sam ordered again, louder.

  Allan motioned the constable to keep in control. “Easy, Sam,” he called out. “Let’s not exacerbate things here.”

  Sam shot Allan a nervous glance. After a few seconds, he nodded his acquiescence. Once more Allan focused on Matteau.

  He knew he needed to talk him down somehow.

  “We’ve learned everything,” he told him. “Lawrence Sodero. The grave robberies he paid your friend, Stephen Eagles, to do. The trafficking of plastinated body parts.”

  “The what now? What the fuck does plastinated mean
?”

  “You didn’t know?”

  Matteau shrugged. “I asked Slick what Poindexter was doing. I thought he was building some Frankenstein monster.”

  Allan paused. “According to Lawrence, murder was never part of this. You chose to do that on your own. Help me understand something—what I haven’t figured out is why you started killing people. You have no criminal record, no history of violence that we could find. What sparked all this?”

  > > > < < <

  Hoss twitched his heavy shoulders. “I don’t know. My mind hasn’t been right lately.”

  The cop seemed to consider him. “You lost your dairy business.”

  Hoss tightened his grip on the revolver.

  “Front-page news here,” he said quietly. “The fines crippled me financially. I ended up losing everything. The papers never reported that side of the story. Not newsworthy enough.”

  “So you were angry. You wanted to get back at everybody.”

  Hoss inhaled. “You know what really pisses me off? Is that our government would rather ruin one man, a taxpayer, than to go after the real environmental polluters.”

  “That never gave you the right to go out there killing people.”

  “I guess not,” Hoss said. “Hindsight is twenty twenty. I should’ve shot those two agency officers from Environment Canada, for trespassing.”

  > > > < < <

  Allan scrutinized the expressionless gaze.

  “Why Trixy Ambré?”

  A smile widened on Matteau’s face. “That’s quite a name. Trixy.”

  “Why her?”

  “Because she was easy. How many people out there will freely get into your car?”

  “What about Brad Hawkins?”

  “He got a little too nosy for his own good.”

  “Did he witness anything?”

  “No.”

  “Then why kill him? Still on your high?”

  Matteau drew a breath. “I’m not sure what this ‘high’ is. I was going to let him go. But then he decided to write down my name and plate number in his book. All that might’ve ended up in your hands.”

  Allan could feel his own pulse.

  The missing notebook.

  “And what about John Baker?” he asked. “What did he ever do to you?”

  “He asked me for a ride.”

  “Pardon me?”

  “I met him one day on the road out here. He asked me for a lift to town. I decided to take him on a little detour.”

  Allan found an eerie resignation about this man, one that unnerved him. Would Matteau drop that gun, or did he have a death wish?

  “I was told your friend, Stephen Eagles, met you yesterday morning with intentions of killing you.”

  > > > < < <

  Hoss could feel sweat on his forehead, the pounding of his own heart. It was a moment before he could speak.

  “He was. He couldn’t bring himself to do it.”

  “But you easily brought yourself to kill him.”

  Hoss gave him a mirthless smirk. “It was harder than you know.”

  > > > < < <

  In his shoulders, Allan began to feel the strain from holding his pistol out in front of him for too long.

  “Do you have any idea of the lives you affected?”

  The words never changed the blank expression on Matteau’s face.

  “I imagine a lot,” he said flatly.

  “Drop the gun,” Allan said again. “You’re outnumbered. Do the right thing this time. Try to make some amends for your actions.”

  > > > < < <

  A breeze swirled around them. Shutting his eyes, Hoss lifted his face toward the warmth of the sun. He thought of his mother, of his father, of the joyless home they had shared. He knew his own life was done now. In the newspapers, on the television, they would call him a murderer, a madman. That, he understood with a deep regret, would be his lasting legacy.

  He opened his eyes and gazed at the crab-apple tree on the crest of the north pasture. He wondered if the cops would ever find the old prick buried there.

  “You told me that life is but choices,” he said at last. “From where I’m standing, I see you having two choices right now. One, you could kill me. Or two, you could let me kill you.”

  “Don’t do this.”

  Hoss took one long breath of fresh country air. He would miss it here. The smells. The scenery. The tranquility.

  His finger grazed the trigger. Ever so slightly, his hand trembled.

  Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Amen.

  “Tell the families of those people that I’m sorry.”

  > > > < < <

  Every muscle in Allan’s body tensed as he prepared himself.

  Four shots rang out.

  It took only a second, but for Allan, everything became slow-motion fragments—the gun rising toward him, his own reaction appearing too sluggish, the panicky double-tapping of his finger on the trigger, the two shells twirling from the ejector port of his 9mm, the red stain appearing on Matteau’s shirt, the revolver falling from his hand.

  Gun still on his target, Allan stared at him through a wisp of smoke curling from the muzzle. The sound of his heart pounded in his ears. He slowly approached Matteau, and in the periphery of his vision, he saw David and Sam doing the same.

  > > > < < <

  Hoss never realized being shot would hurt so much. Searing pain ripped through his chest, through his left shoulder. It was hard to breathe. His left arm was immobilized; he couldn’t move it. The impacts of the bullets had knocked him back against the door. Dazed, spots before his eyes, he slumped into a sitting position.

  With great effort he raised his right hand to his chest, touched the sticky wetness there. He swallowed once, painfully.

  “Call an ambulance,” he heard someone say.

  Hoss lifted his head and saw the three cops only feet away now. The young cop next to the chief put his pistol away and keyed his mike, speaking into it in hushed tones. Hoss wanted to tell him not to bother. The ambulance wouldn’t make it in time. Not way out here.

  He could feel a numbness spreading throughout his body. Color started to leach from everything around him, fading to a dull gray. Silence fell, eerie in its totality.

  Within seconds the three cops before him began to disappear, lost in a brilliant wash of white that seemed to vibrate with energy. Amidst this strange new place he could hear someone’s voice calling out to him. At first it was only faint, then with increasing clarity, he realized the voice belonged to a female—soothing, almost angelic in tone.

  Maybe his mother.

  More than anything now, he hoped it was.

  > > > < < <

  Holstering his pistol, Allan watched Matteau’s head sag to his chest, eyes fixed open. With two fingers Allan checked the neck for a pulse. In death, Matteau’s features had softened.

  At peace, Allan decided. The man seemed to be at peace.

  He took a deep breath. This marked the first time in his career that he’d had to use lethal force against another human being. As much as he hated the man for what he had done, Allan still felt guilt mingle with grief and apprehension. Every nerve in his body seemed to be afire, leaving him shaky, sick. The after-effect, he knew, of the adrenaline rush to his system. He gave himself a few minutes to recover.

  “Are you all right, son?” David asked him.

  “I’m fine.”

  He looked up at David and regarded the redness in his face, the beads of sweat on his forehead. David still clenched his pistol with a white-knuckled grip.

  Concerned, Allan asked, “How are you feeling, Chief?”

  David puffed his cheeks, exhaling softly. In a feeble mimicry of his everyday manner, he said, “A bit shaken. But I’ll be all right.”

  Allan stared at him. “Have you ever experienced an incident like this?”

  “Never.” David finally put away his weapon. “Never in thirty-six years.”

  �
��And you, Sam?”

  The constable gave a little shrug. “Same as the Chief. I’ll be okay. Never thought this was going to happen.”

  David said, “I’ll call in a stress counselor for us to speak to.”

  Allan nodded his assent. He knelt down and picked up Matteau’s revolver. Even without opening the cylinder, he could see that the gun was empty. Once more, he looked at Matteau and shook his head. All of this was hard for him to process.

  “There were no bullets in his gun,” he told David and Sam. “Explains why I didn’t see a muzzle flash.”

  For a moment, they were all quiet.

  “Suicide by cop,” Sam murmured. “Never thought I’d see it myself.”

  David wiped a hand over his brow. “We didn’t know the gun wasn’t loaded. He made a threat to shoot, and we had to respond.”

  “He had no intention of being taken alive.” Allan set the revolver down. “He probably had a desire to end his own life but couldn’t bring himself to do it.” Suddenly, he saw an image of himself at home, sitting on the sofa with a gun to his own head. Troubled by this memory, he paused before speaking again. “Perhaps it was easier for us to do the job for him.”

  Allan rose to his feet. He walked to the edge of the lawn and sat down, weary, detached from his surroundings. At the edge of his awareness he heard distant sirens. He closed his eyes and opened them again, settling his gaze on the graveled drive before him.

  He brooded about Cathy Ambré, her sister, Trixy, and Brad Hawkins. Finally, he thought of their parents and the lives, forever changed, that each of them would have to face.

  Allan breathed in. He knew he could do nothing to relieve their ineradicable sorrow. Perhaps he could give them some sense of closure now that the killer had been found.

  Murder was the ultimate sin; catching the person responsible was the ultimate redemption. Allan had always believed that. Any other time this would have made him proud.

  But not this time.

  Tomorrow he would be back in Halifax. Before him awaited more tragedies, more sleepless nights, more heartbreaking notifications of death to loved ones.

  He wondered if he really wanted to continue like this. Could he actually endure much more?

  In his heart he knew what must be done.

  51

  Acresville, May 25

  1:16 p.m.