Stanton- The Trilogy

by Alex MacLean

  Seth made his way down an embankment, nearly slipping on the wet grass, and came to the top of a three-foot retaining wall. He jumped off, into a parking lot jammed tight with five cars.

  Moving quickly, he went out to the sidewalk on Morris Street. Slashing rain filled his eyes and streamed from his chin, and he surged forward with his body hunched into it. The wind found its voice in the throats of alleyways. Bits of debris and leaves came alive. A battered paper cup fell off the curb and tumbled across the pavement.

  A car approached, tires hissing on the glassy street. As the headlights glanced off Seth’s raincoat, he pulled the rim of the hood low to shield his eyes, hoping to retain his anonymity.

  The car passed without slowing. Seth heard it stop at the intersection of Morris and Queen and then continue into the business district of the city.

  One block away, Seth cut down Birmingham Street. He reached into his coat pocket and clicked the unlock button on his keyless remote. Up ahead, the headlights of his rental car flashed. He briefly squeezed his eyes shut, feeling a sudden rush of relief that nearly caused him to laugh out loud.

  He set the duffel bag on the backseat and then peeled off the gloves. Stuffing them into his coat pockets, he climbed in behind the wheel, pulled his hood back, and wiped the water from his face. His fingers trembled as he put the key into the ignition. The engine sparked to life, and the wipers began slapping at high speed.

  Seth made a U-turn in the street and accelerated into the night. Images became swatches of reality: shimmering streets; deserted sidewalks; a bound man in a chair struggling against his restraints, his screams muffled by a strip of tape across his mouth.

  Seth found himself in a charming suburb with mature trees and modest homes. His house was a standard two-story tucked away behind a deep lawn landscaped with potentillas and rosebushes. As he watched the dark, brooding structure grow larger in the windshield, he felt the familiar pang of loneliness bubble to the surface.

  He steered into the driveway, hit the remote on his key chain, and watched the double door of the garage begin to rise ahead of him. A light turned on inside, illuminating a large workstation, tools neatly arranged on a pegboard, two mountain bikes hanging on a wall, and his own car.

  As Seth edged the car in, he realized he’d driven the last stretch of road with both hands tight on the wheel. The luminous numbers in the dash clock read 2:38 a.m.

  Stepping out of the car, he reached into the back and picked up the duffel bag. He left the garage and walked under the breezeway for the kitchen door. The motion lights came on, bathing him in a bright glow.

  Seth fluttered the moisture from his coat and took out a ring of keys that were marked in numerical order—one through three for the back door, four through six for the front door. Three Grade 1 deadbolts lined each entry.

  One by one, he unlocked the deadbolts and then swung the door open. From inside came an urgent countdown of beeps. Closing the door, he threw the deadbolts into place. He flipped the light switch on and put the soggy bag on the floor. Then he turned to the alarm keypad and punched in his four-digit code, disarming it. The system covered the front and back doors as well as every window in the house.

  He draped his coat from the doorknob and kicked off his boots. Again he entered his code into the keypad. System Arming flashed on the screen. Beeps began ticking down by the second.

  Thirty, twenty-nine, twenty-eight...

  In the cabinet above the refrigerator were two bottles of rum. Seth brought down the deluxe dark. He unscrewed the cap, found a tall glass, and poured himself a generous amount.

  Twenty, nineteen, eighteen...

  He took out a plastic tray from the freezer, twisted two ice cubes free, and dumped them into the rum. He swallowed the liquid in one gulp, grimacing against the burn. Then, gripping the countertop, he shivered as the rum hit his senses.

  The security system gave off a long buzz then silence. Reflexively, he looked around, heard only the muffled sound of rain outside sheeting against the windows and gurgling through the downspouts.

  Seth picked up the bottle of rum to refill his glass but then thought better of it. He could already feel the alcohol working through him, the lassitude settling into his limbs, the good feeling swimming in his brain. If only for a short time, it would be enough to help numb the pain.

  He dug a pen and a folded piece of paper out of his pocket. His lip curled upward as he straightened the paper and read the two names scrawled on it.

  “I can’t wait,” he whispered through clenched teeth.

  He slammed the pen and paper on the counter, walked over to the duffel bag, hefted it onto the table, and took out the shotgun. He cracked open the breech an inch to double-check the shell in the ejector port. Satisfied, he slid the fore-end up with a snap.

  Gun in hand, he went into the living room and climbed the staircase to the second floor. Instinctively, he stopped on the top landing and stared down the hallway at the closed door of his daughter’s bedroom. Hanging from the knob was a small, pink pillow with the words The Princess sleeps here embroidered on it. Beneath the door came the soft glow from a nightlight.

  Lily was afraid of the dark.

  Seth imagined her in bed, her face relaxed in sleep, her mind chasing childhood dreams. All the while, her father was out chasing mayhem.

  Seth swallowed. He walked into the bathroom and shut the door. Leaning the shotgun against the wall, he stripped off his clothes and left them in a heap on the floor. The face he saw in the mirror was haggard, pale, and pasty. It barely resembled the man he’d been seven months ago.

  Absently, he touched the scar across his cheek. All at once his reflection in the mirror vanished, becoming another one that stole his breath: the beloved face of his wife, Camille. She had beautiful blue eyes, high cheekbones, and curly, blonde hair that hung to her shoulders.

  Seth reached out to her, felt the softness of her skin as he ran his hands over her cheeks, down to her chin. His fingers slid through her hair along her temples, and he smiled when she smiled at him. Then her image began slipping out of focus, blurring, and he realized his eyes were becoming moist.

  He leaned his forehead against the mirror, and the tears fell into the sink. Christ, how he loved her. How his heart ached to have her with him again. A day had not passed since her death that he hadn’t thought of joining her.

  He showered quickly. Then he went into the master bedroom across the hall, where he pulled a T-shirt and lounge pants from a dresser drawer. After he put them on, he retrieved the shotgun and took it downstairs to the living room. He chose a position on the sofa—the same one he used every night—from which he could see through the vertical blinds to the front yard as well as through the open doorway into the kitchen.

  With the shotgun across his thighs, he sat there, waiting, watching the rain outside diminish to a lazy drizzle as the wind no longer moved the trees. Tired, he pressed his fingers into the corners of his eyes. He yawned and leaned his head back. Felt sleep wrap itself around him.

  He dozed.

  He dreamed.

  He started awake at the sound of a click.

  Seth bolted upright, his mind groggy and dream streaked. His finger found the safety on the shotgun and pushed it off. Then he saw it through the slats in the blinds—the car parked in front of the house.

  Heart pounding, he staggered to the window and peeked out. The car looked like one of those pimped-out Hondas—big chrome rims and a custom-made spoiler on the trunk so big it looked ridiculous. He couldn’t tell if anyone was inside.

  Moving to the keypad by the front door, he disarmed the alarm. Then he fumbled with the three deadbolts. Slowly, he cracked the door open, but when he peered out, the car was gone. Seth stepped onto the wet concrete of the front step. He looked toward one end of the street and down the other, with the shotgun gripped tightly in his hands. The car was nowhere to be seen.

  Seth frowned, shaking his head.

  Then a child’s voice c
ame to him from inside the house, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

  “Daddy.”

  He spun around. “Lily?”

  “Daddy.”

  Seth hurried back inside, closed the door, and locked it. He took the stairs two at a time and hit the hallway light, seeing his daughter standing outside her bedroom door. The resemblance between her and Camille was striking. Blonde curls. Lightly freckled skin. Cornflower-blue eyes. She wore pink pajamas with a pattern of ballerina bunnies dancing.

  “What is it, honey?” Seth hid the shotgun around the corner of the wall.

  “The scary man is here.”

  The words crawled through Seth’s flesh, rippling his skin with goose bumps. He walked toward his daughter.

  “There’s no one here,” he said in a soothing voice. “You’re safe, honey.”

  Lily looked frightened. Her lips trembled. Half choking, she whispered, “No, I saw him. Mommy saw him too.”

  Seth stopped dead. “Mommy?”

  “Yes, Daddy. She told me.”

  You see her too?

  “It was only a dream, honey,” Seth said. “That’s all. A bad dream.”

  Lily held out her arms to him. “Will you stay with me?”

  In that moment, Seth couldn’t imagine loving another person as much as this child. He picked her up and held her tight. Felt the girl’s heart pounding against his chest. Seth carried her into the room and tucked her into bed.

  Lily pulled the comforter to her chin. In the dim light, she looked up at her father with saucer eyes.

  She asked, “Are you going to stay with me?”

  Seth felt a lump in his throat. “I’ll stay as long as you want.”

  “All night?”

  Seth smiled and nodded. “All night.”

  He crawled onto the bed and lay next to her. Lily turned on her side and burrowed closer to him.

  “I love you, Daddy.”

  Seth put his arm around her and kissed the top of her head.

  “I love you too,” he whispered in her ear. “Don’t worry, honey. Daddy will keep you safe. Always.”

  2

  Toronto, June 8

  10:00 a.m.

  Allan Stanton waits for her.

  She comes toward him through the graveyard with her head down, a woman dressed in a hooded cloak. A murky fog escorts her, twisting and rolling over the monuments.

  The night sky is dark, the full moon a faint glow behind a thin veil of clouds. Leaves flutter to the ground from half-stripped branches. Somewhere comes the clang of metal against metal. A gate maybe, left unlatched. But there is no wind. Not even a breath or a whisper to move it.

  The woman stops in front of Allan, but he still can’t see her face. The fog begins to move around his legs, and he can feel its dampness touch his fingertips.

  “Who are you?” he asks.

  Without lifting her head, the woman holds out her hand to give him something. Allan opens his palm and feels two small objects drop into it. They are round and warm and sticky.

  He licks his lips and stares at two eyeballs in his hand. The irises are the wrong color, he realizes.

  “Blue,” he tells the woman. “They’re supposed to be blue. Not green.”

  The woman raises her head, and Allan wants to scream. Scream until his throat is set ablaze and the haunting image before him disappears. He recognizes the gaunt face, the curly black hair, the dark smudges below empty holes where her eyes should be.

  “Why didn’t you help me?” Cathy Ambré asks.

  Allan snapped awake, gripped by fear. It took him a moment to realize he was aboard an airplane somewhere over Quebec or Ontario.

  Stiff necked, he leaned back in the seat and tried to banish the nightmare from his thoughts. Recapture the building blocks of reason. He could feel moisture on his forehead, the thumping of his heart.

  For the first time in weeks, his dreams hadn’t ended at a loud pop, a brilliant muzzle flash, and a madman glowering down the barrel of his gun at him.

  “If, in the coming days,” Dr. Judy Galloway had told him, “you begin to experience vivid flashbacks or nightmares...be sure to call me at once.”

  During their interview last week—two weeks after the shooting of Herb Matteau—Allan had kept it all to himself. Everything was fine, he’d told her. No bad dreams. No trouble sleeping. No jumping at loud noises. No reliving the tragedy on that farm in Acresville.

  Of course it all had been fiction. To admit any weakness, he feared, would result in a fitness-for-duty evaluation, then he’d be branded as unfit for duty. He knew of other officers involved in Fitness for Duty Evaluations who had faked being okay for the same reasons. Still, there were others who had exaggerated symptoms to become eligible for disability benefits.

  Allan rolled his neck and shoulders, trying to work the kink out. Then he folded his hands across his stomach. Over the noise of jet engines came a mélange of sounds around the cabin: crisp book pages turning, a door closing and the click of a latch, the lady in the seat behind him talking proudly about her daughter’s upcoming convocation ceremony at York University, the child in the back row asking when they were landing.

  Next to him, a middle-aged woman with short hair watched a movie on the seatback TV in front of her. Denzel Washington was on the screen, engaged in a fierce gunfight in the middle of a post-apocalyptic town. From the woman’s earbuds, Allan could hear the tinny sounds of gunfire, of bullets cutting the air, of a man screaming.

  He turned to the window beside him. Out below the wing, the shadow of the plane moved across billows of sunlit cloud tops, a beautiful rainbow ring encircling it. The flawless sky was as bright and pale blue as he’d ever seen it before. It seemed to go on forever.

  After a few moments, the plane began descending through the clouds, and soon Allan could barely make out the wing. He heard the pleasant-faced man in the seat ahead of him chomping his gum, probably trying to help his ears pop.

  A bell chimed twice, and the seat-belt sign lit up. A flight attendant made an announcement to everyone. “Ladies and gentlemen, as we start our descent, please make sure your seat backs and tray tables are in their full upright position. Make sure your seat belt is securely fastened. Thank you.”

  Another voice repeated the message in French.

  Everyone started getting ready, straightening their seats, pushing up their tray tables, passing cups and glasses to the flight attendants.

  Allan buckled himself in and checked his watch: 10:12. In Toronto it would be 9:12. He set the watch back an hour to reflect the time change.

  When the plane came out of the clouds, he looked down at the sprawling metropolis of Toronto, an ever-growing monster of glass, steel, and concrete. The CN Tower soared above a plethora of buildings, random in their shapes and sizes. Sailboats and yachts dotted the blue water of the inner harbor.

  The plane continued its flight over the buildings and the bustling freeways and interchanges of the city. The no-smoking sign flashed, and the voice of the captain came over the speaker. “Flight attendants, please prepare for landing. Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve just been cleared to land at Toronto Pearson International Airport. Please take a moment to make sure your seat belts are securely fastened.”

  The wheels touched down, bounced once, and settled onto the runway.

  “Perfect,” someone said. “What a perfect touchdown.”

  A few passengers clapped and cheered.

  Allan smiled. A flood of excitement rushed through his body. He couldn’t wait to see Brian again.

  Nine months had been too long to be away from his son.

  3

  Halifax, June 8

  11:10 a.m.

  “Smell that?” asked Sergeant Malone.

  Detective Audra Price sniffed the air as she crossed the rear parking lot with a notebook and Tyvek booties in her hands. She could smell it, even at a good distance from the apartment’s open doorway. Sickly sweet with a hint of rusty copper, the odor r
ode a current of air, crawled over her face and up through her nostrils. Blood. Lots of it and not fresh either. Definitely several hours old.

  She wondered what carnage awaited her. What circumstances had provoked someone to act as judge, jury, and executioner? And Audra knew the motives would be absurd. They always were. People murdered others for the stupidest of reasons.

  A first-floor apartment window captured her reflection like a photograph, a slender woman of forty-one with level blue eyes, olive skin, and curly blonde hair with balayage highlights. She wore a conservative blouse and slacks, and carried herself with swift, athletic movements, the result of twenty years of exercise—running or cycling in the early morning, gyms at night. Her gold badge was clipped beside her belt buckle. A digital camera dangled from a strap around her neck.

  Malone handed her the sign-in form attached to a clipboard. Audra tucked the notebook and booties under her arm and timed into the scene. Gave the clipboard back to him when she finished.

  “How bad is it in there?” she asked.

  Malone breathed in deeply, once, and exhaled. “God-awful bad.”

  Audra looked up at him, and Malone nodded.

  “Yep,” he said. “Incredibly violent.”

  At sixty-two, Malone had the hard-boiled demeanor of someone who’d seen more of society’s underbelly than he wanted to. He was tall, with a hawkish face that seldom changed expression even on the happiest of days. His scalp glistened through his crew cut.

  Audra opened her notebook to a blank page, clicked the top of her pen, and wrote: 1276 Queen St. Apt. 4. TOA – 11:10 am. Cloudy. Temp. 15°C

  “Who’s the victim?” she asked.

  “Todd Dory.”

  “Dory?” Audra paused at the name. “Sounds familiar.”

  “He’s been in the news recently. Has a rap sheet a mile long.”

  “Caucasian?”

  “Yes. Twenty-six years old.”

  Audra wrote down the details. “Does he live here?”

  “He did.”

  “Alone?”

  “According to the brief statement we got from the girlfriend, yes.”