by Alex MacLean
Up ahead, another sign announced Dufferin Street at two kilometers out, his destination. Soon the trees and fencing alongside the road gave way to flat rooftops and a cluster of billboards.
The taxi’s radio suddenly crackled to life with a voice like sandpaper. “Six-forty. Where are you?”
The cabby keyed the mike. “Nearing Yorkdale.”
“I need you at Thirty-seven hundred Lawrence Avenue.”
“Roger. Fifteen minutes.”
“Thanks, Antu.”
The cabby followed the green sign for the Dufferin Street South exit. The Holiday Inn was right at the bottom of the off-ramp. He pulled up to the front doors beneath the carport and shifted into park.
“Fifty-five, please.”
Allan drew himself up in the seat and dug out his wallet from a back pocket, rifled through some bills. He handed the cabby $65.
As he felt the bills being slipped from his fingers, he asked, “Are you familiar with Anthony Road?”
The cabby paused a moment, the money held up in his hand. “Yes, I know Anthony.” He pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “Two blocks on the other side of the overpasses. There’s a Mini Mart on the corner. Can’t miss it.”
“How far is it?”
“One kilometer. You need to go there now?”
“No, no.” Allan checked his watch, 12:37. Brian was in school until 2:30 p.m. “I was just wondering if it would be easier to walk?”
The cabby shrugged. “Not far. Same amount of time by foot as by car.”
“Great,” Allan said. “Thanks for the drive.”
“Enjoy your stay in TO.”
As Allan stepped out of the taxi, the cabby pressed the trunk release. Allan took out his bags, hoisting the smaller one over his shoulder and setting the wheeled suitcase on the pavement. He closed the trunk and tapped the lid twice, lifted his hand in a wave to the cabby’s eyes in the rearview mirror.
He checked himself into the hotel, rode an elevator to the top floor. His first impression of his suite was one of surprise. It was large and bright and looked down on the huge Yorkdale Mall across the street. And best of all, the air was clean and fresh; none of that starch-and-old-shoe smell he’d found in other hotel rooms before.
He placed his smaller bag on the king-size bed and the wheeled suitcase by the dresser. Then he stepped out onto the small balcony, leaving the sliding glass door open behind him. His eyes crinkled against the sun as he looked at the hustling city, much like Halifax, only on a larger scale. A breeze touched his face, blew through his hair. The whoosh of vehicles came from the 401 to his left, and the sound of cars slowing down and speeding up drifted up from the street below.
He went back into the suite, slid the glass door shut. He opened his wheeled suitcase and took out a gift bag. On both sides of it, Spiderman swung from his web.
Allan set the bag on the dresser, then he took out a rectangular box from the suitcase. Inside it was a remote-control Traxxas Monster Truck. Huge tires. Wheelie bar. Blue with black and gray racing stripes. Fast as hell, according to the guy at Mighty Small Cars in Dartmouth.
Allan had bought it for Brian as a birthday present.
He hoped his son would like it.
7
Halifax, June 8
4:15 p.m.
Todd Dory’s gaze never left the shotgun leveled at his head. Seated at the kitchen table with his palms pressed flat on the top, his face looked tight with fear and calculation. Dots of sweat speckled his upper lip.
Seth squinted down the barrel at him, blinking at the rain dripping into his eyes. He’d fired the shotgun hundreds of times at the range over in Dartmouth, practiced many drills in his basement with the gun unloaded. All along, he had imagined this very moment, this very face on the other end of the barrel.
Dory’s gaze suddenly drifted to the kitchen door, to certain freedom, and then settled on the shotgun again. Seth could almost hear the grimy wheels turning inside that head of his.
Would he try for the gun or make a run for it?
The floorboards creaked as Seth took one step back, then another. Finger tense against the trigger, he twitched the barrel toward the pen and paper he had laid out on the table.
“The other two,” he said. “Write down their names and addresses.”
Dory clenched his jaw and shook his head. “No way.”
Anger burned in Seth’s eyes, igniting horrible images in his brain, dimming the lights and silencing the rain lashing the window. He forced himself to breathe calmly. He wanted to kill this man in some dark and unconscionable way. Cleave the flesh from his bones and open his throat in a fountain of red while he screamed and begged and drowned in his own blood.
But Seth needed information first.
“Do it.”
Dory lifted his chin. “Fuck you.”
All at once, Seth rushed forward and pressed the muzzle of the shotgun into Dory’s cheek, wrinkling the skin of his face over his eye and nearly pushing him out of the chair.
“Do it or die, motherfucker.”
“All right.” Dory lifted his hands in entreaty. “Take it easy.”
Heart pounding, Seth took the shotgun away and stepped behind him. Dory reached for the pen. His movements were sluggish, like those of a man reluctant. Seth watched the pen scratch across the paper and realized this piece of human waste could simply write down any bullshit name, any bullshit address. But would he risk it with his life on the line?
Seth glanced down at the thick spindles in the back of the wooden chair. They looked strong enough so Dory couldn’t break them apart, and the spaces between them were wide enough for him to slip his hands through.
Dory stopped writing and laid the pen on the table. Seth walked over, squeezing the stock of the shotgun between his right arm and torso and keeping the barrel aimed at Dory with one hand. With his other hand he picked up the paper to read the two names.
“Which one is Scarecrow?” he asked.
“The second one.”
“Lee Higgins?”
“Yeah.”
Eyes narrow, Seth looked at Dory. “Yeah?”
“That’s his name.”
“How do I know you’re not bullshitting me?”
“I’m not.”
Seth watched Dory’s face. No blinking. No averting the eyes. But was he telling the truth? Was he? The fear on his face looked genuine enough. Why was it so hard to believe one scumbag wouldn’t rat out another? It was easy, really. Dory was a criminal, a festering sore on society. Lying, for him, would be as easy as breathing.
Seth picked up the pen, shoving it and the paper into his pocket. Then he reached into the duffel bag and brought out a clear bag full of thick zip ties.
Dory squinted at him. “What’re you doing now?”
Seth noted the desperate keen in the man’s voice.
“Relax,” he said, removing two ties from the bag.
This was the tricky part, he realized—restraining Dory would require both hands. It could take only a second for him to grab for the shotgun once Seth put it down. He circled behind Dory again and placed the tip of the shotgun against the back of his head.
For a moment, Seth fought a mad impulse to pull the trigger. He knew the walls in these old buildings were paper thin, and he didn’t want to alert the neighbors.
“Put your hands through the back of the chair,” he said.
Dory twisted his head around, trying to look over his shoulder. It was then Seth saw the scorpion tattoo pulsing in his neck, the sweat glistening on his forehead.
“Why?” Dory asked. “I gave you what you wanted.”
“I can’t have you running to the phone once I leave, now can I?”
Dory lowered his head for a full ten seconds before he finally acceded.
Cautiously, Seth squatted down and laid the shotgun across his thighs. He looped a zip tie around Dory’s wrist and one spindle, threaded the pointed end of the tie through the locking case and pulled it tight. Dory began fle
xing his fingers.
“Careful, man,” he said. “You’ll cut off my circulation.”
Seth gritted his teeth and shook his head, his rage pounding at the levee of his self-control. After he secured Dory’s other wrist, he laid the shotgun on the table.
“Was Scarecrow the one in charge?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“And his name is?”
Seth watched for a pause in Dory’s answer, a flicker in his eyes to suggest the searching of memory, but there was none. “Lee Higgins.”
Seth held his gaze for a few seconds. Then, without another word, he reached into the duffel bag and produced a roll of duct tape.
“Look, buddy,” Dory said. “No one was supposed to be there.”
Was it an apology?
Seth squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed over a hard lump in his throat.
“Is that what Higgins told you?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah?” Seth glared at him. “He seemed like he was prepared for someone being there.”
“He’s fucked up. You don’t wanna mess around with him. I’m just warning ya.”
Seth raised his eyebrows. “Oh. Why not?”
“He’s a badass. Major. Fucking. Badass.”
Seth shot Dory a blank expression and then tore a strip off the tape. With slow steps, he approached with the strip held out between his hands. Eyes fixed on it, Dory’s Adam’s apple bobbed once.
“Higgins is a badass, huh?” Seth stuck the tape over Dory’s mouth before he had time to answer. Then he leaned in close to his ear. “I’ll show you fucking badass.”
Seth returned to the table, reached into the duffel bag, and lifted out the fire axe. He allowed himself a brief moment to indulge in the terror ballooning Dory’s eyes, flaring his nostrils, and heaving his chest, right before he raised the axe over his head and brought it down again and again.
“You had it coming,” Seth whispered as he broke out of his reminiscence.
He folded the paper Dory had written the names on, tapped it against his forehead a few times, then put it on the coffee table in front of him. Lacing his fingers across his chest, he sank into the thick sofa pillows and settled back into himself. He gazed up at the ceiling, deep in thought.
Long-range forecasts called for rain and heavy fog overnight Sunday into Monday. If those held true, it would give him the perfect conditions to carry out the next hit. The fact Sunday night was the quietest night of the week came as a bonus.
But five days didn’t give him much time to prepare. He had to book different rental cars for the stakeout. Assess the character of the target’s neighborhood. Stalk him without attracting attention. Learn his movements. Wait until he was completely alone. Pray Todd Dory never lied about the names and addresses.
Seth rolled his head to the side and stared across the room at Lily playing with her Barbie dolls in a patch of early-evening sunlight filtering through the living room window. In her rich imaginary world, she gave the dolls individual personalities and had them socially interact with one another.
For her, Seth thought. And Camille.
He got off the sofa and walked to the front window. On the street outside, six kids were playing road hockey with an orange ball. Through the glass, Seth could feel the energy in the mad hustle of their feet, could hear the scrape of their plastic stick blades across the asphalt.
“Daddy.” Lily came over to him, holding a Barbie with long, brown hair. The doll wore nothing more than a pink cowboy hat. “Can I go outside and play?”
Seth looked down at his daughter, her blonde hair golden in the sunlight. He took in her smooth, untroubled face, a flawless reflection of her mother’s. So innocent and pure. Her hopeful smile so pretty that it opened his chest in an outflow of love.
He hated the thought of someday releasing her to the world, a place of danger and ugliness and corruption. Full of monsters and predators who could suck everything precious out of her and leave behind a broken shell like her father, or even dead like her mother.
If only life came with a pause button.
Seth knelt before the little girl, touched her cheek.
“Tomorrow,” he promised her. “You can play outside tomorrow.”
An exaggerated frown pulled at Lily’s face, and her shoulders drooped. “Awww.”
“I know, honey. But I have to get our supper ready, and you’re too young to go out by yourself.”
“Can we have grilled-cheese sammiches?”
Seth smiled at his child. “Sure we can.”
Lily’s face lit up. “Yay.”
Seth pulled her close to him, kissing her forehead. “I’ll get it ready.”
“Okay, Daddy.”
Seth stood up and watched Lily run over to other Barbies on the floor, picking them up and positioning them around a table in her toy townhouse. She turned her face back toward him and smiled.
“They’re going to have supper too.”
Seth smiled at her. “That’s nice, sweetheart.”
In the kitchen, he put a frying pan on the stovetop, took out a loaf of bread from a roll-top box on the counter. When he approached the fridge, he stopped at Lily’s crayon drawing held on the door by two heart magnets. The picture showed a stick-figure family—mother, father, and daughter holding hands. A bright yellow sun with a happy face. Two blue clouds. A red house with a green patch of lawn in front.
As if in a dream, Seth traced a finger over the figures. He wished he could crawl inside the drawing, inside his daughter’s imagination, and live there forever, like she did in his.
Suddenly, someone behind him called his name.
Seth straightened and lowered his hand from the drawing. The voice, so pretty and so familiar like no other, rode up his spine like an icy fingertip, bristling the hairs on the back of his neck.
Oh, Jesus.
Seth stood very still, afraid to turn around. Was the voice real or an imaginary one that had slipped out from some fold in his brain?
When it came a second time, Seth felt his mouth dry up. Slowly, he turned to see Camille standing by the table, dressed in a floral sundress. She was as beautiful as ever, but she wasn’t her physical self. He could see right through her.
Seth opened his mouth, found it impossible to speak. He watched her point a slender finger to his laptop on the kitchen table. The screen showed the day’s edition of the Chronicle Herald. Headlines across the top page read: Halifax Death Considered Gang Related.
The photo below showed two Ident techs carrying out bags from Todd Dory’s apartment.
“Did you do this, baby?”
Seth swallowed. “Yes.”
“Why?”
Jesus, he loved her so much. He wanted to wrap his arms around her and hold her and never let her go.
A sliver of pain pierced Seth’s voice. “You’re not real.”
“I am.”
“No.”
She fixed him with a sad gaze. “You were a hero, baby. My hero. You saved lives.”
Tears filled his eyes, and he stared at the blurred image of her. “I couldn’t save yours.”
“You have to move on.”
“I can’t.”
“It’s going to kill you.”
“I don’t care.”
“I do.”
Seth hung his head for a moment, and the tears rolled down his cheeks. Shame and guilt spread through his stomach, making him feel sick. He looked up again and asked, “What’s it like in heaven?”
“It’s cold, baby. So cold.”
Camille suddenly became a pixilated image on Seth’s retinas, breaking apart, fading from his vision.
“Don’t go,” he whined.
“I have to.”
“Take me with you.”
Camille held out a grainy hand, and Seth reached and reached until he overbalanced and went tumbling into the table, his hand mashing the keyboard of the laptop.
“Jesus Christ.”
He sank to his knees in the m
iddle of the floor, put the heels of his hands to his forehead, and wept. Wept for Camille. Wept for Lily. Wept for the promising life they’d all built together. A life pried from his hands, ripped up right before his eyes, and its pieces strewn across his mind to litter the dark vaults of his memory.
He sat back on the floor and tortured himself with images of Camille. He remembered the first time he saw her in the stairwell of the apartment building where he had rented a small pad on South Park Street. Corny, yes, but the moment he laid eyes on her, he knew she was that one true love seldom found in life.
He remembered Camille at her door the night he brought her flowers and that gorgeous smile on her face upon seeing them.
He remembered when they first made love and how caught up he was in the softness of her skin, the swell of her breasts, and the vanilla smell of her perfume.
He remembered Camille in the hospital’s delivery room, sweating and exhausted. With pride and wonder, Seth stared at the baby in her arms, bundled in a blanket and knitted hat. The little girl’s face was pink, still swollen from birth, and she had a slightly pointed head. For the first time, Seth realized babies were born with hair.
Seth stood up, and his legs shook. He wanted to punch holes in the walls, bite down on something, anything, until he heard it crack between his teeth. Instead, he stumbled over to the tap and filled a glass with water. He opened a cupboard door and brought down two bottles of medication from the top shelf. One bottle had green tablets inside; the other had blue. Seth dumped a mixture into his palm and chased them down his throat with the water.
Then he stood at the sink with his fingers gripping the edge of the countertop. He tipped his head back and closed his eyes. Kept them closed for several minutes until his mind calmed down and the world began to feel right again.
8
Halifax, June 8
5:03 p.m.
Audra sat on the other side of the table inside the windowless interview room, trying to gauge the body language of Wendy Drummond. Dressed in baggy cargo pants and a black T-shirt that had a horseman of the apocalypse printed on the front, Wendy was pale and nervous. She inspected her nails, bit at them, and turned her wedding ring on her finger from side to side in a repeated cycle. The fluorescent lights captured with harsh clarity the haunted, fearful look in her eyes.