Stanton- The Trilogy

by Alex MacLean

  “We,” Audra corrected. “Don’t think for a second you’re going there without me.”

  Daniel became very still. He gazed down the length of his nose at her, and Audra could see the wariness in his eyes.

  “Right,” he said. “We.”

  They finished their coffees then rode an elevator up to the third floor. The doors slid open to a scene of doctors and nurses rushing past. They were surrounding a rolling pediatric bed, and in it lay a poor little boy aged three, maybe four. He looked unconscious, and his face was swollen and blotchy.

  Audra heard a doctor say, “Hib,” to one of the nurses as they whisked the little boy through the double swing doors of the PICU and disappeared inside.

  Daniel paused a moment, shook his head. “I hate this place.”

  “I know,” Audra said. “So do I.”

  Daphne’s condition hadn’t changed at all. Thirty-three hours had passed, and she remained trapped somewhere in that twilight between unconsciousness and oblivion. Occasionally, one of her arms or legs would give a spastic movement. But the nurses were quick to tamp out any hope by telling them the movements were reflexive, completely normal. It wasn’t a sign Daphne was recovering.

  One nurse said the breathing tube down Daphne’s throat would be removed in a few days. Doctors would insert a tracheotomy tube into her windpipe through an incision in the front of her neck. They wanted to spare damage to her vocal cords.

  Audra and Daniel sat on opposite sides of her, both taking a hand into their own.

  “We’re back, kiddo,” Daniel said. “Told ya we wouldn’t be gone long.”

  They sat there for a while, talking about the family fun they’d had at the Kingsmill Resort in Virginia two summers ago. About the summer before that when they’d rented the chalet at Cabot Shores and Daphne had seen that bull moose trudging through the bushes only yards away. She’d managed to get a picture with her camera before it vanished.

  Audra wondered if Daphne could really hear them. Whether or not it made her happy, or caused her terrible pain. If she could, would she tell them to just be quiet?

  At nine o’clock, Daniel decided to call it a night. He kissed Daphne on the forehead, gave her arm a gentle squeeze.

  “Going home now, kiddo,” he said. “Mommy’s going to stay with you tonight. Okay? I love you.”

  He stood over her for a minute, looking down into her face with ravaged eyes. His lips trembled, and his throat twitched. He drew a breath and turned to leave. Audra walked him to the door.

  “Don’t forget,” she whispered so Daphne might not hear. “I’m going with you in the morning.”

  With equal quiet, Daniel said, “I know.” He put his arms around her, kissed the top of her head. “Try to get some sleep, will you? I don’t need something happening to you too.”

  “I’ll try.”

  They hugged, and Daniel left.

  Audra went back to Daphne’s bedside again. She picked up her daughter’s hand and held it against her face, closed her eyes. For a time, she sat there like that, not moving, not saying a word, but still letting Daphne know she was there.

  Audra opened her eyes at the sound of rain scrabbling across the window. She looked over and saw water streaming down the glass, the sky beyond it alive with electricity. She turned back to Daphne.

  With a pensive smile, she said, “I never told you about the day you were born, did I? I remember it like it was yesterday. You made this soft little cry. It was the most beautiful sound I ever heard.

  “The doctors only let me hold you for a minute. You were so small. Only four pounds, twelve ounces. You came six weeks early, like you couldn’t wait to enter this world.

  “They kept you in the NICU for two weeks. This same hospital.” Audra inhaled a deep breath. “That was a scary time for your dad and I. It was so hard to leave you every night. I couldn’t stay with you like I’m doing now.

  “When we finally brought you home, God, your father’s eyes were so full of excitement. We had your nursery ready months before you got here. It was painted sky blue. We had a tree branch mural on the wall by your crib with butterflies and dragonflies. A bunch of stuffed animals everywhere.”

  Audra winced and touched her eyes with her free hand.

  “I saw your video today, honey,” she said. “It broke my heart to see you in such despair. You should’ve come to me. That’s what I’m here for. But I understand why you didn’t. I never told my parents either.

  “I was bullied too. My parents used to move around a lot. It seemed like I went to a different school every year or two. When I was twelve we moved to Dryden, Ontario, and once again, I had to go to this new school there. It’s always hard being the new kid. I didn’t know anyone. No one knew me.

  “I tried to fit in, to make friends, but none of the kids wanted anything to do with me. I never felt so alone in my life. I kept to myself most of the time.

  “It wasn’t long before this group of girls singled me out. They started taunting me. Calling me names. Stupid. Ugly. Loser. They said I belonged in the special-ed class.

  “It hurt. Everyday I came home, I cried up in my room. I never wanted to go back there. My life was hell.

  “One day after school, those same girls beat me up. I came home with a black eye. My mother was so upset. I told her I got hit in the face with a ball while playing soccer in gym class. I don’t think she believed me.

  “Even now, thirty years later, it bothers me to talk about it. It never leaves you. That pain. That humiliation.

  “I know, honey, what it feels like to be alone. To be scared. To be targeted. It works on you. Destroys your self-esteem.

  “I dealt with that for two years before my parents moved from Dryden to Fredericton. When I first went to the new school there, I was afraid it would be like the other one. But it wasn’t. The kids were more receptive. I made some good friends.

  “Not once during all that abuse did I think of...” Audra stopped, considering her words. “You have the whole world in front of you, honey. You’re smart enough to be whatever you want in life.”

  With sad eyes, Audra stared at Daphne’s relaxed face, at the tubes and wires surrounding her body, at the noisy machines flashing with different colored lights.

  Audra shook her head. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Not like this at all.

  Daphne was supposed to finish school in two weeks. Enjoy the leisure of summer and the sun. Go to Cavendish this August with her parents to spend a week at the beach.

  Audra tucked her legs underneath her, leaned over, and laid her head on the bed sheets beside Daphne. She closed her eyes. And soon the beeps coming from the machines and that hiss, thump, thump from the ventilator faded away, died.

  She dreamed of Daphne, a little girl of three years old, coming up to her bedside one night. She wore her Hello Kitty jammies and hugged her teddy bear. Her eyes were like dark wells of terror.

  “Mommy.”

  Audra lifted her head off the pillow. “Honey, what is it? Did you have a bad dream?”

  “Yes. Can I sleep with you?”

  Audra smiled at the request. “Sure, you can. C’mon.”

  Daphne slid beneath the covers and turned on her side, pressing her back and legs against Audra’s body. Audra laid her cheek against Daphne’s head and put an arm around her waist.

  “I love you, honey.”

  “I love you, Mommy.”

  Audra felt her heart swell as she breathed in the fresh, clean smell of her daughter’s hair. Daphne reached down and placed her little hand around her mother’s fingers and squeezed. Released. Squeezed again, harder.

  Slowly, Audra opened her eyes. In a gradual rise, the hospital machines got louder around her, and the thick gauze of the dream began to lift from her mind.

  Her gaze wandered across the white bed sheets to Daphne’s fingers curled lightly around her hand.

  35

  Halifax, June 13

  8:31 p.m.

  Seth stood in fro
nt of the bathroom mirror, staring at the thick scar running from his sternum straight down to below his beltline. It reminded him of a long piece of red licorice, and whenever the humidity got bad—like tonight—it itched something terrible.

  Ten other scars pocked the left side of his abdomen and chest. They were small, oval, and zipper-like. One by one, Seth touched them, still able to feel the sharp tip of the blade as it had pierced his skin.

  He remembered opening his eyes in the ICU. At first he didn’t know where he was. Excruciating pain clawed through his insides. It hurt to move, to breathe. His throat was raw and dry. A tube stuck out of his chest, and blood flowed through it. Bags hung over his head. One had clear fluid in it, the other dark red.

  Someone touched his forearm, and he rolled his eyes to the face of a nurse beside him. She had white, even teeth and a mole on her cheek like Marilyn Monroe.

  “Hey, you,” she said. “Welcome back.”

  He tried to speak but couldn’t work up enough moisture in his mouth. He licked his lips, tried again with great effort.

  “Lil...eee. Ca...mee...ill.”

  The nurse dropped her eyes from his, and before everything blurred and faded to black, he saw her smile turn sad.

  Seth bent over the sink and splashed cold water on his face. Drying himself, he left the bathroom and crossed the hall to his bedroom, where he changed into a black T-shirt and black rain pants. He stepped over to the window and looked out at the rainy street. Dusk was deepening the shadows and graying out the colors. Soon it would be full dark.

  He decided to give it two or three hours. Maybe watch the apartment building until midnight. The weather would surely keep people indoors. Unfortunately, it meant Blake Kaufman probably wouldn’t be going anywhere either.

  Off and on for the past three days, Seth had watched for Kaufman to show himself. He had, twice. Once last night and once two nights before that. Both times he’d been with the dark-haired woman. Kaufman would never realize what a savior she’d been for him. Without her, he’d be dead already.

  Seth could feel himself growing ever more anxious. He reminded himself to remain calm and patient, like he’d done with Todd Dory. He still had Scarecrow to get. Blow it now and the opportunity to kill him would be lost forever.

  Seth walked down the hallway to Lily’s bedroom. He kissed his fingertips and pressed them to the closed door. Bowing his head, he prayed, Lord, keep her safe this night, safe from all our earthly fears; may angels guard her while she sleeps, till morning comes and light appears. Amen.

  He touched the pink pillow hanging from the doorknob. As he stared at The Princess sleeps here embroidered on the front, he felt a deep ache in his heart.

  “I won’t be long, honey,” he whispered. “Daddy has to go out for a little while.”

  He went downstairs. His raincoat hung in the living room closet. He took it off the hanger and put it on. Removing the nitrile gloves from the pockets, he slipped them over his hands.

  The duffel bag lay on the closet floor with the shotgun and Santoku knife zippered shut inside it. Seth carried it into the kitchen, set it on the table, and withdrew the shotgun.

  He swung it up into a firing position, sighting down the length of the barrel until he saw it disappear and the bead sight at the end come up and rest on the receiver by his eye. In his mind, Blake Kaufman stood there, hands raised, eyes wide in fear.

  Seth pretended to squeeze the trigger. He could hear the booming shot, feel the kick of the butt into his shoulder, see the shot mass punch a hole through Kaufman’s flesh.

  He stuffed the shotgun into the bag. Then he slipped on his hiking boots. After he slung the bag over his shoulder, he disarmed the alarm, waited a moment, and rearmed it again. Beeps began counting down from thirty.

  Seth opened the back door and stepped outside. The rain fell in sheets, pelting the roof of the breezeway and gurgling through the downspouts.

  Seth locked all three deadbolts and held his ear close to the door, waiting for the high-pitched buzz of the alarm telling him the house was secure.

  When it came, he pulled the hood over his head and stepped out from under the breezeway. As he walked to his new rental car—a gray Impala this time—he wondered if he’d get his chance at Kaufman tonight.

  He prayed he would.

  36

  Halifax, June 13

  9:45 p.m.

  Allan pored over the crime scene photos. They were a mixture of pictures showing the entire location, inside and out; the entrance and escape route Audra believed the killer had used; onlookers crowded together by morbid curiosity. Allan examined each face, looking for someone he recognized. None.

  He shuffled through images of Todd Dory lying on the kitchen floor with his arms twisted under the back of a chair and his legs splayed out on each side of the seat. Allan felt a weird tingle in his stomach when he came to the severed ear on the floor.

  A blowup of the axe clearly showed corpse written on the handle in black marker. Other photos showed the linear patterns of blood on the wall and ceiling.

  By all accounts, the scene demonstrated control and rage. Allan agreed with Audra’s belief. The murder had been personal, done by someone driven by anger and hatred. The rage in the pictures reminded Allan of the rage he’d seen in lovers’ triangles.

  Male sexual jealousy could be a strong motivator for homicide. Women usually killed their lovers; men killed their competition. But according to Audra, Wendy Drummond’s husband didn’t resemble the man in the video.

  That left revenge.

  Revenge killings involved extreme rage. Allan had read a study suggesting that meting out revenge actually stimulated pleasure centers in the brain, much like drugs or desserts. But who was the suspect? Who had Dory screwed over that badly? With his history, the list could be long.

  Allan took out his notebook and wrote:

  1. Suspect possesses characteristics under the organized dichotomy.

  2. Used precautions.

  3. Used con approach.

  4. Murder planned.

  5. Controlled scene.

  6. Restraints used.

  7. No theft.

  8. Axe was used, brought to the scene, and left there.

  9. Shotgun was brought to the scene, not fired, and removed after crime.

  10. Corpse.

  Allan looked at his watch: 11:43 p.m. Nearly seven hours gone and so much work left to do. He propped his elbows on top of the desk and lowered his face into his hands, rubbed at his temples with his fingertips.

  A clap of thunder brought his attention to the window, and he saw a flash of lightning ignite the sky above the dark clouds. The rain continued to fall at a relentless pace. Streetlights glistened in the water drops running down the glass.

  Allan plopped the surveillance disc into the DVD drive of his computer and sat down to watch it. Through a curtain of rain, the mystery man came into view on the corner of Birmingham and Morris. When he got close to the camera, Allan hit pause. He leaned forward in his chair, looking over the still image.

  He felt confident this man was the suspect. The gloves. The duffel bag, long enough to carry an axe and a shotgun. The actions he made trying to conceal his identity.

  The lab hadn’t gotten around to analyzing the video yet, but Allan doubted they could work their magic enhancing it. The weather was just too bad, and at no time did the man reveal his face to the camera. Not even at a distance.

  Allan estimated he was about five-nine or five-ten. Maybe pushing one hundred seventy pounds. Around the weight and height of the average Canadian male. Nothing about him separated him from the flock.

  Allan hit the play button again, let the video run through. As he watched the man drifting from view, presumably after committing his murder, Allan heard a sharp squawk of police sirens outside. He looked up from the monitor and saw red and blue strobe glancing off the rain-streaked window. The time was 1:03 a.m.

  He got up and walked over, watched three police cars tea
r out of the parking lot and race down Gottingen Street.

  Then he heard it.

  That dreadful beeping of his pager, slicing the quiet of the office and rippling his skin with goose bumps.

  Someone was dead. Someone had been murdered or had overdosed or had decided life was too much effort and cashed in.

  Allan clenched and unclenched his hands a few times, shook his head. He never wanted to come back to this again. He returned to his desk and picked up his pager. Even before he pressed the button to light up the display, he sensed it—the strange foreboding pushing through his bloodstream, firing off a lightshow of impulses in his brain.

  The downpour outside.

  The dark cover of night.

  The man in the black rainwear with the duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

  Allan stared at the pager, feeling the pulse in his throat starting to throb.

  “Kaufman,” he whispered.

  37

  Dartmouth, June 14

  1:08 a.m.

  Seth tightened his grip on the steering wheel when he saw the cop car barreling toward him in the opposing lane, almost lost in a mass of spray flying up from the wheels. The sirens wailed and the lights flashed with a frenetic energy.

  Heart pounding, Seth eased his foot off the gas and began steering the car to the shoulder of the road. All his fears assaulted him—caught before he got the chance to take down Lee Higgins; locked in a cage with men of the lowest moral fiber. Murderers. Rapists. Thieves.

  Of course he had killed Todd Dory and Blake Kaufman. And he would sure as hell kill Higgins too. Those three deserved street justice. Not some cushy prison life with flat-screen TVs and video games and exercise equipment.

  The cop car hurtled past him and kept going. Seth wiped a hand over his forehead and let out a shuddering breath. He felt a small surge of triumph, watching the lights recede in the rearview mirror.

  No doubt the cops were racing for Kaufman’s place. They were certainly heading in that direction. Someone had probably heard the shotgun blast or the screams. How could they not have? Both had split the night air and rung off the brick wall of the apartment building with such volume they had even startled Seth.