Stanton- The Trilogy

by Alex MacLean

  “You fucker.” Higgins rolled over, raising the Beretta. “You fuck—”

  Seth pulled the trigger, and Higgins’s face vanished in a burst of fire. Blood, flesh, and bone splattered across the alley. Higgins’s foot kicked the pavement once, then he lay still.

  Seth dropped the shotgun. He stumbled to his right, falling against the wall of the warehouse and sliding down into a sitting position. Allan rushed over to him.

  “Mr. Connors.”

  Seth tilted his head up toward him. Blood dripped from his chin.

  “Why didn’t you come to me if you had information?” Allan asked. “I could’ve taken them all down.”

  “I lied,” he said in a voice almost a whisper.

  Allan frowned. “Wha—”

  “I saw one,” he slurred. “That night.”

  “Dory?”

  The nod came more from Seth’s eyes than from his head.

  “I got his mask off.” He licked at the blood on his lips. “In the hallway. I’m sorry.”

  Allan felt a pang of sorrow. He touched Seth’s arm, gave it a gentle squeeze.

  “Don’t be,” he said. “You hang in there. Okay? I have to go call in help.”

  Seth reached his fingers up to the sleeve of Allan’s coat.

  “Wait,” he said. “Please.”

  “What?”

  “Just wait.”

  Allan shook his head. “You need medical attention.”

  “Please. For me.”

  Watching the blood pumping from Seth’s chest, Allan understood. The fingers let go of his sleeve, and Seth’s hand fell onto his lap. He hung his head, and Allan knew he didn’t have much time.

  “I have to try,” Allan said. “For myself.”

  He found his cell phone in the pocket of Talon’s coat. As he went to place the call, his finger paused over the numbers. He gazed down the alley at Seth and swallowed.

  > > > < < <

  Seth could feel himself fading. An icy chill gripped his body, and he shivered uncontrollably. His heart seemed to race out of control. He knew it would soon run out of blood to pump and seize up completely.

  He shut his eyes, wanting this. Wanting for it all to be over and done with. No more pain. No more tears. No more nightmares. Just peace. Endless, soothing, warm peace.

  He flinched when a small, familiar voice brushed against his ears.

  The voice said, “Daddy.”

  Slowly, Seth opened his weary eyes. Lily stood in front of him with a playful little smile working on her face. Pain shot through Seth’s chest, rising up into his jaw, and his body tightened against it.

  “You’re not really there, honey,” he slurred. “I imagine you.”

  Lily continued to smile at him.

  Seth clamped his eyes shut. He flickered them open again, expecting Lily to be gone. But she was still there. Still smiling at him. Oh, Christ, she was so beautiful.

  Long, slender fingers appeared beside her head, draping themselves over her shoulder. Seth moved his gaze over them, continuing up the arm to the shoulder and finally settling on Camille’s face.

  She gave him a sad smile and reached her other hand out to him.

  She said, “It’s time to go, baby.”

  > > > < < <

  Allan watched Seth’s lips moving. He heard muttered words too faint to hear. Seth lifted his hand up in front of him, his fingers curling, as if gripping something. Then it fell back down again, and his head slumped forward.

  Allan went over to him. The muscles in his legs shook as he squatted down to check Seth’s wrist, the side of his neck. He found no pulse. For a moment, he stared at the man who had saved his life, grateful yet incredibly heartsick.

  Sirens split the night air, growing louder.

  Allan pressed an arm to his aching ribs and sat down beside Seth’s body. He tilted his head back against the rough bricks, closing his eyes, as the cool drizzle fell on his face.

  Epilogue

  Halifax, June 21

  4:06 p.m.

  Nine days after the tragedy, Audra and Daniel took Daphne home.

  On Wednesday, she would begin outpatient rehab for her speech and physical disabilities. The physiotherapist had found some minor issues with her mobility and balance when he’d examined her the previous week. Those, he’d said, would require some light tweaking, hopefully lasting only a few sessions. In the meantime, he wanted Daphne to avoid going up and down stairs by herself. Daniel had gone out and bought a sofa bed so she could sleep in the living room.

  The speech therapy would be more extensive. It could take months if not longer. There was no window of recovery. Daphne’s progress would depend on how often she practiced at home.

  With each day, Audra saw tiny improvements in her daughter’s speech. The stutters on short words were smoothing out; the longer ones continued to trip her up.

  Daphne still had no memory of the suicide attempt or the months of bullying she’d suffered. There was no telling if it would come back at some point or remain gone forever.

  One thing bothered Audra about the memory loss—Daphne never mentioned school. Not once, unless someone brought it up. Audra wanted to believe her daughter didn’t remember anything, but a small piece of doubt lingered there at the back of her mind. Was Daphne faking the amnesia? Had she fooled Dr. Mooney and everyone else?

  If Daphne were able to attend school in the fall, what would happen then? Margi Tanner and the other ninth graders would be gone, moved on to another school. But what lingering effects remained in the students left behind? Would some other kid or a group of them say something out of place, rekindling this problem all over again?

  Audra had all summer to think it over, to formulate a plan. Right now, she was just happy to be taking her daughter home.

  Daphne gripped her arm as the two of them left the car and went inside to the living room. She took a seat on the sofa, folding her legs underneath her and giving off a big yawn. Her face grew slack, and her eyelids shut halfway.

  Audra had noticed Daphne lacked the energy she used to have. She seemed to wear out fast. This was normal, according to the doctors. It was one of the most common problems after suffering a brain injury.

  Audra asked, “You tired, honey?”

  Daphne raised her eyebrows as if fighting to stay awake. “Yeah.”

  “Want me to pull the bed out for you?”

  “N-not...yet.”

  Daniel carried in the get-well flowers and set them on the kitchen counter. Then he came into the living room, rubbing a hand over his stomach.

  “What are we doing for supper?”

  Daphne perked up. “Pee...Pizza.”

  “Mmm. We haven’t had that in a while.” Daniel threw a glance at Audra. “Want to get a pizza, babe?”

  Audra spread her hands. “Hey, whatever you guys want. I’m not fussy.”

  “Piatto?”

  Audra nodded. “Sure.”

  “The Cielo pizza?”

  “You and Daphne get it for yourselves. I’ll take a Mista salad.”

  “Panna cotta for dessert?”

  Audra smiled. “Of course.”

  Daniel went to the phone and called in the order. As he headed out to go pick it up, Daphne curled up on her side and slowly drifted off to sleep.

  In the kitchen, Audra set the table and moved the flowers to the windowsill. A small pile of unopened mail lay on the countertop. She picked it up and rifled through some bills, bank statements, and coupons.

  Then she came to a white envelope. There was no return or recipient’s address. No stamp. Just Daphne’s name printed on the front in big letters.

  Audra frowned. She held the envelope up to the kitchen window, seeing the shape of a small piece of paper inside. For a moment, she wondered who had sent it, whether or not she should open it.

  She threw a glance at Daphne, asleep on the sofa. Then she went over to a drawer, took out a knife, and slit the top of the envelope. The paper, folded in half, had been ripped out of s
omeone’s notebook. Audra became very still as she took it out and opened it up.

  The note was short and direct:

  Dear Daphne,

  I am writing to apologize for my behavior. It was wrong, and there is no excuse for it. I wish I had never done it. I hope you’re getting better.

  Sincerely,

  Margi

  With sad eyes, Audra looked at Daphne again. She couldn’t show it to her. Not now. Not if her amnesia was real. She imagined the firestorm of emotions it would spark.

  Audra stuffed the note back inside the envelope and tucked it away in her purse, to hold in case she would need it someday down the road.

  She prayed that day would never come.

  TORONTO, JUNE 25

  5:35 p.m.

  The department gave Allan an administrative leave for six weeks.

  The reports were done, the statements given. He had returned to the scene with investigators, where he recreated the shooting incident for them. In detail, he described what had happened that crazy night. Lee Higgins and his crew had abducted him with intentions of killing him. Seth Connors ended up saving his life nanoseconds before Talon shot him. Allan had only fudged one part of the story—Seth had gotten past him and shot Higgins before he could stop him.

  He knew the investigators would dissect everything he said and compare it to the evidence they found. But Allan knew what evidence existed. And none of it would contradict his story.

  It was the first time in his career he had crossed that ethical line. But he never regretted it. Not for a second. One day he might.

  After all the heartbreak Lee Higgins had caused over the years, he had finally gotten what he deserved. Todd Dory and Blake Kaufman too. Seth Connors—a peaceful man, a loving husband and father—deserved a little redemption, especially for his daughter.

  The assault had left Allan with four fractured ribs and a mild concussion. Doctors had given him some strong painkillers and an incentive spirometer to help him take deep breaths so he would avoid getting a chest infection. They told him it could take three to six weeks before his ribs fully healed.

  As part of the post-shooting protocol, Allan had another critical-incident interview with Dr. Judy Galloway. During their talk, he kept quiet about the invasive nightmares, about how they stopped once he got away from Halifax. Everything was fine, he told her again.

  When he had left her office, he drove to the airport and hopped aboard an Air Canada flight for Toronto. He had six weeks to decide what he wanted to do—go back to work or pursue another avenue in his life. In the meantime, he was going to enjoy his time with Brian. Maybe even bring him back to Halifax for a visit once school ended for the summer.

  Allan walked down Anthony Road, coming to the quaint brick house with the white shutters and tiny vestibule. Melissa’s hatchback sat in the driveway.

  Allan crossed the lawn to the front door and rang the bell. Waiting, he took off his sunglasses and hooked them off his shirt pocket. He squinted at the sudden brightness of the day. Since receiving the concussion, he’d noticed his eyes were sensitive to light. And for the few times he’d flown on planes, today was the first one that had given him a splitting headache.

  Melissa answered the door in a pink blouse and gray slacks. She became quite still, her lips parted. Then she smiled at him.

  “Al,” she said. “Hi.”

  Allan looked into her face. He missed her, he realized. So much it hurt. She didn’t know what had happened in Halifax, how close to death he had come.

  “Hi,” he said. “Is Brian home?”

  Melissa twitched her head back. “He’s out playing with the truck you gave him.”

  “Did you tell him I was coming?”

  “No. I thought it better if you surprised him.”

  “Good.” Allan flashed a smile. “I must go see him.”

  He walked around the side of the house, stopping at the edge of the driveway when he saw Brian in the backyard. His son stood with his back to him, racing the monster truck around the grass. Watching him, tears came to Allan’s eyes. How close he’d come to never seeing him again.

  He composed himself and called out, “You need a ramp.”

  The monster truck made an abrupt stop, and Brian turned around. His face lit up with a big smile.

  “Dad.”

  Allan felt a surge of love as Brian hurried toward him. He knelt on one knee, opening his arms wide. Brian ran into them. He gave his father a tight hug, and Allan winced at the ache in his ribs.

  “You came back, Dad.”

  Allan kissed the top of Brian’s head, trying to restrain the raw emotion climbing up his throat.

  “I told you I would,” he said brokenly. “I told you I would.”

  SORROWFUL ROAD

  Not all men seek rest and peace; some are born with the spirit of the storm in their blood, restless harbingers of violence and bloodshed, knowing no other path.

  Robert E. Howard

  1

  HALIFAX, NS OCTOBER 17, 2010

  7:32 a.m.

  My earliest childhood memory involves screams and the frantic scrapes of fingernails clawing at wood.

  I stood outside the cedar chest, listening to my twin brother, Joshua, fighting to get out. At seven years old, I never realized his dire situation. He was suffocating inside that dark wooden tomb.

  I remember being captivated by the terror in his voice, growing ever more shrill as the seconds passed. It triggered things in me, changes. I felt a charge of excitement shoot through my body, revving my heart. Euphoria filled my skull, as if my brain had kicked loose a flood of endorphins. It reminded me of the sensations I used to get with our rabbit, Nibbles, and those high-pitched cries he made whenever I’d twist one of his legs a little too hard. He’d sounded just like a human baby.

  Joshua and I had been playing hide-and-seek, but I’d grown bored of the game. When my turn came around, I covered my eyes and counted to ten. Joshua ran off. I heard him running up the steps and then down the hallway upstairs. He had chosen one of the bedrooms this time. Probably a closet or under a bed.

  I didn’t bother looking. Eventually, he would get tired of hiding and come out asking why I hadn’t searched for him.

  Lazy Saturday mornings meant cartoons. He-Man battling Skeletor. Captain Caveman solving mysteries with the Teen Angels. Wile E. Coyote putting together wild contraptions to catch the Road Runner.

  In the living room, I switched on the TV and knelt on the floor close to the screen. I soon forgot all about Joshua until I heard the thumps on the ceiling, the muffled cries for help. I snapped my head around, frowning.

  Our father, I knew, had gone into town. Our mother was in the backyard, tending the garden. Joshua and I were alone in the house.

  I went upstairs and tiptoed down the hallway. The thumps continued. The cries morphed into piercing, frenetic screams.

  I stopped at the doorway to our parents’ bedroom, looking in. Mom’s old hope chest bucked on the hardwood floor as if it had come alive. Joshua had decided it would be a perfect spot to hide in. He’d emptied the blankets and pillows onto the floor and climbed inside. I didn’t know it at the time, but the chest had one of those latches that automatically locked when the lid closed. It opened only by pushing a button on the outside. That I did know. And so did Joshua.

  The chest was a family heirloom our mother kept at the foot of the bed. It looked solid and expensive. Egg-and-dart molding accented the edges. A carving on the front depicted two hunters chasing wild boars through a forest.

  I moved into the room, approaching the chest with slow steps. My young mind couldn’t imagine then what my adult mind can now—the sheer terror Joshua had gone through.

  I touched the button, tracing my finger around its outer edge.

  Still, I never pressed it.

  I listened to Joshua’s body thrashing around inside, his bones making these painful thunks as they impacted the wood. I listened to his screams, his coughs from a throat growing raw.
I listened to his breaths turning to ragged gasps.

  Still, I never pressed the button.

  At the corner of my vision, I caught my reflection in the dresser mirror. I looked over to see my lips drawn back over my teeth in an almost-crazy grin.

  “What are you guys doing in here?”

  The grin fell away. I spun around to the doorway. Mom stood there, dressed in soiled gloves and overalls. Her eyes darted from me to the chest in rapid flits.

  “Oh God,” she screamed, breaking into a run. “What did you do?”

  She flung the chest lid open, and Joshua catapulted himself into her arms. He gulped hungrily for air. There were long scratches dug into his face, blood on his fingertips. Welts and bruises covered his arms. Sweat dripped off him in beads.

  “I’m here,” Mom said in a comforting tone. “I’m here, honey.”

  His fists beat on her back as he sobbed into her shoulder. Mom swung angry eyes toward me.

  “Why didn’t you let him out?”

  I opened my mouth but offered no explanation. Why didn’t I let him out? In retrospect, I realize my excitement was too great. I didn’t want to see it end.

  “What is wrong with you?” Mom yelled. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  Holding Joshua to her, she hurried from the room. I found myself looking into the chest, fascinated by the pattern Joshua’s sweat and tears had left behind on the bottom.

  That night, our father removed the latch. We were forbidden from ever going near the chest again.

  The words my mother said that morning stuck with me more than anything else. What was wrong with me? What the hell was wrong with me?

  She often told me about the difficulty she had birthing me. She delivered Joshua with ease. He arrived into the world first, a healthy, vibrant baby boy.

  She told me that with a smile. Always with a smile. Like a proud mother reminiscing.

  I hadn’t fared nearly as well. There’d been complications. Somehow I ended up in a breech position. When the doctors had to resort to a C-section to get me out, they found me dead. No heartbeat. No breath. No sign of life. Just a grotesque shape of muscles and tendons covered by a pale layer of skin.