Stanton- The Trilogy

by Alex MacLean

  Her arms flailed, weaker now. A roaring sound filled her ears, drowning out the hammering of her pulse.

  Then, suddenly, the man released the rope, and Lisa brought her head off the ground, coughing and gasping. Precious air poured into her lungs.

  “Gonna do what I say?” the man said.

  “Yes,” Lisa croaked. “An-Anything.”

  “I knew it. Just took a little persuading is all.”

  Fuck you, Lisa wanted to say.

  She touched sticky blood on the side of her face. She swallowed several times, trying to wash the hoarseness from her throat.

  “Take your clothes off,” the man said. “Do it now.”

  Slowly, Lisa sat up. She couldn’t die like this. She had to do something.

  She looked at the revolver aimed at her face. If she grabbed for it, she’d die. One pull of the trigger, and it would be all over.

  “Could you point the gun away?” she asked. “It makes me nervous.”

  An odd calm crossed the man’s eyes. He lowered the revolver, pointing it off toward the side.

  “Happy now?”

  Stiffly, Lisa got to her knees. She played with the hem of her sweater, acting as if she were going to take it off. She moved a little closer to the man until she could touch him. With all the strength she had left, she cut loose, upper-cutting him in the balls. Knees buckling, he let out a yelp.

  As he doubled over, Lisa scrambled to her feet. She ran across the clearing as fast as she could, heading for the trees.

  Shouts rang out behind her. “Get back here!”

  Neck straining, Lisa glanced back to see the man chasing her. She could hear his heavy respiration, the hustle of his footsteps closing in. For such a chubby man, he was surprisingly fast.

  “Stop! Right now.”

  Reaching out for her, the man overbalanced and went tumbling forward. As he fell, Lisa felt his fingers brush down her sweater.

  The man hit the ground with a grunt.

  Lisa kicked it into another gear, aware that she was running for her life.

  The trees were becoming clearer.

  Fifty yards.

  Forty.

  “You’re dead, bitch.”

  Thirty yards.

  Twenty.

  A stitch was forming in Lisa’s side.

  Ten yards. Five. Almost there.

  Then came the gunshots. Two of them.

  The first bullet caught a tree in front of her, throwing wood chips across her face. The second whipped past her head with a whizzing sound, ending God knows where.

  Lisa never broke stride. She made it into the trees. Branches slapped her face, caught on her sweater.

  When she had covered what she believed was a safe distance, she forced herself to fast-walk, ever mindful of burrows and fallen branches. The last thing she needed was to twist an ankle.

  She had no sense of place or direction. The woods in these parts could stretch for miles. You could easily get lost and never find your way out.

  Time. She touched her wrist and realized she’d forgotten her watch on the dresser. It had to be well after ten, maybe closer to eleven.

  The ground took a dip, and Lisa worked her way down an uneven slope. At the bottom, she stopped. Heart smashing against her ribs, she tried to slow her breathing enough to hear her pursuer. There came no panting, no twigs crackling, no rustling through the brush.

  She glanced in one direction then another. Gloomy and silent, the woodland was like a sprawling morass. The night sky was barely visible through the latticework of branches, only a glimmer of the moon and a few stars.

  Lisa waded through the dark for maybe thirty minutes, maybe longer. She came upon the wide trunk of a tree, and she leaned against it, propping a foot up on an exposed root to rest.

  Suddenly, she began to feel woozy. Clasping her arms, she crouched beside the tree. Her body shook all over, as though an electrical charge surged through it. Then she burst into sobs. Uncontrollable sobs that came out of nowhere. They only lasted a minute and were gone.

  Lisa tipped her head back against the rough bark of the tree. So many emotions flooded her mind—hurt, fear, anger.

  She curled forward, resting her chin on her knees and peering out at the murk and mystery of the woods. The dark shapes of the trees and bushes seemed to shift and fade. Vague sounds touched her ears now: squeaks, grunts, and barks.

  She couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched, and it sent a cold sensation up the back of her neck.

  Don’t panic, she told herself. Panic was the enemy. A clear head would find itself.

  Logic told her to stay put until morning. If she tried to make it out of the woods in the dark, she could get more lost—even wander around in circles, wasting valuable energy she’d need to keep warm. At daybreak, she might be able to figure out where she was. Go from there.

  But that was several hours away. Several nerve-racking hours of sitting in the creepy dark, not knowing what nighttime creatures were lurking out there.

  She felt around the ground until she found a hefty stick. Clutching it tight to her chest, she sat against the tree again. She listened into the gloom.

  That was when it came. A new sound this time.

  Lisa cocked her head. It sounded like the rumble of an engine, followed by the unmistakable jackhammer noise of a tractor-trailer Jake-braking downhill.

  Lisa sprang to her feet. The highway had to be nearby.

  She turned in a full circle, trying to pinpoint the spot. The sound grew louder, and then it began fading.

  Fading.

  Gone.

  No, wait. Come back.

  Lisa scrambled forward, tearing through tangles of branches, hoping she was heading in the right direction.

  Eventually, she saw something ahead. Shimmers of light flashed through gaps in the trees. They had to be headlights. Just had to be.

  Lisa pressed a palm to her heart. Freedom. Tauntingly close.

  She came to the last fringe of trees and found herself standing on the edge of an embankment. Directly below her stretched the 104 Trans Canada Highway.

  Headlights bobbed far down the road. Behind them, Lisa could make out the shape of another tractor-trailer.

  Overwhelmed with emotion, she began to weep. She went down the side of the embankment, sliding, grabbing at clumps of grass, nearly tumbling to the bottom.

  She clambered up the ditch to the shoulder of the road, waving her arms. The tractor-trailer lumbered past without slowing, and the wind gust from it blew Lisa’s hair across her face.

  She let out a theatrical groan.

  “Thank you, asshole,” she yelled. “Thank you very much.”

  As she curled her arms over her head, she noticed headlights on the other side of the highway. A car this time. Quickly, she ran across the median strip, waving frantically.

  The car flicked on its brights and began slowing down. Lisa ran to the driver’s door. The middle-aged woman behind the wheel was already lowering her window with cell phone in hand when Lisa started blubbering on about her terrifying ordeal, not even knowing if her words were making any sense.

  11

  Halifax, October 18

  8:17 p.m.

  “Whoa,” Audra said. “Lucky girl.”

  She gave Allan back the file, and he placed it on the pile.

  “How long before they tracked down Strickland?” she asked.

  “Days,” Allan said. “Ms. Peyton had managed to remember the make of the car and four digits of the license plate. When officers showed her his picture, she positively identified him.”

  “That would’ve given him a lot of time to form an alibi, get rid of evidence.”

  “He tried. He’d ditched the black bag that everyone suspected was his prepared rape kit. He got rid of the revolver. Even wiped his car clean of Ms. Peyton. But he forgot one thing...”

  “What?”

  “His computer. Forensics located pictures of Ashley Decker on it. Uploaded from Strickland’s ca
mera the day after he’d murdered her.”

  “Mementos to use later,” Audra said. “Like he’d tried to do with Lisa Peyton.”

  Allan nodded. “Part of his signature. Some of the pictures were taken while Ms. Decker knelt in the grass, still alive. Others were taken of her body after Strickland had strangled her.”

  Audra asked, “Any of Mary Driscow?”

  Allan broke eye contact with her for a second. “None of her, no.”

  “Was the revolver registered?”

  “Not in his name, if it was.”

  “What’d he say about it?”

  “Denied even having it.”

  “They ever find this camera?”

  “They figured he ditched it with the bag. He never revealed where anything was. Clammed up when asked about the pictures on his computer. Didn’t matter; the evidence was enough to charge him with first-degree murder.”

  “Deny the crime,” Audra said. “Some of these guys think it’ll prevent them from being arrested.”

  Allan said, “When I dug a little deeper into Strickland’s past, I found out he’d lived in Clayton Park for seven months before moving to New Glasgow. Glenforest Drive. Mary Driscow had lived on Hillwood Crescent. A street over from him.”

  Audra raised her eyebrows. “Whoa. That’s quite the coincidence.”

  Allan pressed his lips into a tight line. “So I thought.”

  “I take it he lived there while Mary Driscow did?”

  “Yes.”

  “He knew that neighborhood. Maybe knew her or saw her around. I can see why you took such an interest in him.”

  Allan let out a heavy sigh. “I was excited. I got a warrant for his DNA. You know the rest.” His voice dropped. “Seems like I was always a day late and a dollar short.”

  Audra watched him.

  He said, “New Glasgow told me they interviewed neighbors of Strickland over there. Turned out that in the weeks leading up to Ms. Decker’s murder, he and his girlfriend had fought often.”

  “What’d she say about it?”

  “That he was a control freak. Had anger issues. Took fits all the time. That’s why she dumped him.”

  Audra considered that. “He probably couldn’t deal with the breakup. So he went out looking for someone to vent his anger on.”

  Allan nodded again. “Exactly. You know some of these guys have low resilience. They can’t cope with rejection, or many of life’s problems, for that matter.”

  “Add in his anger issues, and you have a ticking time bomb.”

  Allan said, “Ashley Decker was known to frequent the Roseland Cabaret. They think Strickland saw her there one night, followed her home, and began watching her place for several days before making his move. Staff at the Roseland recognized him when shown his picture.”

  “Did Lisa Peyton have similar habits of going out?”

  Allan shook his head. “But she did work as a beautician. And guess who one of her frequent clients was.”

  Audra frowned. “Not Strickland?”

  “The ex-girlfriend.”

  “Okay, I gotcha. And Lisa never recognized him?”

  Allan spread his hands. “Maybe they never officially met. Maybe he knew of Ms. Peyton through the girlfriend. Of course, this is all conjecture.”

  “But seems to be more than that, doesn’t it?”

  “For sure.” Allan checked his watch. “Say, do you want to take these files home and brush up on the Driscow case tonight? We can resume first thing in the morning.”

  Audra’s own watch read 8:36 p.m.

  As she watched Allan, something bugged her. She’d always known him to work around the clock, obsessively so, in the first days of a murder investigation. Now he wanted to clock out early.

  She asked, “Is everything okay?”

  Allan ran a hand through his hair, his eyes distant. “There’s something I want to do before it gets too late.”

  Audra shrugged. “Sure, Al. Whatever you feel you need to do.”

  “Thanks.” He paused on his way to the doorway and looked back at her. “Meet here for six in the morning?”

  “Six it is.”

  “See you then,” he said and walked out.

  12

  Halifax, October 18

  9:03 p.m.

  Allan parked at the curb in front of a split-level home on Morningside Drive. Looking over, he saw a light on in the living room. The glow from a television flickered on the curtains.

  The last time he came here, it had been nearly a month after the murder of their daughter. He’d dropped by to convey the progress in the investigation, but more so to see how they were doing.

  He remembered Joyce Driscow barely able to speak without breaking down. She had lost weight. Her embattled face had paled so much it drew his focus to the dark hollows under her eyes and made him worry about her health.

  Bill Driscow had seemed a little better. He’d carried himself with the strong, stoic composure of a warrior. But it made Allan question whether he appeared that way just for his wife, to be her rock while he internalized his own personal hell.

  Allan wondered what he’d find when their door opened this time. Had the months been kind to them? Had they somehow moved on with their lives? Could any parent ever move on from the horror of losing a child?

  Allan shut the car off, took a deep breath, and got out. He approached the front walk of the house, his pace growing slower with each step.

  Gray clouds hung low under the October sky. A chilly breeze pushed dead leaves across the ground.

  Allan rang the doorbell.

  In moments, a light came on in the foyer. The blurred image of a person appeared through the privacy glass of the front door.

  “Who is it?”

  Allan recognized the voice. “Mr. Driscow. I’m Detective Stanton with the Halifax Police. I worked your daughter’s case.”

  There was a brief silence. Then the door opened.

  What Allan saw caused his breath to catch. The man who stood before him scarcely resembled the Bill Driscow he’d seen eleven months ago. On the street, Allan doubted he would even know him.

  Bill had aged considerably. He had dropped an easy twenty-five to thirty pounds on a frame that couldn’t afford it. His face was gaunt and splotchy. His hair stuck out in wispy tufts from his head.

  He gave Allan a hesitant smile and held out his hand.

  Allan shook it.

  “Detective Stanton,” Bill said. “Come in.”

  “Mr. Driscow. How are you doing?”

  Bill looked down then up. “Seen better days.”

  Allan shut the door. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

  “No, no. Just watching some TV.”

  “I stopped by to tell you we’re reopening your daughter’s case.”

  Bill tipped his head back, and his gaze became unfocused.

  “That girl they found in the park,” he said. “I saw it on the news tonight. Made me think of Mary.”

  Allan paused, wondering how much to divulge and if it mattered anyway.

  “We believe there’s a connection,” he said.

  Bill winced. “Another family has to live through what we did. I pity them.”

  “How’s Joyce doing? Is she up?”

  Bill closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he said, “She’s gone.”

  Allan frowned. “Gone?”

  Bill’s chin quivered. “She died.”

  Allan felt a sudden ache bore straight through his chest and spill into his stomach.

  “When?”

  “August twenty-second.” Bill blinked at a swell of tears. “I found her on our bedroom floor when I came home from work.” He sucked at the air. “She never got over Mary. I know the stress killed her. She died of a broken heart.”

  “I’m sorry,” Allan said softly. “I didn’t know.”

  Bill touched his eyes and then looked at the wet fingertips he came away with.

  Allan said, “I guess it was in May I las
t spoke to her. I called her from my office one day. I got the impression she was doing well.”

  “She masked a lot. Even with me. I used to hear her crying all the time, alone in the bathroom.”

  Allan tried to hold Bill’s eyes the best he could, but the pained expression on the man’s face eventually made him drop his gaze to the hardwood floor.

  “In less than a year,” Bill said brokenly, “I lost my daughter and wife. Now, last month, the doctors gave me months to live. Three, if I’m lucky.”

  Allan looked at him, and Bill nodded.

  “The big C,” he said.

  “How bad is it?”

  “Bad. It’s in my liver. They say it’s aggressive. Probably the same form that killed my father.”

  “Can they operate?”

  Bill shook his head. “It’s too deep.”

  “What about treatments?”

  “They wanted me to start chemo right away.”

  “And you didn’t?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  Bill gave a light shrug. “The prognosis isn’t much better. It might buy me a couple extra months if I’m lucky enough that the chemo doesn’t kill me first.

  “I saw what the cancer did to my father. Near the end, my mother could’ve picked him up off the bed with two fingers. His skin and eyes had turned all yellow. I won’t let myself reach that point.”

  The ache moved up into Allan’s throat. He leaned against the wall of the foyer and folded his arms, wishing he hadn’t come here.

  “My God,” he said. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Nothing to say.” Bill set his jaw and pushed his shoulders back. “I’ve accepted it. A diagnosis like that gives you a whole new perspective. Things you thought were important suddenly become trivial. Things you took for granted suddenly become important.”

  Allan saw the same strength emerging from Bill that he had seen the day he notified him his daughter had been murdered.

  “Is anyone helping you?” he asked.

  “The VON and palliative care come in every day. My niece helps out with groceries and stuff.”

  “If there’s anything I can do—”

  “Catch him, Detective.”

  Allan tried to speak, but the words were lost in a hard swallow.