by Alex MacLean
He said, “They won’t have a chance.”
Melissa looked across the table at Allan. “What do you think of that?”
“I think we’ll make a great team. Right, little man?”
“Right, Dad. That’ll be cool.”
Allan smirked, took another sip of coffee. He cast a glance over Melissa’s shoulder to the busy traffic outside. As Melissa talked to Brian about his day at school, Allan found himself drawn to the Impark lot straight across the street. He could see Brad Hawkins there, facedown on the pavement, a pool of blood spread out beneath his mouth.
There they came again—faces, images—burrowing into his brain, unbidden and unwelcome.
Allan felt every muscle in his body tense up, his pulse begin to quicken. When he tried to focus on Melissa and Brian, he realized the edges of his vision were getting blurry.
He squeezed his eyes shut, opened them again. Propping his elbows on the table, he bounced a curled knuckle against his mouth.
“Sweetheart,” he said.
Melissa turned to him.
“Want to switch places?” he asked.
“Why? Don’t you like where you’re sitting?”
“No, no. I just thought you’d like the view of the waterfront. I’d prefer to face the restaurant.”
Melissa gave him a blank expression. “Uh, yeah. Sure. If you want.”
When Allan stood up, his legs were like jelly. He raised a hand to catch Amy’s eye from the other side of the restaurant. She came over.
“Your meals are almost ready,” she said. “Sorry for the wait.”
“Not that,” Allan said. “Can I get a rum, please? Make it a double shot.”
20
Halifax, October 22
8:45 a.m.
“Thanks for coming in,” Audra said. “Have a seat.”
Dustin Marks sat at the table. He was the kind of man who belonged on the cover of a romance novel. You just had to cut off Fabio’s blond locks and brush it into a quiff hairstyle.
Audra shut the door to the interview room. “I have a few questions for you.”
“About that guy,” Dustin said.
“What guy is that?”
“The one Liam saw at the park.”
Audra tilted her head. “Oh, you were talking to Liam?”
“He called yesterday. Left a message.”
“What’d he say?”
“Said he was in to see you. He thinks he saw the guy who killed that girl. I don’t know why he gave you my name.”
“Did he describe this guy to you?”
Dustin shook his head. “That’s all he said. I didn’t call him back. I played your message right after his.”
Audra sat down and slid her chair in close to the table.
“You were at the park on Sunday,” she said. “Correct?”
Dustin undid two buttons on his pea coat. “I was.”
“What time?”
“It was early. Before seven.”
“How often do you go there?”
“Three, four days a week.”
“Do you go for a jog? A walk?”
“I walk my dog there.”
“Oh yeah? What breed?”
“Great Dane.”
“Big dog.”
Dustin’s eyes sparkled. “He’s a horse.”
“How old?”
“Four.”
“Still a pup, really. What’s his name?”
“Apollo.”
“Ah, cool name,” Audra said, smiling. “Do you ever go to the park by yourself?”
“No.”
“Did you see Liam there Sunday?”
“I ran into him before I left.”
“What time was that?”
“Around eight.” He shrugged. “Ten to. Five to.”
“In what area of the park did you run into him?”
“The Tower Road parking lot. Liam was just leaving.”
“Did you guys talk?”
“For a few minutes.”
Audra considered that. “You’ve known each other for a while?”
“Six years.”
“From the park? Or did you know him from elsewhere?”
Dustin licked his lips, blinked. Audra watched a flush creep across his face.
He said, “I...um...originally met him at Menz.”
Audra paused. She knew of the place. It was a popular nightclub among the gay and lesbian community.
“I gotcha,” she said.
She opened a folder and slid a copy of the composite sketch over to him.
“Does he look familiar?”
Dustin leaned in to the table, eyes narrowing on the sketch.
“Is this the guy Liam was talking about?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“And he had the hood over his head?”
“Yes.”
Dustin’s eyes lingered on the face a few moments more, then he sat back.
“No, no,” he said. “I don’t know him. But I’m not good with faces.”
“Were many people at the park on Sunday?”
Dustin shook his head again. “Hardly is at that time of day.”
“Think hard. How many do you remember seeing?”
Dustin stared up at the ceiling. “Well, there was the old couple by the container terminal.”
“Do you know their names?”
“No.”
“Who else?”
Dustin frowned, let out an exaggerated groan. “Another couple by the Naval Memorial. They were walking a small dog. A Border Terrier, I think.”
“Do you know them?”
“No.”
“Who else?”
Dustin threw his hands up in the air. “I caught glimpses of people on the other trails. But I paid no attention to them.”
“Steve Foster?”
Dustin’s eyes widened. “Steve was there?”
Audra nodded.
“Okay, I didn’t see him,” he said. “It’s a big park, you know.”
Audra remembered Steve Foster telling her that he hadn’t seen Dustin, either.
She asked, “You’re sure you never saw a guy in a hoodie?”
Dustin shrugged. “Sorry.”
Audra rolled her shoulders. She could feel tension settling in there, rising into her neck.
“I mean, I see people wearing hoodies there all the time,” Dustin said. “Just not then.”
“Did you know Kate Saint-Pierre?”
“I saw her at the park before.”
“Sunday?”
“I couldn’t even tell you the last time I saw her. I didn’t know her name until I read it in the paper. I recognized her picture. Said to myself, ‘Yeah, I saw her there before.’”
Audra took out her card and gave it to him.
“Just in case you remember anything else,” she said. “Or if you see this guy on your walks. Thanks again for coming in.”
After he left the room, Audra leaned her head back over the chair and shut her eyes. Frustration gnawed at her mind.
She took out her cell phone and called Allan.
“Hey,” he said.
“Hey,” she said. “How’re things there?”
On the other end of the line, she could hear the rush of wind against the receiver.
“No one knows who this guy is,” Allan said. “What’s the word on Marks?”
“He never saw him.”
Allan breathed into the phone. “Figures. So far, Mr. Clattenburg is the only one who did.”
“Looks that way.”
“You sound discouraged.”
“Hard not to be,” Audra said. “Seems like we’re chasing our tails.”
“Someone else here might know him. Or saw him before.”
Audra hesitated. “Don’t know. You might be right about the composite, Al.”
“Oh?”
“Maybe it doesn’t look like anybody.”
“That’s just it. We don’t know.”
“Where in the park are you?�
�
“The Quarry Pond. You coming over?”
“Yeah,” she said. “I’ll give you a hand.”
“I’ll meet you in the parking lot.”
She hung up. When she left the room, she heard someone call out to her. Turning, she saw Captain Thorne coming down the hall.
“Morning, Detective,” he said. “Where’s Al?”
“Working Point Pleasant Park.”
“I put two officers over there on stakeout.”
“Good.”
Thorne leaned a shoulder against the wall. “I’ve been wanting to ask you. How’s Al doing?”
“What do you mean?”
“Emotionally. Professionally. Does he seem all right?”
Holding his eyes, Audra chewed on the inside of her lip. “You want me to talk behind Al’s back?”
“I know he’s your friend. He’s mine too.”
“Are you asking me as his friend? Or as his captain?”
“Friend, of course.”
Audra smiled.
Thorne waited for her a moment, then he matched her smile. “Your silence speaks volumes.”
Audra shrugged. “Not sure about that.”
“I can tell you’re not telling me something.”
“Maybe you’re getting paranoid in your old age.”
Thorne snickered. “Okay. You win. Good luck today.”
Audra watched him walk away, and her smile fell away. No, she thought, Allan didn’t seem all right.
He seemed distant at times. He shied away from painful situations. On Tuesday morning, they’d interviewed Abigail Brown, Kate Saint-Pierre’s best friend. She took the news of Kate’s death hard. When she broke into uncontrollable sobs, Allan excused himself from the room. After the interview, Audra found him outside, sitting on the porch steps.
He’d asked her if she would mind interviewing Kate Saint-Pierre’s family without him. He gave her the excuse of wanting to pull old case files of unsolved murders throughout the Maritimes.
No, Allan didn’t seem all right.
And that worried Audra.
21
Kimberley, October 23
10:50 a.m.
I hear him well before I see him.
He makes a lot of noise breaking through the brush. The racket of rustling leaves and snapping twigs cuts the tranquility like a skinning knife. Every few seconds, he stops and lets out a throaty grunt. Then he continues on, heralding his approach toward me.
It’s a daunting sound. My heart begins to race. My hands clench the trekking poles. My instincts tell me to hightail it out of there. But I can’t. I need to see him.
The bull moose emerges from the brush. He stops when he notices me on the trail. He’s a majestic beast. Massive. Powerful. Standing face to face with him both scares and exhilarates me.
I’m six feet, and the height of his shoulders tops me by a good four to six inches. The spread of his antlers has to be four feet across. They are free of velvet and curve out from his head like the splayed fingers of a giant. In the sunlight, they appear polished, almost white.
Unafraid, he watches me from thirty yards away. He continues making little grunts. I’m not sure if it’s still rutting season or not. Moose can become aggressive and unpredictable during that time. Some people say they can be more dangerous than grizzlies.
This one seems calm enough. He’s not stomping his feet or peeling his ears back. Better yet, he’s not approaching me. He just stands there, grunting every few seconds.
Slowly, I back away about ten feet. The moose doesn’t move.
This is only the second time I’ve stumbled upon one in the wild. I saw the first one while hiking Skyline Trail in the Cape Breton Highlands three years ago. It darted across the trail and vanished into the trees before I could even get a good look at it.
This moose is larger. That much I can tell.
He casually turns his head away and raises his snout. His huge nostrils begin flaring, and I can hear them snuffling. He seems to be checking the air for something, maybe predators. He moves his snout in one direction and then the other. I guess he deems everything safe, because he stretches his long neck and starts ripping the tips off a nearby shrub.
I take out my cell phone and snap a couple pictures of the beast. I’ll share them with the girls when I get home.
Not wanting to push my luck, I leave the moose alone. I continue on my way, breathing in a few lungfuls of mountain air. It’s clean and fresh and leaves you feeling invigorated. Not like the smellscape of the cities, where the air is so rancid with human stink, you can literally feel it infest every cell of your body. Even the clouds are whiter out here.
Kimberley Nature Park is vast. Several miles of trails lace through the forested hillsides. It’s the biggest park I’ve been to in Canada, and I’ve been to lots over the years.
The nice weather has brought people out. Just as I hoped. Some are biking, trekking, and jogging. Others are just out for a stroll. Everyone I meet on the trails is paired up or in groups.
Most of them smile at me. A few say hello. I’m always polite in return. I can’t risk leaving any lasting impressions. I need to blend in like a chameleon. Be one of them.
I trek down a narrow path that slices into thick woods. Sunlight filters through the trees, dappling the ferns on each side of me. I see old-growth stumps scattered here and there. They are relics of the logging days in the early 1900s. The springboard notches made by lumberjacks back then are still visible.
I make my way to Sunflower Hill. It’s a moderate climb to the top. The area is more open, the trees sparser. Halfway up, I stop to take in the beautiful autumn foliage of St. Mary River Valley. Larches splash golden bands over the valley and up the slopes. But the mountains are what get me every time. They dominate the horizon, their peaks fading in and out of the gray mist. I could sit and stare out at them for hours.
When I crest the hill, I see no one around. The only sounds are the quiver of wind in the tall weeds and the distant singsong of birds.
I keep going.
Eventually, I come to the remnants of an old miner’s cabin. There’s not much left to see—some pieces of charred wood, the outline in the soil where the cabin walls once stood. Wildflowers cover whatever the floor used to be. Nearby lies a pile of tin shingles, three cinder blocks with part of an old stove on top of them.
A few yards away, I follow a path through a dense stand of lodgepole pines. A sign on a tree identifies it as Mountain Mine Road. I came here during my last two visits. The trail leads to the Myrtle Mountain Lookout.
There’s a pleasant surprise waiting for me when I reach the tree line. I see a lone male standing on the mountain shoulder, looking out at the view.
There’s no one else around, only the two of us.
I smile. That familiar rush of excitement pushes through my body. It’s weird, but my insides feel as if they’re vibrating.
He’s a mountain biker dressed in black cycling tights and a blue wind jacket similar to mine. His bike leans against a small spruce close by. An orange helmet hangs from the handlebars.
He looks over his shoulder when he hears me step on some twigs.
“Afternoon,” I call out.
He ignores me, takes a sip from his water bottle.
I realize he’s a young guy. Midtwenties, I’m guessing. A little shorter than me. Dark hair. Lean. Athletic.
He could have a lot of fight in him—“could” being the operative word. Looks can be deceiving. I’ve had big people go down easy and small ones go down hard. The element of surprise is key.
As I walk past the bike, I notice the Yeti name on the frame.
I give a wolf whistle. “Nice bike.”
That gets his attention. He watches me approach with squinted eyes.
“What did it cost you?” I ask.
“Seven big ones.”
The price stops me for a second. “Wow. Seven grand.”
He thrusts his chest out. “I’m a brand whore. My
skid lid cost me two-fifty.”
I assume he’s referring to the helmet.
“I heard the Yetis were expensive.” I step up beside him. “But wow. I didn’t know they were that much.”
“They can run over ten, depending on the frame. Upgrades. That one has the Thomson convert dropper.”
I don’t ask him what that is. I don’t care. I can’t get over the fact that he spent seven grand on a bicycle.
I appraise the edge of the mountain. It’s more a steep hillside than a cliff. If someone fell over, they would roll down a good distance, probably end up being stopped by a tree or bush. I can’t see the tumble giving anyone more than a few bump and bruises, maybe a broken bone or two. That’s too bad.
I look out at the rooftops of a small town nestled in the valley. The Canadian Rockies surround it. Today, they’re a dark shape almost lost in the haze.
“Some view, what?” I say.
“Yeah.”
I point off to the town with a trekking pole. “Is that Kimberley?”
“You’re not from around here. I didn’t think I saw you before.”
“Ontario,” I say.
“Trawna?” He laughs. “Isn’t that how they pronounce it there? Trawna.”
“West of there,” I tell him.
“You here on vacation?”
“Business trip.”
He pauses then nudges his chin toward the town. “That’s Marysville. It’s the southern part of Kimberley. Used to be its own town at one time. Bigger than Kimberley when they had the smelter going. I live there.”
“Must be nice to have this park in your own backyard.”
“Uh-huh. I come here every weekend. Rain or shine.”
“It’s a busy place today. Busier than my last visit.”
His face pinches. “Yeah, I hate it. Summer is worse. I always stick to the single tracks. Too much roadkill on the doubles.”
I frown. “Roadkill?”
He gives me a blank expression. “You know. Dogs. People. Especially people. You’re always slowing down for them. I like to hammer it when I’m on the bike.”
His remark makes me smile. I wonder if I’m standing next to a fellow misanthrope. It might almost be a shame to kill this man.
He looks off toward the valley, takes another sip from his water bottle. I check the trees behind us and see no one coming up the trails. I listen but hear no voices.