One Kill Away

by Alex MacLean

  “I found this in Blake’s apartment,” Allan said. “It seems Todd ordered three masks last October, along with some of those…um, colored contacts you wear to make your eyes look scary. Or to disguise their true color.”

  Higgins’ jaw muscles bunched up and some fight crept into his gaze.

  He said, “So? What’re you getting at?”

  “What’d you guys use them for?”

  “You guys?”

  Allan nodded. “Well, the three of you were pretty tight. I’m thinking one mask went to Todd. This one went to Blake. The third went to you.”

  “Uh, I stopped going out for candy when I was twelve. So fuck off, Stanton. Go sniff around someone else’s door.”

  Allan gave him a faint smile. “The scarecrow.”

  Higgins frowned. “Say what?”

  “The mask. That’s the one you had, right? Todd had the zombie one. You had the scarecrow.”

  Higgins didn’t say anything. He held Allan with his dead eyes and Allan could sense the gears grinding away inside his brain.

  He stuffed the mask into the paper bag. “I’ll get to the bottom of this.”

  “Bottom of what?”

  “The killer.” Allan held up the bag. “There’s a connection here.”

  Higgins rolled his gaze to the bag, then back to Allan’s face. He opened his mouth to speak, and closed it up again.

  Allan nodded. “Yeah. I really said too much.”

  He turned and walked away. Behind him, Higgins slammed the door shut. Allan knew he’d gambled by bringing the mask here, but he got the reaction he’d hoped for. He also stirred the pot.

  He went outside and jumped in his car. Through the windshield, he spotted the unmarked Expedition across the street from Joseph Howe School. It wasn’t the best place to station yourself, but in an area packed with one-way streets, your options were limited.

  Allan pulled his car up alongside the vehicle and rolled down the passenger window. Constable Weisberg leaned his head out.

  “How’s it going?” Allan asked.

  “All quiet, Lieutenant. Haven’t seen anyone hanging around.”

  “Did Higgins go anywhere today?”

  Weisberg gave a nod. “Went to Bruno’s Fitness after lunch. Stayed for about ninety minutes and came home. Been in there ever since.”

  “Okay,” Allan said. “Good. Whatever you do, don’t lose him.”

  “I won’t, Lieutenant.”

  Allan gave him a thumbs-up. “Take care.”

  He grabbed a coffee and sandwich at a bistro downtown called The Wired Monk, then he headed back to his office.

  For several hours, he pored over burglary and robbery reports from last October into early November; reviewed the Dory and Kaufman case files again; picked through crime scene photos; reread witness statements; and watched some security footage from the toll bridges the night Kaufman was murdered.

  Allan sat back with a weary yawn. He stretched his arms over his head, lacing his fingers behind his neck.

  There were a lot of questions, but not many answers.

  He agreed with Audra’s initial theory—the murder of Todd Dory had been personal, fueled by a high degree of rage and revenge. So was Kaufman’s murder. The two of them—probably even Higgins too—had provoked this bloodshed. But what had they done? It had to have been something bad.

  The masks, Allan decided, provided the answer to the entire investigation. He had little doubt about it. Going back to his computer, he printed off the pictures of the masks and contact lenses Todd Dory had purchased. Then he arranged them on his desk.

  He picked up the photo of the white contacts and stared at them.

  White eyes. White eyes.

  They had bothered him when he read about them in Audra’s files, and they still bothered him. He held the picture next to the one with the scarecrow mask and shook his head. Then he moved it next to the zombie mask and kept it there for a minute, his gaze bouncing back and forth between them.

  No breath stirred his body.

  White eyes. A white-eyed zombie.

  Whoa. Allan perked up. That was it. He cursed himself for not realizing it sooner. He’d been too focused on cases in October, specifically around Halloween. This happened in late November, a month before Christmas. Allan had been the lead investigator, but the case quickly fizzled out on him.

  A brutal home invasion.

  Murder.

  Three suspects in masks.

  The family had been attacked while they slept in their beds. The wife had been pronounced dead at the scene. The husband had barely survived. It had taken Allan three days before he could get in to see the man because doctors had induced him in a coma to try to save his life.

  Allan went downstairs and dug out the boxes containing the files. Lugging them back up to his office, he picked out the folder with the husband’s statements inside.

  “One suspect is six feet, possibly a little taller. Approximately two hundred pounds.”

  The physical description fit Todd Dory to the letter.

  “Suspect wore black clothing. Disguised himself with a full-head mask of a zombie or corpse. He possibly wore colored contact lenses. Victim describes the suspect as having white irises. Small black holes at the pupils.”

  Allan glanced at the photo of the white contacts. Small holes were punched out in the center of them to allow the wearer to see.

  “Victim has trouble describing the suspect who attacked him. Claims he was bigger than the one in the hallway. He also disguised himself in a mask with no ears.”

  When Allan picked up the photo of the scarecrow mask, he nodded to himself. No ears. But of course. Everything was beginning to make sense.

  He read on.

  “Victim saw a third suspect in the living room. Cannot provide a physical description at all. Claims the mask he wore had pointy ears that stuck out quite far.”

  Heart racing, Allan stared at the droopy ears jutting out from the sides of the devil’s mask. There they were, plain as day.

  He found the surveillance disc Audra had made from Atlantic News and he plopped it into the DVD drive of his computer. He held the fast-forward button down until the man with the duffel bag slung over his shoulder got close to the camera. Then he hit pause and zoomed in on the still image.

  Eyes narrowing, Allan leaned forward in his chair and looked the man up and down.

  He whispered, “Is that you, Mr. Connors?”

  52

  Halifax, November 29

  2:10 p.m.

  “How many intruders were there?” Allan Stanton asked.

  “Three,” Seth said.

  He gazed out the window on the other side of the ICU room. Big snowflakes slipped out of the gray November sky, drifting lazily toward the ground. Watching them, Seth felt a pang of grief. He’d always loved the serenity of winter, the sense of quiet it brought. Now it reminded him of the ski trips to Martock he’d miss with Camille. The rustic cabin in the woods they’d never spend another weekend at.

  How would he explain to Lily that Mommy was never coming home again?

  A tear rolled out of his eye, stinging the sutured wound in his cheek. I’m sorry, honey. So sorry. It’s my fault. A man is supposed to protect his family, to keep them safe. I failed.

  Beside him, Stanton rose off the chair, standing over him.

  “Hey, you okay?”

  Seth turned to him, wincing from the pain that shot through his left side. It hurt like hell to breathe. One of the ten stab wounds had punctured his lung.

  He said, “It just hurts remembering.”

  “I’ll keep this as brief as possible. The more information I can get from you, the better chance I have catching these guys.”

  “Okay,” Seth said. “Let’s finish.”

  Stanton took a seat again, opened his notebook. “Did you get a look at their faces?”

  Seth gave a small shake of his head. “They wore masks.”

  “What kind?”

  “H
alloween.”

  “I mean, were they latex rubber masks? Or those cheap, plastic ones with the elastic band?”

  “Latex, I guess.”

  “Were their heads completely covered?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Do you remember what characters they were?”

  Seth swallowed. Images flooded his mind: the scarecrow on top of him in the bed; the devil in the living room; the corpse in the hallway.

  “Sorry,” he said. “My memory’s a bit foggy.”

  Stanton leaned back in the chair, propping his right ankle on top of his left knee. At the corner of his vision, Seth could see the cop appraising him with those sad, tired eyes of his.

  Stanton said, “Responding officers told me they found you unconscious in the hallway upstairs. I saw signs of a struggle there. Do you remember tussling with one of them?”

  Seth dropped his gaze to the bed sheets. “Yeah. Sorry. Like I said, my memory’s a bit foggy. It comes back in bits and pieces.”

  “Don’t apologize,” Stanton said. “It’s understandable. Do you remember turning the hallway light on?”

  A nod. “Now that you mention it, I did.”

  “So you had a good look at the intruder?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Describe him.”

  “A little over six feet. He was a few inches taller than me.”

  “How heavy would you say he was?”

  “About two hundred pounds.”

  “Clothing?”

  “Black coat. Black gloves. Blue jeans.”

  Stanton’s pen scratched across the page. “What about his mask?”

  “It was a dead person,” Seth said. “A zombie or corpse or whatever you call it. There was skin hanging off the bones and muscles.”

  “Did you notice the color of his eyes?”

  Clenching his jaw, Seth pictured the face above him in the hallway. He’d replayed it so many times in his mind, he knew every wrinkle, every blemish, every blackhead.

  “Mr. Connors?”

  “White,” Seth said. “He had white eyes.”

  “White?”

  “The irises. They were white. Small black holes at the pupils.”

  Stanton tapped his pen on the notebook. “Probably wore those Halloween contacts. Do you remember seeing any part of his skin?”

  Seth looked over at the window again; the snow fell heavier now, thicker.

  Why not just tell the cop what he knew? That he had managed to rip the mask off the intruder and saw his face. Did he really think he could get those pricks himself? Exact some type of revenge? It was a nice fantasy. But this wasn’t the Old West. And he wasn’t Wyatt Earp.

  “I didn’t see,” Seth said. “He was covered head to toe.”

  Stanton watched him. “You were initially attacked in the bedroom, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What do you remember of it?”

  “I woke up to a thump. My wife wasn’t in bed. I didn’t know where she was.” Seth winced. “I could hear this gurgling noise in the room. Then the guy came out of nowhere. He jumped on top of me and started stabbing me through the blankets. It all happened so fast. ”

  “You’re sure it wasn’t the same guy you later tussled with in the hallway?”

  “No,” he said. “This guy was bigger. Wider shoulders.”

  “I know it was dark, but the two of you were fairly close to each other. You must’ve seen some feature of his mask, his clothing?”

  Seth shivered when he imagined those black eyes staring down at him, that crazy laugh he made. Tell him, a voice said. Just tell him. It was a scarecrow. Some asshole in a scarecrow mask.

  “The mask never had ears. I remember that now.”

  Stanton breathed in.

  “Sorry,” Seth said. “I’m probably not much help.”

  “You’re doing fine, Mr. Connors. Memory can be a tricky thing after what you went through. The brain shuts a lot of stuff out.”

  Not enough, Seth wanted to say. Not nearly enough.

  “That’s two,” Stanton said. “Where’d you see the third guy?”

  “In the living room, stealing our TV.”

  “This came after you’d been stabbed?”

  “Yeah. After I called nine-one-one, I managed to make it down the hall. That’s when I saw him. The front door was open. I think the first guy had gone out.”

  “You’re sure it wasn’t the guy from the bedroom? The one who stabbed you?”

  “No. The mask he wore had pointy ears that stuck out quite far. I could see their silhouette in the window behind him.”

  Stanton paused again. “So there was no lamp on at the time?”

  The word of truth rose up his throat and Seth caught it before it passed his lips. He almost said, yes.

  “I don’t remember one being on.”

  Stanton continued writing. “Could you make out the guy’s clothing?”

  “No. I could barely focus at that point. I was only there for a few seconds before I noticed the other guy sneaking up behind me.”

  “The one in the zombie mask?”

  “Yeah.” Seth pointed to his cheek. “He did that.”

  Stanton looked up. He wrote something else, then clicked the pen and closed the notebook. Seth turned his head toward him and could see the doubt and disappointment pulling the cop’s face into a frown.

  Stanton stood up and patted Seth’s shoulder.

  “You get better,” he said. “Okay?” He dug out a business card from a coat pocket and laid it on the bedside table. “If you remember anything else, please call me. Day or night. My phone’s always on. I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Feeling wretched and guilty, Seth watched him leave. A kind of slow, hesitant walk to the door with his head hung low.

  Halifax, June 18

  4:44 p.m.

  The red door of the apartment building opened and Allan Stanton came out, wearing an expression of grim determination. He still carried the brown paper bag.

  Seth realized he hadn’t been in there long. He wondered why Stanton had come here. What had he talked to Higgins about? Was he investigating Kaufman’s death? Or something else?

  Stanton got into his car and drove off. He didn’t travel far. He stopped in the middle of Charles Street half a block away, right beside a gray SUV parked at the curb.

  Seth leaned into the steering wheel, watching. The driver of the SUV poked his head out through the open window and Seth could see his mouth moving. The man wore aviator sunglasses and sported a military style haircut—high and tight on the sides, a short patch on top.

  He appeared to be another cop. They must have Higgins under surveillance. Maybe they were watching for Seth to make a move. After Kaufman’s death, Stanton had probably connected the dots. The odds of Higgins meeting the same fate were pretty good. Betting good, in fact.

  The brake lights of Stanton’s car went off and he drove away. The SUV stayed in place.

  Seth sat back in the seat, rapping his knuckles on the wheel. This was bad. How the hell was he going to get to Higgins now? Seth realized the SUV must’ve been sitting there when he’d driven by earlier. Had the cop noticed him? Was he watching him right now?

  Seth wondered if he should return home and think this out. Then he saw a black Cavalier Z24 roll past him. It turned into the parking lot and stopped next to the pimped-out Honda. Two men got out.

  Seth stared through his sunglasses at the beefy driver. He wore a white tank top and jeans with a wallet chain dangling at his hip. A black do-rag covered his head. Thick black lines of a tribal tattoo ran the full length of his right arm and across part of his chest.

  The passenger was a skinny dude in an oversized flannel shirt, droopy jeans, and a red ball cap with the bill turned backward.

  Seth watched Do-rag go inside the apartment building. Flannel Shirt stayed outside, leaning his ass against the rear quarter panel of Higgins’ car. He took out a cigarette and stuck it in his mouth, leaned forward into the flame o
f a lighter. He smoked with his head tilted back, a thoughtful cast to his eyes.

  A few minutes later, Do-rag emerged again, followed by another man who dwarfed him, both in height and body size. This guy was big and muscular. His eyes had a cold, crazy leer to them. His hair was shaved close to the scalp, almost bald, and he had a penciled mustache and beard that edged his chin and jaw line. He wore a black tank top, black jeans, and biker boots. Tattoos covered both arms, shoulders to wrists. But it was the one on the side of his neck that Seth focused on. Even though he was too far away to see the details, the tattoo resembled the shape of a scorpion.

  Seth could feel his pulse quicken. That was him. Lee Higgins. Scarecrow. This close and Seth could do nothing. He had no knife, no gun, no weapon at all. And a cop sat just up the street.

  Higgins climbed into the driver’s side of the Honda. Flannel Shirt flicked his cigarette, splattering coals across the pavement. He jumped in back, while Do-rag got in the front with Higgins.

  Helpless, Seth watched them drive away. They turned down Creighton Street and disappeared. Right on cue, the SUV moved away from the curb and headed in the same direction.

  Seth waited a few seconds, then pulled out. He stayed half a block behind the SUV, allowing two cars to get in front of him so the driver wouldn’t notice his tail. The Honda turned right onto Cunard Street and the SUV, also hanging back, did the same.

  They stopped for a red light beside the Halifax Armory. The sun hit the tinted rear window of the SUV just right and Seth could see the LED signal stick along the top inside. No doubt now. It was a cop.

  The light changed to green and the little convoy went straight up Cunard to the next set of lights where they took a left onto Robie Street, heading south. Robie was a main artery through the city and traffic was thick. Five cars managed to squeeze in between the Honda and the SUV. One red light and a turn out of sight, the cop would lose Higgins.

  He didn’t. He kept pace and they all continued into the south end of Halifax. Seth wondered where Higgins was leading them.

  He tensed when he saw the Honda turn onto Oakland Road. What the hell were they doing here? This was his street, his neighborhood.

  The cop followed, then pulled over in front of the first house. There was no traffic on the road and Seth guessed the cop had stopped so he wouldn’t get noticed.