by Alex MacLean
“I’m sorry,” Allan said. “But you can’t be here.”
Over the years, he had witnessed a gamut of emotional reactions from loved ones. Screaming rampages. Crying hysterically. Fainting. Vomiting. Others just sitting in stunned silence, unable to move or speak. Allan remembered the mother who, after being notified of her daughter’s suicide, began punching him in the chest then collapsing into his arms, sobbing.
Kate Saint-Pierre’s husband squeezed his eyes shut and lowered his face into the gravel. The low guttural moan coming out of him sounded like a wounded animal.
A second officer came down the trail to help the first one pull the man to his feet. Several times as they ushered him back up the trail, his legs gave out and they had to pick him up.
Watching them, Allan shook his head.
“We need to talk to him,” Audra said.
Allan sighed. “Yeah. Not something I’m looking forward to.”
Audra appeared in front of him suddenly. “Hey. You okay?”
Allan looked at her.
“No,” he said. “No, I’m not.”
5
Burlington, Ont. October 18
4:40 p.m.
Home, sweet home.
I love my job. I spend a week, sometimes two, traveling to different provinces to help businesses streamline and boost their growth. I get to visit new cities, revisit old ones, and see the changes that took place since my last time there.
But all that work on the road makes me appreciate every single thing I miss about being home: my amazing wife, Heidi, and my beautiful daughters, Jade and Jaleesa. And of course, my own bed and that finely honed divot in the mattress.
The trees along Shadeland Avenue have really begun to shed their foliage. As I coast through my neighborhood, there are leaves everywhere. I see a big pile of them raked on our front lawn, and it makes me smile when I imagine Jade and Jaleesa jumping into it, laughing, then dropping armfuls of leaves on each other.
Our home is a bungalow built on a gorgeous ravine lot. We fell in love with the property eight years ago and haven’t once regretted buying it. It’s nice to have the extra privacy in your backyard and not have to look at the backs of other houses. If there’s one problem, it’s the deer that come up the ravine and eat Heidi’s flowers.
I park in the garage and grab my luggage from the trunk. As soon as Heidi sees me, she’ll ask about the bandage on my cheek. I must’ve kicked around a dozen excuses at the hotel room in Halifax. Only two seemed even remotely believable: blame the razor or blame myself.
Walking into the kitchen, I set my luggage on the floor. The house smells of roast chicken with a hint of scalloped potatoes. My stomach rumbles. Another thing I miss when I’m away—Heidi’s cooking.
I call out, “I’m home.”
Heidi comes in from the living room, a big smile on her face that quickly drops into a frown. She cocks her eyebrows and nods toward the bandage. Right on cue.
“What happened there?” she asks.
For a brief moment, the room around me vanishes, and I see a flurry of fingers shooting up from below me, long painted nails clawing at my face, at my eyes.
“I did it shaving,” I tell her. “Got in a rush. Wasn’t paying attention.”
She walks toward me. “Did it cut deep?”
“No, no. It’ll be fine.”
She stops two feet from me. One eyebrow falls, the other stays up.
“I bought you an electric razor for Christmas last year,” she says. “Remember?”
I see my way out of this, and I give her a smile. “Yes, dear. You did.”
“Where is it?”
“In the vanity.”
“You probably never had it out of the case, did you? You’d rather use those cheap disposables. The same one for weeks at a time.”
I nod, feeling like a child being scolded.
“You know they get dull.”
“I know,” I say.
“Start using the electric. That’s why I bought it. They’re safer.”
I sigh. “I will, dear. As soon as this heals up.”
The other eyebrow falls, and she smiles faintly. We hug.
“Missed you,” she says.
“Missed you too.”
Score one for me. Only Heidi doesn’t realize it. Truth is, I hate electric razors. They don’t give you as super-smooth a finish as a manual one. But agreeing with her ends the subject. Roll over and submit to a woman’s wishes, and more often than not, they’ll abandon the issue.
I pull away from Heidi and give a quick look around. “Where are the girls?”
“In their room,” she says. “Jade. Jaleesa. Daddy’s home.”
Jade is five years old. Jaleesa is seven. Seven years, five months, if you ask her. Both of them are the spitting image of their mother. When I hear the patter of their feet on the wood floor, it warms my heart. They come bounding into the kitchen and into my arms.
“Daddy! Daddy!”
As I hug them tight to me, I notice their long hair is done up in fishtail braids, just like Heidi’s.
“Were you and Mommy playing hairdresser again?” I ask them.
Jaleesa corrects me. “It’s beauty parlor, Daddy.”
“Oh, sorry. My mistake.” I look up at Heidi and wink.
“We played it yesterday,” Jaleesa says.
Jade touches the bandage on my face. “Are you hurt, Daddy?”
She has her mother’s big brown eyes.
“No,” I assure her. “It’s just a scratch, honey. I’ll be fine.”
“What happened?” Jaleesa asks.
“Cut myself shaving.” I reach for my luggage. “Say, I brought you girls back something.”
Their faces light up with broad smiles. They can barely contain themselves. Jade begins making fists. Jaleesa rises up and down on her toes.
I open the first bag and bring out two stuffed animals I bought at a gift shop in Halifax. They’re both the same—a moose hugging a lobster. I hand each daughter one.
“Aren’t they cute?” I ask.
“Yes,” they say, almost in unison. “Thank you, Daddy.”
They give me another hug. Then they run off to their room. It’s not hard to change a child’s focus. Just introduce a new toy.
“Supper’s in fifteen minutes,” Heidi calls after them.
“Okay, Mommy,” they call back.
I loosen my tie and pull it over my head. Heidi begins taking plates out of the cupboard and setting them on the table.
She asks, “How’d your presentation go?”
“Good. Good.” I take a beer from the fridge. “Whether or not they implement my recommendations is another story.”
“All you can do is give your best advice.”
“Yep.”
As I twist the cap off the bottle, I notice the Burlington Post on the counter. The headline draws my attention: Man Dies After Fall At Mount Nemo.
I take a mouthful of beer.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you.” Heidi taps a finger on the newspaper. “A man fell at Mount Nemo. Died.”
“Did they give his name?”
“No. But everyone is saying it’s the missing hiker from Toronto. They haven’t confirmed it yet. I keep telling you to watch yourself when you go there.”
“I don’t go near the cliffs,” I tell her. “I keep to the trails. Some people ignore the signs. They don’t heed the danger.”
“You having coffee or tea?”
“Tea.”
Heidi fills the kettle, puts it on the stove. I pick up the paper.
A man was found on Monday at the bottom of a cliff in very rugged terrain.
Halton Regional Police believe the man lost his balance and fell over three hundred feet to his death. Identification was recovered on the remains, but police would not confirm if it’s the body of Roger Pratt. The thirty-two-year-old Torontonian has been missing since October 9. Family members said they thought he went to Mount Nemo to do some bird watching. He hasn’t
been heard from since.
I FOLD THE PAPER AND lay it on the counter. Roger Pratt. I pull up his image in my mind. He’s a small man who stands on the cliff ledge, looking out through binoculars. His boots, cargo pants, backpack, and khaki Tilley hat remind me of many other hikers I’ve seen at Mount Nemo.
I climb over a fallen cedar. Roger doesn’t hear me approaching on the rocks. I’m not sure what draws me to him, other than the fact that he’s alone and far off the beaten path.
“Some view, what?” I say as I step up beside him.
Roger’s body jolts at the sound of my voice. He turns to me with his mouth agape. His eyes give me the once-over, but he must consider me harmless, because he turns away and presses the binoculars to his face again.
“Beautiful,” he says.
I nod. Indeed it is. Fall has splashed color all over Milton’s countryside. There are green pastures dotted with bales of hay. Brown squares of freshly cultivated farmland. The panorama extends so far off in the distance, I swear you can see the curvature of the earth.
It’s not only beautiful, it’s stunning.
Roger points to a huge bird circling over the valley. “See that?”
I squint. “What is it? An eagle? Hawk?”
“Turkey vulture,” he says. “Riding the thermals. They can detect the minutest scent of carrion.”
He hands me the binoculars. I bring the bird into focus. From a distance it looked black, but now I see it’s more of a brown color. With its prominent red head, it definitely resembles a turkey and is every bit as ugly.
I give Roger back the binoculars.
“Nature’s cleanup crew,” I say.
“They’re so important to the ecosystem. Can you imagine the world without them? Full of rats and disease.”
The world already is, I want to tell him. Take a look around.
“They sure are ugly, though.”
Roger laughs. “Nah, I think they’re beautiful, intelligent. Some cultures regard them as sacred.” He turns to me. “Tibetan Buddhists let vultures eat their dead. They call it a jhator or sky burial. It’s more out of practicality than anything else.”
“Really? Sounds barbaric to me.”
He smiles. “The Chinese thought so too. The body sustains the life of another living being. If you look at it that way, it doesn’t seem so bad. Buddhists consider it good karma. The body is just an empty vessel. The soul has already moved on.”
He’s an odd fellow. I watch him turn his attention back to the vulture. Fate and circumstance has brought us together, I realize. Glancing behind me, I check the trees. The park feels vast, silent. There’s no one around.
Roger continues his fascination with the vulture. He doesn’t notice me inching closer, moving my hand up to his backpack. With one powerful thrust, off he goes. Arms flailing, he falls over the edge. His high-pitched screams slice the air, and they seem to awaken the pleasure centers of my brain. I smile.
Roger skids headfirst down sheer cliffside. He strikes a rocky protuberance, and the screams end. I stand on the ledge, watching his body disappear into the tree canopy far below. I never hear him hit the ground.
Heidi’s voice comes to me, as if in a dream. I look at her. She stands by the table with her head tilted to one side and her eyes narrowed.
“Pardon?” I say.
“I asked you what the little smirk is for. What are you thinking about?”
“You and the girls,” I tell her. “I’m just happy to be home.”
6
Halifax, October 18
5:03 p.m.
“I’m sorry this happened,” Audra said softly.
Luc Saint-Pierre squeezed his eyes shut, and the muscles at the sides of his jaw bunched up. He looked tired, confused, and broken. He twisted the wedding band on his finger.
“I can’t believe this,” he muttered.
“When did you last see Kate?”
He opened his eyes, and his stare seemed to burn straight through her, fixing on something not inside the interview room. Audra could tell a painful memory was flaring behind his blue eyes.
“Yesterday,” he said. “When she left for her run.”
“What time was that?”
“Six thirty.”
Audra checked the missing-persons report on the table in front of her, comparing the time Luc had originally given. They were the same.
She said, “Kate’s an early riser.”
“We both are.”
“Yeah? You look fit. Did you often run with her?”
Luc winced, dropping his gaze. “But not yesterday. The one day I should have.”
“Weren’t feeling up to it?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I was a little hung over. We’d gone out to a dinner party with friends Saturday night.” A distant look spread across his eyes, and a hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Kate had such a great time. She was so happy. Laughing.”
Audra paused. “Where’d you go?”
“The Bicycle Thief.”
Audra knew of it. Down on Lower Water Street. A place frequented by the younger, hipper crowd.
“Who’d you go with?” she asked.
“Do you want their names?”
“Yes.”
“Larry and Faith Bradden. Owen and Scarlett Mercer. Faith and Kate were best friends.”
Audra wrote the names down in her notebook.
She asked, “So you were up with Kate Sunday morning, right?”
Luc nodded. “I watched her head out the door.”
“Did she drive to the park?”
“Walked,” he said. “Or jogged. We live on Emscote Drive. So we’re close.”
“Okay, I gotcha. Did you see her have breakfast?”
“I had it with her.”
“What’d she have?”
Luc frowned. “Is that important?”
“It’s important information for us.”
“She had a banana and a tablespoon of almond butter.”
“At about what time?”
Luc gave a tiny shrug. “Around six.”
“What’d you do after Kate left for her run?”
“Went back to bed. Slept a few hours.”
“What time did you get up again?”
“Nine or so. I realized Kate hadn’t come back.”
“How long is she usually out for?”
“She’s usually home by eight. Eight fifteen.”
“What’d you do when you realized she hadn’t come back?”
Luc’s throat worked. “I waited until ten, then I went over to the park to look for her. When I couldn’t find her, I called you guys.”
“Does Kate own a cell phone?”
“Yeah, but she never takes it.”
Audra leaned back in her chair. She watched him prop his elbows on top of the table and press his palms to his face. She regarded the backs of his hands. No scratch marks. None on his face, either. His hair didn’t seem to have any clumps torn out.
She doubted he had killed his wife. His posture and demeanor told her as much. In some people you could just see and hear the deception leaking out of their verbal and nonverbal behavior. They would have nervous hand gestures or shift in their chairs. They would slouch back, as if distancing themselves from it all. They would overuse adverbs when answering questions or repeat the questions in order to buy time while they thought up an answer.
Luc Saint-Pierre did none of that. He sat upright, cooperated, and gave direct answers. His grief seemed raw and genuine. And what about Mary Driscow? If Allan Stanton were correct in assuming the same man had killed her and Kate Saint-Pierre, then that person would have to be Luc. No, it just didn’t seem likely.
But on the flip side, anything was possible. Experience had taught Audra not to become blinded by her opinion. Just because you believe something doesn’t make it true. In this profession, you had to remember things might not always be what they seem. And when a woman is murdered, the h
usband invariably comes under scrutiny.
Audra and Allan would interview Kate’s friends and family. See if any stories abounded about troubles in the marriage, maybe even a possible love triangle. Dr. Coulter would determine if Kate’s body exhibited any new or old injuries suggesting spousal abuse.
“What do you think should happen to the person who did this?” Audra asked.
It was a question meant to gauge reaction. A guilty person generally endorses a light punishment, while an innocent person endorses a harsher one.
Luc lowered his hands to the table and balled them into white-knuckled fists. When he spoke, he bit off each word.
“I know what I’d like to see happen. The person strung up by the neck.”
Audra could see the daggers in his eyes. She felt a wash of pity for him as she pictured him fighting to keep it all together after a wrecking ball had just smashed through his life. That was why she regretted her next question so much.
“Would you mind consenting to a DNA sample?”
Luc’s gaze narrowed at her as if he didn’t understand the language. “What?”
“Would you consent to a DNA sample?”
“Why? Am I a suspect now?”
Audra hated herself. “Should you be?”
Luc shot her an emphatic “No.”
“I’m sorry. But you have to realize we need to look at all angles.”
Luc groaned. He said, “What do you need, my blood?” Forcibly, he began rolling up one shirtsleeve and dropping his bare forearm to the table. “Take it.”
Audra shook her head. “No, no. Nothing like that. It’s a buccal swab. We swipe the inside of your mouth. It’s fast and noninvasive.”
Luc clenched his hands together and leaned back from the table.
“Okay,” he said with a resigned tone. “Let’s get it over with.”
Audra glanced up at the camera looking down upon the room and gave it a nod. Within moments, Allan came into the room carrying a DNA collection kit. He laid out on the table disposable gloves, cotton-tipped swabs, and an evidence submission box and envelope. He set a pen and a permission-to-search form in front of Luc.
