[Detective Allan Stanton 03.0] Sorrowful Road

by Alex MacLean

  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.

  “It’s shred time, bro.” He turns to le
ave. “Have fun.”

  I let one trekking pole drop quietly to the ground. Then I shorten the other one by shoving the lower section up into the upper section.

  The man is a few yards from his bike. I sneak up behind him, drawing the pole back into a baseball swing. I connect with the back of his skull, and the crack echoes in the open air. The impact snaps his head forward, and he falls to his hands and knees. The water bottle rolls across the grass.

  I don’t give him time to regain his senses. As he struggles to get back to his feet, I step in front of him and swing the pole again. It catches him square across the bridge of the nose.

  That gets a yelp out of him. Hands flying up to his face, he topples onto his back. I quickly jump on top of him and press the pole down across his windpipe.

  He squirms beneath me. He pushes at the pole, digs at it with his fingers. He punches my arms. None of it has an effect. My body is stoked with adrenaline.

  The man’s face is swelling up into a grotesque shape. Blood bubbles from his nose. Wet gurgling noises come from his throat.

  I peer into his eyes and bask in the terror I see swimming there. It’s a look I’ll burn into my memory. Store it there so someday I can pull it out and relive this moment once again.

  All at once, something weird happens. Maybe spine-chilling is a better description.

  The man’s face dissolves right in front of me. His nose, his eyes, his mouth. They all get swallowed up in the purplish mass.

  A new face emerges, and it spikes the hairs on the back of my neck.

  It’s Heidi. She gazes up at me with eyes so red and inflated, they look ready to burst out of their sockets. The image causes me to do a double take. I nearly lose focus on what I’m doing.

  Quickly, I regain my composure. I press down on the trekking pole with every ounce of strength I have. Something crunches in the man’s throat. His arms fall out to his sides. His body jolts a few times then becomes still. I watch the light fade out of his eyes.

  Before someone comes along, I conceal the body in a grove of spruce trees. Wheeling the bike to the edge of the lookout, I push it over. To my surprise, it manages to remain upright for several yards before the front tire wrenches sideways and the bike begins tumbling end over end. Eventually it disappears into the trees.

  Seven grand. I still can’t believe it.

  I pick up my other trekking pole and then leave the area. As I head down Mountain Mine Road, that image of Heidi’s swollen face shadows me.

  What does it mean?

  Is it a premonition?

  Is my subconscious trying to tell me something?

  22

  Halifax, October 23

  1:10 p.m.

  Allan feared it would happen. Resources stretched thin. Focus pulled in too many directions. Valuable time wasted chasing wrong leads. All because of a composite sketch that might resemble a man of interest. “Might” being the operative word.

  Since the department released the sketch on Thursday, over a hundred calls had flooded the hotline. Officers manning the phones were told to evaluate the calls and assign them a priority level based on the information gathered.

  Allan sat at his desk, reading over tips from the last twelve hours. It was a frustrating task, but part and parcel of an investigation that seemed to be racing toward a brick wall at one hundred miles per hour.

  Some tips were downright absurd—the composite resembled a man someone knew fifteen years ago or an ex-husband who refused to pay alimony. You’d be surprised at how many calls came in like that.

  The remaining tips were well intentioned but nothing to raise your heart rate. One caller swore she’d seen the suspect in a line at Costco. Another saw him at Home Depot buying lumber. Someone else from Moncton was certain the man lived four doors down from her. He had a reputation as a social misfit and wore a hoodie all the time.

  Allan leaned back in the chair with a heavy sigh. Most of the tips had to be checked out regardless of how useless they appeared. Sometimes the smallest piece could lead you to the bigger picture.

  Allan doubted that would happen here. Lacing his fingers behind his head, he shut his eyes.

  He saw Mary Driscow. He saw Kate Saint-Pierre. He tried to see the killer but saw only dark.

  A knock at the door startled him. It was Audra.

  “Hey,” she said. “Got something.”

  Allan looked at the sheaf of paper in her hand. “Something good?”

  Audra flicked her eyebrows. “Anonymous tip. Caller said the suspect is an acquaintance named Rube.”

  Allan straightened in the chair. “That rings a bell.”

  “His actual name is Reuben Forbes.” Audra began typing on Allan’s computer. “Thirty-two years old. Has a lengthy record that began at sixteen. Assault. Marijuana possession. Breaking and entering. Failure to appear in court.

  “He wasn’t incarcerated last October, either. Released the August before.”

  When Forbes’s picture came up on Allan’s monitor, he immediately recognized him.

  “He was one of the parolees I looked into during the Driscow investigation. Never seemed like a viable suspect.”

  Audra looked hopeful. “He resembles the composite. To an extent.”

  Allan didn’t see it.

  “Jaw and chin is similar,” Audra said. “Nose...kinda.”

  “Doesn’t look much like Clark Kent.”

  Audra smiled. “Or Brad Pitt.”

  “Clattenburg didn’t recognize him in our mug book.”

  Audra crossed her arms, frowned. “But you know the more pictures you look at, the less likely you’ll see the person you’re looking for.”

  Allan held her gaze. “You know how I feel about witness memory. People suck at identifying strangers.”

  “I know, Al. I know.” She looked back to the picture, chewing on her lip. “Height is in the ballpark. Eye color.”

  “He’s a bit light. One-sixty soaking wet.”

  “Picture’s over a year old. He could’ve put on a few pounds.”

  Allan spread his hands.

  Audra added, “He does have a little history of violence.”

  “Nothing against women, though. A couple scrums outside nightclubs, if I remember correctly.”

  “We have to check him out.”

  Allan silently appraised her. She was the epitome of confidence. He knew she had the never-say-die attitude. She’d turn over every stone in the pursuit of revealing a suspect. Combine that with a nimble mind and interview skills, and you had yourself an excellent detective. Yet there were times she got a bit too overzealous.

  “I admire your optimism,” he told her. “But this guy is a waste of time.”

  Even as those words flowed from his mouth, Allan could feel the doubt waking up inside his skull again, the second-guessing beginning to eat its way through his brain.

  He was almost certain Reuben Forbes had nothing to do with the murders. But what if he was wrong? What if he’d been wrong a year ago? That catastrophic mistake would haunt him for the rest of his life.

  “Probably,” Audra said. “But it’s worth a shot, right?”

  Allan looked at the picture of Forbes again, a knot twisting in his gut. “Keep an open mind.”

  Audra winked. “Exactly.”

  A short drive took them to a nondescript building on Gottingen Street. The main floor housed The Good Food Emporium. The top floor had a series of bedrooms rented out by low-income people or those living on the fringe of society. They shared a kitchen and bathroom.

  Police knew the property well. They’d been there over one hundred fifty times for reports of fights, thefts, drug use, and sexual assaults.

  Reuben Forbes stayed in room number 5.

  As Allan followed Audra down a tight hallway, he noticed something off about each door.

  “No locks,” he said. “Aren’t they required?”

  Audra nodded. “I don’t think this place is on the up and up.”

  They reached the r
oom. Audra knocked.

  There came a rustling inside, then the door opened to reveal Reuben Forbes. In the flesh, he looked even less like the sketch. And when Allan saw Audra’s face go slack, he knew she saw it too.

  Forbes had stoner’s eyes—baggy and bloodshot. He wore jeans and a white T-shirt. His hair was cropped close to his skull, and there was the silhouette of a bird tattooed near his left temple. Steel tunnels inserted in his earlobes allowed you to see right through them.

  Allan glanced at the man’s hands and forearms. No cuts or scratches.

  The room behind him was tiny. Clothes littered the bed. One door on the wardrobe closet hung askew. The window had a cracked pane. A kerosene heater sat on the floor below it.

  Allan’s cell phone rang. The display revealed a local number. He stepped away to take the call.

  The man on the other end identified himself as Cameron Page, an analyst with the provincial ViCLAS Center. He told Allan he’d made a potential link to another unsolved murder in Huntsville, Ontario. Allan shot a glance at Audra, but she was busy talking to Forbes.

  Allan asked in a hushed tone, “Who’s the lead investigator in that case?”

  “Denis Gagnon,” Page said. “I’ll give you his number.”

  Allan wrote it down.

  “I was just talking to him,” Page added. “He’s expecting your call.”

  “Thank you,” Allan said.

  As he hung up, he saw Reuben Forbes close his door on Audra.

  “What’d you say to him?” he asked.

  “Asked him if he was Anthony Stevens.”

  “Anthony Stevens?”

  Face pinched, Audra tossed her hands up in the air. “First name that popped into my head. You were right, Al. He’s a waste of time.”

  Allan knew she was frustrated, pissed off even. She brushed past him, heading for the exit.

  “Hey,” he called out.

  Audra stopped and looked over her shoulder at him.

  “ViCLAS called me,” he said.

  “Oh?”

  He walked up next to her. “They made a possible link to another case.”