Grave Situation

by Alex MacLean

  “My turn came a few months ago when he found out about my problems.” She winced, as if wounded. Then distractedly, she glanced toward the door. “My father put me out. I made a bad choice and he put me out for it.”

  As Allan listened, he heard something other than her words—a trace of embarrassment buried in her tone.

  Bad choice? Drugs?

  A flush, he saw, had crossed her face. He wondered if Cathy’s father had given up all hope on his older daughter, only to put all of his stakes in the other one?

  Allan tried to imagine what it would do to him if Brian ended up on drugs. Somehow, he couldn’t. The only certainty was that despite whatever trouble his son would face in life, his father would be there for him.

  “I’m sure your father loves you very much,” he said at last. “It was probably hard for him to do what he did. Sometimes allowing your child to hit rock bottom is the only way they’ll seek help for themselves. If in fact, they truly want help.”

  Cathy gave him a long contemplative look. Her mouth opened slightly. She seemed to parse her thoughts.

  Allan waited out her silence. He sensed her absorbing what he had just said. For a strange instant, he expected her to tell him something. But then she quickly looked away and the moment passed. She sat down again and leaned back in the sofa, as if deflated.

  “I don’t need any help,” she muttered, shaking her head.

  All too familiar, Allan thought. The inability of an addict to admit they have a problem or to see the impact their illness has on the lives around them. Part of him wanted to grab her by the shoulders, make her listen to his own experiences about the women like herself, even kids, he had seen throwing their lives away.

  “Do you see your parents at all?” he asked.

  “Mom calls. Once she stopped over. Dad never does.” She gazed at the coffee table now. “I know he’s ashamed.”

  “Why would a father be ashamed of his child?”

  She looked up, a fresh look of hurt in her eyes. “I messed up things in my life. Big time.”

  “What happened to you?”

  He knew the question was perfunctory, the answer already obvious to him.

  Cathy was silent for a moment. “I’ll keep the story short. I got mixed up with a guy I shouldn’t have. We were both in university. He seemed like a good person. But like Trixy used to say, ‘most men seem nice on the surface. It’s once you get to know them that tells the real story.’

  “I found out later he was deep into drugs. Marijuana. Hash. Heroin. Being young and naïve, I soon began experimenting. Then found that I couldn’t stop. The drugs left me in a state of mind I had never experienced before. Nothing else mattered. My grades soon began to slip. Then my attendance.

  “I went to my boyfriend’s room one night and found him in bed with someone else.” Her nose wrinkled. “The look on their faces was priceless. Shock. Guilt. Embarrassment. Caught with their hands in the cookie jar.

  “I was speechless and sick to my stomach. He was stuttering through an explanation when I threw his room key on the bed and walked out.

  “I lost him and won a drug habit I couldn’t kick. Everything seemed to spiral out of control for me after that. I never finished my final year. It’s surprising how fast things can happen.”

  The simple words expressed the grief of a life scarred by mistakes not yet resolved. Allan felt sorry for her.

  “I noticed the track marks,” he said.

  Cathy seemed to flinch. As if by reflex, she touched the scars in the crooks of her arms. When she spoke, her voice was soft. “I finally kicked the habit. I don’t take anything now.”

  “You just up and quit?”

  Cathy’s stare was as level as her voice. “Yes.”

  It came to Allan that something was being withheld, something she didn’t want him to know. She was speaking with a cop after all.

  “Are you receiving treatment?”

  Cathy shook her head. “I went cold turkey.”

  “Still have the cravings?”

  “Yes.” She looked down, fidgeting again. “It was hard at first, but the cravings aren’t as bad as they were. Some days are better than others.

  “I have to do this for myself and for Trixy. I know what a burden I’ve been on her. She’s been my savior through this ordeal.”

  “It’s still hard to do without professional help.” Allan said. “Even a doctor never treats his own illness.”

  Cathy squared her shoulders and looked him in the face. “I can do it. I will do it.”

  Allan detected conviction in her tone. But her eyes, fixed on the coffee table again, revealed her doubts.

  “This isn’t really about me,” she said, looking sideways at him. “This is about my missing sister.”

  Yes, Allan thought glumly. I guess it is.

  He tried to detach himself, become an investigator again. “When you left your parents, you came to live with your sister?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “Do you have a job?”

  Another nod. “Had one. I worked part-time at the Harbor View Lodge as a chambermaid.”

  “Did you ever have any problems with a dealer?”

  “No.”

  “Do you owe any of them money?”

  Again, Cathy shook her head and then a look of wonder crossed her face. “Do you think I had something to do with Trixy’s disappearance? That a dealer did something to her because of me?”

  “You must understand, I have to explore all avenues. Nothing personal.”

  Cathy’s lips became a tight line. “No. I don’t owe money to any of them.”

  “Vice has already found out that Trixy was dropped off by Call A Cab at ten forty-seven at the corner of South and Barrington. Do you know if that’s the location she usually takes up shop?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  Cathy’s eyes suddenly became moist. She rose from her seat, walked to the kitchen, and pulled a Kleenex from a box on the table.

  When she returned, she said. “I know something happened to her. When I call her cell, it says the person I am calling is not answering or is out of the service area. If she had her phone shut off, it would go directly to her voice mail.”

  “I’m sure Vice will be checking to see if any calls were made on her phone since her disappearance and in what areas those calls, if any, were made from.” Allan looked up from his spiral. “How close are you and Trixy?”

  “Very close.” Cathy sat down again, dabbing at an eye with the Kleenex. “Why?”

  “So, if she were having personal problems, she would confide in you?”

  “Definitely.” She summoned a prideful look. “We’re best friends. We never keep secrets.”

  “She’s closest to you?”

  “Yes.”

  For a moment, Allan observed her with quiet scrutiny.

  At last, he asked, “Are you full siblings?”

  “Yes, we are.”

  “Any other brothers and sisters?”

  “No.”

  “Is it possible that your sister went to a friend’s house? Have you done a telephone search?”

  “I called all the friends that I know she had. No one saw or heard from her.”

  “Do you know of anyone, past or present, who might have a grudge against you or her?”

  Silent, Cathy shook her head.

  “Does Trixy have a boyfriend?”

  “No.”

  “Did she ever talk about having problems with any of her johns?”

  A moment’s reflection. “No.”

  “How about past boyfriends?”

  “No trouble that I can remember.”

  “Does she work under a pimp or buddy-up like some other women in the city?”

  “She works on her own.” Cathy leaned forward, elbows on her knees. Her fingers, still fiddling, tore ends of the tissue. “Trixy’s a free spirit. She’s not easily manipulated.”

  “She’s never had a pimp?”

  “No. She woul
d never allow herself to become trapped in that lifestyle or become dependent on one.”

  “Has a pimp ever approached her?”

  Cathy’s thoughtful look became a narrowing of the eyes, a pursing of the lips.

  “There was one,” she said finally. “But she never called him by name.”

  “To work for him?”

  A nod. “She turned him down.”

  “Was she threatened for it?”

  “Not threatened. He tried to induce her with expensive looking jewelry and told her that he could protect her.”

  “No name at all? Not even a nickname?”

  “No. I don’t think Trixy knew who he was. She never mentioned him again.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  “Six months, maybe.”

  “Before working on the corner of Barrington and South was there another location your sister had worked at?”

  “Hollis Street.”

  “Does she own a vehicle?”

  “No.”

  “Does she come home by cab as well?”

  “Most times.”

  “Does your sister smoke?”

  “Yes.”

  “What brand and how often?”

  “Du Maurier. She smokes roughly half a pack a day.”

  “Does she drink?”

  “Only socially.”

  Allan paused. Once more, he glanced at the track marks in Cathy’s arms. “Do drugs of any kind?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Cathy lifted her chin. “Yes.”

  “On the missing persons report, you state that Trixy has no medical or psychological problems?”

  “That’s right. She’s very level-headed.”

  “We have the financial information on your sister that you gave us earlier. Vice will track any credit card transactions or withdrawals from her account.”

  “I have a bad feeling about this.” Cathy’s words took on a hopeless inflection. “I know something bad happened to Trixy. I don’t think she’s coming home.”

  All at once, she crumpled forward in one convulsive sob, as if the levy containing her emotions had suddenly collapsed.

  Allan took a breath. Gently, he pulled her close. In his arms, she felt light, fragile. Her body shook. She clung to him in quiet despair.

  “It’s going to be all right,” he whispered in her ear. He pulled back, holding her arms. “I want you to hang in there. Over ninety percent of missing people eventually show up on their own just a little embarrassed by the alarm their disappearance had caused.”

  He watched Cathy attempt to recapture her composure. Beneath that, he saw a woman who was frightened and alone. He let go of her arms. Reaching inside his jacket, he pulled out his card and gave it to her.

  “You can call me anytime,” he said.

  He stood up to leave. Cathy looked up into his face.

  “Will you let me know when you find out anything?” she asked.

  “You’ll be the first to know.”

  Allan walked to the door and then paused. He turned and looked at Cathy one last time. From across the room she stared at him through puffy eyes.

  “Hang in there,” he repeated softly.

  When he stepped into the hall and closed the door, he could hear Cathy’s muffled keening.

  Leaden, Allan walked away.

  19

  Halifax, May 9

  9:30 p.m.

  Allan steeped a pot of tea and made a tuna sandwich. As he sat at the kitchen table with his meal, he wondered how many times he’d eaten alone since his transfer to Homicide.

  When he finished, he retired to the living room. He turned on the television, flipped to CNN, and lowered the volume before dropping heavily onto the chesterfield. From the television screen, a dark-haired anchorman talked about how the Gulf of Mexico oil spill was threatening a bird sanctuary.

  Allan shut his eyes, half listening to the broadcast. He felt Buddy leap up, heard the deep rumble of his purr. He reached out and petted the cat.

  Ending his broadcast, the anchorman wished all the mothers out there a Happy Mother’s Day.

  Allan’s eyes snapped open.

  Mother’s Day?

  He sat up, wincing.

  I’m sorry, Mom. I completely forgot.

  Then it occurred to him with a deep sadness what a special tragedy this day had been for the mother of Brad Hawkins.

  Allan got up and went to the kitchen to retrieve his spiral and pen from his coat pocket. When he returned to sit down again, Buddy had retreated to his favorite chair by the fireplace.

  In the spiral Allan wrote down a to-do list for the next day—visit the addresses that had no answer during the initial canvass, check out the waterfront bars in case there were rumors going around about the murder, and interview the friends and relatives of Brad Hawkins.

  The telephone rang. Allan looked at his watch. 9:45 p.m. He reached across the coffee table and picked up the handset.

  “Lieutenant Stanton.”

  On the other end, a young boy’s voice beamed. “Dad!”

  “Brian.” Hearing his son again seemed to ignite a spark of renewed energy inside Allan. For the first time in weeks he managed a smile. He picked up the TV remote and muted the volume. “How are you doing, son?”

  “Great, Dad. I’m having fun. Making lots of friends at my new school.”

  “Hey, I’m happy to hear that.”

  “Mom told me you called. I was at the hockey game with Tom.”

  Allan swallowed, feeling the sting of this. He wondered how far away Melissa was from the phone. And somehow more importantly, where this other man was.

  “I tried to call you back last night,” Brian continued, “but there was no answer.”

  “I’m sorry I missed you, but I didn’t get home until late,” Allan said. “So how was the game?”

  “Great. Lots of people there. It was loud. Toronto won.”

  “Hmm…the Habs would’ve beaten them.”

  Laughter. “Maybe, Dad. Maybe.”

  Allan wished he could see his son’s face. “Thanks for your letter. So you want to come down for the Victoria Day Weekend?”

  “Yup. Can I?”

  “You sure can.”

  “Will you be working?”

  “I’ll take the weekend off. I’d really love to see you.”

  “Me too. And Buddy. How is he?”

  “Buddy’s doing fine.” Allan looked at the cat, lying down, licking its paw. “He’s washing himself right now on his favorite chair.”

  “That’s his bed.”

  “He seems to think it is. Did you wish mommy a Happy Mother’s Day?”

  “Yup.” The boy’s words came quickly. “I made her a card and gave her some flowers I picked myself. And Tom took me and her out to supper at a fancy restaurant. It had this great big fountain in the middle of it.”

  Allan smiled a little. “That’s nice, son.”

  “I wish you was up here with us.”

  Pausing a moment, Allan’s gaze touched the silver framed picture on the mantle of the fireplace and he felt a dull pang of sadness.

  Children, he thought, in all their innocence, cannot fully understand the sometimes-complicated world of adults.

  “I wish that too, son,” he answered softly. “When is your plane arriving?”

  A pause. “My plane is coming in on Saturday at…at eleven-thirty in the morning.”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “Wait a minute, Dad.” Brian sounded distracted.

  Allan heard him put the phone down. While waiting for him to return, he wondered if Melissa was going to come on, hoped she wouldn’t. Moments later, Brian picked up again.

  “I have to go, Dad. My bath is ready.”

  “I won’t keep you then. Thanks for calling. Hearing your voice has made my day.”

  “Okay.”

  “I love you, son.”

  “Me too. Bye.”

  Allan hung up and stared a
t the phone for a moment. He rose from his seat and went to the kitchen where he slipped on his jacket. After heading outside, he climbed into his car and drove through the quiet streets to Pleasant Hill Cemetery in Lower Sackville to visit his mother.

  20

  Acresville, May 10

  3:15 p.m.

  The vagrant appeared on the country road like a mirage, his image warped by the shimmer of heat waves rising off the asphalt. He looked drugged with fatigue. His movements were slow and labored. Unlaced boots, gray with road dust, scuffed the pavement.

  The face of the man was gaunt, sallow and scored with deep lines. His gray hair was disheveled, hanging over his forehead in an unruly cascade. The rags he wore were handpicked from different trash bins—a tattered trench coat, unfastened in front; a grimy yellow T-shirt, half out of his waistband; and plaid pants that were a throwback to the sixties.

  He looked old and feeble and sad.

  His crinkled gray eyes moved from the tufts of grass by the roadside to the drainage ditches.

  Most of his daylight hours were spent either panhandling at the Acresville Public Park or rummaging through dumpsters behind restaurants and stores, underneath bridges and overpasses, alongside roadways, searching for glass bottles or soda and beer cans that he could cash in at the Enviro Depot. With each item, he received a nickel.

  If he were lucky he could walk away a few dollars richer. That would afford him a small meal or, more importantly, a cheap bottle of wine.

  Some days were profitable; others were not. Much like today. The garbage bag slung over his shoulder was only half-full.

  Open farmland surrounded him. Meadows and rolling green hills. Grazing cattle. Soil tilled in neat columns. Overhead came the buzzing of power lines.

  Now and then the vagrant wandered this far out of town. He knew these ditches could be treasure troves of empty beer bottles and cans.

  Stopping, the man mopped his forehead with a sleeve and shoved wet hair out of his eyes.

  It was the humidity—oppressive, enervating, a presence even after the day had yielded to the night. The sun burned at his back like a fireball, wringing sweat from his pores. He wanted to remove his coat, but he knew that would result in a quick burn.