Grave Situation

by Alex MacLean

  Rain, he prayed. Just let it rain. It was too hot for early May.

  With no cars in either direction, he crossed the road and walked along the gravel shoulder, looking into the ditch. A glimmer in a patch of weeds caught his eye. He set the bag on the ground. Then he clambered down the side of the ditch, sliding and grabbing at clumps of grass to keep from falling. As he reached the bottom, he could see it clearly now—a soda can. Beside it lay a crumpled bag from a fast-food restaurant. He picked up the can. It was in good shape. If the sides were crushed or dented, the Enviro Depot would disregard it.

  Hands out for balance, the vagrant climbed back to the roadside and dumped the can into the bag. A car drove past with a quick press of its horn. He lifted an arm in a wave without looking at it.

  People were friendly here in Acresville. For the most part anyhow. Only the adolescents seemed to target him with jeers and scoffs. A new generation of ingrates with their foolish apparel and rap music. Back in his day parents taught their children a thing called respect.

  The man wiped both palms on his pants. He shaded his eyes with a hand as he looked down the road and saw the fading outline of a rear window and trunk of the car that had just passed by. Nothing came the other way.

  From an inside pocket he brought out a metal flask and shook it next to his ear. It sounded to be about half full. After twisting off the cap, he took a quick drink. The wine tasted bitter and warm. It was so much better chilled.

  After a second mouthful, he began to feel the pleasant glow that would numb his feelings and help him forget, if only briefly, who he was and who he had been. Unable to control himself, he emptied the flask in one long swallow.

  He reached for the wallet in his back pocket. In another time, he vaguely remembered it being stuffed with money. On this day it contained a single five-dollar bill, given to him by a generous couple at the park. Added with the change already collected today, he knew he had enough for another bottle of wine.

  He stuffed the wallet back in his pocket and picked up the garbage bag when a sharp pang in his right side came without warning. Piercing, agonizing, it doubled him over. The bag fell from his grip, sending the cans inside to go rolling over the pocked road.

  He braced one hand on a knee to keep from falling over. Just when the pain seemed to ease up, a spike of fire ripped through his abdomen. The man slid to the pavement to his hands and knees and crawled a few feet just before the nausea rose to his mouth. He vomited into the ditch until nothing more came up. When at last the dry heaves stopped, he rolled over onto his back, shuddering.

  He should really see a doctor, he thought. The sudden pain, extreme at times, seemed to occur only lately and suspiciously after he drank alcohol.

  Could it be the cheap wine?

  For a moment more, he lay there. After the pain subsided to a dull ache, he sat up. He could feel the queasiness still lurking in his system. His throat was raw, his mouth sour. He spit twice and wiped his lips with the back of a hand. Would he have the energy to make it back to town?

  A breeze, light as a breath, touched his face. It did nothing to cool the heat, only stirred it around a little, rustled the grass and shifted the dust. Movement drew his eyes to the sky and he saw a flock of tiny birds, dipping low as a single mass and then landing in the meadow ahead of him. Fanning out, they began stabbing at the earth with their beaks. He could faintly hear their low-pitched twittering.

  The vagrant pulled up his knees and lowered his head. In the distance he heard another vehicle approaching. A blue pickup this time, in the other lane.

  He watched it.

  A thumb never worked on these country roads. He had tried to hitch a ride many times before, but hardly anyone ever stopped. Either the people were in too much of a hurry or were too afraid to pick him up.

  He felt a gust of air sweep over him as the truck drove past. Just down the road, the brake lights came on and the pickup slowed to a stop. In the side mirror the male face of the driver appeared, looking back at him. The engine shifted and the truck began backing up.

  Wheels crunched on the graveled shoulder as the truck pulled off the road directly across from the vagrant. The driver’s door swung open and a powerful-looking man emerged. He was wide in the shoulders and thick in the chest with wavy brown hair. Thrusting square jaw. The stranger wore gray coveralls over a white T-shirt.

  He stepped to the centerline, regarding the cans scattered over the pavement. Against his back, the sun’s glare made him seem slimmer than he was.

  “You okay, friend?” he asked.

  “Just a little tired,” the vagrant said. “Too hot for me today.” He got to his feet. His head felt dizzy, his stomach clenched. He hoped he would not get sick again. Facing the stranger, he found himself squinting at the sunlight.

  “I think it’s a bit too hot for everyone,” the stranger remarked. “They’re calling for cooler temperatures in a day or so.” Kneeling, he started picking up the cans.

  The vagrant shuffled closer.

  “You a farmer?” he asked.

  The man paused, half turned to him. A brief hurt seemed to surface in his eyes.

  When at last he answered, there was a hesitance in his voice and a sadness that hinted at something deeper, “Yes. Yes, I am.” He carried an armful of cans to the bag and dumped them inside. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “You can give a poor man a lift back to town.”

  The stranger gestured with his hand. “Sure, I can. Come and hop in.” He took the bag to his pickup and set it in the bed near the tailgate.

  After crossing to the truck, the vagrant walked to the passenger door and climbed inside. He settled back in the seat and shut his eyes, basking in the Arctic air flowing from the vents. Turned low, Reba McEntire was singing on the radio, asking how was she to know.

  He felt the pickup start off, accelerating to what seemed to be a high speed. The man opened his eyes and watched the needle climb to over eighty kilometers an hour. The stranger’s eyes remained focused on the road. In profile, he was quiet, studious, a man absorbed in his own thoughts. There was a stiffness in the way he sat.

  Around them, the open farmland ended and a sharp projection of the Cobequid Mountains moved in to hug the road, throwing dappled shadows across the pavement. The sides of the mountains were shrouded with a lush mix of birch, maple and fir. To the right, a river snaked in and out of the trees, its rippling surface dancing with sunlight.

  Less than a mile further, the road took a gradual climb and then swept downhill to a quaint township tucked in the valley. A sign at the side of the road welcomed them to Acresville. Sidewalks and houses marked the beginning of the community.

  The stranger glanced over. “Where would you like to be dropped off?”

  The vagrant hesitated. He wanted a drink, but didn’t know if his stomach would handle it.

  “Anywhere on Preston,” he said at last.

  Signaling left, the stranger braked for a red light strung over an intersection. Once it turned green the two men continued driving into the downtown core where most of the buildings leaned toward wood over brick or stone. All were built in the late 1800’s. There was heritage to protect, tradition to maintain. The streets were lined with old-fashioned lampposts. Between each shop, restaurant and office, an alley led to a small parking area for owners and employees.

  As the stranger turned onto Preston, he pulled into an empty space at the curb in front of a bakery. He fumbled loose change from a pocket, picked through it, and handed the vagrant two loonies.

  “Take care, friend,” he said, flashing a quick smile.

  The vagrant accepted the money. “Thank you, buddy. Appreciate it.”

  “No problem.”

  The heat was like a wall when he got out; it felt warmer than before. He retrieved his garbage bag and stepped back from the curb, idly watching the light pedestrian traffic on the sidewalk—a man and woman in shirtsleeves; an old woman hunched over a cane, entering the bakery. O
n the other side of the street, the blazing sun reflected in the windows of the buildings.

  The vagrant watched the pickup edge out into traffic, its smelly exhaust fumes mixing with the humidity. He crossed the street as the truck disappeared. Church bells rang out the hour: four o’clock. In five hours it would be dark.

  Halfway up the block he reached the town’s small liquor store. He left his garbage bag by the door, entered, and strolled down the aisle of the wine section. He quickly chose a bottle he could afford.

  The clerk at the register was an imposingly tall woman with waist-long hair braided in the back.

  She rang in the bottle. “Not your usual brand, Johnny.”

  “Tryin’ something new.”

  “Oh, I gotcha.”

  Counting out his change, the vagrant realized he had less than three dollars left. He watched the cashier put the bottle in a paper bag and pick up his five-dollar bill and a handful of coins. Sorting through them, she dropped quarters, dimes and nickels into the appropriate slots in the cash drawer.

  “Have a nice day,” the vagrant said and left.

  He set out to find more bottles and cans. Each business downtown had its own dumpster out back. The first one he came to generated a few soda cans, but nothing else. Little more would be found in the others.

  His final stop for the day was the dumpster behind Bower’s Restaurant. On occasion, he would find food wrapped in tinfoil sitting on top of the trash bags that some good-hearted employee had left out for him. Just last night the meal had been rather simple, but delicious—turkey, mashed potatoes and vegetables with a splash of dark gravy. He had slept well with the comfortable weight of the food in his belly.

  As he hoisted the heavy lid of the dumpster, he sighed with disappointment. No dinner this time. The smell of fried fish spilling from the restaurant’s exhaust fan made his stomach grumble. Tonight, he would go to bed hungry. He decided his three dollars would be better spent in the morning on a coffee and muffin—fuel for another day of canning.

  He sifted through the trash, shaking a bag or two. No rattle of a can, no clink of glass. Frustrated, he slung the bag over his shoulder and shuffled out of the alleyway.

  Preston Street was winding down. There were still enough cars and an odd pedestrian to make it look alive. The sun was beginning to set. Below it the mountain range ripped a jagged strip across the sky. Shadows were expanding, deepening, filling the voids.

  The vagrant picked the Acresville Park as his home. Located on the southern edge of town, it was a four hundred acre playground of picnic areas, a ballpark, two tennis courts and walking trails of crushed gravel and blacktop. There was a nine-hole golf course in the west end: a green belt of gently rolling hills and deep sand traps.

  Stomach empty, feet tired, the vagrant slumped along one path that branched out from the entrance. He met only one couple out walking a golden retriever. Passing him, they would not make eye contact. He resisted the urge to reach out a hand. Some people were simply not approachable.

  The vagrant reached a wooden bench near the park’s central pond. He stuffed his bag beneath it and then sat down. His bottle of wine was still in the paper bag. He would have a few drinks later and fill his flask with the remainder. He set the bottle on the seat beside him.

  The park seemed to be empty. Solely him and the ducks in the pond and the failing light. Activity here was still slow. In the peak summer months, the park was a popular spot for weddings, for lover’s courting, for family reunions, for kid’s ball games.

  Too weary to move, he leaned back, spreading his arms along the top of the bench. He felt very old.

  He dozed.

  He dreamed.

  He awoke at the crisp snapping of a branch.

  After he rubbed his eyes, the vagrant saw that it was well past dusk. He listened, completely still. Behind him another branch snapped, closer. Slowly, the man turned his head. He searched the dark trees for odd shapes, unexpected movements. Nothing.

  He decided that they were merely night noises. A deer. Perhaps a fox. Whatever made the noise seemed to have paused when he turned around. He listened a moment longer, stared at the trees a moment longer. Still nothing moved or made a sound.

  The vagrant took his bottle of wine and put it on the grass by the bench. Then he leaned back, head on the armrest, and stared up at the vaulted arch of night sky flecked with stars. The low position of the moon told him the time had yet to reach midnight. Ten-thirty. Maybe eleven.

  He shut his eyes and within minutes fell asleep again.

  * * *

  Along the wood line, a dark figure stepped from the concealment of a tree. On tiptoes, so not to make a sound, he moved away. When he reached a safe distance from there, he stopped and turned back to the park bench, as if to be sure.

  A narrowing of the eyes. A coldness of the heart.

  “Yes,” Herb whispered.

  The vagrant would be job number two.

  21

  Halifax, May 10

  8:30 p.m.

  Allan’s day had not gone well at all.

  His second canvass of the waterfront turned up no witnesses. One particular apartment building overlooking the crime scene left him feeling hopeless.

  103 – “Did you hear of the offence?”

  “Heard about it.”

  “What knowledge of the crime do you have?”

  “Only what I saw on the news last night.”

  “And what was that?”

  “That a man was murdered on the waterfront. Security guard, I think”

  “How was the man murdered?”

  “Shot, wasn’t he? Wait, they didn’t say.”

  114 – “Don’t know nothin’”

  123 – No answer on second visit.

  130 – “Heard it was over drugs.”

  “From whom?”

  “No one. Just heard it.

  “Did you know the victim?”

  “No.”

  “Were you on the crime scene on the morning in question?”

  “No. Why all the questions? I have nothing to hide.”

  137 – No answer on second visit.

  145 – “Never even knew there was a murder down there.”

  “It’s all over the news.”

  “Don’t watch or listen to the news. Too depressing.”

  154 – “Heard about it on the radio. That would explain all the roadblocks. I was nearly late for church.”

  Through his years on the force, Allan learned that many people were reluctant giving information to the police. Either they were afraid for their own safety if they ratted on someone, they didn’t want to make a court appearance, or they simply didn’t want to get involved.

  Nobody out at the bars was talking either.

  Allan had spent the remainder of his day talking to friends and relatives of Brad Hawkins. Listening to their stories, Allan felt the loss of a young man he had never known. But soon he would know every intrinsic part of his life.

  His parents couldn’t be reached. Allan decided to leave them with their grief.

  Now, as he drove home, he felt exhausted and frustrated.

  The night sky was swathed with black clouds. The air was damp, but fresh and fragrant with the smell of spring flowers in bloom.

  When he got home, he went right upstairs, locked his handgun in its case, and crawled into bed.

  He didn’t know how long he had slept when the telephone woke him up. Groggy, he looked over at the clock on the night table. Red numbers glowed in the dark: 12:18. He reached out and snapped on the bedside lamp. Then he picked up the phone.

  “Lieutenant Stanton?” The female voice sounded swollen with emotion.

  It took Allan a moment before he realized who the person was on the other end.

  “Miss Ambré?” He propped himself up on one elbow, suddenly piqued with curiosity.

  “You told me to call you anytime.” There was a brief pause. “I know it’s late. I hope I didn’t wake up your family.”<
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  Somehow, her last phrase struck a deep chord within Allan. Once more, the quiet of the house, the emptiness in the bed brought back that familiar ache of loneliness.

  Closing his eyes, he said softly, “Don’t worry about it. How are you holding up?”

  He heard the soft intake of breath. For another moment, Cathy didn’t respond.

  “Not well at all,” she choked. “I’m having trouble sleeping, trouble eating. I know something bad happened to Trixy. It’s not like her to go off somewhere and not contact me.”

  Allan paused as he imagined Cathy teetering on the edge of emotional collapse. To him, one of the worst tragedies was losing a loved one without ever knowing that person’s fate. The seesaw of hope and grief brought on by such events do terrible things to a person. One moment, mourning the loss. The next, hoping the person will come home safe. Sleep can be haunted by nightmares of the loved one being killed or tortured or held captive in some inhumane way. Endless nights can be spent staring out a window, waiting for that person to finally come home. The ring of a telephone or a knock at the door can start the heart racing. After a time, any news, good or bad, becomes welcome.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said finally. “We’re doing everything we can on our end.”

  “Have you checked to see if her cell phone’s been used?”

  “Your sister’s phone hasn’t been used since her disappearance. They also couldn’t ping it.”

  “So they can’t locate it. How is that possible?”

  “The battery could’ve died. It could be something as simple as that.” Allan expelled a short breath. “Grief is a natural reaction to a case like this, Miss Ambré. I know this is a traumatic time for you. But you need to hang in there. Have some faith.”

  It was strange, he reflected, to tell this woman to keep her hopes alive when his own had already faded.

  Voice piping, Cathy said, “I don’t think I can make it through this.”

  “Yes, you can.” Allan sat up now, back against the headboard. “Maybe you should surround yourself with a support group. Friends or even your family. It’s hard facing this alone.”