by Alex MacLean
David walked over to him. “What is it, Lieutenant?”
Allan ran a hand over his chin. “I need to go back to Halifax.”
“Is there something I should know?”
“I can’t say at this point.” Allan swallowed. “Fingerprint the hands on the arms in that cooler to see if you can establish identity. Find out who Stephen Eagles is and his history. Also, check with all the cell phone carriers in the province to see if he has an account with any of them. We need to find out the names of this man’s associates.”
“We’ll get right on it.”
“Thank you, Chief.” Allan held up the notebook. “Can I take this with me?”
David nodded. “By all means.”
“I’ll get back to you when I have more information.”
Allan hurried to his car. He took out his cell phone before he left and called Captain Thorne.
“Can you have someone check on Cathy Ambré’s gravesite at Dartmouth Memorial Gardens?” Allan inquired. “I need to know if it has been tampered with. And if not, could you post someone nearby to keep an eye on things?”
There was a long pause on the line. “What’s going on up there, Al?”
Allan told Thorne everything—the murder of Stephen Eagles, the items in his trunk and most conspicuously, the notebook.
“I need to search Eagles’ residence,” Allan said. “Can you pull a Form five for me?”
“I’ll do one better,” Thorne replied. “I’ll get the search warrant for you.”
“Thank you, Captain.”
Allan hung up and started the car. For a moment, he stared through the windshield at the scene ahead—David talking to Sam; Fitzgerald pulling a gurney from the back of his van; James taking pictures of the items in the trunk of the Civic; the forestry workers sitting in their truck, as if waiting for the okay to leave.
Thoughtful, Allan inhaled a deep breath. He found something very unsettling about this case. If Eagles was the man behind it all, then who killed him? Someone trying to frame him? Someone else who might be involved and was trying to cover his or her tracks?
Allan felt a growing uneasiness about where this could be heading. Was there something much bigger at work? Something much more disturbing?
Allan stepped on the gas and raced for Halifax.
45
Acresville, May 23
7:27 p.m.
Herb sat amidst the wreckage of his life and wondered how he could go on. He had neither eaten nor slept in what felt like forever. His mouth was parched, his stomach raw. On the kitchen table before him was a half-emptied bottle of whiskey. Next to that lay a revolver with five bullets and one empty casing neatly lined up beside the barrel.
There was nothing left to live for. He had no friends, no family and no future. Consciousness was a misery that not even alcohol could relieve anymore.
Only, he thought, the gun in front of him could do that now.
Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.
Tears surfaced in Herb’s eyes. It was all a lie, every bit of it. Thirty-six years on this earth had taught him that.
His hand trembled as he reached for the revolver and pressed it to the side of his head. With slow deliberation he wrapped his finger around the trigger and squeezed.
Click.
It would be that easy.
Click.
One quick pull would end a lifetime of suffering.
Click.
Then why was he so afraid?
Herb took the revolver from against the side of his head, opened the cylinder, and fed the five bullets into it. Then he closed it with a sharp snap and laid the gun on the table.
He rose and walked slowly to the window. Dusk was settling over the countryside. On the far side of the mountains, the sky glowed with gradient colors.
Herb’s gaze wandered the empty fields of his farm and settled on an area where the north pasture met a belt of trees and shrubbery. It was rank with overgrowth. On a gentle slope a lone crab apple tree stood. Years ago its branches had flourished with fruit, now they were bare and gnarled.
As Herb stared at the tree he felt a cold chill that bristled the hairs on the back of his neck. A sudden memory, unbidden and unwanted, flashed before his eyes.
He leaned heavily on the handle of a shovel, peering down into an open grave at the foot of the tree. Autumn leaves swirled around his feet and a crisp October breeze chilled the sweat on his skin.
For the past two hours he had dug the grave to a depth of three and a half feet. Not the standard measurement, but one that would serve its purpose.
He mopped his forehead with the sleeve of his plaid shirt and turned around. A huge gunnysack lay sprawled next to the mound of earth he had shoveled from the hole. It had taken him every ounce of strength to carry the sack up here. At times he had to stop to catch his breath, as the contents inside were heavy and awkward. During the last few legs of his trip, he was forced to drag it.
He threw down the shovel and walked over to the sack, looking at the bulges within. Here and there red blotches stained the coarse fabric. He reached down and, with a grunt of effort, hauled the sack over the edge of the grave. As it landed inside with a heavy thump, part of a seam tore open and a human arm, limp and bloody, fell out.
He stared at it in silence. He wondered if he should push the arm back inside the sack.
Let the bugs take care of it, he decided.
He bent over and picked up the shovel, then paused a moment to stare up at the crab apple tree, its naked branches like jagged cracks in the dreary sky. Darkness was fast approaching and he had to finish while he could still see.
He began shoveling soil into the grave. Soon the top of the sack was covered; only the curled fingers of the hand could be seen. After a few more shovelfuls, even those disappeared.
Half an hour passed quickly. When he finished, his face was streaked with dirt and his body trembled with nerves and exhaustion. The day seemed surreal, a bad dream. He felt that he should be happy or relieved in some way—he was at last free of the fear and abuse. Still his heart ached with a deep sorrow and regret.
Tomorrow he would have to come up with a story and stick to it—his father, overwhelmed by his wife’s passing and the pressures of running a failing dairy farm, just up and left. People should believe him. After all, he was a good boy who had never been in any trouble before.
Herb shut his eyes. He ran a hand over the coarse stubble on his jaw and realized that he was still trembling.
The sudden ring of the telephone startled him. He swung around. The clock on the wall said 7:45 pm. No one should be calling here.
With slow steps, Herb approached the living room. On the fourth ring, the answering machine cut in. He waited for a message, but whoever it was didn’t leave one.
Seconds later, the phone rang again. He caught it on the second ring.
“Herbie?”
Herb paused. At first, he didn’t recognize the voice. It sounded familiar, but older and rougher somehow, one that he hadn’t heard in many years. Only the pain and urgency in it was unmistakable.
“Missus Eagles?”
“Yes, it is. I’m calling to tell you about Stephen.”
Herb became very still.
They found him.
“What is it?”
There was silence. Then, quite softly, she said, “The police were just here. Stephen’s dead.”
Herb steeled himself against his own emotions, tried valiantly to keep his own tone from quavering.
“How?” he asked. “When did this happen?”
She sniffled. “Sometime today. They told me Stephen was murdered, but wouldn’t say how.”
“Murdered?” Despite his best efforts to sound astonished, his voice came out flat to him.
“Yes. The police were asking all these questions. I thought Stephen was staying out of trouble since he got out of prison.”
“Did the police tell you that he was involved in something?”
“No, but they alluded to it. You and him were always good friends, did he ever tell you about any enemies he might’ve had?”
Herb felt his stomach knot.
Only me.
All at once, he was hit by a wave of shame, guilt and anguish. He knew that he would never be able to face this woman or her husband again; a couple who had once treated him like a second son.
“No, Missus Eagles,” he answered finally. “He didn’t.”
“If you think of anything, could you tell the police?”
Something caught his eye—a wash of lights over his front windows. Someone was here.
“Herbie?”
“Can you hold on for a second?” Herb set the phone down without waiting for the reply.
Heart pounding, he crossed the room to the windows and peeled the curtain back an inch with his finger. He first saw the white sedan and then the roof light bar of an Acresville Police car.
Herb’s breath caught in his throat.
The headlights dimmed. The engine silenced. Both front doors opened in sync.
Paralyzed with fear, Herb watched an older, stout man with a graying beard emerge from the passenger’s side. Out of the driver’s side came a youngish cop with a slim build and dark hair.
Shit.
Herb rushed back to the phone. “I’m sorry, Missus Eagles, but the police are here.”
“I thought they might visit you,” she said. “They asked me for the names of his friends. You’re the only one I could think of.”
Herb wished she hadn’t said anything. “If I can help in any way, don’t hesitate to call me.”
“I thank you, Herbie.”
Herb put down the phone. He heard the cops on the front steps and then came a knock at the door.
Get a grip on yourself.
He hurried to the kitchen and took the revolver from the table, tucked it into the back of his pants and pulled his shirt down over the gun to conceal it. The empty casing went into his front pocket. He left the bottle of whiskey on the table.
More knocking.
Herb released a shaky breath. He was sober enough to answer, but before he did, he must compose himself. He splashed cold water on his face at the sink and dried with a dishtowel. Then he walked into the living room, switched on the light against the impending dark, and went to the door.
The older cop stepped forward, holding out his hand. “I’m Chief David Brantford with the Acresville Police,” he said graciously. “I’m looking for Mister Herb Matteau.”
Herb accepted the hand with a firm grip. “That would be me. How can I help you?”
“Do you know Stephen Victor Eagles?”
Herb paused, forcing himself to look at David. “I do. It’s tragic what happened to him.”
David tilted his head. “You heard already?”
“His mother just called me.”
“I’d like to ask you a few questions. May I come in?”
Grudgingly, Herb stepped aside. He watched David walk into the middle of the living room, take a seat on the chesterfield, and motion the young cop to wait by the door.
“This won’t take long, Sam,” David told him.
As he reached into a shirt pocket and produced a notebook and pen, Herb sat down on the chair across from him.
“Okay,” David began, “how long have you known Stephen?”
“Twenty-eight years or so.”
David raised his eyebrows. “That’s a long time. You were close friends?”
“Closer when we were kids than as adults.”
“Why is that?”
Herb paused to choose his words. “Our interests became different. He was always in trouble during his teenage years and my mother was after me all the time to stay away from him. Then he left Acresville when he was nineteen and spent most of the years since in and out of prison.”
“Did he have a violent side to him?”
“None that I saw.”
“There were never any conflicts between the two of you?”
Herb felt himself swallow.
Jaw clenched, Slick took one step backward, then another. As he withdrew his hand from the pocket, Herb froze at the sight of a black pistol.
“What are you doing, man?” Despite his best efforts, he detected the tremor in his own voice. “You going to shoot me now?”
Eyes moist, Slick raised the gun. “Yes.”
“No,” Herb answered at last, trying to keep a deadpan expression on his face. “There were never any conflicts.”
David scribbled in his notebook. “When was the last time you heard from him?”
Reflexively, Herb’s gaze wandered in the direction of the answering machine. He had forgotten to erase Slick’s message from earlier.
How much do they know? Anything?
He couldn’t take the risk of lying.
“He called me this morning,” Herb told him.
David looked up. “Really? Tell me about the conversation.”
“It was short. Stephen told me that he had some business to take care of in town and that he might stop by later in the day.”
“What was his demeanor?”
“He sounded normal enough. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
David seemed to consider this.
“Did he tell you what this business was about?” he asked.
“No.”
“Did it seem odd to you that he never came by?”
Herb gave a listless shrug. “Not really.”
David frowned. “He’s done this before? Just never showed up after saying he would?”
“All the time.”
David stared at Herb with probing eyes, as if appraising him.
The last person to hear from a dead man. Am I now a suspect?
Herb became mindful of the hard bulge at the small of his back. He could do it—pull out the revolver and shoot both cops dead before they even knew what hit them. Make that one final statement to this fucked-up world.
David pocketed the notebook and pen. Then he leaned forward and briefly tapped a finger to his pursed lips.
“When Stephen’s parents gave me your name,” he said, “I thought it was vaguely familiar. Then, as we drove up to your farm, I remembered a story that I read in the Gazette. You had an environmental issue here, didn’t you?”
Herb breathed in. “I had an effluent pond overflow and pollute the Elm River. Killed a bunch of fish.”
“Some heavy fines were levied against you, weren’t they?”
A slow, sick anger began to well inside Herb. “Yes.”
David hesitated a moment. He stood up and spread his hands. “Accidents happen, son.”
Herb stared him in the face.
Fucking government doesn’t look at it that way.
He watched David prepare to leave and was grateful for it.
“I won’t take up anymore of your time, Mister Matteau.” David said.
Herb saw him to the door. “Thank you for stopping by.”
He watched the two cops head back to their car and get inside. The headlights came on. The engine started. Then the car drove away.
Obsessively, Herb wondered if the cops were even close to him. He had no criminal record; if they didn’t know that, Herb was sure they soon would. The only thing that stood between him and arrest was the potential evidence Slick had left behind.
He prayed his old friend had been careful.
* * *
In the side mirror of the car, David watched Herb close the front door of his farmhouse. As he and Sam pulled onto the main road back to town, David plucked the mike from the radio and called into dispatch.
“Copy, Andrew.”
“Go ahead, Chief.”
“Run a background on Herbert Matteau of Acresville. M-a-t-t-e-a-u. I want to know everything I can about him.”
46
Halifax, May 23
9:13 p.m.
Allan didn’t know what carnage lay inside the apartment Stephen Eagles had rented, but t
he thought of encountering a macabre collection of human parts rippled his skin with a strange frisson.
At the rear of the van, Allan along with Jim Lucas and Harvey Doucette, prepared for a potential biological hazard. They put on Tyvek coveralls with attached hood and booties over their street clothes and slipped their hands into latex gloves. Jim handed out anti-putrefaction masks, but no one put them on just yet.
The evening was cool and breezy; under a crescent moon the sky glimmered with a light spattering of stars.
Allan inhaled a deep breath as he looked over the three-story brick building they were about to enter. Most tenants, he saw, were still up. There were only a few darkened windows.
“Since we don’t know what’s in there,” he said, “we’ll treat this like any other crime scene. We have only one chance to do it right.”
Jim checked his high-resolution digital camera. “Understood, Lieutenant.”
Harvey gave a nod and picked up two cases containing different field kits.
“Are we ready?” Allan asked.
In unison, Jim and Harvey said, “Yes.”
“Then let’s do it.”
The three ghost-like figures crossed the parking lot toward the apartment building, their coveralls rustling with each movement. Jim stopped briefly to photograph the front entrance and then he followed Allan and Harvey into a small foyer. Mailboxes covered the right wall; political flyers littered the floor beneath them. Beyond a locked glass door, one set of stairs went down, another went up.
The landlord who let them in was a chubby man with a round face, close-set eyes and a smooth chin. After a brief exchange of handshakes and introductions, the man led them to the right apartment. Their footsteps echoed throughout the stairwell as they climbed to the second floor.
Allan instructed the landlord to stand off to the side, while Jim and Harvey took up positions on either side of the door. He knocked, three hard raps that were loud in the quiet corridor. By reflex he unzipped the front of his coveralls and gripped his service pistol.
