by Alex MacLean
Table of Contents
STANTON
Table of Contents
GRAVE SITUATION | 1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
ONE KILL AWAY | 1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
Epilogue
SORROWFUL ROAD
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
Epilogue
STANTON
By Alex MacLean
GRAVE SITUATION (Book 1) - Halifax cop Allan Stanton is a troubled homicide detective who has lost everything, including his family and his sense of justice. When he finally decides to leave the force and start over, he's assigned a string of murders that all bear the signs of a serial killer collecting trophies.
As Stanton unravels each grisly crime scene, the mounting evidence points uncomfortably close to him and a case unlike anything he’s ever seen.
One Kill Away (Book 2) - In this sequel to Grave Situation, Detective Allan Stanton has walked away from his job to reconnect with his young son—until a killer starts methodically carving his way through the city's underbelly. His ex-partner needs help, and Stanton reluctantly returns.
The killer is definitely working through a list of victims, and he's leaving cryptic clues at his grisly crime scenes. Are they there to confuse the police? Or is there something more to them? As Stanton unravels this shocking central mystery, he becomes the target of an unexpected enemy—those next on the killer's list.
Sorrowful Road (Book 3) - Detective Stanton has been haunted for the last year by one case he couldn’t close: the brutal murder of a pretty twenty-two-year-old in Point Pleasant Park. On the anniversary of her death, the body of another young woman is found. The MO suggests the same person killed them both, but the long gap between murders is unusual for a serial killer.
Fellow detective Audra Price joins Stanton in the search for this ruthless predator. But neither is prepared to handle such a unique brand of psychopath. Over a decade of unsolved case files turn up a swath of carnage, cut all across Canada with bone-chilling efficiency. The only way to bring justice to the victims is by following the most horrifying trail of their careers—to a monster who knows he’s being hunted.
Table of Contents
GRAVE SITUATION
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52
ONE KILL AWAY
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 Epilogue
SORROWFUL ROAD
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 Epilogue
Copyright © 2016 by Alex MacLean
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
ISBN: 978-0987726339
Cover Art by Kip Ayers
Editing and proofing provided by Red Adept Editing
GRAVE SITUATION
1
The only way to escape the abyss is to look at it, gauge it, sound it out, and descend into it.
Cesare Pavese
HALIFAX, MAY 7
12:23 p.m.
All hope of solving the case seemed gone.
Alone in his office, Detective Allan Stanton slapped the report down on the desk in front of him.
“Goddamn it,” he cursed, shaking his head.
With a slow exhalation, Allan loosened his tie and sat back in his chair. Self-doubt and frustration warred inside him.
So where does this leave me?
He stared at the manila envelope sticking out from under a heap of folders on the corner of the desk. The scene photos were in there, he knew, one glossy indecency after another.
He leaned forward, pulled it out, and reached inside. The photos felt slick beneath his fingertips as he spread them over his desk. He picked one up and scrutinized the photo of the ravaged body for clues.
“What have I overlooked, Mary?” he whispered.
Captured in the gruesome image, Mary Driscow lay supine on the fores
t floor, arms spread out from her sides. Tight curls of strawberry-blond hair surrounded her swollen face. Her emerald eyes were dilated and fixed wide in a look of terror; the whites were reddened by scleral hemorrhages. Her lips were parted, drooping at the corners into a slight frown. A ligature mark encircled her neck, with the two ends crisscrossing just below the chin.
A female jogger found the body near Shore Road in Point Pleasant Park on a crisp October morning seven months ago.
Mary had been raped and murdered.
Allan set the picture down. He felt caught in a crosscurrent of emotions—sadness when he visualized Mary in her final moments, hatred for the murderer who had subjected her to such a horrible death, sorrow for her parents’ irreplaceable loss, and shame at his own inability to close the case.
He pushed back from the desk and walked to the window. The city buzzed with energy—traffic streaming down Gottingen Street and an ethnic mix of pedestrians clumped together at a crosswalk waiting for a walk light. Through the pane of glass came the honk of an impatient driver.
Off to the left a green hill gently rose to the Halifax Citadel, a star-shaped fort that had once been built to fend off invaders.
A knock came at his door.
“Come in.”
Captain Thorne entered. At fifty-one, he was thick framed and mild mannered. His salt-and-pepper hair was cut short, his high forehead split in the middle by a widow’s peak.
Without preface, he said, “Audra told me the lab sent over Gary Strickland’s DNA results.”
Allan went to the desk and lifted the report. “Just got them. Strickland’s not our man.”
Thorne read over the results. As he reached the end, the corners of his mouth pulled down.
“It’s a damn shame,” he said. “You know, the Driscow case isn’t looking very promising.”
Allan knew that all too well. Seven months of work filled his office—stacks of boxes filled with diagrams, supplementary reports, canvass reports, witness statements, suspect files, handwritten notes, lab and autopsy results, as well as aerial photos of Point Pleasant Park. Allan had done all he could as lead investigator. Now there remained only one option—wait and hope a new suspect surfaced.
Thorne set the report on the desk. Then he gave Allan a long, cool appraisal. “How’re you taking this? You okay?”
Allan raised his eyebrows. “I’m pissed off, Captain. Disappointed.”
“Don’t beat yourself up, Al. Not every case can be a dunker.”
Allan folded his arms. “I know. But it doesn’t make me feel any better.”
“You had a homicide with no witnesses. You’ll catch this guy sooner or later.” He gave Allan a light slap to the shoulder. “I have faith in you.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“I am.” Thorne walked for the door and then paused, looking back over his shoulder. “Get some rest. You look tired.”
After the door closed, Allan picked up his phone and slowly stabbed at numbers. He swallowed once, clearing his throat. The dial tone began ringing. One. Two. Three. Allan braced himself for the answering voice.
“Hello,” Joyce Driscow said.
Allan took a seat. “Mrs. Driscow. This is Detective Stanton.”
“Oh yes,” she said promptly, “the detective. It’s been a while since we last spoke. Have you made an arrest?”
Allan winced at the sudden spark of hope in her voice. “Not yet. But I haven’t given up.”
He heard the pain in Joyce’s sigh. He pictured her as he had last seen her, nearly a month after the murder—eyes bruised with sleeplessness, face gaunt and drawn, a woman nearly inarticulate with grief. He wondered how much worse she looked now.
“I thought you might’ve been calling with some information.”
“Unfortunately, no.”
There was silence. “Then why did you call?”
That was a good question. Why had he? Guilt, he supposed. Maybe even a bit of self-recrimination drove him to do it.
He said, “To see how you and Bill were. I think about you often.”
“It’s been tough. Nothing in life prepares you for the death of your child.” Her voice became raspy. “Mary’s birthday was last month. She would’ve been twenty-three.”
“I’m so sorry.” Allan stared at the photos of Mary on his desk. “Has that counselor been a help at all?”
“He has. Thanks for the recommendation.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Some days are better than others,” she added. “It’s hard knowing you’ll never see your child again. In the natural order of life, it’s me who’s supposed to go first.”
The words left a hole in Allan’s heart. He wanted to promise Joyce he’d do everything in his power to find this man, to help bring some small measure of closure to her, but realistically he knew he couldn’t do that. Soon enough a new victim would dominate his priority list. He would be forced to move on from Mary Driscow. Her parents would be with her until the end.
“If there are any new developments, you’ll be the first to know,” he told her. “If, for any reason, you need someone to talk to, please call me anytime. My phone’s always on.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Take care, Mrs. Driscow.”
“Good-bye, Detective.”
Allan put the phone down. For a long time, he just sat there, slumped in his chair. He knew with quiet chagrin there were no further leads to investigate. The case had hit a dead end. Mary Driscow would be relegated to a shelf in the evidence room downstairs, where she would join the other lonely cold cases.
Allan looked at the pile of photos on his desk again. They weren’t going to reveal something he had failed to notice before. No matter how many times he studied them, the same young woman with the same forlorn look gazed back.
One by one, he put the photos back inside the manila envelope. Then he picked up a pen and, after a few corrections, began to draft his report.
2
Acresville, May 8
7:25 p.m.
God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; the courage to change the things I can; and the wisdom to know the difference.
After he opened his eyes, Hoss gazed down at the hunting knife in his calloused hand and struggled to imagine the role it would play in the job ahead. Once completed, he would leave behind all that defined who he had been.
He found it eerie to hold the instrument responsible for changing the course of his life—a specter from his darkest past that now shadowed him with foreboding. Eighteen years ago, some other person—desperate, trapped by circumstance—had used this knife. Once more, he felt, that same person would use it again.
Shirtless in overalls, he sat on the top step of his veranda, forearms resting on his knees. Through the screen door behind him came the sounds of a radio—music, news of a world in turmoil, a promise of more hot weather.
The lower part of the sun seemed to touch the top of the mountain range. Here and there, wisps of cirrus clouds streaked the sky, white brush strokes on blue.
Earlier, the day burned bright and hot, the air so heavy with humidity it wrung sweat from pores. Shimmering waves had risen off pavement, off rooftops. Though many fine residents of the province reveled in the unseasonable heat wave, he preferred the wind and the rain. The kind of weather that made people hurry along with their necks sunk between their upturned collars, the kind of weather when no one would bother to stop to take notice of what other people were doing—the kind of weather that would make his job tonight a lot easier.
Beside him lay a large rectangular block of novaculite mounted to a cedar base. Already wet with mineral oil, the stone’s surface glistened in the waning light. With slow deliberation, he moved the knife’s cutting edge across the stone in a sweeping arc, following the curve of the blade. After ten passes, he flipped the knife over and repeated the procedure on the other side. When he finished, he carefully ran his thumb across the blade, testing its sharpne
ss. A smile of satisfaction formed on his lips.
Perfect.
He fished a handkerchief from his back pocket and cleaned the grit off the blade and stone before putting everything aside.
He rose to his feet and stepped down off the porch onto the grass. The front lawn was deep, not very wide, with a stone walk and a pair of large maple trees. The sprawling farmhouse had fallen into neglect. It cried for a fresh coat of paint, repairs to the roof.
He stared out at Acresville in the distance. From here, the entire town could be seen—a postcard village tucked amidst the Cobequid Mountains. It was a rural community that bred wholesome values, where religion and a person’s name meant something.
His gaze traced a line to where his driveway climbed a slight grade to the open end of a barn next to the house. There were some pigeons inside, feeding on the grain strewn across the concrete floor. In the silence he could hear others cooing from the overhead loft.
He took slow steps to the backyard and stopped at a heavy iron gate hinged on one side to a thick wooden post. He inhaled deeply, savoring the smells of manure, silage, and wood. Beyond the gate lay rolling pastures of green, divided into three sections by barbed-wire fences. The hills cast lengthening shadows, and a steady, silent wind rode over the slopes, gently pushing the grass in currents.
Off to his left, another gate opened to a feedlot next to the barn. A metal trough sat in the middle. Cattle tracks rutted the soil around it.
Staring at them, he swallowed over a lump in his throat. He turned back to the pastures and gazed across the open expanse. For the first time in his memory, the farm seemed depressingly empty.
Dairying hadn’t been his first choice in life. Growing up, his ambitions were simple—leave Acresville and put the place behind him forever. Then one fateful autumn day had changed all that.
He placed both hands on the gate and lowered his head. For a moment, his eyes grew distant with the relived tragedy. The sense of loss was still palpable as he recalled the livestock transporter pulling away with the last of his cattle.
The headline “Local Farmer Fined For Dirty Dairying” still haunted him. In his paranoia, Hoss imagined the local townspeople laughing at him, a target of ridicule, much as he had been as a child.
A slow, sick anger welled up inside him, and his grip tightened on the gate. He raised his chin. He mustn’t dwell on what had happened. To do so would only drive him crazy. It was time for a new beginning—the end of one life, the start of another.
