by Alex MacLean
“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 movie 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.”
“Sorry I missed you. I didn’t get home until late.”
“Were you working? Catching the bad guys?”
Allan wished he could see his son’s face. “Trying to,” he said. “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.” Brian’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. “Sounds nice, son.”
“I wish you was up here with us.”
Pausing a moment, Allan’s gaze touched the silver-framed picture on the mantel of the fireplace, and he felt a dull pang of sadness. Children, in all their innocence, could not fully understand the sometimes-complicated world of adults.
“I wish that too, son,” Allan said. “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 at the phone for a moment. Then 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.
Johnny appeared on the country road like a mirage, his image warped by the shimmer of heat waves rising off the asphalt. He felt drugged with fatigue. His unlaced boots, gray with road dust, scuffed the pavement.
Johnny’s face 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.
His crinkled gray eyes moved from the tufts of grass by the roadside to the drainage ditches. He spent most of his daylight hours panhandling at the local park or searching through Dumpsters and alongside roadways for glass bottles or cans that he could cash in at the recycling depot.
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 Johnny wandered this far out of town. He knew these ditches could be treasure troves of empty beer bottles and cans.
Stopping, he 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.
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, not crushed or dented.
Hands out for balance, Johnny climbed back to the roadside and dumped the can into the bag. A car drove past with a quick press of its horn. Johnny lifted an arm in a wave without looking at it.
People were friendly in Acresville. 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.
Johnny 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.
Johnny 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. He 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. The sudden pain, extreme at times, seemed to occur suspiciously after he drank alcohol.
After the pain subsided to a dull ache, Johnny 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. He wondered if he would 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.
Johnny 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 w
orked on these country roads. He had tried to hitch a ride many times before, but no one ever stopped. They’d toot. Give him a wave. Never offer a lift.
He felt a gust of air sweep over him as the pickup 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 pickup began backing up.
Wheels crunched on the gravel shoulder as the pickup pulled off the road directly across from him. 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.
He asked, “You okay, friend?”
“Just a little tired,” Johnny said. “This heat’s a bitch.”
When he got to his feet, his head felt dizzy. He hoped he wouldn’t get sick again. Facing the stranger, he found himself squinting at the sunlight.
“Too hot for everyone,” the stranger said. “Supposed to cool down in a day or so.”
Kneeling, the stranger began picking up the cans. Johnny shuffled closer.
“You a farmer?” he asked.
The man paused, half turned to him. Something like hurt surfaced in his eyes.
“Was,” he said. “Until the government forced me into bankruptcy.”
Johnny nodded. He’d read about that.
“Sorry,” he said.
“Yeah, it is what it is.” The stranger carried an armful of cans to the bag and dumped them inside. “Can’t do anything about it, right?”
Johnny said, “I saw it in the paper. Don’t remember your name.”
The stranger offered his hand. “Hoss.”
Johnny frowned. That name didn’t sound right.
“I’m—”
“Johnny,” Hoss said, releasing his hand. “You’re a bit of a celebrity around these parts. People love you.”
Johnny smiled. “Love me? Or love talking about me?”
“You know small towns, my friend,” Hoss said. “Is there anything I can do for ya?”
“You can give a poor man a lift back to town.”
Hoss gave him a big smile and waved a hand toward his truck.
“Hop in.”
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.
“Detective Stanton?” The female voice on the other end sounded swollen with emotion.
It took Allan a moment before he realized who the person was.
“Miss Ambré?” He propped himself up on one elbow, his curiosity suddenly piqued.
“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.”
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, “Don’t worry about it. How are you holding up?”
He heard the soft intake of breath.
“Not well at all,” Cathy 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.
Allan said, “We’re doing everything we can to find her.”
“Have you checked to see if her cell phone’s been used?”
“It 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. “Maybe you should surround yourself with a support group. Friends or even your family. It’s hard facing this alone.”
Another pause. “It seems I’ve always been alone. Sorry to have bothered you.”
Allan heard the dispirited undertone in Cathy’s voice, followed by muffled crying. Before he could reply, the connection suddenly broke with a click. The dead air became a dial tone in his ear.
It was a moment before he replaced the handset.
He shut out the light and rolled over on his side, gazing around the dark room. A breeze drifted through the open window, stirring the curtains. The cooln
ess of it reached his face. The streetlights outside brought life to the branches of the elm tree on the front lawn, and the shadows they cast on the floor were long and fingerlike. Except for the soft patter of rain on the window, the bedroom was quiet.
Allan drew a deep breath and released it slowly, closed his eyes and opened them again. He turned over onto his back, his mind echoing Cathy Ambré’s desperate words.
“I don’t think I can make it through this.”
Allan shut his eyes again.
He told himself he couldn’t get involved. Despite that, he rose off the bed. Head down, hands on his hips, he paused at the closet door.
“It seems I’ve always been alone.”
Allan opened the door and pulled out a shirt and a pair of pants. After he dressed, he went downstairs. Then, deserting all of his better judgment, he grabbed his keys from the kitchen counter and walked out the door.
The rain had diminished to a fine mist. As he walked to his car, the squeak of his footsteps on the wet pavement seemed unusually loud.
The drive to Cathy Ambré’s apartment filled Allan with indecision. He just didn’t feel right about going there. What would he say? How could he justify showing up at a stranger’s home at such a late hour? Why was he really going in the first place? Genuine concern about Cathy’s well being? Or perhaps the ruse of a lonely man wanting to fill a void in his own life?
As he reached the apartment building, he considered turning his car around. Few tenants were still up. Only two windows flickered with light. Neither belonged to Cathy.
Slowly, he stepped from his car and went inside the building. Beyond the door by the stairwell came the hollow voices from a television. Allan imagined a couple cuddled on the sofa watching a late-night movie.
He went upstairs and knocked softly on Cathy’s door. Waited. No answer. He leaned his ear to the door, heard nothing stir inside. Perhaps she had taken his advice and gone to a friend’s house. It seemed too soon after their conversation for her to be in bed asleep.
He knocked again. Still no answer.
In a hushed voice, he called out, “Miss Ambré, it’s Detective Stanton. If you’re in there, will you open up, please?”
