Sorrowful Road (Detective Allan Stanton Book 3)

by Alex MacLean

  Sorrowful Road

  by Alex MacLean

  Halifax Homicide Detective Allan 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

  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: 978-0987726322

  Cover Art by Kip Ayers

  Editing and proofing provided by Red Adept Editing

  This novel is dedicated in loving memory of

  Leo Joseph Gould Jr.

  Feb. 6, 1967 – Oct. 1, 2015

  I will always remember you, brother of mine,

  in my heart I will keep you, so I will be fine.

  I will go forward with my head up high,

  it might be hard, I cannot lie.

  But in my heart you will be,

  moving forward, you with me.

  Sorrowful Road

  Not all men seek rest and peace; some are born with the spirit of the storm in their blood, restless harbingers of violence and bloodshed, knowing no other path.

  Robert E. Howard

  1

  Halifax, NS October 17, 2010

  7:32 A.M.

  My earliest childhood memory involves screams and the frantic scrapes of fingernails clawing at wood.

  I stood outside the cedar chest, listening to my twin brother, Joshua, fighting to get out. At seven years old, I never realized his dire situation. He was suffocating inside that dark wooden tomb.

  I remember being captivated by the terror in his voice, growing ever more shrill as the seconds passed. It triggered things in me, changes. I felt a charge of excitement shoot through my body, revving my heart. Euphoria filled my skull, as if my brain had kicked loose a flood of endorphins. It reminded me of the sensations I used to get with our rabbit, Nibbles, and those high-pitched cries he made whenever I’d twist one of his legs a little too hard. He’d sounded just like a human baby.

  Joshua and I had been playing hide-and-seek, but I’d grown bored of the game. When my turn came around, I covered my eyes and counted to ten. Joshua ran off. I heard him running up the steps and then down the hallway upstairs. He had chosen one of the bedrooms this time. Probably a closet or under a bed.

  I didn’t bother looking. Eventually, he would get tired of hiding and come out asking why I hadn’t searched for him.

  Lazy Saturday mornings meant cartoons. He-Man battling Skeletor. Captain Caveman solving mysteries with the Teen Angels. Wile E. Coyote putting together wild contraptions to catch the Road Runner.

  In the living room, I switched on the TV and knelt on the floor close to the screen. I soon forgot all about Joshua until I heard the thumps on the ceiling, the muffled cries for help. I snapped my head around, frowning.

  Our father, I knew, had gone into town. Our mother was in the backyard, tending the garden. Joshua and I were alone in the house.

  I went upstairs and tiptoed down the hallway. The thumps continued. The cries morphed into piercing, frenetic screams.

  I stopped at the doorway to our parents’ bedroom, looking in. Mom’s old hope chest bucked on the hardwood floor as if it had come alive. Joshua had decided it would be a perfect spot to hide in. He’d emptied the blankets and pillows onto the floor and climbed inside. I didn’t know it at the time, but the chest had one of those latches that automatically locked when the lid closed. It opened only by pushing a button on the outside. That I did know. And so did Joshua.

  The chest was a family heirloom our mother kept at the foot of the bed. It looked solid and expensive. Egg-and-dart molding accented the edges. A carving on the front depicted two hunters chasing wild boars through a forest.

  I moved into the room, approaching the chest with slow steps. My young mind couldn’t imagine then what my adult mind can now—the sheer terror Joshua had gone through.

  I touched the button, tracing my finger around its outer edge.

  Still, I never pressed it.

  I listened to Joshua’s body thrashing around inside, his bones making these painful thunks as they impacted the wood. I listened to his screams, his coughs from a throat growing raw. I listened to his breaths turning to ragged gasps.

  Still, I never pressed the button.

  At the corner of my vision, I caught my reflection in the dresser mirror. I looked over to see my lips drawn back over my teeth in an almost-crazy grin.

  “What are you guys doing in here?”

  The grin fell away. I spun around to the doorway. Mom stood there, dressed in soiled gloves and overalls. Her eyes darted from me to the chest in rapid flits.

  “Oh God,” she screamed, breaking into a run. “What did you do?”

  She flung the chest lid open, and Joshua catapulted himself into her arms. He gulped hungrily for air. There were long scratches dug into his face, blood on his fingertips. Welts and bruises covered his arms. Sweat dripped off him in beads.

  “I’m here,” Mom said in a comforting tone. “I’m here, honey.”

  His fists beat on her back as he sobbed into her shoulder. Mom swung angry eyes toward me.

  “Why didn’t you let him out?”

  I opened my mouth but offered no explanation. Why didn’t I let him out? In retrospect, I realize my excitement was too great. I didn’t want to see it end.

  “What is wrong with you?” Mom yelled. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  Holding Joshua to her, she hurried from the room. I found myself looking into the chest, fascinated by the pattern Joshua’s sweat and tears had left behind on the bottom.

  That night, our father removed the latch. We were forbidden from ever going near the chest again.

  The words my mother said that morning stuck with me more than anything else. What was wrong with me? What the hell was wrong with me?

  She often told me about the difficulty she had birthing me. She delivered Joshua with ease. He arrived into the world first, a healthy, vibrant baby boy.

  She told me that with a smile. Always with a smile. Like a proud mother reminiscing.

  I hadn’t fared nearly as well. There’d been complications. Somehow I ended up in a breech position. When the doctors had to resort to a C-section to get me out, th
ey found me dead. No heartbeat. No breath. No sign of life. Just a grotesque shape of muscles and tendons covered by a pale layer of skin.

  She told me that with a frown. Always with a frown. Like a disappointed mother wanting to forget.

  The doctors managed to resuscitate me. I spent several weeks in the NICU, hovering between life and death. Mom never expected me to live.

  At different times in my life, I’ve found myself wondering if she secretly wished I had died. That maybe the family would’ve been better off. I know a lot of people in the years ahead would’ve been.

  Like this woman on the ground below me.

  Minutes ago, I looked into her eyes, wide and rabid with fear, and I saw my distorted reflection swimming there in the tears. The fear has disappeared; an expression of surprise replaces it. Surprise, I suppose, that I actually went through with it.

  I can no longer feel her pulse throbbing through the rope, but I give the ends an extra tug to make sure. The muscles in my forearms burn and quiver. That familiar high rushes through my brain, almost orgasmic. I call it the climax of the kill. I wonder if big-game hunters experience a similar sensation when their arrow or bullet finds its mark and they see the animal expire.

  Staring down at the woman, I try to remember what her face looked like before it became this swollen, purplish mess. It was attractive, I recall. Diamond shaped, with a cute, turned-up nose and chestnut-brown eyes.

  Around me, an earthy, musty smell of decaying leaves drifts in the cool air. A dawn chorus of birds fills the woods—trills, whistles, flute-like sounds. I read somewhere they are caused by the males trying to attract mates or to warn other males to stay away from their turf. Nature has its daily battles, just as we do.

  I uncoil the rope from the woman’s neck. She scratched my face, and it burns. But the scratch doesn’t feel sticky when I remove my glove to touch it. I see no blood on my fingertip, either. I won’t know how bad it is until I get back to the hotel. Hopefully, there won’t be a mark, because I’ll have to explain it to my wife.

  This work is hard and dangerous. Injuries do happen to me occasionally. Some people can have a lot of fight in them. You can never underestimate a person’s strength when they’re in panic mode. I nearly lost an eye in Huntsville last year.

  I put my glove back on and drag the woman’s limp body off the trail before someone comes along. Dead weight feels so heavy and awkward. Reaching into my coat pocket, I bring out a cigar cutter. Through trial and error, I’ve found the cutter to be faster and more efficient than a knife.

  I pick up the woman’s left arm by the wrist and splay her fingers apart. In the coming days, I’ll learn her name in the newspapers. Just as I did with the last one.

  For a moment, I close my eyes, conjuring up her image from the deep well of my memory. Oh yes, there she comes. Gorgeous, curly red hair. Pretty green eyes. I inhale a deep breath, still able to smell that perfume on her freckled skin.

  Strawberries.

  She smells just like strawberries.

  2

  Halifax, October 18

  10:15 A.M.

  Detective Audra Price dreaded this moment. Not because she feared speaking in front of a gymnasium full of junior-high-school students, but because she chose to speak about a subject she’d kept to herself for thirty years.

  Walking up to the podium, she wiped her palms on her pants and cleared her throat. She adjusted the microphone toward her.

  Amplified by the PA system, she heard the tremulous tone in her voice as she asked, “Can everyone hear me okay?”

  Some students in the back rows called out that they could, and Audra flashed a quick smile. She began speaking slowly and carefully, trying to maintain strong eye contact with the audience instead of glancing down too often at her notes.

  “Hard words break no bones,” she said. “While that is true, they can break spirit. They can break dreams. They can lead to low self-esteem, depression, social isolation, and paranoia.

  “Hard words can hurt and leave scars that last a lifetime. I know because it happened to me.

  “It’s difficult to talk about things that bother you. Opening up to your friends, your teachers, your parents. Even though these people can offer you comfort, support, and advice, it’s difficult. I know because it happened to me.

  “But those bothersome things don’t always go away. They can nag and fester over time. Or they can sit inside you for years, dormant like a volcano. Then one day they rise to the surface and come out as gushes of anger and tears. That’s what I experienced when I sat down to prepare this speech. I relived the nightmare all over again. Every poignant detail.

  “What I’m talking to you about today is bullying. And my own experiences with it.” Audra paused a brief moment so the students could reflect on her words.

  Her gaze swept past the faces and settled on her daughter, Daphne, sitting in the front row to the left of the stage. Audra locked eyes with her and gave her a small smile. Daphne responded with a smile of her own and an acknowledgment of empathy and gratitude in the blink of her eyes.

  Tabitha Landes sat beside her. It made Audra happy to see the two had rekindled their friendship over the summer. It also made her happy to see Daphne on the road to a full recovery.

  Four months after her brain injury, few issues remained. Speech therapy had smoothed out much of her stutter. Physical therapy had smoothed out the slight hitch in her step. Even her energy levels were on par with a normal teenager again.

  Daphne didn’t remember the suicide attempt. But a few weeks after being released from the hospital, she began having raw flashbacks of the torment she’d suffered at school. She couldn’t understand what was happening or why. Audra and Daniel hugged her, comforted her, and explained everything.

  Audra then gave Daphne the apology note Margi Tanner had written. Audra explained that Margi’s behavior, while inexcusable, might’ve stemmed from an abusive home life with her alcoholic father. Daphne quietly accepted the apology and tucked the note away in her desk drawer. It seemed to provide her with some closure.

  Still, Audra worried about her.

  She flicked her attention back to the audience.

  “My name is Audra Price,” she said. “I’m a fifteen-year veteran with the Halifax Regional Police. Believe it or not, I was bullied in school.

  “My parents were like nomads. They never stayed in one place for long. We moved around a lot. Every year or two, I went to a new school. This left me frustrated and lonely at times as a child growing up. I had to say good-bye to friends I had just made. It hurt to do that.

  “But each new home brought a new set of friends and a new set of experiences. Some of those experiences were pleasant. Others were downright bad.

  “Imagine being twelve years old and going to a new school for the first time. You don’t know anyone. You try to fit in. You want to fit in. But the other kids shun you. Not one of them wants anything to do with you. You’ve never felt so alone in your life. You keep to yourself.”

  Audra softened her voice. “This happened to me. And it didn’t take long before a group of girls singled me out. They began taunting me. I was ugly. I was stupid. I was a loser.

  “Those hard words hurt me. They bothered me. I used to come home from school and cry in my room. I never wanted to go back there again. My life was a living hell. Then, one day, the girls took it a step further. They beat me up after school.

  “When I came home with a black eye, my mother was furious. I told her I got hit in the face with a ball during Phys Ed. I’m not sure if she believed me or not.”

  Audra paused again, pretending to glance down at her notes. She needed the quick break to recover her professional side, to stomp down the emotion rising up her throat. The gymnasium was utterly silent. A few students were leaning forward in their seats.

  Audra looked over at Daphne and met her glistening eyes. She could see she had rattled something in her, knowing her mother was in pain, knowing they shared a mutual tra
gedy. Audra gave her a reassuring wink.

  She continued. “I dealt with that nightmare for two years before my parents moved again.

  “Needless to say, I was terrified to go to another new school. I worked myself up so much the night before the first day that I never slept and ended up getting sick. But the new school turned out better. The other kids were more receptive. I made some good friends there. Some of whom I still keep in touch with.

  “And how have those two years of being bullied affected me? Even now, thirty years later, it bothers me to talk about it. It never leaves you. That pain. That humiliation. I know what it’s like to feel alone. To be scared. To be targeted.

  “Being bullied hasn’t made me stronger. It’s made me suspicious of people. Cautious.

  “I want to get involved when I see someone getting bullied or being taken advantage of. It’s the underlying reason I became a cop.

  “I cannot stand to watch children being victimized in any way. And in my line of work, I’ve seen it more than anyone should be forced to. Children the same age as many of you here, even younger, with their whole lives ahead of them. Victims of suicide. They chose to end their lives because they couldn’t see beyond the pain caused by their tormentors. Suicide was the only recourse they thought they had.

  “In Canada, suicide is the second-leading cause of death among young people aged ten to twenty-four. Just over five hundred in that age group committed suicide last year. Of those, two hundred thirty were aged ten to nineteen.

  “The suicide rate among ten- to fourteen-year-olds has doubled in the past three decades. Bullying has been linked to this increase.

  “Ten to fourteen years old. Imagine seeing that body. A body from which no laugh or giggle will ever sound again. It could be your brother. Your sister. Your friend. The boy or girl sitting next to you in class.