by Alex MacLean
Allan saw the mix of love and worry in her hazel eyes. She could see through him so easily. She always had. Always would, he was sure.
He’d never told her about the broken world he dealt with out there. One filled with sorrow and senseless people driven by senseless motives. It was a subject he had never wanted disrupting the peace of their home. But tonight Allan wanted to talk about it, and he didn’t know why.
“A year ago,” he said, “a young woman was murdered in Point Pleasant Park. I exhausted every avenue I could think of. I just couldn’t solve that case. It bothered me for months. Even when I had other cases to work, that one was always there, lingering at the back of my mind.
“That page I got this morning, it was back to Point Pleasant Park.”
Melissa’s mouth dropped open, and her eyes widened. She picked up the remote, muting the TV.
“That missing woman,” she said.
“She’s connected to that case from a year ago,” Allan told her. “The same man killed them both.”
Melissa touched her throat, briefly looking away.
“Oh my God,” she said.
Allan lowered his chin. “I blame myself.”
“Why?”
“’Cause if I had caught him, I might’ve saved two lives.”
“Two?”
Allan clenched his jaw, trying to hold back a sudden surge of emotion. It took a moment before he trusted his voice to speak.
He said, “I found out tonight the mother of the first victim has died. The husband thinks the death of their daughter caused it. That kind of stress—losing a child to murder—can do that to a person.”
“Those are circumstances you can’t control, Al.”
“I know.”
“Then you can’t blame yourself.”
He knew that too. But his damn brain just wouldn’t cooperate. Sometimes it would race out of control, filling him with irrational worries. Other times it would fill his head with haunting flashbacks—the shooting in Acresville or how he’d nearly died at the hands of Lee Higgins and his gang before Seth Connors saved his life. For two months after that brush with death, any loud bang would send him ducking for cover.
Nighttime brought other problems. Besides the bad dreams, any slightest sound in the house would wake him up and send him checking every room, every door and window. A few times, he’d taken his loaded pistol with him.
Since Melissa and Brian moved back in, Allan had managed to keep the flare-ups under control. He didn’t want them screwing things up; he and Melissa had spent months rekindling their relationship. The fact that she wanted it as much as he did aided her decision to reconcile and eventually move back.
It was a crazy paradox he found himself in. Trying to hide the stress of his job from his family only stressed him out even more.
When Allan looked at Melissa, he caught her searching his face.
“Before you went back to work,” she said, “you told me you didn’t know if you were ready.”
Allan gave her a small nod. It was true. Still, he’d lied to Dr. Galloway so she would consider him fit for duty.
“I remember,” he said.
“How do you feel now?”
Slumping forward, Allan clasped his hands together and stared down at his feet. “I’m not sure.”
Melissa rubbed his back. “I think you are. This is why they put you on stress leave, isn’t it?”
Part of him wanted to run from her touch and caring voice. Run from the whole fucked-up world and hide somewhere dark until these feelings passed. Another part of him wanted to hug Melissa and cry out his soul into her shoulder.
“Yes,” he said and hated himself for telling her a half truth.
“Did you eat today?” she asked.
He had to think about that one. “A few coffees.”
“Any food?”
He shook his head.
“Jesus, Al. You have to eat something. I left a plate in the fridge for you.”
“I saw it. Thanks.”
“I’ll heat it up for you.”
He had no appetite, but he didn’t try to stop her. The next sounds he heard were the opening of the microwave door, the beeping of buttons being pushed.
Shutting his eyes, he scraped a hand over his face and let out a long breath. Then he rose from the sofa and went upstairs.
Brian’s bedroom door was open a foot. Allan poked his head inside.
In the semidarkness, he saw Brian curled on his side, hugging one of the pillows. Buddy—their white-and-cinnamon Chantilly—slept on the comforter at the foot of the bed.
Allan stood there for a few minutes, watching his son sleep. He felt a radiant glow spread through his chest. He was so grateful to have them back in his life.
When he went back downstairs, Melissa had set a plate of ham, peas, and sliced potatoes on the kitchen table.
“Eat,” she said.
“I probably won’t finish it all.”
“Then eat what you can. Save the rest for tomorrow.”
Allan sat down and forked a chunk of ham into his mouth. “This is delicious. I love the pineapple glaze.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m probably going to be gone before you get up in the morning. I’m meeting Audra Price at the office for six. We have a lot of work to do.”
Melissa tilted her head. “She’s working with you?”
Allan speared a potato slice. “The captain teamed us up.”
“I always remembered you working alone.”
“It depends on how busy we are. Things are slow right now. Plus, I could use the help. Two heads are better than one.”
Even as those words spilled from his mouth, Allan knew the real reasons—they were watching him, worrying about him. Thorne. Audra. Probably half the department. He could see it in their eyes, hear it in their voices. And deep down, he realized their concerns had merit.
Killing someone in the line of duty ranked as the number-one stressor in a cop’s career. Allan had killed two men in separate shootings.
Being physically attacked ranked number three. Allan had gone through that as well. Beaten within an inch of his life by Lee Higgins and his thugs.
But Allan knew his troubles had started long before those incidents. The critical period in a cop’s career lay between twelve and eighteen years. Over that time, the buildup of stress effects and tragedies could begin to show its ugly face in the form of PTSD.
Common sense told Allan that was his problem.
Melissa said something.
Allan looked at her. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Audra Price. She the one with the daughter?”
“Yes.”
“How’s the daughter now?”
“A lot better. She’s practically made a full recovery.”
“That’s good.”
“Yes,” he said. “Yes, it is.”
Melissa slid her arms around his neck and kissed him. “Think I’m going to get ready for bed.”
“Okay, sweetheart. I’ll be up in a bit.”
Allan sat there for a while, picking at his plate, eating only a few mouthfuls. When he heard the shower running upstairs, he wrapped the plate in foil and put it in the refrigerator. Then he brought down a bottle of rum from the cabinet overhead.
At the sink, he filled a shot glass and tossed it back, grimacing at the burn. He poured another one, then a third.
The rum warmed his stomach. A pleasant lassitude crept through his limbs. Allan welcomed it. He needed it to soften the edge in his brain.
He tipped the bottle to the glass again, stopping just short of pouring a fourth drink. For a long moment, he stood there with the neck of the bottle resting against the rim of the glass. Then he pushed the bottle aside.
Gripping the edge of the sink, he bowed his head and clenched his eyes. He could feel that need to weep building inside him, inflating like a balloon until his throat and lungs grew sore.
The tears came. Gushes of them.
&n
bsp; They lasted only briefly and were gone.
Allan raised his eyes to his reflection in the window. Through blurred vision he saw other faces there—ghosts of people, both long dead and recent, staring back at him.
15
Burlington, October 21
8:01 A.M.
Clearly, we are not good. Heidi is looking for evidence of an affair.
I figured this would happen sooner or later, even without the help of my brain fart the other night.
My type of job is dangerous to a marriage. The days and weeks away from home can lead people to infidelity. Men, women, it doesn’t matter the sex. Once they get away from their spouses, they act like animals freed from their cages. I used to see it at business trade shows. Adults fawning over each other with a disgusting spring-break attitude. It’s a sign of the sexualized, self-absorbed culture we live in.
That reality no doubt planted the seed of suspicion in Heidi a long time ago. When I accidentally called her by another woman’s name, it only made that seed grow into the ugly mistrust I’m seeing now.
On Monday night, I left my cell phone charging on the kitchen counter. The next morning, I caught Heidi snooping through it. She never noticed me there in the doorway, watching her. I assume she was checking everything for this phantom mistress: emails, call history, text messages.
I thought about confronting her, about asking her why she was intruding on my privacy. Instead, I let it pass and quietly retreated to the bedroom before she spotted me. The girls didn’t need to see us arguing.
I hoped that would’ve put an end to it. Heidi didn’t find anything on my phone, and that would erase her suspicions. Nope, nothing like that. She’s been treating me like an unwelcome guest in the two days since. She avoids me when she can, barely speaks to me when she can’t.
Her cold shoulder pisses me off and fills me with deep resentment. I provide for her and the girls. I put the food on the table. I keep us in our nice home. One slip of the tongue doesn’t justify the kind of disrespect she’s giving me.
This morning, she took it one step further. She did something that just made my blood boil.
I’m a bit of a neat freak. You could say I border on OCD; the quack shrinks out there would say I already have it, full-blown.
My things must be neat and tidy. They must look right.
I hang my shirts by color. I shelve the books in my office alphabetically by author. I line up my shoes in the closet so the toes face out. And when I pile my paperwork into my briefcase, the edges of it must be in precise alignment. Not one sheet out of order. Certainly not the mess I found.
The time is 8:01. My flight leaves at nine. I’m cutting it close. The drive to the Hamilton airport takes roughly twenty-five minutes in light traffic. At this time of morning, the 403 could be congested.
As I rush through the house with my luggage, I notice Heidi in the living room, putting coats on the girls. Their bus will arrive in a few minutes.
I call out to them, “Girls, don’t leave without giving me a hug.”
Jade calls back, “We won’t, Daddy.”
I load my bags in the car and hit the remote to open the garage door. By the time I come back inside, Jade and Jaleesa are waiting at the front door. I chuckle to myself whenever I see Jade wearing her ladybug backpack. It’s nearly as big as she is.
Heidi is not with them. I find that odd because she always sees them off.
I give each girl a big hug.
Jade asks, “When will you be home, Daddy?”
“Monday, I hope.”
“Will you bring us back a present?”
I smile. “I always do, don’t I?”
“Yeah.”
Jaleesa says, “Can you not get us the same thing this time? I like different things than Jade.”
“What if I get something for Jade that you like more than what I get you?”
Jaleesa’s nose and forehead scrunch together, as if she’s unsure of how to answer. I find myself seeing more and more of her mother emerging from her personality every day.
Heidi’s voice sounds in the room, “Your father gets you girls the same things because he doesn’t want any hurt feelings or fighting between you.”
“We don’t fight, Mommy,” Jaleesa says.
“I know. And we want to keep it that way.”
I see the school bus stop in front of the house. The crossing arm swings out from the front.
“Bye, Mommy,” the girls shout as they head out the door. “Bye, Daddy.”
Heidi calls to them, “Have a good day at school.”
“Bye, girls,” I holler after her.
Heidi moves to the front window to watch them. I watch from the doorway as they board the bus. As the side door closes and the bus moves away, I look at my watch: 8:15. I need to hustle.
When I go into the kitchen to retrieve my briefcase from the counter, I pause. One of the latches is popped.
I feel a tingle sweep up the back of my neck and across my face. I pop the other latch and lift the lid of my briefcase to look inside. My paperwork is a mess.
I grind my teeth. Heat flushes through my body.
I close up my briefcase then carry it into the living room. Heidi remains at the window, facing out.
I try to lessen the bitterness in my voice as I say, “Was there something you were looking for?”
Heidi turns, crossing her arms. I indicate my briefcase, but it doesn’t change her calm facial expression.
She says, “You know my father had a mistress for seven years before my mother found out.”
I shake my head. “I don’t have a mistress.”
Heidi ignores me. “It nearly destroyed her. She was hurt, humiliated. Fifteen years of cooking for him, doing his laundry, cleaning the house, and raising the three of us. And he had the gall to call my mother a bitch. To blame the affair on her. Saying she drove him to it.”
I say nothing. I let her get whatever this is off her chest.
“She left him, of course. Like any good woman would. She was thirty-four at the time. My age. Still young enough to find a decent job and continue raising us without him.
“You might’ve noticed he never comes around to see the girls. Never remembers their birthdays or Christmas. That’s fine by me. He did the same to us after Mom left him. He hardly bothered with my brothers or me. Never paid the alimony he was ordered to. He was a selfish man. Only ever thought of himself. I think that’s why I hate him so much.
“I don’t want the girls to feel the same way about you.”
I let out a breath. “There is no mistress, Heidi. I’m not having an affair.”
“That scratch on your face got me thinking,” she says. “It’s not the first time you came home with one. Last year. Remember? The gash by your eye.”
I stare at her. I do remember. Arrowhead Provincial Park, up in Huntsville. His name was Yi Chen, a smallish Chinese man. He put up one hell of a fight. Nearly knocked us both into the water.
Heidi adds, “You said you broke up a scuffle between some guy and his girlfriend one night at a bar.”
I nod. “I did. At Moose Delaney’s.”
Heidi narrows her eyes. I can tell she’s searching her memory for the name of the bar I told her back then. Just toss some truthful details into a lie, and you won’t need a good memory.
Moose Delaney’s was a short five-minute walk from the inn where I stayed. The waitress told me they had the best wings in town. I must admit they were pretty tasty.
Heidi says, “You’ve come home different times with bruises. On your arms. Your legs. Your back. I never thought much about them at the time.”
“Hiking injuries,” I tell her. “They’re common. Sometimes I hit tree branches. Slip on loose rocks. Trip over a tree root I didn’t see. It doesn’t happen often, but it does happen.”
Heidi gives me a silent look.
“What do you think is going on?” I ask.
She smirks. “Sure it isn’t rough sex?”
“Oh, Jesus Christ. Are you serious?”
“I don’t know.”
I glance at my watch again and wince. 8:26.
“I’m going to miss my flight,” I say, walking for the front door. “I can’t listen to this right now.”
“Better go.”
“I’ll call the girls tonight. We’ll talk then, if you want.”
I back the car out of the garage and hit the remote to close the door. As I pull into the street, I look over at the house. Heidi no longer stands at the front window.
I punch the gas and speed off, strangling the steering wheel with my grip. The drive to the airport is shadowed by Heidi’s accusations.
This problem lies with her, and her alone. I don’t care what her father did in the past, if it led to this jealousy over imagined infidelities. She can’t have any confidence in herself or our marriage to act like this.
Maybe my absence will clear things up with her. It better. I will not live under tension in my own home.
And I can’t risk her finding these journals.
Ever.
16
Halifax, October 21
9:13 A.M.
“Describe him,” Allan said.
Liam Clattenburg’s fingers drummed on the tabletop. He was a balding man with a small frame and gaunt face. A tattoo on his outer forearm read, “I just felt like running.”
He’d come into the department claiming he might’ve seen the suspect at Point Pleasant Park the morning Kate Saint-Pierre had been murdered.
The first thing Allan did as he and Audra led the man into the interview room was to note the absence of injuries on his exposed skin. No scratches on his face, neck, hands, or forearms to indicate self-defense wounds.
“The guy’s about six feet,” Liam said. “Give or take an inch. My chin came to his shoulders.”
Audra asked, “How tall are you?”
“Five-seven.”
“Estimate his weight,” Allan said.
“One-eightyish. Definitely an ecto-mesomorph.”
“Meaning what, exactly?”
“Well, I’m an ectomorph. He’s bigger than me. But not what I’d call a full mesomorph. Sort of in between. Follow me?”
