One Kill Away

by Alex MacLean

  ONE KILL AWAY

  by Alex MacLean

  In this sequel to Grave Situation, Halifax homicide 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.

  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, 53, 54, 55, 56, Epilogue

  Copyright © 2013 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: 978-0987726315

  Cover Art by Kip Ayers

  Edited by Paul Tingley

  Dedications

  For my grandfather,

  Ralph Joseph Gould

  1895-1970

  And my uncle,

  David William Gould

  1948-1969

  We do not remember days; we remember moments.

  Cesare Pavese

  Acknowledgment

  My thanks to Connie Llewellyn for the invaluable medical advice.

  1

  Without a family, man, alone in the world, trembles with the cold.

  Andre Maurois

  Halifax, NS June 8, 2010

  1:48 a.m.

  The dead man had a look of horror frozen in his eyes.

  Seth Connors stared at the body, admiring his handiwork. Joel Black had said, “If a murder can be experienced aesthetically, the murderer can, in turn, be regarded as a kind of artist—a performance artist or anti-artist whose specialty is not creation but destruction.”

  Seth smiled. Yes, he agreed. His creation was definitely a work of art.

  He moved around the body, careful not to step in the rivulet of blood pushing its way across the kitchen floor. He was sweating and trembling from the adrenaline. The muscles of his arms and shoulders quivered like he’d been pumping weights for the last hour.

  A slender man of thirty, he had a shadow of a soul patch under his bottom lip and hair shaved close to his scalp. A thick scar cut a diagonal path across his left cheek, ending at the edge of his nose. He wore a black rain suit and lightweight hiking boots. Black nitrile gloves sheathed his hands.

  With a slow sweep of his head, Seth looked around and swallowed painfully against a dry throat. The kitchen had blood, so much blood, everywhere. Spatters of it flecked the cupboards, refrigerator, walls, and ceiling, as if flung with a wet brush. Empty beer cans lined the counter, and dirty dishes were piled in the sink. Grease stains marred the stovetop, and a cast-iron frying pan with hardened bacon fat inside sat on one burner.

  Seth glanced at the window shuttered with a worn roller shade. Hard rain battered the glass, and for the first time since coming here, he heard the wind moaning through cracks around the frame.

  He approached the kitchen table. On top of it lay a long duffel bag, a Remington 870 shotgun, a roll of duct tape, and an opened package of zip ties. He picked up the shotgun. In his hands, it felt heavy, lethal. Good thing he never had to use it. A shotgun fired inside a home produced a deafening blast, and it would surely alert neighbors.

  Eyes shut, he let his finger graze the trigger. He suddenly became overwhelmed by an urge to jam the barrel into his own mouth and blow his brains out, ending the nightmare once and for all. But there was still work to do.

  With an audible sigh, he pressed on the safety and packed the gun away in the duffel bag. His hand froze on the roll of duct tape when he saw the blood spots on his glove and sleeve.

  Got some pig on me, he thought, wincing with disgust.

  Seth finished packing the rest of the items, zipped up the duffel bag, and then slung the bag over his shoulder. He stopped briefly at the kitchen door and looked over his shoulder at the dead man on the floor. The body made weird twitching movements, as if still alive. That was impossible.

  Seth switched off the light and cracked the door open to peer out at the rear parking lot. The rain swept across his field of vision in slanted sheets. He could see no one around. Only three empty cars by the back fence.

  He pulled the hood over his head and stepped outside, closing the door softly behind him. Off to the right was a short picket fence. Seth ran toward it and leaped up, putting his hands on the top and swinging his legs over in one fluid motion. Landing on the other side, he dropped into a crouch and repositioned the duffel bag on his shoulder. His gaze touched each window, dark and light, of the surrounding buildings. There was no one in the streets. No cars coming. No signs of an urban neighborhood that had just witnessed terror and brutality.

  Seth made his way down an embankment, nearly slipping on the wet grass, and came to the top of a three-foot retaining wall. He jumped off, into a parking lot jammed tight with five cars.

  Moving quickly, he went out to the sidewalk on Morris Street. Slashing rain filled his eyes and streamed from his chin, and he surged forward with his body hunched into it. The wind found its voice in the throats of alleyways. Bits of debris and leaves came alive. A battered paper cup fell off the curb and tumbled across the pavement.

  A car approached, tires hissing on the glassy street. As the headlights glanced off Seth’s raincoat, he pulled the rim of the hood low to shield his eyes, hoping to retain his anonymity.

  The car passed without slowing. Seth heard it stop at the intersection of Morris and Queen, and then continue on into the business district of the city.

  One block away, Seth cut down Birmingham Street. He reached into his coat pocket and clicked the unlock button on his keyless remote. Up ahead, the headlights of his rental car flashed. He briefly squeezed his eyes shut, feeling a sudden rush of relief that nearly caused him to laugh out loud.

  He set the duffel bag on the backseat and then peeled off the gloves. Stuffing them into his coat pockets, he climbed in behind the wheel, pulled his hood back, and wiped the water from his face. His fingers trembled as he put the key into the ignition. The engine sparked to life, and the wipers began slapping at high speed.

  Seth made a U-turn in the street and accelerated into the night. Images became swatches of reality: shimmering streets; deserted sidewalks; a bound man in a chair struggling against his restraints, his screams muffled by a strip of tape across his mouth.

  Seth found himself in a charming suburb with mature trees and modest homes. His house was a standard two-story tucked away behind a deep lawn landscaped with potentillas and rosebushes. As he watched the dark, brooding structure grow larger in the windshield, he felt the familiar pang of loneliness bubble to the surface.

  He steered into the driveway, hit the remote on his key chain, and watched the double-door of the garage begin to rise ahead of him. A light turned on inside, illuminating a large workstation, tools
neatly arranged on a pegboard, two mountain bikes hanging on a wall, and his own car.

  As Seth edged the car in, he realized he’d driven the last stretch of road with both hands tight on the wheel. The luminous numbers in the dash clock read 2:38 a.m.

  Stepping out of the car, he reached into the back and picked up the duffel bag. He left the garage and walked under the breezeway for the kitchen door. The motion lights came on, bathing him in a bright glow.

  Seth fluttered the moisture from his coat and took out a ring of keys that were marked in numerical order—one through three for the back door, four through six for the front door. Three Grade 1 deadbolts lined each entry.

  One by one, he unlocked the deadbolts, and then swung the door open. From inside came an urgent countdown of beeps. Closing the door, he threw the deadbolts into place. He flipped the light switch on and put the soggy bag on the floor. Then he turned to the alarm keypad and punched in his four-digit code, disarming it. The system covered the front and back doors as well as every window in the house.

  He draped his coat from the doorknob and kicked off his boots. Again he entered his code into the keypad. System Arming flashed on the screen. Beeps began ticking down by the second.

  Thirty, twenty-nine, twenty-eight…

  In the cabinet above the refrigerator were two bottles of rum. Seth brought down the deluxe dark. He unscrewed the cap, found a tall glass, and poured himself a generous amount.

  Twenty, nineteen, eighteen…

  He took out a plastic tray from the freezer, twisted two ice cubes free, and dumped them into the rum. He swallowed the liquid in one gulp, grimacing against the burn. Then, gripping the countertop, he shivered as the rum hit his senses.

  The security system gave off a long buzz, then silence. Reflexively, he looked around, heard only the muffled sound of rain outside sheeting against the windows and gurgling through the downspouts.

  Seth picked up the bottle of rum to refill his glass, but then thought better of it. He could already feel the alcohol working through him, the lassitude settling into his limbs, the good feeling swimming in his brain. If only for a short time, it would be enough to help numb the pain.

  He dug a pen and a folded piece of paper out of his pocket. His lip curled upward as he straightened the paper and read the two names scrawled on it.

  “I can’t wait,” he whispered through clenched teeth.

  He slammed the pen and paper on the counter, walked over to the duffel bag, hefted it onto the table, and took out the shotgun. He cracked open the breech an inch to double-check the shell in the ejector port. Satisfied, he slid the fore-end up with a snap.

  Gun in hand, he went into the living room and climbed the staircase to the second floor. Instinctively, he stopped on the top landing and stared down the hallway, at the closed door of his daughter’s bedroom. Hanging from the knob was a small, pink pillow with the words The Princess sleeps here embroidered on it. Beneath the door came the soft glow from a nightlight.

  Lily was afraid of the dark.

  Seth imagined her in bed, her face relaxed in sleep, her mind chasing childhood dreams. All the while, her father was out chasing mayhem.

  Seth swallowed. He walked into the bathroom and shut the door. Leaning the shotgun against the wall, he stripped off his clothes and left them in a heap on the floor. The face he saw in the mirror was haggard, pale, and pasty. It barely resembled the man he’d been seven months ago.

  Absently, he touched the scar across his cheek. All at once his reflection in the mirror vanished, becoming another one that stole his breath: the beloved face of his wife, Camille. She had beautiful, blue eyes; high cheekbones; and curly, blonde hair that hung to her shoulders.

  Seth reached out to her, felt the softness of her skin as he ran his hands over her cheeks, down to her chin. His fingers slid through her hair along her temples, and he smiled when she smiled at him. Then her image began slipping out of focus, blurring, and he realized his eyes were becoming moist.

  He leaned his forehead against the mirror, and the tears fell into the sink. Christ, how he loved her. How his heart ached to have her with him again. A day had not passed since her death that he hadn’t thought of joining her.

  He showered quickly. Then he went into the master bedroom across the hall, where he pulled a T-shirt and lounge pants from a dresser drawer. After he put them on, he retrieved the shotgun and took it downstairs to the living room. He chose a position on the sofa—the same one used every night—from which he could see through the vertical blinds to the front yard as well as through the open doorway into the kitchen.

  With the shotgun across his thighs, he sat there, waiting, watching the rain outside diminish to a lazy drizzle as the wind no longer moved the trees. Tired, he pressed his fingers into the corners of his eyes. He yawned and leaned his head back. Felt sleep wrap itself around him.

  He dozed.

  He dreamed.

  He started awake at the sound of a click.

  Seth bolted upright, his mind groggy and dream-streaked. His finger found the safety on the shotgun and pushed it off. Then he saw it through the slats in the blinds—the car parked in front of the house.

  Heart pounding, he staggered to the window and peeked out. The car looked like one of those pimped-out Hondas—big, chrome rims and a custom-made spoiler on the trunk so big it looked ridiculous. He couldn’t tell if anyone was inside.

  Moving to the keypad by the front door, he disarmed the alarm. Then he fumbled with the three deadbolts. Slowly, he cracked the door open, but when he peered out, the car was gone. Seth stepped onto the wet cement of the front step. He looked toward one end of the street and down the other, with the shotgun gripped tightly in his hands. The car was nowhere to be seen.

  Seth frowned, shaking his head.

  Then a child’s voice came to him from inside the house, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

  “Daddy.”

  He spun around. “Lily?”

  “Daddy.”

  Seth hurried back inside, closed the door, and locked it. He took the stairs two at a time and hit the hallway light, seeing his daughter standing outside her bedroom door. The resemblance between her and Camille was striking. Blonde curls. Lightly freckled skin. Cornflower-blue eyes. She wore pink pajamas with a pattern of ballerina bunnies dancing.

  “What is it, honey?” Seth hid the shotgun around the corner of the wall.

  “The scary man is here.”

  The words crawled through Seth’s flesh, rippling his skin with goose bumps. He walked toward his daughter.

  “There’s no one here,” he said in a soothing voice. “You’re safe, honey.”

  Lily looked frightened. Her lips trembled. Half choking, she whispered, “No, I saw him. Mommy saw him too.”

  Seth stopped dead. “Mommy?”

  “Yes, Daddy. She told me.”

  You see her, too?

  “It was only a dream, honey,” Seth said. “That’s all. A bad dream.”

  Lily held out her arms to him. “Will you stay with me?”

  In that moment, Seth couldn’t imagine loving another person as much as this child. He picked her up and held her tight. Felt the girl’s heart pounding against his chest. Seth carried her into the room and tucked her in bed.

  Lily pulled the comforter to her chin. In the dim light, she looked up at her father with saucer eyes.

  She asked, “Are you going to stay with me?”

  Seth felt a lump in his throat. “I’ll stay as long as you want.”

  “All night?”

  Seth smiled and nodded. “All night.”

  He crawled onto the bed and lay next to her. Lily turned on her side and burrowed closer to him.

  “I love you, Daddy.”

  Seth put his arm around her and kissed the top of her head.

  “I love you, too,” he whispered in her ear. “Don’t worry, honey. Daddy will keep you safe. Always.”

  2

  Toronto
, June 8

  10:00 a.m.

  Allan Stanton waits for her.

  She comes toward him through the graveyard with her head down, a woman dressed in a hooded cloak. A murky fog escorts her, twisting and rolling over the monuments.

  The night sky is dark, the full moon a faint glow behind a thin veil of clouds. Leaves flutter to the ground from half-stripped branches. Somewhere comes the clang of metal against metal. A gate maybe, left unlatched. But there is no wind. Not even a breath or a whisper to move it.

  The woman stops in front of Allan, but he still can’t see her face. The fog begins to move around his legs and he can feel its dampness touch his fingertips.

  “Who are you?” he asks.

  Without lifting her head, the woman holds out her hand to give him something. Allan opens his palm and feels two small objects drop into it. They are round and warm and sticky.

  He licks his lips and stares at two eyeballs in his hand. The irises are the wrong color, he realizes.

  “Blue,” he tells the woman. “They’re supposed to be blue. Not green.”

  The woman raises her head and Allan wants to scream. Scream until his throat is set ablaze and the haunting image before him disappears. He recognizes the gaunt face, the curly black hair, the dark smudges below empty holes where her eyes should be.

  “Why didn’t you help me?” Cathy Ambré asks.

  Allan snapped awake, gripped by fear. It took him a moment to realize he was aboard an airplane somewhere over Quebec or Ontario.

  Stiff-necked, he leaned back in the seat and tried to banish the nightmare from his thoughts. Recapture the building blocks of reason. He could feel moisture on his forehead, the thumping of his heart.

  For the first time in weeks, his dreams hadn’t ended at a loud pop, a brilliant muzzle flash, and a madman glowering down the barrel of his gun at him.