One Kill Away

by Alex MacLean

  “Are you guys going to pull your van up to the door?” Audra asked. “We have an audience outside.”

  Coulter glanced at her. “Oh, yes. We’ll put up screens along the sides too.”

  “When will you do the autopsy?”

  “As soon as we get back. I have nothing on tap this afternoon.”

  Audra felt her cell phone vibrate. She read the display, saw her home number flashing. Excusing herself, she slipped into the living room out of earshot.

  “Hi, honey,” she answered. “You made it home.”

  “Yes,” Daphne said.

  “There’s some left-over stew in the fridge. Heat it up for you and your father for supper.”

  “Okay, Mom.”

  “I’ll be home later tonight.”

  “What time?”

  “I don’t know. It’ll be late. I’ll try to get home before you go to bed. We need to talk.”

  Daphne paused. “Okay.”

  “Love you. Bye.”

  Audra shut off the phone. Back in the kitchen, she noticed Coulter and Eric examining Dory’s head and neck wounds, discussing details with each other in hushed tones. Harvey was working on the counter top, applying black powder to contrast against the white Formica. Jim was processing the eight beer cans.

  There wasn’t much else for Audra to do at the scene. She shed her respirator, gloves, and booties, and left them for Jim and Harvey by the back door.

  She started off to canvass the neighborhood, banging on doors, hoping someone had witnessed something and weren’t afraid to volunteer information.

  4

  Toronto, June 8

  11:25 a.m.

  The cabby knew where he was going, gliding east on the 409 from the airport. Allan sat in the backseat, watching billboards, road signs, and other vehicles whip past. Classical music, low and relaxing, drifted from the speakers behind his head. The taxi itself was clean, but the carpet and fabric seats gave off an odor of stale cigarettes. He could already feel his nose begin to itch.

  “First time in TO?” the cabby asked.

  Allan looked over, met his eyes in the rearview mirror.

  “Second,” he said, and winced at the memory of he and Melissa driving through Toronto eight years ago on their way to Niagara Falls for their honeymoon.

  The cabby bobbed his head several times. He was a slight man with wheatish skin and a South Asian cast to his face, yet he spoke without a trace of an accent.

  “Where you from, buddy?” he asked.

  “Halifax.”

  “Here on business?”

  “No. I came up to see my son.”

  “How old is he?”

  “He’ll be seven on Thursday.”

  The cabby took a hand off the wheel and wagged a finger. “Ahh, you’re here to surprise him?”

  Allan smiled. “He knows I’m coming.”

  “Okay. Long time since you saw him?”

  “Nine months.”

  The cabby skipped into the left lane, shot past a tractor-trailer, then pulled over in front of it.

  “You must be excited,” he said, flicking another glance to the mirror.

  Allan nodded. “I am.”

  “And your son too, I bet.”

  “I hope so.” Allan chuckled softly. “What about you? Any kids?”

  The cabby held up two fingers. “Two sons. Maruf is fourteen. Shahin is eleven.”

  “Cool. Have you always lived in Toronto?”

  “Been here thirty-eight years. I came over with my mother and brother in seventy-one when the war with Pakistan broke out.”

  Allan thought a moment, didn’t know offhand what war he was talking about. “I think I need to brush up on my history.”

  “Bangladesh,” the cabby said.

  “Okay, yes. Now I remember.”

  “Much hardship then. Still is.”

  “You must’ve been young. I mean, you don’t look that old.”

  “I was five. My father…he martyred himself for our independence. Two of my mother’s sisters were killed. Bad, bad times.”

  Allan frowned, shook his head. “War is hard on everyone.”

  “Sometimes war is necessary. Most times, not.”

  Allan nodded and left it at that. He looked at the digital display on the meter and raised his eyebrows at the price. Already $34 and they were maybe five minutes out of the airport.

  Through the windshield, he could see the flourish of high-rises against Toronto’s blue skyline. A huge LED sign over top of the roadway pointed out the exit for Weston Rd./Black Creek Dr. Just past it, the road swung up to the left, then to the right and it came down on the other side to merge with the 401—a bustling and confusing quartet of expressways and collector lanes all divided by cement barriers.

  The cabby made a shoulder check and shifted over a lane.

  “How long are you here for?” he asked.

  “Not sure. I booked a room for a week. Work kept me from coming up sooner. I had wanted to take my son to see the Blue Jays. They just came off a three-game homestand against the Yankees. One of those games would’ve been nice to go see.”

  “They went two for one against the Yankees.”

  Allan nodded. “Yeah, I heard. Now they’re on the road for the next ten days. Won’t be back until the eighteenth.”

  “Your son is a big Jays fan, huh?”

  “More a big Leafs’ fan than anything. I thought it would be something nice to take him to.”

  “Leafs?” The cabby snorted, rocked his head back and forth. “Bad, so bad.”

  Allan laughed. “Yep.”

  “There’s a lot to see in T-O.”

  “I have a couple of things on my agenda. The Hockey Hall of Fame. The Toronto Zoo.”

  “The zoo, yes.” The cabby held a thumb of approval. “Been there a couple times with the family. Big place. Monkeys, big cats, rhinos. You name it.”

  “Is it far from my hotel?”

  “Twenty minute drive. Thirty, if traffic is bad.”

  Allan considered that. He wondered if he should rent a car, if he should even try to tackle the busy roadways of Toronto, which made the ones in Halifax seem tame by comparison. He had chosen a hotel close to Brian’s street address. At least on a map, it looked to be a walking distance away.

  Up ahead, another sign announced Dufferin Street at two kilometers out, his destination. Soon the trees and fencing alongside the road gave way to flat rooftops and a cluster of billboards.

  The taxi’s radio suddenly crackled to life with a voice like sandpaper. “Six-forty. Where are you?”

  The cabby keyed the mike. “Nearing Yorkdale.”

  “I need you at Thirty-seven hundred Lawrence Avenue.”

  “Roger. Fifteen minutes.”

  “Thanks, Antu.”

  The cabby followed the green sign for the Dufferin Street South exit. The Holiday Inn was right at the bottom of the off ramp. He pulled up to the front doors beneath the carport and shifted to park.

  “Fifty-five, please.”

  Allan drew himself up in the seat and dug out his wallet from a back pocket, rifled through some bills. He handed the cabby $65.

  As he felt the bills being slipped from his fingers, he asked, “Are you familiar with Anthony Road?”

  The cabby paused a moment, the money held up in his hand. “Yes, I know Anthony.” He pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “Two blocks on the other side of the overpasses. There’s a Mini Mart on the corner. Can’t miss it.”

  “How far is it?”

  “One kilometer. You need to go there now?”

  “No, no.” Allan checked his watch, 11:37. Brian was in school until 2:30 p.m. “I was just wondering if it would be easier to walk?”

  The cabby shrugged. “Not far. Same amount of time by foot as by car.”

  “Great,” Allan said. “Thanks for the drive.”

  “Enjoy your stay in T-O.”

  As Allan stepped out of the taxi, the cabby pressed the trunk release. Allan took o
ut his bags, hoisting the smaller one over his shoulder and setting the wheeled suitcase on the pavement. He closed the trunk and tapped the lid twice, lifted his hand in a wave to the cabby’s eyes in the rearview mirror.

  He checked himself into the hotel, rode an elevator to the top floor. His first impression of his suite was one of surprise. It was large and bright and looked down on the huge Yorkdale Mall across the street. And best of all, the air was clean and fresh; none of that starch and old shoe smell he’d found in other hotel rooms before.

  He placed his smaller bag on the king-size bed and the wheeled suitcase by the dresser. Then he stepped out onto the small balcony, leaving the sliding glass door open behind him. His eyes crinkled against the sun as he looked at the hustling city, much like Halifax, only on a larger scale. A breeze touched his face, blew through his hair. The whoosh of vehicles came from the 401 to his left and the sound of cars slowing down and speeding up drifted up from the street below.

  He went back into the suite, slid the glass door shut. He opened his wheeled suitcase and took out a gift bag. On both sides of it, Spiderman swung from his web.

  Allan set the bag on the dresser, then he took out a rectangular box from the suitcase. Inside it was a remote-control Traxxas Monster Truck. Huge tires. Wheelie bar. Blue with black/gray racing stripes. Fast as hell, according to the guy at Mighty Small Cars in Dartmouth.

  Allan had bought it for Brian as a birthday present.

  He hoped his son would like it.

  5

  Halifax, June 8

  4:15 p.m.

  Todd Dory’s gaze never left the shotgun leveled at his head. Seated at the kitchen table with his palms pressed flat on the top, his face looked tight with fear and calculation. Dots of sweat speckled his upper lip.

  Seth squinted down the barrel at him, blinking at the rain dripping into his eyes. He’d fired the shotgun hundreds of times at the range over in Dartmouth, practiced many drills in his basement with the gun unloaded. All along, he imagined this very moment, this very face on the other end of the barrel.

  Dory’s gaze suddenly drifted to the kitchen door, to certain freedom, and then settled on the shotgun again. Seth could almost hear the grimy wheels turning inside that head of his.

  Would he try for the gun, or make a run for it?

  The floorboards creaked as Seth took one step back, then another. Finger tense against the trigger, he twitched the barrel toward the pen and paper he had laid out on the table.

  “The other two,” he said. “Write down their names and addresses.”

  Dory clenched his jaw and shook his head. “No way.”

  Anger burned in Seth’s eyes, igniting horrible images in his brain, dimming the lights and silencing the rain lashing the window. He forced himself to breathe calmly. He wanted to kill this man in some dark and unconscionable way. Cleave the flesh from his bones and open his throat in a fountain of red while he screamed and begged and drowned in his own blood.

  But Seth needed information first.

  “Do it.”

  Dory lifted his chin. “Fuck you.”

  All at once, Seth rushed forward and pressed the muzzle of the shotgun into Dory’s cheek, wrinkling the skin of his face over his eye and nearly pushing him out of the chair.

  “Do it or die, motherfucker.”

  “All right.” Dory lifted his hands in entreaty. “Take it easy.”

  Heart pounding, Seth took the shotgun away and stepped behind him. Dory reached for the pen. His movements were sluggish, like those of a man reluctant. Seth watched the pen scratch across the paper and realized this piece of human waste could simply write down any bullshit name, any bullshit address. But would he risk it with his life on the line?

  Seth glanced down at the thick spindles in the back of the wooden chair. They looked strong enough so Dory couldn’t break them apart and the spaces between them were wide enough for him to slip his hands through.

  Dory stopped writing and laid the pen on the table. Seth walked over, squeezing the stock of the shotgun between his right arm and torso and keeping the barrel aimed at Dory with one hand. With his other hand he picked up the paper to read the two names.

  “Which one is Scarecrow?” he asked.

  “The second one.”

  “Lee Higgins?”

  “Yeah.”

  Eyes narrow, Seth looked at Dory. “Yeah?”

  “That’s his name.”

  “How do I know you’re not bullshitting me?”

  “I’m not.”

  Seth watched Dory’s face. No blinking. No averting the eyes. But was he telling the truth? Was he? The fear on his face looked genuine enough. Why was it so hard to believe one scumbag wouldn’t rat out another? It was easy, really. Dory was a criminal, a festering sore on society. Lying for him would be as easy as breathing.

  Seth picked up the pen, shoving it and the paper into his pocket. Then he reached into the duffel bag and brought out a clear bag full of thick zip ties.

  Dory squinted at him. “What’re you doing now?”

  Seth noted the desperate keen in the man’s voice.

  “Relax,” he said, removing two ties from the bag.

  This was the tricky part, he realized—restraining Dory would require both hands. It could take only a second for him to grab for the shotgun once Seth put it down. He circled behind Dory again and placed the tip of the shotgun against the back of his head.

  For a moment, Seth fought a mad impulse to pull the trigger. He knew the walls in these old buildings were paper-thin and he didn’t want to alert the neighbors.

  “Put your hands through the back of the chair,” he said.

  Dory twisted his head around, trying to look over his shoulder. It was then Seth saw the scorpion tattoo pulsing in his neck, the sweat glistening on his forehead.

  “Why?” Dory asked. “I gave you what you wanted.”

  “I can’t have you running to the phone once I leave, now can I?”

  Dory lowered his head for a full ten seconds before he finally acceded.

  Cautiously, Seth squatted down and laid the shotgun across his thighs. He looped a zip tie around Dory’s wrist and one spindle, threaded the pointed end of the tie through the locking case and pulled it tight. Dory began flexing his fingers.

  “Careful, man,” he said. “You’ll cut off my circulation.”

  Seth gritted his teeth and shook his head, his rage pounding at the levee of his self-control. After he secured Dory’s other wrist, he laid the shotgun on the table.

  “Was Scarecrow the one in charge?” he asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “And his name is?”

  Seth watched for a pause in Dory’s answer, a flicker in his eyes to suggest the searching of memory, but there was none. “Lee Higgins.”

  Seth held his gaze for a few seconds. Then, without another word, he reached into the duffel bag and produced a roll of duct tape.

  “Look, buddy,” Dory said. “No one was supposed to be there.”

  Was it an apology?

  Seth squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed over a hard lump in his throat.

  “Is that what Higgins told you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yeah?” Seth glared at him. “He seemed like he was prepared for someone being there.”

  “He’s fucked up. You don’t wanna mess around with him. I’m just warning ya.”

  Seth raised his eyebrows. “Oh. Why not?”

  “He’s a bad ass. Major. Fucking. Bad ass.”

  Seth shot Dory a blank expression and then tore a strip off the tape. With slow steps, he approached with the strip held out between his hands. Eyes fixed on it, Dory’s Adam’s apple bobbed once.

  “Higgins is a bad ass, huh?” Seth stuck the tape over Dory’s mouth before he had time to answer. Then he leaned in close to his ear. “I’ll show you fucking bad ass.”

  Seth returned to the table, reached into the duffel bag, and lifted out the fire axe. He allowed himself a brief m
oment to indulge in the terror ballooning Dory’s eyes, flaring his nostrils and heaving his chest, right before he raised the axe over his head and brought it down again and again.

  “You had it coming,” Seth whispered as he broke out of his reminiscence.

  He folded the paper Dory had written the names on, tapped it against his forehead a few times, then put it on the coffee table in front of him. Lacing his fingers across his chest, he sank into the thick sofa pillows and settled back into himself. He gazed up at the ceiling, deep in thought.

  Long-range forecasts called for rain and heavy fog overnight Sunday into Monday. If those held true, it would give him the perfect conditions to carry out the next hit. The fact Sunday night was the quietest night of the week came as a bonus.

  But five days didn’t give him much time to prepare. He had to book different rental cars for the stakeout. Assess the character of the target’s neighborhood. Stalk him without attracting attention. Learn his movements. Wait until he was completely alone. Pray Todd Dory never lied about the names and addresses.

  Seth rolled his head to the side and stared across the room at Lily playing with her Barbie dolls in a patch of early evening sunlight filtering through the living room window. In her rich imaginary world, she gave the dolls individual personalities and had them socially interact with one another.

  For her, Seth thought. And Camille.

  He got off the sofa and walked to the front window. On the street outside, six kids were playing road hockey with an orange ball. Through the glass, Seth could feel the energy in the mad hustle of their feet, could hear the scrape of their plastic stick blades across the asphalt.

  “Daddy.” Lily came over to him, holding a Barbie with long, brown hair. The doll wore nothing more than a pink cowboy hat. “Can I go outside and play?”

  Seth looked down at his daughter, her blonde hair golden in the sunlight. He took in her smooth, untroubled face, a flawless reflection of her mother’s. So innocent and pure. Her hopeful smile so pretty that it opened his chest in an outflow of love.

  He hated the thought of someday releasing her to the world, a place of danger and ugliness and corruption. Full of monsters and predators who could suck everything precious out of her and leave behind a broken shell like her father, or even dead like her mother.