by Alex MacLean
When the light changed to green, Audra flashed the emergency lights in the car, squawked the siren twice, and made a U-turn on Robie Street. She cut into the outside lane, abruptly stopping at the curb in front of the building.
Shutting off the car, she looked over at the glass entrance door. Then she stepped out and went inside. A bank of eighteen mailboxes was mounted to the wall on the right. Audra scanned the nameplates. Apartment 15 belonged to Tanner.
She took the stairs, climbing to the third floor. There were three doors on each side of the hallway. Number 15 was on the left, in the middle.
Audra paused a moment, rehearsing what she’d say when the door opened. She’d introduce herself to whatever parent was home, if any, and try to have a civil conversation. If Margi was there alone, she’d get the names of her parents and their phone number and get out of there. She wouldn’t confront the girl, she wouldn’t lose her temper.
Audra squared her shoulders, took a deep breath. She approached the door and raised her fist to knock, then stopped short when she heard yelling inside. A man, hoarse-voiced and slurring his words, called someone a no good bitch. Useless. Lazy. Just like her mother. He hated people calling there about her.
In response, the female said something Audra couldn’t hear, then the sounds of a scuffle followed and ended with the sharp smack of a palm against bare skin. The female cried out in pain.
“Bitch,” the man growled. “Don’t talk back to me.”
Audra touched the inside pocket of her blazer. Her badge case was still there. In all the commotion of the past couple of days, she’d forgotten to take it out.
She took it out now and banged her knuckles on the door. A hush fell on the other side.
“Who is it?” the man called out.
“Police,” Audra said. “Open up.”
The man who answered the door had a heavy-browed scowl and graying hair tied back in a ponytail. He looked to be in his late thirties, maybe early forties. He had a wiry build and stood eye-level with Audra. He wore blue jeans and a grimy tank top.
Audra twitched her nose at the odor of booze pumping out with each heavy breath he took.
“I heard arguing,” she said. “Everything all right in here?”
With the hazy, unfocused gaze of a drunk, the man’s eyes wiggled from the badge case she held open for him to her face.
“Fine,” he said.
“Who’s here?”
“What?”
“Who’s here?” Audra repeated.
“My wife.”
“Who else?”
The man’s head lolled. “No one else.”
“Yeah?” Audra stared at the mess of spider veins over his nose and face. She knew this guy from somewhere.
She asked, “How about Margi? She here?”
“Yeah, she’s here.”
“Can I see her?”
The question sparked a reaction in him. He curled his lips and gave a shiver that made Audra wonder if it came from disgust or the effects of the alcohol.
“Margi. The poisoned brood from my ex-wife’s loins.”
“Awful thing to say.”
“What?”
“Is Margi your daughter?”
“Yeah. Yeah, she’s mine. But you’d never know it.”
Audra watched him. “Why, because she’s nothing like you, right?”
The man snorted, fixed his drunken eyes on hers. “I know you.”
Audra straightened her back. So they had crossed paths before. Still, she couldn’t remember where. But he was there, hidden away in a memory file she had yet to find.
“Where from?” she asked. “What’s your name?”
The man ignored her. He moved back from the doorway, wavering. Audra stepped across the threshold and stopped.
The kitchen she stood in was messy, bordered on squalid. Dirty dishes filled the sink, even the drying rack on the counter. Empty beer bottles littered the table. There was an untied, overflowing garbage bag in the corner and the smell of it mixed in the air with the stale smell of cigarettes.
The living room opened off the kitchen and Audra saw a stout woman standing there. She wore an over-sized white T-shirt and red Bermuda shorts that exposed white legs dimpled with cellulite. Behind her, some talk show flickered on the TV.
“What’s your name?” Audra asked.
“Diane,” she said in a voice almost as hoarse as the man’s.
“Wife?”
“Yeah.”
The man said, “She wants to see Margi. Go get her.”
“She’s your stepdaughter, then?”
Diane nodded. “She’s from Greg’s first marriage.”
Audra became very still. That’s what it took to find and open the memory file. The name. Greg. Greg Tanner. The volatile, belligerent drunk who used to beat his wife.
With a slow roll of her head, Audra looked over at him.
“Greg Tanner,” she said.
Greg tipped his head back and his lips wriggled across his face. “Remember me, huh?”
“Yeah,” she said. “I do. Unfortunately.”
Nine years ago, she’d been the arresting officer. She and Allan Stanton, patrol partners at the time, were dispatched to one of the worst acts of domestic violence she’d seen. One night, in a fit of drunken rage, Greg had nearly killed his wife, Shirley. He’d beaten her unconscious and threw all of her clothes out the back door.
When Audra and Allan arrived, Greg was sitting on the porch, drinking a bottle of beer, blood drying on his knuckles. They found Shirley on the bathroom floor, her face swollen so badly it was no longer recognizable. Pieces of her teeth lay all over the sink, broken out after Greg had slammed her head into the edge of the cabinet.
As the paramedics wheeled her down the hallway, Audra spotted the six-year-old girl with the long black hair and scared eyes, peeking out her bedroom door. She had made the harrowing 911 call, sobbing, trying to keep her voice low so her father wouldn’t hear.
Audra remembered Shirley Tanner had to have several reconstructive surgeries following the assault. The courts gave Greg Tanner a slap on the wrist for it—three months probation. No jail time. No fine. A travesty of justice to say the least.
The last thing Audra had heard about the case, Shirley divorced Greg and got custody of their daughter. What tragic twist of fate had brought that girl back to this man?
Audra rubbed a hand over her face, through her hair. She took a deep breath, let it out. Diane emerged from the hallway off the living room and she sat down on the sofa in front of the television, kicked her feet up to the coffee table.
“She’s coming,” she said without looking at anyone.
Moments later, Margi Tanner appeared. She walked into the kitchen and Audra stared at her, feeling hollow inside.
In her mind, she saw the six-year-old girl cowering in her bedroom that night. The one she’d led out by the hand to her patrol car. So sweet. So innocent. So young to have to witness the bad side of adults and all their absurdity.
In her eyes, she saw the fifteen-year-old girl who had caused so much torment and heartache to Daphne.
The reasoning part of Audra knew why. She understood. Life can make someone bitter and hateful. But it still never lessened the anger or the sense her soul was being ripped right down the middle.
“You wanted to see me?” Margi asked.
Audra blinked. Everything she’d come here to say, to get off her chest now got tossed out the window.
She hooked a thumb at Greg Tanner. “Did he hit you? I heard a smack when I was out in the hallway.”
Margi’s throat moved and her lips parted. Her eyes drifted from Audra to her father, back to Audra.
After a great pause, she said, “No.”
Greg said, “Nobody hit nobody.”
Audra turned to him. “Shut your mouth.”
She watched him give her a crazy glare. His fists balled up at his sides. Audra wondered if he’d take a swing. She glanced back at Margi.
“You sure? You can tell me. Don’t be afraid.”
Margi’s nod was as small as her voice. “I’m sure.”
Audra knew it was a lie. She’d kept a few business cards in her badge case. It felt weird to take one out and hand it to this girl.
“If he ever lays a hand on you,” she said, “call me. Understand?”
The card trembled in Margi’s hands as she held it.
“Tell me you understand,” Audra said.
“I understand.”
Greg stumbled toward Audra. “Like her so much. Why don’t you take her with you?”
He got a little too close for comfort and Audra swung around. She drove the heels of both hands into his chest, pushing into her strike with her legs. Hot breath punched out of his lungs and Audra felt it hit her square in the face as Greg went flying back on his ass.
“Don’t ever get in my face,” she barked. “You little prick.”
He propped himself on his elbows, looking up at her with a stunned expression. Audra walked over to Margi who stared at her father with an amused smirk on her face.
“What happened to your mother?”
The smirk fell away. “She died. Four years ago. Cancer.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Did you know her?”
Audra held her dark eyes, still picturing the little girl in the bedroom. How much did she remember from her past? The abuse her mother had suffered? Did it all sit right at the front of her mind or was it buried back there somewhere?
“Briefly,” Audra said. “Many years ago.”
Margi’s eyes grew distant.
Out of the corner of her eye, Audra saw Greg get off the floor. He dusted the seat of his jeans and weaved his way to the table where he sat down on a wooden chair, slumping hard against the back of it.
Audra asked Margi, “Did your school principal talk to you today?”
The girl’s eyes shot up to hers. “How’d you know?”
Audra leaned in close to her ear.
“Daphne’s my daughter,” she whispered. “Look at my last name.”
Margi dropped her gaze to the card and Audra watched her long enough to see the color drain from her face. Then she turned around and walked out the door, slamming it shut behind her.
She went outside to her car. For a few moments, she just sat there behind the wheel while the rush-hour traffic piled up beside her.
It was the right thing to do, she told herself. Wasn’t it? Sure. Sure, it was. She’d offered a helping hand to someone in need. That’s all.
Then why did she feel so terrible, so goddamned disgusted with herself?
44
Sackville, June 14
3:18 p.m.
Allan had sealed the devil’s mask inside an evidence bag. It could mean nothing, just pure coincidence, or it could mean everything.
The mask looked relatively new, not something that had sat around in a junk box for years. Why did Kaufman, a man of twenty-eight, even have it? Most certainly not to go out trick-or-treating and he didn’t seem the type to dress up for a Halloween party. Allan had the dark suspicion Kaufman would want a mask for one thing—to conceal his identity for the commission of a robbery, or some other crime.
There had been no mask at Todd Dory’s place. But Audra had found a set of white Halloween contact lenses in a dresser drawer. When Allan read that in her files, it bothered him for some reason and he couldn’t put his finger on why. White eyes, white eyes, kept playing over and over in his mind.
He took the mask to Ripster’s Halloween Shop in Lower Sackville, his fourth stop of the day. The short man at the counter wore black-rimmed glasses and a white butcher’s apron covered in bloodstains. His nametag said, Rob.
“Afternoon.” He glanced down at the badge on Allan’s belt. “What can I do for Halifax’s finest?”
Allan set the mask down in front of him. “I’d like to know if this came from your store?”
Rob looked it over. “Don’t think so. But I’ve seen this one before.”
“Where?”
Rob frowned. “Hmm. Not sure. It looks like the work of Ghoulish Productions. Give me a sec.”
He reached under the counter and brought up a stack of catalogues. Rifling through them, he took one aside and thumbed through the pages.
“Yep,” he said. “Thought so.” He turned the catalogue around so Allan could see, and tapped his finger on a picture. “Right there.”
Allan gazed down at the page and nodded. It was the same mask all right.
“Ghoulish makes some awesome stuff,” Rob said. “I sell a lot of it here.”
Allan raised his head. “And you’re sure you never had this one in stock?”
“Pretty sure, yeah.”
“Who does your ordering?”
“I do,” Rob said. “I own Ripster’s.” He gave his head a quick scratch. “I can check my invoices, if you want.”
“I’d appreciate it.”
“It’ll take ten, fifteen minutes to go through them all.”
Allan waved it off. “Take your time. I’m on the clock.”
Rob gestured for him to follow. “C’mon back to my office.”
Allan took the mask and catalogue with him. Rob went over to a filing cabinet in the corner and rolled out the top drawer. Allan took a seat in front of the cluttered desk. He flipped through the pages of the catalogue, looking over all kinds of gruesome masks—vampires, werewolves, zombies, serial killers.
He read the company information of the back cover. Ghoulish Productions was located in Mexico. Allan took out his notebook and wrote down their phone number.
“Here it is,” Rob said, pulling out a folder stuffed with papers. “What’s the product number on the mask?”
Allan gave it to him. He watched Rob sit down at the desk and pore over the stack of invoices. As he reached the last of them, his face sagged.
“Nope,” he said, shaking his head. “Didn’t think I had that one in the store before. Have you tried Glow Parties?”
“They sent me here.”
“Boutilliers?”
“Tried them.”
“How ‘bout, Allie’s?”
“They never had it either,” Allan said. “Actually, you’re the first person who even recognized the mask.”
Rob’s chair creaked as he leaned back in it. He tented his fingers in front of him, crinkling his eyes.
Allan asked, “Could a person buy this at Walmart or Costco?”
Rob shook his head. “No, no. None of the big-box stores would carry it. Too high-end for them.”
“Does the company sell directly to the public?”
“Yep. But you must spend three hundred bucks first. They have a minimum purchase policy.”
Allan mulled that over. “I didn’t see any of those Halloween contact lenses in their catalogue. I take it they don’t sell them?”
“Nope. Just masks, props, full costumes. Stuff like that.”
“Okay.”
Rob said, “You might want to check online retailers.”
Allan stared at him. That made a lot of sense. No one ever saw your face when you purchased things over the Internet.
Rob fired up his computer and googled the mask.
After a minute, he said, “Amazon has it. Horror-Shop-dot-com. Halloween Asylum. Quite a few on here have it available.”
Allan stood up, reaching an open hand across the desk. Rob gave it a firm shake.
“Thanks for your time,” Allan told him.
“Sorry, I couldn’t have been more help.”
“You’ve been a great help.”
Allan left the store. Crossing the parking lot to his car, he took out his phone and called in for a warrant to retrieve the credit card history of both Todd Dory and Blake Kaufman.
45
Halifax, June 14
6:00 p.m.
Audra and Daniel were sitting at Daphne’s bedside when Tabitha Landes and her mother, Joanna, showed up at the door. Tabitha held a col
orful bouquet of flowers in her arms—daisies, sunflowers, and yellow chrysanthemums. In the center of them sat a stuffed bumblebee wearing a nurse’s hat and white uniform with the words Bee Well on the front.
Tabitha, eyes wide, stood frozen in the doorway. She stared at Daphne, as if overwhelmed.
Joanna touched her shoulder. “Go on. It’s all right.”
With halting steps, Tabitha crossed the room to set the bouquet on the window ledge.
Daniel got up from his chair and went over to greet her.
“Hi, Tabitha. Nice to see you.”
She gave him a sheepish nod.
“Thanks for coming,” Audra said, giving her arm a gentle squeeze. “It’ll mean a lot to her.”
The flesh around Tabitha’s chin quivered. She couldn’t keep her eyes off Daphne.
“Can she hear me?” she asked.
“They don’t know for sure. We talk to her. Read to her.”
“What do I say?”
“Just talk to her, honey. Like you used to.”
Slowly, Tabitha approached the bed, took a seat in the chair. After a moment of looking at all the machines, she rested her fingers on Daphne’s wrist.
“Hi, Daphne,” she said in a tight voice. “It’s Tabby. I hope you can hear me.”
Audra watched for a reaction in Daphne, a facial twitch, a curl of a finger, even a faster beep on the cardiac monitor. But nothing. With a heavy heart, she wondered if her daughter was just gone.
She hoped that when Daphne had gripped her hand, it hadn’t been involuntary, but a sign. A sign that said I’m here damn it. I’m trying to come back.
Joanna inquired, “Has her condition improved any?”
Audra brought her index finger up to her puckered lips. “She might hear you. We don’t talk about that stuff around her.”
Joanna raised her eyebrows and her mouth formed a small “o.”
“Sorry,” she said quietly.
Audra patted her on the back. “Hey, no problem. Thanks for bringing Tabitha over. We really appreciate it.”
Joanna spoke with a note of desolation. “This must be hard. So hard for you. I can’t even imagine.”
“More than you know,” she admitted.
“How late do you stay?”
“All night. I sleep here. Dan and I rotate. He comes in the morning, stays all day. I go home, but I can’t rest there. I end up coming back. I rest better here.”
