One Kill Away

by Alex MacLean

  Allan went back to the company website and ran the product number of the devil’s mask through their search box. That brought up a link he clicked on. When the screen shifted to a picture of the mask, he felt a kind of frisson, a sudden tingle of excitement that came and went. He straightened in his chair, tightening his hand on the mouse.

  The mask was the same one he’d found in Kaufman’s closet.

  Allan searched the zombie mask. The emaciated face was in a deep stage of rot. Black lips were pulled back over crooked teeth. Pieces of skin hung off the cheeks, exposing flesh and bone.

  The scarecrow mask came next. It had a burlap look with stitches across the mouth and part of the forehead. A rope was knotted around the neck.

  Allan realized the scarecrow and zombie masks had the eyeholes cut out, while the devil’s mask had its own eyes that covered those of the wearer. He leaned back from the desk, blowing out a long breath. Then he got up and paced around the office. Instincts and questions, so many questions, racked his brain.

  Halloween allowed ambitious burglars to go around disguised legitimately without attracting a second glance. Is that why Dory had purchased the masks? One for himself, one for Kaufman, and one for whom? Lee Higgins? Someone else? Two other members of the Black Scorpions—Jarret Shapiro and Sullivan McAda—were in jail last October, awaiting their murder trial. So they were out of the picture.

  There had been a rash of burglaries throughout Halifax and down through Annapolis Valley on Halloween night last year. As far as Allan knew, most of them had never been solved. Were these guys responsible for some of them? It was certainly right up their alley.

  Allan leaned his hands on the edge of his desk. Lowering his head, he thought about the word corpse written on the handle of the axe used to kill Todd Dory. Wasn’t a zombie just an animated corpse?

  Devil. Corpse. The connection to the masks spoke volumes now. What had Dory and Kaufman done to deserve the fate handed to them? Was Higgins involved too? Did the killer have another murder weapon in his possession with scarecrow written on it. Was he waiting to use it?

  As much as Allan cringed at the thought, he knew a visit to Lee Higgins was in store.

  49

  Halifax, June 18

  3:00 p.m.

  Audra looked across the desk at Dr. Lela Mooney, a psychologist who carried out emotional and behavioral assessments of children at the IWK. It would be her job to evaluate Daphne and determine her suicide risk.

  “Bullying led to this,” Audra said.

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “Positive. My daughter made a video about it.”

  Brow furrowed, Mooney seemed to ponder that. She was an attractive woman with watchful green eyes and strong cheekbones. Wispy red hair framed her oval face. Her black skirt and short-sleeved blouse revealed the lean curves of someone who liked to pump a little iron at the gym.

  “Tell me what she said.”

  Audra drew a breath. “She talked about the rumors kids were spreading around about her. How they started getting physical, pushing her around. How they posted stuff on her Facebook page. But she never got into exactly what they did.

  “She also mentioned how her friends abandoned her. I think that’s what hurt her the most. She had to face this by herself.”

  Mooney sat back, rolling a pen between her hands. “Where was this video?”

  “On her laptop.”

  “And Daphne never told you any of this in person?”

  “No.”

  “Have you noticed any recent changes in her behavior?”

  Feeling wretched, Audra said, “I did. So did my husband. We asked Daphne several times what was going on. But she wouldn’t open up to either one of us. I blame myself for not trying harder.”

  Mooney eyed her with clinical coolness. “How would you rate the relationship with your daughter?”

  “Very close.”

  “Same with the father?”

  “Yes.”

  “These changes you saw in Daphne. What were they?”

  Audra frowned. “She became evasive. Withdrawn. Sad. Daphne was always on the quiet side, but she became even quieter. She stayed in her room all the time. I noticed her best friend stopped coming over. I thought they got into a fight and maybe that’s why she was acting the way she did.”

  “Daphne was probably too ashamed and embarrassed to tell you about the bullying. Maybe even afraid of what you would do.”

  Briefly, Audra hesitated. Those were the same reasons she’d never told her own parents about the bullying she suffered at the school in Dryden.

  She said, “I’d always wished she trusted me enough to confide anything in me.”

  “That behavior is common at her age,” Mooney said. “Teens have a code of silence. It’s all about their peer group. They don’t want to be viewed as a snitch. More goes on in their little social lives than us parents even know about.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Is there any history of depression in your family?”

  “No.”

  “Your husband’s?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  Mooney leaned forward and scribbled in her folder.

  “Bullying is a potentiating risk factor for suicide,” she said without looking up. “It can cause depression and isolation. Kids, who are Daphne’s age, haven’t acquired the maturity or life skills to handle the problem on their own. They don’t realize silence is their worst enemy. That the bullying won’t last. They don’t see the bigger picture. They only focus on the now and they just don’t know how to cope with the predicament they’re in. The only way out, unfortunately, is to end their lives.”

  Audra said, “Bullying has always been around. But it’s different nowadays. Not like when we were kids.”

  Mooney continued to write. “It’s no longer confined to the schoolyard,” she said. “The Internet has changed the playing field. Made the world a smaller place. Bullies can reach other kids right in their homes and on their cell phones.”

  “I know.”

  Mooney closed the folder, dropped the pen on top. “I hear Daphne is communicating better.”

  Audra nodded. “She’s starting to form words now. Only monosyllables. She struggles to get them out. Stutters. Gets her words mixed up sometimes. She’ll need speech therapy.”

  “Can she write?”

  “Yes. She understands what you say to her, she just has trouble talking back. She has to think her way through everything. The doctor doubts she’ll be able to multitask for some time. I’m just happy she’s showing signs of improvement.”

  Mooney gave her a compassionate smile. “That’s very good news. Is there paper in her room?”

  “Yes.”

  “Has she mentioned…um…the suicide attempt?”

  “I don’t think she remembers.”

  “No?”

  Audra shook her head. “The other day she thought it was still March. She couldn’t understand how the snow disappeared so fast.”

  “Did you tell her what month it was?”

  “I did.”

  “How’d she react?”

  “She cried.”

  Mooney propped her elbows on the desk, folded her hands together, and rested her chin on top of them. “Did you tell her what happened to her?”

  “She never asked.”

  Mooney fell quiet for a long moment. “I’ll see if she really has no memory. Teens aren’t always truthful. She might be faking amnesia. I’ve seen it before. I need to make sure she’s no longer a threat to herself or anyone else.”

  Audra tilted her head. “You’re not going to bring up the attempted suicide, are you?”

  “No, no. If she doesn’t remember, it’s best if we just leave it alone.”

  “Can I join you?”

  “Yes,” Mooney said, lowering her hands. “I was going to ask you to sit in with us.”

  She gathered up her folder and Audra followed her out of the office. They took an elevator to
the seventh floor. Yesterday, doctors felt Daphne’s condition had improved to the point where she no longer needed to be in the PICU. They transferred her to the pediatric medical unit.

  Her room was cozy with walls painted in a soft pastel shade of cinnamon. It had its own bathroom with a shower and a small guest bed so family members could stay overnight.

  The upper portion of her bed was inclined and she gazed out the window at the dark sky as Audra and Mooney walked into the room. To Audra, she seemed lonely sitting there. After working only one day in the past week, Daniel had grudgingly gone back.

  When Daphne saw Audra, a big smile exploded on her face and her eyes brightened.

  “Muh…Mom.”

  Audra leaned over the bed and kissed her forehead. “Hi, honey.”

  Daphne turned an inquisitive stare on Mooney, giving her clothes a quick once-over. Audra watched her smile slowly drop away.

  “This is Dr. Mooney,” she told her. “She just wants to talk to you for a bit. Okay?”

  Daphne took a few seconds to respond. Her nod came as a small movement of the chin.

  Mooney introduced herself, pulled up a chair, and sat down. She opened the folder on her legs.

  “Bet you want to get out of here soon, huh?” she said in a calm voice.

  Daphne stared at her, then frowned.

  “Try using shorter sentences,” Audra said. “Sorry. I should’ve told you. She still has trouble understanding more than a few words at a time.”

  Mooney tipped her head back. “Gotcha.” She tried again. “Going home soon?”

  The corners of Daphne’s mouth curled up slightly. “Yeah.”

  “Better at home. Right?”

  Daphne nodded.

  “I hear a few days.”

  “G-g-good.”

  Mooney gave her a warm smile. “Want to write? That easier?”

  Daphne gave another nod. There was a pen and a small stack of paper on the bedside table. Audra gave it all to Daphne, then placed a hand on the head of the mattress.

  “I just wanted to talk,” Mooney said. “About you. How you’re feeling. Stuff like that.”

  Daphne bent to the paper, slowly scratching out the word okay. Her beautiful cursive writing had disappeared. The letters were now big and awkward, like the scrawl of a young child.

  Mooney leaned over and looked at the paper. “Great,” she said.

  She went on to discuss Daphne’s home life, her hopes and dreams for the future. What she wanted to be when she got older. If she had plans for marriage and children? Mooney never brought up the topic of suicide or depression. She stayed away from anything negative.

  “How’s school?” she asked.

  Audra watched Daphne’s face for an emotional response—a flinch, a blink, a swallow. Something that suggested Mooney had hit a live wire of hurt or painful memory. Nothing but a blank stare.

  Daphne wrote, Good.

  “Like school?”

  Yes.

  “Have good grades?”

  Yes.

  Mooney smiled at her. “Lots of friends?”

  Daphne’s response was immediate, A few.

  “Who’s your best friend?”

  Tabby.

  Daphne pointed to the window ledge, at the bouquet of flowers with the stuffed bumblebee inside it. Then she bent her head to the paper and scratched her pen across it.

  She gave me that.

  Audra felt her heart split in half when she saw those words. She wondered if Tabitha Landes would ever visit again.

  Mooney said, “It doesn’t matter how many friends you have in life. You only need one good friend. Right?”

  Daphne paused, and Audra could sense her struggling to string the words together in her mind.

  Mooney put a hand to her chest. “I’m sorry. Too much?”

  Daphne shook her head and smiled.

  Mooney pointed to another bouquet. “Who gave you those?”

  Daphne wrote on the paper, My teacher and classmates.

  “Nice of them.” Mooney reached for Daphne’s hand, gave it a little squeeze. “You’re precious. You know. Get well soon. Okay?”

  Mooney closed her folder and rose to her feet. As she started for the door, Audra told Daphne she’d be right back, then she followed Mooney out of the room. They walked up the corridor, stopping at the elevators.

  “So what do you think?” Audra asked.

  Mooney frowned. “I think she has partial amnesia.” She looked into Audra’s eyes, her own serious now. “That video on Daphne’s laptop. Delete it.”

  “I will.”

  Mooney pushed a button on the wall to summon an elevator.

  “I’ll do a brief follow-up with her in the coming days,” she said. “Before she’s discharged, I’m going to give you a safety plan. It’ll have warning signs for suicidal behavior, phone numbers, etcetera.”

  “Okay. Sure.”

  A chime rang and the elevator doors sighed opened. Mooney stepped inside. She lifted her hand in a wave just as the doors shut.

  Audra returned to Daphne’s room. As she approached the bed, she saw Daphne’s eyes were moist.

  “Honey. What’s wrong?”

  Daphne’s lips quivered. “What…hap.” She scowled and struck the mattress with a fist.

  “Don’t get mad.” Audra brushed the hair away from her daughter’s face. “It’s frustrating. I know. Give it time. You’ll work through it.”

  Daphne reached for the paper. Her hand shook as she scrawled out letters. She held out the piece of paper, drooping off the ends of her fingers.

  Audra took it and read the words.

  What happened to me?

  The air in the room suddenly turned cold and Audra felt her skin rise. She looked into Daphne’s sad, dark eyes, trying to shake those terrible images of Saturday morning and how close she’d come to losing her.

  Audra sat on the edge of the bed, laid a hand on Daphne’s wrist.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I was out. Came home. Found you. Unconscious.”

  Daphne continued to stare at her, then she lowered her head. Her eyes grew distant, wavering back and forth.

  Jaw clenched tight, Audra watched her.

  Mooney’s words echoed in her mind, I think she has partial amnesia.

  Audra wondered how long the amnesia would last. What if a trigger unwound that memory reel of not only the suicide attempt, but of the bullying too?

  What then?

  How devastating would it be for Daphne?

  For all of them?

  50

  Halifax, June 18

  3:43 p.m.

  When Seth saw the pimped-out Honda Accord, he knew Todd Dory had given him the right address again. The car sat in a paved lot on Charles Street beside a two-story, square box of a house with light blue siding, white shutters, and a bold red door.

  Looking the place over, Seth figured it had been converted into two or four small apartments inside. Lee Higgins supposedly lived in #2.

  Seth had no idea what the man even looked like. He only knew the chimp-brained cretin had murdered Camille and left Seth to die in his own bed. For that, the punishment needed to be brutal and painful and spectacular. Even more so than the other two. Maybe something involving gasoline and a match. Roast the son of a bitch alive. Each breath that man sucked into his lungs was a travesty to the beauty he took away from the world.

  Seth drove a Mazda 2 he’d rented from Budget over in Dartmouth. As he coasted slowly past the building, he noticed an auto repair shop on the other side. Four bay doors were open and mechanics worked away on vehicles hoisted above them.

  Seth couldn’t get turned around; Charles Street went only one-way. He drove down past Joseph Howe Elementary to Creighton Street where he hung a right and found himself in a frustrating maze of other one-way streets just to make it back.

  The leafy neighborhood had lots of cars parked at the curbs, making it easy to blend in. He tucked the Mazda in behind a blue sedan just up the stre
et on the opposite side of Higgins’ address. He lowered his window and killed the engine. Sat back in the seat and watched for the bold, red door to open. Then he could finally see the face behind the scarecrow mask.

  Around him came a mélange of sounds: voices talking and laughing, distant thumping music, city buses squeaking and squealing, engines revving and slowing.

  At four-thirty, a navy-blue Impala rolled by and pulled up to the curb in front of Higgins’ building. Seth watched a middle-aged man step out. He wore black pants and a white shirt under a khaki sport coat with the lower button fastened. His eyes looked tired and sad, his face chiseled with lines. Gray patches dabbed his hair at the temples.

  Seth slid his sunglasses down to the tip of his nose, squinting over the top. He recognized the man. He was the cop who had visited him in the hospital. A decent man, loyal to his job. What was his name? Seth couldn’t remember.

  The cop reached into his car and brought out a brown paper bag. He shut the car door, heading toward the building.

  As Seth watched him disappear inside, he fished his wallet from a back pocket and rifled through the few business cards he had inside. He found the one the cop had given him.

  Lieutenant Allan Stanton, it read. Homicide.

  51

  Halifax, June 18

  4:32 p.m.

  Lee Higgins wore a black tank top and black jeans when he answered the door. His entire right arm bore a tattoo of a grim reaper holding a sickle in one hand and resting the other on a gravestone. Skulls littered the ground at his feet. Angels, candles, and pocket watches inked a full sleeve on his other arm.

  Without preface, he said, “What the fuck you want, Stanton?”

  Allan reached into the paper bag and lifted out the bagged devil’s mask.

  “This,” he said. “Ever see it before?”

  Higgins tilted his chin up, flexing the thick cords in his neck and narrowing his eyes on the mask. His Adam’s apple bobbed once. The prolonged stare, the sudden stillness of his body, told Allan he knew something.

  “No,” Higgins said. “Should I?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Why’s the bag say evidence? Evidence of what?”