Grave Situation Page 16

  Next to Herb, the vagrant sat quiet with an elbow propped up on the door. The poor man was unaware that the Good Samaritan beside him was heading in the opposite direction as his farm. Unaware of the dire fate awaiting him.

  High beams swept across tall trees as Herb turned west onto Timbre Road. The car behind him continued straight and then disappeared.

  Timbre Road had barely enough room for another vehicle to pass in the opposite direction. Herb knew this route led to a logging mill several kilometers in the backwoods and no traffic came through in the evening hours. The mill closed at five each weekday. For that reason alone, he’d chosen this location.

  Off to the left, just inside the trees, stood a white-tailed doe, feeding on a shrub. A smaller shadow moved behind it. As it entered the outer margins of the headlights, Herb saw the white spots of a fawn.

  The road started a steep climb. Herb pushed the pedal to the floor as the pickup began to lose speed. The engine whined. The rear tires spun gravel. The two men inched their way up the hill with agonizing slowness. At the top, Herb knew he will reach his destination and his grip tightened more on the wheel the closer he got.

  There is no god but God, he prayed. Truly with death come its pangs of agony. O God! Forgive me and forgive this man beside me, have mercy on him and unite him with the Highest Companion.

  Herb dimmed the brights, shifted into park, and turned the engine off. A dust cloud swept over the pickup and drifted a short distance up the road before dissipating.

  The vagrant’s brow furrowed. He looked out the windshield, out the side window, and then shot Herb a quizzical frown.

  “Where’s your house? Where’s your farm?”

  Without answering, Herb opened the door and slid out.

  “What’s going on, buddy?” The vagrant’s words carried an edge now.

  At once, Herb felt a stab of guilt. He paused, held up a hand.

  When he spoke, he realized his voice was tight. “I need to take care of something first.”

  He shut the door and the dome light went dark. With the engine off, the area seemed boundless, hushed. Under the burden of a slow wind, the trees seemed to be whispering to one another. Far up the road, a cluster of lights marked the location of the sawmill.

  Slowly, Herb rounded the back of the truck. He felt, rather than saw, the vagrant watching him through the rear window.

  At the edge of the road, Herb stopped and breathed in a lungful of fresh country air. Below him, an embankment dipped into darkness. From what he could see, the side of the slope was covered with sparse trees, boulders and bushes. At its bottom came the gentle purl of water. A creek, he guessed.

  In an act of will, he reached under his shirt and slid the knife from its sheath. Approaching the passenger door, he fought back panic.

  Then time seemed to slow.

  As Herb reached in and yanked the vagrant out by the lapel of his trench coat, the poor man blanched.

  A tremor carried his words. “Whaddya doin?”

  Silent, Herb hauled him to the front of the truck and pressed him against the grille with terrible strength. Through the vagrant’s trench coat, he could feel the man’s thumping heartbeat, strangely mimicking Herb’s own racing pulse. His fingers tightened on the knife hidden behind his leg.

  “Forgive me, friend,” Herb whispered. “On Monday you were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time in my life.”

  He watched the vagrant’s Adam’s apple move in one convulsive swallow, watched his eyes widen as confusion gave way to terror.

  “Buddy,” he murmured.

  Herb thrust the sharp steel into the man’s belly. Twisting the handle, he felt the blade catch on something inside. The vagrant’s scream pierced the night. Pain worked on his face, deepening the lines around his eyes.

  In rapid succession, Herb stabbed him twice more. The final time, he put his weight behind the knife, driving it into the guard and lifting the poor man off his feet. At that moment, Herb could feel something warm and wet on his hand.

  Gritting his teeth, the vagrant tried to push back on Herb’s strong wrist with both hands, but his effort failed.

  Herb pulled out the blade and the vagrant collapsed straight down, as if his bones had suddenly disintegrated. On his knees, body curled on itself, he clutched both hands to his abdomen. He moaned in agony, a deep gurgling sound as blood began to rise in his throat.

  Herb recoiled in dismay.

  Slowly, the vagrant raised his stricken eyes to him.

  “Why?” the man croaked and then coughed up a gout of blood.

  Reflexively, Herb flinched and jerked his head away as he felt some of the blood spatter him. Stepping back a foot, he flicked a heavy drop from his cheek.

  The vagrant lifted his hand to the sky. He gasped, tried to speak, and then made one final effort.

  “Help me…Jesus.”

  He crumpled back to the gravel, his head lolled to one side, and his eyes fixed into a silent scream. His body twitched a moment and then was still.

  Breathing hard, Herb gaped at him. In the twin funnels of headlights the blade dripped from his hand.

  He walked around to the driver’s side of the truck and stood there, sweating, trying hard to collect himself.

  The sky had become overcast. Across the road in the dark woodland, night animals were stirring, filling the gloom with their strange noises. Something flew overhead. Something else swooped down at the front of the pickup and vanished—bats hunting bugs that were attracted to the low beams.

  Time to finish this.

  Herb retrieved his duffel bag from the storage box in the back of the truck. He carried it to the body and set it down. It was impossible, he found, to look at the man now.

  He unzipped the bag and took out a rag. He thoroughly cleaned his hand and the knife. After taking out his gloves from the bag, he slipped them on. When he pulled out the hacksaw, the sharp metal teeth glinted in the headlights.

  Herb closed his eyes and breathed in once, to steel himself. He pulled the vagrant’s limp right arm toward him and rolled up the sleeve of the trench coat to expose the forearm. With a secure grip low on the arm, he placed the blade of the hacksaw across the wrist. He paused a brief moment, wondering if a meat cleaver would have been a better choice for this job.

  Too late now.

  He kept his strokes light; let the blade do the work. Once the teeth managed to break the loose skin, Herb found it easy to cut through the tiny bones of the wrist. When he finished, he held up the severed hand by the middle finger, allowing the blood to drain. Afterwards, he dropped the hand into a Ziploc bag.

  He repeated the same procedure with the vagrant’s other arm. With both hands bagged and sealed now, he wiped off the hacksaw and the gloves with a clean rag. He had brought a third Ziploc bag for the dirty rags. In the morning he would set them ablaze in the burn barrel out back of his farmhouse.

  He stuffed everything into the duffel bag and zipped it up. He sheathed the knife and wiped the sweat from his face.

  He went to the vagrant, put his hands beneath the man’s armpits, and picked him up. The body felt awkward, limp. Herb dragged the man to the edge of the road and with one powerful thrust, hurled him over the edge. As it disappeared into the darkness, he heard the body tumbling through grass and brush. He hoped it would not get lodged against a boulder or a tree.

  Moments later there came a light splash.

  Herb picked up the duffel bag and returned to the pickup. He opened the driver’s door, tossed the bag onto the passenger seat, and climbed in. With a flick to turn on the dome light, he tilted the rear-view mirror toward him. The man in the reflection was pale and sweating, a stranger with the same face as his.

  Herb cranked over the engine and then remembered the bag of bottles and cans the vagrant had put in the back. Collection day for recyclables would be next Monday. He decided to hide the bag in the barn until then.

  Slowly, he pulled away as the first drop of rain struck the windshiel
d.

  27

  Halifax, May 13

  12:23 a.m.

  Before ringing the doorbell, Allan took a moment to prepare. When at last he did, he drew a deep breath.

  There was silence. In moments a light came on in an upper floor window. Through the frosted glass of the front door, another light turned on. The distorted image of a person appeared.

  His stomach clenched at the sound of the latch. The man who opened the door was tall and raw-boned, perhaps fifty. He was dressed in a white T-shirt and green pajama bottoms. He had a thin, clean-shaven face, perceptive blue eyes and short salt and pepper hair, shaved close on the sides.

  “Mister Philip Ambré?” Allan asked.

  “Yes.” The man’s voice was tired, husky.

  “I’m Lieutenant Allan Stanton with the Halifax Regional Police’s Major Crimes Unit.” He held up his open badge case. “May I come in, please?”

  Blank-faced, Philip paused a moment. He motioned him inside.

  The family room he led Allan into was spacious, exquisite. Hardwood floors. Marble fireplace. Grandfather clock. Vaulted ceiling with recessed lights. A bank of arched windows looked out at the front yard. The furnishings were top-grain leather.

  An oil painting hung above the fireplace. Arranged in a traditional standing pose before a pastel background was Philip Ambré at a younger age, conservatively dressed in a gray suit, crisp white shirt, and red tie.

  A dark haired woman, Allan guessed as his wife, Carol, flanked Philip’s right side. She wore a blue blouse and a white pleated skirt. Two young girls, one with black hair, the other, blonde and a head taller, knelt in the foreground. Both wore matching flocked organza dresses.

  The resemblance between mother and youngest daughter was striking. Slender, china complexion, full mouth, streaming raven hair and vivid green eyes. Comparing the beautiful girl Cathy Ambré had once been to the image of the ravaged woman in her final moments, Allan winced at the disparity.

  And how will I be remembered?

  Behind him, Philip said, “I had that done in nineteen-ninety-three. Cynthia was ten, Cathy, six. The artist was Joseph Hoegg. Well known here in Halifax. He did that from a mere photograph.”

  “Impressive.”

  Framed pictures of the Ambré family were neatly positioned across the mantle. Studying them, Allan realized none contained the oldest daughter, Trixy. Many were of Cathy at various ages—a little girl sitting in a pile of autumn leaves, head thrown back in laughter; a junior high student smiling for her yearbook photo; a high school graduate in cap, gown and honors stole. At the far end was an old black and white wedding photo cast in a sepia hue. Parents of either Philip or his wife, Allan guessed.

  “This is about Cynthia, isn’t it?” Philip asked at last. “Or Trixy as she’s been calling herself? We read about her disappearance in the paper. I must admit your coming here has been something I’d been expecting for a long time.”

  For a moment, Allan closed his eyes. Then he turned around and folded his hands in front of him. Carefully, he selected his words. “I’m afraid not, Mister Ambré. This is about your other daughter.”

  “Cathy?” A glint of fear sparked in Philip’s eyes. “What happened?”

  Allan deflected the question. “Is your wife here with you?”

  “She’s in bed.”

  “I think it best the both of you hear this.”

  Just then a female’s voice sounded in the room. “What’s going on, Philip?”

  Both men looked.

  The woman who stood in the doorway wore a white terry robe and matching slippers. She was the one from the painting, Allan realized, only older now. Staring at her, he saw the handiwork of time. Her black hair was gray-streaked. Hard lines scored the corners of her mouth and eyes. As she regarded Allan, a combined look of surprise and apprehension came over her face.

  Silent, Philip crossed the room to her side.

  “Carol. This is…” He blinked and looked at Allan. “What’s your name again?”

  “Lieutenant Allan Stanton.”

  Philip turned to his wife again. “He has some news about Cathy.”

  “Cathy?” The mother straightened. She put a hand to her chest, pulling the lapels of her robe tightly together. “Your being here this late tells me it’s not good news. Our daughter overdosed, didn’t she?”

  The question carried a nervous inflection. There was no easy way to explain this, Allan reasoned.

  “I’m sorry,” he said simply. “Your daughter, Cathy, committed suicide.”

  Tense, he watched his words register in the parent’s faces. All at once, Philip’s mouth dropped open. He stared down at the floor, his face a pantomime of shock. Carol blanched. Tears welled in her eyes. Her lips began to flutter.

  Half-choking, she stammered, “Not Cathy. Not that way.”

  Allan swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

  Hand to her mouth, Carol stifled a cry. Then she fell into her husband’s embrace. In silent commiseration Philip put his arms around her, pulling her close. The only sound in the awful silence was the sobbing of Carol Ambré, muffled by her face being pressed into her husband’s chest. Philip’s eyes shut and he whispered words into his wife’s ear that Allan couldn’t hear.

  Carol leaned back and wiped her eyes. “I need to call Mom and Dad,” she said brokenly.

  Philip took her hands. “There’s no need to burden them with this tonight. Call them in the morning.”

  She looked away from him. “No. They need to know. I won’t be able to sleep tonight anyhow.”

  As Allan listened, he found it deepened his own sadness. Carol pulled away from her husband and walked out of the room. Philip turned to Allan with a ravaged face.

  “We just spoke to Cathy on Monday.”

  Allan’s voice was soft. “How’d she sound?”

  “She was upset over Cynthia. But said she’d get through it. I never thought she would end up doing something like this.”

  Allan took a seat on the sofa. The leather felt cool through his clothes.

  “Suicide is never easy for family members to comprehend,” he said. “Don’t blame yourself for this.”

  Distractedly, Philip ran a hand over his chin. “Do you know when she killed herself?”

  “Sometime during the early morning hours of Tuesday.”

  In the silence that followed came the mournful wail of Carol Ambré. Hearing it, Philip started. Allan leaned forward, lowering his head. All of this made him sick inside.

  “I know,” she was saying. “I don’t know why either.”

  A shiver seemed to run through Philip’s body.

  In a tentative voice, he asked, “How’d she choose to do it?”

  Allan considered how much to disclose. “With drugs.”

  With aching slowness Philip seemed to toil with the understanding. “Did she leave a letter?”

  “Yes. We need to have it examined for authenticity. After which, we’ll release a copy to you.”

  Philip’s jaw worked. “Did she explain why?”

  “I think your daughter has been dealing with inner demons for some time. Her addiction only compounded her problems and was probably conducive to her depression.”

  “I believe it contributed to all of her problems,” Philip said.

  “I think so too,” Allan agreed. “Do you know how long she was using heroin?”

  Philip rested his palms on the back of a chair. “At least a year. That’s what she told me in January. But I suspect most of her final year in university. When she came home for the Christmas break in two thousand eight, I saw changes in her. But I chalked it up to the stress of her classes.”

  “She never finished that year?”

  Philip shook his head. “She dropped out in May of last year. She wouldn’t have graduated anyway. I tried to get her to go back last fall, but she refused.”

  “Did she explain why?”

  “The drugs, probably. Just like they were the reason she failed her final year
. Cathy never had failing grades in her life.”

  “What’d she do for money?”

  “She went to work at a couple of retail stores. She lost the last one in November because of absenteeism. She didn’t work again until this past January when she got a job at a hotel.”

  Allan remembered the entries in Cathy’s diary. “When did you suspect she was using?”

  “Late last fall I began to have thoughts of it.” Philip’s face became haunted now. “Cathy stopped hanging out with her friends. Began to stay in her room a lot. She was losing weight. Seemed tired all the time. And at other times she just seemed out of it.

  “Just after the new year, I found some spoons hidden under her mattress. I confronted her about it. That’s when it all came out.

  “No responsible parent would ever give their child a loaded gun to play with, Lieutenant.” The quiet in Philip’s voice didn’t hide the tremor. “By continuing to give Cathy a place to live, food to eat, we were, in essence, funding her addiction.

  “I don’t think you realize what we went through. Imagine watching your own daughter kill herself. We could see Cathy’s health deteriorating right before our eyes. But she couldn’t see it in herself.

  “I checked out rehab facilities for her, but she refused to go. I practically begged her to get help. I tried to convince her that she had a bright future ahead of her, that she should go back to university. I didn’t want to lose another daughter. And I thought I’d gotten through to her. She told me her problem wasn’t serious and she stopped. But later I found out that she was still using.”

  “She did try to stop, Mister Ambré,” Allan interjected. “You need to understand that it isn’t that easy. You weren’t reasoning with your daughter; you were reasoning with her illness. Addicts are powerless to the drugs. Sometimes it requires tough love before they’ll admit they have a problem and seek help. It may not seem like it now or even then. But by putting her out, you could’ve been doing the best thing for her.”

  Philip’s mouth fell open. “You knew about that?”

  “She told me. Unfortunately, her older sister provided her with another safety net by taking her in.”