Grave Situation (2 page)

“If there are any new
developments, you’ll be the first to hear,” he told her. “If, for
any reason, you need someone just to talk to, please feel free to
call me anytime.”

“I appreciate that.”

“Take care, Mrs.
Driscow.”

“Good-bye, Lieutenant.”

Allan put down the phone. For a
long time, he just sat there, slumped in his chair. He knew with
quiet chagrin that unless some promising tip came in soon, the Mary
Driscow case would be filed away with the rest of the cold case
files.

He looked at the pile of photos on
his desk again. They weren’t going to reveal something he failed to
notice before. No matter how many times he studied them, the same
young woman with the same forlorn look gazed back.

One by one, he put the photos back
inside the manila envelope. Then he picked a pen and, after a few
corrections, began to draft his report.

2

Acresville, May 8

7:25 p.m.

God, grant me the serenity to
accept the things I cannot change; the courage to change the things
I can; and the wisdom to know the difference.

After he opened his eyes, he gazed
down at the hunting knife in his calloused hand and struggled to
imagine the role it would play in the job ahead. Once completed, he
would leave behind all that defined who he had been.

He found it eerie to hold the
instrument responsible for changing the course of his life—a
specter from his darkest past that now shadowed him with
foreboding. Eighteen years ago, some other person—desperate,
trapped by circumstance—had used this knife. Once more, he felt,
that same person would use it again.

Shirtless in overalls, he sat on
the top step of his veranda, forearms resting on his knees. Through
the screen door behind him came the sounds of a radio—music, news
of a world in turmoil, a promise of more hot weather.

The lower part of the sun seemed to
touch the top of the mountain range. Here and there, wisps of
cirrus clouds streaked the sky, white brush strokes on
blue.

Earlier, the day burned bright and
hot, the air so heavy with humidity it wrung sweat from pores.
Shimmering waves had risen off pavement, off rooftops. Though many
fine residents of the province reveled in the unseasonable heat
wave, he preferred the wind and the rain. The kind of weather that
made people hurry along with their necks sunk between their
upturned collars, the kind of weather when no one would bother to
stop to take notice of what other people were doing—the kind of
weather that would make his job tonight a lot easier.

Beside him lay a large rectangular
block of novaculite mounted to a cedar base. Already wet with
mineral oil, the stone’s surface glistened in the waning light.
With slow deliberation, he moved the knife’s cutting edge across
the stone in a sweeping arc, following the curve of the blade.
After ten passes, he flipped the knife over and repeated the
procedure on the other side. When he finished, he carefully ran his
thumb across the blade, testing its sharpness. A smile of
satisfaction formed on his lips.

Perfect.

He fished a handkerchief from his
back pocket and cleaned the grit off the blade and stone before
putting everything aside.

He rose to his feet and stepped
down off the porch onto the grass. The front lawn was deep, not
very wide with a stone walk and a pair of large maple trees. The
sprawling farmhouse had fallen into neglect. It cried for a fresh
coat of paint, repairs to the roof.

He stared out at Acresville in the
distance. From here, the entire town could be seen—a postcard
village tucked amidst the Cobequid Mountains. It was a rural
community that bred wholesome values, where religion and a person’s
name meant something.

His gaze traced a line to where his
driveway climbed a slight grade to the open end of a barn next to
the house. There were some pigeons inside, feeding on the grain
strewn across the cement floor. In the silence he could hear others
cooing from the overhead loft.

He took slow steps to the backyard
and stopped at a heavy iron gate hinged on one side to a thick
wooden post. He inhaled deeply, savoring the smells of manure,
silage and wood. Beyond the gate lay rolling pastures of green,
divided into three sections by barbed wire fences. The hills cast
lengthening shadows and a steady silent wind rode over the slopes,
gently pushing the grass in currents.

Off to his left, another gate
opened to a feedlot next to the barn. A metal trough sat in the
middle. Cattle tracks rutted the soil around it.

Staring at them, he swallowed over
a lump in his throat. He turned back to the pastures and gazed
across the open expanse. For the first time in his memory, the farm
seemed depressingly empty.

Dairying hadn’t been his first
choice in life. Growing up, his ambitions were simple—leave
Acresville and put the place behind him forever. Then one fateful
autumn day had changed all that. Consequences, in turn, would keep
him from leaving.

He placed both hands on the gate
and lowered his head. For a moment, his eyes grew distant with the
relived tragedy. The sense of loss was still palpable as he
recalled the livestock transporter pulling away with the last of
his cattle.

The
headline
“Local Farmer Fined For Dirty
Dairying”
still haunted him. In his
paranoia, he imagined the local townspeople laughing at him, a
target of ridicule, much like he had been as a
child.

A slow, sick anger welled up inside
him and his grip tightened on the gate. He raised his chin in
defiance. He mustn’t dwell on what had happened. To do so would
only drive him crazy. It was time for a new beginning—the end of
one life, the start of another.

He returned to the front of the
house and gathered up his things from the step. Then he went
inside, the screen door bouncing off the jamb behind him. He
crossed the living room to the kitchen. On the table lay a black
leather sheath. After picking it up, he slid the knife into
it.

A black duffel bag rested on the
floor. He had it already packed with everything he needed to
complete tonight’s job: cuticle scissors, a spoon, a small mason
jar filled with a watery preservative, rags for cleanup, and a
flashlight. He put the knife inside the bag and zipped
it.

He began to pace the floor in tight
circles, nervous, unsure of how everything would turn out. To calm
himself, he poured a glassful of whiskey and walked to the kitchen
counter. Peering out the window that overlooked the backyard, he
saw the last edge of sun had nearly retreated behind the mountains,
leaving the horizon tinged red and indigo.

Soon the sky would dim to
gray.

Soon it would be time for someone
to die.

3

Halifax, May 8

17:15 p.m.

Allan felt tired, discouraged even,
as he drove home. Earlier that afternoon, departmental brass
decided to put the Mary Driscow case on the back burner. Allan
would continue to review any new information as it
materialized.

A sense of failure lingered—a
murderer still walked the streets. Allan saw a long road ahead
before he would be able to live with the frustrations and
ambiguities of the investigation. He’d never put so much effort
into solving a case. Yet it seemed the greater the effort, the
greater the frustration.

Traffic was bumper to bumper.
Inching his way west along Cogswell Street, Allan looked at the
pedestrians on the sidewalks. Men and women in T-shirts, tank tops
and shorts. Businessmen in suits. Off to the right on the North
Common, oiled bodies tanned on blankets. Kids tossed a Frisbee back
and forth. Everyone seemed to be out enjoying the nice weather.
Everyone but him.

After edging into the outer lane,
Allan cut south onto Robie Street. In moments, he reached Garden
Street—a neighborhood of mature trees and well-tended
lawns.

Home sweet
home
, he thought
moodily.

He turned into the paved drive of
his two-story home and cut the engine. He stepped out and squinted
into the late afternoon sun. The smell of someone’s barbecue wafted
in the air. Children’s shrill laughter came from next
door.

Allan walked to the front box to
check for mail. He thumbed through a few bills and then stopped at
a letter postmarked from Toronto, Ontario. The scrawl on the front
reflected a child’s untrained hand. Allan smiled fondly.

Brian.

Quickly, he tore open the envelope
and unfolded the letter inside:

Dear Dad,

How are you? I am good. Mom is
helping me write this letter. I called you three times. You were
not home. I miss you. I want to come down next week to see you and
Buddy. I do not have school on Monday, May 24. Is it ok? Mom is
sending me down on the airplane. I am so happy. I can stay for 3
days. Please call me.

Love,

Brian

Allan folded the letter and slipped
it back inside the envelope.

It sure is okay, son.

He stared at the driveway with his
jaw clenched tight. Unbidden, a memory flashed in his mind. Like
pieces of a filmstrip, he watched an image of a special time unfold
before him. It was a Saturday afternoon in June. The sky was clear,
the sun lava-white. Melissa, his wife of seven years, watered her
begonias along the front of the house, while Allan stood in the
driveway with Brian. He had just bought his son a new bicycle for
his sixth birthday. It was to be Brian’s first time on a bike
without training wheels.

Allan held onto the handlebars and
seat as Brian tried to get a feel for the bike. The boy balanced
himself and peddled his little legs. He started down the driveway
with his father still holding on. Confident in his son’s ability,
Allan let go. For a moment, Brian rode awkwardly.

“Look, Dad,” he yelled
enthusiastically. “Look.”

Then he fell to the lawn by the
drive.

Allan’s thoughts snapped back to
the present. In a pensive mood he started around the house for the
back door. He found Buddy, a Chantilly with bright yellow eyes and
a mottled coat of white and cinnamon, waiting patiently inside for
him. With a loud mew, the cat slinked between Allan’s legs,
brushing its head against his shin and leaving scattered hairs on
his pant leg.

“What’s the matter, Buddy? You
hungry?”

Another mew.

Allan looked at
the dishes on the floor; both were empty. He scooped a can
of
Friskies
into
one, poured fresh water into the other. As Buddy settled down to
his supper, Allan put Brian’s letter on the
table.

He went upstairs to his bedroom and
put his gun away in a safe hidden in the closet. He took his pager
off his belt and placed it on the night table. Whenever it chirped,
Allan’s heart would start racing. Either someone was dead or
dying.

He walked down the hall to the
bathroom and doused his face with cold water. He sputtered, doused
again, and then reached blindly for a towel. After drying off, he
hung the towel over the bar next to the sink, took hold of the
porcelain basin, and stared into the mirror, into the hard face of
a man beginning to show his age. He appeared exhausted and drawn.
Perhaps even a bit haggard. Dark crescents stained his eyes. It
seemed like forever since he had a good night’s sleep.

After a light supper of soup and
tea, he sat down in the living room to call his son.

Last fall, shortly after he and
Melissa had separated, she accepted a management job at a retail
store in Toronto. That was fine. It was her chance at a new life, a
chance for success, but she decided to take Brian with her and that
bothered Allan. He couldn’t imagine life without his son around. At
least in Halifax, Brian was close and Allan had his weekend
visitation rights. Now he would have to wait for holidays and
summer vacations. He couldn’t help but feel that he’d miss a great
part of his son’s life.

On the third ring, Melissa
answered. Allan tensed as he heard the familiar voice of the woman
who had been his wife.

“Hello,” she repeated,
louder.

At last, he spoke, “Hi,
Melissa.”

A pause. “Al? It’s been a while.
How have you been?”

“Great,” he lied.
“Yourself?”

“Fine. I’m doing fine.”

An uneasy silence
followed.

Why do I find it so hard talking to
her?

For a brief, depressing moment, he
thought about the chasm that had developed between them.

“I received Brian’s letter today,”
he said. “He says he wants to come down for a visit.”

“Yes, he does. I think he’s a bit
homesick. I told him that I’d fly him down for the Victoria Day
weekend. He’s a brave little guy. Not afraid to go on the plane by
himself. A stewardess will look after him on his flight down. Is it
ok?”