Grave Situation (22 page)

“Purpose?”

“I believe these belong to Trixy
Ambré. She’s the prostitute who went missing a few days ago. We
don’t have a blood type listed on file for her. If the lab can
extract DNA material from these filters, we’ll not only have her
blood type, but also a genetic profile of her in case we may ever
need one to identify any remains found. God forbid.”

“We’ll need verification that it’s
her DNA.”

Allan thought a
moment. “There will be a DNA profile made up of Cathy Ambré.
Have
Serology
compare hers with Trixy’s. They’re full siblings. So on
average, the two women should have fifty percent of their DNA in
common.”

“I’ll get right on it.”

Within moments Jim came into the
room with his field kit. He used a pair of tweezers to pick out the
butts from the ashtray and place them in separate
containers.

While he did that, Allan continued
his search of the bedroom. In the dresser drawers were frilly bras,
thongs, and garter belts. Some still had the price tags on
them.

He looked under the bed and found
books and magazines, shoes and an empty suitcase he duly noted.
Near the headboard, he found two photo albums. Quickly, he looked
through them. Faces of someone’s life with no names stared out at
him. Grade school portraits of both Trixy and Cathy. Vacation
photos. Christmas photos. Two little girls in Halloween costumes:
one as a witch, the other as Cinderella. Ten people spanning three
generations captured inside a single frame.

In the closet, there were more
books on the floor, mostly romance novels. A box full of
miscellaneous items. And more shoes than anyone could ever wear in
a lifetime. Allan never understood the fetish some women had with
shoes. Melissa had been the same way.

From the hangers hung an assortment
of mini-skirts, corsets, bustiers and crop tops. At the back of the
closet was a mesh belly dancer’s costume. On the top shelf was a
gray metal box. Allan opened it and found receipts for electric and
telephone bills, Visa and MasterCard statements, various sales
slips from clothing stores.

Hands on his hips, Allan looked
around the room one last time. There was nothing more to
search.

He went out to the hallway and
walked up to Malone.

“I’m heading out now,” he
said.

“Okay, Lieutenant.” Malone gave
him the clipboard. “SIU is just about finished here.”

Allan timed out. “Enjoy your time
off.”

Malone smiled. “I will,
thanks.”

The corridor was empty of tenants.
When Allan went outside the air seemed cooler. At some point, it
had rained again. Around him came the sounds of water beating a
steady cadence in gutters.

Allan climbed behind the wheel of
his car and started the engine. Before pulling away, he checked his
spiral to verify the address of Cathy Ambré’s parents.

And here comes
possibly the worst part of all this
, he
thought, reaching for the gearshift.

26

Acresville, May 12

11:30 p.m.

A heavy chain, secured by a
padlock, was draped across the main entrance of the Acresville
Public Park. The grounds were closed at dusk. During the day the
tarmac paths were busy with couples pushing baby carriages, kids
riding bicycles, men and women out for a stroll or a jog, old men
heading to the central pond to sit on a bench and feed the
ducks.

Herb hoped everyone would be gone
by now.

He parked his pickup at the curb
outside the entrance. For a moment, he stared at a sliver of moon
above the treetops. He felt nervous, hesitant. He cranked down the
window and breathed in the fresh night air.

He wondered if he should take the
duffel bag with him. Would the park allow him the time and privacy
to do what he needed?

Can’t take the chance that it
won’t.

Slowly, he slipped out from behind
the wheel. When he closed the door, the sound carried. He thought
he heard a car and snapped around at the sound of it.

The road was empty.

He waited a moment longer,
completely still. Only the trees, giving voice to a light wind,
broke the pleasant silence.

Quickly now, he hurried across the
open lot. On the other side of the chain three tarmac paths
branched out into the woodland. Two were dark; lampposts bathed the
third.

Herb took that one.

Walking slowly, his gaze carefully
swept the area. Every ten paces or so, he would look behind him,
afraid that he might come upon someone. That was something he
wanted to avoid. The only sounds were his own breaths, the
repetition of his footsteps, accentuated by the silence.

The path was like a tunnel. The sky
was no longer visible, closed off by a canopy of branches
overhead.

Suddenly, Herb froze in mid-step.
There was something ahead, a movement. Far up the path he saw two
dark figures walking in his direction.

Herb veered to the right and
stumbled into the woods. Arms raised to protect his face, he
entered a close stand of spruce and pine. All around him he could
smell the tangy forest mast. He could see almost nothing. The
trees, so thick at their tops, allowed no moonlight to filter
through. In the deeper depths of the woods, the blackness seemed
absolute. Only the light from the path afforded him a few yards of
sight.

Moving carefully, he stepped over a
length of deadfall, trying hard not to make a sound. He crouched
behind it, waiting, listening, trying hard to breathe
evenly.

Did they see me?

A drop of sweat slipped into an
eye, stinging as he rubbed at it.

From the path came the sounds of
scuffing footsteps and of voices, one talking, the other laughing.
Eyes narrowed, Herb spotted the two figures through a latticework
of branches.

As they got closer, their profiles
became clearer. They were teenaged males, wearing ball caps,
oversized T-shirts and baggy jeans with dropped crotches. The one
on the inside smoked a cigarette.

Herb didn’t move or make a sound as
he watched them.

They walked past, not even casting
a glance in his direction, and soon Herb lost sight of them. The
sounds of their voices and footsteps faded and all was quiet
again.

Herb rose to his feet and began to
fumble his way back to the path. After reaching it, he looked
around. Nobody.

He continued on. As he touched it,
the feel of the knife through his shirt bolstered his
purpose.

The path ended at a moon-drenched
clearing. Herb wiped the sweat from his face. His watch read
11:52.

Straight across the clearing a
gentle rise centered the park. On the top sat a bandstand, with its
pitched roof silhouetted against the backdrop of sky.

Herb followed a garden path that
cut through a circular bed of tulips blooming in a riot of color.
He climbed to the top of the hill and dropped to a crouch a few
feet from the bandstand. From here he could see much of the
park.

On the opposite side of the hill,
there was the park’s central man-made pond; the dark shape of a
footbridge arced over it. Under the moonlight, the water was smooth
and reflective, black as obsidian.

Herb’s gaze wandered further and
then settled on the dark shape of a bench across the pond. Upon it
lay an indistinguishable mass.

He swallowed.

He stood up and his shadow fell
across the ground beside him, spiked by the grass. He started down
the slope to the bridge. The echo of his footsteps followed him
across.

Closer now, the mass on the bench
took on human form, a vagrant dressed in a ragged trench coat and
legs covered with a blanket of newspapers.

A sudden cough cut through the
still air.

Herb paused, watching the poor man
beginning to stir. The vagrant raised his head, held it there. Even
though Herb couldn’t see the man’s eyes through the textured dark,
he knew he’d been spotted.

For a moment, the pair regarded
each other; neither moved.

Herb turned away. He realized that
he could leave before it was too late. If he went through with
this, there would be no going back.

Slowly, he walked to the bridge. He
hoped the vagrant would follow, would come begging.

Another cough.

Herb heard the man groaning,
struggling to his feet, the newspapers crumpling to the
ground.

“H-hey, b-buddy.” The vagrant’s
voice was hoarse, labored.

Instinctively, Herb’s fingers
grazed the handle of the knife through the fabric of his shirt. His
heart drummed in his ears.

Halfway across the bridge, he
stopped and put his hands on the parapet. He looked down over the
edge at dark water below. Huddled together in the shallows of the
pond was a polyglot of mallards, teals and black ducks.

Senses alert, Herb became aware of
many sounds around him—the faraway barking of a dog, the whine of a
tractor trailer streaming down the 104. Nearby, the blast of a
car’s horn, answered by another and closer still, the gust of
laughter.

Herb cocked his head toward the
sound.

The kids again?

With narrowing eyes, he searched
the trees on the far side of the pond for signs of movement.
Suddenly, out of the dark, flared the orange tip of a cigarette.
Herb could just make out two shadowy figures standing
there.

Beneath him the bridge vibrated
with footsteps.

“Hey, buddy.”

Mind filled with fear and
calculation, Herb turned to face the vagrant.

As he spoke, his mouth was dry.
“How are you doing, friend?”

“Good.” The man held out a hand.
“Couldja spare a dollar? You take with you what you give to the
poor when you die.”

Herb feigned a smile.

Is that so?

He fished a twoonie from his pants
pocket and handed it to the man. With a curt nod, the vagrant took
the two-dollar coin.

“Thank you.” The twoonie clinked
as he dropped it into a coat pocket.

“I have a better proposition for
you,” Herb said. “How about a nice warm meal, a soft pillow to rest
your head on? There’s a lot of rain coming tonight. You shouldn’t
be out in it.”

The vagrant moved closer, looking
up into Herb’s face. Five feet separated them now. Herb watched the
man’s mouth parting, the slow recognition creeping into his
eyes.

“I know
you
,” the vagrant said.
“You gave me a lift into town on Monday.”

All at once, Herb realized that
he’d just crossed the line. He couldn’t turn back now.

“I got talking to my wife about
you.” Inwardly, this stranger who couldn’t possibly be him, smiled
at the sinfulness of the lie. “She does some volunteer work at one
of the homeless shelters in Halifax. Cooks meals. Stuff like that.
She made a big stew for supper. Lots of leftovers. What do you
say?”

The vagrant blinked, pausing a
moment. An instinct for caution.

Sensing this, Herb tried to make
his voice sound persuasive. “C’mon, friend. We’d love to have
you.”

The man’s eyes brightened. He
smiled, lips parted, revealing crooked teeth.

With a measured undertone, he
asked, “And a hot bath too?”

Herb chuckled. “Why
not?”

He glanced sideways, searching the
far side of the pond for the two figures. But he saw nothing, heard
no voices. Only when he scanned the area a second time was he sure
they were gone.

Where?

Herb knew that he couldn’t risk
running into them on the way out. One glimpse and this would be all
over.

Footsteps on the bridge pulled his
attention back to the vagrant. The man was shuffling toward the
bench.

Worried, Herb called after him.
“You don’t want to come out?”

The vagrant paused, turned to him.
“Just have to get something.”

A cloud crept across the face of
the moon and the man seemed to merge with the new fallen darkness.
Herb could just see his dim profile reaching for something beneath
the bench. Even before he saw it there came the rattle of bottles
and cans. The vagrant started back, an outline with a bag slung
over his shoulder.

Together, the two men crossed the
bridge, topped the summit of the hill, and then made their way down
the other side. The sky opened and moonlight soaked the area
again.

There was no one around but
them.

As they reached the lighted path,
Herb checked the time—fifteen minutes past midnight. With each step
closer to the parking lot, the mounting tension chafed Herb’s
nerves, tightened his muscles. His pulse raced in his
neck.

On the street his pickup was a dark
shape. There were no other cars around.