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Halifax, May 9
5:02 a.m.
“Security,” a voice said from outside his window.
Security. Not the police. For that Hoss was grateful.
Fumbling, he wound down the glass separating them. With his other hand, he slowly removed the knife from the bag, concealing it by his side.
Because of the light in his face, he couldn’t get a good look at the guard. But he sounded young. Maybe early- to midtwenties.
“What’re you doing down here at this hour?” the guard asked.
Hoss said, “Sorry, man. Just stopped here to catch a nap.”
“A nap. Here?”
“Yeah.”
“You been drinking?”
“No.”
The light left his face, and Hoss could now see the guard better. He’d been right—the guard looked to be about twenty-five, with short brown hair and a neatly trimmed moustache. He wore a black jacket, white shirt, and navy-blue trousers. A two-way radio was clipped to his duty belt.
The guard gave him a long, level stare. “How long have you been here?”
Hoss winced at the time. 5:04.
“An hour, maybe.”
“Can I see some identification?”
With some hesitance, Hoss reached into his back pocket and removed his wallet. He took out his driver’s license, handing it to the guard.
“Acresville,” the guard said. “You’re a long way from home, Mister.”
“A few miles, yeah.”
“What’s your business in Halifax?”
“I was at the casino.”
“They have rooms, you know.”
Hoss gave a light twitch of his shoulders. “Couldn’t afford one. I lost all my money on the craps table.”
The corner of the guard’s mouth lifted a bit. He jabbed the flashlight into the pickup, moving the beam around. Muscles tight, Hoss watched the light glide over the heap of clothes, the purse, and the duffel bag. He felt the weight of the knife in his hand, the moisture of his palms against the handle.
The flashlight came to Hoss, making him squint.
“Whose clothes are those?” the guard prodded.
Snapshot images. A hand jutting out of black water. Clutched fingers.
Hoss wondered how long it would take for the body to surface. Days? Weeks? Would the hooker be forever lost to the Atlantic?
“Sir?”
“My...” Hoss cleared his throat. “My girlfriend’s.”
The guard fell quiet for a moment. “Well, you can’t be hanging around down here. I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
Hoss gave him a nod. “Sure thing.”
The guard walked away without another word. In the side mirror, Hoss watched the dark figure round the back of the pickup, light bobbing over the pavement in front of him. His movements were slow, hesitant. Hoss turned toward the rearview mirror. The guard lingered near the tailgate, aiming the beam down at the license plate. Chest pounding, Hoss saw him reach into his jacket and produce a notebook. The guard was going to record his plate number.
Hoss saw his life, with his future hanging in the balance, concentrating itself on this guard and that notebook in his hand. If the body of Trixy Ambré washed ashore somewhere, Hoss could become a suspect. They would know he wasn’t from Halifax, a stranger with no connections here.
He imagined the police, guns drawn, storming his farmhouse, clapping handcuffs on his wrists, grilling him with their questions. He would remain steadfast in his innocence. Deny everything to the bitter end.
But the cops could uncover the rest—a case beyond their imaginations.
Suddenly, he saw the avalanche of consequence—the loss of his property, his name and face plastered all over the news, scorned by a society of hypocrites, locked away behind bars like an animal. Trapped. Afraid. Alone. Much as he had felt as a child.
Hoss looked back at the rearview mirror. The guard was stuffing the notebook into his jacket. Hoss forced his mind to go cold. Knife in hand, he stepped outside.
When he came around the back of the truck, the guard shot the beam at him, backing up a bit.
Hoss asked, “What’s the problem?”
“What’d you mean?”
Hoss concealed the blade behind his leg. “Why are you recording my plate number?”
The guard lowered the flashlight. The two men stood facing each other. Six feet of grainy darkness separated them. Through it, Hoss saw the guard’s face was tight with fear and strategy.
“Just precautions.” A tremor carried his words. “If you don’t leave, I’m getting the police down here.”
Slowly, Hoss took a step forward, then another. “No, that’s not going to happen.”
The guard put up a hand. “Stand down, Mister. Don’t make me get on the radio.”
Hoss ignored him. He moved closer still.
Four feet.
Three.
He could see the guard’s throat working, the flitting movements of his eyes, the stiff shrinking away of his body, as if he were ready to run. To Hoss, he looked pathetic, a coward.
“Sir...”
Hoss brought the knife out from behind his leg. The steel blade flashed.
A frightful understanding registered in the guard’s eyes. His mouth formed words with no sound. Scrabbling at his side for the radio, he turned to run. With lightning quickness, Hoss was upon him, driving the knife between the guard’s shoulder blades.
The guard’s scream shot through the air.
The next few moments passed in slow motion. Back tensed, the guard toppled forward, arms flailing. Hitting the pavement face first. Another sound, one of glass shattering as the flashlight tumbled across the parking lot.
Hoss stood over the guard, watching the pedaling movements his legs made. Gurgling sounds came from the guard’s throat.
The knife was lodged in his back.
Hoss squatted beside him. He gave a quick glance around the lot, along with the empty streets. He knew he had no time to dispose of the body. At any moment, the headlights of a passing car could expose him.
After patting the guard down with the backs of his hands, Hoss found the shape of the notebook hidden in his jacket. Carefully, he slipped it out. In the semidarkness, the notebook shook in his hands as he began turning pages. It was a journal containing a chronological list of dates, times, and observations the guard had made during his shifts. At the last entry, Hoss stopped abruptly. The handwriting was scribble, that of a man hurrying to record facts.
Date: Sunday, May 9, 2010
Time: 5:08 am
Location: Impark lot, Lower Water St.
Man is 6 feet, possibly a little taller. Was sitting down. Hard to tell. Heavyset build, muscular. Short wavy brown hair. Brown eyes. Pale complexion. Clean-shaven. No distinctive features. Wearing a black T-shirt and jeans. A gold-framed watch with Roman numerals.
Hoss felt himself swallow as he read the next few sentences.
Man acted very suspiciously. Sitting alone in his truck with a poor excuse to be there. A navy-blue sport-like bag and female clothing he claimed belonged to his girlfriend were inside.
The entry went on to give his name, describe the make and model of Hoss’s truck. Below that, his license plate number.
Hoss scowled. He closed the notebook with a snap and shoved it into his back pocket. Then he drew his face close to the guard’s ear. Only then did he see and hear the blood bubbling on the man’s parted lips.
“You should’ve left it alone,” Hoss whispered. “Now look at ya.”
He saw the guard’s stricken gaze turn toward the sound of his voice. His legs no longer pedaled. Instead, they just made slight spastic movements.
Hoss placed one fist on the guard’s shoulder for support and reached for the knife. Through the handle, he could feel the blade throb, as if with its own life. With one powerful tug, he wrenched it free.
The guard let out a moan so low it was barely audible. A gush of blood flowed from his mouth, and then he lay still. Hoss watched as the guard died in front of him. He felt no pity, no regret. The guard had only meant to destroy him and to possibly reap the accolades for doing so.
Hoss wiped the blade off on the guard’s jacket and stood up. Without looking back, he walked to his truck, got inside. The engine started. Headlights off, he turned around. When he reached the corner of Lower Water Street, he took a left and turned the lights on.
The guard had changed his escape route. Hoss realized someone would soon discover the body. He imagined police vehicles swarming the waterfront, the shrill cry of sirens splitting the air, the incessant blue-and-red strobe reflecting off the buildings. He knew he couldn’t go back over the MacDonald Bridge. The guards at the tollbooths might remember him—a lone man who perhaps looked out of place, in a hurry to get somewhere at such an early-morning hour. There could be no witnesses.
Hoss was unsure of how to get out of Halifax. The streets and lights seemed to close in on him. A maze that both trapped and confused him. Signs had no meaning. The refuge of his farmhouse in Acresville felt a thousand miles away.
Near panic, he stopped at the curb past Historic Properties on Upper Water Street to check his map. He found a route leading into Bedford and then to the 102 Highway. By memory, he drove toward it. Blocks passed without notice. His thoughts were filled with images of the hooker drowning in the harbor and the guard twitching on the pavement.
Up ahead, signs directed where he should go. Within minutes he skirted the Bedford Basin and left Halifax behind.
On the horizon the first light of dawn touched the sky.
