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Halifax, May 25
3:55 p.m.
As Allan slowed his car for the lineup of traffic at the tollbooths for the MacDonald Bridge, he glanced at Galloway’s card on the dash. Much of the trip from Acresville had taken place without his awareness; preoccupied with his interview with her, he had driven mainly on instinct.
Perhaps he should call Galloway again to discuss the other problems that he’d been having—the difficult time he had since Melissa left with Brian; the loneliness of being single again; the job that was taking its toll on him.
Before he could do that, however, there remained a more pressing issue at hand.
The car ahead of him drove off as the gate lifted, and Allan pulled up to the coin bucket, tossing in three quarters. He crossed the MacDonald Bridge into Halifax, bothered by something he couldn’t put his finger on, filled with a sense of uncertainty and premonition.
The day was dark, overcast. A light but steady rain fell. In the clouds were flashes of lightning, faint rumblings of thunder, the weather strangely mimicking the dreary mood he was in.
The traffic moved at a snail’s pace. It took Allan fifteen minutes to reach the home of Frank and Barbara Hawkins. When they didn’t answer their door, he phoned them and left a voice message, asking them to call him as soon as possible. He had important information regarding the case of their son, Brad.
Allan then drove to an affluent neighborhood in the south end of Halifax to confront the melancholic task of visiting Philip and Carol Ambré once more.
Philip answered the door. He looked weary and haggard, even more so than he had at Cathy’s funeral. His clothes hung loosely off his frame, as if he were withering away from the inside out. When he saw Allan, a brief glint of surprise appeared in his eyes.
“Detective Stanton. I never thought I’d see you again.”
Allan looked into Philip’s ravaged face. “Hello, Mr. Ambré. I have some news to tell you.”
Philip’s expression changed but slightly, a narrowing of his eyes. He drew aside, stepping back into the house. “Please, come in.”
Allan entered the foyer. “Is Carol home?”
Philip shook his head. “She’s sleeping.” He closed the door behind them. “The doctor has her on a sedative.”
For Allan, the words carried a sense of hopelessness, an inability to fully comprehend what had happened to them.
“What did you want to tell me?” Philip asked.
“We caught up with the man responsible for murdering Cynthia.”
Philip stood straighter. “Who is he?”
“His name was Herbert Matteau. A dairy farmer from Acresville.”
“You speak of him in the past tense.”
Allan nodded. “He was killed in a shootout with us yesterday.”
“I heard about a shooting on the news last night, but they didn’t say what it was about.”
“That’s because we’re not releasing much information right now. The investigation is still ongoing.”
Philip’s mouth formed a small “o.”
Allan watched him take this in. Beneath Philip’s grim expression, he saw a certain brightness and satisfaction appear.
“What was this man’s connection with my daughter?” Philip asked him. “Was he a customer of hers?”
“There was no prior connection, Mr. Ambré,” Allan said. “This man was angry at the world. He came to Halifax one night looking for a victim. Unfortunately, he found Cynthia.”
Philip winced and briefly shut his eyes. “It might sound harsh, but I’m glad the fucker is dead. At least my tax dollar won’t pay to keep him in one of our cushy prisons.”
“I understand.” Allan held out his hand. “I have to head back to my department now. You take care of yourself.”
Philip accepted the hand with a firm grip. “Thank you, Detective. For everything you did. You’re a good cop.”
Allan suddenly felt sad. He gave him an appreciative nod and then stepped outside into the rain. As he walked back to his car, he realized Herb Matteau’s death had spared the Ambrés from being dragged through years of an upside-down court process that often treated criminals better than their victims. At least now they could somehow begin that long road of pain and recovery.
Allan reached his department at 4:51. He shut off his car in the parking lot and just sat there for a while, not moving. The rain beat an even rhythm on the roof.
Through the streaked windshield, he stared at the blurred shape of the brick building where he had worked for the past twelve years.
He inhaled a deep breath, let it out in one long exhalation. His life was about to change, and he didn’t know if for better or for worse.
He got out of the car and walked across the wet pavement with slow steps. The last ten or so feet to the department seemed like a great distance. Once inside he went straight to Captain Thorne’s office.
Outside the door, Allan paused a moment to ensure that he was set. Then he knocked.
“Come in,” Thorne said.
Allan found Thorne studiously hunched over his desk, his gaze jumping over a heap of paperwork. His office was spacious, ornate, with a mass of windows overlooking Gottingen Street.
“Al.” Rising from his desk, Thorne held out his hand. “Great job.”
“Thanks, Captain.” Allan gave him a weak handshake. “It got scary yesterday.”
Thorne sat down, and his voice became soft. “I can imagine. It’s not easy shooting someone. Self-defense or not. I just want to let you know the department’s behind you.”
Allan swallowed over a hard lump growing in his throat. “I appreciate that.”
“How’re you making out?”
“Doing okay.”
“Chief Brantford called me earlier and commended you. I must say it was the weirdest case in our department’s history.” Thorne sat back with a look of astonishment on his face. “Who would’ve ever thought Lawrence Sodero was behind the whole thing. I bet Coulter is still in shock over it.”
Allan said, “Goes to show that you really don’t know anyone these days. I think Coulter will be a little more cautious about who he hires in the future.”
“I bet.”
For a moment, Allan looked down at his shoes. There was so much he’d come here to say, but now faced with the task, he found it difficult. He walked to the windows, gazing out at the steady flow of traffic on Gottingen.
Finally, he said, “There’s something I need to talk to you about, Captain.”
“Sure. What is it?”
Allan turned to him. “I’ve been thinking of leaving the force.”
Thorne blinked. “What? Why?”
Allan exhaled, feeling sick inside. “I can’t do this job anymore.”
“What do you mean? When did this all start?”
“A few months ago. Maybe longer.”
Thorne seemed to consider him. “How bad is it getting to you?”
“So bad that I feel like the job is killing me,” Allan said. “My wife left me. My son might have nothing to do with me again. I can’t sleep. I can’t concentrate.”
“Do you think it’s more about the loss of your family than your job?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it is. But how can I be sure?”
Thorne gave him a quiet look of understanding. “Have you been seeing someone about it?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Allan spread his hands. “I don’t know.”
“We have counselors for this sort of thing.”
“I know. I spoke to one this morning.”
“Did you mention any of this?”
Allan shook his head. “No. The interview dealt mainly with the shooting yesterday.”
“I think you need to see someone, Al.”
“I think I just need to get away from the job, Captain.”
Thorne lowered his head, thinking. Allan’s mouth felt dry, his palms damp. The office was silent now; neither man spoke.
At last, Thorne raised his eyes. “Before you do anything rash, how about taking some time off? A few weeks. I’ll put you on leave. After the shooting yesterday, it’s to be expected. Don’t throw away your career, Al. You’re good at this. Whether you think you are or not.”
Torn, Allan paused a moment to consider the offer. “All right. I need to wrap up this investigation first.”
“Sounds good.”
Allan turned for the door to leave. Behind him he heard Thorne rise from his chair.
“I’ll give you three weeks,” he said. “If you need more time, just let me know.”
“Thanks.” Allan nodded once and then left.
He went to his office, closed the door, and sat at his desk. Resting his forehead on clasped hands, he shut his eyes. Outside, the rain was pouring now, big fat drops that pounded the windowpane.
When Allan opened his eyes again, he stared at the picture of Brian smiling at him from the edge of the desk.
Allan missed him. He wanted to see him. He needed to see him. Life was short and so damn uncertain. It could change in a heartbeat.
Allan picked up the phone and called Air Canada. He told the agent who answered that he wanted to book a flight to Toronto.
She asked, “When do you want it, sir?”
Allan considered the date. Brian’s birthday was coming up. Allan would like to be there by then, if not before. Could he wrap up this whole bizarre case in time?
“Let’s book it for June eighth,” he said.
That would be two days before Brian’s birthday.
When he hung up, he sat back in his chair. And for the first time in a long time, he felt himself smile.
