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Dartmouth, June 10
5:33 p.m.
The kitchen light was on.
Seth stood in the wet parking lot, staring at the back door of the apartment. His mouth was dry, his stomach clenched tight. Rain pelted a deafening cadence on the hood of his raincoat.
For months, Todd Dory had been a face with no name. A face Seth had seared into his brain and saw in his dreams every night. A face he’d wanted to pound with his fists until he heard the bones crunch into pieces.
He had seen that face again on TV a few weeks ago, emerging from a Halifax courthouse alongside a greasy shyster in a cheap suit and striped tie.
The news anchor told viewers, “Suspected gang member Todd Dory is a free man today. Charges of armed robbery were dropped after the Crown’s sole witness recants her testimony.”
Charges dropped. Free man. That was perfect. Seth could hardly believe his luck. Where the court failed, he would make sure Dory received his due punishment. Make him wish he had gone to prison.
Finding him in Halifax turned out to be easier than expected. Seth went online and checked the virtual white pages. It listed the address of the building Dory lived in, just not his apartment number.
In a rental car, Seth began staking out the place. He’d sit and watch for two- or three-hour stretches. Eventually, Dory showed himself, opening his door to a dark-haired woman with colorful tattoos on her arms. In that moment, Seth fought the impulse to kill him right there and then. That would’ve been a mistake; the woman was a witness. He didn’t have it in him to kill her too. She had nothing to do with this. She probably never even knew what a shit stain on humanity Todd Dory was.
Seth continued to watch him over the coming days, switching up rental cars so no one in the neighborhood would notice the same one hanging around.
He needed to learn Dory’s movements. The car he drove. Where he went. When he was home alone.
Like he was on this night.
Seth took the shotgun from the duffel bag and thumbed off the safety. Slinging the bag over his shoulder, he approached the back door. His heart pounded as he raised his fist and knocked.
A voice, hard to hear over the rain, called out from inside. “Who is it?”
“Police,” Seth said. “We received a nine-one-one disconnect at this address.”
As the words spilled from his mouth and entered the atmosphere, he wondered if the ruse would even work. Who else would you open the door to at one thirty in the morning, if not the cops thinking you were in trouble?
“Never came from here, my man.”
Seth knocked again. “We have to respond to all nine-one-one hang-ups. Open the door, please.”
It grew quiet inside.
Ten seconds passed.
Twenty.
Worried, Seth said, “Sir, I need to make sure everything is all right. If they gave me the wrong address, I need to let them know right away. Time’s a-wasting.”
Thirty seconds.
Seth heard the metallic scrape of the deadbolt sliding free, and his grip tightened on the shotgun. Adrenaline surged through his blood like fuel. He moved back a bit, unlocking his knees and bracing himself.
Dory cracked the door an inch, and Seth threw his shoulder into it, knocking it open. Dory went stumbling back, wide eyed, holding both empty palms to the air. In one fluid motion, Seth brought the shotgun up into a firing position, training the bead at the end of the barrel on Dory’s forehead.
“Whoa,” Dory said. “What the fuck?”
“I knew I’d find you,” Seth said in a voice tight with anger.
Eyes locked on his target, he swept the door shut with his foot.
Dory’s hands shook. “Easy, man. I don’t know you. Whatcha want?”
Seth’s finger tightened on the trigger. He wanted to shoot. Blow this man’s brains all over the wall behind him. Eight months he had lived for this moment. Dreamed of it.
Slowly, he took his left hand off the fore-end of the shotgun, reached up, and pulled his hood back. There was a sharp intake of breath as Dory’s mouth fell open and recognition crept into his eyes.
Seth nodded. “Now you remember.” He motioned the shotgun toward the kitchen table. “Sit the fuck down.”
Seth snapped out of his reverie. He was back on Primrose Street, sitting in a different rental car, a low-end sedan this time. Nothing too fancy for this side of town.
He had parked in the lot of a Sobeys grocery store, half a block away, choosing a spot by a maple tree with large, overhanging branches. The thick trunk blocked him from people’s view as they drove past on the street.
Seth sat in the passenger seat, like he was just waiting for someone. He wore his ball cap with the bill pulled low on his forehead. His binoculars lay by his leg, and he’d bring them up to his face whenever he saw someone go inside or come out of Blake Kaufman’s apartment building. In the time Seth had been there, three people had gone in, one had come out. None were Blake Kaufman.
As Seth looked over the apartment building, he knew it was high risk. He couldn’t go inside because someone might see him. The other seven apartments were full of witnesses. And what if Kaufman didn’t live alone like Dory had? What if there was a wife or girlfriend in there? Even worse, kids?
Seth shook his head. Kaufman was within his grasp, yet so many obstacles stood in the way. Should he just take the first opportunity to kill him? It was temptingly simple but came with a lot of uncertainty. The best option would be to get Kaufman outside somewhere, alone. Ambush him when he least expected it.
Seth saw a silver PT Cruiser come out of the parking lot. The driver hung his arm out the window, and Seth stared at it. Muscled. Clearly tattooed. As the car drew closer, Seth could make out the skull in the top hat, the smoking cigar clamped between white teeth. The man behind the wheel wore shades and a red bandana cap.
Seth’s mouth went dry. His heart raced. Utterly still, he watched Blake Kaufman drive past. So close, he thought, and no shotgun, no knife. Without them, he felt weak and powerless.
He slid over to the driver’s seat, started the engine, and swung the car around. Kaufman had stopped for the red light at the intersection of Victoria Street and Primrose. The left turn signal flashed.
Seth waited in the parking lot until the traffic light turned green then pulled out. The PT Cruiser shot forward and headed south on Victoria Road. Seth followed at a safe distance, keeping the needle below the speed limit. Three cars whipped past him and tucked in behind Kaufman.
They continued to Nantucket Avenue and straight down to the MacDonald Bridge. Kaufman eased into the traffic piled up at the toll plaza.
Seth dug a loonie from a front pocket and coasted into the far lane. The slow procession of cars ahead of him moved forward like a drive-thru lineup, creeping gradually in stops and starts. By the time Seth reached the tollbooth, Kaufman had already gone through. The dash clock read 5:52.
Seth tossed the loonie into the coin bucket, and the padded gate lifted. On the other side of the plaza, the five lanes merged into one snarled with traffic. The two opposing lanes looked even worse.
Kaufman was on the deck of the bridge now, following the slow convoy across. Seth inched closer to the single lane when a Good Samaritan waved him on. Cutting into place, he counted nine cars between him and Kaufman.
To his left, the sun glittered on the aqua water of the harbor. Seth saw a ferry pulling away from the Halifax Terminal. To his right, two sailboats were blowing down the Narrows, a bottleneck channel that connected the Halifax Harbor to the Bedford Basin. It was the same area where the two ships had collided in the Halifax Explosion back in 1917.
Seth reached the back span of the bridge, the city of Halifax looming larger in his windshield. He watched Kaufman hang a right at the first exit. It looped between the concrete pillars under the bridge and connected to Barrington Street.
Seth feared he’d soon lose him. Once Kaufman reached Barrington, he had two directions to choose from: left took him to Bedford; right took him into downtown Halifax.
Seth came around the loop. He didn’t see Kaufman anywhere. On a guess, he kept to the right and merged into the lanes toward the inner city. Traffic was much lighter going in than coming out. He signaled into the left lane and punched the gas, shooting past other cars.
Farther up the street, he saw the PT Cruiser stopped for a red light. The light changed, and Kaufman took off again. Seth edged into the right lane, following.
The road forked, and four cars in front drifted to the right, taking the on-ramp for the Cogswell Interchange, a labyrinth of concrete highways and overpasses. Kaufman continued straight toward Hollis Street and into the city’s financial district. There was a lot of historic architecture here—Neoclassic, Italianate, and Victorian Eclectic. Some buildings, empty with their windows papered over, bespoke the economic hardships and changing markets.
Kaufman turned left on George Street, heading downhill for the waterfront. Seth couldn’t make the light in time, and he smacked his palm on the steering wheel. Helpless, he watched Kaufman disappear once more.
When the light turned, Seth stomped on the gas. The good thing about Upper Water Street was that it traveled one way, eliminating any guesswork as to where Kaufman had gone.
The street buzzed with activity. People filled the sidewalks. Cars lined the curbs. Seth drove slowly, his eyes seeking out the PT Cruiser. Eventually, he spotted it again, idling at the courtyard of Historic Properties. Some dark-haired broad in a white blouse and black slacks approached the car. She carried a plastic grocery bag bulging with what looked to be takeout containers.
Seth watched her open the passenger door and hop inside. Then Kaufman sped off. Seth managed to follow him back over the bridge into Dartmouth. It became obvious Kaufman was returning home.
Seth wondered about the woman. Who was she? Kaufman’s wife? Girlfriend? Regardless, the apartment building was off-limits. No question now.
Seth would try to get Kaufman alone somewhere. Either outside the building or another location. It didn’t matter where. He would use the shotgun first. He would hold it steady and pull the trigger, aiming to maim, not to kill. Then he would use the knife.
And Blake Kaufman would be dead.
