Grave Situation (16 page)

After a second mouthful, he began
to feel the pleasant glow that would numb his feelings and help him
forget, if only briefly, who he was and who he had been. Unable to
control himself, he emptied the flask in one long
swallow.

He reached for the wallet in his
back pocket. In another time, he vaguely remembered it being
stuffed with money. On this day it contained a single five-dollar
bill, given to him by a generous couple at the park. Added with the
change already collected today, he knew he had enough for another
bottle of wine.

He stuffed the wallet back in his
pocket and picked up the garbage bag when a sharp pang in his right
side came without warning. Piercing, agonizing, it doubled him
over. The bag fell from his grip, sending the cans inside to go
rolling over the pocked road.

He braced one hand on a knee to
keep from falling over. Just when the pain seemed to ease up, a
spike of fire ripped through his abdomen. The man slid to the
pavement to his hands and knees and crawled a few feet just before
the nausea rose to his mouth. He vomited into the ditch until
nothing more came up. When at last the dry heaves stopped, he
rolled over onto his back, shuddering.

He should really see a doctor, he
thought. The sudden pain, extreme at times, seemed to occur only
lately and suspiciously after he drank alcohol.

Could it be the cheap
wine?

For a moment more, he lay there.
After the pain subsided to a dull ache, he sat up. He could feel
the queasiness still lurking in his system. His throat was raw, his
mouth sour. He spit twice and wiped his lips with the back of a
hand. Would he have the energy to make it back to town?

A breeze, light as a breath,
touched his face. It did nothing to cool the heat, only stirred it
around a little, rustled the grass and shifted the dust. Movement
drew his eyes to the sky and he saw a flock of tiny birds, dipping
low as a single mass and then landing in the meadow ahead of him.
Fanning out, they began stabbing at the earth with their beaks. He
could faintly hear their low-pitched twittering.

The vagrant pulled up his knees and
lowered his head. In the distance he heard another vehicle
approaching. A blue pickup this time, in the other lane.

He watched it.

A thumb never worked on these
country roads. He had tried to hitch a ride many times before, but
hardly anyone ever stopped. Either the people were in too much of a
hurry or were too afraid to pick him up.

He felt a gust of air sweep over
him as the truck drove past. Just down the road, the brake lights
came on and the pickup slowed to a stop. In the side mirror the
male face of the driver appeared, looking back at him. The engine
shifted and the truck began backing up.

Wheels crunched on the graveled
shoulder as the truck pulled off the road directly across from the
vagrant. The driver’s door swung open and a powerful-looking man
emerged. He was wide in the shoulders and thick in the chest with
wavy brown hair. Thrusting square jaw. The stranger wore gray
coveralls over a white T-shirt.

He stepped to the centerline,
regarding the cans scattered over the pavement. Against his back,
the sun’s glare made him seem slimmer than he was.

“You okay, friend?” he
asked.

“Just a little tired,” the vagrant
said. “Too hot for me today.” He got to his feet. His head felt
dizzy, his stomach clenched. He hoped he would not get sick again.
Facing the stranger, he found himself squinting at the
sunlight.

“I think it’s a bit too hot for
everyone,” the stranger remarked. “They’re calling for cooler
temperatures in a day or so.” Kneeling, he started picking up the
cans.

The vagrant shuffled
closer.

“You a farmer?” he
asked.

The man paused, half turned to him.
A brief hurt seemed to surface in his eyes.

When at last he answered, there was
a hesitance in his voice and a sadness that hinted at something
deeper, “Yes. Yes, I am.” He carried an armful of cans to the bag
and dumped them inside. “Is there anything I can do for
you?”

“You can give a poor man a lift
back to town.”

The stranger gestured with his
hand. “Sure, I can. Come and hop in.” He took the bag to his pickup
and set it in the bed near the tailgate.

After crossing to the truck, the
vagrant walked to the passenger door and climbed inside. He settled
back in the seat and shut his eyes, basking in the Arctic air
flowing from the vents. Turned low, Reba McEntire was singing on
the radio, asking how was she to know.

He felt the pickup start off,
accelerating to what seemed to be a high speed. The man opened his
eyes and watched the needle climb to over eighty kilometers an
hour. The stranger’s eyes remained focused on the road. In profile,
he was quiet, studious, a man absorbed in his own thoughts. There
was a stiffness in the way he sat.

Around them, the open farmland
ended and a sharp projection of the Cobequid Mountains moved in to
hug the road, throwing dappled shadows across the pavement. The
sides of the mountains were shrouded with a lush mix of birch,
maple and fir. To the right, a river snaked in and out of the
trees, its rippling surface dancing with sunlight.

Less than a mile further, the road
took a gradual climb and then swept downhill to a quaint township
tucked in the valley. A sign at the side of the road welcomed them
to Acresville. Sidewalks and houses marked the beginning of the
community.

The stranger glanced over. “Where
would you like to be dropped off?”

The vagrant hesitated. He wanted a
drink, but didn’t know if his stomach would handle it.

“Anywhere on Preston,” he said at
last.

Signaling left, the stranger braked
for a red light strung over an intersection. Once it turned green
the two men continued driving into the downtown core where most of
the buildings leaned toward wood over brick or stone. All were
built in the late 1800’s. There was heritage to protect, tradition
to maintain. The streets were lined with old-fashioned lampposts.
Between each shop, restaurant and office, an alley led to a small
parking area for owners and employees.

As the stranger turned onto
Preston, he pulled into an empty space at the curb in front of a
bakery. He fumbled loose change from a pocket, picked through it,
and handed the vagrant two loonies.

“Take care, friend,” he said,
flashing a quick smile.

The vagrant accepted the money.
“Thank you, buddy. Appreciate it.”

“No problem.”

The heat was like a wall when he
got out; it felt warmer than before. He retrieved his garbage bag
and stepped back from the curb, idly watching the light pedestrian
traffic on the sidewalk—a man and woman in shirtsleeves; an old
woman hunched over a cane, entering the bakery. On the other side
of the street, the blazing sun reflected in the windows of the
buildings.

The vagrant watched the pickup edge
out into traffic, its smelly exhaust fumes mixing with the
humidity. He crossed the street as the truck disappeared. Church
bells rang out the hour: four o’clock. In five hours it would be
dark.

Halfway up the block he reached the
town’s small liquor store. He left his garbage bag by the door,
entered, and strolled down the aisle of the wine section. He
quickly chose a bottle he could afford.

The clerk at the register was an
imposingly tall woman with waist-long hair braided in the
back.

She rang in the bottle. “Not your
usual brand, Johnny.”

“Tryin’ something new.”

“Oh, I gotcha.”

Counting out his change, the
vagrant realized he had less than three dollars left. He watched
the cashier put the bottle in a paper bag and pick up his
five-dollar bill and a handful of coins. Sorting through them, she
dropped quarters, dimes and nickels into the appropriate slots in
the cash drawer.

“Have a nice day,” the vagrant
said and left.

He set out to find more bottles and
cans. Each business downtown had its own dumpster out back. The
first one he came to generated a few soda cans, but nothing else.
Little more would be found in the others.

His final stop for the day was the
dumpster behind Bower’s Restaurant. On occasion, he would find food
wrapped in tinfoil sitting on top of the trash bags that some
good-hearted employee had left out for him. Just last night the
meal had been rather simple, but delicious—turkey, mashed potatoes
and vegetables with a splash of dark gravy. He had slept well with
the comfortable weight of the food in his belly.

As he hoisted the heavy lid of the
dumpster, he sighed with disappointment. No dinner this time. The
smell of fried fish spilling from the restaurant’s exhaust fan made
his stomach grumble. Tonight, he would go to bed hungry. He decided
his three dollars would be better spent in the morning on a coffee
and muffin—fuel for another day of canning.

He sifted through the trash,
shaking a bag or two. No rattle of a can, no clink of glass.
Frustrated, he slung the bag over his shoulder and shuffled out of
the alleyway.

Preston Street was winding down.
There were still enough cars and an odd pedestrian to make it look
alive. The sun was beginning to set. Below it the mountain range
ripped a jagged strip across the sky. Shadows were expanding,
deepening, filling the voids.

The vagrant picked the Acresville
Park as his home. Located on the southern edge of town, it was a
four hundred acre playground of picnic areas, a ballpark, two
tennis courts and walking trails of crushed gravel and blacktop.
There was a nine-hole golf course in the west end: a green belt of
gently rolling hills and deep sand traps.

Stomach empty, feet tired, the
vagrant slumped along one path that branched out from the entrance.
He met only one couple out walking a golden retriever. Passing him,
they would not make eye contact. He resisted the urge to reach out
a hand. Some people were simply not approachable.

The vagrant reached a wooden bench
near the park’s central pond. He stuffed his bag beneath it and
then sat down. His bottle of wine was still in the paper bag. He
would have a few drinks later and fill his flask with the
remainder. He set the bottle on the seat beside him.

The park seemed to be empty. Solely
him and the ducks in the pond and the failing light. Activity here
was still slow. In the peak summer months, the park was a popular
spot for weddings, for lover’s courting, for family reunions, for
kid’s ball games.

Too weary to move, he leaned back,
spreading his arms along the top of the bench. He felt very
old.

He dozed.

He dreamed.

He awoke at the crisp snapping of a
branch.

After he rubbed his eyes, the
vagrant saw that it was well past dusk. He listened, completely
still. Behind him another branch snapped, closer. Slowly, the man
turned his head. He searched the dark trees for odd shapes,
unexpected movements. Nothing.

He decided that they were merely
night noises. A deer. Perhaps a fox. Whatever made the noise seemed
to have paused when he turned around. He listened a moment longer,
stared at the trees a moment longer. Still nothing moved or made a
sound.

The vagrant took his bottle of wine
and put it on the grass by the bench. Then he leaned back, head on
the armrest, and stared up at the vaulted arch of night sky flecked
with stars. The low position of the moon told him the time had yet
to reach midnight. Ten-thirty. Maybe eleven.

He shut his eyes and within minutes
fell asleep again.

* * *

Along the wood line, a dark figure
stepped from the concealment of a tree. On tiptoes, so not to make
a sound, he moved away. When he reached a safe distance from there,
he stopped and turned back to the park bench, as if to be
sure.

A narrowing of the eyes. A coldness
of the heart.

“Yes
,” Herb
whispered.

The vagrant would be job number
two.

21

Halifax, May 10

8:30 p.m.

Allan’s day had not gone well at
all.

His second canvass of the
waterfront turned up no witnesses. One particular apartment
building overlooking the crime scene left him feeling
hopeless.

103 –
“Did you hear of the offence?”

“Heard about it.”

“What knowledge of the crime do
you have?”

“Only what I saw on the news last
night.”

“And what was that?”

“That a man was murdered on the
waterfront. Security guard, I think”

“How was the man
murdered?”

“Shot, wasn’t he? Wait, they
didn’t say.”

114 –
“Don’t know nothin’”