Grave Situation (21 page)

I was so mad with this news I
called the other junior dealer. I shouldn’t have. He told me the
cost went up because of the higher purity of the product and
because of limited availability. The police had seized a big
shipment, though he didn’t say where. I never heard anything on the
news about it happening here, so it must’ve been elsewhere. If the
story is even true to begin with.

I have my doubts.

Reluctantly, I forked over the
extra twenty-five dollars. I don’t know how much longer I will be
able to keep this up. I hope the price will go down again. It’s
costing me nearly every cent that I make now. What I’ve come to
realize is that over the time I’d been using, I’ve had to
consistently increase my dosages to get the same high as the time
before. In the beginning, I only needed small amounts, now they’re
much larger and more often.

April 25. Cloudy. +10. The weather
is like a yo-yo.

This is my first entry since coming
home from the hospital. My doctor says my heart is weak. I should
allow it to heal, to limit my physical activity. He wants me to
begin walking soon however. Exercise strengthens the heart. But I
feel so frail and I’m afraid to strain myself.

My heart attack happened on the
18th. My doctor says my heroin was mixed with cocaine. I never knew
it. But I knew the moment I injected that something was wrong. I
just didn’t feel right. My body felt like it was being pulled in
two different directions. I began sweating. Then came a crushing
pain in my chest. That’s all I remember. Everything went black
after that.

Next thing I know, I’m opening my
eyes in a hospital room. Trixy was there at my bedside. She didn’t
call Mom and Dad. And I’m glad for that. I wouldn’t want them to
see me that way or to worry.

The doctor saw the cuts on my legs.
I didn’t realize there were so many. He counted fifteen in all. He
said self-injurious behavior is a mental health issue. He thinks
I’m dysphoric and cut myself when painful feelings become
overwhelming or unbearable. He referred me to a female therapist.
Not only for that, but for my drug addiction as well.

I have yet to see her.

I’m too embarrassed by all of this.
Where would I even begin my story?

While in the hospital, the doctor
had me on a methadone maintenance treatment program. He said it
would help me with the withdrawals. It seemed to help. But I
stopped it when I left the hospital. Isn’t methadone just an
artificial substitute to heroin? What if I became dependent on that
as well? I’m seriously afraid. I chose to do this my way. Complete
abstinence of any drug seems to be my best option. Am I doing the
right thing? I hope so.

At this point I am unable to work.
My benefits should keep me afloat for a while. By the grace of God,
I will get through this.

I think a lot about the night I
bought that last bindle. Had that sleazy dealer known what he was
selling me? Did that really explain the sharp increase in cost? He
told me it was because of the higher purity, that it cost more than
the lower grade I used to buy. And because of limited availability.
I fell for it. But now I wonder.

Allan stopped reading. He looked
over at Coulter and Sodero, who were wrapping Cathy’s body in a
sheet of polythene.

“Doctor,” he said. “How many
deaths have been attributed to speed-balling this past
month?”

“Three confirmed. Two are pending
tox results. Why?”

Allan glanced at the diary. “We
might have a dealer selling heroin laced with cocaine.”

“Who said?”

“In here.” Allan lifted the diary.
“Miss Ambré suffered a heart attack because of it.”

“Users are never sure of what
they’re taking, Lieutenant,” Coulter said. “Do you think there’s a
connection?”

Allan gave a measured shrug.
“Maybe.”

Coulter regarded the diary in
Allan’s hands and an unspoken question appeared in his
eyes.

At last he made a wry face and
said, “Those cases will all have to be re-examined.”

Allan maintained an outward
equanimity. He knew the dealer had to be found and taken off the
streets.

He retrieved his cell phone from a
coat pocket and called the Drug Unit to convey the information.
Their undercover officers, he was told, would keep an ear to the
ground. Perhaps an informant knew something. One dealer was already
under surveillance. For now, a public safety alert would be
released to warn potential buyers of the danger.

When he hung up, Allan went back to
the diary and skipped ahead to the date Trixy went missing, and
Cathy’s final days.

May 8. Beautiful day.

Mom called this morning to thank me
for the card and flowers I had sent her for Mother’s Day, only they
arrived a day early. Actually, Trixy and I split on them. But I
didn’t tell Mom because Trixy didn’t want her name on either. God,
I don’t know why she is so stubborn. Let bygones be
bygones.

I went outside for a walk this
afternoon. Went as far as George Street this time, but that was
enough. I wanted to go down to the boardwalk and stroll along the
water, but I thought climbing those hills on the way back would
simply be too taxing for me at this point. The doctor wants me to
walk every day. My opinion is better safe than sorry. I’ll take it
slow. Baby steps for now.

Technically it’s the 9th. Quarter
to one in the morning. Another sleepless night. I’m doing my best
to get through this. So many things on my mind right now. The Devil
seems to be still knocking on my door and he’s relentless. I know
that’s my problem. So many times I just sit and stare at the phone.
So many times I fight with myself not to pick it up and make that
call. Trixy, I must remind myself, it’s all for her. One day I may
look back at this period in my life and be proud of
myself.

May 9. I don’t know what the
weather is. I could care less.

Where’s Trixy? God, I’m so afraid
right now. She’s never been this late coming home. Did something
happen to her? I can’t even get through on her cell
phone.

Just after lunch, I went down to
the police station and told them. They made me fill out a missing
persons report. I thought their questions were never going to end.
I gave them the most recent photograph of Trixy that I
had.

I didn’t want to involve the
police. Trixy would be so mad. She doesn’t like them. She thinks a
lot of them only serve and protect themselves.

After supper, another cop stopped
by. At first I thought it was bad news when I saw him. But it
wasn’t. Thank God.

This cop seemed like a nice man. He
said he was from Major Crimes. What is it they do? He kept
referring to Vice, saying that they will check this and check that.
My question is, if he’s not the one investigating Trixy’s
disappearance, then why was he here? Does he know something that
he’s not telling me?

I won’t be able to sleep tonight.
God, grant me the strength to help me through this. I’m on pins and
needles right now. And the cravings are hitting me hard.

May 10. Overcast. No rain however.
Yet.

I never slept all night. When I got
up, I felt queasy. Probably because I haven’t eaten since yesterday
and my bad nerves. I doubt if I’ll be able to hold anything down.
My stomach doesn’t feel that bad when I lie down, only when I’m
standing up. So I’ll just lie here some more.

I keep praying Trixy will walk
through the door. God, where is she?

My second entry
under this date. It is now dinnertime. I still haven’t eaten. I
can’t. Mom called me a while ago. The police published Trixy’s
photo in the
Chronicle Herald.
They’re asking people with any information
regarding her disappearance to call them or Crime Stoppers. I never
even knew that they did it. I had to go down to the store and get
the paper to see for myself. The picture, the one I had given the
cops, was on the second page with only a short write-up
underneath.

Mom sounded genuinely worried. And
so did Dad. He came on the phone after Mom. It was the first time
I’d spoken to him since leaving home. I told him what happened,
that Trixy just didn’t come home yesterday morning, and that I
can’t reach her. He asked me how I was holding up. I told him that
I was finding it hard, but will get through it. Was he going to
tell me that I could go back home? Part of me was wishing he would.
Dad always had a hard time revealing his feelings. The fact that he
spoke to me after what happened at home reflects to me his genuine
worry. That was enough.

It’s going to be hard to get
through this day. God, I want a fix so bad.

May 11. Raining outside. 3 in the
morning.

This will be my final entry. God, I
can’t believe the direction my life has taken. I’ve tried to be
strong, to beat this. But I can’t fight anymore. I have nothing
left. I’ve given in to the worst of temptations. A dark cloak of
depression has wrapped itself around me.

Trixy was the pillar of support I
needed. Now I fear something horrible happened to her. I can’t live
with the thought that my sister is dead. Nor can I live with not
knowing. The stress of this has been killing me. And worse yet are
my cravings. All this has cranked them into high gear. The heroin
is calling me back with open arms to its comforting embrace. It’s
using my own misery against me. That’s how it draws you back. Only
I know this time how it will all end. If it wants me that badly, it
can have me this last time.

Looking back over the past few
months, I realize now just how often I had thought about suicide.
Sometimes I would go to bed praying I would never wake up.
Everything would’ve been so much better. At least for me. I’d
finally be at peace. I’ve hurt so many important people in my
life.

Where is the person I used to be?
Before the heroin, I was so much different. I had friends, a bright
future, dreams, desires and last but not least, a good relationship
with my family. Now, it’s all gone. I don’t even know who the hell
I am anymore.

And how will I be remembered? The
ugly person I became or the decent person I used to be? I know I
could’ve chosen a different way, but couldn’t think of any that
would be this befitting.

God, it breaks my heart when I
think of my parents. They are what truly make this so hard to do.
I’ll never see them again. I can only hope they don’t feel guilty
about this. None of it was their fault. I’m just glad they have
each other to lean on for support. I pray they won’t hate
me.

I have everything laid out on the
bed, ready. So I must get this over with. At last, I will break
free of these shackles. This stuff nearly killed me in April. Odds
are it will this time. If not, I have a backup plan.

My dearest diary, I will now bid my
final farewell to you, my friend.

25

Halifax, May 12

11:15 p.m.

With a heavy heart, Allan closed
the diary. He stared at the sunflowers on the cover and
winced.

If only I could’ve helped
her.

Behind him, Coulter and Sodero
finished putting Cathy’s wrapped body inside a black bag. As Allan
watched the zipper being pulled shut, the finality of the tragedy
gripped him.

“Will you be attending the post,
Lieutenant?” Coulter asked him.

Allan felt himself stiffen. “Not
this time. I’ll wait for your report.”

Coulter paused, giving him a quiet
look of understanding. “I’ll be in touch tomorrow.”

Allan simply nodded.

Coulter pushed the gurney outside
and then he and Sodero were gone.

Jim and Harvey began gathering up
the drug items and packaging them separately. They put a cork over
the tip of the syringe before boxing it. When they lifted the
blankets and sheets from the bed, they carefully folded them so no
trace evidence would be lost.

Allan gave them the diary and then
headed for the second bedroom. It was much like the first one, only
absent the night table. The blind was drawn, the bed neatly
made.

Jewelry, cosmetics and perfume
covered the top of the dresser. One thing among the items caught
Allan’s eye. Moving closer, he looked down at a glass ashtray.
Inside it laid four crumpled cigarette butts.

“Does your sister
smoke?”

“Yes.”

“What brand and how
often?”

“Du Maurier. She smokes roughly
half a pack a day.”

Allan lifted the
ashtray and stared at the partial imprint of the name
Du Maurier
above the
filter tip on each cigarette.

“Jim,” he called out. “Can you
come here?”

Jim poked his head in the doorway.
“Yes, Lieutenant?”

“Can you gather
up these butts and forward them to
Serology?
”