Red Crimes

By Tania Stephanson

Lives are in Danger

Killers are on the hunt in a small Manitoba city. From obsession and drug lords to dangerous flood waters, each case is unique. But are they somehow connected? Five stories take you on a fast-paced crime thriller adventure with twists and turns. Each story is from the perspective of the victims, who live in the same area, and all of them face dangerous situations.

 

From the award-winning Canadian author Tania Stephanson come an exciting collection which includes Red Leaves, Red Snow, Red Lies, Red River, and Red Secrets. Previously published, the author has expanded these stories for your enjoyment.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sable BooKnight
• Release date: Sep 4, 2023
• ISBN: 9781990282355

Book preview

ONE

Lana

THE NEIGHBOUR’S RICKETY white wooden fence glows in the dark as I avoid the dip in the sidewalk. Under the deep shadows of overhanging trees, dry leaves crunch beneath my damp runners, and the gritty scent of cold dirt hangs in the air. My cold feet ache for dry socks. Why do I keep forgetting to pull out the pink plaid rubbers from storage? And my fleece lined windbreaker. Under the stairs or in the garage? My stomach growls. Left over lasagna first, then the boots, then Halloween candy shopping. Caramel apple suckers are my favourite.

Bulky unkept bushes taunt me as I near my driveway. I really need to get that trimmed before winter hits. I shiver at the thought of shoveling in fifty below weather. To the right of the house, my yard is pitch black, but in the depths, leaves cover the grass. Smiling, I scurry in that direction, leaving the streetlamp’s glow behind me, and I giggle with each crunchy step. Yet the moisture in the ground increases the further I go, reducing the crispness I long for. This is still way more fun than dealing with shop mechanics and customers.

I splash in an invisible puddle, soaking my runners. Shit, it’s not cold, it’s warm. Stupid dog. I glare at the neighbour’s house. Stop pissing in my yard! Just wait, Diane. You and I will have words in the morning. Her annoying, squeaky voice echoes in my mind. She’s always defending her knuckle-headed sheep dog.

The motion censored lights flicker on as I reach the backyard, lighting my way. Ripped plastic wrappers and a banana peal lay next to the black garbage bag. Crap, I forgot to take it out this morning, and something got into it. Guess my lasagna will have to wait. Each step on the paved pad sounds like a squishy sponge slapping. I growl at my damp jeans as they stick to my calves. With the screen door propped open against my elbow, and my heavy purse hanging over my shoulder, I dig into my navy-blue hoody’s large pocket. Pulling out my hand, the keys slip between my fingers and jingle to the pavement. You’ve got to be kidding me. I glance at the star-filled sky, and take a deep, cleansing breath while I visualize the familiar Yoga room. Exhaling, I kneel to grab my keys and rest the door against me.

Red. Dark red; smeared around me. What is it? A chill runs down my neck. Paint? From Diane’s bathroom renovations. She’s been ranting about it all week. Why someone would paint their bathroom this shade is beyond me. I shake my head, glaring at her house. It’s always something with that woman.

I stand, release the screen door, and drop my purse against the brick wall. There’s no way I’m tracking this inside. I kick off my red-painted, once grey, worn-out runners. Hopefully, no one’s watching. I unzip my jeans, push them off my hips and down my legs, and step out. The cool night air chills my skin, making me shiver. My jeans are ruined, but thankfully they aren’t the expensive brand.

While I rest against the cold brick wall, I lift my legs one at a time, and fight to remove my drenched socks which cling to me like glue. The bottoms of my feet are coated with red. An intense metallic, stale-meat scent wafts around me. My stomach lurches. "What is that?" I burry my nose into my elbow, and then, barefoot and nauseous, I retrace my steps. Did Diane dump expired meat on my lawn? The puddle was too deep to be pee. The ground hadn’t absorbed it either; yet another sign of winter coming. Months of dry, cold, Manitoba winter are on their way.

The leaf-covered grass is cold on my feet and it’s too dark to see anything. I rake my toes along the ground feeling for the puddle. Reaching the front corner of my house, I step backwards, continuing my search closer to Diane’s. My heel bumps into something and I fumble, fall backwards, and bang my head against the brick wall, then land hard on my ass. Everything spins and I struggle to catch my breath. My chest hurts, skull throbs, and my heart races. My underwear soaks up moisture from the ground, nearly freezing my cheeks.

What did I trip over?

Darkness swirls around me as I sit upright, trying to regain focus. I crab walk away from the mass, pull out my cell phone, then turn on the flashlight. A silent scream swells in my throat at the sight of the familiar blonde hair, tangled at the back of the woman’s head and the bright pink coat. Crawling closer, hands pressing on the wet grass, I hold my breath, and with trembling hands roll the body towards me. Blood shines as it seeps from her sliced throat. I gasp. Diane? She’s not moving; doesn’t answer. Draped across her face is damp blond hair.

Diane’s body is as limp as the mop doll I made with my grandmother during my childhood. What do I do? I glance at my phone. Call for help. Hands still shaking, I struggle to press numbers on the touch screen.

The man’s voice is calm. Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?

My neighbour, Diane. She’s... not moving.

Is she breathing? he says.

Why didn’t I check that? I slide the hair from Diane’s face. Her eyes are wide open, staring off into space, frozen in a state of fear. Her lips are parted; it’s as if she was about to scream or call out. I hold my hand beneath her nose. Nothing. I don’t think so, I say.

Try checking her pulse, he says.

Right. I press two shaky fingertips against Diane’s still-warm wrist. There’s no pulse. I think she’s... That word: I can’t say it. There’s a lump in my throat. Should I run?

The man says, What’s your name and address?

Living in the Twilight Zone, my distant voice provides the requested information. It’s like I’m watching a movie of myself in a state of shock or living a nightmare I’ve feared would come true.

Everything is quiet for a moment, with the far-off sounds of traffic becoming static. At last, I hear the man’s voice again. Ma’am, is her skin cold to the touch?

Tears threaten. No, she’s warm, I answer.

Lana, we’ve contacted the RCMP, they’re on their way. The suspect may still be in the area, so please go inside and lock your doors.

My gaze darts around, searching every shadow and every tree. Please be wrong. As I stand, there’s a glimmer in the grass. An object reflects the phone’s light, and I creep towards it, kneeling in the grass.

A knife.

A muffled voice yanks me from my shocked daze. My phone. Hello?

Are you alright, ma’am?

Yes, but I found a knife. A familiar black handle with silver rivets glares at me. It’s mine.

There’s a click, and the line becomes quiet.

Did he put me on hold? Are you there? What do I do?

The tone in the man’s voice has changed, and he sounds impatient. Yes, I’m here. Please stay right where you are. An officer will be there shortly.

Unable to find my voice, I stare at the knife. My knife from my kitchen. The killer was in my house. It’s probably covered with fingerprints, and some of them are mine. Will they think I did this? My legs weaken and tremble, while the world around me seems to sway. A dog whimpers from my backyard and sirens call out in the distance. Is this real? Wake up, Lana. It’s just a bad dream.

Ma’am are you still there? The operator continues talking, but all I can do is stare at the screen.

The knife. Diane’s body. Her blood. I am numb; stuck in place. The phone slips from my hand, and I run into the backyard towards the light. The large white and grey, bushy English Sheep Dog carries his head low as he walks to greet me. An intense wet-dog smell comes with him.

Hey knucklehead. It’ll be alright. I pat his head. Diane must have been looking for you. His tongue is warm against my bare legs, and he drips slobber along my shin. Usually it bothers me, but tonight it’s different. Poor buddy lost his owner. Guilt strikes me. I’ve been so cruel. All I’ve ever done is curse Diane’s name and bitch about her annoying dog. Knucklehead follows as I grab my purse and head towards the garage. If the killer was in my home, and between our houses, I doubt they’d turned back to go into the garage where they can’t get away easily. My thoughts spin in a million directions, playing out what-if scenarios. If I can just make it to the garage and lock the door behind me...

Footsteps strike the asphalt.

My heart-rate thunders in my ears. Stopping, I drop my purse. The dog growls, and I squeeze my eyes shut, terrified to see whoever nears. Please, don’t hurt me, I say.

Two more footsteps. They breathe heavily, like they’ve been running. Turn around, miss. His voice is stern.

Reluctantly, I open my eyes and face him.

The man scans my body, pausing at my bare legs. A gun points towards the ground beneath my feet. Are you Lana? he says.

I nod.

He steps closer, into the light. I’m officer McClain with the Selkirk RCMP.

The uniform. I hadn’t noticed it right away. Pain in my chest lightens as tears stream down my cheeks. Thank God. I rush towards the handsome officer and clutch his arm. Diane... she’s dead! Her body... I point to the side of the house.

With a gentle yet firm hand, he removes my grasp from his arm. You’re okay now, Lana. His eyes scan the mess of garbage and pile of bloodied jeans and socks.

Knucklehead barks at the officer.

What’s the dog’s real name? Ben? Buck? It’s alright, Knucklehead, I say, trying to calm him. Barney. That’s it.

Barney paces back and forth, whimpering.

My gaze returns to the officer. The killer was in my kitchen, I say. They used my knife.

Officer McClain nods but continues to scan the area. Dispatch filled me in, he replies.

Together, we face the house.

Inside, a silhouette walks past the kitchen window.

TWO

Rain

FOUR RED THUMBTACKS roll around on the TV tray as I slide it across the worn out, pale yellow-and-brown tiled kitchen floor. One day, I’ll have a kitchen table. Once I sell these. If I can sell them. The printer’s hum stops. Finally. I head to the kitchen counter and flip over the warm paper. The image of my sketch is almost flawless. Even the shading in the blood droplets looks realistic. It’s my best piece yet.

From the TV tray, I grab a tack and hold the printout against the wall, and then one after another I push the pins through each corner, piercing the white wall. It’s the perfect addition to my collection. Eight sketches. Each drawn on my tablet; the one that took two years to pay off. Each a representation of death or pain. So intense. So beautiful.

At the top left-hand corner, is the first actual murder scene I’ve drawn. I’ll call it Blood Lust. The man had gone missing, or so everyone believed, until they found his body. The surrounding trees were easy to sketch, but replicating the expression in his unseeing eyes took all my focus. Scanning over each minute detail gave me goosebumps. The thrill I’d felt while drawing it was unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. That was the moment I knew my heart would lead me to true crime art.

Are black and white sketches the best? Should I add colour? Maybe just blood red. More shading. It would be eye-catching.

Perfect. Worth selling.

THREE

Lana

THIS IS UNIT FIVE REQUESTING back up; ten-eighty-four in progress. A suspect may be armed. Officer McClain releases the talk button on his radio, his gun at the ready in his other hand.

Is this happening? The bloodied footprints left by my runners resemble those from a horror flick. Diane is dead... the killer is in my house... this can’t be real.

Through the static, a woman speaks. Ten-four, unit five. ETA five minutes. Hold your position. Over.

McClain shakes his head. Too long. Without hesitation, he moves towards the back entrance.

What is he doing? I reach for his arm but stop when I see the gun. The black barrel is intimidating and I’m thankful the officer isn’t pointing it my way. It’s the closest I’ve ever been to a gun, and something I’ve never expected to see in my lifetime. I thought they said to wait, I say.

Yup. McClain continues forward, ignoring my plea. With each step he depicts confidence and determination, like he’s completely comfortable with his roll.

Then what are you doing? My bare legs shiver in the gust of wind, and I hug myself, willing my body heat to travel downwards.

His gaze meets mine. The suspect saw us, and he’ll be gone in less than two minutes. With his chin, he gestures to the house. If I don’t move now, we may never catch him. Stay with the dog. McClain continues forward.

Barney sits nearby, tilting his head back and forth as though trying to understand.

Stay here, buddy, I say.

With a whimper, Barney takes off towards the side of the house, to where the body of his owner lies. After I’ve yelled at the dog so many times, it’s no wonder he doesn’t want to hang out with me.

Officer McClain picks up the keychain, opens the screen door, and shuffles for the right key.

Let me help you. I tiptoe toward him; the cold, rough pavement sends a chill through my feet. A shadow moves across the dining-room window, and I stop. It’s just the curtain, swaying from the vent beneath it. I continue toward McClain. After I select the correct key, I unlock the door and shove them into my hoodie pocket.

Step aside, Lana, McClain orders.

My teeth chatter, and my head throbs from banging it. Loopy, I lean against the wall.

McClain turns the knob, and the door creaks open. He shoots me a look of annoyance.

Seriously? It’s not like I control my door’s noises. I shrug.

As the officer steps inside, I’m alone. The outside light casts a glow around me, making the darkness beyond seem suddenly darker. I’d call for Barney to come back, but I’m afraid to make a sound. All that’s left are my bloodied clothes in a heap and the red footprints leading to the side of the house. And silence. My stomach churns. Will the killer escape through the front and find me? McClain told me to stay outside because if I go in, and the bad guy’s there... but I’m safer with an RCMP officer rather than fending for myself. I’m cold, half-naked, and there’s nothing to defend myself with. Fuck it.

I enter the house.

Bang! Bang!

My knees give out beneath me, and I drop to the floor. Gunshots echo through the hallway, and my breathing quickens. A figure sprints past, barely visible in the darkness - dark blue jacket, black cap. I strain my eyes, desperate to glimpse his face, but he’s already out the front entrance. The screen door slams shut, and he’s gone... With trembling arms, I clasp my churning stomach. My heart pounds so loudly in my ears that I can barely hear myself think. The question burns in my mind: Did he shoot Officer McClain? Is he still alive?

Barney barks like crazy. Bang! A whimper, and then quiet.

No. Not Knucklehead.

Everything becomes quiet.

The scent of lavender air freshener hits my nostrils and reminds me I’m home, but it offers little comfort. The killer is gone and I’m alone in eerie silence. As I try to stand, my legs wobble, but I force myself to move forward. I climb the three steps to the kitchen and then turn down the hallway to my left. Each creaking floorboard sends a shiver down my spine, and I pause, listening for any sound that might indicate the killer’s return. But all I hear is my breathing. I gather my courage and continue.

A man groans.

Officer McClain?

Flashing lights illuminate the room as they filter through the windows, and I hear a car door slam shut outside. Relief floods through me - backup must have arrived. Hello? I call out, my voice shaky with nerves. Officer McClain, are you alright?

Here, Officer McClain’s strained voice echoes through the quiet house. I rush to the computer room to find him lying on the carpet, clutching his abdomen. A small pool of blood reflects light beside him. He came out of nowhere, he gasps, wincing in pain. Had a gun... It went off before I could fire a shot.

My heart races as I glance down the hallway before turning my attention back to the officer lying on the floor. Backup is here, I reassure him. I’ll have them call an ambulance. As I turn to leave, his words stops me in my tracks.

Wait, I need your help. There’s an urgency in his voice. Put pressure here... I can’t hold it myself. He gasps for air. Use my radio. We need to let them know the situation.

I’ve never done this before, I admit, flicking on the light as I kneel beside Officer McClain. Where do I start? His hands slide to the floor, and his eyes widen in pain. His chest rises and falls with each breath. Instinct takes over as I press on the blood-covered area, leaning on it with my body weight. The warmth of his blood soaks through my clothes and touches my skin, but I push the discomfort aside and focus.

McClain groans.

My voice waivers as I say, I’m sorry. When I reach for the radio attached to Officer McClain’s uniform, the backdoor suddenly slams shut, making me jump. In here, I shout.

Footsteps thunder through the hallway, and two officers appear in the doorway. Their guns lower while their eyes scan the room, landing on McClain.

The first officer rushes in, clutching the radio clipped to his vest near his face. Unit eight requesting an ambulance. Officer down. I repeat, officer down. Over. He kneels next to me, arms hovering next to mine. I’ve got this.

When I pull my hands away, he’s quick to replace them with his own. I relax my shoulders and slide back against the wall. Blood covers my hands, and my fingertips vibrate. The smell reminds me of Diane’s blood. Her body. My stomach roils.

The first officer’s eyes are wide with worry. Marcus, talk to me, buddy.

Marcus McClain blinks and turns his head. Hey, Haiden. His voice is raspy and weak.

Help will be here soon, Haiden says with a forced smile. Why didn’t you wait for us?

Their voices continue but seem distant.

The second officer places her hands on my elbows, startling me. I’m Kris Stanton. Come on and I’ll get you cleaned up.

When I stand, the world spins around me, and my vision blurs. I don’t feel well, I mutter. My legs give way, and I collapse to the floor.

QUIET CHATTERING WAKES me. Two officers stand by the living room window, talking intensely. Several officers pace between rooms down the hall carrying notepads and what appears to be large Ziploc bags. As I sit up, Officer Stanton heads toward me from the far side of the room.

Be careful, don’t stand too fast. Stanton opens a water bottle and passes it to me. Here, drink this. It should help.

The lukewarm fluid sooths my dry throat, and as it reaches the empty depths, my stomach gurgles. Thank you, I say. Despite being hungry, the thought of lasagna is no longer appealing. Thankfully my hands are clean; I twist the cap onto the water bottle and set it on the end table. I’m hoping it was Officer Stanton who put these baggy sweatpants on me. My underwear is still damp, though. At least they didn’t change it for me.

Hovering nearby, Stanton shifts her weight. When you’re ready, Miller will take your statement.

A man shouts from my bedroom. Is she mobile yet?

Officer Stanton extends a helping hand. Are you good to walk?

With a slight nod, I take her hand, slowly rising to my feet. It takes a moment for my body to adjust to being upright, but once I feel steady enough, she leads me to my bedroom. As we enter, my eyes meet the gaze of a man standing near the closet. He’s dressed in black dress pants and a green plaid shirt, with salt and pepper hair and a serious expression. The sight of him reminds me of Harrison Ford.

A photographer takes pictures of my bed, where my yellow high-school grad dress lies. Why is it there? It seems like forever since I’ve seen it. But who removed it from the darkest corner of the closet? On top sits a clear plastic box containing a wilted corsage that I’ve never seen before. The deep red petals must have once been vibrant.

I am Detective Frank Ward. The man in the plaid shirt moves closer. Any idea who could have done this?

Unable to focus on speaking, I shake my head. This is a lot to take in. One minute I’m excited about Halloween candy and the next I’m falling over a dead body, then putting pressure on a gunshot wound. When did my life become a real-life thriller movie? Now I stare at a snapshot from my past: The yellow dress. The one I bought with my mother before she left. If only she were standing next to me, offering comfort.

Ward points to the bed, taking my thoughts away from memories. There’s a note on the bodice. Read it, but don’t touch it because we need to lift fingerprints and file it as evidence.

I lean over the display with Stanton by my side.

The note reads: You should have said yes.

One person comes to mind instantly, and I swallow the lump in my throat. My voice comes out in almost a whisper. There is someone, but he went overseas years ago. Apparently, he became a well-known chef.

What’s his name? Detective Ward says.

Theo Laurier. Saying the name out loud sends shivers down my spine, and the possessive way Theo had looked at me that night haunts me.

Ward gestures to an officer who jots something on a notepad. We’ll start an investigation, he says. But first, can you give me more information about Theo?

I meet his gaze. The last time I spoke to him was before our high school graduation. He’d asked me to be his date, but I was seeing someone else, so I declined. Then on grad night, Theo asked me to dance, but again, I turned him down. Truthfully, he gave me a creepy vibe, and I didn’t feel comfortable around him. After that, he seemed to be angry and glared at us while we were dancing. When we left the dance, he followed us outside and spat on the pavement, nearly hitting our feet.

Ward folds his arms over his chest. How long ago was your graduation?

Five years.

Ward nods, his eyes bright like he’s come to some new realization. And Theo hasn’t let it go, Ward says, tapping a pen against his chin. He’s still angry about being rejected, and maybe not just by you, but by others in his life. Ward pauses and stares at me quizzically. Yet he’s fixated on you. He’s obsessed with that night, and making you pay for it. It wouldn’t surprise me if he makes another attempt, and soon.

What does that mean? My heart races. Another attempt at what?

To contact you. Ward’s voice softens as he looks me in the eye. Theo will take another’s life to reach you, and if he gets close enough... Lana, your life is in danger.

Officer Stanton rests her hand on my shoulder. It’s difficult to hear, but it’s better to learn the truth. Trust me.

For weeks after graduation, I’d had nightmares about Theo. Sometimes he was stalking me or holding me against a wall inside the high school. In other dreams, he’d force me to