Until the Night jc-6

by Giles Blunt

  “Oh hell, fucking Eskimos are killing themselves every five minutes. Killing each other too. It’s cuz of all the vitamin A. Seriously, just between you and me, is Delorme really sick?”

  “Delorme wouldn’t call in sick without a good reason.”

  “Better be really good. I’m telling you, Loach wants to set up a fucking guillotine. You want to give me the dates and locations you have in mind? I’ll check out the RCMP database.”

  “I’ll take care of it. You’ve got French Canadians to interview.”

  Hayley had slept in that day, so she hadn’t got to the health club until after dinner. Unfortunately, the only good times to work out were first thing in the morning, well before her first class, or late at night. Any other time you had to wait ages to get a machine, some tiny frond of a girl doing endless arm curls with the thing set at five pounds, or they got on the elliptical and covered the readout with a towel so you couldn’t see that they’d been on it for three times the half-hour limit.

  After twenty minutes on the treadmill and a half-hour of weights, Hayley could feel the tension of the day leaving her body. She would be alert enough to tackle some of the dreadful academic articles she had to read as research for her own academic article, should she ever get a week free from marking or makeup exams to work on it. She had the shower room to herself, and there was only one other person in the change room as she got dressed, a skeletal anorexic who came every day and spoke to no one.

  Hayley dialed a number on her cellphone and told Kate Munk, her TA, she could come and pick up the papers she had to mark. Kate said she’d be there around nine.

  Hayley snapped a flashing red light onto the rear fender, a white one onto the handlebars. The day’s snow had melted, and Bathurst Street gleamed with the red smears of tail lights. She was tired after the workout and let three other cyclists pass her on the ride home.

  As she turned into the alley, she saw a white van parked behind her house. A man opened the driver’s door but stopped when he saw her coming. He raised a hand.

  “Would that be Miss Babstock?”

  Hayley braked but didn’t get off the bike. She didn’t recognize the guy, maybe a workman or something. He had an intelligent face, maybe a little hawkish. She waited with one foot on the ground, the other on a pedal.

  “Sorry to appear out of the blue like this-especially this time of night. I slipped a card under your door, but when I saw you coming, I just thought…” He held up a photographic ID. “Ironclad Security. Your father asked us to look in.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake. I told him I don’t want a bodyguard. He’s being totally weird.”

  “No, you’re wrong about that. I assure you, the threat is both serious and credible.”

  “I don’t mean to be rude, but aren’t you a little old to be a bodyguard?”

  He grinned. “Way too old. I run the outfit. You won’t be seeing me after tonight. In the meantime, it would be very helpful if you would fill out this form. It’ll only take a minute.”

  Hayley switched off her front light and put it in her backpack. Then the rear light. “If my father’s already hired you, why do you need me to fill anything out?”

  “We just need brief descriptions of people we should expect to see coming and going at your home and work.”

  “Excuse me, I have three hundred and fifty students.”

  “Let us worry about that. Just give us what you can.” He handed her a clipboard. It had a small light attached to the top.

  Hayley skimmed the first page. “I think I’d prefer to talk to my father again.”

  As she looked up, she saw his hand coming down toward her, something gleaming in his fist. It pierced her neck before she could grab his arm. She swung away from him and grabbed for the handlebars, and then her legs were gone and she could feel the bike falling away. Her eyelids slammed closed-once, twice-and she heard the clatter of the bike as a distant event, a tin can tumbling down a well.

  “Can I get you another Stella, Stella?” The blonde behind the bar was wearing a black tank and micro skirt that showed off her annoying muscle definition. “Sorry. You must get that all the time.”

  “Yeah, I think I’ll sit with this one awhile,” Delorme said. “Is Len in tonight?”

  “Len-you mean the owner? Don’t think so.”

  “I saw him up in Algonquin Bay a couple of days ago. He said he was coming down.”

  “He comes, he goes. I’m just a peon. You expecting some friends?”

  Delorme shook her head.

  “Things should pick up soon. Still a little early.”

  The restaurant downstairs was hopping-Delorme had had a good Thai curry with a glass of Chablis-but the second floor was dead. A bare-chested man with a grey flattop stood behind a woman lounging on a couch and massaged her shoulders. His hands slipped in and out from under the spaghetti straps of her camisole. A languid couple kissed in an alcove. The look and feel of the Toronto Risque Club was identical to the Ottawa one; it was just a lot less busy-at least at the moment.

  “You look familiar,” Delorme said. “Do I see you at Extreme Fitness?”

  “Yeah, I’m there every day,” the bartender said with a grin.

  “It shows.”

  “Oh, thanks. My trainer’s a total sit-ups Nazi. Have I seen you there? I can’t say I really recognize you.”

  Delorme pointed to her head. “Wig.”

  “Ah, yes. Makes sense. Not everybody’s so open-minded about these things.”

  “No kidding. I guess I will take that Stella now.”

  The Extreme Fitness had been a guess, though not a wild one: there was a branch right across the street from Risque. Women pedalling their stationary bikes and staring into their smart phones.

  The bartender bent to get the beer from the cooler and Delorme couldn’t help noticing the silky legs, firm of calf and thigh. Thinking, great-lesbian cop. A single encounter and I turn into a total cliche. As a countermeasure, she called John Cardinal to her mind, their kisses on that winter night that seemed so far away. Picturing his face, those mournful eyes of his, brought an ache to her heart. She dismissed the image.

  “Darlene been in lately?”

  “Darlene! You a friend of his or you just know him from here?”

  “I know him from Algonquin Bay.”

  “Is he from up there? Darlene. Boy, quite a character, that one. Was that you with him the night he had those three guys lined up and-oops. Forgetting myself here.”

  “Have to be discreet, huh?”

  “Big time. Really, I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “It’s okay. Take a look at this.” Delorme opened her purse and pulled out the photograph she’d taken from the envelope in Miranda Heap’s desk.

  “Ohmigod, that was taken here!” The bartender clutched the photo to her tank top and looked around before leaning forward. “They’re dead serious about the no photos thing. Really, I’ve never seen a picture taken here before. I mean, they throw people out if they catch them taking pictures.”

  “Well, you can see the club logo right behind him,” Delorme said.

  “Put that away, girl. I never saw that, okay?” She rushed away to serve some people at the other end of the bar.

  The place was filling up. Delorme stayed at the bar waiting for, well, she didn’t know what for. There was some kind of weird throbbing, a yearning inside her. People do things out of character all the time. I don’t know why I did it, they say-it was an impulse. Or, I had way too much to drink and suddenly I just, I don’t know, lost control. Police hear it all the time.

  Out of character. Delorme thought about that. Across the room on a red plush couch, a woman lay back as two men kissed her and stroked her. If the woman felt anything other than lust, she wasn’t showing it, kissing them right back, unbuttoning their shirts. A few more minutes and they’d be heading up to the third floor.

  Out of character. Who doesn’t want to be out of character once in a while? Junior detective on
a small-city force with a reputation as a hard-ass, a decent worker but not much more. Single, and thirty-five a receding memory. Lusty, yes. Definitely fond of sex. But not promiscuous, at least not up until now, and about as unkinky as an average Canadian girl can be. Or so I thought. Why shouldn’t I fuck my brains out? It’s not like it’s going to upset the husband, embarrass the children.

  A man came up and asked her nervously if she’d like to join him and his wife in an alcove.

  Delorme turned her head toward the dark nook. A small woman in a silver lame halter smiled and gave a little wave.

  “Let me think about it, okay? I’m not exactly used to-”

  “I get ya. No problem. We just think you’re really cute and you seem to be on your own, so…”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “We don’t come here a lot either. It’s only our second time.”

  “Okay.”

  The guy went back to the alcove. His wife straddled his lap and his arms circled her waist. They were both attractive, and Delorme thought she could detect honest affection in the way they touched.

  Maybe it’s not out of character. Maybe it’s just discovering another part of my character, like coming upon a secret room in a house you’ve lived in all your life. She looked at the couple again, the man’s hands stroking the woman’s back. Suppose she went over there and sat beside them, the man reaching over and touching her, or perhaps the woman. Just thinking about it changed the chemistry in her bloodstream-a light sweat breaking out on her forehead, heart rate heading to the high end of her aerobic zone-a dark cocktail swirling through her veins, of lust, of fear, of guilt, with notes, as a connoisseur might say, of despair.

  She turned around and caught the bartender’s attention, holding up her clutch purse. “Can I get a key? I think I want to lock this up.”

  The bartender brought a key with a rubber band attached to it. “Taking the plunge, huh?”

  Delorme had to take her phone out of the purse to get at her money. As she set it on the bar, it lit up and began to quiver. She picked it up and looked at the screen. John Cardinal. Something like a sob welled up in her chest. She pressed Talk.

  “Jesus, you picked up for once. Listen, how fast can you get down to Toronto?”

  “I’m in Toronto. Why?”

  “Hayley Babstock has been abducted.”

  When Hayley first woke up, she thought she was on her way to the beach. Her mother and father in the front listening to classical music or the news while she curled up in the back seat. Every year they went to Cape Cod in the States, drove there (when they could very easily have flown first class) because her father found the driving relaxing. They stayed in a perfect jewel box of a house in Wellfleet.

  Her parents were both so happy during those vacations. It was the only time it seemed to Hayley that she lived in a family like the ones you saw on television. Everybody close and happy, especially her father. August was the only month she got to spend a lot of time with him. He would build sandcastles with her, put puzzles together on the huge refectory table, play board games. And the three of them reading, devouring stacks of books and magazines.

  But this was not their car, and she was not a little girl. Her arms and legs felt thick and heavy. She tried to stretch, and found that her hands and feet were bound. There was a handkerchief or something tied across her mouth, tight enough that she couldn’t dislodge it, push as she might with her tongue. But no blindfold.

  She remembered the alley, the security man, the thing in his hand. A hypodermic meant planning, elaborate intentions, and she felt a strong urge to scream. She forced herself to take deep, slow breaths.

  Highway-the road smooth, the speed steady-a major highway. Sounds of larger vehicles growing near, fading, but no whoosh of oncoming traffic. There were no windows in the back of the vehicle, but passing lights swept through the darkness at regular intervals. Highway 400, the 401, or the QEW. At any given time, half of Canada was on these roads.

  Whatever he had injected her with was wearing off. She could wiggle her hands and feet and turn her head. Her fingers touched the metal side of the van. She pressed here and there as many times as she could, leaving marks. She would get out of this. She would get out of this and they would find the van, and she would be believed. Her fingerprints would convict him.

  She craned her neck to see. Part of the profile, the strong nose, hair the colour of a grubby coin, slicked back from his face. He turned his head to look at her and she closed her eyes too late. Moments later, the sway of inertia as the van changed lanes. Another move to the right and then it slowed and stopped. Whoosh of cars rushing by.

  Hayley backed herself up against the seats, expecting him to appear at the back of the van. But a side panel slid open and he was right beside her. He held the needle, point up, by his shoulder. She squirmed away and tried to kick at him with both feet.

  Giles Blunt

  Until the Night

  From the Blue Notebook

  I am a person given to the scientific and materialist view of existence. Not a man to dwell on concepts of fate, predetermination or tragedy. But concerning that chapter of my life that began with Rebecca’s arrival at Arcosaur, I have been drawn again and again to the medieval idea of Fortune.

  And yet not the wheel of fortune, which is a neat analogy to the common situation of being on top of the world one minute and utterly cast down-or at least on a marked downward trajectory-the next. But luck, yes luck, fair or foul, shows its hand in the affairs of man far more often than, say, effort rewarded or love conquering all. We commonly see fools come out on top and good men brought low.

  My scientific training is of no use in explaining what had happened to us so far, let alone what was to come. To take but one example, what were the chances of these two catastrophes-one a disaster of geodynamics (actually, ice dynamics), the other of human psychology-occurring simultaneously? Individually, either event was quite likely. Ice floes crack and fracture every hour. And the stresses of cold and isolation will torment anyone whose psyche is not securely integrated. But the chances of their co-occurring are infinitesimal, and the fact that they did is offensive to common sense, not to mention any notion of justice. But there’s nothing to be done about that. And Fortune was not done with us.

  We were still standing over the bodies of Jens Dahlberg and Raymond Deville when the sun dimmed. We looked toward the approaching storm.

  We need their clothes, I said, and got down to remove Ray’s jacket. I had to pull him up into a seated position and wrestle the sleeves off him. I got up and handed it to Rebecca, but she backed away.

  I can’t.

  Put it on. The gale will kill us. Put this on. As long as the wet doesn’t soak through, it will act as an insulator.

  Kit, in God’s name.

  God is not available. We need every scrap of clothing we can get.

  Rebecca helped me get Ray’s trousers off, weeping the whole time.

  Put them on over your jeans.

  I can’t.

  You must. I’ll help you.

  I steadied her as she removed one of her boots and pulled on the pants. When she had that boot back on, we did the same with the other foot. Ray was a small person, but even so, the trousers were far too big. We rolled up the cuffs and, using my pocket knife, I cut a new hole in Ray’s belt. The jacket was not burned too badly, and it had a hood-a thin one meant for rain, with no drawstrings. I took Ray’s fleece and put it on over my own.

  Are there any gloves in the pockets?

  She shook her head. We scavenged everything else we could-the pencils, the Aero bar, the cough drops.

  I’m sorry for crying, Rebecca said. I won’t panic again, I promise. What are we going to do?

  We have to head into it. Movement is the only thing that will keep us warm. And that end of the floe is full of pressure ridges-they may provide some shelter. Help me cut away the rest of their clothes-anything that’s dry.

  Even for someone wear
ing the proper gear, an Arctic gale is a terrifying experience. Winds unchecked by hill or tree and chilled by endless wastes of ice and freezing water, winds so powerful they suck the air out of your lungs. If they carry snow, one must also survive blindness and complete disorientation.

  I cut pieces of cloth into strips for makeshift headbands and hand warmers, and we walked into it face first. At first the wind carried no snow. But it was a wet wind that soon rimed our eyebrows with frost. My arms, the core of my body, thanks to the double layers, conserved their heat. But my legs, the skin of my thighs, burned with the cold.

  There was no question of stopping. When the wind was unbearable, we turned our backs to it and pushed against it. It was like trying to back a ship up a mountain. Then it would relent and we would turn and face it once more, moving the whole time.

  We had already been fighting it for an hour when the snow hit, big flakes that clung and leached the body heat from our faces. Visibility sank to twenty, thirty metres. We had no compass. In any case, it would have been next to useless so close to the magnetic pole. We kept moving, guided by nothing but the direction of the wind itself.

  The wind carried with it a massive payload of fear. You would not think mere disorientation could worsen the physical adversity we faced, but it did. When, over the course of the next few hours, the snow relented, it was replaced by fog-a fog so dense it clung to the eyeballs like blindness itself. The sun was reduced to a wash of paler grey amid the grey.