by Giles Blunt
“I need to see it.”
“Tell me truly, Detective-are you absolutely sure it’s Karson you want?”
Cardinal pulled out his cellphone and opened the photo Drexler had sent. He held it out for her to see. “Do you recognize the van?”
“Oh, dear God.”
“The girl’s fingerprints are all over the interior. It appears that both of them got away, but we don’t know in what vehicle and we don’t know where he’s headed. I need to see his things.”
“Yes, of course you do. It’s this way.”
She got up and put on a coat and boots and they went out the back door and through a small garden to a garage. It was brightly lit with fluorescent lights. There were gardening tools, a workbench and shelves along one wall. Oil stains on the floor spoke of a vehicle, but there was none there.
“I never come out here in winter-don’t own a car-but I let one of the neighbours use it. He used to own a small business until he had a heart attack a few years ago. I don’t know why he never sold the van. Anyway, a few weeks ago his son told me it was missing and asked if I had seen anyone in the garage. It didn’t occur to me that Karson might have taken it.”
“What kind of business?”
“A flower shop. You could still make out the logo on the van. But what I really wanted to show you…”
She pointed to the shelves along the back wall, a plastic storage container.
Cardinal prised the lid off the container and set it aside. Shirts, jeans, neatly folded. A pair of shoes. On top of these, several notebooks, the three-hole kind that schoolchildren use, with the map of Canada on the front and a blank class schedule on the back.
“I think it’s the blue one you’ll want first. Careful-the staples have been removed. Prison protocol, one assumes.”
Cardinal opened the blue notebook. The handwriting neat, controlled, easy to read. He thumbed through the pages.
I dreamed I had to climb a glass mountain that glittered in the glare of a savage sun. I was in the company of a man and woman who claimed to know the way but did not… when I woke in the darkness, my eyes were wet as if I had been crying.
“I just noticed something else.”
Cardinal looked up. She was contemplating the far wall of the garage.
“My mother-I told you she was living here the last few months of her life? She was in a wheelchair much of the time. She had a motorized one in the house, but she also had one of the basic push models. It was folded up and stored out here.” She pointed a slim finger at the garage wall. “And now it’s gone.”
22
Delorme pulled back the glass shower door, thought about it for a moment, then closed it again. Instead, she went to the bathtub and put the plug in and turned on the water. She knelt there feeling the water until the mix of hot and cold was right.
She went into the bedroom and pulled the curtains and took off her clothes. For a while she sat on the edge of the bed listening to the water run in the other room. Now that she was on the bed, she thought maybe she should skip the bath and just get in between the sheets. You wouldn’t sleep, she told herself. You’d just lie there running the whole day over and over again in your head.
She went back to the bathroom and poured a capful of foamy stuff into the water and swirled it around. She stood in front of the mirror to put her hair up and secured it with a headband, then put her left foot into the tub. Just hot enough to sting. She turned the cold on and swirled the foamy water around with her foot for a minute. Remembering the light, she stretched and reached for the wall switch and flicked on the night light near the sink.
As she lowered herself into it, the hot water rose over her up to chest level. She could see half of her reflection in the shower enclosure, and beyond that the open bathroom door. She soaked a washcloth and squeezed the water out, then lay back, covering her eyes with the folded cloth. Sound of water rattling into the overflow drain. She sank down so that her shoulders were submerged.
The steam felt good in her lungs and she breathed it in deeply, letting it out with a sigh. She lay there for a while commanding her muscles to relax, but she didn’t really believe that kind of thing worked and gave it up after a while. The water began to cool and she sat up to turn on more hot.
While it was running, she thought she heard a floorboard creak, and turned the water off again. She sat listening, hand on the tap, water dripping. Clearly the hot bath thing wasn’t an instant cure for tension. She soaped up the washcloth and went over her entire body, toes to shoulders, before lying back again for one last soak. She closed her eyes and the image of her bed, the cool sheets, drifted into her mind.
Another sound. Movement of some kind, not quite identifiable. Silently, she submerged her hands to stop any dripping sounds and listened. Her back was to the door, but the entire dark rectangle was reflected in the shower enclosure. The human instinct was to lie still, to wait for danger to pass, no matter how fast the heart might pump, and it was going full tilt already. Her bathrobe hung from the hook on the back of the open door.
She pictured rushing to the bedroom, the dresser, the gun. Fuck the bathrobe. On three, she told herself. One, two…
But then he was in the doorway. Leonard Priest-every toned, buff inch of him was standing in her bathroom doorway-wearing absolutely nothing.
“Christ,” he said to her reflection. “I thought you’d never get undressed.”
Delorme watched his reflection as he came into the bathroom. He stood near the tub, penis just above her head level, and folded his arms.
“Little de-stressing in the tub? Little home spa routine? Very nice. Very sexy.”
Delorme considered a swift punch to the balls. He was just out of reach.
“You’re scared, sweetheart. I can see it in your face. But a little bit of adrenalin at the right time can make just that bit of difference, turn a ho-hum encounter into something truly memorable. What are you thinking right now? What images are going through that wicked little mind of yours?”
“You mean other than the image of you driving over here in the middle of winter stark naked?”
“Taxi. Fully clothed.”
“Or the image of you jimmying my back door?”
“Wax impression. When you came for dinner. Little trick I learned in Borstal. But we can discuss your back door if you like.” He got down on his haunches so he was at eye level, looking at her. “I know you, Lise. Maybe better than you know yourself. Look at that-I can see your heartbeat in the foam. Amazing.”
“I’ll tell you what I find amazing, Leonard. I find it amazing that you can break into a cop’s house-a cop who suspects you of murder-and wait in the basement with no clothes on until she comes home. What’s truly amazing is that you can do all this and yet have no clue that you have a serious problem.”
“No problem.”
“You’ve never heard of addiction, I guess.”
“Sex is not a drug. It’s natural.”
“You take a serious risk of getting shot and you don’t consider it a problem?”
“Like I say, Lise-adrenalin. Part of the fun.”
“Uh-huh. So it’s not just the women who like to be scared.”
“Definitely not.”
In one swift motion, Delorme grabbed the sides of the tub and pulled herself up.
Priest stood up and fell back a step. “Whoa. Pussy alert.”
“Hand me that towel.”
“Very nice indeed.”
Delorme reached past him and grabbed the towel. “Give me a minute.”
“I’m not leaving this house until we finish what we’ve started. What you’ve started, to be brutally frank.”
“Leonard.”
“All right. But I’m taking this.” He unhooked her bathrobe from the back of the door.
“Give me the bathrobe.”
“Nope. Sorry.”
“You’re really asking for it, aren’t you.”
“Ooh, yeah.” He held the robe out and twitched
it a couple of times, toreador-style.
“Trying to provoke my dark side.”
“I got news for you, honey. You’re all dark side.”
He left the room without closing the door, and a moment later the bedsprings creaked with his weight.
Delorme dried herself quickly. She wrapped the towel around her waist, had a second thought and took it off. She went into the bedroom, where Priest was sitting on the edge of the bed with her Beretta in his hands.
He looked up and said, “What a body. It’s enough to make me believe in God.”
Delorme put her hand out. “Give me that.”
He raised the automatic in both hands and pointed it at her. “What if I said no?”
“Two things. First, I’ll disarm you, which will be very unpleasant. Second, you won’t get laid.”
“Lots of women talk tough.”
“It’s something I know about myself. I would literally rather die.”
“Really? Death? Death rather than have sex with me?”
“Rather than be forced.” Delorme reached and gripped the barrel of the Beretta, not hard. The safety was on, but still.
“Ooh, you’re very forward.” He pulled the gun back. “Tell you what. Let’s just put it over here.” He swung his legs up and rolled away from her across the bed. He reached up and put the gun on the windowsill behind the curtain. Then he lay on his side and patted the bed beside him.
Delorme put one knee on the bed and sat on the edge, facing him at an angle.
He reached and touched her, resting his index finger on her knee. “I found your handcuffs too.”
“I figured.”
“They’re under the pillow. Have you ever worn them for fun?”
“They had us put them on at the academy. So we’d know what they felt like. The tightness, et cetera.”
“Did you enjoy it?”
“The context wasn’t conducive.”
“But you might.”
Delorme took his hand and held it in both her palms. It was very cold.
“Leonard, you know what I think?”
“No. What do you think?”
“I think you’re the one who likes to be scared.”
“It’s true you make me a little nervous.”
“So I see. I think I know what to do about that.” She rubbed his palm with her thumb. “Warm you up a little.”
“Oh yeah?”
She got up on both knees, giving him the full view.
“Oh my,” he said. “Oh yes.”
He started to slide his hand from between her palms. Delorme gripped tight and twisted.
“Jesus!”
He was face down now, Delorme on top with his wrist at the back of his neck.
“Fucking hell!” He reached back, flailing at her with his other hand. “Ease off!”
“I haven’t even started yet. Did you go through my closet?”
“What? No.”
She jerked his arm up.
“Yes! Yes!”
“Oh, you found the toys, then.”
“What toys? There weren’t any toys.”
“The blue case. On the shelf. I’ve got some things in there that’ll get your attention, Leonard. Some things that’ll teach you respect for the law. But first I think I’d like to see you in a stress position. Give me the handcuffs, Leonard.”
“Not bloody likely.”
“Was that a no, prisoner?”
She jerked his arm, and he pulled the handcuffs out with his other hand. She knelt on his pinioned arm and snapped the cuff on the other wrist, looping the chain through the bars of the headboard.
“I can feel your pussy hair on my-”
She slapped him hard across the back of the head. “Other hand. You’re not going to give me trouble, are you? Are you going to give me trouble?”
“Never. Wouldn’t dream of it.”
She loosened her grip a little. “Because the faster I get you cuffed to this bed, the faster I’m going to dig out those toys and really go to work.”
“God, I knew you’d be good at this.”
“Shut up. You have a choice here, prisoner: toys or gun. Take your pick.”
“Toys. No question.”
“Then put your wrist in that cuff.”
“No. Ow! Christ, you’re a total fascist bitch, you are.”
Delorme pulled his arm down and around, relieving the pressure, and he let out a gasp. She pulled the arm up to the cuff, and he offered no resistance while she snapped it on.
“Happy now?” He waggled the bracelets. “Totally at your mercy. And I have a feeling you’re going to make me regret it.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Your implements of destruction and all.”
“I may even have to involve some other officers.”
“No, I’d have to draw the line at that. I think we should agree on a safety word: lawyer?”
“Well, if you think it will stop me. But first I want to whisper something in your ear.” She leaned forward and brought her mouth close to his ear. He would feel her breath, remember the moment always. “Leonard Priest,” she whispered, “I am arresting you for the murder of Regine Choquette. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say may be used against you. You have the right to an attorney…”
23
Ronnie Babstock goes to work. He cannot be at home. He cannot be alone. It might be smart to let us protect you, Cardinal had said. Durie hasn’t come after the other men, but you’re the last on the list and he might see you as the ultimate target.
“I hope he does come for me,” Babstock had told him. “I’d be glad to die if it meant Hayley would live. Christ, John, she’s so young. This is a girl who’s never hurt anyone.”
There is plenty of work to do. The next Mars launch is less than six months away. The wheels on the latest iteration of Marti are refusing to fully retract, making a landing impossible. And the developer of the alpha-particle spectrometer can’t seem to keep the specs straight. In both cases, communications between team leaders and department heads have reached a pass where only a quiet talk at the top is going to move things forward.
He can’t bring himself to make the calls. His daughter’s face is before him. It is an obsession he has not experienced since the year he fell in love with her mother and it was far from certain she would marry him. His mind had held her close the way his arms could not. Time was erased.
Now his daughter is before him in all her ages, from burping, crawling infant to knobby little skater girl to trampy teen in torn sweatshirts to frightening Goth poet to student and scholar and teacher. From his office on Airport Hill he can see across Algonquin Bay to the frozen bay itself, blue sky, the strange, snowless expanse of the lake. He is seeing none of it. He is seeing Hayley’s face. He tries to select favourite moments: his visits to Toronto, all too infrequent, when Hayley takes him to dinner with colleagues, drags him to the AGO, even a poetry reading. His daughter the adult, the person he is still just getting to know. This person he has known all her life, suddenly a new friend.
He couldn’t stand sitting there anymore, he had to be out and moving. He put on his coat and had just opened the office door when his computer made the sound of an incoming Skype call. Few people knew how to reach him directly that way.
He looked at his assistant. “Grace, did you just relay something to my Skype?”
“We haven’t got anything out here.”
He went back into his office and sat down.
Incoming Call From: Hayley Babstock.
Hayley didn’t have a Skype account, as far as he knew. He clicked on the answer button.
An image of a newspaper clipping appeared onscreen.
“Hayley? Hayley, are you there?”
The cops had a trace on his phone lines but they wouldn’t be able to trace this, not in time. He clicked Record.
The image zoomed in on the sidebar to a main article from twenty years ago. SCIENTIST PERISHES AFTER SURVIVING DRIFT STATION D
ISASTER. There was a photo. The young woman with her beautiful hair and shy smile. Twenty-seven. A specialist in Arctic cloud formation and energy exchange. He had never forgotten her face, though he had seen it only once, the day the story broke.
“Mr. Babstock, this is Karson Durie.” There was just the voice and the clipping. The voice was polite, calm. “I wanted to make sure you knew who she was.”
“Rebecca Fenn. I know who she was. She was young and beautiful and full of promise.”
“Much like your daughter.”
“Mr. Durie, I will do anything you ask, pay any price, give up my own life-anything-if you let my daughter live.”
“There’s nothing you can do. You did it many, many years ago.”
“I’ve regretted it ever since.”
“That makes no difference to me.”
“Look, hate me. Hate me all you want. But not my daughter. Not Hayley. She’s not someone you could possibly hate if you got to know her for even five minutes.”
“I don’t hate her. I don’t even hate you. I’m indifferent. Just like you were. You were indifferent to a man and woman who were dying at your feet. Indifferent as the Crusoe Glacier, the Piper Ridge, the Steacey Ice Cap. It’s the natural state. The remarkable thing is that there was ever in the history of mankind an instance of anyone who wasn’t indifferent.”
“I wasn’t indifferent. I was greedy, selfish, stupid, ambitious, reckless, immature.”
“Mid-thirties by my estimate-hardly a child.”
“I know. And I won’t lie to you-we saw the flare. And I know you don’t ignore a flare in the Arctic. We had a lot at stake, and we made the wrong choice. It was wrong, and I am sorry for it. I’ve wanted to undo it for many years, but it just isn’t possible. I will tell the world about it, if that will help in any way.”
“It won’t.”
“May I see my daughter, please?”
“Of course.”
It had been a while since the squad had had occasion to open the “war room.” This was a grand name for the closet that housed special operations materiel. Each detective was issued a shotgun and full Kevlar, along with backup magazines and speed-loaders for the Berettas.
