by Giles Blunt
"Well, that's good," Cardinal said. "Alive is definitely good."
"Don't feel too bad, Cardinal. We all make mistakes."
Cardinal had let that pass, but Dyson had still managed to sour his day.
As they drove by Bracebridge, where the turnoffs were little more than vague outlines in the whirling snow, Delorme brought up the music angle again, and as they tossed theories back and forth, they both began to cheer up. Cardinal became aware that Delorme's good opinion mattered to him. Must be something to do with those sharp features, those serious eyes. There couldn't be any other reason; they didn't know each other well enough.
Okay, Cardinal thought as he opened an inner debate with himself, you have the distinct sensation that your partner is investigating you. What's the best way to handle this unpleasant state of affairs without coming off too badly? He decided he would do whatever he could to help her. Without being too obvious, he would give her every opportunity to get on with it- let her have a go at his locker, his desk (if she hadn't already). Hell, he would let her have a go at his house. Yale was the most damaging thing against him, and she already knew about that. There was little chance of her finding anything else, not at this point.
Once they were past Huntsville, Cardinal began to feel he was really on home territory again. It was always good to work with the folks in Toronto; he liked the snappy professionalism down there. But he liked the North: He liked the cleanliness, the rocky hills and forests, and the deep clarity of the skies. Most of all he liked the sense of working for the place that had formed him, the sense of protecting the place that had protected him as a kid. Toronto provided a wider variety of career opportunities, not to mention more money, but it could never have been home.
Home. Suddenly Cardinal wished Catherine was here beside him. He never knew when it would hit, this ache. Hours would go by when he thought of nothing but the case he was working; then he would notice a pressure building in his chest, a hurt and a hunger. He wished Catherine was with him- even Catherine mad, even Catherine with delusions.
It was getting darker now, and the snow was flapping around the car like lace curtains.
THE snow was still coming down the next day as Cardinal and Delorme sat in Dyson's office while he read to them from the RCMP's profile of the killer. How the detective sergeant had got Ottawa headquarters to respond so quickly was a mystery to Cardinal. The fax wires must have been humming. And now- this was so like Dyson it verged on self-parody- he was making fun of the document he had gone to so much trouble to secure.
"Analysis of site photographs is hampered by the fact that only one is the site of a murder. The island mineshaft is a dump site only. Oh, really. That's wonderful." Dyson addressed himself to the report he was holding. "Tell me something else I don't know."
He didn't look up. Just flipped through a couple of pages, breezing his way through a paragraph here, a paragraph there. "Differing causes of death… asphyxiation… blunt trauma… Blah and blah and again blah. Boy attacked while seated… facing attacker, indicating knew attacker and to some degree trusted… Well, we know all this."
Cardinal said, "What I don't understand is why you tapped the RCMP profilers so soon. I would have waited till we had more to give them."
"And when might that be?"
"You should have kept me informed. We all know the Horsemen can destroy a case faster than you can say Musical Ride. I mean, look at Kyle Corbett, for God's sake. I don't even want to speculate how they screwed that one up. But their profilers are a different story, and Grace Legault- who we may as well call Miss General Public- called me last night and wanted to know when we'd be calling them in. I told her we had no need to call in RCMP profilers, OPP profilers, or any other damn profilers and now I'm going to look like an idiot."
"Look, it was the chief's idea and it was a good one. You should be thanking him. Haven't you ever heard of a preemptive strike? This'll keep the media off our backs with this call-in-the-feds crap. And it gets us points with our brothers and sisters in red, always a good thing."
"But there's nothing here Toronto Forensic can't handle-"
Dyson didn't wait to hear the further thoughts of John Cardinal. He plowed on, "Girl taken from crowded place… no visible struggle… again indicating degree of familiarity…"
"Children, even teenagers will trust anyone if they're approached the right way," Delorme said. "Remember we had that molester a few years ago who would pretend to be from the hospital and tell them their mother was in Emergency."
"I'm just amazed that they call this a service." Dyson tapped the report.
"One dump site and thirty seconds with some photographs," Cardinal said. "No profiler's going to come up with much under those circumstances."
"Suddenly you're in love with the Horsemen? How many murder scenes has this so-called profiler worked, that's what I want to know."
"That's Joanna Prokop. She profiled Laurence Knapschaefer right down to the type of car he drove. She's got more brains than the entire O division put together."
Dyson flipped to the last page and glared at the summary he found there. "Nature of both sites indicates loner… Knowledge of mineshaft indicates local resident… Ah, here we are: This killer shows characteristics of both the organized and disorganized type. He's not afraid to face intended victims head-on. Has requisite social skills- surface ones- to entice a young person into dangerous circumstances. The abandoned house, the mineshaft, the tape recording, all indicate careful planning. Careful planning suggests attacker probably holds a steady job. May be an obsessive cleaner or neat freak, a list-maker. May hold a job that requires a high degree of organization. Todd Curry didn't look very neat to me, but no doubt we have different housekeeping standards than the Horsemen. Or Horseladies, sorry.
"On the other hand," he read on, "evidence of frenzy in the Curry murder indicates explosive personality… Killer will be someone who is missing more and more days of work, getting more and more out of control. Really, what they expect us to do with this I can't imagine. According to this, you're looking for Jekyll and Hyde. Which is all very well if he happens to be in Hyde mode. But how do you know him when he's Jekyll?"
"Not by sitting in here all day." Cardinal got up and left.
Delorme would have followed, but Dyson stopped her. "Hold on a second. Was it my imagination or was he a little too touchy?"
Delorme could not miss the change in tone. They weren't talking about Pine-Curry, now. "I think he's just pissed off that you didn't keep him informed."
"Yeah. You're probably right. How's he doing in your own…"
"Fine. Nothing so far."
"Finances?"
"Nothing back, yet. The banks don't like to part with information. But my impression, I don't think-"
"I don't want your impressions, Delorme, and neither does the chief. We all have the impression that Sergeant John Cardinal is a first-class detective. We all have the impression that he's straight as an arrow. So, thank you, but I don't need any more impressions. What I need is a few solid facts- and not just rumors- that will explain to me how Kyle Corbett can slip through our fingers three separate times. Cardinal wants to lay it off on Corporal Musgrave and his merry men. Fine. But how does an Algonquin Bay cop afford a house on Madonna Road? And how does an Algonquin Bay cop send a daughter to Yale? Do you have any idea what the tuition is at Yale?"
"About twenty-five thousand Canadian dollars. I already checked."
"That includes residence fees?"
"No, sir. That's just tuition. Food, lodging, books and supplies- all that brings it to about forty-eight thousand a year Canadian."
"Jesus."
17
A Gray Coach bus turned the corner with a roar and pulled into the station, twirling capes of snow in its wake.
Passengers disembarked stiffly, some exchanging hugs with waiting relatives, others making straight for the pay phones, still others rushing toward the taxi stand. A small knot of people gathered around the be
lly of the bus from which the driver began to deliver luggage like a litter of puppies. Diesel fumes billowed around their feet.
The driver pulled out a guitar in a hardshell case and handed it to a thin youth shivering in a thin parka. He had long hair that he had to keep flicking out of his eyes. His eyes were round, his eyebrows high and arched, as if life were taking him by surprise. He hefted an enormous knapsack onto his back, picked up his guitar, and went inside to the bank of luggage lockers; it took two to stow his stuff. Then, holding his thin parka together at the throat, he went out to the taxi stand. He bent over and talked to a driver, then with one last flick of his hair, got in.
The cab was the last one at the stand. There was only one other car in the bus station parking lot- a gray Pinto near the entrance. All the Toronto passengers had cleared out by now, but as the taxi pulled out of the lot, the gray Pinto- motor running, windows fogged- remained by the DO NOT BLOCK ENTRANCE sign, patiently throbbing.
The cab drove exactly four blocks downtown, made a left, and let the boy out in front of Alma's Restaurant. He made his way through the snowdrifts like a high-wire artist, placing one foot carefully in front of the other. Snow melted in his shoes; his boots were in the knapsack back at the station.
He was the restaurant's only customer. On a small TV screen behind the counter, Chicago was playing the Canadiens. The bearded bear who took his order scarcely took his eyes off the game. When he brought the food, cheers and organ notes cascaded from the TV. "Damn," the bear muttered. "That better not be Chicago."
"I was gonna go out for a beer or something," the kid said. "Can you tell me where young people hang out around here?"
"How young? My age?"
"Mine."
"Try the St. Charles." The bear waved a paw like a traffic cop. "Make a right on Algonquin. Go two blocks till you reach Main. It'll be across the street."
"Thanks."
The restaurant was about what you'd expect a cabdriver to recommend: vinyl banquettes, Formica tables, plastic plants everywhere, and, despite the name, no Alma in sight. The boy sat at the counter looking out at the silent street. The red neon of the diner's sign turned the falling snow bright pink. Chances of finding any excitement were looking slim. Nevertheless, when the kid had finished his hamburger, he headed out to find the St. Charles.
ELDERLY inhabitants of Algonquin Bay may remember the days when the St. Charles was one of the city's better hotels. For decades, its location at the elbow of Algonquin and Main drew visitors who wanted to be right downtown, as well as tourists looking for easy access to Lake Nipissing, just two blocks south. The train station was less than five minutes away on foot, so for passengers arriving from Quebec City or Montreal, it would be the first building of any size they'd see. The St. Charles in that earlier incarnation prided itself on pleasing both tourist and businessman with charm, convenience, and first-class service.
Unfortunately, that day had come and gone. When the St. Charles could not compete with the cut rates charged by such self-service enterprises as the Castle Inn or the Birches Motel, it converted its upper stories into small, oddly shaped apartments that now housed mostly transients and ne'er-do-wells. All that remained of the former hotel was the bar downstairs, the St. Charles Saloon, which retained nothing of its original elegance and was now the establishment where the young of Algonquin Bay learned to drink. The management wasn't overly strict about checking driver's licenses, and they served beer in enormous pitchers.
The kid, whose name was Keith London, was standing at the bar, smoking and looking around in the slightly anxious way of a stranger. The St. Charles Saloon was essentially a warehouse divided by two long tables where boisterous parties of young folk were making an enormous amount of noise. Along the walls, smaller groups of drinkers perched around tiny, disklike tables. Carved above a door beside the bar a sign, the remnant of an earlier era, said LADIES AND ESCORTS ONLY. A multicolored jukebox was blasting out Bryan Adams. Above it all hung the murky cumulus of a hundred cigarettes.
Keith London finished one beer and debated whether he should have another; that hamburger had been the only food he'd eaten since Orillia. The crowd looked as if it had passed the point where a newcomer might be welcomed. To his left a couple was discussing in harsh terms other people not present. To his right, a man stared in autistic wonder at the hockey game swirling across a silent TV screen. Keith's adventurous spirit began to wilt.
He ordered another Sleeman. If nothing interesting happened before he finished it, he'd head over to the motel the cabdriver had pointed out.
He was only about halfway through his beer when a man in a knee-length leather coat left the jukebox and came over to the bar. He shouldered his way between Keith and the couple next to him. The coat was like something you'd hide a shotgun under.
"Boring joint," he said, tipping the muzzle of his Labatt's toward the crowd.
"I don't know. They look like they're having a good time." Keith nodded toward the middle of the room from where gusts of laughter kept blowing.
"Idiots always have a good time." The man upended his beer, pressing it to his lips like a trumpet, and drained half at one go.
Keith turned away a little, feigning a sudden interest in the jukebox.
"Hockey. If you took hockey away, this country would shrivel up and die."
"It's a decent game," Keith said. "I'm not a fanatic about it, though."
"Why do Canadians do it doggy-style?" The man didn't look at Keith as he spoke.
"I don't know."
"So they can both watch the hockey game."
Keith left the bar and went into the men's room. When he was at the urinal he heard the door swing open behind him and then the creak of leather. There were several urinals available, but the man bellied up to the adjacent one. Keith washed his hands quickly and headed back to the bar; he still had more than half a beer left.
The man came back a moment later. He kept his leather-clad back to the crowd this time, and Keith had the feeling the man was staring at the back of his head in the bartender's mirror. "I think I've got stomach cancer," he said. "Something not right in there."
"That's rough," Keith said. He knew he should feel sympathy for the guy but somehow he didn't.
The music changed to some ancient Neil Young song. The man pounded the bar in time to the music, hard enough to rattle his ashtray. "I know what we could do," he said, suddenly gripping Keith's bicep. "We could go to the beach."
"Uh-uh. It must be twenty degrees out there."
"Twenty degrees, big deal. Beach is great in winter. We could buy a six-pack."
"No, thanks. I'd rather stay where it's warm."
"I was kidding," the guy said, but the grip on Keith's arm intensified. "Could take a drive out to Callander, though. Car's got a CD player. What kind of music do you like?"
"Lots of kinds."
A woman materialized out of the haze and asked Keith if she could bum a smoke. The man instantly let go of Keith's arm and turned his back. It was as if a spell had been broken.
Keith offered the woman his Player's Lights. He would never have paid her the slightest attention if she hadn't spoken to him. She was pudgy around the edges, with almost no chest. And there was something off-putting about her face. The skin was stiff and shiny from some skin disorder. It was more like a mask than a face.
"My boyfriend and I were just saying you looked interesting. Are you from out of town?"
"It's that obvious?"
"We thought you looked interesting. Come and have a beer with us. We're dying of boredom."
Now, never mind how someone looks, Keith said to himself. This is just the kind of thing you always want to happen and never does: friendly people taking an interest. He regretted his inner critique of her appearance.
The woman led him past the jukebox to a small table in the corner where a guy who looked maybe thirty was peeling the label from his Molson bottle, frowning as if it were the most important project in the world. He lo
oked up as they approached, asking before they even sat down, "So, was I right? Is he from Toronto?"
"You two are amazing," Keith said. "I just got into town an hour ago. From Toronto."
"Well, it's not that amazing, really," the woman said, watching her boyfriend pour beer into their three glasses. "You look far too cool to be from around this dump."
Keith shrugged. "Place doesn't seem so bad. Guy at the bar was a little strange."
"Yeah, we noticed," the man said quietly. "Figured someone should come to your rescue."
"Hey! You've got cigarettes!"
The woman said, "It was the only way I could think of to introduce myself. I'm terrible at talking to strangers." Her boyfriend was lighting an Export "A" and offering the pack with a flick of the wrist. He was not quite handsome. Dark hair swept back from his brow and sat up in oily spikes along the crown of his head, as if he had just matured from a punk rock phase. And his skin was so pale that blue veins showed below his eyes and at the temples. It was the ferretlike cast to the eyes that spoiled his face a little, but he had a huddled attitude, an intense way of moving- now leaning forward to pour beer, now offering a cigarette- that captured Keith's imagination. It seemed to say he had far more important things to do at any moment, but just now he would pour you a beer or offer you a smoke. It was very compelling, and Keith wondered what he was doing with this woman with the fiberglass face.
"I guess I forgive you," Keith said cheerfully. He took a sip of beer. "My name's Keith, by the way."
"I'm Edie. He's Eric."
"Eric and Edie. Awesome."
Keith became chatty over the second pitcher of beer. It was a weakness he was aware of in himself but could not stop. "Such a Chatty Cathy," his girlfriend teased him sometimes. He was telling Eric and Edie he had just completed high school and was taking a year off, before university, to travel the country. He had already been to the East Coast and was now headed in a leisurely way toward Vancouver. Then he got on to politics and the economy. He delivered his opinions about Quebec; now he was going on about the bloody Maritimes. God, I'm a motor-mouth, he thought. Somebody stop me.
