by Giles Blunt
“Lemur was loyal,” Papa said. “Unlike you.”
“And look where it got him,” Donna said. “Are you proud of your children, Papa?”
“Donna—Christine,” Cardinal said. “Whatever you have in mind now, don’t do it.”
Donna laughed. “He took my life. Why shouldn’t I take his?”
“If not for me,” Papa said, “and the family I gave you, you’d have been dead at fifteen.”
“You’re an assembly line for murderers. You’ll just keep turning out more like me. Taking you down will be the one good thing I’ve ever done.”
“Don’t do it,” Cardinal said.
“Why, John? You have a happy ending for me? You marry me and take me away from all this? I don’t think so. In a way, you’re partly responsible. You gave me a glimpse of real love, real loyalty. You would have figured me out quick enough—but it was just so obvious you loved your wife. Real love. Not the fake stuff Papa deals in, the real thing. That’s something I’ve never had, never will. You can’t imagine how that feels.”
“You kill a boy and a law officer and God knows who else,” Cardinal said, “and you blame it on your childhood?”
“You can’t imagine the things I’ve seen. Either of you. You can’t begin to guess the places you travel when you’ve had the benefit of Papa’s training. I’ve seen fathers clasp their hands in prayer and beg, beg not to be killed—not for their own sakes, for the sakes of their children. I’ve seen young mothers sprawled on the ground, blood spilling from their heads, their babies wailing in the next room. I’ve seen teenagers, a teacher, an architect, at least one doctor—all dead for the same reason. The same simple reason. Because Papa wanted it that way. It was never for anything that mattered, anything that might make sense as a motive. They looked at him wrong, they didn’t bow down to him, they didn’t recognize that he was God, obviously they were not fit to live. I lost interest when he started cutting people’s heads off. Not personally, of course. Why kill anyone yourself when you can have a so-called son or daughter do it for you?”
“Look at you,” Papa said. “You’re magnificent. An implacable force. Come with me up north. We’ll work together. We’ll raise a family the like of which has never been seen, and we’ll take over whatever’s left of the world.”
“Big talk from a guy who’s never killed anyone.”
“He did,” Cardinal said. “Martin Scriver—later known as Curtis Carl Winston—murdered his parents forty years ago. Took them for a ride on the lake and chopped their heads off and sank the boat. Why’d you do it, Martin?”
“I didn’t. I didn’t kill my parents,” Papa said. “I never killed anyone.”
“Nobody did it for you,” Cardinal said. “Not that first time. You did it all by yourself.”
“My parents died. I didn’t kill them.”
“What did you do with the heads, Martin? Not that I suppose we’ll find them at this point.”
“I didn’t do that. I didn’t do anything.” For a moment at least, all arrogance and authority seemed to drain from the man, leaving nothing but faint denial.
“Then how come you changed your name to Curtis Winston? We have the DNA, by the way.”
Papa shook his head.
“In some weird psychotic way, you’ve been trying to prove that ever since. It’s always somebody else doing the killing, right? You have them kill the couple. You have them kill the kid. You would have had Bastov’s son killed too, if he hadn’t got sick and missed his flight. But that first time, nobody did the killing for you. That was all you.”
“No,” Papa said, still shaking his head. “No.”
“That’s how you knew the house was for sale, right? Took a drive out Island Road to get a look at the old cottage? Last place you saw your parents alive? The Schumacher property was the best place to get a look at it.”
A girl of about thirteen stepped into the kitchen from the basement stairwell. She had a gun gripped in her two hands and aimed at Donna. Even from where he stood, Cardinal could see it shaking, but her arrival seemed to breathe life back into Papa. “Nikki,” he said. “Kill this woman.”
Donna kept her gun pressed to the side of his head. She looked the trembling girl up and down. “You’re losing your touch, Papa. This one’s not ready to kill anybody.”
“You’re wrong,” Papa said. “She already has.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Do it, Nikki.”
Nikki swallowed. She kept the gun trained on Donna.
“Do it,” Papa said again. Nikki adjusted her stance.
“Dear me,” Donna said. “At her age I’d already killed at least two people for you.”
“Christine, this family is on the cusp of greatness. A pure existence in the clarity of the north. We can sit there in comfort and watch the entire planet go to hell.”
Donna laughed. She looked at the girl. “He’s been going on about the Pure White North for decades. Did he give you the story about so-called guided chaos too? Stir things up, then retreat to the north to wait out world war?”
“It’s such a shame,” Papa said. “We made you into something real, Christine. Lethal, yes, but real. We made you into travelling darkness, the agent of destiny, death incarnate. You had the power, not me, and that’s as close to God as it gets.”
“Not human, in other words.”
“A force to be reckoned with.”
“And now I’m reckoning with you.”
Donna shot him through the temple and he crumpled to the floor. Random nerve and muscle spasms jerked the arms and legs. Before Cardinal could move, she had the gun, still smoking, trained on a spot between his eyes.
The girl was trying to keep Donna in her sights, but her arms shook and wavered with her sobs.
Donna ignored her. “You’ve investigated a lot of murders, John. Now you’ve actually witnessed one up close. How do you like it? Would you like to make a career out of it?” When he didn’t respond, she said, “Didn’t think so. It’s an acquired taste. That bastard made sure anyone near him acquired it pretty fast.”
“You think I’m going to let you go because we slept together?”
She shook her head. “Never. Sorry, John.”
“Kill me and you won’t get away with it.”
“Who’s going to know? I’m willing to bet you haven’t told anyone else what you figured out. It makes you look too dumb. What was the clincher for you?”
“Zabriskie Farm. The pictures you stole from Mendelsohn’s room.”
“How long have you known?”
“A couple of hours. Other people will know soon enough.”
“It’s too bad,” Donna said. “I liked you. Admired you. I still admire you.”
The girl made a move—it was only a sob, but it made her gun hand jerk—and Donna whipped around. In that splinter of time Cardinal had no opportunity to judge whether she would actually shoot the girl. Instinct took over. His gun hand came up and his finger squeezed the trigger.
Donna stumbled and fell back against a table. She started to raise the Browning toward Cardinal and he shot her again, catching her in the arm. She lifted the gun again. Her knees gave out and Cardinal’s final bullet went into her skull just above the left eyebrow.
41
“LOOK AT THIS CONDENSATION.” Cardinal drew his forefinger down the foggy surface of his picture window and added a dot underneath. He added a question mark next to it. “You think I should move again?”
“Back out to the lake? You’d lose a ton of money, wouldn’t you?” Delorme was lying on his couch in blue jeans and a red Christmas sweater. She had her left leg, in its plastic and foam cast, propped up on the back of the couch. Her honey-coloured hair flowed over the cushions beneath her head. “Don’t move again. I’d miss having you just down the street.”
I would too, Cardinal nearly said, but didn’t. Then he wished he had. And then it was too late. Instead, he told her about Sam Doucette. She and her mother were back in town.
He had stopped by to tell them about developments. “I met her father too.”
“He finally came back from the Yukon or wherever he was?”
“Said he’s trying to get Sam a sponsorship deal with a crossbow manufacturer. I’m not sure, but I think he was joking. You ready for more coffee?”
Delorme picked her mug up from the floor and held it out in a languid hand. “I could get used to this, having a man wait on me hand and foot.”
“Shane doesn’t do that?” Cardinal took the mugs into the kitchen and picked up the coffee pot and started to pour.
“Shane and I broke up.”
Cardinal put down the pot and went back to the doorway. Delorme was twisting a lock of her hair, examining it in the light as if it were far more interesting than her romantic fortunes.
“He dumped me.”
“Then he’s an idiot.”
“Yes,” Delorme said, still contemplating the lock of hair. “I think so too.”
“Are you upset about it?”
She held the hair still, then let it fall back to the cushions. “Yes.”
“But you weren’t too excited about him, you said.”
“It always hurts to be dumped—even though I have a lot of experience at it. I don’t like being on the other end of it either, but it beats being the dumpee.”
Cardinal went back to the kitchen and finished pouring the coffee and handed her her mug. Delorme sat up awkwardly, bad leg out to one side.
“You want to sit in the recliner?” Cardinal said. “You’d be more comfortable.”
She sipped her coffee and shook her head. “That’s your spot.”
Cardinal was about to sit down when the phone rang. He talked to McLeod for the next few minutes, aware that Delorme was watching his face, reading his reactions.
“So?” she said when he hung up.
“You remember our fur protester—Chad Pocklington? OPP just figured out that’s who they swooped down on with their SWAT team.”
“Wow. I bet they’re pissed. Any news about the girl—Nikki?”
“They still haven’t tracked down her parents. They may not want to be found. She’ll be stuck in detention for now. Kreeger apparently doesn’t want to press charges, but the Crown is not going to ignore kidnapping and false imprisonment even if she did let the old guy go.”
“What do we hear from Forensic?”
“DNA from the Scriver cottage matches Curtis Winston. There’s no criminal record under either name, but he’s now the chief suspect in several gruesome murders in the States—all of them where he has a slight connection but no obvious motive.”
“People annoy him, so he cuts their heads off.”
“He has his so-called children do it. The guy who attacked you was one Jackson Till. He’s done time in the Texas state pen for rape, manslaughter and aggravated assault. Are you okay? How are you holding up?”
Delorme had gone pale. She closed her eyes and shook her head. “I can’t stop thinking about it. Seeing it. Over and over again.”
“You didn’t have a choice. You know that.”
“I do know that. It doesn’t seem to make any difference.”
“If it’s any comfort, SIU’s initial take is they believe you killed him in self-defence. The final report’ll take weeks. Same for me and Donna Vaughan.”
A wave of nausea or something like it passed through Cardinal and he sat down on the couch beside her. Neither of them spoke for a long time. Finally Cardinal said, “I never thought I’d see the day I’d shoot a woman.”
“Like you say,” Delorme said, “it’s not as if you had a choice.”
Another silence.
Eventually Cardinal said, “You know, I spoke to the real Donna Vaughan. She’s a freelance journalist in New York who covers fashion and has no interest whatsoever in the Russian mob. She also had no idea that Christine Rickert borrowed her identity about two weeks after she got out on parole. I’m telling you, Lise, sometimes my own idiocy takes my breath away. I can’t believe I didn’t see through her.”
“Why, John? You had no reason to suspect her of being anything other than an aggressive journalist.” Delorme placed a warm hand on Cardinal’s shoulder. “And it’s not so long ago your wife died. You were vulnerable.”
“Stupid, you mean.”
“You broke a major case. Two major cases. I don’t think that qualifies as stupid.” She gave his arm a squeeze. “You want to watch a video tonight? Do the popcorn thing?”
Cardinal shrugged. “I don’t know …”
“Come on. What do you feel like? An old classic? A comedy?”
“I really don’t mind,” Cardinal said. “Something without monsters.”
GILES BLUNT grew up in North Bay, Ontario. After spending over twenty years in New York City, he now lives in Toronto. He is the author of Forty Words for Sorrow, for which he won the British Crime Writers’ Macallan Silver Dagger; A Delicate Storm, winner of the Arthur Ellis Award for Best Novel; Blackfly Season, one of Margaret Cannon’s Best Mysteries of the Year; By the Time You Read This, a national bestseller; No Such Creature, one of the Globe and Mail’s Top Ten Crime Books; and Breaking Lorca, which the Globe called a “tour de force.”
Copyright © 2010 Giles Blunt
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Published in 2010 by Random House Canada, a division of Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto. Distributed in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited.
www.randomhouse.ca
Random House Canada and colophon are registered trademarks.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Blunt, Giles
Crime machine / Giles Blunt.
Issued also in electronic format.
eISBN: 978-0-307-37593-3
I. Title.
PS8553.L867C75 2010 C813′.54 C2010-901382-4
v3.0
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
About the Author
Copyright
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