by Giles Blunt
“I didn’t kill him,” Lasalle said. “None of the Riders did.”
“How do I know that?”
“Because if we had, you’d never have found him.”
Lately, Lise Delorme found herself spending a lot of time thinking about what she would have done had she not become a cop. After finishing her B.A. in Ottawa with a major in economics, she had thought seriously about getting involved in business. But then she had taken a course in business ethics and that had done two things for her: It took the shine right off private enterprise, and it provoked an interest in white-collar crime. It was that interest that led Delorme to the police college at Aylmer and eventually to her six-year stint in Special Investigations, where she dealt not only with internal police matters but also with crimes deemed to be “sensitive”—which is to say crimes committed by sectors of the population that normally consider themselves law-abiding. Bankers, lawyers, politicians and so on.
Working Special had had its moments—arresting a former mayor was a highlight—but it was also a lonely endeavour. Other cops had never quite trusted her. Besides, the people in CID had looked like they were having a lot more fun, and eventually she had asked for a transfer.
Today was one of those days she was regretting that decision. First, she had reread the pathologist’s report on Wombat Guthrie. Histamine tests had confirmed that the horrendous injuries had indeed been inflicted before death. The body had also been virtually drained of blood.
The second reason Delorme felt a pang of nostalgia for white-collar criminals was that she was sitting face to face with Harlan “Haystack” Calhoun, and Harlan “Haystack” Calhoun was a biker through and through. He looked as if he had never seen a white collar, let alone worn one. He was slouched on a plastic chair in the interview room, his snakeskin boots propped on the table.
“Do you not have a lawyer, Mr. Calhoun?”
“I haven’t done nothing. Why would I need a lawyer?”
“If you wish to call the legal aid office, we can put this matter off until you’ve had time to discuss it with counsel.”
“Just ask your questions, and let’s get on with it.”
Delorme pointed out the video camera high in one corner, and the other one off to one side. “We are taping this conversation, and although you are not facing any charges at the moment, I must tell you that anything you say can and will be used against you should any charges be laid at a later time.”
“Big deal.”
The plastic chair emitted a shriek as Calhoun shifted his weight. He sat forward and propped his chin on his two fists.
“When was the last time you saw Walter, also known as Wombat, Guthrie alive?”
“Three weeks ago. Next question.”
“What were the circumstances?”
“The circumstances were I saw him for the last time.”
“Where were you?”
“Clubhouse.”
“The clubhouse off Highway 11? The one where I saw you the other day?”
“How many clubhouses do you think we got?”
“Just answer the question, please.”
“Yes, the one where you saw me the other day. Next question.”
“What day was this, exactly? Take your time.”
“It was Tuesday, May 12th, at three o’clock in the afternoon. Is that exact enough for you?”
“What were the two of you doing?”
“Splashing this little biker freak.”
“Splashing?”
“He was doing her one end, and I was doing the other. If you want, we can set up a demonstration.”
“What was her name?”
“Ginger Ale.”
“What was her real name?”
“That’s what was on her ID. She carried it around to prove she was old enough to drink. If that ain’t her real name—guess what?—I don’t care. Wombat called her Ginger.”
“Where can I find her?”
“Fucked if I know. Try Who’s Ho.”
“And what day was this?”
“Tuesday, May 13th, at 3 p.m.”
“You just changed the date. That’s not usually an indication of sincerity, Mr. Calhoun.”
“May 12th, then. People don’t call the Viking Riders when they want sincerity.”
“We want to find out who killed Wombat Guthrie. Are you saying you don’t care? You just told me he was your sex partner.”
Calhoun made a slight movement of the head, and his right eyebrow lifted a little. Although there were several feet between them, Delorme suddenly had the sense that he was sniffing her.
“You’re not answering.”
“How’d you get that cut over your eye?” Calhoun said. “Looks recent.”
“The person who killed Wombat first cut his fingers and toes and genitals off and tried to skin him alive. Do you really have no interest in catching this person?”
Calhoun leaned forward. Leather wept; plastic cried. “I’ll tell you what I’d be interested in. I’d be interested in bending you over and fucking you up the ass a few times.”
He leaned back and smiled.
“Someone said exactly the same thing to me just the other day,” Delorme said.
“Oh, yeah?”
“It was at the Penetang hospital for the criminally insane.”
Delorme snapped her notebook shut.
“Note for the record that Mr. Calhoun is not cooperating with the investigation. This interview is over, subject to resumption at a later date. Good day, Mr. Calhoun.”
“That Cardinal prick around?”
“Good day, Mr. Calhoun.”
Delorme was holding the door open.
Calhoun got up. Delorme felt like honey, seeing the bear approach. She stepped back at the last moment, so that he couldn’t brush against her.
Now that he was out in the CID area, Calhoun shouted. “You tell Cardinal I’m looking forward to seeing him again.”
A couple of heads popped up over acoustic dividers: Szelagy, McLeod.
“Are you threatening a police officer, Mr. Calhoun?”
Calhoun winked at her.
“Catch you later, puss.”
31
RED BEAR OPENED THE BRASS PADLOCK and stepped into his temple. The smell that would have sickened the most hardened cop had a very different effect on him. He inhaled deeply, like a camper savouring the brisk morning air, and felt the familiar quickening in his belly and a tingling all along his nerves. It was a thrill that never disappointed. He was too excited even to notice the flies.
The moon had begun to wane, so he would not be making any sacrifices for a while, but still it was exciting to step into this temple. Kevin and Leon had gone into town; he had the entire camp to himself. He would join his disciples later in the afternoon, but for now it was necessary to consult the nganga.
He lit some charcoal in a censer and sprinkled pinches of wormwood and angelica root over it. Even the best Wicca shops in Toronto were always running out of his ingredients; he often had to order from an occult shop in New York. There were no windows in this cabin; he lit three rows of candles above the nganga and the room dimly took shape. He closed the door and locked it.
The nganga bristled with sticks. Twenty-eight of these sacred palos were used to control the spirit, to shape the nature of your prayer. You had to poke and prod the spirit like an ox; it was the only way to get results.
“Bahalo!” His shout rang against the concrete walls of the cabin. “Bahalo! Semtekne bakuneray pentol!”
Never kneel, never beg, just as his uncle had instructed.
“Bahalo! Seeno temtem bakuneray pentol!”
He spread his hands over the nganga in the manner of a Catholic priest and meditated for a few moments on exactly what he desired. Focus was essential for success. He wanted the spirit to travel for him.
“Seeno temtem naka nova valdor.”
He stirred the foul liquid with the sticks. A pale, toeless foot swam into view; he braced it against one
side of the cauldron with a couple of palos. He probed the depths again until another foot appeared.
“Sendekere mam koko, pantibi.” Walk for me, spirit. I who have given you feet to travel, tell you to walk for me, travel for me, discover for me.
He pushed the feet under and now probed for hands. There were no hands, as such, just fingerless palms, severed at the wrist, and the fingers themselves that he had removed one by one for the nganga. The memory of his victim’s terror and agony made his heart pound. Terror and agony were the portals through which mortal flesh entered the immortal world of the spirit. Terror and agony formed the gateway through which he, Red Bear, could command the spirits of the dead. Terror and agony were his friends.
Several of the sticks were flattened at the ends into spoonlike shapes. He used a couple of these to dredge fingers to the surface. They were white and wrinkled; one still bore a ring with a skull and crossbones on it.
“Kandopay varonaway d’kran. Bentak po bentak mam tinpay. Naktak po naktak mam kennetay.” Reach for me, my spirit. Pull close my allies. Push hard against my foes.
Red Bear swirled the dark fluid again; the smells engulfed him. The largest object in the nganga now swam into view. Emerging like a diver fresh from hell, the head bobbed to the surface and twirled in slow motion. Blood and water streamed from the eyes and nostrils. The eyes were half open and stared beyond Red Bear’s shoulder.
Red Bear chanted in the magic language. Spirit, travel for me, learn for me, give me knowledge. Spirit, use the brain with which I have blessed you to tell me what I need to know. Go, spirit, go, and do this work for me.
32
CARDINAL WAS SITTING AT THE COUNTER in D’Anunzio’s, a combination fruit store and soda fountain that had been an Algonquin Bay landmark since before he was born. D’Anunzio’s made the best sandwiches in town, which was why he was there. He had finished his chicken salad bagel in no time, but he remained at the old wooden counter making notes.
Cardinal had long ago ceased to believe in inspiration. He had even ceased to believe in his own cleverness. He did not acknowledge in himself any particular investigative talent. A successful investigation, he had come to believe, was simply a matter of putting in the time. You weren’t a genius, you weren’t Sherlock Holmes, you were a more or less effective part of an organization that devoted itself to covering all the angles of a crime until it was cleared.
So when he first had this whatever-you-called-inspiration-when-you-didn’t-believe-in-inspiration, he tossed it aside as an unproductive notion. Too easy, he figured. Too unlikely.
He was making notes on how they should pursue the biker angle. He still had nothing solid to hang Wombat’s murder on them. Call Musgrave, he had written. Get more background on VR. And Call Jerry Commanda. He crossed out Check reverse directory.
That was one task he had completed. The CID kept reverse telephone directories for all major Canadian cities, not just Algonquin Bay. Cardinal had looked up the Vancouver number Terri had dialled from the hospital, but it wasn’t listed. Then he’d called Vancouver directory assistance, which also had no listing. The young man on the other end of the line had informed him that it was a cellphone number.
Next, he’d called Bell Security and told them it was an emergency, explaining that a young woman had been shot and he was trying to notify next of kin. All Bell would tell him was that the number belonged to one Kevin Tait. They had no address for him because he paid for service using prepaid cards and, no, they could not tell him why the number was currently not in service. Most likely, the customer had run out of minutes on his card. Any further information would require a warrant.
A warrant would take a couple of hours, and Cardinal had not wanted to spend a couple of hours on that particular angle just then. So what had he learned? Terri Tait had called her brother’s cellphone. Not exactly earthshaking stuff. There was no reason to suppose Kevin Tait was anywhere other than Vancouver. Then again, it was a cellphone; he could be anywhere.
Cardinal’s next move had been a computer check of national criminal records. It turned out that Kevin Tait, twenty-two, had been convicted of possession of heroin with intent to traffic three years previously, for which he had been sentenced to two years less a day.
A call to the Vancouver police came up empty; the arresting officer had transferred to another jurisdiction, and no one was able or willing to help Cardinal right then. He’d left his name and number with a detective on their drug squad who promised to get back to him.
All right, Kevin Tait, where are you? Cardinal added several question marks in his notebook. Another thought was pushing its way to the forefront of his mind. What if Terri Tait is not a stranger here? What if she was not coming to Algonquin Bay for the first time? What if she was returning here? This was the inspiration he was trying to resist. Was such a scenario even likely? If Terri Tait grew up here, someone surely would have reported her missing by now. But maybe she hadn’t lived here for very long.
Back in the squad room, Cardinal put in a call to the Nipissing School Board. School records are confidential; strictly speaking, a warrant is required. But it’s different from dealing with a huge corporation like Bell. Sometimes a certain flexibility can soften these situations; it depends who you get on the other end of the line. In this case, it was a young woman—a young woman with a lot of sandpaper in her voice, as if she’d recently left off screaming. Cardinal’s first question met with a raspy but firm no.
“I understand your reluctance,” Cardinal said. “In fact, I admire it. We need people like you to make sure information doesn’t fall into the wrong hands.”
“So why don’t you get a warrant and try again later?” the woman said.
“Well, of course I could do that. But it would take a lot of time and I don’t want to go to all that trouble only to find out that you don’t have any information. So—without giving me anything personal—I wonder if you could just confirm whether or not a Miss Terri Tait ever attended school here.”
“Just confirmation. You don’t want grades or anything?”
“No, no. I would never ask for anything like that without a warrant.” Thinking, I’m such a liar, I should have gone into acting. “If you could just tell me if Terri Tait ever attended school here or not, I’d really appreciate it.”
There was a pause on the Nipissing School Board’s end of the line. Even in that vacant line tone, Cardinal thought he detected a distinct rasp.
“How are you spelling that name again?”
“Terri Tait,” Cardinal said, and spelled it out. Luckily the spellings were slightly unusual.
He was put on hold. Cardinal twirled through his Rolodex, looking for the number for the separate school board. He would call them next.
The young woman came back on the line.
“Yes, a Terri Tait attended Ojibwa High School back in the early nineties. She was with them for two years, grades nine and ten.”
Bingo, Cardinal thought. We’re on a roll.
“And her parents?”
“Wing Commander Kenneth Tait. Spouse, Marilyn. Oh, my. There’s a note on the file that says they were killed in a plane crash—a private plane—in 1993. The kids went to live with relatives out west.”
“I’m wondering about their Algonquin Bay address,” Cardinal said. “You said the father was in the air force. Can you tell me, did they live on the base or off?”
“I wouldn’t know. Last address we have is 145 Deloraine Drive.”
On the base.
“How’d Terri do in math and chemistry?” He wanted to leave this young woman feeling she’d done a good job.
“Really, Detective, you can’t expect me to give you information like that without a warrant. You’ll have to get a court order.”
“Of course,” Cardinal said. “I’ll do that right now.”
He hung up and grabbed his jacket. His phone was ringing but he ignored it and headed straight out the door.
The residents of Algonquin Bay
don’t like to think so, but it’s all too probable that the city’s best years are behind it. At their peak in the middle of the last century, there were three railway lines running through town; now there is one. The CNR station burned down a few years back, a shame because it was one of the few buildings in this four-square town with real character. And the former CPR station, a classic limestone structure on Oak Street, is being transformed into a railway museum. Only the former ONR station is still in operation—but as offices, not as a terminal.
The Cold War had also been very good to Algonquin Bay. Canada had beefed up its armed forces and joined the United States in NORAD, a system of linked radar installations and air force bases designed to intercept any threat coming in over the ice cap from Russia. By the mid-sixties, the local air force base boasted three thousand personnel and an arsenal of nuclear-tipped Bomarc missiles. The defence department hollowed out a mountain next to Trout Lake and installed a three-storey radar outfit inside it, a Dr. Strangelove set that at one time had been cutting edge.
But the Cold War had ended. The missiles were disarmed and then dismantled. The armed forces were downsized, and one by one the squadrons mothballed. That left only about 150 military personnel in Algonquin Bay, and no one seemed to know how much longer they’d be there.
Cardinal drove up to the base checkpoint. Sometimes the checkpoint was manned, sometimes not; it depended on the current level of threat. Today it was unmanned, and Cardinal drove through without even slowing. It made him wonder about his country’s state of readiness.
Cardinal was acting on one little-considered result of the vanished squadrons: empty houses. No one talked much about the empty houses, and the military wasn’t about to publicize them. To put them on the market would destroy the value of all the other homes in town. So, unbeknownst to most of its population, Algonquin Bay contains enough empty houses to fill a subdivision, which is exactly what the air base looks like.
The only difference between the air base and other sixties-era subdivisions is that all its houses are not just similar but identical: ranch-style split-levels with two-car garages and sunken living rooms. The streets look the same, too—all drives, lanes, circles and courts with spurious curves and dead ends apparently designed to frustrate the Soviet invader.
