Blackfly Season

by Giles Blunt

  “Sure. You can get DNA from pretty much anything these days.”

  “But why did you? We already have the species. We know it couldn’t have come from the second site. Why bother to determine the species all over again with DNA, when you’ve already done it with the—”

  “No, no. I’m not talking about the species. I’m talking about the individual fly. The individual DNA from this casing matches the individual DNA from the first site. The maggot that came out of this casing has the same mother as dozens of other eggs at the first site.”

  “You matched the DNA of individual flies?”

  Dr. Filbert nodded vigorously, a motion that blurred his rubbery face. “It was easy. Well, it would have been a lot easier with an egg rather than a casing, but I managed to make do. I use a machine called an MJ Research Engine. Takes about twenty-four hours.”

  “How can you do it that fast? We give DNA samples to forensics in Toronto, it takes them ten days minimum. We’re waiting for some right now.”

  “I have a distinct advantage. I’ve spent the last six months doing nothing but building up a gigantic background dataset. I know the statistical variations for this area inside out. So my search is already narrowed down. Instead of looking for a needle in a haystack, I’m looking for a needle in, I don’t know, a file drawer.”

  “This is terrific work,” Cardinal said. “I had no idea you could do this.”

  “Anyone could. Well, you know. A lot of people.”

  “I doubt that very much, Dr. Filbert. Thank you so much for putting in the time.”

  “Oh, it was my pleasure. It was fun.”

  When Filbert was gone, Cardinal logged the vial into the evidence room and left the printout on Arsenault’s desk. If they ever brought in a suspect, this evidence would be courtroom gold.

  He sat down at his desk and wrote a few lines about Filbert in his notebook, looking up at the clock to note the time. Nearly eight, and he still hadn’t had dinner. He wondered what Catherine had done about dinner, where she had gone. One of her favourite things about Toronto was the great variety of restaurants; she had a far more adventurous palate than Cardinal. He hadn’t managed to speak to her the last time he’d called. He hoped she had just been in the shower or out taking some night shots, but there was a small ache in his chest that always lodged there when he began to worry about his wife.

  His phone rang, and for a split second he was sure it was Catherine, but then he saw the call was not on his direct-dial line.

  “Cardinal, CID.”

  “Oh. Hello. Um, I’m not sure how to proceed with this …”

  A woman’s voice, maybe forties, vaguely familiar.

  “My name is Christine Nadeau. Your wife’s student? We met the other morning.”

  “Oh, yes, sure. I remember.” Cardinal kept his voice even, but his heart was sinking. After more than twenty-five years of marriage to Catherine, he had lost count of how many phone calls like this there had been. The first chemicals of fear entered his bloodstream. From somewhere in his lapsed-Catholic heart, the old prayer started up: Please, God, let her be all right.

  “Well, um, I really don’t know how to put this. And I hope you won’t think badly of me for calling. I want to assure you it’s only out of concern for Catherine. I mean, she’s a wonderful photographer and a great teacher. This is the third course I’ve taken with her.”

  “Okay. Why don’t you just tell me what’s going on?” Please, God, don’t let it be too awful. “Is she all right?”

  “Well, no. Not exactly. I mean, I don’t think so. I talked to two of the other students and one of them thought I shouldn’t call and the other one thought I should, so anyway …

  “She’s been acting a little strange the last day and a half or so. The way it’s set up, we all meet at a particular place in the morning, spend a couple of hours shooting, then get together for lunch. Well, the other day we met at an old cement factory, and usually Catherine’s just all nuts-and-bolts, you know: What are the challenges the setting presents, what are the opportunities, and how should we go about it?

  “But yesterday morning she started getting really worked up about provincial politics and energy policy and nuclear power and all this stuff, and it was like she was running for office or something—she just went off on this tirade. I’m sorry if that sounds mean …”

  “Did anyone try to get her back on topic?” Cardinal said. “To focus?”

  “Well, I did. The sun was still very low behind the factory towers and I asked her a question about backlighting and silhouettes. She just skipped right over it and started going on and on about Queen’s Park and how reality had to be spelled out to them. I realize this doesn’t sound so drastic—I mean, people do have passionate opinions.”

  “But it was inappropriate, you’re saying.”

  “Completely. And totally out of character. I’m sure Catherine has her politics, but it’s never come up before in the classes I’ve done with her. I’ve spent time in the darkroom with her, and it’s always about the work. That’s one of the reasons she’s great. She’s absolutely committed to the work. And so dependable.”

  That’s Catherine, Cardinal thought. When she’s well.

  “Is she eating?”

  “I was getting to that. The day after we got here, she seemed to start living on milkshakes. I mean, literally. She’s calling them breakfast of champions. I don’t think she’s eating anything except those and some vitamin pills.”

  “Has she had any alcohol, do you know?”

  “Not much. Not that I’ve seen. A couple of glasses of wine the other night, and boy, did that get her going. Not like she was drunk. Quite the reverse. She got very serious and very high energy. I mean, I was dead on my feet, but not Catherine. She wanted to go out and shoot more pictures, and I believe she did. I don’t think she’s sleeping very much, if at all. I have to tell you, some of the students are going to complain to Northern. I wouldn’t dream of doing that, but they are paying for this trip, and she’s supposed to be teaching, not—”

  “Do you know where she is right now?”

  “I don’t, I’m afraid. That’s why I’m calling. She was supposed to have dinner with us—a quiet dinner with just a couple of us—but she didn’t show and she didn’t answer in her hotel room.”

  “All right. Let me give you my cellphone number. Do you have a pen?” He gave her the number, and also his home number. “If you see her, please ask her to call me right away. I’m going to come down there.”

  “Really? To Toronto? You think it’s that serious? I didn’t mean to cause a major upset, I just—”

  “No, no. I’m very grateful you called. If you see her, please try to keep her in one place. Or if she takes off again, if you could stay with her and let me know where you are. I should be there in less than four hours. Can you stay up till midnight?”

  “Yes, of course. I’m in room 1016 at the Chelsea. It’s right next to hers, so I should hear when she comes in.”

  How many times, he asked himself, how many times will I be doing this before we die? Rain hammered at the windshield with such force that, even flapping at full speed, the wipers couldn’t keep it clear. How many times have I done this? The call out of nowhere, the sudden rush into the night and the panic—the sheer panic of not knowing where Catherine is or what she’s doing.

  Cardinal had grabbed some takeout at a Burger King and now the car stank of hamburger. The heat of the food had fogged up the windshield. He turned the blower up, and switched on the radio. The choice of rock songs, country music or an interview with a Gaelic poet (courtesy of the CBC) was worse than the sounds of wind and rain, and he switched it off again.

  The first forty miles down to South River were torment. The highway was only a single lane and the weather made passing too dangerous. Once he got to Bracebridge, the road was better and he kept the speedometer pegged at thirty over the limit. He didn’t figure the OPP were going to be out in force on a night like this.
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br />   He put in a call to the Clarke Institute. Catherine had been treated there many times during their ten years in Toronto. Cardinal prayed that Dr. Jonas was still there. The emergency room told him that Dr. Jonas was indeed still on staff, but was not expected in until the next afternoon. Cardinal explained the situation and that with any luck he would be bringing Catherine in. The woman on the other end said she would call Dr. Jonas and let him know. She sounded the right notes, both professional and sympathetic, but she also sounded terribly young.

  Cardinal tried to control his thoughts, tried not to worry too much. But when she was manic, Catherine was capable of terrifying things. One time, back when they were still living in Toronto and Kelly was a little girl, Catherine had set out to hitchhike to an international economic conference at Lake Couchiching. Luckily, a truck driver who had picked her up outside of Barrie realized the state she was in and had had the kindness and good sense to call the local police, who had managed to track Cardinal down in Toronto.

  Another time, she had been working for nearly two years on a photographic study of homeless people. At first, she only visited them during the day, and they allowed her to photograph themselves and their makeshift homes. She had won a provincial prize for that series, and was even a finalist in a national competition. But she could not let the subject go, and embarked on a second series of photographs. That time she had disguised herself as a homeless person, and one day left home to go live with them. Other journalists had done the same at different times, but Catherine had been at the peak of a manic phase just then, only to crash when she was living under a bridge near Casa Loma. Cardinal would never forget what the sight of her did to him when he came to find her in Toronto Western’s emergency ward. His Catherine—normally fastidious and glowing—hair stiff with grime, fingernails filthy and an ugly abrasion on her forehead.

  In the years since, Catherine had been doing better. Sometimes she went as long as two years without having to be hospitalized. Her manic phases were much shorter, and so were her depressive phases. But they were also deeper—black, suffocating weeks during which she would hardly speak or even move. Those were the times that frightened Cardinal the most. If she ever killed herself, it wouldn’t be during mania—unless by misadventure—it would be as her final release from an airless hell.

  Cardinal passed the Sundial Restaurant on his left. Not much longer now. As he changed lanes to get around a semi, he could not rid himself of the thought that it was now almost exactly two years since Catherine’s last stay in hospital.

  Even near midnight, the traffic surrounding Toronto was frenetic. Highway 401 formed a permanent asteroid belt above the city. Cardinal took the Allen Road exit, and after he turned south on Bathurst his cellphone rang. Let it be Catherine. Let this horrible, familiar drama pass. Let her be calling to say everything is all right, she’ll be home tomorrow night on schedule.

  It was Christine Nadeau.

  “I don’t feel good about this,” she said in a low voice. “I feel like a spy.”

  “What’s happening?”

  “I’m just coming out of the subway. The University line. Catherine came back to the hotel about an hour ago. I was hoping she’d stay in and you could just find her there when you arrived, but unfortunately—”

  “Where are you now? What station?”

  “Queen’s Park. I’m not sure what street this is.”

  “College Street. What’s Catherine doing?”

  “She’s got two cameras, one slung on either shoulder, and she’s walking really fast. I don’t know if I can keep up with her.”

  Cardinal heard her huffing and puffing into the phone.

  “Stay with her. I’m south of Eglinton now, and the traffic’s not bad. I should be there in ten minutes. Fifteen, tops. Can you stay with her?”

  “I’ll try. You know, she’s not doing anything particularly weird at the moment.”

  “I realize that. And I hope she’s fine. I’ll be there soon.”

  “Oh, geez.”

  “What? What’s going on?”

  A screech of tires tore over the line.

  “Oh, my God.”

  “Tell me what’s happening.”

  “She just walked right out into traffic. Just walked straight out in front of this SUV. Thank God the guy swerved in time. Catherine didn’t even slow down. I don’t think she even saw him.”

  “Stay with her. I’ll be right there.”

  Bathurst was relatively clear. Cardinal passed St. Clair and then Dupont without much trouble.

  The cellphone rang again.

  “She’s gone into some construction site. I don’t know how she did it. She got a little ahead of me and there’s all these hoardings. I think she may have squeezed between a couple of boards somewhere.”

  “You can’t follow her?”

  “Um, no. I’m not sure where she—”

  “Where are you, exactly?”

  “Um, the corner of Queen and University.”

  “Two minutes.”

  Cardinal tossed the phone aside. He took Harbord over to Queen’s Park Crescent. He crossed College, and then he was on University. He had a red light at Dundas, and then there was Queen.

  He spotted Christine Nadeau—a tall woman in a long raincoat—on the southwest corner. She was at the opening of a pedestrian walkway beneath a vast wall of scaffolding. Cardinal pulled over and left his hazard lights flashing.

  “She has to be in there,” she said, and gestured toward the construction site with her thumb. “I wasn’t more than twenty yards behind her. But I can’t figure out how she got inside.”

  “If there’s a way in, Catherine will find it.”

  “Is there anything else I can do? I mean, I think maybe I shouldn’t be here when you bring her out. I’m feeling pretty guilty about following her like this.”

  “Don’t worry. You did the right thing. I really appreciate it.”

  “All right, then. Good luck.” She turned away and headed toward the subway.

  Cardinal approached the pedestrian walkway. A series of rectangular holes had been cut into the hoardings, windows onto the construction site for the curious. Cardinal peered through the highest one.

  The site was gigantic, though at this point it was little more than a concrete pit with girders rising into the sky.

  A shadow moved on one of the girders, and then there was a sudden gleam: light catching on a lens.

  Cardinal hurried along the walkway, his footsteps echoing down the wooden corridor. A little further along there was a chain-link fence, and Cardinal saw at once the spot where Catherine had found entry. There was barbed wire along the top of the chain-link, but it stopped at the edge of the hoardings. It took Cardinal about thirty seconds to scale the fence and pull himself on top of the walkway.

  Catherine had moved. He couldn’t see her anywhere. There were only a few lights on the site, and the moon had slipped behind heavy cloud. His greatest fear was that Catherine would find some way to get the construction platforms moving—a generator with the keys still in it—and end up on top of this massive steel skeleton.

  He ran to the end of the platform and jumped down onto the back of a parked flatbed. There was a ledge about the width of a country road surrounding the pit, and from this there were several bridges to the floors under construction.

  Cardinal stepped onto the closest bridge. The sink and sway of the planking unmoored his stomach. The pit was deeper than it had looked from outside; there were at least six underground storeys for future parking. A cement truck at the bottom looked like a Dinky Toy.

  “Hello, John.”

  Her voice was soft. You could never predict how she’d be at any given time on one of her highs. Now she spoke so gently it was like hearing from a benevolent figure in a dream.

  Cardinal looked up.

  Catherine was a silhouette two storeys above him, the night breeze whipping her hair round her face. Before he could speak, the moon reappeared, and Catherine’s f
ace was ghostly white. She was standing on the promontory of a single I-beam above an eight-storey drop.

  “Isn’t it extraordinary?”

  “Catherine, would you move back onto the floor, please?”

  “There’s something so perfect about a building under construction. You get to see the skull beneath the skin, as it were. That’s just the engineering angle, of course. Then there’s the human aspect: You know how when you look at an old arrowhead, or a piece of Roman wall, and you have the sense that a man’s hands made that? Thousands of years ago, a man who sweated and bled and breathed just like you and me, for some time focused his attention on this brick, this stone, this little piece of rock—or in the case at hand—this girder.”

  She stamped her foot on the I-beam for emphasis and tottered a little.

  “Catherine, please. Move back to the floor.”

  Cardinal found the temporary wooden staircase and began climbing up. As he reached the next level, Catherine spun around on the beam and put one foot in front of the other in a kind of flamenco move.

  “Catherine, please. Try to focus on the here and now. It’s a long way to the ground, and despite how good you may feel—”

  “I feel fucking great!” She threw her head back and laughed. “I want to feel like this all the time—tiptoe on the bones of something tremendous, an about-to-be skyscraper. The power of this place!”

  “Catherine, the reason you feel so great is that your medication is off balance. Try and remember, sweetheart. This always comes just before a terrible down. So let’s not wait for that, let’s get you to the doctor now, and try to get you in for a smooth landing.”

  “Oh, John. John.” Her tone was pitying. “If only you could hear yourself, you would never say anything like that to me.”

  Cardinal climbed the last of the steps; he was on her level, now. He moved toward her slowly, tamping down the fear in his chest.