Blackfly Season

by Giles Blunt

  “Here we have a guy who’s chopping off fingers and toes. Cutting off heads. I think we can be sure this isn’t something you just jump right into. You work your way up to it. You start with goats and chickens or whatever and then you try your first human and probably you mess it up, and then you try again, and then maybe it becomes your life.”

  “You’re right. This guy, he should have a history. But we haven’t come up with any uncleared murders nationally or provincially that resemble Wombat’s.”

  “Right,” Cardinal said. “But if this guy comes from Cuba or Miami, maybe there’ll be something in the States.”

  “We don’t have access to their records.”

  “I made some contacts in New York last year on the Matlock case. Let me give them a call.”

  “Or I could try Musgrave. The Mounties share information with the States all the time.”

  “We’ll do both. See who gets lucky first. But right now, let’s go see Terri.”

  Terri Tait had finished her breakfast at the Crisis Centre—a bowl of oatmeal with the consistency of wallpaper paste. Down the hall, two women were quarrelling over a radio program, and on the second floor a young mother was wailing because her children had been taken away by the Children’s Aid Society; she’d been wailing since the previous afternoon.

  Terri didn’t want to sit in the TV room with the other women. They were always watching the most wretched talk shows. She went back to her room and sat by the window, opening the sketch pad Dr. Paley had given her. She tried to draw, but she was too tense and her hand couldn’t control the pencil properly.

  Terri couldn’t stand it any more; hell with waiting around for the cops. She tossed the sketch pad aside. She would get out into the fresh air for twenty minutes or so. If they showed up while she was gone and had to wait a few minutes, it would serve them right for keeping her cooped up here.

  The layout of the city was beginning to feel familiar, but she couldn’t remember many individual street names: Main, Macintosh, Oak—that was about it. She followed the smell of water down to the lakefront. She walked along a brickwork path, with the waves crashing noisily a few feet below.

  Early summer seemed to have retreated to spring. A massive dark cloud shaped like a rolling pin was lowering over the far shore, and she could see a deep grey cross-hatching of rain advancing over the waves. She had never seen so many whitecaps. She held one hand behind her head, trying to keep her hood on, but it wasn’t very effective. When the rain struck her face, it was icy cold. A seagull circled overhead and cried long and loud.

  A good part of Terri was tempted to head back to Vancouver and just hope that whoever shot her would never see her again. But that would leave her brother at the mercy of his addiction and a madman. She’d struck out trying to find him by questioning dope fiends; they don’t respond well to questions. And so she was left with the cops. The trick was how to use them to save Kevin, without Kevin getting thrown in prison for trafficking. With what she was now remembering about Red Bear, Kevin might even get put away for much worse.

  During the night there had been a crack of thunder, and she had sat bolt upright in bed with her heart pounding, sweat pouring off her. In the dream, it had been broad daylight, the sun blinding, sweat stinging her eyes. And in her ears, an annoying buzzing.

  The noise took her behind the white cabins and into the woods. Close by, the crash of waves (yes, that could mean this very lake; not many lakes get surf like that), and farther off, a constant buzzing. She kept looking behind her; the sensation of someone following was strong, but whenever she turned to look there were only trees.

  She came to a clearing and another cabin, white but covered with specks—specks that seemed to shimmer and shift in the sunlight. The windows were boarded up. The buzzing was much louder, and she could see now that the buzzing was from the swarms of flies that formed shifting veils over the cabin.

  There was a noise from inside, and she shrank back into the woods. She hid behind a bush, hoping her red hair wouldn’t show. Red Bear came out, carrying a small hatchet. He looked around, almost as if sniffing the wind, then turned and closed the door. He crossed the clearing and came right toward Terri. She held her breath as he went by, twigs snapping under his feet.

  When she was quite sure he was gone, she went up the cabin steps and opened the door. She choked on the stench and, at that moment, knew that this was not a dream; she knew, even in her sleep, that this was a memory she was reliving. She never could have dreamed a smell like that.

  She left the door open for air, and also so she could see. She had no intention of staying longer than thirty seconds, just long enough to find out whatever it was that Red Bear was up to. Kevin was so hopelessly wired he couldn’t see anything wrong with Red Bear, or didn’t want to, but she had the sense of something deeply wrong with Red Bear from their first meeting. Those dead eyes. If she could show Kevin proof of what Red Bear was, then he would believe her, he would come home with her. Of course, she didn’t know exactly what Red Bear was, nor was she prepared for what she found.

  That huge iron pot across the cabin. There were several long branches sticking out of it. Terri forced herself to cross the cabin and peer over the rim, holding her breath. The black, murky liquid looked as foul as a sewer, but she couldn’t see anything below the surface. She took hold of one of the sticks and gave it a stir. A hairy object bobbed to the surface and rolled over in a slow twirl, revealing mouth, nose and the place where eyes used to be.

  She ran. She tore through the woods behind the cabins, hoping no one would see her.

  Then she was in the “guest” cabin, throwing things into her backpack. Praying that Kevin would come back so they could both get the hell out of there.

  The zipper on the backpack stuck. She was tearing at it with her fingernails when the door opened and Red Bear was standing there and she let out a scream. It was probably the only time in her life she had actually screamed—a sudden, sharp outburst. It was the scream that had woken her up, not thunder. She was sitting upright in bed, soaked with sweat, the memory of Red Bear and his charnel house playing before her eyes.

  She was remembering more, now.

  “I didn’t see anything,” Terri had managed to say. “I swear.” She had never heard such fear in anybody’s voice, certainly not her own.

  “You will not phone anyone, you won’t be talking to Kevin, there won’t be any goodbyes. You pack your things and you will be driven to the airport or the train station. The driver will wait with you for the train or plane. Consider yourself lucky I don’t kill you. You can rest assured it is not a matter of mercy.” He pointed to the sky. “It’s a matter of the moon.”

  “I won’t tell anyone,” she had said. “I swear. I won’t tell a soul.”

  “Of course you won’t. That would be very bad for Kevin.”

  Now the rain and the wind off the lake were beginning to get to her. She had come to a decision. The best way to help Kevin was to tell Detective Cardinal everything she knew; she could describe the camp, the white cabins, the islands in the distance. He would be able to figure out where it was.

  She left the brick path and turned back toward town. Three or four kids were hanging out across from the World Tavern, where they had been the other night. She crossed the street toward them.

  “You find your brother yet?”

  It was the big kid, the one who looked down on heroin users. Well, who didn’t? She didn’t recognize the other three people.

  “I thought I’d try one more time.”

  “Man, I wish my family was that loyal.”

  “Your family’s totally dysfunctional,” a nerdy-looking boy said.

  “Exactly,” the big one said. “That’s my point.”

  There was an older guy with them. Quieter. He looked at her with mild interest.

  “Who you looking for?” he said. “I know everybody.”

  Terri told him.

  “Where’d you see him last?”

/>   “In town here.” She thought it might be dangerous to mention the camp.

  The guy shrugged. “I know a couple of Kevins. What’s he look like?”

  Terri looked at him. His bony face showed curiosity, no big deal. He didn’t look dangerous. She described Kevin to him.

  “Sure, I know him. In fact, I saw him this morning.”

  “Where!”

  “You know where the Chinook Tavern is?”

  Terri shook her head. “Is it far?”

  “Yeah, it is. You’d have to get over to Front Street and then catch a bus out to Trout Lake. Take you an hour, hour and a half. It’s a little complicated, too. Why don’t I just drive you there?”

  “No, that’s okay. I’ll find it.”

  “It’s no big deal. I’m heading back that way now.” He checked his watch. “In fact, I’m running late. So if you want the ride, you gotta come now.”

  He turned his back on her and headed across Oak Street toward a sleek, black car.

  “Wait up,” Terri said. “I’m coming with you.”

  She ran across the street and climbed in the passenger side. The car had one of those big engines that pushed you back into the seat with every acceleration. It smelled of leather and new carpet. As they drove through the downtown streets, the guy fired questions at her—where was she from, what did she do, had she been in town long? He seemed curious, but not pushy. A little nervous, maybe. Every once in a while, he reached up and rubbed at a small scar on his brow.

  46

  THEY WERE WAITING FOR the light to change. Normally, Cardinal was a patient driver, but now he was hunched in the driver’s seat, cursing under his breath.

  “Maybe you should go home,” Delorme said. “You look exhausted.”

  “I’m fine. I’m just a little tired.”

  Delorme had seen Cardinal tired, but not like this. His face was pale and drawn, the circles under his eyes deep, and there was a bitter edge in his manner that she couldn’t place. She didn’t think it had anything to do with work.

  “Is it Catherine?” she said.

  Cardinal let out a deep sigh. All he said was, “Yeah.”

  “She’s in hospital again?”

  The light changed, and Cardinal gunned it. Not his style at all.

  “You’ve been through these times before, John. She’ll be okay, don’t you think?”

  “I never know how Catherine’s going to be. Nearly two years, now, she’s been okay. Somehow I managed to convince myself that this time it was for good.”

  It was the most he had ever said about his wife’s illness. Lines of pain radiated across his face like stress fractures in a pane of glass. Delorme wanted to say something—she’ll get better, it won’t last long, try not to worry too much—but nothing was adequate, and so she went silent and that didn’t seem adequate, either.

  At the Crisis Centre, Ned Fellowes left them in the office while he went to get Terri. Leaning against the disused fireplace, Cardinal looked like he was going to fall asleep standing up.

  “Wonder what’s taking him so long,” Delorme said.

  Cardinal just closed his eyes.

  Fellowes came back a few moments later. “It appears our young friend has gone out,” he said. “She’s not answering her door, she’s not in the TV room, not in the dining room. And nobody’s seen her for the past half-hour. I told her explicitly she should not leave the building.”

  “So did we,” Cardinal said. “And she knew we were coming.”

  “Of course, she wouldn’t be the first person to avoid the police.”

  “No, but she called us. She wanted us to come.”

  Fellowes pulled a ring of keys out of his desk and led them upstairs. Delorme knew the Crisis Centre well. As the only female in Criminal Investigations, she always got to escort the bruised and frightened victims of domestic quarrels to this place. The familiar smells of the carpeting and the old wood made her stomach tense up.

  “As I pointed out when Terri arrived,” he said, “we’re not a jail. I can’t keep people here against their will.”

  He put a key in the lock and opened the door.

  “Her jacket’s gone,” Fellowes said.

  “I think something’s happened to her,” Cardinal said. “She was very definite about wanting to talk to us. She knew we were coming.”

  Fellowes started to close the door. Cardinal held it open.

  “Not without a warrant,” Fellowes said. “I can’t allow that.”

  “Ned,” Delorme said, “this young woman is in danger. Somebody tried to kill her and we have every reason to think they’ll try again. We can go ask for a warrant, but that’s going to take half a day. That’s time she may not have.”

  Fellowes looked at Delorme, then over at Cardinal. Delorme silently urged him to come through.

  “Look,” he said to Cardinal. “Why don’t you and I go downstairs and discuss it. Say, for about five minutes?”

  “Sounds reasonable to me,” Cardinal said.

  He and Fellowes headed back toward the stairs, and Delorme shut the door after them.

  There wasn’t much of Terri Tait in this room. It was an old-fashioned place, still with much of its oak wainscot-ting and heavy cornices. The walls looked like they had been papered half a dozen times before being painted their current shade of off-white. There were no clothes hanging in the closet.

  Near the window, a large notebook lay on the floor. Delorme opened it and found that it wasn’t a notebook; it was a sketch pad. The girl had been drawing something. Doodling bird shapes.

  She opened a drawer in a small dresser. A lonely pair of socks rolled in a semicircle. There were several pairs of underwear and a bra in another, newly purchased, probably courtesy of the Crisis Centre.

  On top of the dresser were a brush, a package of bandages, a nail file and a small plastic bag containing sundry toiletries, also new.

  Delorme got down on her knees and checked under the bed. Nothing.

  I’m striking out, Delorme thought. We need to find this girl and I’m coming up empty here. Another minute and Ned Fellowes would be hauling her out of there and she would have nothing to show for her furtive little search.

  She checked the wastebasket. An old bandage, a candy bar wrapper, an empty Coke can and a folded piece of paper. Delorme spread it out on the dresser. It was another version of the doodles in the sketch pad. This one was much more detailed. It showed an eagle, with huge talons, about to lift off from a branch. It looked like the sort of thing that might decorate the wall of a hunting lodge. Why had Terri taken so much time with this? The highlighting, the cross-hatching, the detailed beak and feathers. Surely she must have other things on her mind.

  Delorme tucked it into her inside pocket and went back downstairs. She shook her head at Cardinal as she entered the office. No need to mention her removal of the drawing to Fellowes.

  “A one-time-only occurrence, you two,” Fellowes said. “Last thing I need is to get a reputation for letting the cops snoop through people’s rooms.”

  “It’s unusual circumstances,” Delorme said. “You have to admit.”

  “That doesn’t make me feel better. Anyway, if she shows up here I’ll let you know right away.”

  As he started the car, Cardinal said, “Did you really come up empty?”

  “It’s not like she had any luggage with her. There were just some things the Crisis Centre must’ve got for her. But I did find this.”

  Delorme pulled the drawing from her jacket pocket.

  Cardinal frowned at the bird for a few seconds. “Okay, so she can draw a bird. That’s all you got?”

  “That’s it.”

  “All right. We’ll put out an all-points. We could get lucky—she’s only been gone a short time.”

  Cardinal stepped on the gas, and Delorme reached for her seat belt.

  47

  DAVID LETTERMAN HAD NEVER looked so evil. You couldn’t be sure if this was really Letterman or a pod-born version animated b
y the spirit of some creature fresh from hell. Wisps of smoke curled from the famous gap in the front teeth, and the ears seemed to be capped with tiny tongues of flame. It was hard to tell in the slats of daylight that seeped around the edges of the boarded-up windows.

  “You look like you could use a drink, there, Kevin.” Letterman flashed his boyish grin, and twin plumes of smoke issued from his nostrils. “How about a shot of Cold Turkey?”

  He pulled a bottle and two glasses from a drawer in his desk and flashed the label for the audience. There was laughter and a wry comment from the band leader, Paul What’s-His-Name, that Kevin couldn’t quite make out.

  Letterman poured two shot glasses of whisky. He drank his down in one toss before throwing the glass over his shoulder.

  Kevin knew it wasn’t real. The stink of this place was making the withdrawal symptoms worse—the smell of death and things rotting, the cauldron, those two sturdy hooks screwed into the beam above it. The buzzing of the blowflies. Sometimes Kevin was certain they were demons who had taken the form of flies, but most of the time he knew they were just flies.

  The firmest reality was his own body. It is supremely difficult to doubt the messages of your own body. The sweats he could deal with. Sweat poured off him, stinging his eyes, and he knew—aside from the fact that he had thrown up more times than he could count—this accounted for the thirst that claimed the entire territory of his throat.

  The shivers, too, were bearable. The chattering teeth, the quaking arms, the legs that trembled like horse flesh, even when he pressed them together to try to calm the shaking. He wept for heroin. Red Bear had had the presence of mind to pluck it from Kevin’s pocket before tying his hands behind his back and locking the door on him, and Kevin cried like a child now for heroin—not to ease the shaking, or the sweats, or the nausea—he could live with those. Kevin had no idea whether anybody else experienced it this way, but for him the prime symptom of his addiction was the ache in his chest. It came and went, but when it came it felt as if it would never leave again. This ferocious gnawing in his chest felt as if his lungs and blood vessels had been chewed away, leaving only his heart to beat out an eternal, abject longing.