Blackfly Season

by Giles Blunt

“That’s not going to happen,” he said. “You make one move, and I’ll blow your head off. And don’t think I won’t, because at this point, believe me, I got nothing to lose.”

  Clegg reached into Cardinal’s holster and removed his Beretta.

  “You’re dirty,” Cardinal said. “And I thought you were just incompetent.”

  Clegg motioned with the revolver toward the main building. “Walk ahead of me.”

  Cardinal started across the field.

  “Put some thought into this, Corporal. My DS knows I’m out here with you. If I don’t come back, every cop north of Toronto is going to be looking for you.”

  “Keep moving.”

  “Why’d you get into it, Clegg? Was it just the money, or are you wired to the stuff?”

  “Just wanted to expand my horizons a little.”

  “Look, you can still turn this around. Put the gun away and I’ll give you a chance to get out of here. We’re going to come looking for you—there’s nothing I can do about that—but at least you won’t be tangled up in any murder.”

  This was not remotely true, and they both knew it.

  They were at the door of the biggest cabin. A security camera stared down at them. Clegg rapped on the door—three short, two long—and waited. He kept the gun—Cardinal’s own Beretta—trained on him.

  “You think by shooting me with my own gun it’ll somehow go better for you? What, the bad guys got my gun away and shot me when I tried to run?”

  “Works for me,” Clegg said. “They must be in one of the other cabins. That way.”

  Cardinal headed toward the row of cabins on the east side of the clearing. He wondered if Delorme had reached the other camp yet, if she had already turned around. If she had, then they would know that this was the place. Possibly, they wouldn’t need a call from Cardinal to send out more troops; when they didn’t hear from him they’d send in the cavalry. Or was that wishful thinking? His heart was pounding and sweat was pouring off his brow.

  The line of cabins all appeared dark.

  “Looks like you’re out of luck,” Cardinal said.

  “There’s another cabin back there. Keep moving.”

  Cardinal stumbled over a root and nearly fell. Then a dark cabin appeared in the thickets ahead of them. It was much more rundown than the rest and the windows were boarded up. There were voices from inside.

  Clegg called out, “Hey, Red Bear!”

  The door opened and a man came out. Shoulder-length hair, held back with a headband. Still, he wasn’t hard to recognize.

  “Mr. Beltran,” Cardinal said. “It’s all over. No matter what you do right here, right now. It’s all over. There are other cops on the way.”

  “Why did you bring him here?” Beltran said to Clegg.

  “I didn’t. He brought me.”

  Beltran came down the steps. A long blade gleamed in his hand. His eyes were transparent, dead.

  “Be smart,” Cardinal said. “If I’m here, it means others are going to be here soon. You can turn yourself over to me, or you can hit the road. Anything else is just going to make things worse.”

  “It would certainly make them worse for you,” Beltran said. He took another step closer. The blade flashed. “My little friend here would make sure of that. Suppose we were to—”

  “What the fuck is he doing here?”

  Cardinal recognized Leon Rutkowski from the scar on his forehead, but Rutkowski wasn’t looking at Cardinal. He was looking at Clegg.

  “Hiya, Leon,” Clegg said. “Long time, no see.”

  “Fucker put me away for eight years, man.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Beltran said. “He is a friend of ours. You are protected, remember?”

  “Horsemen are no friends of mine.”

  “They are now.”

  “Leon,” Cardinal said. “You don’t know me. I’m with the Algonquin Bay police, not the RCMP. Corporal Clegg may be working with Mr. Beltran, here, but I’m not. And I can tell you this: You have about five minutes before a lot more Algonquin Bay cops show up here, so the next few decisions you make are going to matter. If I were you, I’d leave.”

  Rutkowski rubbed at the scar on his forehead.

  “What did you call him?”

  “Raymond Beltran. Originally from Cuba. Now wanted for the torture and murder of several people in Miami. Not to mention the murder of a Viking Rider named Wombat Guthrie, but I imagine you knew about that.”

  “Beltran doesn’t sound very Indian,” Leon said.

  Beltran shrugged. “I use whatever name is useful at the time. Our suppliers were disposed to trust an Indian. Anyway, what do you care?” Beltran pointed with the tip of his knife at a medallion on Leon’s chest. “As long as you are wearing that, you have nothing to worry about. That is a power Indians have never dreamed of.”

  “What do you want to do with this guy?” Clegg said. “Obviously, he isn’t going back to town.”

  “Oh, bring him inside.” Red Bear pointed with the knife at the cabin; stainless steel flashed. “We’ll put him to good use.”

  Cardinal felt the Beretta press against his spine.

  There was a thrum of approaching engines through the trees.

  “I hate to say I told you so …” Cardinal said. Lise Delorme, he thought, I am going to give you a great big kiss.

  “Cops, man.” Leon’s eyes looked a little wild. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  “Running will get us nowhere, Leon,” Beltran said. “Let me handle this.”

  “Handle it? There’s an army of cops coming, and you’re going to handle it?”

  Beltran touched his arm. It was a strangely tender gesture, given the circumstances. “You said you trusted me,” he said. “Now that trust is being tested.”

  “I trust you.”

  “I want you to trust me absolutely. Without end.”

  “I said I trust you, man.”

  “Good. We have a cop for a hostage. There is no need to run.”

  The thrum of engines had become a roar. A cluster of headlights appeared, moving singly, not in pairs, and then came bobbing across the field.

  “It’s the fucking Viking Riders, man.” Leon looked like he was going to burst into tears. It was about as appropriate a reaction as Cardinal could think of at that moment. Within seconds, they were surrounded by blinding headlights. Cardinal counted ten.

  The engines subsided to a throb. There was the sound of kickstands, then two men took shape in the glare of light. The rest remained in shadow.

  “Cardinal,” Steve Lasalle said. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “There are places I’d rather be,” Cardinal said.

  “Not having a good day, I see. You either,” he said to Clegg. “I thought we had a deal.”

  “We do,” Clegg said. “I had nothing to do with Wombat.”

  “Sadly, I don’t believe you.”

  “Whether you believe me or not, you’ve got two cops here, so I think you’d better back off.”

  Lasalle nodded at Clegg’s gun, still pointed at Cardinal’s back. “Doesn’t look like you two are all that close.”

  “It’s only fair to warn you,” Cardinal said. “There’s a lot more cops on the way.”

  Lasalle grinned. “Sounds like wishful thinking to me.”

  Clegg whirled on him with the Beretta. Before he could fire, there was an explosion and Clegg dipped on one knee, a priest genuflecting. “Oh,” he said, as if he’d just understood something. He clutched at his chest, tried to get up, and fell over on his side. “Oh,” he said again, and this time it sounded final.

  Harlan Calhoun, all 250 pounds of him, took a step forward and spat on Clegg. Then he raised his gun toward Beltran.

  “You killed Wombat,” he said. “Nobody kills a Viking Rider and lives.”

  “You can’t hurt me,” Beltran said. “And if you try, every spirit in hell will track you down.”

  Calhoun pulled the trigger. There was a loud click.
<
br />   “Righteous, man. The magic’s working,” Leon said. “We’re really protected!”

  “Fuck you,” Calhoun said, and fired again.

  A black dot appeared above Leon’s left eye. He grabbed at the cabin door, trying to hold himself up.

  “Dipshit,” Calhoun said.

  Beltran didn’t even turn to look at Leon; he kept his eyes fixed on Calhoun. “You killed my friend,” he said. “I swear by all the gods, you are going to wish you had died with him.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  There was a crackle of radio static. Amid the moonlight and clouds of exhaust, Cardinal could make out a headset.

  “Steve,” a voice said. “Cops.”

  There was a moment of stillness. Lasalle cocked his head. Ever so faint, the sound of approaching sirens.

  “Hit the road,” he said. “Everyone. Right now.”

  Beltran dove into the shadows beside the cabin. Calhoun fired a shot after him, and Cardinal used that moment to melt into the darkness behind the cabin. The sirens were getting closer. Cardinal heard a curse, and then Calhoun’s massive frame was silhouetted amid the clouds of exhaust. A ragged thunder of horsepower, and a split second later the bikes became a galaxy of headlights travelling full tilt across the field.

  Cardinal stepped out front and retrieved his gun from beside Clegg. The corporal wasn’t breathing. Cardinal ran into the cabin and nearly threw up at the smell.

  He plucked a knife from an array of them on the table and freed first Terri, then Kevin. They were both crying, unable to speak, and Kevin had a nasty wound in his side.

  “Can you walk?” Cardinal said, helping them up. “Go and sit in front of the large cabin in the light. There’s more cops coming. Sit where they can see you and keep your hands visible. Do everything they say, and for God’s sake, don’t run or do anything to get them going. They’re going to be armed and jittery. I’ll be back.”

  He steered them past the two dead bodies toward the main building. Then he turned to the blackness of the woods.

  The moon was just a sliver, but it cast a lot of light in the clearings.

  Moving as quietly as he could, Cardinal climbed the hill behind the cabins and came to the edge of a rock cut among a stand of enormous trees. Behind him, he could hear car doors slamming, voices yelling. Szelagy. Delorme.

  I should wait for them, he thought. But the chance of Beltran slipping away, finding a boat or leading them on an endless chase through the woods was too great. He couldn’t be far.

  The moon was thin, but it cast a cool, metallic light on the rock cut. Cardinal kept to the shadows as he skirted the clearing. He found a trail on the other side and followed it into intermittent darkness. The soil was loamy underfoot; he could move almost silently.

  A little further on, another trail branched to the right. If he kept straight, the trail would lead to the water’s edge. He doglegged to the right, and the trail grew rapidly narrower. A slight rise in the terrain and then, across a clearing, a rock face reared up before him. The moon had gone behind a cloud. In the deeper dark, it was hard to make out handholds in the granite wall.

  Later, Cardinal couldn’t be sure what had alerted him. A slight rustle overhead? A glint of moonlight on metal? For whatever reason, he stepped to one side, so that when Beltran dropped from the darkness above, his knife missed Cardinal’s neck and only ended up grazing his shoulder and upper arm. Cardinal was thrown off balance and stumbled forward as Beltran crashed to the ground behind him.

  Cardinal had his gun half raised when Beltran came at him again, knife flashing. The two of them locked together, Beltran gripping Cardinal’s gun hand, Cardinal catching Beltran’s wrist just as the knife arced toward his chest. They staggered against the rock face.

  Beltran leaned into Cardinal with all his weight, and the two of them tumbled over a boulder. A sharp edge of granite bit into Cardinal’s shoulder blade. The knife dropped to the ground, point first, and quivered there. Beltran twisted hard on Cardinal’s arm and the gun hit the dirt with a thud.

  When they came up again, Beltran had the knife and Cardinal’s hands were empty. Beltran was babbling something incoherent, veering in and out of English. He kept crying out something like “Ellegua! Ellegua, protect me,” followed by a torrent of some language Cardinal had never heard before. Cardinal was focused on the knife, which Beltran swung at him in wide arcs, forcing him to hop back.

  Beltran swung again, and this time Cardinal kicked hard and connected. The knife flew against the rock face, sparking on granite. Beltran fell, then scrabbled after it on all fours. Cardinal hauled him back by the shoulder.

  Why was it that everything he had learned at police college about hand-to-hand combat always seemed irrelevant when it came to an actual fight? In the heat and commotion, so-called crippling grips fail to even grip, let alone cripple. Nothing in the courses prepared you for the speed with which a cornered human being can move. Beltran’s fists seemed to be everywhere at once; and when Cardinal stepped out of reach, Beltran kicked him so hard in the gut that he went down like a spavined horse.

  Cardinal landed hard on his knee, and pain shot up his leg. But it wasn’t granite he had landed on, it was gun-metal. He snatched up the Beretta just as Beltran wheeled on him once more with the knife.

  He was yelling, shouting out to Ellegua to pound his enemies into dust. He came at Cardinal, knife shining. Cardinal aimed for body mass and fired. The bullet hit with an odd sound—a clang—and Beltran fell to his knees, gasping for breath.

  He touched a large medallion that hung around his neck.

  “You see,” he said. “You cannot kill me. I am protected.”

  He came forward a step, still on his knees. He raised the knife, and Cardinal fired again, this time emptying the magazine.

  Beltran fell forward, and the knife slithered from his grasp. His blood spread beneath him, flowing outward over the rocks in a black pool, in which the white moon shimmered like a blade.

  56

  LISE DELORME WAS SITTING IN HER CAR, in the parking lot of the Ontario Psychiatric Hospital. She had tried waiting outside, but up here, near the forest, the flies were still too bad. They were getting better, though. Another week or so and you might actually be able to enjoy a walk in the woods.

  She stared at the massive red-brick building with its many dark windows, some of them barred. Something about mental hospitals makes them haunting in a way that, say, prisons or other grim institutions are not. Even now, in the broad, white light of summer, the place made you want to turn your back and think of other things.

  In an arrangement almost certainly peculiar to Algonquin Bay, the local coroner shares office space with the psychiatric hospital. Delorme had come here to speak with Dr. Rayburn and get his written, signed reports. That had taken only a few minutes, but when she had come out she had noticed Cardinal’s Camry in the lot and decided to wait for him. The coroner’s reports were just a formality, just another batch of pages for a very thick file. They contained the routine but necessary observation that the three deceased—Raymond Beltran, Leon Rutkowski and Alan Clegg—had met their ends by foul play and that the services of a forensic pathologist were required.

  Add to that list Toof Tilley, Wombat Guthrie and God knew how many others in Miami and Toronto, and Beltran’s body count started to look seriously depressing.

  A young woman came out the side door of the hospital, followed by Cardinal.

  Delorme got out of her car and met them at the edge of the lot.

  “Lise.” Cardinal’s voice was softer than usual. Delorme had never seen anyone look so exhausted.

  “How’s the shoulder?”

  “Not too bad. Kind of throbs sometimes.”

  “No bowling for you.”

  “No left-handed bowling, anyway. I don’t think you’ve met my daughter. Kelly, this is Lise Delorme.”

  “The famous Sergeant Delorme,” Kelly said, and shook hands. She had a beautiful smile that resembled her mother’s. Bu
t she had her father’s eyes. Sad eyes, even when she was smiling. “Dad’s told me a lot about you.”

  “Uh-oh,” Delorme said.

  “No, no. It’s all good. He really admires you.”

  “That isn’t what he tells me,” Delorme said, but she felt the heat in her face. Admires? She’s got to be joking. She glanced at him, but if Cardinal was embarrassed, she couldn’t see it beyond the exhaustion.

  “I’ll wait in the car,” Kelly said to her father, and then she was gone, leaving an impression of youth, alarming honesty and, beyond that, something else. There was a spark of glamour in the way she held her head, in the way she wore those New York clothes. Kelly Cardinal was something special.

  “I’m sorry to intrude,” Delorme said. “I just thought you’d want to know. We matched a gun we found at the camp with the bullets that killed Tilley.”

  “Excellent. That’s good to hear.”

  “Rutkowski’s prints on it. Not Beltran’s.”

  “Huh,” Cardinal said. “Soulmates.”

  His response was so muted, Delorme wanted to shake him. Or hug him. Something. His pain was so clearly not physical.

  “They’ve also confirmed the head was Wombat Guthrie,” Delorme said, wishing she could shut up about it.

  “How are Terri and her brother?”

  “Both pretty traumatized. I think it may have cured Tait’s drug problem, though. That’s a start. By the way, you were right about the locket. It’s Terri’s.”

  “Great.”

  “You’ll also be glad to know Steve Lasalle and Harlan Calhoun were denied bail.”

  “Good. Well …”

  “How’s Catherine, John?”

  “Oh. You know. Hard to say.” Cardinal looked off toward the trees, the sunlight bringing out the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. “Seems she didn’t want visitors.”

  “I’m sorry,” Delorme said. “That’s rough.”

  “Tell Chouinard I’ll be in tomorrow.”

  “Take longer, John. There’s no need to come back so soon.”

  “Yes, there is. Tell him I’ll be in tomorrow.”

  Delorme watched him head across the lot. Kelly was waiting for him by the car.