Black Fly Season (25 page)

Brackett whispered in his client’s ear.

Lasalle looked at Cardinal. ‘It’s not in your jurisdiction, I can tell you that much,’ he said. He picked up the photograph again, looked at the headless, handless corpse, and shook his head.

‘That’s not very helpful,’ Cardinal said. ‘You’re telling me you know where Guthrie was last seen. That his bike is still there. That in all probability he was abducted from this site and then tortured and killed. But you won’t tell us where that is. This must be the biker loyalty we hear so much about. That famous code of honour.’

‘He runs the Viking Riders,’ Brackett said into his double chin. ‘Be reasonable.’

‘Suppose we call in the OPP or the RCMP to take a look at your clubhouse. How long do you think it would take them to do a really thorough job?’

‘It’s got nothing to do with the clubhouse,’ Lasalle said. ‘Give me some credit. Assume I’m not an idiot.’

‘At the moment, Mr Lasalle, all I see is one dead Viking Rider and another one who had a motive to make him that way.’

‘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 BA 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 just 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 never quite trusted her while she was in that job. Besides, the people in CID looked like they were having a lot more fun, and eventually she had asked to be transferred there.

Today was one of the days she was regretting that decision. First, because she had just reread the pathologist’s report on Wombat Guthrie, which 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 today 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 have 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 Who.’

‘And what day was this?’

‘Tuesday, May 13th, at three 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, an adjustment to the tilt, 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.’

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, he would not be making any sacrifices for a while, but still it was exciting to step into this cabin. Kevin and Leon were in town; he had the entire camp to himself. Naturally, he headed straight for his temple. 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 the 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 were the gateway by 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 spoon like 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.

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 for 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 with which 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 the 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 called Vancouver directory assistance, which also had no listing. The young man on the other end of the line informed him that it was a cell phone number.

Next, he 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 did not want to spend a couple of hours on that particular angle just then. So what had he learned? Terri Tait had called her brother’s cell phone. Not exactly earthshaking stuff. There was no reason to suppose Kevin Tait was anywhere

other than Vancouver. Then again, it was a cell phone; 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 him right then. He 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 Cardinal’s mind. What if Terri Tait is not a stranger here? What if she is not coming to Algonquin Bay for the first time? What if she is returning here? This was the inspiration he was trying to resist. Was such a scenario even likely? If Terri Tait grew up here, surely someone would have reported her missing by now. Maybe they hadn’t lived here very long.

Back in the squad room Cardinal put a call in 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