Blackfly Season

1

ANYBODY WHO HAS SPENT any length of time in Algonquin Bay will tell you there are plenty of good reasons to live somewhere else. There is the distance from civilization, by which Canadians mean Toronto, 250 miles south. There is the gradual decay of the once-charming downtown, victim to the twin scourges of suburban malls and an unlucky series of fires. And, of course, there are the winters, which are ferocious, snowy and long. It’s not unusual for winter to extend its bone-numbing grip into April, and the last snowfall often occurs in May.

Then there are the blackflies. Every year, following an all-too-brief patch of spring weather, blackflies burst from the beds of northern Ontario’s numberless rivers and streams to feast on the blood of birds, livestock and the citizens of Algonquin Bay. They’re well equipped for it, too. The blackfly may be less than a quarter-inch long, but up close it resembles an attack helicopter, fitted with a sucker at one end and a nasty hook at the other. Even one of these creatures can be a misery. Caught in a swarm, a person can very rapidly go mad.

The World Tavern may not have looked too crazy on this particular Friday, but Blaine Styles, the bartender, knew there would be problems. Blackfly season just doesn’t bring out the best in people—those that drink, anyway. Blaine wasn’t a hundred percent sure which quarter the trouble would come from, but he had his candidates.

For one, there was the trio of dorks at the bar—a guy named Regis and his two friends in baseball caps, Bob and Tony. They were drinking quietly, but they had flirted a little too long with Darla, the waitress, and there was a restlessness about them that didn’t bode well for later. For another, there was the table at the back by the map of Africa. They’d been drinking Molson pretty steadily for a couple of hours now. Quiet, but steady. And then there was the girl, a redhead Blaine had never seen before who kept moving from table to table in a way that he found—professionally speaking—disturbing.

A Labatt Blue bottle flew across the room and hit the map of Canada just above Newfoundland. Blaine shot from behind the bar and waltzed the drunk who’d thrown it out the door before he could even protest. It bothered Blaine that he hadn’t even seen this one coming. The jerk had been sitting with a couple of guys in leather jackets under France, and hadn’t raised even a blip on the bartender’s radar. The World Tavern, oldest and least respectable gin joint in Algonquin Bay, could get pretty hairy on a Friday night, especially in blackfly season, and Blaine preferred to set the limits early.

He went back behind the bar and poured a couple of pitchers for the table over by the map of Africa—getting a little louder, he noticed. Then there was an order for six continentals and a couple of frozen margaritas that kept him hopping. After that there was a slack period, and he rested his foot on a beer case, easing his back while he washed a few glasses.

There weren’t too many regulars tonight; he was glad about that. Television shows would have you believe that the regulars in a bar are eccentrics with hearts of gold, but Blaine found they were mostly just hopeless dipwads with serious issues around self-esteem. The stained, shellacked maps on the walls of the World Tavern were the closest these people would ever get to leaving Algonquin Bay.

Jerry Commanda was sitting at the end of the bar nursing his usual Diet Coke with a squeeze of lemon and reading Maclean’s. A bit of a mystery, Jerry. On the whole, Blaine liked him, despite his being a regular—respected him, anyway—even if he was an awful tipper.

Jerry used to be a serious drinker—not a complete alky, but a serious drinker. This was back when he was in high school, maybe into his early twenties. But then something had sobered him up and he’d never touched alcohol again. Didn’t set foot in the World or any other bar for five, six years after that. Then, a few years ago, he’d started coming in on Friday nights, and he’d always park his skinny butt at the end of the bar. You could see everything that was going on from there.

Blaine had once asked Jerry how he’d kicked the bottle, if he’d gone the twelve-step route.

“Couldn’t stand twelve-step,” Jerry had said. “Couldn’t stand the meetings. Everyone saying they’re powerless, asking God to get them out of this pickle.” Jerry used words like that now and again, even though he was only about forty. Old-fashioned words like pickle or fellow or cantankerous. “But it turned out to be pretty easy to quit alcohol, once I figured out what I had to do was quit thinking, not drinking.”

“No one can quit thinking,” Blaine had said. “Thinking’s like breathing. Or sweating. It’s just something you do.”

Jerry then launched into some weird psychological bushwah. Said it might be true you couldn’t stop the thoughts from coming, but you could change what you did with them. The secret was being able to sidestep them. Blaine remembered the words exactly because Jerry was a four-time Ontario kick-boxing champion, and when he’d said sidestep he’d made a nifty little manoeuvre that looked kind of, well, disciplined.

So Jerry Commanda had learned to sidestep his thoughts, and the result was him parking himself at the end of the bar every Friday night for an hour or so, with his Diet Coke and his squeeze of lemon. Blaine figured it was partly to deter some of the young guys from the reserve from drinking too much. Pretty hard for them to cut loose with the reserve’s best-known cop sitting at the bar, reading a magazine and sipping his Coke. Some of them, minute they saw him, just did a 180 and walked out.

Blaine swept his wary bartender’s gaze over his domain. The Africa table was definitely getting boisterous. Boisterous was okay, but it was just one level down from obnoxious. Blaine cocked his head to one side, listening for warning notes—the gruff challenge, the outraged cry that was inevitably followed by the scraping of a chair. Except for the bottle tosser, it looked to be a peaceful night. The bottle tosser, and the girl.

Blaine squinted into the far corner beyond the jukebox. A flash of red. She had masses of red curls that bounced this way and that every time she turned her head, catching the light. She was all in blue denim—good jeans, short nipped jacket—cute, but they looked like they’d been slept in. Why was she going table to table? That was the third table she’d sat at in the last hour and a half. Two women and two men, postal workers partying later than usual, and it was clear the two women didn’t like this kid invading their table. The guys didn’t seem to mind one bit.

“Three Blue, one Creemore, one vodka tonic.”

Blaine scooped four bottles out of the ice and set them on Darla’s tray.

“What’s up with the redhead, Darla? What’s she drinking?”

“Nothing, far as I can tell. Last table ordered a glass to share their pitcher with her, but she didn’t finish it.”

Blaine poured a shot of vodka and put it on her tray. Darla filled the glass with tonic from the soda gun.

“Is she high? Why’s she hopping tables like that?”

“I don’t know, Blaine. Maybe she’s going into business for herself.” Darla hoisted her tray and headed out into the zoo, as she called it.

“Barkeep!”

Blaine attended to the trio at the bar. The guy named Regis was an old high-school acquaintance, came in maybe twice a year. His friends in the baseball caps were new. Anyone calls you barkeep, you know they’re going to end up being a burden one way or another.

“Hey, Blaine,” Regis said. “When are you gonna tell us what happened to your face, guy?”

“Yeah,” one of the baseball caps said. “You look Chinese, man.”

“Went canoeing Sunday. Blackflies were out of control.”

“Fly musta been the size of a dog, man. You look like a sumo wrestler.”

People had been telling him he looked Chinese all week. Blackflies were always a problem this time of year, but Blaine had never seen them like this. Millions of them swarming in huge black clouds. He’d taken the usual measures—wore the repellent, wore a hat, kept his pants tucked into his socks—but the flies were so thick you couldn’t even breathe without inhaling them. Little mothers had fallen totally in love with him, and bit all around his face. By Monday morning his eyes were swollen shut, couldn’t see a thing.

He rang up the three Molsons. When he turned around again, the redhead was there.

“Hello,” she said, climbing onto a stool.

“What can I get you?”

“Just some water would be nice. I don’t seem to take to beer.”

Blaine poured her a glass of ice water and set it down on a napkin.

“You sure are a big man, aren’t you?”

“Big enough.”

Blaine moved down the bar a little and stacked some glasses.

“You seem nice.”

Blaine laughed. The redhead looked to be in her mid-twenties, still with a lot of freckles. She had the thickest, curliest hair he had ever seen. Didn’t take care of herself any too well, though. Like Blaine, she had a lot of black-fly bites, and there were bits of leaves stuck in her hair.

“What’s your name?” she said.

“Blaine.”

“Blaine? That’s a nice name.”

“If you say so. What’s yours?”

“I don’t actually know. Isn’t that amazing?”

Blaine felt an odd turning sensation in his stomach. The girl didn’t look high; her manner was calm and pleasant. She slid off the stool and went over to Regis and his baseball-cap buddies.

“You guys look nice.”

“Well, hey there,” Regis said. “You don’t look too bad yourself. Can we buy you a drink?”

“No, that’s okay. I’m not thirsty.”

“Barkeep! A Molson for the young lady here.”

“Can’t do that,” Blaine said. “She said she didn’t want one.”

“Thanks a lot, Blaine. I love you too.” Regis reached over the bar and grabbed one of the glasses drying on the rack. He poured beer into it and handed it to the redhead.

“Thank you. You’re very nice.” She took a sip and made a face.

Blaine brought her glass of water down the bar and set it in front of her.

“Oh, thanks. That’s nice of you.”

Nice, nice, everything’s nice. Honey, have you got a lot to learn.

“I’m Regis. This is Bob, and that’s Tony. What’s your name?”

“I don’t know it at the moment.”

They laughed.

“That’s fine,” Regis said. “You don’t have to tell us.”

“We’ll just call you Red,” the one called Tony said.

“We’ll just call you Anonymous,” the one called Bob said.

“Anonymous Sex,” Regis said, and they all laughed. “Like Tyrannosaurus rex.”

He fingered her denim jacket.

“This is cute.”

“Yes, I like it.”

The one called Tony put his arm around her shoulder and ran a hand through her hair. He pulled out a piece of leaf.

“Man, you have got the most amazing hair I’ve ever seen. Leafy, but amazing.”

“You guys are so friendly.”

“You’re pretty friendly yourself,” Regis said. “Got some nasty bites on you, but I can fix that.” He leaned forward and kissed her cheek.

The girl smiled and rubbed her face.

Blaine moved closer.

“Miss, don’t you think it’s time you went home?”

“Hey, mind your own business, Blaine.” Regis smacked the bar, upsetting a dish of peanuts. “She’s not drunk, she’s just having a good time.”

“No, you’re having a good time. She doesn’t know what kind of time she’s having.”

The girl smiled, not looking at either of them.

“Two Creemore, three Blue, one Export!”

Blaine moved down the bar to take care of Darla. When he came back, the redhead was on Regis’s lap.

“Honey, I think we’re going to have to go for a ride,” Regis said.

“You guys are funny.”

Bob was feeling her hair now. “I think you should come for a ride with us,” he said. “Get to know us better.”

Regis’s hand crept up her denim jacket. The girl smiled and started humming something. Regis’s hand went inside the jacket.

“Leave her alone.”

Regis leaned back from the girl and peered down the bar at Jerry Commanda.

“What did you say?”

“I said leave her alone.”

“Why don’t you mind your own business, Chingachgook?”

Jerry got down off his stool and came round the bar.

“Do you know your name?” he said to the girl.

“Hey, Tonto,” Regis said. “Back off.”

“Shut up. Do you know your name?”

“I don’t,” the girl said. “Not at the moment.”

“Do you know what day it is?”

“Um, no.”

Regis shifted her off his lap and stood up. “I think you and me have something to discuss outside.”

Jerry ignored him. “Do you know where you are?” he said to the girl.

“Somebody told me a while ago, but I forget.”

“Did you hear me?” Regis said. “I can understand why you might not want to go back to your squaw, but that doesn’t give you the right to—”

Jerry didn’t look at him. He just reached into his jacket, pulled out his shield and held it an inch from the guy’s nose.

“Oh, hey, I’m sorry, man. I didn’t realize.”

“Do you have any ID?” Jerry said to the girl. “A wallet? Credit card? Something with your name on it?”

“No, I don’t have anything like that.”

Regis tapped Jerry on the shoulder, shifting into I’m-the-nicest-guy-in-the-world mode. “No hard feelings, okay? Do you think she’s all right? I’m kinda worried about her.”

“Would you come with me, miss? I want to take you someplace safe.”

The girl shrugged. “Okay. Sure.”

Blaine watched Regis follow them to the exit, apologizing the whole way. It was the kind of sight that did a bartender’s heart good.

In the car, Jerry asked where she was from.

“I don’t know. This is a nice car you have here.”

“Where have you been staying?”

“Staying?”

“Yeah. I’m guessing you’re from out of town. Who are you staying with?”

“I don’t know. That’s a nice building, is that a school?”

They passed École Secondaire Algonquin and headed uphill. Jerry made a left on McGowan. “You have a lot of blackfly bites on you. Were you out in the woods?”

“Is that what these are?” Her left hand rose absently and rubbed at the red blotches along her hairline. “They’re itchy. I have them all over my ankles, too. They kind of hurt.”

“Were you out in the woods?”

“Yes. This morning. I woke up there.”

“You slept outside? Is that why you have leaves in your hair?”

“Leaves?” Again, the pale, freckled hand rose to her curls. No wedding ring, Jerry noticed.

“Red, do me a favour, will you? Could you just check your pockets and see if you have any ID on you?”

She patted her pockets, felt inside. From her jeans, she pulled out some coins and a pair of nail clippers. She offered Jerry a LifeSaver, which he declined.

“That’s all I have,” she said.

“No keys?”

“No keys.”

Someone must have removed them, Jerry was pretty sure. People don’t tend to go out with no keys. He parked in a spot near the emergency entrance to City Hospital. The lights of Algonquin and Main curved away from the hill below them.

“You know, I don’t think I need a hospital. They’re only insect bites.”

“Let’s just see if we can find out where you left your memory, okay?”

“Okay. You look nice. Are you an Indian?”

“Yes. You?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t think so.”

Her response was so solemn Jerry laughed. He’d never seen anyone who looked less Indian.

In the ER, a young man behind the counter handed him a clipboard with a form on it.

“We’re not going to be able to answer any of these questions,” Jerry said. “Young lady’s got no ID and no memory.”

The young man didn’t blink, as if amnesia cases walked in every night. “Just fill it out for Jane Doe, and approximate the rest of the stuff. The triage nurse will be with you shortly.”

The girl sat humming tunelessly while they waited. Jerry filled out the form, writing “unknown” over and over again. The room started to get busier. John Cardinal came in with a middle-aged man who looked like an assault victim. He nodded to Jerry. It was not unusual to bump into another cop in emerg; on a Friday night, you pretty much expected it. The triage nurse came over and talked to them for about three minutes, just long enough to order up a chem screen and put the girl on priority. Eventually, Dr. Michael Fortis came out of an examining room and conferred with the nurse. Jerry went over; he’d worked with Fortis a lot.

“Pretty slow for a Friday,” Jerry said. “You sending them all to St. Francis?”

“You should have seen us an hour ago. We had two separate MVAs, cars got in arguments with moose up on Highway 11. The one in the four-by-four wasn’t bad, but the guy in the Miata will be lucky if he ever walks again. Always happens this time of year. Blackflies drive the moose out of the woods, and bam!”

“I got something a little more unusual for you.”

Twenty minutes later, Dr. Fortis came out of an examining room, shutting the door behind him.

“This young woman is completely disoriented in time and space. She’s also showing flattened affect and a dramatic level of amnesia. She could be a schizophrenic or bipolar off her meds. Do we know anything at all about her?”

“Nothing,” Jerry said. “She may be local, but I doubt it. She says she woke up in the woods.”

“Yes, I saw the bites.”

An attendant handed the doctor a clipboard. He flipped a page once, twice. “Her chem screen. Negative for intoxicants. First thing I want to do is call the psychiatric hospital and see if any of their patients are AWOL. If everyone’s accounted for, I’ll call for a psych consult, but that won’t happen till morning. In the meantime, we’ll take a skull X-ray. Frankly, I don’t know what else to do.”

He opened the examining room door and brought the girl out.

“Who are you?” she said to Jerry.

“Do you remember who I am?” Dr. Fortis said.

“Not really.”

“I’m Dr. Fortis. The kind of trouble you’re having with your memory just now is usually a symptom of trauma. I’m going to take you down the hall and take a picture.”

Jerry went back to the waiting area. It was filling up now with the usual cursing drunks, and infants wailing from colic or fly bites. He called the city station to see if there was a missing persons report on the redhead. The duty sergeant joked around with him; Jerry was with the Ontario Provincial Police now, but he’d worked for the city before that, and the sergeant was an old friend. No missing redheads on file.

Jerry thought about what would need to be done for her. It would be a city problem, not his, but if the hospital didn’t admit the girl, they’d have to find her a place to stay, maybe the Crisis Centre. And if it turned out she was the victim of an assault, it would mean going back to the bar and finding out if anybody knew her, trying to backtrack to when she came in and where she was before that. He wondered how she came to be in the woods. She wasn’t dressed for camping.

He found John Cardinal signing forms, talking to the young man behind the counter. The guy was listening, nodding attentively. Cardinal had always had the knack of making people feel that what they did was important, that how they handled the details mattered. It was a knack that could mean the difference between making a case and blowing it. Jerry waited for him to finish.

“I think I got a case for you,” he said. “I know you don’t have enough to do.”

“I told you never to call me here, Jerry.”

“I know. But without you, I’m only half a cop. My life is a stony, barren place.”

“Haven’t seen you around lately. I suppose you’ve been snorkelling down in Florida or somewhere.”

“I wish. Been stuck in Reed’s Falls working surveillance. Came across something in town tonight, though. Bit of an anomaly.” Jerry told him about the redhead.

“No drugs? Sounds like she took a knock on the head.”

“Yeah. No ID, no keys, no nothing.”

Dr. Fortis came back from radiology, a worried expression on his face.

“Something unexpected,” he said to Jerry. “Come and take a look.”

“John should probably be in on it. She’ll be a city case. You know Detective Cardinal?”

“Of course. Come this way.”

Cardinal followed them down the hall to an office where darkened X-rays were clamped to light boards. Dr. Fortis snapped on the light, and the gracile cranium and neck bones of the young woman glowed before them, front and side views.

“I think we’ve found why our red-headed friend is in such a placid mood. In fact, we’re going to be sending her down to Toronto for surgery,” Dr. Fortis said. “You see here?” He pointed to a bright spot in the middle of the lateral view.

“Is that what I think it is?” Cardinal said.

“I can tell you I’m feeling pretty incompetent right about now. Totally missed it on physical examination. I can only plead the thickness and colour of her hair.”

“Looks like a .32,” Jerry said.

“Entered through the right parietal region and partially severed the frontal lobes,” Dr. Fortis said. “Hence the flattened affect.”

“Will that be permanent?” Jerry said.

“I’m no expert, but people do make amazing recoveries from these sorts of things. This is really one for the medical journals, though: self-inflicted lobotomy.”

“Maybe not self-inflicted,” Cardinal said. “Women who want to commit suicide almost never shoot themselves. They take an overdose, they use the car exhaust. We’ll get ident to do a gunshot-residue on her hand.”

“Might not have to,” Jerry said.

The girl was in a wheelchair at the door, still smiling, an orderly behind her.

“We’ve got the EEG results,” the orderly said.

Dr. Fortis examined the printout.

Jerry turned to him. “You said the entry wound is on the right?”

“That’s correct. The right temple.”

“Hey, Red.” Jerry took a pen from his pocket. “Catch.”

He tossed the pen over her head. A pale hand shot up and snagged it out of the air. Her left hand.

“Well,” Cardinal said, “so much for suicide.”