Blackfly Season

5

ALGONQUIN BAY, ALTHOUGH MODESTLY populated, was not so long ago the second-biggest city in Canada (measured by area). In the late sixties, three former municipalities of no size whatsoever had come together in a Small Bang of amalgamation to create a city that measured some 130 square miles. Only Calgary had been bigger.

Since then, many other cities and townships have succumbed to amalgamation fever, and Algonquin Bay can no longer claim to be bigger than Toronto, Ottawa or Montreal. Even so, it’s possible to motor for half an hour in certain directions from the centre of town and still find yourself within city limits.

Walter “Wombat” Guthrie lived in the basement flat of a former farmhouse just within the city’s southern border; in other words, several miles from downtown.

“A biker named Wombat,” Delorme said in the car. “They probably imagine it’s some ferocious predator. Razor-sharp teeth. But I’ve seen wombats at the Toronto Zoo. They’re these cute, fuzzy little things. You want to pick them up and take them home.”

“Walter Guthrie is not little and he’s not cute. He’s got a sheet as long as your arm including assault, armed robbery and grievous bodily harm. He’s been a member of the Viking Riders practically since kindergarten, and if they had such a thing as a prenatal chapter, he’d have been a founding member of that, too.”

“How come I haven’t run into him?”

“Because you were working white-collar crime when the Riders had their headquarters in town, and Walter ‘Wombat’ Guthrie can’t even spell white collar.” Cardinal made a right onto Kennington Road. “The only reason we haven’t run up against Wombat and his brethren lately is because they moved the clubhouse beyond city limits. Good news for us; headache for the OPP.”

“I thought all these guys were in their sixties by now—you know, grey ponytails flying in the breeze.”

“Not all of them. Some of them. But that doesn’t mean they can’t still cause trouble. They’re the reason Algonquin Bay has a heroin problem these days. They basically dumped the stuff—sold it at a loss and as soon as people couldn’t live without it, they jacked up the price.”

“It’s an effective business model,” Delorme said. “AOL works the same way.”

“Effective is right. We now have thirty or forty full-time heroin addicts.”

“Yeah, I’ve met a few. But it’s hard to get an idea of the big picture since the hiring freeze.”

Over the past year, a city budget crunch had cost them first one and then another detective. The squad was down from a force of eight to an overworked six, and they’d had to leave the drug scene pretty much to the OPP.

Cardinal drove past a mouldering Sunoco station and turned into the driveway just beyond. He parked beside a wooden house that had once been white. Plastic sheeting flapped at the windows, and an eavestrough hung from the roof like a disabled limb.

Delorme let out a low whistle.

“Yeah,” Cardinal said. “Where are the arsonists when you need them?”

“No bike in the drive, I notice.”

“Keep that up, Sergeant Delorme, and you’ll make lieutenant in no time.”

They went to a side door, a doorbell labelled Guthrie. Cardinal ignored it and pounded on the door with his fist. They waited a couple of moments, swatting away blackflies, then went round to the front door.

“Landlady,” was Cardinal’s one-word explanation. This time he used the bell.

It was answered by a bony woman in a bathrobe, black hair streaked with grey and still wet from the shower. Other than that, she was all nose and cigarette.

“We’re looking for your tenant,” Cardinal said. “Walter Guthrie.”

“Join the line,” the woman said. “I ain’t seen him in two weeks and he owes me rent.”

“You have any idea where he is?”

She shrugged and cocked her alarming nose toward the highway. “Same place he always is. The clubhouse. Lots of times he don’t come home for a week, but two weeks is a little unusual.”

“Do us a favour,” Cardinal said, handing her a business card. “Give us a call the minute you see him.”

“Oh, sure,” the woman said. “And you can take me directly to the morgue after.”

Cardinal started to say something, but the woman closed the door.

“That was great,” Delorme said as they headed back to the car. “You have such a way with women.”

With certain colourful exceptions, motorcycle gangs in northern Ontario have learned that it doesn’t pay to draw a lot of attention. That’s why several years ago the Viking Riders relocated their clubhouse from Trout Lake Road to a remote site off Highway 11 near Powassan. Nothing about the four-square, red-brick structure indicates its function as headquarters for travelling pandemonium. In fact, the casual passerby might judge by the faded sign on the third floor and the persistent odour of burlap that it is still home to the Bronco Bag Factory, which hasn’t been in business since 1987. The building never had a lot of windows, and most of those that remain have been bricked up to little more than slits, as if the current Dark Age tenants fully intend to fire arrows at any enemy foolish enough to lay siege to the former factory.

While Cardinal banged on the steel door he held his shield up to an armoured security camera. So did Delorme.

The door opened, and the man who answered it didn’t look anything like a biker: thirty-five, five-ten, maybe one-seventy. Short hair neatly parted and a pair of round-rimmed designer glasses gave him a collegiate air. This was Steve Lasalle, president of the local chapter of the Viking Riders; he was about twenty years younger than his colleagues, but Cardinal had done business with him before.

“What can I do for you?” Lasalle said. “I’d invite you in but the place is a mess.”

“We’re looking for Walter Guthrie,” Delorme said. “Is he inside?”

“Sorry. Not here.”

“He’s not at home, either. His landlady hasn’t seen him for two weeks.”

“Surprise, surprise. Neither have I.”

“When exactly was the last time you saw him?”

The door banged all the way open, and Lasalle looked positively frail next to the Visigoth who now loomed beside him: Harlan Calhoun, fifty years old and 250 pounds of mayhem in motion, known to his friends and associates as “Haystack.” If he’d had a neck, it would have been a size 20, about the size of the snakeskin cowboy boots on his feet.

“Who the fuck are you assholes?” His tone lacked warmth.

“It’s okay, Haystack,” Lasalle said. “I’m dealing with it.”

“I’m Detective Cardinal, and this is Detective Delorme. Algonquin Bay Police.”

“News flash,” Haystack said. “This ain’t your jurisdiction. Now get the fuck out of here before I rip your arm off and beat you to death with it.”

“Who’s your fat friend?” Cardinal said to Lasalle.

Calhoun stepped out of the doorway so that his chest was an inch from Cardinal’s face.

“Go back inside, Haystack,” Lasalle said.

“Cardinal,” Calhoun said. “That’s an Indian name.”

“Not today,” Cardinal said. “But thanks for the compliment.”

“How about I send you back to the teepee? On the end of my boot.”

“Tell you what, Shitstack—why don’t you go back inside and trim that goat’s ass on your face? Oh, sorry—is that meant to be a beard?”

Lasalle blocked the punch an inch from Cardinal’s cheekbone. His knuckles were white where he gripped Calhoun’s wrist. “I said go back inside.”

Cardinal held up a pair of handcuffs and jiggled them at Calhoun. “Here, boy! Walkies?”

Calhoun smiled, gold gleaming amid the unwholesome thickets of his beard.

“Next time, Cardinal. Next time.”

“Count on it.”

Then Calhoun was gone, and Lasalle gave them a what-can-you-do shrug.

“You haven’t answered my question,” Delorme said. “When was the last time you saw Walter Guthrie?”

“Is there any reason I should answer that question?”

“I can think of several.” Delorme was giving him her best French-Canadian deep-freeze. “One, you’ve got nothing to lose by answering it. Two, there are the interests of diplomacy to consider—you can’t put a price on goodwill with your local police force. And three, there’s the problem with getting your building up to code.”

“You see any code violations here?”

“An inspector might. Just like Natural Resources might find you have a problem with your garbage out back. Just like the health department might find you’ve got a problem with your septic tank. Just like the—”

Lasalle looked at Cardinal. “She always this irritable?”

“You haven’t seen her irritable.”

“Look, lady,” Lasalle said. “I haven’t seen the guy. Nobody’s seen him. In fact, if you should happen to come across the Wombat in your travels, bring him here when you’re done with him.”

“I thought you guys were blood brothers,” Cardinal said. “Don’t tell me he done you wrong.”

“Let’s just say old Wombat has some ’splaining to do.”

“Which might answer the question of why he’s missing. Maybe you already made your point with him and he isn’t coming back again.”

“When did you see him last?” Delorme said. “You still haven’t answered that.”

“Believe it or not I don’t keep track of his comings and goings. Last time I remember seeing him we had a few people round, we watched a video, Wombat passed out on the couch. Not unusual for him. I expected to find him here next morning but I didn’t. Now he doesn’t answer his cellphone and he doesn’t seem to be home and I have no idea where he is. He doesn’t write, he doesn’t phone and we’re all just worried sick.”

“You want to find him,” Delorme said. “You’re pissed off at him.”

“What are you, my therapist? You want to explore my feelings, honey, make an appointment. Don’t just come banging on my door.”

“Where would Wombat be most likely to go?”

“You’re letting the bugs in,” Lasalle said and closed the door.

Cardinal and Delorme hopped back to the car, each in a penumbra of flies.

Delorme started the engine. “That was a weird testosterone display you had with Haystack.”

“Guys like that are like dogs. They need to know where they stand.”

“If you say so. Anyway, me, I get the feeling the Vikings are seriously annoyed with Wombat.”

“Which could mean they did away with him.” Cardinal rubbed at a bite on his neck.

“Don’t scratch. You’ll only make it worse.”

When they were back on the highway, Delorme said, “You know, that Lasalle is seriously good-looking for a biker.”

“Well, we’re very good-looking for cops.”

They were quiet for the rest of the drive back. There was only the sound of wind and tires and the odd squawk from the radio. Cardinal was thinking about the young woman with no memory. Those green eyes looked so innocent, her whole manner was so benign, it was hard to imagine anyone wanting to kill her. Then again, who knew what her previous personality might have been? For all Cardinal knew, she could be Bitch Incarnate. The only thing he was sure of: With no home and no memory, she must be the loneliest woman on earth, and he wanted to find the person who had done that to her.