Forty Words for Sorrow

58

CARDINAL’S MIND HAD BEEN possessed by the Pine–Curry case for so long that he could not get used to thinking of other things. The hours weighed heavily. Thinking of the future made him depressed and anxious. Part of him wanted to talk to Catherine, part of him was afraid to—at least until she was home from the hospital.

In one afternoon he had replaced a cracked pane of glass, defrosted the fridge, done his laundry and fixed the hot water pipe. Now he was in the garage, fixing the hole that gave the raccoons access to his garbage. He had cut a piece of plywood to size, and now he set about removing the old one that had rotted away.

Anxiety gnawed at him. The chief was in Toronto for a meeting, but no doubt he would be calling soon enough. Cardinal realized he was working at trivial chores mostly to keep panic at bay. He felt on the verge of becoming altogether lost, his future a trail that suddenly vanishes in the deep woods.

And what about the rest of the money, down to just enough for Kelly’s final semester? What to do with it now—give it back to Rick Bouchard? Bouchard had been convicted only of trafficking, but his list of achievements was long, including assaults, sexual and otherwise, robbery with violence and at least one attempted murder. “Rick Bouchard,” his Toronto lieutenant had been fond of saying, “is a subliterate ratfucker. They’ll have to add a special extension onto hell just to house that creep.”

In the middle of installing the new plywood, Cardinal discovered that he hadn’t the heart to shut out the raccoons. If this were their only source of warmth and food, then fixing the hole might kill them. Instead, he trimmed a smaller square out of the panel he was inserting and put hinges on it, making a door for the raccoons. Brilliant idea, Cardinal. Really thinking now. If he were still here in summer, he would close the hole then.

If he were still here. It seemed increasingly unlikely. He’d been with the Algonquin Bay police department for ten years. Any job he could get—assuming he could get one, and assuming he were free to do so—would be unlikely to pay the mortgage, let alone the heating bills.

He went inside and brewed himself a fresh pot of decaf. It was time to distract himself from his own problems and address himself to the anguish of Billy LaBelle’s parents. With Fraser dead, the chances of finding their son’s remains seemed remote. The LaBelles had written a letter to the Lode, complaining about the police having killed the perpetrator instead of capturing him. How were they supposed to ever find peace?

Delorme and Cardinal had divided the box of books and papers they had retrieved from Fraser’s room. Notes, maps—they were on the lookout for anything that might give them a clue to the whereabouts of Billy LaBelle’s body. There were paperback porn books with sado-masochistic themes and lurid covers. There were several works of the Marquis de Sade, heavily underlined. Cardinal flipped through an encyclopedia of torture devices. Then there was a book of martyrs and their torments. The contents made him queasy, and he found nothing useful.

He examined the stack of books remaining. Wedged among the paperbacks was a fat college edition of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. Cardinal seemed to remember that some of the stories were a little raunchy, but still—Chaucer seemed worlds away from Eric Fraser’s interests.

The phone rang and, after the usual search for the handset, Cardinal picked it up and heard Lise Delorme shouting at Arsenault to be quiet. “Sounds like chaos over there,” he said.

“Some people, when there’s no one in charge, you know. I can’t wait till R.J. gets back and things get a little more organized.”

“I’m trying to figure out where he buried Billy LaBelle. Why don’t you come out here and we’ll go through this stuff together, toss some ideas around.”

“Sounds good to me. Anything to get away from Arsenault. I swear, that guy, he’s high on his own work.”

“Why? What’s up?”

“John, you aren’t going to believe this. Are you sitting down?”

“What’s going on, Lise?”

“John, they found another set of prints in Fraser’s van. All over Fraser’s van. Passenger side, steering wheel, all over the rear. It’s someone who was in that van a lot. And get this, John. They’ve got the murder weapon. We’re ninety percent sure it’s the hammer that killed Todd Curry—and those second set of prints are all over it too.”

“Oh, my God. The son of a bitch had help.”

“There were two of them, John. Two of them.”

There was silence over the line as Cardinal took in this information. He could hear Delorme breathing. Finally he asked, “What have we got back from Records?”

“Nothing. So far we don’t have a clue who this new guy is. He could be anybody. I already called Troy and Sutherland. They never saw Fraser with anyone.”

“Well, why don’t you come out here and go through this stuff with me. Maybe we’ll find something.”

Delorme promised to leave in a few minutes, and hung up.

Two of them, Cardinal thought. Why hadn’t he thought of it sooner? But then, why would you? Why would you expect two minds equally sick? What were the chances of there being two murderers on the loose in Algonquin Bay at the same time? That’s why the Mountie profile was so confused: it was describing the working of two minds, not one. He pulled the Chaucer from the stack of Fraser’s books. Two of them. He mentally scanned the entire case archive in his head, trying to remember if there had been any sign. There had been no other fingerprints at the crime scenes, no other hairs.

The Chaucer felt oddly light in his hands. He riffled the pages. Someone—not very skilfully—had taken a razor and cut a hollow rectangle out of the book. A rectangle about seven inches by four. And inside this rectangle—wadded with tissue paper to make it fit more securely—someone had hidden a plain, unlabelled video cassette. Holding it carefully by the corners, Cardinal pushed the cassette into his VCR. The screen lit up with electronic snow.

It might be nothing, he told himself. It might just be blank. Or it could be just mail-order porn. In that case, of course, why hide it so thoroughly? Cardinal clutched the remote and stood in the middle of his living room, arms folded across his chest, waiting for the screen to clear. It flickered and went dark.

For a moment he thought the tape had switched itself off, but then a murky image took shape: a couch, and behind it a dark painting on a wall. Cardinal recognized the painting. He was looking at the Cowart house, where Todd Curry had been murdered.

As if hearing his cue, Todd Curry appeared on the screen. He came loping into view and sat down on the couch. “Am I on yet?” he asked someone off-screen.

The sound was even worse than the lighting. A voice answered him, but the words were inaudible. Lights came up, and Todd Curry squinted in the glare. He sipped nervously from a bottle of Heineken.

“Todd Curry,” Cardinal said aloud. He froze the image with the remote control just as the kid hoisted his Heineken in a toast. The kid was caught in the harsh light like a rabbit in headlights, surrounded by darkness.

“Todd Curry,” Cardinal said again. “You poor little bastard.” He remembered the remains curled up in the coal cellar, the jeans around his knees. If only he could hit the stop button and prevent this kid’s future. But he released the pause, and the kid guzzled his beer.

The voice came out of the background again, tinny with distance. “Say something,” it said.

The kid belched, goofing off. “How’s that?”

Cardinal tried to raise the volume, hitting the mute button by mistake. Then there was a tremendous crash from outside, the shriek of crumpling metal and a car horn blaring as someone’s head hit the wheel. Through the front window he could see a small car had piled into the birches just past his driveway. The damage didn’t look nearly as bad as it had sounded.

He didn’t bother to put on his coat. He dashed down the front steps, and by the time he reached the car, a woman had staggered out of the driver’s seat and was raving incoherently. “Some men. Help me. Please. Help me.”

“Are you all right? Are you sure you can walk?”

The woman put a hand to her head, and turned this way and that, utterly confused. “Some men. There were three of them. They raped me. They said they’d kill me.”

Cardinal put an arm around her shoulder and helped her toward the house. “Let’s get you inside.” The freezing air was slamming through his sweater like steel. The woman stumbled along beside him, head down, crying now. “They forced me, they forced me. Oh, God. Please. You have to call the cops.”

“That’s all right, I am a cop.” He got her inside, and seated her gently in an armchair by the wood stove. He picked up the phone and dialed 911. It took them an appallingly long time to answer. As he waited, Cardinal took in more details of the woman: the green down coat, the nasty crease on the side of her head, the truly awful case of eczema. The crease in her head looked bad; the bruise had come up terribly fast, and he wondered if she were bleeding under the skin.

Finally, 911 answered. “Yes, this is Detective John Cardinal, Algonquin Bay Police? I need an ambulance out here at 425 Madonna Road. Woman, late twenties—rape, head trauma, I’m not sure what else.”

The dispatcher told him to hang on.

“You’re the hero, aren’t you? The Windigo case? I saw you on TV.” The woman was hunched forward as if over a stomach wound, peering up at him strangely. Beyond her, the television had come back to life, without sound. A dark figure moved in the foreground.

“Gimme that address again?”

“425 Madonna Road. Take Trout Lake past Pinehaven, it’s the second right after Four Mile Road. They can’t miss it, there’s a car half off the road out front.” Cardinal covered the mouthpiece and spoke to the woman. “That’s a Pinto you’re driving, isn’t it? Your car?”

“What? Yeah. Pinto.”

“A grey Pinto,” Cardinal said into the phone. “You can’t miss it.”

“I saw you on TV,” the woman repeated, swaying slightly in her seat as if she were drunk, though Cardinal had not smelled alcohol on her. Behind her, the figure on the television screen had sat down beside Todd Curry—a woman. The hard light glittered on her damaged skin.

Now the woman before him reached up and touched her face gently, fingers fluttering over the cracked, pebbly surface of her cheek.

Cardinal tried to keep his face neutral. She doesn’t know I know, he told himself. She’s got herself drunk so she can come out here and threaten me. But at this point she doesn’t know I know.

“Who are you calling now?” the woman said sharply.

“Headquarters. I want to get some people over here to take your statement. Don’t worry, we have a rape specialist. A woman.” Can she hear it in my voice? Can she hear that I know?

Cardinal started to dial, but the woman pulled a gun from the folds of her coat, aimed it at his face and said, “I don’t think you want to do that.”

Cardinal put the phone down, holding his hands up. “Okay, look. I’m not armed, all right? Just take it easy, now.”

On the TV, Fraser entered the scene and yanked the woman away. Todd Curry raised his hands in pretended surprise.

“Did you follow a script?” Cardinal asked her. “Work out the moves ahead of time?”

The woman turned to follow his gaze. “That’s Eric,” she said in a small voice. “That’s my Eric.”

Cardinal inched ever so slightly toward the closet, the half-open door where the Beretta hung in its holster.

“Don’t move.”

“Just relax. I’m not moving. I’m not going anywhere.” Cardinal used the gentlest, least threatening voice he could summon. On the TV, Fraser gripped a hammer. It must have been resting on the back of the couch, ready for use. He raised the hammer and was shouting something at Todd Curry.

He brought the hammer down. The boy’s mouth gaped, all the facial muscles went slack. Fraser hit him again and again. The woman had moved behind the couch, behind the boy, and was pulling back on his bloodied hair. She pulled back on his hair the better to expose him, while Fraser kicked the life out of him.

“He was nothing,” the woman told Cardinal. “He was just some scum off the street.” She pulled the remote out from under her and pressed the rewind button.

On the screen the action reversed. Fraser pulled his boot repeatedly from Todd Curry’s ribs, and the boy slid back up onto the couch. Strength flowed back into the slack, battered limbs. The woman let go of his hair and backed around the end of the couch to sit once more beside him.

Now the hammer was taking back its blows, sucking murder back into itself. Blood flowed upward into the boy’s nose; scarlet tears shot backwards into his eyes. He lowered his arms, and they healed. Terror gave way to astonishment, and with one last comical jerk the hammer yanked all pain and shock from Todd Curry’s face. The boy sat back and laughed.

Cardinal was backing closer to the closet. “Why don’t you tell me how it happened? Did Eric force you to help? Was that it?”

The woman stood up. “Eric never made me do anything I didn’t want to do. Eric happened to love me. Can you understand that? Eric loved me. We had a special love. Better than anything you read about in books. And it was real. It transcended space and time, if you can understand that … No, I don’t think you can.”

“Tell me about it, then. Help me understand.”

She was in the proper stance, slightly crouched, left hand cradling the right. She sighted down the barrel at him.

Cardinal was moving ever so slightly back toward the closet. He began to raise his hands, to show her they were still empty.

The woman pointed the gun lower. Her expression was distracted, as if she were seeing, not Cardinal, not the scene before her eyes, but some distant, remembered scene. Then her eyes cleared, and she shot him.

The bullet entered Cardinal’s abdomen just below the navel. He fell to one knee as if genuflecting. A moment’s grace, and then it was as if his entrails had burst into flame. He curled over and fell on his side.

The woman took two quick steps and stood over him. She neither grimaced nor smiled. “How does it feel?” she asked quietly.

The closet door was maybe three feet away. It might as well have been twenty. The woman stood over Cardinal, still gripping her revolver, keeping out of range of his hands and feet. Cardinal’s only thought was for the closet, but he could not get back on his knees.

“How does it feel?” she asked again. “Does it feel good? Tell me how you like it.”

Cardinal heard himself crying. You didn’t often hear a grown man cry like that. He remembered a car wreck on the overpass, a man with a piece of aluminum trim clean through his belly, impaling him to the seat. He had wept like this.

Blood spilled hotly over his hand. He was trying to hold his stomach together as he struggled to his knees. The woman backed away.

Two steps to the closet. Two steps, then a long reach and he would have the Beretta. Cardinal tried to crawl, but his arm crumpled under him.

The woman came closer. She looked upside down—a trick of perspective that his brain, half blind with pain, could not sort out. “It’s a belly shot,” she said. “It takes forever to die with a belly shot,” she said. “What do you think about that?”

She was aiming again, pointing at his belly again.

Cardinal said, “Oh, fuck,” or something like it, and raised a pathetic hand to stop her.

He didn’t hear the shot this time. The bullet burst through his hand and tore into his belly. The room went white, then gradually returned, like an image in a developing tank. Cardinal could not remember where the thing was that he had been trying to reach. What had he been looking for? What had been so important?

That woman was speaking, but he could not distinguish the words over his pain. Four more? Was that what she said? I have four more for you? The words lined up in his head but would not make sense. Four more where those came from, that was it. She says she has four more bullets where those came from.

The gun wavered over him. Cardinal curled up on his side, as if he could deflect the next bullet with a rib. Then there was a roar and something heavy hit Cardinal’s leg. The gun had tumbled from the woman’s hands.

Cardinal opened his eyes. The woman’s chest was covered with blood. She had jerked up and back, as if hearing her name called from a distance. A hand drifted up to her chest wound, dabbed at it, and the woman’s face creased into an expression of irritation, as if she were anticipating a nasty cleaning bill.

She’s dead, Cardinal thought. She’s dead and she doesn’t know it yet. The woman collapsed on top of him, her breasts pressing into his hip.

Then Delorme was kneeling over him. Lise Delorme was kneeling over him, and talking in the soothing tones he had heard himself use with victims of terrible accidents. You’ll be all right, hang in there, don’t disappear on me now. Futile in the extreme. But Delorme had something white in her hands—a pillowcase, or was it the sling from her injured arm?—and she was tearing it very efficiently into strips.