The Delicate Storm

29

IT WAS NEARLY NOON when Chouinard called Cardinal into his office the following Monday.

“You’re off the Shackley–Cates case,” he said without preliminary. “You know why.”

“No doubt because somebody told you to remove me.”

“Talk to Kendall, if you want. It won’t get you anywhere.”

The chief was in an even worse mood than Chouinard.

“You completely ignore your assignment, a simple matter of augmenting security at a public function. You make wild accusations against a prominent businessman. You break so many rules of procedure I can’t even begin to count them. And then you come to me wondering why you’ve been removed from the case?”

“Chief, have you looked at what we have against Laroche?”

“All I see is what we don’t have. What we don’t have is a serious case against Paul Laroche. In the first place, we cannot prove he’s Yves Grenelle, therefore we have no motive. In the second place, nobody saw him at Dr. Cates’s apartment or Loon Lodge, therefore we cannot show opportunity. In the third place, we have no murder weapon, therefore we cannot show he had means.”

“There are no other suspects in this case, Chief. The DNA in the blood in Dr. Cates’s office matches the DNA from the blood in the car. We know the man who killed Dr. Cates is the man who killed Shackley, and we know Laroche had a motive to kill him.”

“No, you don’t. You know Yves Grenelle had a motive to kill him.”

“All we need is a warrant to check Laroche’s DNA. I know he’s going to match. Delorme knows it. You know it.”

“I know what the evidence tells me I know. And the Crown has already informed you we do not have enough for a DNA warrant. Apparently, you took this as a go-ahead to harass Paul Laroche.”

“He’s a killer, Chief. He should be behind bars.”

“You’re not going to put him there by ignoring reality. And the reality, now, is that you’re off this case. Frankly, if it wasn’t for the fact that your father just died, I’d consider putting you on suspension. We’ll just say you were under stress and your judgment was clouded. What did you think, you’d rattle him into a confession?”

“Stranger things have happened. The whole Cates crime shows a certain degree of panic.”

“Your judgment was clouded, Cardinal. Get out of here before I change my mind.”

The ice storm eventually departed. The clouds and the fog were trundled away like stage props, and the sun shone once more on the glittering woods. Gradually, the icy hills and roads were cleared of the fallen towers, the broken branches, the shattered trees. Winter soon returned with a more common run of snow and temperatures in the minus thirties. The people of Algonquin Bay huddled in their down parkas and turned their heat, once it was restored, up full.

Spring came early that year. The usual bets were placed on when the ice on Lake Nipissing would break up, but no one came close. By the middle of April the last miniature white islands had melted away. By May there was one last vestige of winter remaining. The bottom of Bradley Street, where it curves round a set of low-lying hills that embrace the northern shore of Lake Nipissing, is where the snow trucks of Algonquin Bay dump their dune-sized loads. By the end of the season the dump is a flat-topped mountain of crystallized snow, dark on the outside with gravel, salt and other debris, and on the inside, fretted with long white crystals. This man-made mountain is so dense it doesn’t melt away until mid-July.

Cardinal and Catherine could see it from out on the lake, glittering in the sun where pieces of ice had fallen away. Along the shoreline, the buds on the birches and poplars were emerald green. Other trees that Cardinal could not identify from out on the water were bursting with white blossoms.

The sun was warm on their faces and hands, but there was a crisp breeze that penetrated their windbreakers, and the Canadian flag on the stern of the boat set up a cheerful snapping.

Cardinal’s boat was a small fibreglass outboard his father had bought when Cardinal was still in high school. The motor was just a 35 Evinrude, nothing that was going to tip any canoes in its wake, but it could get you across Lake Nipissing in no time. The odd thing about that lake, although it is the biggest body of water in Ontario outside of the Great Lakes, is that it is also one of the shallowest—no more than forty feet at its deepest points. Even a moderate breeze like the one that nipped at Cardinal’s face this May morning could start a considerable chop. Waves kicked and slapped at the hull.

They had started out from the West Ferris dock and cruised slowly past the city. The limestone cathedral was bone white, and car windshields caught the sun and shone like mirrors. Joggers in colourful outfits moved in pairs along the waterfront.

“Look at the poor trees,” Catherine said, pointing. Many of the maples and poplars had been sawed off flat at the top—a move necessitated by the split trunks and broken branches the ice storm had left in its wake. It would be years before they would recover their natural shapes.

“It’s the buildings I’m looking at,” Cardinal said. “There. There. And over there.” He pointed to the red brick of the Twickenham complex, the white tower of The Balmoral. From out here they could even see the main chalet of the Highlands Ski Club. “All of them owned by Paul Laroche, a guy who shouldn’t even be walking the streets.”

“Well, he isn’t walking the streets anymore. At least not in Algonquin Bay.”

“And we’re not having any luck tracking him down. We think he’s somewhere in France.”

“Well, you could count it as a partial victory, can’t you? He’s had to leave everything he’s built up over the years.”

“It’s something,” Cardinal said. “But it’s not what I’d call a victory.”

He swung the boat away from town and came about so that the bow was into the wind, then he eased back on the throttle.

“You want to do it here?” Catherine asked.

“It’s as good a place as any, I guess. Can you take the wheel for a minute?”

The boat wobbled beneath them as they switched places. Cardinal pulled a dark canister from the cloth sack the funeral home had provided.

“I thought it was illegal to spread ashes on the lake,” Catherine said. “Strictly speaking.”

“That’s true,” Cardinal said. “Strictly speaking.” He was trying to figure out how to open the canister. It was a heavy black rhomboid object made of India rubber or something very similar. There was no handle or tab one could grab on to and pull. Nor did anything seem to twist off.

“What do you suppose they do if they catch you?”

“The cops? They make you pick them up again.”

“No, seriously.”

“It’s probably a small fine,” Cardinal said. “I think I’m going to need a can opener to open this.”

“Want me to try?”

“Not to worry. I have the technology.” Cardinal pulled out his penknife and set to work prying the lid off. A moment later it came away, revealing a clear plastic bag about the size of a half-pound of flour full of pale grey ashes. Most of the pieces were smaller than the nail on his little finger.

“I can’t believe he’s gone,” Catherine said. “He was such a … vivid person.”

Cardinal undid the little plastic tie and opened the bag, the canister still resting on his knees.

A moment ago they had had the lake to themselves. Now there seemed to be boats everywhere. A sailboat fifty yards off. A motorboat cruising toward them at a good clip. Even a canoe, hugging the shore.

“I better wait for them to pass,” Cardinal said.

“Are you going to say anything?” Catherine asked. “When you spread them?”

“I don’t know. It seems like I should. I mean, I want to. I’m just terrible at anything like that.”

“Just say whatever you feel, John. You know he loved you.”

Cardinal nodded. He took a few deep breaths to steady himself. The motorboat purred by. A family of four. The children in the back waved and yelled, “Ahoy, ahoy.” Catherine waved back.

“Well,” Cardinal said finally. “Here goes.” He turned around in his seat, kneeling on it. “I’m not going to drag this out, I’m just going to spread them and be done with it.”

“Okay. I’ll just keep it steady.”

The wind had picked up. Cardinal had to keep low so the ashes wouldn’t blow back all over the boat. As he leaned, the side wash from the motorboat caught them and rocked the boat. He had to clutch at the gunwale.

“That’s all I need—to fall in. Dad would love that.”

“Yes, he would.”

Cardinal steadied himself and eased the bag from the canister. Then, using two hands, he shook the bag gently, as if he were seeding a garden. The ashes formed a swirling grey cumulus in the water. It took a minute or so to empty the bag, and by that time the boat had left a thick grey trail behind them. Many of the lighter flakes floated on the surface, and even finer particles blew away in the wind.

“I guess I just want to say … I want to say to the lake, I guess: Take these ashes, and you be kind. This was a good man.” Cardinal had to take a deep breath. “This was a good husband and a good provider. A good man—I know I said that already. This was my father.”

Cardinal turned and sat facing forward again, suddenly exhausted.

Catherine held his arm. She cut the motor, leaning over and resting her head on his shoulder in the silence. Cardinal felt her shake with tears.

The boat drifted in the wind, turning slightly so that once again they were looking at the sunlight glinting on Algonquin Bay. They drifted for perhaps a quarter of an hour, saying nothing. Then Catherine squeezed his arm and said, “I liked what you said.”

Cardinal rinsed the plastic bag and the canister in the lake before putting them on the back seat.

“You want me to take the wheel again?”

“Nope,” Catherine said. “I’m fine.”

She started up the motor and they cruised back toward West Ferris, the waves muttering against the hull. The wind caught Catherine’s brown hair and tossed it every which way. Sunlight brought the colour to her cheeks and she looked a lot like the young woman Cardinal had married nearly thirty years ago.

He reached out and touched her shoulder.

Catherine looked over at him. “What?”

“Nothing,” Cardinal said. “Head her for home, Captain.”