Until the Night

16

AWAY FROM THE WARMTH OF Leonard Priest’s hearth, not to mention the heat of his attentions, Delorme shuddered with the cold. The touch of the February night at her neck and wrists, the gaps in her clothing.

As she moved toward her car, careful in her dress shoes that were never meant to come near snow, she saw a car heading away from her and then making the turn off Crozier, a Camry. Too far away to make out the plate or even be sure of the colour, but it looked like John Cardinal’s Camry.

Paranoia, she thought, starting her car. That paranoia was telling her to move fast, get a good look at that Camry. She took a deep breath and resisted the urge.

No doubt that shudder upon stepping outside Leonard Priest’s house had to do with things other than the low temperature, the crystalline cold abrading her face. Guilt, all right, yes, tremendous guilt. Guilt of the Catholic girl gone wrong. Guilt for breaching her professional ethics. Guilt because she was pretty sure she was in love with John Cardinal and she had just allowed another man to touch her—and this less than a week after that night at the club.

“What’s happening to me?” she said aloud in the car. She reached for the heat control and turned it up full. In any other circumstances, I would have broken the bastard’s arm.

Some women like to be scared.

She hadn’t been scared—not of Priest, anyway. But fear was definitely one of the intoxicants flowing in her veins, just as it had been at Club Risqué. Since Priest had not been particularly threatening, it could only be herself she was afraid of.

John Cardinal’s got nothing to do with it, she repeated over and over to herself as she drove home. John Cardinal and I have no relationship.

She hadn’t finished taking off her coat when the phone rang.

“Frank Toye on the desk. Hope I didn’t wake you. Got a call from the hospital—one of yours is in Emergency, asking for you. The doctor was pretty insistent, so I thought I’d check with you before I sent—”

“She gave me this.” The doctor, absurdly young, reached into his white coat and pulled out a key. “She said to give it to you and tell you top right drawer of her desk.”

“Top right drawer.” Delorme took the key and put it in her pocket. A gurney transporting an unconscious man clattered by, IV swinging. “Can I see her?”

“Not right now.”

Dealing with a battered woman too dumb to get out of a self-destructive situation was not high on Delorme’s list of priorities at the moment. On the other hand, she didn’t want Miranda Heap to wake up and change her mind. She drove the few blocks to the woman’s home and let herself in.

It was one of the contradictions of Miranda Heap’s life that she was a very orderly person. Much more orderly than Delorme, who always had a pair of jeans hanging on the back of a chair and a stack of bills on the kitchen table. But this woman’s trade was organizing people’s offices and homes and work systems, and apparently she had a natural bent for it.

Vestibule with its neat double shelves of shoes and boots, living room with a four-square stack of magazines on a gleaming coffee table, cushions on the sofa just so. But then this emotional chaos in her life, a chaos against which she could apparently maintain no resistance.

As if I’m anyone to judge, Delorme thought. She felt again, in memory, the grip of Priest’s hand between her legs. Lise Delorme, incipient slut.

In the kitchen, a platoon of appliances lined up on the counter. A dish-free sink and drainer. Set of cookware neatly suspended above the stove. Not the least sign of trouble in this sparkling little chamber, unless you counted the few drops and smears of blood on the counter, and the bigger smear on the floor. Beside it, a crushed and empty Kleenex box.

There was blood in the bathroom too, and blood on the telephone and desk.

Delorme pulled open the top right drawer and took out a large envelope with her name on it. It was sealed and taped, and she took a letter opener from a desktop canister of pens to open it. Inside there was a smaller envelope, also sealed, and a note written in violet ink on a sheet headed From the Desk of Miranda Heap.

Dear Lise,

If you are reading this, I am in deep shit.

Remember I told you he makes the most beautiful apologies? I’ve actually been saving them for my therapist, but I’d like you to hear them too—if only so you don’t think I’m such an idiot. They’re not all apologies. He does have some redeeming features, you know.

Pick up my phone and dial *98 and when it asks for the PIN press 4252. Then hit 3 for saved messages.

I don’t know if I can bring myself to tell you his name yet. I’ll have to think some more about that.

Miranda

—Oh hell. Listen to the messages and then take a look in the other envelope.

The voice that came on was so soft as to be almost a whisper. The words were close, muffled even, as if the mouthpiece were up against the lips. He was utterly sorry, his moods were getting the better of him lately, she mustn’t ever think he didn’t love her, she was the world to him.

The voice was not one she recognized. In that near whisper, it could have been anyone. He sounded educated, sincere, affectionate. As she listened, she opened the smaller envelope, which appeared to contain a handful of receipts and a photograph.

The next two messages were muffled, whispery, romantic in an overwrought kind of way—but neither of them seemed to Delorme’s ears particularly inspired, particularly wonderful. Such was love. Passion anyway.

She swivelled the chair around and stared out the window as she continued to listen. A thin snow starting to fall, car lights travelling up and down the hill of Algonquin Avenue. And then the next message made her spin round and plant her elbows on the desk and stare at the base of the phone as if the caller might be visible there.

It was the same caller, the same man, but this time he had forsaken the breathy, into-the-pillow sibilants for accents more declamatory, flamboyant even. Honey, I’m so sorry! I don’t know what I was thinking! Sometimes, I swear, you just get me so excited I go over the top. But I’ve been soooooo bad! Darlene has been a bad girl, honey, and you’re just going to have to punish her. You’re just gonna have to take your little Darlene and put her over your knee!

Then, in his normal voice, Seriously, Miranda, I love you and miss you and I’m sorry if I went a little overboard. I’ll see you soon, sweetheart.

Delorme knew who it was.

Cardinal was brushing his teeth when the phone rang. He rinsed his mouth and spat and went to the living room to see if it was Delorme. It was Ronnie Babstock.

“How was Brussels?”

“Promising. Brussels was very promising. I’m tired as hell, though. Shoulda let one of the younger guys do it, but, I don’t know, I’m good at this, you know? I don’t trust anyone else to do as good a job. Not cuz they’re not smart—they’re smarter than me, some of ’em—but I don’t think anybody loves it as much as me, and therefore … you get my drift.”

“Thanks for getting back to me. You must be exhausted.”

“Yeah, but also kinda wired, as I guess you can tell. What can I do you for? You had a question, your message said.”

“You can’t talk to anybody about this, all right?”

“Word of honour.”

“I’m looking at David Flint, Frank Gauthier and Keith Rettig. Do you know any of them?”

“I know who they are—Flint and Gauthier anyway. Flint’s the senator whose wife died and Gauthier is a very big deal in medical tech. Who was the third guy?”

“Keith Rettig. He’s a CPA at Brunswick Geo.”

“Oh, right, right—with the missing wife or ex-wife or whatever.”

“She’s dead, actually. Her body was found while you were away. In circumstances similar to Marjorie Flint’s.”

“God, you’re kidding. That’s horrible.”

“I’m just wondering—you know the high-tech industry probably better than anyone—do you know if these guys have any history? They were all at U of T together.”

“Yeah, Flint was a year or two ahead of me—or maybe behind. Gauthier too, as I recall. I don’t think our paths ever crossed, though.”

“Did they ever work together?”

“You mean, like at the same company? You could look it up easily enough.”

“Well, someone could. I didn’t get very far, other than the school thing. I’m looking at the years 1980 to 1984.”

“Ah, yes, those dark ages pre-Internet. Did you think of asking Gauthier and the others themselves? I’m a big believer in the direct route where possible.”

“It’s not my best course of action just now. Gauthier’s dead, for one.”

“Frank Gauthier’s dead? When did that happen?”

“A few days ago. Suicide.”

“Oh, that’s sad. I’m sorry to hear that. Well, I’m sure you’ll find out whatever you need to know. Sorry I can’t be more useful.”

The jet lag alone would have been enough to destroy Ronnie Babstock’s sleep that night, but Cardinal’s questions had cranked his insomnia dial right up to ten. I should have gone to the lake house, he told himself. The lake house was not so full of noises as this ancient place.

When the voice came this time (3:14 by the bedside clock), he was certain he had not been sleeping. It could not be a dream, unless it was a waking dream—and that was just another name for insanity.

So cold. Dear God, I’ve never been so cold.

It was in the room with him. Babstock lay unmoving, sweat beading on his forehead, slick beneath his arms and on the back of his neck.

I’m not going to get through this. Shivers in her voice. Terror. I’m not going to make it.

Babstock sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

I’m so frightened.

He put on his bathrobe and slippers and switched on the light and stood listening.

Hold me. Hold me tight. Oh, God.

Babstock got down on his knees and looked under the bed. He reached for the bedside lamp and removed the shade and laid the lamp down on the floor and looked again. Nothing.

He put the lamp back on the table without the shade and went to the foot of the bed and pulled at it. He leaned back with all his weight, but it wouldn’t move. He went to the side of the bed and put his shoulder to one of the posts. The bed shifted away from the wall at an angle. He pushed again.

He went back to the head of the bed and knelt again and placed his hand against the wall and waited. The bare bulb threw hard shadows, his head monstrous against the corner where the wall met the ceiling.

I don’t want to die.

He ran his hand up and down the wall, feeling for vibrations. The wall felt like painted drywall, nothing more. He rapped a knuckle against it in various places and sat back on his heels.

The voice came again, but this time it was weeping. The woman, whoever she was, sobbed and shivered and it was hard to tell where the sound was coming from. He felt up and down the wall.

“Fuck you,” he said, and grabbed the bedside lamp and laid it on the floor again. He lay down on his back and pulled himself under the bed. When he reached for the lamp to bring it after him, he banged his head on the box spring and cursed again.

The undirected light from the lamp made it difficult to see. He put one hand out to shade it and with the other felt along the edge of the box spring.

Please …

Her voice louder now, directly above him.

Dear God, don’t let this happen.

An audio clip from a movie. He could hear the sound effects now—the howling wind, the flapping canvas—tinny and miniaturized.

He found a gap in the seam and pulled the fabric away, closing his eyes against the dust. His fingers travelled along first one slat then another, until they dislodged a small object that landed on his chest and slithered to the floor. He got out from under the bed, set the lamp on the table and looked at the thing in his hand.

A cellphone.

It hurts, the woman said, and Babstock hurled it against the wall.

Not even light out and there was someone at the door. Delorme finished drying off and put on her bathrobe. Then she went to the living room and made a small part in the curtains to peer out.

Cardinal pounded the door with the flat of his hand and leaned on the bell.

Delorme went to the door and opened it without taking the chain off.

“What the hell are you doing, John? It’s six-thirty in the morning.”

“Why haven’t you been coming in to work, Lise?”

“I’m sick.”

“You’re not sick, and in case you haven’t noticed, we’ve got several murders to clear.”

“I’m sick. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

She started to close the door, but Cardinal stopped it with his foot.

“I’m freezing, John. Get your foot out of my door.”

“Why aren’t you returning my calls?”

“You have work questions, I’ll answer them—when I’m at work. But I’m not at work now and I have nothing for you. You wanted to cool things off, I’m cooling them off.”

“Not like this. I just—Jesus, this is new territory, Lise. Can’t you have a little patience?”

“We work together, John. End of story. That’s the way you wanted it, that’s the way it is.”

“If you’re so sick, why were you at Leonard Priest’s last night?”

Delorme looked at him. “You followed me?”

“I was worried about you. This isn’t like you, not showing up, being evasive, being cold to me—”

“You followed me. I don’t believe it.”

“I didn’t follow you, Lise. Yes, I was looking for you, but I was not tailing you. We need you at work and I need your help with Flint and—What were you doing at Priest’s, anyway?”

“Why—do you think I’m fucking him or something?”

Cardinal let out a gasp. “Uh, no, Lise. That had not occurred to me.”

“What else could she be doing—right? She’s such a half-assed investigator, it couldn’t be anything work related. She must be fucking the guy.”

“Lise, truly. Let’s get past this and get back to work. You can’t call in sick when we’ve got all this work to do. You know it’s wrong. It isn’t like you.”

“Get your foot out of the way.”

“Lise, come on.”

“Move it!”

He removed his foot and she shut the door and locked it. She stood there, breathing hard. When she heard him drive away, she went to the bedroom and pulled her suitcase out of the closet.

After his fight with Delorme, Cardinal promptly had a fight, via telephone, with Chouinard. This was in order to avoid a fight with Loach. “D.S., he’s got five guys from OPP to check out every French Canadian in the district—he doesn’t need me for that. You don’t need me for that. And you know I think it should not be our priority. I’ve been tracking down the history between the three husbands, and there’s a lead I need to follow up. It’s in Gravenhurst.”

“What the hell’s in Gravenhurst?”

“More connections, I hope.”

Chouinard gave him a list of reasons why he had to come in for the morning meeting, the most compelling of which was: we’re already down one man with Delorme being out sick—had he heard anything, by the way? Cardinal insisted he had not. The D.S. stopped just short of ordering him to come in.

The sooner I get to Gravenhurst, Cardinal had said, the sooner et cetera. But he hadn’t even got to the highway when his cellphone rang and Jerry Commanda came on the line.

“John, I am nonplussed.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Have you tried Metamucil?”

“What is the story with this Lacroix case? We’ve got five guys on loan to you and they don’t know why they’re doing what they’re doing. Interviewing people because of their accents?”

“No, no, it’s much more fine-tuned than that, Jerry. It’s only males, for example. And they have to be fifty years old or so.”

“It’s not funny, John. Seriously, you have to do something about this guy, it’s imperative.”

When he hung up, Cardinal thought about calling some of his old colleagues on the Toronto force. One or two of them would be bound to know Loach. Maybe someone would have some ideas on how to work with him.

The previous night’s snow was melting in the morning sun. The highway was black and gleaming so that it looked brand new, as parts of it were, and Cardinal took it fast, all the way to Gravenhurst without stopping, arriving in under two hours.

Gravenhurst was the kind of town that quadrupled in size during the summer. In winter it made Algonquin Bay look like Manhattan. The snow was deeper here, the old-style parking meters buried up to their necks. Cardinal used the GPS to find the address he was looking for. He had been expecting a small office building, but it was a ranch-style house of cedar and pale brick in a sixties-era development that had somehow managed to avoid proximity to any of the numberless lakes in the region.

He was about to ring the doorbell when he noticed the hand-lettered sign that said Side Door for Good Monkey Enterprises, the final s squeezed in like the last passenger on a crowded bus.

The young man who answered his knock looked about thirty-five, with dark, almost black hair that fell dead straight past his shoulders. He wore a white T-shirt, much stained, that said I Just Like New York as a Friend.

“You must be Detective Cardinal.”

“That’s right.”

“Only other visitor we’re expecting is coming to pick up a Yoda doll, and you don’t fit the demographic, among other things. I’m Jackalope—Jack, when I’m offline.”

Cardinal followed him downstairs. Good Monkey Enterprises turned out to be a finished basement lined floor to ceiling with industrial shelving.

“This is my brother, Wally.”

“Hi, Wally.”

Wally, wearing a headset, was staring at a computer screen. He raised a pale hand by way of greeting. Cardinal had met a few identical twins in his time, but the matched proprietors of Good Monkey Enterprises took identical to whole new levels. When Wally yanked off his headset and stood up, he was exactly the same height as his brother, his dark hair was exactly the same length, and he even spoke with his brother’s voice. Luckily, they were not dressed identically’ Wally’s T-shirt just said Deadwood. He shook Cardinal’s hand and sat back down.

Cardinal looked around. The shelves were densely populated with dolls of varying size and physiognomy, teddy bears, action figures, board games, Bankers Boxes labelled Post Cards and Photographs. There were old toys, racks of DVDs and CDs, video games, and electronic gizmos that Cardinal could not have named.

“We’re eBay masters,” Jack explained. “We buy and sell pretty much anything that’s easy to ship and isn’t too breakable. No china, for example.”

“I don’t see any robots,” Cardinal said.

“Oh, lots of robots,” Jack said, his voice breaking like a thirteen-year-old’s. He led Cardinal to the end of one shelving unit and pointed from one item to another. “All in boxes. We must have twenty Robbies alone.”

“Twenty-three,” Wally said from his desk.

“Some even have the original packaging. We have Gort, Robosapiens, couple of Daleks, a whole family of Tekno Dinkies—even a vintage Sparky. We don’t even bother with Transformers anymore.”

“It’s not the toys I’m interested in.”

“No, you said. How’d you get on to us, anyway?”

“You’re the prime contributor to the Wikipedia article on Canadian robotics. I was expecting a professor or a grad student—”

“Not a web nerd—I get it. That’s okay. Robotics is a hobby of mine—I got into it through the toys and movies and it just grew into, I don’t know, a kind of useless expertise. I’m like a trainspotter, or one of those people who memorize bus schedules for cities they haven’t even been to. Alfred Hitchcock did that, believe it or not.”

“I had no idea.”

“It’s the kind of thing control freaks get off on,” Wally called from across the basement.

“Don’t mind my brother. It’s been hard for him, growing up in my shadow.”

“You had some material you were going to look up for me.”

“On David Flint and Frank Gauthier. Yeah, I did the Wiki articles on them too. I dug out some stuff over here you might find interesting. Patent applications dating from the early eighties. God, I’m such a nerd.”

“You are!” Wally called out.

Cardinal looked at the applications. There were drawings and schematics for micro-movement systems and micro-power systems for “applications in remote-controlled vehicles.” Two of them had both Flint’s and Gauthier’s signatures. Several of them had a third signature.

Cardinal looked up. “They worked with Ron Babstock?”

“Cool, huh? Who knew? I dug up some stuff on LARS for you. I printed it out.”

“Who’s Lars?”

“L-A-R-S. Laval Arctic Research Station. They built it way the heck up on some tiny Arctic island. They test a lot of stuff for space exploration, to make sure it works in harsh conditions. Look at this.” He pulled a clear plastic folder off a shelf and handed it to Cardinal. “Dates from 1992 or so. Pristine condition. I could sell it for a decent price, but I’ll probably keep it.”

Inside the folder was a glossy brochure, only a few pages long, describing the research outpost. “A summer-only facility dedicated to the exploration of remote and extreme environments on Earth as analogues for human exploration of the moon and Mars. Development teams will find the environment ideal for testing equipment intended for outer-space applications.” Pictures showed a moon-like vista, smiling men in colourful parkas, arrays of electronic gear bristling with antennas.

“See there?” A bony finger, nail much chewed, pointed to a picture of four young men kneeling or standing beside a machine that looked like a mechanical praying mantis. “Brochure’s 1993, so the picture’s gotta be at least the year before. What you’re looking at is an early version of what eventually became the famous Marti.”

“Marvellous Marti!” Wally called across the room. “We love Marti!”

“We sell the models, when we can get hold of them.”

Cardinal read the caption aloud. “ ‘David Flint, Ron Babstock, Frank Gauthier and Keith Rettig with the prototype REV I exploratory vehicle.’ Ron Babstock worked with all three of these guys?”

“Cool, huh? Dude got NASA excited and the rest is history. Little bastard’s rolling across the Martian countryside as we speak.”

“You’d think there’d be all sorts of stuff on the Internet about those early days, but I couldn’t find it—not about these guys, anyway.”

“Sometimes the Internet can be a little unpredictable—sorta like a woman. That’s probably why we love it.”

“You’re darn tootin’!” Wally called out.

“He’s using the expression ironically,” Jack said. “At least I hope he is.”