Until the Night

by Giles Blunt

  Someone with training in psychological matters might have opinions about what would have been the proper way to handle the situation. The situation was there, I was who I was. I began talking to Ray as I approached—a hundred metres away, maybe a hundred and fifty—I knew he could hear me. But I chose to pretend I had not heard the shot, that I had not noticed Dahlberg lying motionless at his feet.

  We must head that way, I told him, pointing. The current should take us to Meighen Island. They won’t send a plane for days. Ah, Jens—we’ll have to do something about that knee. Ray and I will put our heads together and come up with something.

  As I talked on in this calm-in-the-face-of-disaster way, Ray did not so much as twitch. He stood, feet apart, arms a little away from his sides, head tilted downward. He looked like a man who had just shot a raccoon, or perhaps a cat by mistake.

  I kept talking as I approached, one hand gripping the flare gun under my fleece. The flare gun is not a weapon. It is a plastic singleshot pistol not designed for accuracy. I needed to be close for it to be of any use at all. But I was not going to let Ray near Rebecca. I was not going to let him kill or injure me. I was not going to let him live.

  There may be a submarine, I said. We might have luck with the radio. Or the sovereignty expedition could come through.

  This was a falsehood. The sovereignty expedition, made up of dogs and soldiers and Inuit reservists, had come up Nansen Sound and was by that time halfway across the top of Ellesmere.

  If there’s any sign of them, I went on, Rebecca will send up a flare.

  I was within thirty or forty metres, close enough to see the gun in his hand, when Ray finally moved. It was perhaps not a direct threat, perhaps nothing much at all. He didn’t raise the gun at me. He merely looked at me. There was something mechanical in the movement—perhaps the stillness in the rest of his body, or the way he lifted his chin and then turned his face toward me in two separate motions, as if responding to typed-in commands.

  Another man, of a more heroic cast, might have waited until he aimed his weapon. Might have ordered him to drop the gun. Might have made a run at him. Still talking, I pulled the flare gun from my pocket and fired.

  The flare made a tremendous hiss as it corkscrewed toward him. I feared it would miss him entirely, but it didn’t. It caught in his down jacket and the phosphorus burned as white and brilliant as a comet. His coat was on fire and he turned this way and that, flapping his arms. I saw the gun fall and ran for it.

  Ray managed to shake the flare from his jacket. The phosphorus hissed and burned in the slush, sending up clouds of steam. I had his gun now, and while he was trying to tear his jacket off, I shot him in the back. He fell at once to his knees and I shot him again, so that he toppled face down. I thought then and think now that his heart had already stopped, but I stepped closer and shot him in the back of the head to make sure.

  The sight of his blood pumping into the snow made my gorge rise. I turned away and bent over the still form of Jens Dahlberg. Ray had shot him through the heart, and he lay on his back in a red cloud of blood. There was no breath, no pulse.

  I checked the Glock’s magazine. Two rounds left. Presumably Ray had used the others to shoot Paul Bélanger and Murray Washburn before his spree was put on pause by our disintegrating island. I put the gun in the pocket of my fleece and turned around.

  Rebecca had followed me. She was standing at the edge of a throbbing circle of brightness cast by the still-hissing flare, one hand covering her mouth.

  17

  CARDINAL GOT INTO HIS CAR and shut the door and started it but didn’t move. He sat there with the heater going full blast, thinking about Ronnie Babstock. After a while he took out his phone and saw that Loach had called him twice. He ignored that and dialed Ian McLeod.

  “You and Delorme are turning into real assholes,” McLeod said. “Loach is going to get you bounced off the squad—possibly before he’s appointed Governor General, possibly after. Seriously, what the hell are you doing? It’s lonely here without you. Nobody loves me.”

  “I don’t love you either,” Cardinal said. “I can’t speak for Delorme.”

  “She secretly loves me.”

  Cardinal told him what he’d just found out.

  “Wow. Ronnie Babstock. We gonna pick him up?”

  “Not yet. We now know he worked with those three guys back in the late eighties, early nineties—and when I asked him about them, he made out like they had nothing to do with each other. The really weird thing, given how high-profile at least three of them are, is that there’s almost nothing written about them having worked together. If there’d been super bad blood between them, you’d expect to see lawsuits and stuff like that on the Net, but there’s nothing. Literally nothing. It’s like it never happened. In any case, Babstock doesn’t look anything like the description of the suspect. So I’m wondering about possible third parties. Maybe there was some kind of criminal activity up there at the same time. They could’ve crossed paths with the wrong people. We’re talking way north here, like Arctic north.”

  “Oh hell, fucking Eskimos are killing themselves every five minutes. Killing each other too. It’s cuz of all the vitamin A. Seriously, just between you and me, is Delorme really sick?”

  “Delorme wouldn’t call in sick without a good reason.”

  “Better be really good. I’m telling you, Loach wants to set up a fucking guillotine. You want to give me the dates and locations you have in mind? I’ll check out the RCMP database.”

  “I’ll take care of it. You’ve got French Canadians to interview.”

  Hayley had slept in that day, so she hadn’t got to the health club until after dinner. Unfortunately, the only good times to work out were first thing in the morning, well before her first class, or late at night. Any other time you had to wait ages to get a machine, some tiny frond of a girl doing endless arm curls with the thing set at five pounds, or they got on the elliptical and covered the readout with a towel so you couldn’t see that they’d been on it for three times the half-hour limit.

  After twenty minutes on the treadmill and a half-hour of weights, Hayley could feel the tension of the day leaving her body. She would be alert enough to tackle some of the dreadful academic articles she had to read as research for her own academic article, should she ever get a week free from marking or makeup exams to work on it. She had the shower room to herself, and there was only one other person in the change room as she got dressed, a skeletal anorexic who came every day and spoke to no one.

  Hayley dialed a number on her cellphone and told Kate Munk, her TA, she could come and pick up the papers she had to mark. Kate said she’d be there around nine.

  Hayley snapped a flashing red light onto the rear fender, a white one onto the handlebars. The day’s snow had melted, and Bathurst Street gleamed with the red smears of tail lights. She was tired after the workout and let three other cyclists pass her on the ride home.

  As she turned into the alley, she saw a white van parked behind her house. A man opened the driver’s door but stopped when he saw her coming. He raised a hand.

  “Would that be Miss Babstock?”

  Hayley braked but didn’t get off the bike. She didn’t recognize the guy, maybe a workman or something. He had an intelligent face, maybe a little hawkish. She waited with one foot on the ground, the other on a pedal.

  “Sorry to appear out of the blue like this—especially this time of night. I slipped a card under your door, but when I saw you coming, I just thought …” He held up a photographic ID. “Ironclad Security. Your father asked us to look in.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake. I told him I don’t want a bodyguard. He’s being totally weird.”

  “No, you’re wrong about that. I assure you, the threat is both serious and credible.”

  “I don’t mean to be rude, but aren’t you a little old to be a bodyguard?”

  He grinned. “Way too old. I run the outfit. You won’t be seeing me after tonight. In the me
antime, it would be very helpful if you would fill out this form. It’ll only take a minute.”

  Hayley switched off her front light and put it in her backpack. Then the rear light. “If my father’s already hired you, why do you need me to fill anything out?”

  “We just need brief descriptions of people we should expect to see coming and going at your home and work.”

  “Excuse me, I have three hundred and fifty students.”

  “Let us worry about that. Just give us what you can.” He handed her a clipboard. It had a small light attached to the top.

  Hayley skimmed the first page. “I think I’d prefer to talk to my father again.”

  As she looked up, she saw his hand coming down toward her, something gleaming in his fist. It pierced her neck before she could grab his arm. She swung away from him and grabbed for the handlebars, and then her legs were gone and she could feel the bike falling away. Her eyelids slammed closed—once, twice—and she heard the clatter of the bike as a distant event, a tin can tumbling down a well.

  “Can I get you another Stella, Stella?” The blonde behind the bar was wearing a black tank and micro skirt that showed off her annoying muscle definition. “Sorry. You must get that all the time.”

  “Yeah, I think I’ll sit with this one awhile,” Delorme said. “Is Len in tonight?”

  “Len—you mean the owner? Don’t think so.”

  “I saw him up in Algonquin Bay a couple of days ago. He said he was coming down.”

  “He comes, he goes. I’m just a peon. You expecting some friends?”

  Delorme shook her head.

  “Things should pick up soon. Still a little early.”

  The restaurant downstairs was hopping—Delorme had had a good Thai curry with a glass of Chablis—but the second floor was dead. A bare-chested man with a grey flattop stood behind a woman lounging on a couch and massaged her shoulders. His hands slipped in and out from under the spaghetti straps of her camisole. A languid couple kissed in an alcove. The look and feel of the Toronto Risqué Club was identical to the Ottawa one; it was just a lot less busy—at least at the moment.

  “You look familiar,” Delorme said. “Do I see you at Extreme Fitness?”

  “Yeah, I’m there every day,” the bartender said with a grin.

  “It shows.”

  “Oh, thanks. My trainer’s a total sit-ups Nazi. Have I seen you there? I can’t say I really recognize you.”

  Delorme pointed to her head. “Wig.”

  “Ah, yes. Makes sense. Not everybody’s so open-minded about these things.”

  “No kidding. I guess I will take that Stella now.”

  The Extreme Fitness had been a guess, though not a wild one: there was a branch right across the street from Risqué. Women pedalling their stationary bikes and staring into their smart phones.

  The bartender bent to get the beer from the cooler and Delorme couldn’t help noticing the silky legs, firm of calf and thigh. Thinking, great—lesbian cop. A single encounter and I turn into a total cliché. As a countermeasure, she called John Cardinal to her mind, their kisses on that winter night that seemed so far away. Picturing his face, those mournful eyes of his, brought an ache to her heart. She dismissed the image.

  “Darlene been in lately?”

  “Darlene! You a friend of his or you just know him from here?”

  “I know him from Algonquin Bay.”

  “Is he from up there? Darlene. Boy, quite a character, that one. Was that you with him the night he had those three guys lined up and—oops. Forgetting myself here.”

  “Have to be discreet, huh?”

  “Big time. Really, I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “It’s okay. Take a look at this.” Delorme opened her purse and pulled out the photograph she’d taken from the envelope in Miranda Heap’s desk.

  “Ohmigod, that was taken here!” The bartender clutched the photo to her tank top and looked around before leaning forward. “They’re dead serious about the no photos thing. Really, I’ve never seen a picture taken here before. I mean, they throw people out if they catch them taking pictures.”

  “Well, you can see the club logo right behind him,” Delorme said.

  “Put that away, girl. I never saw that, okay?” She rushed away to serve some people at the other end of the bar.

  The place was filling up. Delorme stayed at the bar waiting for, well, she didn’t know what for. There was some kind of weird throbbing, a yearning inside her. People do things out of character all the time. I don’t know why I did it, they say—it was an impulse. Or, I had way too much to drink and suddenly I just, I don’t know, lost control. Police hear it all the time.

  Out of character. Delorme thought about that. Across the room on a red plush couch, a woman lay back as two men kissed her and stroked her. If the woman felt anything other than lust, she wasn’t showing it, kissing them right back, unbuttoning their shirts. A few more minutes and they’d be heading up to the third floor.

  Out of character. Who doesn’t want to be out of character once in a while? Junior detective on a small-city force with a reputation as a hard-ass, a decent worker but not much more. Single, and thirty-five a receding memory. Lusty, yes. Definitely fond of sex. But not promiscuous, at least not up until now, and about as unkinky as an average Canadian girl can be. Or so I thought. Why shouldn’t I fuck my brains out? It’s not like it’s going to upset the husband, embarrass the children.

  A man came up and asked her nervously if she’d like to join him and his wife in an alcove.

  Delorme turned her head toward the dark nook. A small woman in a silver lamé halter smiled and gave a little wave.

  “Let me think about it, okay? I’m not exactly used to—”

  “I get ya. No problem. We just think you’re really cute and you seem to be on your own, so …”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “We don’t come here a lot either. It’s only our second time.”

  “Okay.”

  The guy went back to the alcove. His wife straddled his lap and his arms circled her waist. They were both attractive, and Delorme thought she could detect honest affection in the way they touched.

  Maybe it’s not out of character. Maybe it’s just discovering another part of my character, like coming upon a secret room in a house you’ve lived in all your life. She looked at the couple again, the man’s hands stroking the woman’s back. Suppose she went over there and sat beside them, the man reaching over and touching her, or perhaps the woman. Just thinking about it changed the chemistry in her bloodstream—a light sweat breaking out on her forehead, heart rate heading to the high end of her aerobic zone—a dark cocktail swirling through her veins, of lust, of fear, of guilt, with notes, as a connoisseur might say, of despair.

  She turned around and caught the bartender’s attention, holding up her clutch purse. “Can I get a key? I think I want to lock this up.”

  The bartender brought a key with a rubber band attached to it. “Taking the plunge, huh?”

  Delorme had to take her phone out of the purse to get at her money. As she set it on the bar, it lit up and began to quiver. She picked it up and looked at the screen. John Cardinal. Something like a sob welled up in her chest. She pressed Talk.

  “Jesus, you picked up for once. Listen, how fast can you get down to Toronto?”

  “I’m in Toronto. Why?”

  “Hayley Babstock has been abducted.”

  When Hayley first woke up, she thought she was on her way to the beach. Her mother and father in the front listening to classical music or the news while she curled up in the back seat. Every year they went to Cape Cod in the States, drove there (when they could very easily have flown first class) because her father found the driving relaxing. They stayed in a perfect jewel box of a house in Wellfleet.

  Her parents were both so happy during those vacations. It was the only time it seemed to Hayley that she lived in a family like the ones you saw on television. Everybody clos
e and happy, especially her father. August was the only month she got to spend a lot of time with him. He would build sandcastles with her, put puzzles together on the huge refectory table, play board games. And the three of them reading, devouring stacks of books and magazines.

  But this was not their car, and she was not a little girl. Her arms and legs felt thick and heavy. She tried to stretch, and found that her hands and feet were bound. There was a handkerchief or something tied across her mouth, tight enough that she couldn’t dislodge it, push as she might with her tongue. But no blindfold.

  She remembered the alley, the security man, the thing in his hand. A hypodermic meant planning, elaborate intentions, and she felt a strong urge to scream. She forced herself to take deep, slow breaths.

  Highway—the road smooth, the speed steady—a major highway. Sounds of larger vehicles growing near, fading, but no whoosh of oncoming traffic. There were no windows in the back of the vehicle, but passing lights swept through the darkness at regular intervals. Highway 400, the 401, or the QEW. At any given time, half of Canada was on these roads.

  Whatever he had injected her with was wearing off. She could wiggle her hands and feet and turn her head. Her fingers touched the metal side of the van. She pressed here and there as many times as she could, leaving marks. She would get out of this. She would get out of this and they would find the van, and she would be believed. Her fingerprints would convict him.

  She craned her neck to see. Part of the profile, the strong nose, hair the colour of a grubby coin, slicked back from his face. He turned his head to look at her and she closed her eyes too late. Moments later, the sway of inertia as the van changed lanes. Another move to the right and then it slowed and stopped. Whoosh of cars rushing by.

  Hayley backed herself up against the seats, expecting him to appear at the back of the van. But a side panel slid open and he was right beside her. He held the needle, point up, by his shoulder. She squirmed away and tried to kick at him with both feet.