Until the Night

by Giles Blunt

  But the heat from the burning clothing and pencils, paltry as it was, had restored me somewhat. And when I thought I saw something flash on a ridge to the north, I snatched at the face of the rock and pulled myself up. Voices. A man’s voice. Calling to others. Another flash, as of something metallic catching a ray of sun.

  People, I said. There are people.

  I knelt beside Rebecca and scrabbled through her layers of clothing for the flare gun and our last remaining cartridge.

  19

  DELORME KNEW SHE SHOULD BE with Cardinal. Before she left him at 52 Division the night before, he had said he would come by early to pick her up at her hotel. If they had no other leads, maybe they’d tag along with Drexler when he went to go talk to—and probably arrest—the former Sergeant Rakov.

  But she’d told him she wanted to finish the Priest/Choquette case and was pretty sure she could do it in one day, two at the most. She had thought Cardinal might give her a talking-to. But he just looked at her with those sad, soulful eyes of his and didn’t say anything for a bit. Then he said, “Lise, do what you have to do. I’ll see you back home.” Meaning, you explain it to Chouinard.

  It was still dark as she headed out of the city. Even Toronto was quiet if you got up before six, and she drove up the Don Valley and hit the 401 and got to Kingston with no trouble at all. Even the prison staff were reasonable.

  Fritz Reicher was brought in—manacled this time—and sat down opposite her, regarding her warily through a fringe of blond hair.

  “I brought you a present.”

  She pushed a small shopping bag across the table. The manacles rattled as he reached inside and extracted a coffee-table book. The Dogs of New York. He laid it flat on the table and turned a few pages.

  “It’s for me?”

  “You said you liked dogs.”

  “Yes, of course. I—you remembered. Sank you. It’s beautiful.” He examined a few more pages. He turned the book around to show her a photograph. “Poodles. Poodles are the best.”

  “Fritz, I wanted to talk to you about a couple of things.”

  “Hah! Look at ziss.” He turned the book again. Photo of a woman walking five dogs in Central Park. “I love it.”

  “Fritz, I need your attention.”

  “Yes, of course.” He closed the book, using a finger to keep the page.

  “I wanted to tell you I’ve met Darlene.”

  “You have? Who is she? What’s she like? She’s some old rich lady, isn’t it?”

  “You’ve met her too.”

  “No, not me. I’ve never met ziss person.”

  Delorme showed him a photograph of Garth Romney.

  “But that’s the prosecutor. I don’t know what you’re saying to me.”

  “It turns out the assistant Crown attorney is a regular patron of Risqué—the Toronto club, not Ottawa—and has been for some time.” She showed him the picture of Romney as Darlene. “He is well-known at that club—especially at their Thursday night Hellfire sessions. Well-known to Leonard Priest, of course.”

  “Yes, Lennet loves those evenings,” Reicher said, still not getting it. “Sometimes he likes very much to be the one in chains. Likes to be frightened.”

  “Interesting tip. But listen, Fritz—this is why Romney never prosecuted him. He couldn’t afford to have his night life as Darlene come out in court. That’s why Leonard got a free ride and you’re rotting away in here.”

  “Yes, of course. I see.” Reicher looked at his hands holding the book. His manacles. Delorme gave him some time. He was clearly not the brightest criminal you were ever going to meet, but she hoped he would make the necessary connections. Certain synapses had to be crossed, and she sat there waiting for his neurotransmitters to work. Eventually they did.

  “But if ziss is true, he could have let me go too. Lennet could have told him, ‘Let Fritz go too, he didn’t mean it, I told him to do it.’ ”

  “There was too much against you—your initial confession, your prints on the gun, a witness who saw you with the victim.”

  “Yes, of course. He must have tried. I’m sure he tried. He is so good to me, Lennet. He sends me money, you know.”

  “Yes, you told me.”

  “It’s true. We’re not allowed to have much money in this place, but he sends me a little spending money and puts some aside for me in an account. He sent me a copy of the papers.”

  “Did you check if this account is in your name?”

  “No, it’s not my name. I was in here—I could not be signing the proper papers.” Reicher’s face clouded. “It’s money for me, not Lennet. He’s putting it away for me.”

  “If it’s in his name, how does that benefit you, Fritz?”

  “He’s going to give it to me when I get out. You’re not trusting anyone, I sink. You must be a very angry person, a lonely person. Or maybe it’s you don’t like gays, bisexuals, and you’re not understanding. But Lennet loves me and we’re going to be together again when I get out, and he has put ziss money away for me because he’s a good friend and he loves me.”

  “Well, I’m sorry to tell you this, Fritz …” And it was true—in the face of his delight with the book, his gratitude, his simple belief in friendship and loyalty, Delorme really was sorry. She pulled out her phone—her second phone, the one she used strictly for recording—and set it to play aloud.

  Fritz? Have you met Fritz? Fritz is an amiable idiot. I’m sorry, but he’s mentally defective—very attractive qualities in a servant, but not much use for anything else. Delorme had once seen a film of a massive building being demolished, some public housing project down in the States. The blasts from the charges shooting out before you even heard the explosions, the face of the building rippling, sinking. A sag in the middle, clouds billowing out from underneath, and then the whole sorry structure brought first to its knees and then to nothing, a heap of smoking rubble.

  It was like that now, watching Fritz Reicher’s face. The mouth with its thin lips open slightly, the cheeks hollowing. A glance to one side, unseeing, and back to the cellphone spewing its poison. A rattle of manacles as the large hands rise to cover the mouth, and then the whole, surprisingly delicate, construction collapsing forward, eyes wincing closed, face lowering to the book as the murderer’s shoulders heave with sobs.

  Cardinal’s room at the Delta Chelsea was grotesquely overheated and there was no way to adjust the temperature. He’d woken, seared and desiccated, at four in the morning. He’d drunk a glass of heavily chlorinated water, but it had taken him hours before he got back to sleep, and then he slept through his alarm—or switched it off, he wasn’t sure which.

  It was past ten o’clock. He put some water in the miniature coffee maker, set it to brew and got into the shower. As he was drying himself, he started mentally leafing through an extremely repetitious inner file labelled Delorme, Lise (relationship with). He had always thought of Delorme as a strong person. Unshakeable. Now he was not so sure. Like you know so much about women, he told himself. John Cardinal, man of the world.

  He poured his coffee and sat at the desk. His first call was to the corrections department for Nunavut—the vast northern territory that included Axel Heiberg Island. No, he was told, no one connected with a murder in 1992 had been incarcerated in Nunavut, for the simple reason that Nunavut had not existed in 1992. At the time, it was part of the Northwest Territories—would he like the number for Yellowknife?

  Yellowknife was two hours behind Toronto’ the parole office would not be open yet. Cardinal opened his laptop and googled corrections facilities for the area. There were four places for males—one of which was for young offenders and two that provided housing ranging from low to medium security. The only one that offered maximum security was the North Slave Correctional Centre. The name sounded like something from the Soviet gulag but actually referred to the facility’s proximity to Great Slave Lake. The web page was rudimentary but it did provide a number for warden Bruce Saxton, which Cardinal promptly dialed.


  “This is Saxton.”

  Cardinal introduced himself and apologized for calling so early. “We have a series of murders here and, between one thing and another, I’m coming up against a murder trial and conviction that occurred in 1992. A group of scientists were living and working on what they called a drift station and—”

  “And you’re looking for a suspect who has a noticeable limp, I bet.”

  “Well, yes, as a matter of fact.”

  “And maybe a prosthetic hand?”

  “Right again, Warden.”

  “You’re looking for Karson ‘Kit’ Durie.”

  “I am.”

  “I expect you know I can’t put him on the line for you.”

  “You’re going to tell me he was released.”

  “I’m pulling it up right as we speak. Karson Durie was released November 15, 2009.”

  “And the parole office didn’t see fit to notify anyone?”

  “Parole office has nothing to do with it. Durie’s not on parole. He was sentenced to eighteen years and he served every last one of ’em, reason being he refused to ever accept even a tom-tittle of responsibility for the lives he took—one of which he doesn’t deny and three or four more of which he shot down in cold blood. Other than his recalcitrance on that little point, he was a model prisoner. He taught a lot of classes here over the years. Toward the end he enjoyed about as normal a life as it’s possible for an incarcerated individual to enjoy: all the books he wanted and almost unlimited computer access, though we kept an eye on his search histories and so on. As you know, an individual serves his full sentence, there’s no parole officer checking up on him. He can go wherever he wants. Last note in the file says ‘released to Northwest Territories,’ so there was no reason for anyone here to inform Ontario or any other province of his release. He’s done his time, he’s a free man. Could be anywhere. Did you know he used to be a bush pilot?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Yep. Before he became a scientist and a murderer, he ferried people in and out of some pretty inaccessible places. You want me to fax you his known contacts, et cetera?”

  “Better to e-mail it—that way I can pick it up on my phone.”

  “It’ll take an hour or two—clerical people aren’t in yet—but you’ll have it soon as poss.”

  Cardinal got dressed, put on his coat and went down to the parking lot. Crusts of filthy snow clung to the sidewalks, and morning light made everything look worse. Every time he came to Toronto he was surprised by how bad the traffic was. He took Bay down to College and then he got stuck behind a streetcar and had to inch his way past the university and the student pubs and the computer supply stores.

  He turned into the alley and drove to the back of Hayley Babstock’s building. There was nothing left of the crime scene tape or any other sign of police presence. He sat with the motor running, staring at the windows of her flat, thinking. After a while he thought he saw something move in the kitchen window. A shadow.

  He got out of the car and shut the door quietly. The gate squeaked a little as he pushed it open. He pulled out the Beretta and went up the fire escape. No sign that the door had been tampered with.

  He took a breath and held it and tried the handle. The door wasn’t locked. He pushed it open a crack and saw across the wide single room the figure of a man seated on the edge of the bed. Elbows on knees, staring at the floor in a posture of exhaustion, a cellphone to his ear. Cardinal was about to yell “Police” when the man looked up.

  Cardinal lowered the Beretta. “Ron?”

  Ronnie Babstock spoke into the phone. “Thanks for calling, David. I have to go. My friend John Cardinal’s here.” He put the phone in his pocket. “I don’t think you’ll want to be my friend any longer. Not when you know what I really am.”

  From the Blue Notebook

  There are environments where simply to be alone is to be at grave risk—desert, high altitude, open seas—and the High Arctic must be counted among them. The assumption in such places is that anyone you encounter who is alone is likely to be in need of help unless otherwise indicated. Certainly, any sign of distress is never to be ignored. On the open seas, to do so is a crime.

  I devoted the next few minutes of my life to attracting the attention of the party up on the ridge. My mind was dulled, my movements clumsy. My first attempt—waving my arms and calling—was pure instinct and utterly worthless. Dehydration had reduced my voice to a croak, and in any case they were upwind and would not have heard me.

  Despite my almost useless hands, I managed to fit a cartridge into the flare gun. I raised my arms as high as I could and fired.

  The flare shot upward into the sky and burst into a bright green parachute of light burning against the cloud cover. It could not be missed. I watched through my field glasses and saw one figure, hooded, uncertain, pause as he climbed the ridge. He looked toward the flare and back in my direction.

  I took my jacket off and waved it overhead.

  I think they’ve seen us, I said—not that Rebecca could hear me.

  I took the Glock out of my fleece pocket and fired once in the air. The shot echoed off the ridge and the mountains beyond.

  Another figure appeared on the ridge and stood with hands on hips, looking in my direction.

  They’ve seen us, I said. They’ve seen us.

  I put the gun away and tried the radio. It was like a block of wood in my fingers. I stabbed at it and twisted the dial, repeating mayday into any frequency that seemed possible.

  There was no radio response. The figures on the ridge disappeared and I heard the sound of machines starting up. All-terrain vehicles. It could not be long.

  Rebecca was still unconscious.

  They’ll be here soon, I said. I’m going to walk a way to meet them. It won’t be long. You’re going to be all right. We’re both going to be all right.

  There was only one way for them to get to us: descend the ridge and come through the valley. I walked on shaking legs in the direction from which they must come. Depending on the terrain they had to cross it would be half an hour, an hour at most, before we would meet.

  As I walked, my ears were straining for the sound of their engines. When the sound faded, I stopped and listened. Perhaps there was some logistical problem, an issue of geology, that was holding them up. Perhaps mechanical failure. But I had definitely heard more than one machine. They could not all have failed.

  It may be that I have always had a propensity for dark thoughts, but I would not describe myself as a cynic or a pessimist. A scientist is always curious, always open, assumes the answer will be found, if not by him, then by someone else. In considering the many ways we might perish in our circumstances, it did not occur to me that anyone who held the chance of life in his hands would refuse it.

  No sound but wind over the hills. My own laboured breathing.

  I scanned the ridge with my glasses, the valley open before me. Nothing.

  How long I waited I can’t be sure. The temperature was not far below freezing, but it was unbearable to stand still.

  No.

  I remember saying the word aloud. Barely a whisper, a single syllable, and yet it hung in that silence, hung around me like a shroud.

  I turned back. I rounded a small rise and the low sun warmed my face. I walked with my arms clenched around me, staring at the stony ground. I got back to Rebecca and burned another piece of salvaged clothing between us. I pulled Rebecca as close as I could. She did not wake or even stir. The heat, pitiful though it may have been, was like honeyed liquor, and I fell asleep while the little flames flickered between us.

  I don’t know how long I slept. When I woke, the fire was out and cold.

  Rebecca was gone.

  For one delirious moment, joy rose inside me. She must be all right, she must have recovered, she could not be far. Lying on the ground had done terrible things to the muscles in my right leg. It was torment to stand.

  Rebecca? I said her name ove
r and over again in my desiccated voice. I wanted to laugh. She must be all right. We would move on. We would reach the LARS camp and safety.

  I found her a short distance away among a tumble of rocks. Rocks that would have been folded one on top of the other by the meeting of two glaciers centuries earlier. Rebecca lay in a shadowy gap, curled in a fetal position, and my joy went out.

  This was “terminal burrowing,” the final stage of hypothermia. Usually it is seen in bodies that are found indoors, huddled in a closet or under a bed.

  Her eyes were open, staring. I curled myself around her as best I could. I hung one arm over her, pressed my face against her shoulder. She blinked once, twice. Her lips moved as though she would speak, and I waited, staring at her dry, cracked mouth, but no words came. A few minutes later, she stopped breathing.

  20

  CARDINAL CLOSED THE DOOR AND took a seat at Hayley Babstock’s small wooden desk. You would never know it was the residence of a person from an extremely wealthy family. The room, a former attic cheaply remade into a studio apartment, was sparely furnished with scraps of carpet and flea market items. There was nothing overtly feminine about it, and yet it was clearly the domain of a young woman. The one jarring note was the bottle of Jack Daniels on the desk.

  “You want a drink?”

  Cardinal declined.

  Babstock reached for the bottle and poured a finger of bourbon into his glass. “I picked it up on the way in. Hayley doesn’t drink. Well, not more than a beer or a single glass of wine with dinner. She’s the kind of girl who gets giddy quickly and knows enough to stay away from it. Woman, I should say. You still think of Kelly as a girl?”

  “Not really. By the time she finished university—”