Forty Words for Sorrow

by Giles Blunt

  He picked up the phone and dialed Kelly's number in the States. One of her roommates answered- Cleo? Barbara? he couldn't tell them apart- and shouted for Kelly to pick up.

  "Hi, Daddy." When did she start calling me that again? Cardinal wondered. They had gone through a brief "Pop" phase, which Cardinal had barely tolerated, then back to the usual "Dad," but lately it was "Daddy." It must be an American thing, he decided, like saying "real good" for "really good" and pronouncing "probably" with the accent on the last syllable, but this was one American mannerism he enjoyed.

  "Hi, Kelly. How's school going?" So plain, so flat. Why can't I call her princess or sweetheart, the way fathers do on TV? Why can't I say the place is colder without you? Without Catherine? Why not tell her this tiny house is suddenly the size of an airport?

  "I'm working on a humongous project for my painting class, Daddy. Dale's taught me that I work best on a monumental scale, not on the crabbed little canvases I always stuck with before. It's like being set free. I can't tell you how good it feels. My work is a hundred times better."

  "Sounds good, Kelly. Sounds like you're enjoying it." That's what he said. What he thought was: God, it moves me so to hear you're happy, to hear that you're growing, that your life is full and good.

  Kelly chattered on about learning at last how to wield paint, and normally Cardinal would have basked in her enthusiasm. In the course of his sleepless night he had stood in the doorway of her bedroom and stared at the narrow bed she had slept in for a week, picked up the paperback she had been reading, just to touch something his daughter had touched.

  He stood in the doorway now, the cordless phone tucked under his chin. The room was a pretty pale yellow, with a wide window looking out on birch trees, but it had never really been Kelly's room. Cardinal and Catherine had moved to Madonna Road after Kelly had gone to university, and the room was just a place she inhabited when she visited.

  A TV father would tell her how he had touched her book just to touch something she had touched, but Cardinal could never say such a thing.

  "One thing, though, Daddy. A bunch of us are planning a trip to New York next week. It's the last week of the Francis Bacon exhibition and it's really something I should see. But you know I didn't budget for any trips, and this would cost about two hundred dollars by the time you factor in meals and gas and everything."

  "Two hundred American?"

  "Um, yeah. Two hundred American. It's too much, isn't it?"

  "Well, I don't know. How important is this, Kelly?"

  "I won't do it if you think it's too much. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have mentioned it."

  "No, no. That's okay. If it's important."

  "I know I'm costing you a fortune. I do try to save money wherever I can, Daddy. I mean, you wouldn't believe all the things I don't do."

  "I know. It's okay. I'll wire the money to your account this afternoon."

  "You sure it's okay?"

  "It's fine. But next year will have to be different, Kelly."

  "Oh, next year will be real different. I mean, I'll be done with all my classes- I'll just have my final project: two or three canvases for the group show, depending how much Dale thinks I should do. I'll be able to take a part-time job next year. I'm sorry everything's so expensive, Daddy. Sometimes I wonder how you manage. I hope you know how grateful I am."

  "Don't you worry about it."

  "I hope one day I make a ton of money off my painting so I can pay some of it back."

  "Really, Kelly, don't you even think about that." The phone was slick with sweat in Cardinal's hand, and his heart flapped at his rib cage. Kelly's gratitude had unmanned him. In the core of his being, a door clicked shut, a bolt shot home, and a sign long out of use was hung over the window: CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.

  "You sound a little tense, Daddy. Work driving you crazy?"

  "Well, the press is yelling at us. I get the feeling they won't be happy till we bring in the Air Force. I'm not making the progress I should."

  "You will."

  They closed with an exchange on their separate weathers: hers sunny and warm and measured in Fahrenheit; his bright and cold and measured in centigrade degrees below zero. Cardinal tossed the phone onto the sofa. He stood dead still in the center of the living room like a man who has just received terrible news. There was a noise from outside, and it took him a few moments to realize what it was. Then he rushed through the kitchen and threw open the side door, yelling, "Go on, beat it, you little rodent!"

  He saw the raccoon's fat hindquarters wriggle under the house. Normally a raccoon would be hibernating this time of year, but the floor of Cardinal's house was leaking heat- enough heat to confuse this raccoon into thinking there was no winter. The first time Cardinal had caught sight of the masked face, the raccoon had been examining half an apple in its precise black paws. Now, it emerged two or three times a week to topple the garbage cans in his garage and root through the mess for edible scraps.

  Shivering furiously, Cardinal scrambled after the bits of plastic wrap, the empty doughnut container, the gnawed chicken bone strewn across the garage floor. He went back inside just in time to hear the phone ringing.

  It took him three rings to remember where he had tossed the handset. He snatched it up from among the sofa cushions just as Delorme was about to ring off.

  "Oh," she said, "I thought you must be already on your way in."

  "I was just leaving. What's up?"

  "We got the tape back from the CBC guy. Also of course he sent the digital version? The enhanced version?" Delorme's French Canadian interrogatives had never sounded so welcome.

  "Did you listen to it yet? Did you play it?"

  "No. It just arrived this second."

  "I'll be right there."

  22

  KEITH London sat up groggily in bed. The room he was in looked unfamiliar, and he wondered if this was partly because it seemed to be turning, ever so slowly, like a carousel running down. When it came to a stop and his eyes managed to focus, he saw four walls covered with cheap wooden paneling, warped and stained by water damage. An armchair tilted on three legs, its arms scarred with cigarette burns. On the floor, a short flat space heater buzzed intermittently as if a bug were trapped inside. Overhead a dim bulb throbbed behind a cheap fixture, and a Via Rail poster of Vancouver curled on one wall. The tiny window was boarded up from the outside. The air was clogged with smells of heating oil, mold, and wet concrete.

  Then he remembered: He'd picked up his stuff from the bus station while Eric and Edie waited for him outside. He remembered getting into a small car with Eric and Edie and having a beer in their kitchen. But he didn't remember going to bed or taking his clothes off. After the beer, nothing. His limbs felt gross and exhausted as if he had slept too long. He rubbed his face, and the flesh felt rubbery and strangely hot. His watch- evidently he had forgotten to take it off in his hurry to undress- said three o'clock. The need to urinate was pressing.

  Although the room could not have been more than nine feet square, it had two doors. Keith set his feet on the cold floor, sitting on the edge of the bed. He remained like this for some time, and would have fallen asleep again, if the need for a bathroom had not been urgent. He forced himself up onto his feet and leaned against the wall for balance. The first door he tried was locked- stuck, anyway- but the second, luckily, proved to be a bathroom, the fittings almost miniaturized to fit the tiny cubicle.

  Tottering back toward the bed, he caught sight of his guitar case propped in a corner. He had just enough time to register that his duffel bag and his clothes were nowhere in sight, before he slid headlong into a dark pit of unconsciousness.

  When he woke- hours later? days?- Eric Fraser was sitting on the bed, big grin on his face. "Lazarus awakes," he said quietly.

  Keith, with a great effort, propped himself up against the headboard. He could feel his body listing to one side but hadn't the strength to right himself. His mouth and throat were terribly dry; when he tried to
speak his voice was a feeble croak. "How long have I been asleep?"

  Eric held two fingers so close to Keith's face that he couldn't focus. It looked like three fingers.

  "Two whole days?" Was that possible? Keith could not remember ever having slept that long in his life. A couple of times in early adolescence he'd slept for sixteen hours, and once, when very ill with a fever, he'd conked out for twenty. But two days?

  If I've really been asleep for two days, I must be very, very sick. Healthy people don't sleep for two days. That's called coma. Keith was about to express some of this when Eric preempted him by pressing a cold hand against his forehead and holding it there with a thoughtful expression. "Yesterday you had a fever of a hundred and three. Edie took your temperature. She used your armpit."

  "Where are my clothes? I think I better see a doctor."

  "Edie's washing your clothes. You threw up."

  "Did I? That's awful." Keith rubbed his throat; it was burning. "Is there any water?"

  "Bathroom." Eric pointed to a small door. "But you'd better drink some of this." He presented a steaming mug. "Edie's concoction. She brought it home from the drugstore. Don't worry. Edie's a pharmacist."

  Steamy aromas of honey and lemon were flowing from the cup. Keith took a sip, scorching his tongue. It was a flu remedy or something, probably nothing more than Tylenol and antihistamine, but it felt good going down. After a few sips Keith began to feel better. The fog lifted a little. He pointed to the Polaroid hanging from Eric's neck. "What's that for?"

  "Test shots. Edie and I are deeply involved in filmmaking. It's one of the reasons we noticed you. We were hoping you'd be in our film."

  "What kind of film is it?"

  "Low budget. Experimental. Poetic. I wanted to ask you the other night, but I was afraid it would be… inappropriate."

  "That's okay. I'd be glad to help." Keith slid back down in the bed and curled up. Sleep seemed once again like an excellent idea.

  Eric held up a newspaper. "The Algonquin Lode," he said. "We call it The Load of Bull." He rattled noisily through the pages. He cleared his throat and began to read in a slow, deliberate voice. "Algonquin Bay police were out in force at the corner of Timothy and Main streets earlier today where the body of an unidentified male, apparently murdered, was discovered in the coal cellar of a vacant house. Investigators have not ruled out the possibility that the murder was committed by the same person who killed Katie Pine last September.

  "According to Detective John Cardinal, the victim had been savagely beaten, suffering multiple facial injuries, and the genitals had been kicked until they were almost completely separated from the body."

  "Jesus," Keith said. "That happened here?"

  "It took place right here in Algonquin Bay. Not far from this room."

  "Jesus," Keith said again. "Imagine being beaten like that. It doesn't sound like your normal bar fight."

  "Well, let's not rush to judgment. They don't say what the victim was like. Maybe he started it. Maybe the world is a better place without him. I don't miss him. Do you?"

  "Nobody deserves to die that way. I don't care what he did."

  "You're soft-hearted. Edie always goes for the gentle ones. Your girlfriend must love that about you. What did you say her name was?"

  "Karen. Yeah, I don't know. Karen'd be happier if I were a little more future-oriented. She's pissed off right now."

  "Tell me about the sexual customs in Toronto. I hear oral sex is all the rage. Is Karen a devotee?"

  "Jesus, Eric." Keith had been slipping into the blood-warm waters of sleep. I'll just sleep a little more, he assured himself, then I'll get the hell out of here.

  "I couldn't help noticing your penis, Keith, when we undressed you. Big pair of balls, too. Karen's a lucky girl."

  Keith wanted to tell him to lay off, but he couldn't transmit the message from his brain to his tongue. That honey and lemon had really knocked him for a loop.

  Eric placed a hand on Keith's knee, gripping it. "People don't understand the terrible things I've seen- the rape, the sexual abuse. I've had a rough time, Keith, and sometimes it makes me a little… uneasy. Would you like me to stroke your genitals?"

  Keith tried to focus. God, what was in that drink?

  Time passed. Five minutes, possibly twenty. Eric drew the covers up to Keith's chin. "I'm excited about this film, Keith. So is Edie. You're just right for the part. You said you like experiences. This film will be a new experience."

  Keith finally managed to work his tongue. "What's wrong with me? I can hardly move." He was sinking down, down into oblivion, so he couldn't be sure if he just imagined this, but Eric Fraser leaned over and kissed his forehead. Then whispered, "I know."

  23

  "TELL me how good I am, Cardinal. We have this tape sitting here, I don't even touch it. You wouldn't have waited. You'd have listened to it five times by now."

  "It's a character flaw of mine," Cardinal said, still stamping snow from his boots. "Did Len Weisman call yet?"

  "No. I got the feeling you didn't want me to bug him too much."

  "Two days, though. How long can it take to match dental records?"

  Delorme just shrugged. Cardinal was suddenly aware of her breasts and felt his face color. For God's sake, he scolded himself, Catherine's sick in the O.H. Besides which, Detective Lise Delorme may have a cute shape and a good face, but she's also trying to nail me to the wall and I will not allow myself to be attracted to her. If I were a stronger person, it wouldn't happen.

  Delorme handed Cardinal a postal carton the size of a shoe box. Inside, swaddled in bubble wrap, lay a brand-new cassette tape. Someone had written across the CBC label in blue Magic Marker: "Digitally Enhanced."

  "I borrowed Flower's Walkman," Delorme said. "It takes two sets of headphones." Delorme handed him a pair and they both plugged in.

  Cardinal cleared a patch of her desk and sat down, holding the wire that connected them like Siamese twins joined at the ear. He switched on the tape and stared out the window at a grader shooting up a tidal wave of snow. Immediately, he hit the pause button. "It's a lot clearer, now. You couldn't hear that jet before."

  "You think it's up Airport Drive, maybe?" Delorme's face when she was excited became wonderfully animated; Cardinal could see the girl she had been. For a fleeting moment he thought he might be wrong: She really had left Special, she really wasn't investigating him. Then back to the horror on tape.

  All hiss was gone. When the windows rattled, it was as though you could reach into that faraway room and shut them. The killer's footsteps rang out like rifle shots. And the child's fear, well, that had come through loud and clear on the first version. They listened through the last tears Katie Pine had shed. The killer's footsteps receded from the microphone. Then there was a new sound.

  Delorme snatched off her headphones. "Cardinal! Did you hear that?"

  "Play it again."

  Delorme rewound. They listened again to the girl's last sobs, then the footsteps, and then, unmistakably, just a split second before the machine was switched off, the solemn chiming of a clock. Halfway through the third chime, the recorder had been switched off, and silence followed.

  "It's fantastic," Delorme said. "You couldn't hear it at all on the original."

  "It's great, Lise. All we have to do is match it to our suspect's clock. The one minor problem, of course, being that we don't have a suspect." Cardinal used Delorme's phone to dial the CBC.

  "You got the tape, I take it." Fortier's radio-announcer voice came over the line deep and clear, as if he, too, had been digitally enhanced.

  "You did a great job, Mr. Fortier. I'm worried you did a little too well."

  "There's nothing added that wasn't on the original, if that's what you mean. With an analogue equalizer you're limited to boosting or suppressing frequencies. With digital, you can play around with individual sources. I split each source into an individual track- one for the windows, one for the clock, one for his voice, one for hers
. What you have in your hand is the final mix, not intended for courtroom evidence, obviously, but possibly useful in other ways."

  "Can you do anything about the man's voice? It still sounds like he's down a well."

  "Hopeless case, I'm afraid. He's just too far from the mike."

  "Well, you've done a terrific piece of work."

  "Any engineer could have done it- assuming he heard that clock in the first place. I have the advantage of being blind, of course. Even so, I didn't hear the clock till the fourth or fifth pass."

  "Sounds like a grandfather clock to me."

  "Not at all. Listen to it. It's not nearly resonant enough for a grandfather clock. It's a shelftop- and fairly old, I'd say. What you want now is a clock expert- some gnarled old Swiss guy. You play it back for him, he tells you the make, model, and serial number."

  Cardinal laughed. "If I can ever do anything for the CBC, give me a call."

  "A budget increase would be nice. And say hi to Officer Delorme. She has a very attractive voice."

  "Actually, Brian, you're on the speakerphone here."

  "No, I'm not, Detective. Nice try, though."

  "You like him," Delorme observed, when he hung up. "You don't like a lot of people, but you like him."

  "He said you have a nice voice."

  "Really? And about the clock?"

  "Shelf-size, probably old. Said we should play it for an expert."

  "In Algonquin Bay? What expert? Zellers? Wal-Mart?"

  "Must be some place that repairs clocks. If not here, certainly in Toronto."

  The phone rang and Delorme picked it up. After a moment, she held it out to Cardinal and said, "Weisman."