by Giles Blunt
Praise for Blackfly Season
“Blunt’s plot grabs you by the throat and won’t let go until the suspense is played out on the final page. Excellent.”
—Western Daily Press (UK)
“Stunning characterizations of the biker gangs and other criminals who move drugs in this region of fierce winters and cruel springs.”
—The New York Times
“Blunt has been successful in creating a character, Cardinal, who should sustain our interest and sympathies for many books to come.”
—Hamilton Spectator
“Cardinal fans, and those who haven’t experienced him before, won’t be disappointed by the veteran detective’s latest outing, which has enough twists and turns to keep them guessing.”
—The Halifax Chronicle-Herald
“His characters, even to the lonely guy sitting by himself at the end of the bar, are wonderfully realistic; his pacing never flags; his knowledge of police procedure is accurate without being show-offy; and he leaves the reader not so much with a story as with a glimpse into a perfectly realized world. First-rate.”
—Booklist (starred review)
“Blunt has produced another well-structured story with sharply drawn characters.”
—The Sunday Telegraph (UK)
“The pulsing, tightly plotted narrative again shows why Blunt should be considered among the new practitioners of crime drama’s elite.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Blunt deftly weaves various plotlines together and tells a chilling story set in a beautiful but primitive environment.”
—London Free Press
ALSO BY GILES BLUNT
Cold Eye
Forty Words for Sorrow
The Delicate Storm
To Janna
1
ANYBODY WHO HAS SPENT any length of time in Algonquin Bay will tell you there are plenty of good reasons to live somewhere else. There is the distance from civilization, by which Canadians mean Toronto, 250 miles south. There is the gradual decay of the once-charming downtown, victim to the twin scourges of suburban malls and an unlucky series of fires. And, of course, there are the winters, which are ferocious, snowy and long. It’s not unusual for winter to extend its bone-numbing grip into April, and the last snowfall often occurs in May.
Then there are the blackflies. Every year, following an all-too-brief patch of spring weather, blackflies burst from the beds of northern Ontario’s numberless rivers and streams to feast on the blood of birds, livestock and the citizens of Algonquin Bay. They’re well equipped for it, too. The blackfly may be less than a quarter-inch long, but up close it resembles an attack helicopter, fitted with a sucker at one end and a nasty hook at the other. Even one of these creatures can be a misery. Caught in a swarm, a person can very rapidly go mad.
The World Tavern may not have looked too crazy on this particular Friday, but Blaine Styles, the bartender, knew there would be problems. Blackfly season just doesn’t bring out the best in people—those that drink, anyway. Blaine wasn’t a hundred percent sure which quarter the trouble would come from, but he had his candidates.
For one, there was the trio of dorks at the bar—a guy named Regis and his two friends in baseball caps, Bob and Tony. They were drinking quietly, but they had flirted a little too long with Darla, the waitress, and there was a restlessness about them that didn’t bode well for later. For another, there was the table at the back by the map of Africa. They’d been drinking Molson pretty steadily for a couple of hours now. Quiet, but steady. And then there was the girl, a redhead Blaine had never seen before who kept moving from table to table in a way that he found—professionally speaking—disturbing.
A Labatt Blue bottle flew across the room and hit the map of Canada just above Newfoundland. Blaine shot from behind the bar and waltzed the drunk who’d thrown it out the door before he could even protest. It bothered Blaine that he hadn’t even seen this one coming. The jerk had been sitting with a couple of guys in leather jackets under France, and hadn’t raised even a blip on the bartender’s radar. The World Tavern, oldest and least respectable gin joint in Algonquin Bay, could get pretty hairy on a Friday night, especially in blackfly season, and Blaine preferred to set the limits early.
He went back behind the bar and poured a couple of pitchers for the table over by the map of Africa—getting a little louder, he noticed. Then there was an order for six continentals and a couple of frozen margaritas that kept him hopping. After that there was a slack period, and he rested his foot on a beer case, easing his back while he washed a few glasses.
There weren’t too many regulars tonight; he was glad about that. Television shows would have you believe that the regulars in a bar are eccentrics with hearts of gold, but Blaine found they were mostly just hopeless dipwads with serious issues around self-esteem. The stained, shellacked maps on the walls of the World Tavern were the closest these people would ever get to leaving Algonquin Bay.
Jerry Commanda was sitting at the end of the bar nursing his usual Diet Coke with a squeeze of lemon and reading Maclean’s. A bit of a mystery, Jerry. On the whole, Blaine liked him, despite his being a regular—respected him, anyway—even if he was an awful tipper.
Jerry used to be a serious drinker—not a complete alky, but a serious drinker. This was back when he was in high school, maybe into his early twenties. But then something had sobered him up and he’d never touched alcohol again. Didn’t set foot in the World or any other bar for five, six years after that. Then, a few years ago, he’d started coming in on Friday nights, and he’d always park his skinny butt at the end of the bar. You could see everything that was going on from there.
Blaine had once asked Jerry how he’d kicked the bottle, if he’d gone the twelve-step route.
“Couldn’t stand twelve-step,” Jerry had said. “Couldn’t stand the meetings. Everyone saying they’re powerless, asking God to get them out of this pickle.” Jerry used words like that now and again, even though he was only about forty. Old-fashioned words like pickle or fellow or cantankerous. “But it turned out to be pretty easy to quit alcohol, once I figured out what I had to do was quit thinking, not drinking.”
“No one can quit thinking,” Blaine had said. “Thinking’s like breathing. Or sweating. It’s just something you do.”
Jerry then launched into some weird psychological bushwah. Said it might be true you couldn’t stop the thoughts from coming, but you could change what you did with them. The secret was being able to sidestep them. Blaine remembered the words exactly because Jerry was a four-time Ontario kick-boxing champion, and when he’d said sidestep he’d made a nifty little manoeuvre that looked kind of, well, disciplined.
So Jerry Commanda had learned to sidestep his thoughts, and the result was him parking himself at the end of the bar every Friday night for an hour or so, with his Diet Coke and his squeeze of lemon. Blaine figured it was partly to deter some of the young guys from the reserve from drinking too much. Pretty hard for them to cut loose with the reserve’s best-known cop sitting at the bar, reading a magazine and sipping his Coke. Some of them, minute they saw him, just did a 180 and walked out.
Blaine swept his wary bartender’s gaze over his domain. The Africa table was definitely getting boisterous. Boisterous was okay, but it was just one level down from obnoxious. Blaine cocked his head to one side, listening for warning notes—the gruff challenge, the outraged cry that was inevitably followed by the scraping of a chair. Except for the bottle tosser, it looked to be a peaceful night. The bottle tosser, and the girl.
Blaine squinted into the far corner beyond the jukebox. A flash of red. She had masses of red curls that bounced this way and that every time she turned her head, catching the light. She was all in blue denim—g
ood jeans, short nipped jacket—cute, but they looked like they’d been slept in. Why was she going table to table? That was the third table she’d sat at in the last hour and a half. Two women and two men, postal workers partying later than usual, and it was clear the two women didn’t like this kid invading their table. The guys didn’t seem to mind one bit.
“Three Blue, one Creemore, one vodka tonic.”
Blaine scooped four bottles out of the ice and set them on Darla’s tray.
“What’s up with the redhead, Darla? What’s she drinking?”
“Nothing, far as I can tell. Last table ordered a glass to share their pitcher with her, but she didn’t finish it.”
Blaine poured a shot of vodka and put it on her tray. Darla filled the glass with tonic from the soda gun.
“Is she high? Why’s she hopping tables like that?”
“I don’t know, Blaine. Maybe she’s going into business for herself.” Darla hoisted her tray and headed out into the zoo, as she called it.
“Barkeep!”
Blaine attended to the trio at the bar. The guy named Regis was an old high-school acquaintance, came in maybe twice a year. His friends in the baseball caps were new. Anyone calls you barkeep, you know they’re going to end up being a burden one way or another.
“Hey, Blaine,” Regis said. “When are you gonna tell us what happened to your face, guy?”
“Yeah,” one of the baseball caps said. “You look Chinese, man.”
“Went canoeing Sunday. Blackflies were out of control.”
“Fly musta been the size of a dog, man. You look like a sumo wrestler.”
People had been telling him he looked Chinese all week. Blackflies were always a problem this time of year, but Blaine had never seen them like this. Millions of them swarming in huge black clouds. He’d taken the usual measures—wore the repellent, wore a hat, kept his pants tucked into his socks—but the flies were so thick you couldn’t even breathe without inhaling them. Little mothers had fallen totally in love with him, and bit all around his face. By Monday morning his eyes were swollen shut, couldn’t see a thing.
He rang up the three Molsons. When he turned around again, the redhead was there.
“Hello,” she said, climbing onto a stool.
“What can I get you?”
“Just some water would be nice. I don’t seem to take to beer.”
Blaine poured her a glass of ice water and set it down on a napkin.
“You sure are a big man, aren’t you?”
“Big enough.”
Blaine moved down the bar a little and stacked some glasses.
“You seem nice.”
Blaine laughed. The redhead looked to be in her mid-twenties, still with a lot of freckles. She had the thickest, curliest hair he had ever seen. Didn’t take care of herself any too well, though. Like Blaine, she had a lot of black-fly bites, and there were bits of leaves stuck in her hair.
“What’s your name?” she said.
“Blaine.”
“Blaine? That’s a nice name.”
“If you say so. What’s yours?”
“I don’t actually know. Isn’t that amazing?”
Blaine felt an odd turning sensation in his stomach. The girl didn’t look high; her manner was calm and pleasant. She slid off the stool and went over to Regis and his baseball-cap buddies.
“You guys look nice.”
“Well, hey there,” Regis said. “You don’t look too bad yourself. Can we buy you a drink?”
“No, that’s okay. I’m not thirsty.”
“Barkeep! A Molson for the young lady here.”
“Can’t do that,” Blaine said. “She said she didn’t want one.”
“Thanks a lot, Blaine. I love you too.” Regis reached over the bar and grabbed one of the glasses drying on the rack. He poured beer into it and handed it to the redhead.
“Thank you. You’re very nice.” She took a sip and made a face.
Blaine brought her glass of water down the bar and set it in front of her.
“Oh, thanks. That’s nice of you.”
Nice, nice, everything’s nice. Honey, have you got a lot to learn.
“I’m Regis. This is Bob, and that’s Tony. What’s your name?”
“I don’t know it at the moment.”
They laughed.
“That’s fine,” Regis said. “You don’t have to tell us.”
“We’ll just call you Red,” the one called Tony said.
“We’ll just call you Anonymous,” the one called Bob said.
“Anonymous Sex,” Regis said, and they all laughed. “Like Tyrannosaurus rex.”
He fingered her denim jacket.
“This is cute.”
“Yes, I like it.”
The one called Tony put his arm around her shoulder and ran a hand through her hair. He pulled out a piece of leaf.
“Man, you have got the most amazing hair I’ve ever seen. Leafy, but amazing.”
“You guys are so friendly.”
“You’re pretty friendly yourself,” Regis said. “Got some nasty bites on you, but I can fix that.” He leaned forward and kissed her cheek.
The girl smiled and rubbed her face.
Blaine moved closer.
“Miss, don’t you think it’s time you went home?”
“Hey, mind your own business, Blaine.” Regis smacked the bar, upsetting a dish of peanuts. “She’s not drunk, she’s just having a good time.”
“No, you’re having a good time. She doesn’t know what kind of time she’s having.”
The girl smiled, not looking at either of them.
“Two Creemore, three Blue, one Export!”
Blaine moved down the bar to take care of Darla. When he came back, the redhead was on Regis’s lap.
“Honey, I think we’re going to have to go for a ride,” Regis said.
“You guys are funny.”
Bob was feeling her hair now. “I think you should come for a ride with us,” he said. “Get to know us better.”
Regis’s hand crept up her denim jacket. The girl smiled and started humming something. Regis’s hand went inside the jacket.
“Leave her alone.”
Regis leaned back from the girl and peered down the bar at Jerry Commanda.
“What did you say?”
“I said leave her alone.”
“Why don’t you mind your own business, Chingachgook?”
Jerry got down off his stool and came round the bar.
“Do you know your name?” he said to the girl.
“Hey, Tonto,” Regis said. “Back off.”
“Shut up. Do you know your name?”
“I don’t,” the girl said. “Not at the moment.”
“Do you know what day it is?”
“Um, no.”
Regis shifted her off his lap and stood up. “I think you and me have something to discuss outside.”
Jerry ignored him. “Do you know where you are?” he said to the girl.
“Somebody told me a while ago, but I forget.”
“Did you hear me?” Regis said. “I can understand why you might not want to go back to your squaw, but that doesn’t give you the right to—”
Jerry didn’t look at him. He just reached into his jacket, pulled out his shield and held it an inch from the guy’s nose.
“Oh, hey, I’m sorry, man. I didn’t realize.”
“Do you have any ID?” Jerry said to the girl. “A wallet? Credit card? Something with your name on it?”
“No, I don’t have anything like that.”
Regis tapped Jerry on the shoulder, shifting into I’m-the-nicest-guy-in-the-world mode. “No hard feelings, okay? Do you think she’s all right? I’m kinda worried about her.”
“Would you come with me, miss? I want to take you someplace safe.”
The girl shrugged. “Okay. Sure.”
Blaine watched Regis follow them to the exit, apologizing the whole way. It was the kind of sight that di
d a bartender’s heart good.
In the car, Jerry asked where she was from.
“I don’t know. This is a nice car you have here.”
“Where have you been staying?”
“Staying?”
“Yeah. I’m guessing you’re from out of town. Who are you staying with?”
“I don’t know. That’s a nice building, is that a school?”
They passed École Secondaire Algonquin and headed uphill. Jerry made a left on McGowan. “You have a lot of blackfly bites on you. Were you out in the woods?”
“Is that what these are?” Her left hand rose absently and rubbed at the red blotches along her hairline. “They’re itchy. I have them all over my ankles, too. They kind of hurt.”
“Were you out in the woods?”
“Yes. This morning. I woke up there.”
“You slept outside? Is that why you have leaves in your hair?”
“Leaves?” Again, the pale, freckled hand rose to her curls. No wedding ring, Jerry noticed.
“Red, do me a favour, will you? Could you just check your pockets and see if you have any ID on you?”
She patted her pockets, felt inside. From her jeans, she pulled out some coins and a pair of nail clippers. She offered Jerry a LifeSaver, which he declined.
“That’s all I have,” she said.
“No keys?”
“No keys.”
Someone must have removed them, Jerry was pretty sure. People don’t tend to go out with no keys. He parked in a spot near the emergency entrance to City Hospital. The lights of Algonquin and Main curved away from the hill below them.
“You know, I don’t think I need a hospital. They’re only insect bites.”
“Let’s just see if we can find out where you left your memory, okay?”
“Okay. You look nice. Are you an Indian?”
“Yes. You?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t think so.”
Her response was so solemn Jerry laughed. He’d never seen anyone who looked less Indian.