“The victims are American. It looks like the killer or killers are American. So how did they know the Schumacher place was for sale? The sign was up, but it hasn’t been listed for some time.”
“If they knew the Bastovs were looking for a house in the area, maybe they just did a thorough search of the real estate agencies.”
“Doesn’t seem likely.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
They let the thought lie. They finished the chili and talked for a while longer about the best ways to deal with the Toronto airport. Then Delorme said, “So. How was your date the other night?”
“Date?” Cardinal said. “You mean with that reporter? That wasn’t a date.”
“Uh-huh. You seemed pretty evasive. Why be evasive if it wasn’t a date? How’d it go? Did you go out to dinner?”
“Yeah, we went to DeGroot’s.”
“DeGroot’s,” Delorme said, “is definitely a date.”
“It was not a date. And don’t look at me like that. Donna doesn’t know anybody in town-I figured why not take her out to dinner.”
“She didn’t look like a charity case to me.”
“It was an information exchange. She gave me some good stuff.”
“Did you boink her?”
“Lise. For Pete’s sake…”
“I can ask, can’t I? We’re buddies, aren’t we? If I was a guy, you’d tell me.”
“You’re not a guy, and-contrary to what you may think-men do not constantly tell each other about their sex lives. No, I didn’t boink her-what are you, twelve? And before you ask-no, I didn’t try. Jesus.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
“Yes you did. How’s Shane, Lise? Did you boink Shane this week?”
Delorme laughed. “As a matter of fact, I did.”
“That’s it.” Cardinal stood up and got his coat. “Thanks for the chili. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“You asked me, John.”
“Jesus, Lise.”
26
The sky over Black Lake was astonishingly blue, almost indigo at the highest point of the dome, paler at its fringes. The man called Papa stood in Lloyd’s living room, staring out the window, hands clasped behind his back-a pose that seemed habitual with him. His cohorts-his so-called family-were outside somewhere, and Papa had magnanimously allowed Lloyd to emerge from his bedroom, although he was still tethered at the ankle like a goat.
“Astounding,” Papa said, “the things that can fall out of a clear blue sky.”
“You’re referring to unexpected events?” Lloyd said. He felt it prudent to engage in conversation with this psychopath, on the theory that it’s harder to kill a man you’ve gotten to know. No one who had gotten to know Henry, for example, could have imagined ending such a benign life.
Papa spoke in a tone of recitation, without turning around. “Book of Joshua. The Israelites rout the Amorite army and are chasing them all over the map when a rain of stones falls from a clear blue sky and decimates the enemy.”
“Oh. Bible stories.”
“Cambridge, Maryland, 1828. Twelve days of rain force a man named Muse to stop digging a ditch around his property. When he ventures back outside, he finds the ditch teeming with fish-six, seven inches long, some of them. Perch. Bass. No river within miles of the place. No explanation how they got there.”
“A delivery truck,” Lloyd said. “A Natural Resources truck on the way to stock a lake maybe. Gets stuck in the storm and has to jettison cargo.”
“Wake up, Lloyd-this is the nineteenth century. Early nineteenth century. November 13, 1833. Rahway, New Jersey. A rain of fire. Locals describe blobs of burning jelly falling from the sky. Moment they burn out, they turn to white powder.”
“There were munitions factories in New Jersey,” Lloyd said. He was a U.S. history buff and happened to know. “They come into prominence later, during the Civil War.”
“No, Lloyd.” Papa turned and spoke as if to a recalcitrant student. “As it happens, there was a meteor shower that same day. It’s inconceivable to me, and I hope to you, that the two events are unrelated.”
Lloyd was not sure how to respond. Ready agreement might be taken as an insult. Disagreement, however gently expressed, risked violence. He made a noncommittal sound.
Papa turned from the window and came closer.
“What I’m pointing out, Lloyd, is that I happen to be a similar sort of phenomenon.”
He took a stub of pencil from his left-hand pocket and a small sharpener from his right. He sharpened the pencil and put the sharpener back in his pocket and took out a small black notebook. He undid the elastic and opened it and made a note and put the pencil and the notebook back into his pocket. He sat on the end of the sofa closest to Lloyd and leaned on the armrest. “You don’t remember me, do you.”
“Remember you?”
Papa leaned closer, dark blue eyes assessing him. “I’ve been waiting for you to put two and two together, Lloyd, but it looks like you never will. Not without a nudge.”
“I’m sorry,” Lloyd said. “You have the advantage. I don’t-We’ve met before? You and I? We met somewhere?”
“Indeed, yes.”
“I’m sorry. You look vaguely familiar…”
“Here’s a little clue for you, Lloyd.” Papa reached across the gap between the sofa and the armchair and pressed Lloyd’s shoulder as if he were ringing a doorbell. “Seattle.”
“Seattle. That’s supposed to jog my memory?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“I’ve been to a lot of fur auctions in Seattle. How am I supposed to remember one time?”
“Well, you’re right-it was a fur auction. Twelve years ago.”
“Twelve years ago. Was it at one of those big dinners?”
“Getting warm. After dinner. Hotel bar. You were with some honcho from Lord amp; Taylor.”
Lloyd snapped his fingers. “Ron Weissman. He was retiring that year. We met in the hotel bar. You came up and asked me something. I remember. You were with a beautiful young woman.”
Papa smiled. “Thataboy, Lloyd. That’d be Christine. Broke my heart.”
“You came up and asked me a question.”
“I asked you a question. Very good. Do you remember the question?”
Lloyd shook his head. “No. No, I can’t say that I do.”
Papa smiled-a flash of a grin totally unconnected to the neutral expression of the rest of his face, quickly gone. “Of course not. Why would you? I asked if you could spare a minute. You were very polite at first. You said sure. And so I started to fill you in on an idea I’d been working on for months. Years, actually. A concept that involved organizing trappers and buyers-and manufacturers like yourself-into a top-down outfit.”
“And I said I wasn’t interested.”
“You didn’t put it so eloquently at the time. How many words was that? Five? Six? You didn’t come near to wasting that many words. What you said was, ‘Not interested.’” Papa held up two fingers before Lloyd’s face. “Two words. As if I was some religious wacko forcing a flyer on you. ‘Not interested.’”
“And that offended you.”
Papa looked up at the ceiling and shook his head. When he looked back at Lloyd, he said, “When you step on a spider-an ant, a cockroach-don’t you think that offends him? When you spit in the face of someone who wants nothing more than to work co-operatively with you, do you not think that might offend him?”
