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 Belanger 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 meantime, 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 Risque 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.”
