series of killings is aimed not at the victims themselves but at their husbands-or in this case, her father. All of these men worked together years ago, and all of them have managed to keep that fact quiet up to now. The minute I have any more, I’ll let you know.”
“For our part,” Drexler said, “I want to put everything we’ve got onto narrowing down that white van. I want every one of those neighbours questioned in detail. Keep in mind it’s likely this guy was hanging around scoping the place out, possibly following the victim. Somebody had to see him.”
As his team scattered, Drexler took Cardinal and Delorme to a meeting room where a sleek black computer with an extra-large screen was set up.
“Gimme one minute,” he said, and left them alone.
They sat in silence. Expensive equipment everywhere, and all the furnishings of a much higher grade than they were used to. Chouinard is right, Delorme thought. We’re not Toronto.
“It’s good to have you here,” Cardinal said.
She looked at him. “Right.”
“I don’t like it when you’re not around.”
Delorme didn’t feel like saying anything. Or maybe a lot of things. She became aware of a sudden longing for sleep. She wanted to be unconscious. She could see Cardinal was in full terrier mode, ready to go all night.
Drexler came back and stuck a flash drive into the computer. He picked up a wireless keyboard and put it on his lap. A couple of clicks and the screen lit up with a blur of people. Much clinking of glasses, laughter, lots of people talking at once. One voice skimmed above the rest.
“That’s Loach,” Delorme said.
No, I was talking with their backroom boys-they’re seriously considering getting me to run.
Drexler grinned. “Hasn’t changed, right? But watch-sorry about the quality. Guy who took this was hammered, obviously. Interesting thing from your point of view is, it’s not Loach…”
The image blurred and swung once more, coming to rest on a bulldog of a man in a houndstooth jacket and cap.
“That’s Chuck Rakov. Bit of a clown, Chuck, but a solid investigator. Definitely someone you want watching your back.”
Rakov put a phone up to his ear. That’s right, honey… The Prime Minister… I know… Yeah, me personally. Gotta go.
“Great mimic,” Cardinal said, getting up. “Guy should be on late-night TV. Listen, Art, is there a desk I can take over for a few hours?”
“Hang on, hang on. You gotta see this.” Drexler was fast-forwarding in jerks and hops. “Here we go.”
A lot of shouting and then Rakov, still wobbling on his chair, launched into a new voice. I’m tell you the troot-for shore! We get to de address and dis lady, she and ’er ’usband are sitting side by each on da porch swing. And da guy, he’s got no clothes on-nudding!
Cardinal and Delorme looked at each other.
“That’s the guy,” Delorme said. “He’s the damn caller.”
Drexler froze the image. “Loach annoyed everyone he worked with. As I’m sure you know.” He pointed the remote at the screen. “But I guarantee you, nobody hates him like Chuck Rakov.”
Drexler found an empty desk for Cardinal to use, and Cardinal stayed there after Delorme had gone back to the hotel and Drexler had gone home. He looked at the brochure he had purchased from the eBay brothers: the four young men and their prototype robot. Eventually the clatter and hum of the big-city police station vanished and he focused on the task before him.
He began working the search engines, beginning with Arctic, crime, 1992. With each response he narrowed it down a little more. LARS research, robotics. That didn’t get him anything useful.
Finally, he typed in murder, Axel Heiberg Island, and that brought up a JPEG of an old clipping. RESEARCHER ACCUSED OF MURDER IN DRIFT STATION DISASTER.
The article was brief, but a quick scan of it gave Cardinal enough names and dates to hone his search even further. What the bizarre story boiled down to was this: an enraged researcher’s murder spree had been foiled only by the sudden disintegration of their camp on an ice floe. Cardinal had a dim memory of the events-very dim indeed, because that summer he had been working on an extremely difficult case of his own. And yes, Catherine had been hospitalized at the time. He had had no spare attention for cases thousands of kilometres from his jurisdiction.
Axel Heiberg Island was in the northern territory of Nunavut. He would have to wait until morning to call their corrections department. He switched off his desk lamp, left a note of thanks for Drexler and headed for his hotel.
It had been snowing for the past fifty or sixty kilometres. Big lazy flakes in no hurry to hit the highway. They swirled in the headlights and around the side windows and stuck to the windshield, except for the smeary arcs left by the wipers.
The traffic had thinned and he hadn’t seen a single patrol car since Toronto. The girl was silent in the back and appeared to be in no distress. His main concern was catching the turnoff. Many of the signs were obscured by clinging snow. Eventually it came up on the right, and he saw it in enough time to signal and slow and make the turn.
Different road, different journey. Narrower-thick trees pressing up close-darker. No ploughs had been through, and the snow was falling more heavily now. Visibility dropping.
It would be fifteen or twenty minutes on this road, then one more turn. Beyond his headlights, blackness. No other headlights anywhere. He switched on the dome light and looked back at the girl. Still out cold. The sharp turn hadn’t woken her, nor the new roughness of the ride.
He didn’t know what hit them when it hit. He didn’t even hear it. As he turned back from looking at the girl, the windshield came in on him and the van went into a spin. He couldn’t see through the shattered glass and the wheel was slick with blood. Chances were good they were going to flip, but somehow the wheels held as they turned and turned.
Durie’s eyes were blind with blood and he had no idea which way they were headed as the van spun or, when it finally came to a stop, which way they were facing.
His head was a sphere of black cloud and he couldn’t think. He held his eyes closed against the blood, and when he tried to wipe them, his arm was stopped by something. There was no pain, but he considered that might just be a matter of shock. He was over on one side, something pressing heavily on his hips and legs. The driver’s seat was totally disarranged, he could feel that much. Tilted way back so that he was nearly falling into the back of the van.
There was a snuffling sound from somewhere. He craned his neck to see forward. Windshield shattered and dark. Strange shapes bulging over the passenger seat. Antlers. That snuffling sound the beast’s dying breaths.
The pressure on his side was the airbag.
He thought the girl should be all right, he had strapped her down pretty well. He forced his left arm free and wiped some blood away. Yes, she was twisted around a little and the blanket had been thrown clear, but otherwise she looked okay.
He reached for the passenger seat and pulled but didn’t get anywhere. His fingers found the seatbelt buckle and released it and he managed to drag himself nearly free. Blood all over him, but that could be the animal’s. The snuffling had stopped.
Slam of a car door.
Durie reached for the glovebox, opened it and pulled out the Glock. He freed the last of himself from the airbag and opened the passengerside door and crawled out of the van hands first, snow a cold bracelet on each wrist.
“Ho-ly Christ,” someone said, “are you all right in there?”
Durie heard no footsteps. He grabbed the door handle and pulled himself up, breathing hard. He pushed the gun into his coat pocket but kept his hand on it. The grip was sticky with blood.
Leaning against the van, he hobbled to the back end of it and shielded his eyes against the man’s headlights, and now his flashlight.
“Holy Christ,” the man said again. He stood still, shining his light. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.”
“You sure?”
