Delorme was dropping some bits of shell into a Baggie. “They look like seashells to me.”
“Kinda colourful ones. Makes you wonder how the hell they got out to the middle of the woods.”
Delorme slapped at a fly and missed. “Well, someone brought them here. The trouble is, we’ve no way of knowing if it was the killer or just some innocent hiker.”
“Yeah. That’s the trouble with all this stuff. But about all these arrows and tomahawks the guy scratched on the wall, I’m thinking we should ask a certain person of the Indian persuasion.” He jerked his chin toward the mouth of the cave.
Delorme turned around and saw Jerry Commanda standing there, hands on hips, his slim build silhouetted against the waterfall. With the quiet roar of the water, Delorme hadn’t heard him approach.
“Who bought it?” he said.
“Wombat Guthrie,” Delorme said. “You know him?”
Jerry nodded. “Wombat Guthrie was a noxious individual from the time he was three. It’s amazing he lived as long as he did. You called me in from Reed’s Falls to tell me this?”
“I didn’t call you, Szelagy did. What’s so hot in Reed’s Falls?”
“Drugs. It’s always drugs. I wish people would take up a new vice.”
“You know we have your picture up in the boardroom now?”
“That must be the nude shot. I asked Kendall not to do that. Now I feel so cheap.”
“Reason I called, Jerry.” Szelagy indicated the cave wall. “We can’t make head or tail of these hieroglyphics. Figured maybe you could help us.”
Jerry stepped up to the wall and peered at the markings. He stood there for a long time, hands folded behind his back like a math teacher checking a student’s work. “Interesting,” he said. “Very intriguing.”
Szelagy looked at Delorme and back to Jerry, waiting for more. When nothing came, he said, “What’s intriguing? Why is it intriguing?”
Jerry squatted to look at some of the marks near the bottom of the wall. “Fascinating,” he said. “I haven’t seen petroglyphs like this since… well, I can’t remember the last time.”
“See, I knew it was some Indian thing,” Szelagy said to Delorme. Then, to Jerry: “What’s it say? Can you translate? This is great.”
“I think so.” Jerry pointed at the first three rows of arrows. “See here? This is a reference to space. And over here, he’s referring to time. Yes, absolutely. It says, ‘Meet me at Tim Hortons, three o’clock on Saturday.’”
“Get the hell outta here,” Szelagy said. “No way it says that.”
Jerry shrugged. “Could be saying Starbucks. My hieroglyphics are a little rusty.”
Delorme shook her head. “Very good, Jerry. Thanks for making the trip.”
“Oh,” Szelagy said. “I get it. You’re making a joke. You don’t know what these symbols mean?”
“Haven’t the foggiest,” Jerry said. “I know that may shock you. I mean, since it has bows and arrows and all.”
“Hey, I didn’t call you just because you’re Indian,” Szelagy said. His face was turning red. “I called because you used to know all sorts of Aboriginal stuff. I remember you used to be always carrying big fat books about Native history and that.”
“Well, those marks don’t mean anything to me. I’ve never seen anything like them. Bows, arrows, hatchets, but other than that is there any reason to think it’s even Indian in origin? I’m not saying it isn’t. I’m just saying I wouldn’t know. It’s not Ojibwa stuff, I can tell you that. And probably not any of the central or eastern people. But if it’s from out west or from somewhere in the States, I wouldn’t know.”
“Who would know?” Delorme said quietly. “If it was your case, who would you take it to?”
“You could try our behavioural sciences unit in Orillia. They keep up on all the Satanism and supernatural crap the serial killers go in for. Ask for Frank Izzard. He’s a smart guy.” Jerry caught a blackfly in his fist and flicked it away. Then he turned and headed back down the hill.
“One thing you can say about Jerry,” Szelagy said when he was gone, “he’s his own man. Real different sense of humour.”
13
CARDINAL WENT HOME THAT NIGHT to an empty house. The message light was flashing on the phone, and when he hit the button it was his daughter, Kelly. She was twenty-six, a painter and lived in New York City. Her message said she was just calling to chat—to Catherine, she meant, not to Cardinal—but most likely she needed money.
He warmed up some shepherd’s pie from the fridge, opened a Creemore and sat down at the kitchen table with the Algonquin Lode, but found he couldn’t concentrate on the articles. He would read a few lines and then skip ahead to another story, another photograph.
It’s funny, he thought, fifty years old you pretty much consider yourself a grown-up. Independent. In fact, a lot of the time he wished Catherine would take a trip somewhere. He liked the idea of waking up alone, eating breakfast alone, cong home alone. Solitude, in his imagination at least, always seemed so attractive. An effect of the movies, he supposed. You watch a solitary character onscreen, even just going about their daily routine, it always seems so interesting, so important. But the reality was that when Catherine was away, Cardinal felt restless and dissatisfied, anxious even. Was she looking after herself? Taking her medication? Why can’t I leave it alone?
The little lakeside house with its wood stove and its angular rooms was cozy, comfortable. And the location out on Madonna Road ensured that—much of the time, at least—it was blessedly quiet. But tonight the quiet irritated him. He missed the sound of Catherine fussing with her plants, playing Bach on the stereo, chatting to him about photography, about her students, about anything at all, really. And as for Kelly—well, Kelly wouldn’t have called if she’d realized her mother was away.
When he had finished his supper, Cardinal called the Delta Chelsea Hotel in Toronto. They put him through to Catherine’s room but there was no answer. He had tried to get Catherine to buy a cellphone but she wanted nothing to do with them. “A cellphone?” she’d said. “No, thank you. When I’m alone I want to be alone. I don’t want to be getting phone calls.” He left a message saying he missed her and hung up.
She was probably out with some of the students; she had mentioned wanting to get photographs of the waterfront at night. Cardinal hoped she wasn’t having a drink with her class. Alcohol did not mix well with the medication. It tended to make her a little manic, and then she’d stop taking the lithium. After that, the fragile connections that tethered his wife to reality would break loose until she came crashing to earth and a bed in the psychiatric hospital. It had happened more times than he cared to remember, but he couldn’t keep her on a leash and he couldn’t be her babysitter. Luckily, when she was well, Catherine was level-headed and knew what she had to avoid.
Cardinal stared at the phone. He wanted to call Kelly, but knew she didn’t want to speak to him. This provoked an inner slide show of memories from when Kelly had been young and they had lived in Toronto: Kelly knee-deep in a creek in one of Toronto’s many ravines, a squirming frog raised in her triumphant little fist. Kelly on the observation deck of the CN Tower, tiny arms outstretched as if she could lift the vast blue basin of Lake Ontario to the sky. Kelly inconsolable at age fourteen over the wayward heart of some youthful, athletic cad.
Catherine had been in hospital for much of Kelly’s growing up, and Cardinal and his daughter had become very close. Raising a little girl mostly on his own had been fraught with difficulties, but Kelly’s happiness had become the paramount object in Cardinal’s life. Eventually Catherine had been lucky enough to go under the care of Dr. Carl Jonas at the Clarke Institute. He was a long-haired, pink-faced man with a salt-and-pepper beard and a pungent Hungarian accent who had the knack of finding the right balance of therapy and medication quicker than anyone else.