Red Bear is standing there, a black silhouette against a rectangle of light. She drops the backpack, stoops to pick it up, drops it again.
“It’s time for you to leave,” Red Bear says, his tone not unpleasant.
“I know. I know. I’m packing right now.”
She takes a step behind her bunk, instinctively wanting something between her and Red Bear. “I’ll get a ride into town with Kevin.”
“Kevin is not here. Kevin is not going to be back for some time.”
“I’ll catch a bus, then.”
“There are no buses for miles. I will have someone drive you.”
“No, that’s okay. I’ll just hitchhike.”
“I can’t allow that.” Red Bear doesn’t take his sunglasses off, but she knows he is looking her up and down. “You might get raped. Have you ever been raped, Terri?”
Terri has nothing to say to that. The answer is negative, but an answer is not required.
Red Bear remains a motionless darkness in the doorway.
“I didn’t see anything,” she says. “I have no intention of talking to anyone.”
“Of course not. That would be bad for Kevin. And neither of us wants to hurt your brother, right?”
Then he is gone from the door.
But what had she seen? And who had driven her away from the camp? Terri could not recall. Her last memory of the place was that empty doorway. Now, she got up from the floor. The water was running cold and clear in the sink. There was no hot water, and no electricity to heat this with. But it still felt good to splash it on her face, almost as if she could wash away the fear that Red Bear had stirred in her. How was she going to get Kevin away from him? The first few threads of a plan were beginning to form in her mind, and she stood for a few moments in front of the sink, letting the water run, hoping they would soon become something she could hold on to.
She would get this plan together, and then it would be run, run, run, all right. Only this time it would be the two of them.
30
“EXPLAIN SOMETHING TO ME, CARDINAL.”
Detective Sergeant Chouinard didn’t ask Cardinal to sit down. Even if he had, there would have been no place in his office to sit. Every chair in the room served as part of Chouinard’s idiosyncratic filing system, if it could be called a system. But even if his own routines were haphazard, Chouinard was a man who prized precision and reliability in the men under his command, which was why he was looking a little flushed just now. The detective sergeant suffered from high blood pressure, and when he was angry his face got very red, very fast.
“Explain to me, if you can, how we manage to misplace an attractive young woman with red hair and a bandage on her head. How is that possible, and who was guarding her when it happened?”
“Larry Burke was on duty, but it’s my fault. I should have briefed him better.”
Chouinard shook his head, his face getting redder. “Spare me the street-cop solidarity. Burke fucked up, is what you’re saying.”
Cardinal explained as best he could. Luckily for Burke, as a uniformed officer he wasn’t directly under the detective sergeant’s command.
“You’ve put out an all-points on this young woman, I trust.”
“Yeah, I did that right away.”
“Bloody Burke. I’ll kick his ass.”
Chouinard’s phone buzzed; he picked up the handset. “I’ll tell him,” he said, and hung up. “Bob Brackett’s here for you. You’re saved by the shark.”
Bob Brackett was a roly-poly little man with a plain gold hoop in one ear. You wouldn’t have known to look at him that this pudgeball was Algonquin Bay’s most lethal defence attorney. Naturally, this gave him a reputation around the Algonquin Bay Police Department as an irredeemable pain in the ass, a champion of the criminal classes, a cowboy of the courtroom who’d never seen a technicality he didn’t like or a cop he did. Bob Brackett, Q.C., was so mild-mannered that many an unsuspecting policeman or -woman (Brackett was all for equality when it came to dishing out legal mayhem) had had his or her testimony rendered worthless, if not outright ridiculous, before he or she even knew what had happened.
“Please note for the record, Detective Cardinaclass="underline" My client did not have to come in.” Brackett was seated at the interview table, almost hidden behind his open briefcase and a panama hat. “In the first place you have no warrant, and in the second place he resides outside your jurisdiction.”
“I realize that, Mr. Brackett. That’s why I called you. I could have called the OPP. I’m sure the provincial police would have been happy to round up a few bikers for us.”
“Then why didn’t you call them?”
“I wanted this meeting to be as friction-free as possible. We’re only trying to weed out obvious suspects at this point.”
“Fine. Please note that Mr. Lasalle is only here out of a sense of civic duty and loyalty to a fallen comrade.”
“We’re talking about bikers, Mr. Brackett, let’s not make them sound like war vets.”
“I merely point out that—”
“Noted, Mr. Brackett. Let’s move on.”
“So tough,” Steve Lasalle said. “Maybe you could have made something of your life if you hadn’t become a cop.”
Brackett silenced his client with a raised forefinger. Lasalle sat back and propped a foot on one knee, smiling at Cardinal as if they were old buddies. He was wearing an expensive sports coat with an open-necked shirt and pressed jeans. His loafers gleamed, making him look more like the head of a small Internet concern than president of the Viking Riders.
“When did you last see Wombat Guthrie?” Cardinal said.
“Exactly twenty-one days ago. Around four in the afternoon.”
“And what were the circumstances?”
“Wombat was on sentry duty. He was supposed to be guarding a certain property of ours. When we came back next day, Wombat was gone and so was the property.”
“He ripped you off, in other words.”
“Your words, Detective. Not mine.”
“This is what you said a couple of days ago …” Cardinal flipped back through his notes. “‘Last time I remember seeing him we had a few people round, we watched a video, Wombat passed out on the couch. Not unusual for him. I expected to find him here next morning but I didn’t.’ Your story’s changed since then.”
Lasalle conferred with his counsel.
“I don’t think my client should say any more.”
“You also said …” Cardinal consulted his notes again. “Let’s just say old Wombat has some ’splaining to do.”
“Yeah, well, it never occurred to me back then that Wombat was gone for good.”
“Oh, I think you can count on that.”
Cardinal pulled a forensic photo from his file and tossed it across the table.
Lasalle looked at it for a moment. He tried to maintain his cool posture, but his neck turned pale where it joined the jaw.
“My, my,” he said. “That looks nasty.”
Brackett took the photo from him, glanced at it and tossed it back on the table with a snort.
“Really, Detective. My client is already cooperating. Shock tactics are beside the point.”
“Your client has admitted having a reason for revenge, Mr. Brackett.”
“No, he has admitted he believes his colleague is the victim of foul play. That’s why he’s here. To help find out who has committed this extravagant act of violence upon his colleague. His lifestyle differs from yours; it doesn’t make him a liar.”