“Catch you later, puss.”
31
RED BEAR OPENED THE BRASS PADLOCK and stepped into his temple. The smell that would have sickened the most hardened cop had a very different effect on him. He inhaled deeply, like a camper savouring the brisk morning air, and felt the familiar quickening in his belly and a tingling all along his nerves. It was a thrill that never disappointed. He was too excited even to notice the flies.
The moon had begun to wane, so he would not be making any sacrifices for a while, but still it was exciting to step into this temple. Kevin and Leon had gone into town; he had the entire camp to himself. He would join his disciples later in the afternoon, but for now it was necessary to consult the nganga.
He lit some charcoal in a censer and sprinkled pinches of wormwood and angelica root over it. Even the best Wicca shops in Toronto were always running out of his ingredients; he often had to order from an occult shop in New York. There were no windows in this cabin; he lit three rows of candles above the nganga and the room dimly took shape. He closed the door and locked it.
The nganga bristled with sticks. Twenty-eight of these sacred palos were used to control the spirit, to shape the nature of your prayer. You had to poke and prod the spirit like an ox; it was the only way to get results.
“Bahalo!” His shout rang against the concrete walls of the cabin. “Bahalo! Semtekne bakuneray pentol!”
Never kneel, never beg, just as his uncle had instructed.
“Bahalo! Seeno temtem bakuneray pentol!”
He spread his hands over the nganga in the manner of a Catholic priest and meditated for a few moments on exactly what he desired. Focus was essential for success. He wanted the spirit to travel for him.
“Seeno temtem naka nova valdor.”
He stirred the foul liquid with the sticks. A pale, toeless foot swam into view; he braced it against one side of the cauldron with a couple of palos. He probed the depths again until another foot appeared.
“Sendekere mam koko, pantibi.” Walk for me, spirit. I who have given you feet to travel, tell you to walk for me, travel for me, discover for me.
He pushed the feet under and now probed for hands. There were no hands, as such, just fingerless palms, severed at the wrist, and the fingers themselves that he had removed one by one for the nganga. The memory of his victim’s terror and agony made his heart pound. Terror and agony were the portals through which mortal flesh entered the immortal world of the spirit. Terror and agony formed the gateway through which he, Red Bear, could command the spirits of the dead. Terror and agony were his friends.
Several of the sticks were flattened at the ends into spoonlike shapes. He used a couple of these to dredge fingers to the surface. They were white and wrinkled; one still bore a ring with a skull and crossbones on it.
“Kandopay varonaway d’kran. Bentak po bentak mam tinpay. Naktak po naktak mam kennetay.” Reach for me, my spirit. Pull close my allies. Push hard against my foes.
Red Bear swirled the dark fluid again; the smells engulfed him. The largest object in the nganga now swam into view. Emerging like a diver fresh from hell, the head bobbed to the surface and twirled in slow motion. Blood and water streamed from the eyes and nostrils. The eyes were half open and stared beyond Red Bear’s shoulder.
Red Bear chanted in the magic language. Spirit, travel for me, learn for me, give me knowledge. Spirit, use the brain with which I have blessed you to tell me what I need to know. Go, spirit, go, and do this work for me.
32
CARDINAL WAS SITTING AT THE COUNTER in D’Anunzio’s, a combination fruit store and soda fountain that had been an Algonquin Bay landmark since before he was born. D’Anunzio’s made the best sandwiches in town, which was why he was there. He had finished his chicken salad bagel in no time, but he remained at the old wooden counter making notes.
Cardinal had long ago ceased to believe in inspiration. He had even ceased to believe in his own cleverness. He did not acknowledge in himself any particular investigative talent. A successful investigation, he had come to believe, was simply a matter of putting in the time. You weren’t a genius, you weren’t Sherlock Holmes, you were a more or less effective part of an organization that devoted itself to covering all the angles of a crime until it was cleared.
So when he first had this whatever-you-called-inspiration-when-you-didn’t-believe-in-inspiration, he tossed it aside as an unproductive notion. Too easy, he figured. Too unlikely.
He was making notes on how they should pursue the biker angle. He still had nothing solid to hang Wombat’s murder on them. Call Musgrave, he had written. Get more background on VR. And Call Jerry Commanda. He crossed out Check reverse directory.
That was one task he had completed. The CID kept reverse telephone directories for all major Canadian cities, not just Algonquin Bay. Cardinal had looked up the Vancouver number Terri had dialled from the hospital, but it wasn’t listed. Then he’d called Vancouver directory assistance, which also had no listing. The young man on the other end of the line had informed him that it was a cellphone number.
Next, he’d called Bell Security and told them it was an emergency, explaining that a young woman had been shot and he was trying to notify next of kin. All Bell would tell him was that the number belonged to one Kevin Tait. They had no address for him because he paid for service using prepaid cards and, no, they could not tell him why the number was currently not in service. Most likely, the customer had run out of minutes on his card. Any further information would require a warrant.
A warrant would take a couple of hours, and Cardinal had not wanted to spend a couple of hours on that particular angle just then. So what had he learned? Terri Tait had called her brother’s cellphone. Not exactly earthshaking stuff. There was no reason to suppose Kevin Tait was anywhere other than Vancouver. Then again, it was a cellphone; he could be anywhere.
Cardinal’s next move had been a computer check of national criminal records. It turned out that Kevin Tait, twenty-two, had been convicted of possession of heroin with intent to traffic three years previously, for which he had been sentenced to two years less a day.
A call to the Vancouver police came up empty; the arresting officer had transferred to another jurisdiction, and no one was able or willing to help Cardinal right then. He’d left his name and number with a detective on their drug squad who promised to get back to him.
All right, Kevin Tait, where are you? Cardinal added several question marks in his notebook. Another thought was pushing its way to the forefront of his mind. What if Terri Tait is not a stranger here? What if she was not coming to Algonquin Bay for the first time? What if she was returning here? This was the inspiration he was trying to resist. Was such a scenario even likely? If Terri Tait grew up here, someone surely would have reported her missing by now. But maybe she hadn’t lived here for very long.
Back in the squad room, Cardinal put in a call to the Nipissing School Board. School records are confidential; strictly speaking, a warrant is required. But it’s different from dealing with a huge corporation like Bell. Sometimes a certain flexibility can soften these situations; it depends who you get on the other end of the line. In this case, it was a young woman—a young woman with a lot of sandpaper in her voice, as if she’d recently left off screaming. Cardinal’s first question met with a raspy but firm no.