The pain did recede after a while, but what did not attenuate in any degree was the unbelievable smell of this place. Thick and soupy, the air pressed a filthy finger into the back of his throat and held it there, wiggled it every time he moved, as if the air itself were composed of vomit.
When, eventually, he did manage to get to his feet, the cabin swung and tilted under him so that he toppled and fell hard. The wound in his side hurt like hell. It took many tries before he stood more or less upright, leaning against a table. The only light in the room seeped through the cracks between the planks of the floor and walls.
A large iron cauldron, big enough to hold twenty or thirty gallons, sat on the table. Plump flies buzzed around it. Sticks perhaps a yard long bristled out of the top, leaning at all angles. One hop toward the cauldron verified that that was where the horrific stench was coming from. There was no way Kevin was going to look inside.
He wondered how long he had been unconscious. He was not hungry, but that didn’t mean anything—the stench would take care of that. Besides, loss of appetite was one of the first signs of heroin withdrawal. Goosebumps were another. He had those, too; he could feel them stippling his arms and the skin over his rib cage. Soon he would be in the full throes of cold turkey.
He turned to face a long table, hoping there would be tools of some kind, something he could use to untie his hands. Filthy newspapers were spread all over it, stained brown with what he figured by the smell had once been blood. He was hoping to God it was not human. He turned his back to the table, leaned forward and clamped his jaws tight against the waves of nausea that roared through him. Then, using his tied hands, he tugged the newspapers away from the table. Please, God, let there be a knife, scissors, a nail file, anything I can use to get the hell out of here. But when he turned around again, there was nothing.
44
THE PINK SHELLS CONGREGATED in a tiny heap off to one side. Others, periwinkle blue, were scattered across the console between the gearshift and the cup holders. In the middle of this, three white shells, evenly spaced, formed a miniature Orion’s Belt.
Alan Clegg had been psyching himself up for this meeting with Red Bear, telling himself as he drove to the Shanley lookout that there was no need to panic, he would keep his nerves under control. He had even asked Red Bear to read the shells for him, but now he couldn’t sit still. Just having Red Bear in his Chevy Blazer was rubbing his nerves raw.
“We’re gonna have to call it quits,” he said. “The locals have got two murders on their books and they’re not about to let them just sit there.”
Red Bear made some notes on a piece of graph paper—arrows pointing this way and that, crossed hammers, a lightning bolt, all in a column. He gathered the shells and shook them again. Apparently he hadn’t heard.
“Look,” Clegg said, “the dope is one thing. I got nothing against ripping off bikers. And I don’t mind making a dollar off moving some junk that sooner or later is going to find its way into addicts’ arms, anyway. Jerks deserve whatever they get. But you got two murders on your back, man, and they’re not going anywhere good. Christ, if I’d have known you were gonna start murdering people right and left—”
“Shut up, please.”
“What did you say to me?”
“I said shut up, please. You are not helping.”
Red Bear was bent over the shells, his long hair all but obscuring them. The pink ones were all together again, the blue scattered, the white seeming to form an eye and nose in a pink-and-blue face. Clegg wanted to shake him.
“Red Bear, listen: Wombat Guthrie was chopped into bits and pieces. That’s not something the local force can ignore. They’re going to throw everything they’ve got at it. Same with Toof. They’re not going to stop until they put somebody behind bars. What the hell did you kill them for?”
“Who says I killed them?”
Red Bear made another few notations on his graph paper. Then he looked over at Clegg, his gaze mildly curious. “Has somebody come forward and said I killed them?”
“No. But we both know who—”
Red Bear grabbed Clegg’s wrist and squeezed.
“We know no such thing. Have you forgotten the readings I’ve done for you? There is nothing that has transpired here that was not foretold in the shells. Did I not tell you we were going to do well? Did I not say that the Viking Riders’ fortunes were going to fall?”
“Falling fortunes is one thing. Wombat Guthrie had his fucking toes and fingers hacked off.”
Red Bear squeezed harder.
“Is your courage failing? Are you backing out on me? I sincerely hope for your sake you’re not planning to change your allegiance. Perhaps you are already working for the Viking Riders. Playing both sides at once.”
Clegg felt a strong urge to punch him, but he didn’t want to end up like Guthrie. He yanked his wrist away.
“You know I’m not working for the Riders. I helped you pull off the biggest rip-off in their history. And don’t change the subject. You killed Toof, for Chrissake. You didn’t have to do that.”
“Really.” Red Bear sat back. “This is very interesting, coming from you. In case you’ve forgotten, you were the one who told me Toof was a problem. ‘You have to deal with him,’ you said. ‘Toof is telling stories around the neighbourhood.’ Well, let me tell you something, my friend. Toof is dealt with. End of story.”
“No, it’s not the end of the story. I’m a Mountie, remember? I cover narcotics and I have a supervisor and I have two Algonquin Bay police officers asking questions about Morris Tilley and Wombat Guthrie. I can’t keep pretending I don’t know anything. They’re tight with my sarge, and if I hold back on them they’re going to find out and that’s gonna blow this whole thing sky-high.”
“What did you tell them?”
Red Bear’s voice was barely audible. This would call for careful wording.
“They’ve been questioning Toof’s associates,” Clegg said. “They got your name from them. Also Leon’s. They know we arrested Leon a few years ago. They asked me mostly about him. I told them exactly what’s on his sheet, nothing more.”
“And what did you tell them about me?”
“Nothing. I didn’t have to because they don’t have anything on you. I just said I’d heard your name around. Heard you were from somewhere up north and hadn’t been seen for a while.”
“I may indeed head up north,” Red Bear said. “When I’m ready.”
“There’s something else.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. The two Algonquin Bay cops I was talking to—Cardinal and Delorme—they were very hot on this gun that killed Toof. They know Guthrie stole it—that links him and Toof to the same killer. But they said the gun was also recently used in an assault.”
“What did they tell you about it?”
“Nothing. Delorme—she’s female. Good-looking, too, if you want to know the truth. Delorme started to tell me about it, but Cardinal stopped her. That means they’re keeping this strictly under wraps for some reason.”
“Such as?”
“They said ‘assault.’ They didn’t say ‘murder.’ That says to me the victim is still alive—a witness, in other words. But they’re keeping the identity secret. I know there was nothing in the papers linking the gun to another attack. They’re trying to protect him, obviously.”
“Her,” Red Bear said.
“What?”
“Her. It was a woman who saw something she shouldn’t. But don’t worry, we are taking care of it.”
“Don’t for God’s sake go killing anybody else. The heat’s already way too high on this thing. You got the cops on one side, you got the Viking Riders on the other. The Riders are not going to take this lying down.”