Until the Night (27 page)

I turned back with the binoculars. Wyndham had stopped work. He had his back to me in a posture of alertness, listening. Vanderbyl had passed him, heading toward camp, but stopped and turned around when Wyndham yelled something.

There was a tremendous crack and we all—everyone I could see—fell to our knees. Hunter was still on his tractor, still ploughing. It’s possible he didn’t feel that first tremor.

At first no more than a fissure, the crack that appeared was the otherworldly blue of the polar lead. From my vantage point, the lead seemed to run about three hundred metres, forming an amethyst wound that stretched from the edge of the camp to the foot of the radio tower. Hunter had seen it too and switched off his tractor, creating an envelope of silence.

Leads opening up like this were not uncommon. To reduce the risk of such a fracture forcing us to up stakes and move, we had erected Arcosaur in the middle of the widest ridge, in the middle of our island of ice. What no one had expected was that a lead might open up at right angles to the island furrows.

We got to our feet and looked around, one to the other. Ray Deville had emerged from somewhere, having changed from his parka to a lighter jacket. He was on his knees, as stunned as the rest of us. My radio crackled and I had to retrieve it from the slush where it had fallen.

Wyndham’s voice, with a tremor in it: I’ve got a huge lead just opened up less than ten feet away.

Get away from it, Vanderbyl told him. It’s probably over, but let’s be on the safe side.

I can’t move. My sledge is caught on something.

Uncouple your tether, man. Don’t hang around.

I’m trying to. My bloody fingers won’t work.

Even over the radio you could hear the laugh in Wyndham’s voice—nervous, of course, but also self-deprecating. That was utterly in character, and it was one of the many reasons he hadn’t an enemy in the world.

I don’t think Wyndham, I don’t think any of us, had yet registered true panic. We were not yet cognizant of the magnitude of the disaster. Vanderbyl, a tall, no-nonsense sort of man, easily six-three, moved toward Wyndham in long, efficient strides despite the slush.

Wings shearing off a jetliner. That was the sound that at that moment ripped through the atmosphere. Off to my right, our main building imploded, the roof crashing in toward the middle as the two sides were pulled away from each other. The crack in the ice widened with horrific speed, shooting like a pale blue bolt across the surface.

Vanderbyl was on the far edge of the split. With me, across from him: Wyndham, Rebecca and Ray Deville—and somehow Dahlberg. Dahlberg had no reason to be outside, but I had no time to wonder about that. Wyndham’s sledge had disappeared. Wyndham himself was down, having been dragged a short distance until he caught on one of the buoys, and now he clung to it. I found myself running toward him. Rebecca looked unhurt. She was getting up, but Deville remained on his knees where he had fallen. His face bore the vacant, bewildered look of a man who has been pulled unhurt from a death-dealing car crash.

As I ran, I registered in my peripheral vision that Hunter had started up his tractor again, raised his plough, and was turning the ungainly machine toward Wyndham. And it was only as I ran that I understood exactly the peril Wyndham was in. The Nansen sled, with its freight of equipment, had tumbled into the lead with Wyndham still harnessed to it. The only thing keeping him from following it into the abyss was the buoy fastened into the ice and to which he desperately clung. I patted my pockets for my folding knife as I ran.

It looked as if Hunter would reach him first. Vanderbyl had come to a stop on the far side, halted by the blue gap that was now some twenty metres across. Hunter’s tractor was slamming toward them.

It takes considerably more time to read about what happened next than the events themselves took to occur. We are talking a matter of seconds, somewhere between three and five.

There was a tremendous boom and those of us on foot were hurled to the ice. The impact sent the snot flying from my nostrils, and all the bony places of my body lit up with pain. As I pulled myself up, I saw that the crack had turned serpentine, opening a whiplash curve just in front of Hunter. He had no time to react. The tractor’s port tread went over first, causing the whole machine to pivot and tip sideways, pitching him into the crevasse. What is most vivid now in my mind is not the image of his death—the sprawling, ungainly ugliness of it—but rather his absolute silence, the absence of any cry, the slightest protest at his severance from the living. The tractor tilted with agonizing slowness, halting for a moment on the
precipice with the poise of a ballerina, before somersaulting with a roar over the edge.

I was getting to my feet, trying to regain my breath, and saw Vanderbyl doing the same. He would not be able to help—the gap had become a canyon. Behind him, the radio mast listed at a forty-five-degree angle. Somehow I managed to stagger the last dozen or so metres to Wyndham.

He was on his side, curled around the buoy. From his position he couldn’t have seen what had happened to Hunter. He even tried to make a joke.

No rush, Kit, he said to me. Take your time.

I was on my knees. I had my knife out but was having trouble opening it. Some people, I said to him, will do anything for attention.

A squeal of metal and I looked up. I have absolutely no doubt that if we had had just another few seconds, I could have saved Wyndham. The radio mast lurched and fell another ten degrees, paused for a half-second, and crashed full length to the ice. The top third of the array snapped off and vanished.

I cannot say with certainty—no one could know for sure—but it seems likely that the top of the radio mast, in its plunge into the abyss, smashed into Wyndham’s dangling sledge and tore him away from the buoy. Before I could so much as drop my knife to grab for him, he had slithered across the last few feet and over the edge.

Again, that terrible silence.

I crawled to the precipice, lay down and peered over the edge. In that blue and shimmering canyon, there was no sign of life. Sea water swirled and foamed as it flooded into the crevasse some hundred feet below.

Vanderbyl was stabbing at his radio, barking Mayday, Mayday. Get some rope, he yelled to me. We’ve got to get them out of there.

There was no rope to get. The fracture, serpentine to the north, had forked to the south. The lab hut hung in jagged pieces from either edge of the initial split. The rest of the buildings—the power shack, the vehicle shed, the sleeping quarters—were mostly intact on a shard of shelf ice that had become its own separate floe. I remember wondering what had happened to Murray Washburn, our facilities manager, and Paul, our cook. They rarely had occasion
to visit the lab, and it seemed unlikely that they would have been in it the moment it was destroyed.

Ice island T-6 was now at least three ice islands, rapidly drifting away from each other. Kurt Vanderbyl was a hundred and fifty metres distant, adrift on his own shard, his dark silhouette rippling against the sun. Rebecca ran to the edge of what now amounted to our universe, calling her husband’s name. The useless shortwave dangled from his left hand. He slowly raised his right in farewell.

14

A
T LUNCHTIME
, C
ARDINAL WENT OVER
to D’Anunzio’s and ordered a sandwich and a coffee. The place was a fruit store in addition to being a coffee shop, and while he was waiting he bought a half-dozen oranges and set them on the counter. Tony D’Anunzio was as chatty as usual, but Cardinal just grunted in reply. His ham and cheese sandwich came and he ate it in silence. He had looked for Delorme to see if she wanted to join him, but she had already headed out somewhere else. In thinking about her now, his mind went into split-screen mode. On one side, the image of her as she looked that night of the party—an image that reawakened the desire to kiss her. On the other, the image of her sitting on his couch with a bowl of popcorn on her lap as they watched a movie together. He missed the easiness of their friendship—missed it so much that he could not have said at that moment which side of the split screen he wanted to become the whole story.

He reached for a
Toronto Star
someone had left on the stool next to him. Half of page five was devoted to the Flint–Lacroix case. The article was accompanied by a still of their most likely suspect from the Broadview Motel’s security camera footage. Beside it, they had reproduced the Identi-Kit composite.
Have you seen this man?

Silver hair, regular features, large nose. Whether or not anyone had actually seen him, a lot of people were going to think they had. The calls would be many, time would be wasted, and they would be no closer to the killer.

Tony D’Anunzio refilled his coffee cup without asking.

“Thanks, Tony,” Cardinal said. “What do I owe you?”

His cellphone rang. Jerry Commanda, detective sergeant at the OPP and a former city cop.

“Tell me something good, Jerry.”

“You’re not dead.”

“Always a ray of sunshine.”

“I’ve been cogitating.” It was Jerry’s habit to employ words that, while not exactly obscure, were not common conversational tender. “Pondering your question about possible similars.”

“You said you didn’t have anything.”

“Which was correct at the time. I don’t personally have anything similar, nor does anyone in the detachment—or on the reserve, before you ask.”

“I already did ask.”

“That’s true, you did.”

“I wasn’t talking murders necessarily.”

“I know. We don’t have any attacks or attempts that might have been the work of the same guy. But …”

Jerry started flirting with one of his colleagues in the background, telling Deandra Couchie she was looking dangerously provocative today. Deandra was a good-looking woman old enough to be Jerry’s mother, or nearly. Cardinal used to think it was just Jerry, but he had come to realize that First Nations people were not squeamish about proper office behaviour, at least among themselves. If Cardinal had ever suggested to Sergeant Flower that she was looking too sexy in her new jacket, he’d have to endure a lecture from the chief, if not a written reprimand.

“Leave her alone,” he told Jerry. “She can beat you up.”

“I know it—I was her kick-boxing instructor. Listen, I just heard back from the Parry Sound detachment. They had a thing, fifty-eight-year-old female, Brenda Gauthier, froze to death last February—record snow, remember? And near-record lows. Anyways, she suffered from early-onset Alzheimer’s and had lately become peripatetic. Went
AWOL
a couple of times, way they do. So when she turned up frozen to death in the middle of the bush, it maybe didn’t get the attention it deserved.”

“What makes you think it deserved more?”

“Well, the age would fit, obviously. But here’s what struck me in reading the report: when Brenda Gauthier was found, she was wearing clothes that didn’t belong to her.”

“I need to speak to the husband,” Cardinal said. “How do I contact him?”

“You can’t—and that’s another reason I thought you’d be interested. He killed himself two days ago.”

A stack of call slips was waiting for Cardinal on his desk. He tossed them on top of his bag of oranges and dialed the number Jerry had given him, the cellphone of Timothy Gauthier, home from his job in London’s City district to bury his father.

He took the phone messages to Chouinard. “Why are all these call-ins coming to me?”

“That’s exactly one-fifth of what’s come in since this morning. Don’t look like that. I’m not going to second-guess anyone at this stage, and it’s Loach’s case.”

“I’m running Flint.”

“So clearly the reasonable thing to do is for you to decide which of those messages relate to Flint and which to Lacroix and divide them up accordingly. Of course, in order to do that, you’d have to answer them.”

Cardinal felt the anger rising in him and pushed it down. “I have to go to Parry Sound. I think we’ve got a third victim.”

It was a two-hour drive to Parry Sound. Cardinal had lots of time to think about the reports Jerry had faxed. To the Parry Sound OPP, Brenda Gauthier was not a homicide but a case of unexpected death, and the case summary was accordingly laconic.