Until the Night (29 page)

Did we get Keith Rettig’s CV? If Laura Lacroix wasn’t connected to these people, maybe her ex-husband was.”

“Brunswick Geo swear they couriered it over the day we asked. They’re going to fax it again this afternoon. I have to go. Get back here. This place is a circus.”

Cardinal opened the box labelled
History
. High school graduation pictures, sports triumphs, the Laval lacrosse team—a muddied and big-haired Gauthier holding the trophy. Brenda Gauthier, svelte hippie in headband and bell-bottoms, clutching her books in front of the University of Toronto’s School of Library Science. Gauthier on the field in King’s College Circle, yellow hard hat over wild hair, clutching a Molson in one hand and an ungainly electronic device in the other.

And then there it was. Not a photograph, but a photocopy of an article from the
Varsity
, the university’s student newspaper. Cardinal recognized the steps of the Sandford Fleming Building, where three grinning students stood behind what looked like a metal spider on wheels. Except for the colour of his hair, the senator had not changed much over the years. For the other two, Cardinal had to rely on the caption.
David Flint and fellow School of Engineering postgrads Keith Rettig and Frank Gauthier crushed the competition at RoboRama, held last month at MIT
.

From the Blue Notebook

In addition to the central camp, there were three remote sites on our ice island. Two of these, the AES weather tower and my core hut, were now lost to us, though possibly of some use still to Vanderbyl. There was a chance that the that seismic hut, which was located on a different ridge, might still be attached—which would mean shelter, extra clothing, perhaps fuel.

We took stock. None of us was adequately dressed for any drop in the temperature, which now hovered around freezing. Deville was the warmest in a blue down jacket over a light fleece. Dahlberg and I had fleeces over sweaters. Rebecca had a light shell over a fleece. We were all wet to varying degrees from falling to the slushy surface. Dahlberg had badly twisted his knee and was having great difficulty walking. He made no complaint, other than to point out the fact of his situation, but his face was grey with pain.

Rebecca put aside her panic for Kurt and adopted a calm, matter-of-fact manner. Ray Deville was the only one who still appeared to be in a state of shock. His responses to my questions were sluggish, his affect flat. But he nodded his understanding that we had best keep moving.

Who has a weapon? I asked.

Rebecca still had the flare gun.

Dahlberg shook his head.

I turned to Deville’ I thought I could smell gunpowder. Ray? Do you have a gun?

No, me, I don’t ’ave a gun.

We all carried pencils but none of us had any real food. Deville had some Juicy Fruit, Dahlberg had a pack of cough drops and an Aero bar. I had nothing edible, but I still had my field glasses strapped round my neck and a butane lighter in my pocket.

It was decided that we would walk south in hopes of finding the seismic recording hut intact. I say south, but what I mean is south in relation to our base camp. Maintaining a sense of direction is one of the hardest things to do in the Arctic, especially in summer months, when the sun just circles above the horizon—a horizon that is all white and, unless you are near shore, devoid of landmarks.

It was hard travel, let me leave it at that. If you have never had to cross an extreme environment without the proper gear, nothing I say will convey the agony of this venture. It was crucial to move just fast enough to keep warm. To stop moving would mean freezing to death in a matter of fifteen or twenty hours. But moving even slightly too fast would bring on increased hunger, sweat that would soon cool, and exhaustion that would sap body heat quicker than anything except wind and moisture.

Jens could not keep up, and I asked Deville to hang back with him while Rebecca and I moved as fast as we could toward the hut.

Jens protested. Just keep me in sight. I’ll manage.

Don’t worry yourself, Dr. Dahlberg, Ray said. I’ll be wit’ you.

Rebecca and I pressed on ahead with an awkward, high-stepping gait and made reasonable progress. The lenticular cloud had shifted, and the sunlight warmed us as we moved. We kept our hands in our pockets—I had only one glove—although we took them out often for balance in the manner of a clumsy skater.

I don’t know how long we walked—long enough to leave Jens and Ray far behind. Perhaps two hours. I doubt if we exchanged more than a dozen words. Until we knew the status of the remote hut, there was no way to judge our chances of survival. Rebecca expressed no false hope, uttered no prayer. We just kept moving.

Where the seismic shack should have been, there was nothing but open water.

No good, I said. It’s gone.

Are you sure? Even if it’s broken off, shouldn’t we still be able to see it?

I was sure. Rebecca had never been to the hut, but I had many times. I pointed toward two distinctive promontories some three or four kilometres distant.

That’s still Axel Heiberg Island. A lot of ice gets pushed south as it jams up in the margin. With a little luck, we might make landfall somewhere near the Strand Fiord. The
LARS
research station should still be manned this time of year.

Rebecca stared at the claw shape of the two hills, their eastern sides of exposed rock, their western sides ice and snow.

15

D
ELORME OPENED HER LAPTOP ON
the dinner table and typed in
Assistant Crown Attorney Garth Romney
. She added
Régine Choquette
to the search, and the screen lit up with many articles. She selected Images, and the first one to appear, top left, was the picture of Romney holding up the hood found on Choquette’s body.

That hideous leather object, black, dirty, a hole for the nose, a zipper for the mouth and the zipper shut tight.
Some women like to be scared
.

Romney held it at arm’s length as if it were a dead rat. Behind him, a picture of the Queen, the Canadian flag, the flag of Ontario.

Delorme clicked on another image, then another, coming to rest on a picture of Fritz Reicher—a little thinner back then, blond hair a little thicker. Beside him, lawyer Richard Rota.

“It’s a police!” Richard Rota said, coming out of courtroom three. “What have I done this time?” He set his briefcase on a bench and shrugged on his overcoat. He went about five foot four, even with the lifts, which meant
Delorme could look him in the eye without looking up, an excellent thing in a lawyer.

“I wanted to talk to you about Fritz Reicher,” she said.

Rota closed his eyes and tilted his head back. “Reicher, Reicher … it sounds familiar …”

“The Régine Choquette—”

“I’m messing with ya. I know who you wanna talk about, and I also know why. We can talk in there.”

They went to an interview room at the end of the hall. Rota dropped his briefcase on the desk and sat beside it. Delorme decided to remain standing as he started firing questions at her. Like many lawyers, he spoke louder than was strictly necessary. How’s his good friend R.J. (the police chief), how’s Ian McLeod, and what about this new guy, this Roach character?

“Loach,” Delorme said. “He’s fine.”

“What about John Cardinal?”

“He’s fine too. I wanted to ask you—”

“You could use a few more of him.”

“I had occasion to talk to Reicher recently on another matter.”

“Women turning up dead in the great outdoors?” Rota gave an exaggerated shrug. “Of course you want to talk to him. Makes sense. Cop sense, anyway. Not that I’ve seen mention of any sexual element in the papers.”

“I was a minor witness in the Choquette case.”

“I remember. I deposed you. I was very polite, as I recall.”

“You were adequate.”

Rota laughed. “Thank you. That’s the best I ever get from women.”

“In his original statement to Detective Cardinal, Reicher said the entire scenario was under the control of Leonard Priest. Priest chose the woman, drove all the way here from Ottawa specifically to arrange an encounter with her. To ‘play some games,’ as Reicher put it.”

“That statement was made before he had benefit of counsel. What’s your point?”

“He said Priest was there the whole time. That it was Priest who ordered him to shoot.”

“It’s a defence Germans seem fond of.” He raised a hand to forestall Delorme’s next question. “And you want to know why Algonquin Bay’s finest defence counsel did not push for the arrest and trial of Leonard Priest.”

“Well?”

“Because it was not in my client’s best interests. That’s the short answer.”

“And the long answer?”

“It’s the long answer too.”

“Did Leonard Priest pay for Reicher’s defence?”

“Fritz Reicher paid for his own defence. Whether Priest gave him a handsome severance cheque or not is none of my business.”

“Did you ever meet a friend or associate of Leonard Priest’s named Darlene?”

“Darlene? No, I’ve never met any Darlene. Until this moment my life has been Darlene-free.”

“Did you not at least wonder why the Crown chose not to pursue Leonard Priest? The murder weapon was his gun. Found in his sex club. His prints were at the scene.”

“What’s to explain? Obviously, the ACA didn’t feel he had the evidence. You know, you’re not bad at this. You ever think of going to law school?”

“Way we saw it, the case looked like a total gift.”

“Garth Romney saw differently. Look, Garth’s a real go-getter. Mr. Avenging Prosecutor. A real pain in the ass for us innocent little defence lawyers.” Rota suddenly snapped himself together. The gleaming shoes flashed, the white cuffs shot forward and he was sitting upright, pulling his desk chair toward her, elbows on the desk. “Look, we have to be mindful of lawyer-client privilege here, but I’ll tell you this. If Leonard Priest came to trial, Fritz would have been called to testify. You’ve met Fritz. Have you met Priest?”

“Briefly.”

“Then you know how that would have worked out.”

“The Crown could have offered Reicher a better deal.”

“No such offer was made or requested. Had Priest been brought to trial, he would have painted Fritz as a disgruntled employee looking for revenge—among a lot of other unpleasant things.” Rota stood and picked up his briefcase. “Can I go home now?”

Delorme stepped aside and Rota held the door open for her. He was a polite little guy, she’d forgotten that about him.

“Let me walk you to your car, Detective. I’m intrigued by this Darlene character.”

“You really don’t know anything about her?”

“Not a thing.”

“Me either.”

Curriculum vitae for Keith Charles Rettig, born July 7, 1954. Joined Brunswick Geo in 2004. Previous employment: Toyota Canada, 1996–2004; Inglis Appliances, 1990–1996; GeoLogic Solutions, 1988–1990; Argus Aquatics, 1984–1988
.

Cardinal looked up the last two companies on the Internet. He couldn’t find GeoLogic Solutions anywhere, but Argus Aquatics had been bought and sold by several different companies, the latest being Neptune Corp., makers of submersibles ranging from three-man subs to the kind of remote-operated vehicles used to explore the
Titanic
. Rettig was a finance man, not a techie, but the early involvement in robotics was still evident.

Cardinal looked up Senator David Flint again in
Who’s Who in Canada
. The entry was modest considering his business successes and his current position. He had begun to make his mark in the early eighties with a startup called Momentum, which designed power systems for electronics in confined spaces such as aircraft and submarines. In the following years he had added several patents in photovoltaics to his list of achievements. A stint at Boeing apparently hadn’t worked out too well, and he moved back to Canada after just four years in Seattle.

Frank Gauthier, he discovered from a similar search, had a long history with MRG Robotics. Twenty-five years with the company he had founded in 1986, its first triumph being a robotic assistant for hip replacement surgery. Before that he had worked two years for R-Tech, which went on to a troubled history with bionic limbs and thoroughly human lawsuits. MRG had been a prime contributor to the development of the Aesclepius system, which detects a surgeon’s hand movements and transmits them, much reduced, to an array of micro instruments.