Forty Words for Sorrow (16 page)

22

K
EITH LONDON SAT UP GROGGILY
in bed. The room he was in looked unfamiliar, and he wondered if this was partly because it seemed to be turning, ever so slowly, like a carousel running down. When it came to a stop, and his eyes managed to focus, he saw four walls covered with cheap wooden panelling, warped and stained by water damage. An armchair tilted on three legs, its arms scarred with cigarette burns. On the floor, a short flat space heater buzzed intermittently as if a bug were trapped inside. Overhead, a dim bulb throbbed behind a cheap fixture, and a Via Rail poster of Vancouver curled on one wall. The tiny window was boarded up from the outside. The air was clogged with smells of heating oil, mould and wet concrete.

Then he remembered: he’d picked up his stuff from the bus station while Eric and Edie waited for him outside. He remembered getting into a small car with Eric and Edie and having a beer in their kitchen. But he didn’t remember going to bed, or taking his clothes off. After the beer, nothing. His limbs felt gross and exhausted, as if he had slept too long. He rubbed his face, and the flesh felt rubbery and strangely hot. His watch—evidently he had forgotten to take it off in his hurry to undress—said three o’clock. The need to urinate was pressing.

Although the room could not have been more than nine feet square, it had two doors. Keith set his feet on the cold floor, sitting on the edge of the bed. He remained like this for some time, and would have fallen asleep again if the need for a bathroom had not been urgent. He forced himself up onto his feet and leaned against the wall for balance. The first door he tried was locked—stuck, anyway—but the second, luckily, proved to be a bathroom, the fittings almost miniaturized to fit the tiny cubicle.

Tottering back toward the bed, he caught sight of his guitar case propped in a corner. He had just enough time to register that his duffle bag and his clothes were nowhere in sight before he slid headlong into a dark pit of unconsciousness.

When he woke—hours later? days?—Eric Fraser was sitting on the bed, big grin on his face. “Lazarus awakes,” he said quietly.

Keith with a great effort propped himself up against the headboard. He could feel his body listing to one side but hadn’t the strength to right himself. His mouth and throat were terribly dry; when he tried to speak, his voice was a feeble croak. “How long have I been asleep?”

Eric held two fingers so close to Keith’s face that he couldn’t focus. It looked like three fingers.

“Two whole days?” Was that possible? Keith could not remember ever having slept that long in his life. A couple of times in early adolescence he’d slept for sixteen hours, and once, when very ill with a fever, he’d conked out for twenty. But two days?

If I’ve really been asleep for two days, I must be very, very sick. Healthy people don’t sleep for two days. That’s called coma. Keith was about to express some of this when Eric pre-empted him by pressing a cold hand against his forehead and holding it there with a thoughtful expression. “Yesterday you had a fever of a hundred and three. Edie took your temperature. She used your armpit.”

“Where are my clothes? I think I better see a doctor.”

“Edie’s washing your clothes. You threw up.”

“Did I? That’s awful.” Keith rubbed his throat; it was burning. “Is there any water?”

“Bathroom.” Eric pointed to a small door. “But you’d better drink some of this.” He presented a steaming mug. “Edie’s concoction. She brought it home from the drugstore. Don’t worry, Edie’s a pharmacist.”

Steamy aromas of honey and lemon were flowing from the cup. Keith took a sip, scorching his tongue. It was a flu remedy or something, probably nothing more than Tylenol and antihistamine, but it felt good going down. After a few sips Keith began to feel better. The fog lifted a little. He pointed to the Polaroid hanging from Eric’s neck. “What’s that for?”

“Test shots. Edie and I are deeply involved in filmmaking. It’s one of the reasons we noticed you. We were hoping you’d be in our film.”

“What kind of film is it?”

“Low budget. Experimental. Poetic. I wanted to ask you the other night, but I was afraid it would be … inappropriate.”

“That’s okay. I’d be glad to help.” Keith slid back down in the bed and curled up. Sleep seemed once again like an excellent idea.

Eric held up a newspaper.
“The Algonquin Lode,”
he said. “We call it
The Load of Bull
.” He rattled noisily through the pages. He cleared his throat and began to read in a slow, deliberate voice.
“Algonquin Bay police were out in force at the corner of Timothy and Main streets earlier today, where the body of an unidentified male, apparently murdered, was discovered in the coal cellar of a vacant house. Investigators have not ruled out the possibility that the murder was committed by the same person who killed Katie Pine last September
.

“According to Detective John Cardinal, the victim had been savagely beaten, suffering multiple facial injuries, and the genitals had been kicked until they were almost completely separated from the body.”

“Jesus,” Keith said. “That happened here?”

“It took place right here in Algonquin Bay. Not far from this room.”

“Jesus,” Keith said again. “Imagine being beaten like that. It doesn’t sound like your normal bar fight.”

“Well, let’s not rush to judgment. They don’t say what the victim was like. Maybe he started it. Maybe the world is a better place without him. I don’t miss him. Do you?”

“Nobody deserves to die that way. I don’t care what he did.”

“You’re soft-hearted. Edie always goes for the gentle ones. Your girlfriend must love that about you. What did you say her name was?”

“Karen. Yeah, I don’t know. Karen’d be happier if I were a little more future-oriented. She’s pissed off right now.”

“Tell me about the sexual customs in Toronto—I hear oral sex is all the rage. Is Karen a devotee?”

“Jesus, Eric.” Keith had been slipping into the blood-warm waters of sleep. I’ll just sleep a little more, he assured himself, then I’ll get the hell out of here.

“I couldn’t help noticing your penis, Keith, when we undressed you. Big pair of balls, too. Karen’s a lucky girl.”

Keith wanted to tell him to lay off, but he couldn’t transmit the message from his brain to his tongue. That honey and lemon had really knocked him for a loop.

Eric placed a hand on Keith’s knee, gripping it. “People don’t understand the terrible things I’ve seen—the rape, the sexual abuse. I’ve had a rough time, Keith, and sometimes it makes me a little—uneasy. Would you like me to stroke your genitals?”

Keith tried to focus. God, what was in that drink?

Time passed. Five minutes, possibly twenty. Eric drew the covers up to Keith’s chin. “I’m excited about this film, Keith. So is Edie. You’re just right for the part. You said you like experiences. This film will be a new experience.”

Keith finally managed to work his tongue. “What’s wrong with me? I can hardly move.” He was sinking down, down into oblivion, so he couldn’t be sure if he just imagined this, but Eric Fraser leaned over and kissed his forehead. Then whispered, “I know.”

23

“T
ELL ME HOW GOOD
I
AM
, Cardinal. We have this tape sitting here, I don’t even touch it. You wouldn’t have waited. You’d have listened to it five times by now.”

“It’s a character flaw of mine,” Cardinal said, still stamping snow from his boots. “Did Len Weisman call yet?”

“No. I got the feeling you didn’t want me to bug him too much.”

“Two days, though. How long can it take to match dental records?”

Delorme just shrugged. Cardinal was suddenly aware of her breasts and felt his face colour. For God’s sake, he scolded himself, Catherine’s sick in the O.H. Besides which, Detective Lise Delorme may have a cute shape and a good face, but she’s also trying to nail me to the wall, and I will not allow myself to be attracted to her. If I were a stronger person, it wouldn’t happen.

Delorme handed Cardinal a postal carton the size of a shoebox. Inside, swaddled in bubble wrap, lay a brand new cassette tape. Someone had written across the CBC label in blue Magic Marker: “Digitally Enhanced.”

“I borrowed Flower’s Walkman,” Delorme said. “It takes two sets of headphones.” Delorme handed him a pair and they both plugged in.

Cardinal cleared a patch of her desk and sat down, holding the wire that connected them like Siamese twins joined at the ear. He switched on the tape and stared out the window at a grader shooting up a tidal wave of snow. Immediately, he hit the pause button. “It’s a lot clearer now. You couldn’t hear that jet before.”

“You think it’s up Airport Drive, maybe?” Delorme’s face when she was excited became wonderfully animated; Cardinal could see the girl she had been. For a fleeting moment he thought he might be wrong: she really had left Special, she really wasn’t investigating him. Then back to the horror on tape.

All hiss was gone. When the windows rattled, it was as though you could reach into that faraway room and shut them. The killer’s footsteps rang out like rifle shots. And the child’s fear, well, that had come through loud and clear on the first version. They listened through the last tears Katie Pine had shed. The killer’s footsteps receded from the microphone. Then there was a new sound.

Delorme snatched off her headphones. “Cardinal! Did you hear that?”

“Play it again.”

Delorme rewound. They listened again to the girl’s last sobs, then the footsteps, and then, unmistakably, just a split second before the machine was switched off, the solemn chiming of a clock. Halfway through the third chime the recorder had been switched off, and silence followed.

“It’s fantastic,” Delorme said. “You couldn’t hear it at all on the original.”

“It’s great, Lise. All we have to do is match it to our suspect’s clock. The one minor problem, of course, being that we don’t have a suspect.” Cardinal used Delorme’s phone to dial the CBC.

“You got the tape, I take it.” Fortier’s radio-announcer voice came over the line deep and clear, as if he too had been digitally enhanced.

“You did a great job, Mr. Fortier. I’m worried you did a little too well.”

“There’s nothing added that wasn’t on the original, if that’s what you mean. With an analogue equalizer you’re limited to boosting or suppressing frequencies. With digital you can play around with individual sources. I split each source into an individual track—one for the windows, one for the clock, one for his voice, one for hers. What you have in your hand is the final mix, not intended for courtroom evidence, obviously, but possibly useful in other ways.”

“Can you do anything about the man’s voice? It still sounds like he’s down a well.”

“Hopeless case, I’m afraid. He’s just too far from the mike.”

“Well, you’ve done a terrific piece of work.”

“Any engineer could have done it—assuming he heard that clock in the first place. I have the advantage of being blind, of course. Even so, I didn’t hear the clock till the fourth or fifth pass.”

“Sounds like a grandfather clock to me.”

“Not at all. Listen to it. It’s not nearly resonant enough for a grandfather clock. It’s a shelf-top—and fairly old, I’d say. What you want now is a clock expert—some gnarled old Swiss guy. You play it back for him, he tells you the make, model and serial number.”

Cardinal laughed. “If I can ever do anything for the CBC, give me a call.”

“A budget increase would be nice. And say hi to Officer Delorme. She has a very attractive voice.”

“Actually, Brian, you’re on the speakerphone here.”

“No, I’m not, Detective. Nice try, though.”

“You like him,” Delorme observed when he hung up.

“You don’t like a lot of people, but you like him.”

“He said you have a nice voice.”

“Really? And about the clock?”

“Shelf-size, probably old. Said we should play it for an expert.”

“In Algonquin Bay? What expert? Zellers? Wal-Mart?”

“Must be some place that repairs clocks. If not here, certainly in Toronto.”

The phone rang and Delorme picked it up. After a moment she held it out to Cardinal and said, “Weisman.”

“Len, what the hell happened? Where’s our dental report?”

“Fucking dentist, I can’t believe this guy. Keeps putting us off, screens his calls, doesn’t show up, et cetera. Finally I get hold of the creep personally and we go in. Know why he’s putting us off? Turns out he’s been over-billing like crazy.”

“What do you mean, Len? What’s on the chart?”

“It’s full of fillings the guy never did. Makes it look like the kid had enough fillings to pave Lake Ontario. Patient in the morgue, on the other hand, shows only five small fillings.”

“But those five, Len, those five. Do they match?”

“Luckily, the work this crooked bastard really did was marked in a different colour. Five little fillings marked in red pen: perfect match. Our patient is Todd William Curry.”

24

T
ODD
C
URRY’S PARENTS LIVED IN
a two-bedroom apartment in Mississauga, a vast sprawl on the western edge of Toronto that ranges from charmless malls and high-rises to a leafy wood shot through with rivers and streams. They did not live in the leafy part. The Currys had been told to expect the two detectives from Algonquin Bay, and consequently had gone to a lot of trouble to prepare; smells of Windex and Mr. Clean hung heavy in the air. There was not a cushion out of place.

“They told us you’d be coming,” Mrs. Curry greeted them at the door. “My husband stayed home from work.”

“Hope that won’t upset your boss too much,” Cardinal said to the man who rose energetically out of a well-padded armchair.

“I’m not worried about it. Place owes me about a year’s worth of vacation days.” He shook hands forcefully, as if to prove that grief could not dent his manly vigour. He even managed a broad smile, but it lasted no longer than a camera flash, and then he sank back into his chair.

Cardinal turned to the mother. “Mrs. Curry, did Todd have any relatives in or around Algonquin Bay?”

“Well, there’s his uncle Clark in Thunder Bay. But that’s hundreds of miles away.”

“What about friends? Maybe someone he met at school?”

“Well, I wouldn’t know about that. But there were certainly no friends that we knew of from Algonquin Bay.”

The father roused himself out of reverie. “What about that young man who came to stay last summer? The one with the mismatched sneakers.”

“You mean Steve? Steve was from Stratford, dear.”

“No, no, I’m talking about someone else altogether. I’m talking about a different boy.”

“Well, the one with the mismatched sneakers was Steve, and he was from Stratford. You know my memory’s better than yours. It always has been.”

“I guess that’s true. I guess your memory was always better than mine.”

Once, in Algonquin Bay, Cardinal had been at the scene where a gas line had exploded, removing the whole front of an apartment building and collapsing three floors. Husbands and wives had drifted through the smoke and ashes like souls in purgatory. Now, their family having been exploded by grief, Mr. and Mrs. Curry were trying to recognize each other through the smoke and ashes.

“Did Todd have any other reason to stop at Algonquin Bay that you know of?”

“No. None. Boyish curiosity. Maybe someone he met on the train. Todd’s an impulsive boy. Was.” Mrs. Curry’s hand drifted up to her mouth as if it would push the past tense back. Her face was a picture of confusion.

Then Mr. Curry was at her side, his arm around her shoulder. “There, there, girl,” he said in a low voice. “Why don’t you come sit down on the couch?”

“I can’t sit down. I haven’t even offered them any tea. Would you like some tea?”

“No, thanks,” Delorme said gently. “Mrs. Curry, we know Todd got into trouble with drugs at least once. Do you remember anything to do with drugs—maybe a name that came out in his court hearing—that might have led him to Algonquin Bay?”

“Todd was over his drug problem. He didn’t use drugs any more. There, I said it: was, didn’t. They’re just words, aren’t they?” She managed a ghastly smile. “Are you sure you won’t have some tea? It’s no trouble.”

It was a new art form for Delorme, picking shards of fact from the exposed hearts of the bereaved. She looked to Cardinal for help, but he said nothing. He thought, Get used to it.

“I didn’t know Todd at all, Mrs. Curry, but—well, let me put it another way. I mean—the thing is …” Delorme bit her lip, then said, “You know, a cup of tea would be very nice. Can I help you make it?”

Cardinal said to the father, “You mind if I look at Todd’s room, meanwhile?”

“What? Todd’s room?” Mr. Curry scratched the top of his head. In another context, the cartoon-like gesture would have been comical. He gave a nervous laugh. “I’m sorry. I just don’t know how to act. Todd’s room, yes, that makes sense, I guess. You need to know more about him, yes, I can see how you do. All right, you go ahead, Detective, you do your work and don’t let me get in your way.”

“It’s this way?”

“Oh. Yes. Sorry. Second on the right. Well, I’ll show you.” He led Cardinal down a short hall. There were two bedrooms on the left, closets on the right, bathroom at the end; that was the whole apartment. Mr. Curry opened the door and gestured for Cardinal to enter, then stood leaning against the door frame, as if his son’s bedroom were located on an exalted plane he was not worthy to enter. His eyes flicked nervously back and forth, death having infused the most mundane objects—the half-deflated basketball in the corner, a broken skateboard on a shelf—with the power to utterly undo him in front of this intruder.

“Mr. Curry, you don’t have to watch, if you don’t want.”

“I’m all right, Detective. You just go ahead and do what you have to do.”

Cardinal stood in the middle of the room and said nothing, just absorbed the relationships of various objects. There was an elaborate boom box on top of the dresser, and small towers of tapes. Posters of rap stars were tacked to the wall: Tupac, Ice T., Puff Daddy. There was a small desk, the surface of which was a map of the world. A small Macintosh computer sat on top of Africa. Bookshelves were neatly fitted into either end of the desk. Cardinal was certain Mr. Curry had built them. He ran his hand along the edge of Antarctica. “Nice desk,” he said, and knelt to examine Todd’s books.

“Yes, I built that. It was easy, really. Still, you know, a project like that takes more than a few hours. Todd hated it, of course.”

“Oh, they’re hard to please, teenagers.”

“Todd and I didn’t get along very well, that’s the truth of it. I didn’t know how to handle him, I guess. Tried being lenient, tried being tough. Nothing seemed to work. Now, I just wish he was here.”

“I’m sure the two of you would have made it up,” Cardinal said. “Most families do.” The titles on the shelves:
Treasure Island, Catcher in the Rye
, several Hardy Boys instalments, all dusty. The rest of Todd’s library consisted of science fiction paperbacks with garish covers. He was tempted to tell Mr. Curry about his own daughter, how in her teens she used to regularly tell him she hated him and now they got along just great. Wrong tack to take, though.

“Todd and I won’t ever get the chance to make it up now. That’s the terrible thing.” Mr. Curry took a sudden step into the room, pushed by the urgency of his thought. His grip on Cardinal’s forearm felt like a claw. “Detective, whatever you do in this world, don’t postpone your life. Anything important that you keep putting off? Anything you keep telling yourself you’ll just wait for the right moment to do? I mean, anything important you’ve been meaning to tell some loved one, or anyone—don’t put it off, you hear me? Don’t postpone your life. Say the words, whatever they are. Do the thing, whatever it is. All that stuff you hear on the news—I don’t care if it’s tornadoes or the so-called Windigo Killer—any kind of disaster, you never think it applies. But the fact of the matter is, you never know. You never know when people are just going to get up and go out that door and never come back. You just don’t know. I’m sorry. This is terrible. I’m babbling.”

“You’re just fine, Mr. Curry.”

“I’m not. I don’t have much experience with this kind of thing,” he said, then added as if pleading a handicap, “I’m in reinsurance.”

“Tell me, Mr. Curry, did Todd use that machine a lot?” Cardinal pointed at the Macintosh. There were software manuals and video games piled under the desk, and he had noticed the line connecting the computer to a phone jack in the wall.

“Todd wasn’t a hacker, if that’s what you mean. He used it for homework mostly. When he did his homework. Thing’s a mystery to me. We use IBMs where I work.”

Cardinal opened the closet and looked at the clothes. There was one suit, one blazer, two pairs of dress pants—not the things a boy like Todd would wear often. On the shelf above there were stacks of board games: Monopoly, Scrabble, Trivial Pursuit.

In the dresser Cardinal found—besides the usual torn jeans and ripped T-shirts—a tangle of copper and tin bracelets, bits of chain, studded leather collars and cuffs. It didn’t mean anything; a lot of kids wore them now.

“My wife’s in pieces,” Mr. Curry said. He had retreated to the doorway again. “That’s the worst thing. It’s hard to see someone you love in so much pain and not be able to—” He had spoken of grief, and now, like a demon hearing its name, it burst its bonds and pounced, possessing him utterly. Mr. Curry was transformed from robust father into a pale, crooked figure shrinking in a doorway, crying.

Cardinal didn’t ignore him, exactly, but he didn’t say anything either. He looked at him briefly, then looked away out the window at the high-rise next door. From the parking lot between came the mechanical hysteria of a car alarm. In the distance, Toronto’s CN Tower glittered in the morning sun.

After a few minutes the sobbing behind him eased, and he handed Mr. Curry a twenty-cent pack of Kleenex he had bought at the Pharma-City on Queensway. He opened Todd’s dresser drawers one by one, feeling the undersides.

“Sorry about the wailing. Must feel like you’ve walked into a soap opera.”

“No, Mr. Curry. It doesn’t feel like that at all.”

Cardinal could feel the magazine behind the bottom drawer. He pulled it out, mentally apologizing to the boy as he did so, knowing it was probably more secret and personal than glue sniffing or marijuana. He remembered his own stack of
Playboys
from youth, but the magazine now in his hand showed a naked man.

Mr. Curry stopped breathing for several seconds; Cardinal heard it. He reached in and pulled out three more magazines.

“Shows how well I know my own son, I guess. I would have never guessed. Not in a million years.”

“I wouldn’t put too much stress on a few pictures. Looks like curiosity to me. He’s got
Playboy
and
Penthouse
here too.”

“I would never, never have guessed.”

“Nobody’s an open book, Mr. Curry. Not you, not me …”

“I’d like to keep this from his mother.”

“Certainly. There’s no need to tell her, at least not now. Why don’t you take a break, Mr. Curry? There’s no need for you to watch.”

“She’s a very strong woman, Edna, but this—”

“Maybe you better go see how she’s doing.”

“Thank you, yes, I’ll do that. I’ll just go see how Edna’s doing.” It struck Cardinal that, to a teenager, Todd’s father must have seemed a mother hen.

From the desk, the Macintosh was staring at him with its cool, blind eye. Cardinal knew enough about Macs to boot it up and find the list of programs. It only took him two minutes, but he didn’t recognize anything. He went out into the living room and signalled to Delorme, who was next to Mrs. Curry on the couch, going over a family album.

Delorme was no computer specialist either, but just that morning Cardinal had watched her put Flower’s Mac through its paces. It made him feel old. It seemed like anybody under thirty-five was comfortable with computers, which frustrated Cardinal at every turn. Delorme whipped the mouse around like a slot car.

“Can we see what he’s been tapping into?”

“That’s what I’m doing right now. Threader, here, is a useful program. You set it up to stop in at your favourite ports of call. It visits them all at top speed, then clicks back off, so it saves connect charges. Only someone who goes online a lot would have it.”

The screen changed, showing a list of newsgroups. Cardinal read them aloud: “Email, HouseofRock, HouseofRap—rap music? That’s gotta be unusual for a white kid.”

“Boy, are you out of date.”

“Okay, what’s this Connections thing?” He tapped an icon of a kissing couple on the screen. “That a talk-dirty outfit?”

“Not necessarily. Let’s log on and see what we get.”

Delorme moved the mouse and clicked. There was a dialing sound, then the raspberry noise of modems shaking hands. The screen flashed, scrolled at blinding speed, and clicked off.

“It’s like trolling in your favourite bays,” Delorme said. “Now let’s see what we hauled in.”

She clicked through the messages. There was a lot of computer chat about new games for Mac users, none addressed specifically to Todd. Then there was a discussion about buying tickets for an Aerosmith concert at the SkyDome.

“Ah,” Delorme said. “Here’s his mail basket. Oh boy, he liked his e-mail hot.”

“Jesus,” Cardinal said. He was glad he was standing behind Delorme, because he wouldn’t have been able to look her in the eye.

“See, it’s all anonymous,” Delorme said, pointing. “He called himself Galahad in this newsgroup.”

“Well, it certainly goes with the
Blueboy
magazines. Looks like he’s got ten different correspondents there.”

“Oop, look here. This guy knows his real name.”

Todd
, Cardinal read.
I’m sorry things didn’t work out between us. You seem like a good kid and I wish you well, but I don’t think we should meet again. Probably not even talk again, but I’m open on that point.—Jacob

“John, look at the date.”

“December twentieth. The night Todd Curry showed up at the Crisis Centre. Hey, we could be getting warm, here.”

Delorme flipped through several screens, flashing through previous “letters” from the same Jacob. The sex was explicitly detailed. There were repeated invitations to come and visit, to stay the night.

“What a perfect set-up,” Cardinal said. “Size up your victims over the computer lines. Reel them in, long-distance.”

They read more. Not all the messages were explicit sexual fantasies. Some were more thoughtful discussions about the problems of accepting oneself as gay. Well, that’s right, Cardinal thought, put the kid at ease. Next to alcohol, sympathy was probably the most potent weapon in the seducer’s arsenal.

“Is there any way we can get this guy’s real name and address off this?”

“Address, I doubt. Name, maybe. I’m a little rusty, though. It could take a while.” Delorme set the mouse moving in circles again, while Cardinal knelt on the floor, going through the boy’s collection of video games. After about ten minutes Delorme touched his shoulder. “Look at this.”