Until the Night (20 page)

“It was sex. To make sense is not required. I got carried away, that’s all. I was playing my role, you know—Nazi bastard interrogating poor little prisoner and so on—threatening her. I’m drunk, I’m in character, a total Nazi bastard, and I did it. I’m sorry for it. I never wanted to kill her. I never wanted to kill anyone, never in my life. Always I am a peaceful person. It was just games and I had too much to drink. It went too far and I can’t fix it.”

“Except in your initial statement you said it was Leonard’s idea, Leonard giving the orders. Leonard ordered you to shoot and you did.”

“I was high. I was confused. It’s wrong. Leonard didn’t do it. I did it.”

“So here you are for, what, another twelve or thirteen years.”

“No, it’s eight years total. So six more only.”

“Really? Someone’s telling you they give parole to a guy who takes a woman to an abandoned boathouse? Who slaps a leather mask over her face and terrorizes her for God knows how long? Threatens her with a loaded gun and then puts a bullet through her head?”

Reicher’s face changed. His eyes stayed on her and Delorme pitied Régine Choquette if those were the last eyes she saw in this world.

“You’re being harsh to me, Detective. But I’m having good behaviour. I’m taking courses. I will get parole.” Even from across the table, Delorme could see the heat rising from his chest, up his neck, scorching the pale skin. His breathing had become rapid.

“Meanwhile,” Delorme said, “the years go by. You’re in here getting old, losing your good looks, surrounded by people a lot nastier than you
are, and the man who ordered you to murder this woman is in one of his beautiful houses. How many houses does he have, by the way?”

“Okay, so life is not being all the time fair. Is life treating you all the time fair?”

“Fritz, it was
his
gun. Found at
his
club.
His
prints at the scene. Why isn’t he in prison?”

“Leonard is trying his best to get me out. He’s doing, you know, behind the scenes. It takes time. He’s talking to the Ottawa animal shelter for me, too. He has a veterinarian friend in Algonquin Bay, too, he’s talking to. He cried, you know. When he heard I got twelve years? Leonard cried.”

“
His
gun. Found in
his
club.”

“I was not thinking clearly. Hiding the gun at the club, it was not the best idea.”

“All of this against him, and yet Priest was never charged. Don’t you wonder why?”

“Leonard has money. Friends. People like Leonard.”

“Fritz, I can name three millionaires who are serving time in this country. Money and friends don’t get you off a murder charge.”

“It’s the women, with Leonard. I’ve seen it. A magnetism. And Ottawa, you know, powerful people. There’s a woman who helps him.”

“A lawyer? Who are you talking about?”

“I told him, Leonard, I said—one time he’s coming to visit me—I said, ‘It’s amazing, I thought they would charge you. Why didn’t they charge you?’ ”

“He came to visit you?”

“Listen about Leonard. If you are Leonard’s friend, he stays always your friend. He’s generous. He’s kind. He understands. He told me, he said, ‘Fritz, it’s not fair’. He said he was just lucky. He had a secret weapon. A person, I mean. A secret weapon named Diane something. Deborah, something like. Darlene! That’s it. Darlene. I never heard of any Darlene and I said Darlene who but he said it was better I’m not knowing. Well, you can look at me like that if you want, but it’s true.”

“Some lawyer in Ottawa. Darlene.”

“Could be Toronto. Could be also Algonquin Bay.”

“No. I’d know her.”

“Toronto then. I don’t know.”

“This is bullshit, Fritz. You know it’s bullshit. I don’t believe in any magic ‘Darlene’ and neither do you. The reason he wasn’t charged is because
you changed your story. You took the fall. Do you have any idea how dumb that is? You could get years off your sentence if you told the truth.”

“You call me stupid?”

“I just said taking the fall for a murderer who doesn’t care is dumb.”

“You think I’m stupid.”

“I didn’t say that.”

The placid, indifferent features had rearranged themselves. Reicher unfolded himself from the chair and went to the door. He put a hand up to shade the Plexiglas. He made a
tsk-tsk
sound. “It’s improper. It’s bad security, don’t you find?”

“Sit down, please, Fritz.”

He turned his back to the door and leaned against it, folding his arms. “Look at you, so small. I could kill you right now. Imagine. And no one would know. No one would hear.”

“That would be a really bad idea.”

“I don’t like it. Calling me stupid.”

“Just sit down, Fritz. If that guard sees you’re up, you’ll get in trouble and that’s not what you want.”

“Do you see a guard? Do you see a camera? There is no camera. What’s to stop me pulling you out of that chair, snapping you in half?”

“Fritz, I’m a cop. You’re not going to touch me.”

He showed her an enormous hand, just swivelled his arm out from the elbow like a gate, hand open, fingers aligned. He flexed it a couple of times.

Delorme pressed the panic button with her knee.

“Look at you. One hand I could wrap around your throat—one hand. You couldn’t even scream.”

“Unless I shot you first.”

“Ha ha. You’re not armed.”

“You don’t know that.”

“It’s not allowed. No one brings weapons in this place. Not even the RCMP.”

Delorme put a hand inside her blazer. “Think about it, Fritz. Why would they take the manacles off if I wasn’t armed?” She pressed the buzzer again.

“He won’t come. It’s change of shift.”

Possible self-defence scenarios were flashing through Delorme’s mind. A leap to the table, kick to the head.

“Let’s get back to Laura Lacroix. She may still be alive. If you help us save her, that could look very good in your file.” Delorme opened her folder, pulled out a photograph and held it up.

“What could you do if I decide to hit you a few times, ruin that pretty face?”

Delorme sat forward and tried to look bigger. “And what are you going to do when I tell them you made repeated threats? That you refused to stay seated? How do you think that’s going to play at your parole hearing? I’ll tell you exactly how it’ll play:
Petition denied. Shows no remorse. Still a danger
.”

“I was not threatening.”

“Do it again and I’ll make sure you never get parole. I’ll devote my life to it.”

Reicher went to his chair and sat down.

“Press the buzzer, please. I don’t like you. I want to go back.”

“Tell me why Leonard Priest wanted Régine Choquette dead.”

“He didn’t. It wasn’t intentional. I told you. I did it. It was an accident. Call the guard, please.”

She pressed the buzzer yet again. Where the hell was he?

“Why are you protecting this killer, Fritz?”

“Leonard is not a killer. He is my friend. He looks after me. Takes care of me. Loves me, even.”

“You think Leonard Priest loves you?”

“Maybe he doesn’t say so in words, but I know he loves me. He gets me a lawyer I can’t afford. Sends me money, packages.”

“You think Leonard Priest loves you? He’s the one who got you into this mess, and he’s out there laughing.”

“Okay, you want to play the nasty bitch?” Reicher stood up, flexing his giant hands. “You want to play this game with me? Fucking cop bitch, I’ll—”

The clack of the lock.

Reicher lowered himself to the chair and put a benign expression on his face. Apparently the acting lessons had paid off’ the transformation was remarkable.

A guard entered. A different guard.

“Please take me first,” Reicher said. “I want to go back.”

“Yeah? You in a hurry to get back to your cell?”

“Yes, please.” He turned back to Delorme, suddenly chatty, friendly. “I don’t want to miss
Days of Our Lives
. It’s the best. There’s a dog-walker character sometimes. Celine? She’s going to turn out to be a blackmailer or an imposter or something, I just know it, but I like her a lot. She likes the dogs she’s walking. It’s not just a job, you know. It’s a profession. To be good at it takes a special person.”

“Nice talking to you, Fritz. I’ll send you a dog book.”

“Really? Ha ha. Games again. You’re worse than me, Detective.” He raised clasped hands for the guard.

“Jesus Christ,” the guard said. “What’d you do with the bling, Fritz?”

“Johnson removed them. It’s an error, obviously.”

“Up against that wall right now.”

Reicher got up and leaned against the wall.

“Make one move and I crack your skull wide open. Got that? One move and I turn you into an eggplant. Ma’am?” The guard jerked his head toward the door.

Delorme got up, cold with sweat, and went out.

The guard manacled Reicher to the chair, stepped into the hall behind her and locked the door.

“I’m glad it’s you,” Delorme said, “and not Johnson.”

“Oh, yeah? Why would that be?”

“Because I would have killed him right here.”

From the Blue Notebook

An evening lecture in the Arcosaur mess.

This was something we did twice a week. Partly it was a way of making our supply of VHS tapes last longer, and partly it was a way for us to keep each other apprised of progress on our various projects. The field of Arctic research is a small one and yet, within it, even within the same room at the same camp, it’s possible to have two scientists sitting next to each other in mutual incomprehension.

The evenings were informal and more for the benefit of the junior researchers than the old hands. It gave them a chance to practise their presentation skills in front of people who might have some influence on their future—a chance to display their private data hoard.

The wiring in the mess was unreliable, especially when the temperature got much below minus thirty, so these talks were often bathed in candlelight. I was being visited by an uncharacteristic fit of benevolence. The faces of my colleagues hovering and glowing in the half dark. The precariousness of our existence thrummed within me, the sense of how little stood between us and certain death should our generator fail entirely, say, or our supply lines be cut off for a serious length of time. Such a sense can drive a man sentimental.

Ray Deville stood in front of a whiteboard lit by two standing flashlights. His talk was rambling, repetitious, almost incoherent, but his accent was entertaining. Vanderbyl, Ray’s thesis supervisor,
sank lower and lower in his chair, pressing his chin into his chest. He was possibly the worst adviser Deville could have had. A nervous soul like Ray needed the parental touch, motherly if possible. Rebecca would have brought out the best in him, but oceanography was not her field and her university was fifteen hundred miles distant from his.

Wyndham came up with a question for him, a kindness that got the young man on track for a few moments. His enthusiasm for his subject welled up and he spouted findings none of us would have been aware of.

I thought of the dead youth the Inuit “ghost” had brought us. We had heard back from researchers at Laval—terribly excited researchers—that they were pretty sure he was a member of the doomed Franklin expedition. The recent opening of three graves on Beechey Island had revealed that one of them, marked “Roger Arlington in his twenty-first year,” was in fact empty. Their theory: Young Arlington had been banished from the expedition—effectively executed—for some unknown crime. The empty grave was an effort to avoid uncomfortable questioning upon their return.

It was thought best not to mention any of this to young Deville, who was already spooked enough. In any case, for those few moments under Wyndham’s gentle prodding, the candlelight seemed to reach him, and he shone.

On clear nights such as this one, the stars were preternaturally bright, their ancient energy made new. When a few hours later I woke from a deep sleep, the walls of my cabin were glowing. I thought I was still dreaming, because my cabin seemed so absurdly colourful that it could occur only in a Disney film.

I sat up in my sleeping bag and looked out the porthole window. The night was awash with light. Some of the others were already outside: Rebecca and Vanderbyl, Wyndham and Dahlberg, four dark figures, faces to the sky in attitudes of amazement, as if all four were simultaneously receiving the stigmata.

High above, a waterfall of red poured down from the black heavens.

The next thing I remember, I was standing outside. The cold must have been blistering, but I have no memory of it. I stood like the
others, drinking in the aurora. Red is the rarest, and this red was so brilliant and mobile it was as if an incision had been made in the exact centre of the sky and ruby light cascaded from the wound.

So incredibly red—I think it was Jens who spoke—I’ve never seen red before, never even heard of it.

It’s at least two hundred kilometres up, I said. Solar wind colliding with high-altitude oxygen. Green and yellow are generated at about sixty kilometres.

I saw a blue one once, Vanderbyl said. They think it’s caused by ionized nitrogen. I’ve only seen it that one time—in Svalbard. Our pilot actually wept.

Jens, ever practical, said, It’ll kill our radio contact. We’ll be blacked out for days.

The display curved away from us at its sides, shifting from a curtain shape almost to a funnel. A long crimson tail danced toward us, hovering on one side, then whipping to the other, a tornado of light.

And it’s composed of nothing, Wyndham said. Just broken bits of atoms.

Words fled me. At that moment I understood the pilot who had broken into sobs. I yearned for a new language, an idioglossia to span the unbridgeable distances that separate one human mind from another. This was unlike me, and probably had more to do with Rebecca than the aurora.

I wanted to hold her close, feel her warmth and reality, the human scale of love and desire, the infinitesimal beauty in the brush of her eyelashes on my cheek, the heat of her breath on my neck. But at that moment, she too felt the need of contact. And there, silhouetted against the ruby light, encircled by its corona of stars, she reached to rest her hand upon her husband’s shoulder, then tilted her head against him, Kurt’s arm in answer reaching around her waist.