Giles Blunt - Until the Night

“Yep. Before he became a scientist and a murderer, he ferried people in and out of some pretty inaccessible places. You want me to fax you his known contacts, et cetera?”

“Better to e-mail it-that way I can pick it up on my phone.”

“It’ll take an hour or two-clerical people aren’t in yet-but you’ll have it soon as poss.”

Cardinal got dressed, put on his coat and went down to the parking lot. Crusts of filthy snow clung to the sidewalks, and morning light made everything look worse. Every time he came to Toronto he was surprised by how bad the traffic was. He took Bay down to College and then he got stuck behind a streetcar and had to inch his way past the university and the student pubs and the computer supply stores.

He turned into the alley and drove to the back of Hayley Babstock’s building. There was nothing left of the crime scene tape or any other sign of police presence. He sat with the motor running, staring at the windows of her flat, thinking. After a while he thought he saw something move in the kitchen window. A shadow.

He got out of the car and shut the door quietly. The gate squeaked a little as he pushed it open. He pulled out the Beretta and went up the fire escape. No sign that the door had been tampered with.

He took a breath and held it and tried the handle. The door wasn’t locked. He pushed it open a crack and saw across the wide single room the figure of a man seated on the edge of the bed. Elbows on knees, staring at the floor in a posture of exhaustion, a cellphone to his ear. Cardinal was about to yell “Police” when the man looked up.

Cardinal lowered the Beretta. “Ron?”

Ronnie Babstock spoke into the phone. “Thanks for calling, David. I have to go. My friend John Cardinal’s here.” He put the phone in his pocket. “I don’t think you’ll want to be my friend any longer. Not when you know what I really am.”

Giles Blunt

Until the Night

From the Blue Notebook

There are environments where simply to be alone is to be at grave risk-desert, high altitude, open seas-and the High Arctic must be counted among them. The assumption in such places is that anyone you encounter who is alone is likely to be in need of help unless otherwise indicated. Certainly, any sign of distress is never to be ignored. On the open seas, to do so is a crime.

I devoted the next few minutes of my life to attracting the attention of the party up on the ridge. My mind was dulled, my movements clumsy. My first attempt-waving my arms and calling-was pure instinct and utterly worthless. Dehydration had reduced my voice to a croak, and in any case they were upwind and would not have heard me.

Despite my almost useless hands, I managed to fit a cartridge into the flare gun. I raised my arms as high as I could and fired.

The flare shot upward into the sky and burst into a bright green parachute of light burning against the cloud cover. It could not be missed. I watched through my field glasses and saw one figure, hooded, uncertain, pause as he climbed the ridge. He looked toward the flare and back in my direction.

I took my jacket off and waved it overhead.

I think they’ve seen us, I said-not that Rebecca could hear me.

I took the Glock out of my fleece pocket and fired once in the air. The shot echoed off the ridge and the mountains beyond.

Another figure appeared on the ridge and stood with hands on hips, looking in my direction.

They’ve seen us, I said. They’ve seen us.

I put the gun away and tried the radio. It was like a block of wood in my fingers. I stabbed at it and twisted the dial, repeating mayday into any frequency that seemed possible.

There was no radio response. The figures on the ridge disappeared and I heard the sound of machines starting up. All-terrain vehicles. It could not be long.

Rebecca was still unconscious.

They’ll be here soon, I said. I’m going to walk a way to meet them. It won’t be long. You’re going to be all right. We’re both going to be all right.

There was only one way for them to get to us: descend the ridge and come through the valley. I walked on shaking legs in the direction from which they must come. Depending on the terrain they had to cross it would be half an hour, an hour at most, before we would meet.

As I walked, my ears were straining for the sound of their engines. When the sound faded, I stopped and listened. Perhaps there was some logistical problem, an issue of geology, that was holding them up. Perhaps mechanical failure. But I had definitely heard more than one machine. They could not all have failed.

It may be that I have always had a propensity for dark thoughts, but I would not describe myself as a cynic or a pessimist. A scientist is always curious, always open, assumes the answer will be found, if not by him, then by someone else. In considering the many ways we might perish in our circumstances, it did not occur to me that anyone who held the chance of life in his hands would refuse it.

No sound but wind over the hills. My own laboured breathing.

I scanned the ridge with my glasses, the valley open before me. Nothing.

How long I waited I can’t be sure. The temperature was not far below freezing, but it was unbearable to stand still.

No.

I remember saying the word aloud. Barely a whisper, a single syllable, and yet it hung in that silence, hung around me like a shroud.

I turned back. I rounded a small rise and the low sun warmed my face. I walked with my arms clenched around me, staring at the stony ground. I got back to Rebecca and burned another piece of salvaged clothing between us. I pulled Rebecca as close as I could. She did not wake or even stir. The heat, pitiful though it may have been, was like honeyed liquor, and I fell asleep while the little flames flickered between us.

I don’t know how long I slept. When I woke, the fire was out and cold.

Rebecca was gone.

For one delirious moment, joy rose inside me. She must be all right, she must have recovered, she could not be far. Lying on the ground had done terrible things to the muscles in my right leg. It was torment to stand.

Rebecca? I said her name over and over again in my desiccated voice. I wanted to laugh. She must be all right. We would move on. We would reach the LARS camp and safety.

I found her a short distance away among a tumble of rocks. Rocks that would have been folded one on top of the other by the meeting of two glaciers centuries earlier. Rebecca lay in a shadowy gap, curled in a fetal position, and my joy went out.

This was “terminal burrowing,” the final stage of hypothermia. Usually it is seen in bodies that are found indoors, huddled in a closet or under a bed.

Her eyes were open, staring. I curled myself around her as best I could. I hung one arm over her, pressed my face against her shoulder. She blinked once, twice. Her lips moved as though she would speak, and I waited, staring at her dry, cracked mouth, but no words came. A few minutes later, she stopped breathing.

Cardinal closed the door and took a seat at Hayley Babstock’s small wooden desk. You would never know it was the residence of a person from an extremely wealthy family. The room, a former attic cheaply remade into a studio apartment, was sparely furnished with scraps of carpet and flea market items. There was nothing overtly feminine about it, and yet it was clearly the domain of a young woman. The one jarring note was the bottle of Jack Daniels on the desk.

“You want a drink?”

Cardinal declined.

Babstock reached for the bottle and poured a finger of bourbon into his glass. “I picked it up on the way in. Hayley doesn’t drink. Well, not more than a beer or a single glass of wine with dinner. She’s the kind of girl who gets giddy quickly and knows enough to stay away from it. Woman, I should say. You still think of Kelly as a girl?”