Delorme started the engine. “That was a weird testosterone display you had with Haystack.”
“Guys like that are like dogs. They need to know where they stand.”
“If you say so. Anyway, me, I get the feeling the Vikings are seriously annoyed with Wombat.”
“Which could mean they did away with him.” Cardinal rubbed at a bite on his neck.
“Don’t scratch. You’ll only make it worse.”
When they were back on the highway, Delorme said, “You know, that Lasalle is seriously good-looking for a biker.”
“Well, we’re very good-looking for cops.”
They were quiet for the rest of the drive back. There was only the sound of wind and tires and the odd squawk from the radio. Cardinal was thinking about the young woman with no memory. Those green eyes looked so innocent, her whole manner was so benign, it was hard to imagine anyone wanting to kill her. Then again, who knew what her previous personality might have been? For all Cardinal knew, she could be Bitch Incarnate. The only thing he was sure of: With no home and no memory, she must be the loneliest woman on earth, and he wanted to find the person who had done that to her.
6
CATHERINE CARDINAL HAD PACKED HER cameras several times over the past few days, only to unpack them, check the lenses and batteries, and pack them again. But when the rented minivan with its load of student shutterbugs honked outside the house early that morning, she was still folding T-shirts and zipping up toiletries and searching in the closet and under the bed for extra shoes.
Cardinal answered the door. The woman on the porch was tall, maybe forty, not exactly pretty, but she looked smart, and Cardinal always found that attractive.
“I just thought I’d see if Catherine needed any help,” she said.
“I think she’s got everything under control. It’ll just be a minute.”
“My name’s Christine Nadeau,” the woman said, offering her hand to shake. “This is the third course I’ve taken with your wife. Do you have any idea what a great teacher she is?”
“I have heard that before. But thanks for telling me.”
“Everybody’s very excited about this trip.”
“Good. So is Catherine.”
Christine Nadeau went back to wait in the van, and Cardinal found Catherine zipping up her carry-on in the bedroom. Her face was flushed, and she looked short of breath. Should I say something?
“I’m so disorganized,” Catherine said. She was shoving loose change and bills into her jeans pocket as Cardinal hauled the suitcase to the front room. “You’d think I’d learn by now.”
“You’re not disorganized. You were just focused on making sure your camera gear was in shape.”
“I’m not going to check it again,” Catherine said. “It’s a supreme act of will, but I’m not going to check it again.”
She put on a khaki fisherman’s vest. Even on Catherine it was perfectly hideous, but it had thousands of pockets for film, flash, batteries, pens, labels and filters—the myriad doodads of the serious photographer.
“Did you pack your medication?” Cardinal said. He had to. It wasn’t in him to let her leave town and not ask this.
Catherine turned her back on him and put on a light coat over the vest. A slim black coat. It had a hood with a red lining that gave off echoes of fairy tales.
“Did you hear me, sweetheart?”
“Yes, John, I heard you. Yes, I packed my medication. Thank you so much for reminding me that I can’t be trusted to so much as cross the road without supervision.”
“All right. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Here I am excited about a big project and you just have to rain on my parade, don’t you.”
“Don’t overreact, honey. I’m glad you’re taking the trip. You should know by now—after twenty-five years, or however long it’s been—I’m a worrywart. Always have been, always will be. Have a good time, and I’ll see you when you get back.”
Catherine hauled her suitcase outside without another word. Cardinal watched her get into the van, an ache in his chest. I shouldn’t have said anything.
He was in the kitchen clearing away the breakfast things when Catherine rushed back in. She stopped in the kitchen doorway and took a deep breath.
“Okay,” she said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be a bitch. It’s just sometimes, once in a while—once in a great while—I actually imagine I’m normal. I actually fantasize that I can do all the things normal people do without a second thought, and why should anyone worry about it. It’s hard for me to remember I have this problem. It’s painful to be reminded of it.”
“I’m sorry if I brought you down,” Cardinal said. “Old habits …”
Catherine came closer, and stood on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek.
“You worry too much.”
A little later, Cardinal and Delorme drove up to St. Francis Hospital. It wasn’t actually called St. Francis any more, but Cardinal still thought of it that way. Algonquin Bay’s City Hospital consisted of two brick boxes that used to be two separate hospitals until the provincial government decided they would be better off united in holy parsimony. The smaller one, the former St. Francis, sits halfway up a hill, overlooking École Secondaire Algonquin and the grubby cinders of the CNR tracks. It is this building that houses the hospital’s psychiatric ward. On any given day, the half-dozen or so patients who wander its halls consist of attempted suicides, drug overdoses or emotionally symphonic teenagers—patients not deemed crazy enough or long-term enough for residence at the local Ontario Psychiatric Hospital, where Catherine went to recover from the worst of her depressions.
Cardinal and Delorme were here to check in on Jane Doe, but Cardinal was having trouble focusing just now, the sight of a hospital having thrown his mind back upon Catherine.
Perhaps there was no cause for concern. Perhaps Catherine’s excitement about her trip was just that: excitement. She hadn’t flown off on any flights of fancy; she’d made no grand announcements of omnipotence, unveiled no cosmic plans for changing the nature of reality as we know it. Perhaps it really was just girlish excitement about going to the big city on a photographic project. In a normal woman, it would have been no cause for concern. But in Catherine …
Cardinal and Delorme took the elevator to the third floor, the psychiatric wing. They had arranged to meet a neuropsychologist who had been brought in to try to help their mysterious redhead recover her memory. City Hospital did not have a neuropsychologist on staff. There was only one in the entire city, and he was there on loan, teaching a course at Northern University’s school of nursing. Dr. Garth Paley.
If I ever need a shrink, Cardinal thought as Dr. Paley introduced himself, I want one who looks just like this guy. Paley was dressed in a tweed jacket and jeans, which gave him the look of a man who could be comfortable in the library or in the bar. Although he was not older than mid-fifties, he had grandfatherly white hair and a silvery beard. His brows were dark, shadowing his eyes in a way that gave them a perceptive, almost prehensile, look. A man who could understand and empathize before you even said anything. Some people are just perfectly suited to their jobs; Cardinal often wished he were one.
“I appreciate your letting me know you were coming up to see my Jane Doe,” Dr. Paley told them. “Please sit.”
The office they were in might have been anywhere. It had the usual computer, the usual metal bookshelves bolted to the wall. It was an uncomfortable place and didn’t suit Dr. Paley at all.
“A couple of things you should know before you talk to her,” he said. “First off, you mentioned on the phone, Detective, that you were hoping her amnesia was temporary. The short answer is, it isn’t amnesia.” Dr. Paley grinned at them, his cheeks suddenly rosy. Santa Claus as a youngish man.