51
KEVIN’S WRISTS WERE BLEEDING. He had been trying now for hours to work the knot loose by hooking it on the point of a nail, but he could not see if he had made the slightest progress. Nor could he tell if the knot was any looser. All he could feel was the ache in his arms, the savage pain in his wrists.
Terri lay slumped over on the floor on the other side of the cabin, unconscious. Leon had injected her with something in the car to keep her quiet. Knowing Leon, he had probably used just about enough to kill her. Her breathing sounded laboured and shallow.
Kevin’s head had cleared, now; the withdrawal symptoms had passed. Despite the fearful stench in this place, hunger was gnawing at his belly.
“Terri,” he said. “Terri, wake up.”
She didn’t stir.
Kevin hooked the rope once more on the nail and leaned away. The rope slid off like dental floss. He tried again, to no avail.
“Terri, you have to wake up.”
With his feet bound at the ankles, he lurched across the floor to her on his knees. He lay down on his side and nudged her with both knees.
“Terri! For Chrissake, wake up!”
She groaned. It was the first sound she had made since Leon had slung her in here and tied her to the table leg.
“Boy, you fucked up big time,” Leon had said as he’d tied the rope.
“Why is Terri here?” Kevin had said. “Let her go, Leon. She hasn’t done anything.”
“She’s too curious, man. That’s her problem. Inquisitive.” Leon finished tying her hands to the table leg. He gave the rope a couple of sharp tugs. “Tough, though. I’ll give her that.”
“What’s wrong with her? What did you give her?”
“Little Seconal. Keep her peaceful.”
“Leon, please. Terri’s never hurt anyone in her life. Why do you want to do this?”
“Boss’s orders,” Leon said. “Unlike you, I know what the fuck I’m doing.”
Leon came over and squatted in front of Kevin.
“Jesus, man. Stealing Red Bear’s dope. Of all the stupid moves, that’s gotta be the stupidest.”
“I was wired, Leon. Why the hell else would I do something like that? Listen, help us out of here. Red Bear’s gonna kill us.”
“That’s the least of it, I’d imagine.”
“Come on, Leon. How can you go along with him?”
“That’s just the way it is, bro. Red Bear and me just clicked. He’s shown me a few things. Opened some doors. He’s one powerful witch, and you crossed him. Not smart.”
“Leon, I thought we were friends, man.”
“Did you?” Leon cocked his head to one side. “You never seemed all that friendly to me. In fact, I got the distinct impression you looked down on me. You, with your fucking poetry and all.”
“I didn’t. Jesus, man. You know what Red Bear’s going to do to us?”
Leon stood up and stretched.
“Gonna work a little of that old Indian magic. Gonna get you working for us.”
Leon had left, then, deaf to Kevin’s begging. Kevin had been shredding his wrists ever since.
He kneed Terri in the shoulder. Harder this time. The wound in his side howled.
She groaned, and her eyelids fluttered.
“Terri, wake up. Terri, you gotta wake up.”
52
THE FAXPHOTO CAME IN JUST before noon the next day; it was Delorme who picked it up.
The picture showed a young man, maybe thirty, thirty-one, with a narrow, hawklike face. High cheekbones gave him a slightly Indian look. His stare into the camera gave nothing away. “Guess,” it seemed to say, “guess what I might be capable of.”
The caption at the bottom of the photo said Raymond Beltran. Underneath this, the date of the photograph. It had been taken eighteen months ago when he had been arrested on a weapons charge. He didn’t look too worried about the outcome.
Delorme showed it around the squad room. To McLeod, to Szelagy and to the ident guys, Arsenault and Collingwood. None of them recognized Raymond Beltran. She drove over to Corporal Clegg’s office in the federal building.
“You must like it here,” she said, “if you don’t even take off for weekends.”
Clegg was feeding documents into a shredder. He grinned at her over his shoulder.
“Since me and the wife broke up, I’m not in a big fat rush to get home, you know what I mean? I don’t see a ring. You married?”
“No.”
“Ever been?”
“No. I have something to show you.” Delorme dug in her satchel.
“Maybe you and I could go for dinner sometime. After you wrap up this case, I mean.”
“Thanks. But I have a policy against going out with guys from work.”
“Makes it kinda tough to meet people, don’t you find?”
“Yeah,” Delorme said. “It does. Listen, we really need to find this guy.” She handed him the photo.
“‘Raymond Beltran,’” Clegg read. “Latino, right?”
“He’s Cuban. Cuban heritage, anyway. Raised in Toronto. But he’s also spent time in Miami. Where, incidentally, he’s a suspect in three murders much like Wombat’s.”
“You’re kidding me. He cut them up?”
Delorme nodded. “And he didn’t wait till they were dead, either.”
“That’s not nice. Not nice at all.”
“Can you help us out? Have you come across this guy? If he’s the one that did Wombat, he’s likely deep into the drug trade.”
Clegg scanned the caption.
“Taken a while ago,” he said. “Of course, people can change their appearance quite a bit when they want to.”
“Yeah, but it’s a distinctive face—the eyes, the cheekbones. Maybe I could go through your files, look at some mugs?”
“I don’t have any mugs here,” Clegg said. “That’s all in Sudbury.”
Delorme looked at the dented file cabinet by the window.
“Just paperwork in there,” Clegg said.
“Must be pretty inconvenient.”
“The RCMP is a federal organization. Nothing about it is convenient. Did you hear about our fire the other night?”
“You had a fire?”
“Sudbury. Property shed went up in flames. We don’t even know how much evidence we’ve lost.”
“Was it arson?”
“They don’t know yet, but I doubt it. Plain old incompetence is more likely. Guy in charge of that place is about ninety years old and practically blind.” Clegg held up the photo. “Can I hang on to this?”
“Sure. I’ve got copies.”
“I’ll take a dive into our incredibly detailed and bureaucratic records and get back to you.”
Delorme drove up Sumner to the bypass and then out to the OPP detachment. Jerry Commanda was at his desk, on the phone. With the receiver jammed between ear and shoulder, he pulled a chair from another cubicle and motioned for her to sit down.
When he hung up, he swivelled around to face her.
“I bet you’ve come to talk about the interagency ball game.”
“Sorry,” Delorme said. She pulled out the photo of Beltran. “You said you’d been working a lot of drug stuff, lately. Have you run across this character?”
Jerry took the photo from her and held it at an angle to catch the window light. “I can’t say for sure. What do you want him for?”
“Cutting up Wombat Guthrie, for one.”
“Really?” Jerry looked closer at the picture. “Well, there’s one guy it might be.”
He reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a buff-coloured file folder. There was a stack of eight-by-ten black-and-white photos inside. He fanned them out on the desk like a deck of cards and selected one. It showed a group of young men sitting around outside a diner. Three of them seemed to be watching the fourth man, who had very long hair and was dressed all in white.