“How crazy is he?”
“If I try to quantify his craziness, how are you going to understand it from the point of view of your own? That he’s at least twice as crazy as you? Three times? Policework isn’t supposed to be this relative.”
Hazel reached forward and took the receiver off the desktop, and cancelled the speakerphone function. “Listen, Cap. You and I do things differently, but do you really want an ex-cop from your division to be guilty of murder?”
“Are you asking me if I care if one lunatic kills another? That’s a hard one to answer.”
“What if you people were right all along? It’s not a murder?”
“Choose your conspiracy, Micallef.”
“Fine. What if it isn’t Colin Eldwin who committed it?”
“It better be after that goddamned package you sent me.”
“Is he capable of killing? Just answer me.”
There was a long pause on the other end. “Yes,” Ilunga said finally. “I came to think he was.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“Do yourself a favour and shoot him the next time you see him.”
Hazel repunched the speaker button. “What was that again?”
“Never mind.”
She hung up and looked at Childress and Wingate.
“What?” said Childress.
“You have a cell?”
“Why?”
“Because there won’t be any land lines for a while.” She shifted her attention fully to Wingate. “Why did Goodman thank God for the rain?”
“Because he needed the cover.”
“No. Because it lets him set up his last puzzle. And I think if we don’t come up with the right answer this time, Eldwin dies.”
“Why won’t there be any land lines?” said Childress, unhappily.
“Because Goodman is going to let the rain do his work for him while he puts some space between himself and his mess. And he gets what he figures is a fitting punishment for Colin Eldwin’s crime.”
“He’s going to drown him,” said Wingate suddenly, catching up with her. “And thank God for the rain because it will fill whatever Eldwin’s trapped in.” He thought for a moment. “Which is a boat.”
“Go tell Fraser he needs to reroute his friend with the helicopter.”
They cleared the parking lot to make room for a landing pad, and she waited with Wingate and Childress in her cruiser. The constable, looking tired and irritated, sat in the back. Wingate’s hands were knotted in his lap. They’d called Tate and Calberson and told them to suit up. “Can they even fit six people in a ’copter?” asked Wingate.
“You can ride on top if we run out of room.” She caught Childress’s eyes in the rearview. “It’s time to call your liaison again.”
“I told you, it’s going to be morning before we know anything.”
“Do they work through the night?”
“If they have to.”
“Constable?”
“I don’t know if they’re there tonight. I don’t know what’s going on downtown, what the caseload is like, or anything. Remember, I’ve been seconded to Port Dundas.” She looked out the window at the starless sky.
“You people would rather save face than break a sweat on this, wouldn’t you? What are you going to do when you play a role in cracking a cold case? You going to deny it was worth it?”
Childress sprung forward in her seat, her eyes blazing. “No, I’m going to pin a fucking medal on myself!”
Hazel said nothing, just waited for the constable to settle back into her seat. “Just keep your phone on.”
Tate and Calberson were speeding up from Mayfair; Wingate said Tate had received his urgent call and responded agreeably. They expected them by nine-thirty. Right now, Fraser’s private pilot was coming back down from the area around Gilmore, where he’d been sweeping for the white van unsuccessfully.
At nine o’clock, they heard the sound of rotors in the dark coming from the north and the helicopter, throwing a hard beam of white light through the rain, hoved in and came down. Wingate shuddered to see it sheering sideways as it came in and the pilot had to reascend a few feet and level out before setting down. A man stepped out and lit a cigarette. Hazel flashed her beams at him and he crouch-ran through the rain to the car and took one last hard drag before flicking the cigarette away and getting into the car. He shook hands with everyone and introduced himself as Gary Quinn. He was a solidly built man of about forty-five with a full head of grey hair and wild salt-and-pepper eyebrows.
“We’re dropping the search for the van. We think they’re out on the water.”
“Water? Where, though?” said Quinn.
“The suspect’s been gone for more than three hours now, but my best guess is he hasn’t been driving this whole time. So somewhere within a ninety-minute driving radius.”
“That’s a lot of lakes, Officer,” said Quinn. “We can look here, though.” He had a map, which he passed forward and they spread open on the dashboard. It showed all of Westmuir County. He leaned between the seats and pointed at the town of Gilmore. “If he started here, we’re going to want to do a sweep of every major lake within reasonable reach of the town. That takes in Lake MacKenzie, Rye Lake, Pickamore Lake, Inlet Lake, and a whole hell of a lot of littler ones too.”
“How long will that take?” Wingate asked.
“Even if it clears a little, maybe an hour per lake, but we’ve got to do a zed-pattern over everything and Pickamore and Inlet are huge. I wouldn’t bank on being in bed before 3 a.m., folks.”
“Hey, we never sleep anyway,” said Hazel. “What have we got in the way of lighting?”
“Well, there’s the directional on the front of the bird, but it’s only got three positions. I’ve got a portable spot with a halogen parabolic in it, which would normally do the trick: it spreads a cone with a radius of ten feet from fifty feet up, but the problem tonight is that it has to pick through the rain. If we’re low enough, we’ll be able to see something, but it’s going to look like ten thousand glow-worms are jumping in it. And with the wind, I don’t think I can go lower than fifty feet or we might find ourselves climbing some trees.”
“I need a Gravol,” said Wingate.
Quinn clapped him on the shoulder. “You can always puke out the door.”
“Great.”
“There’s also one pair of thermal infrared binoculars. So one of you can wear those and watch the colours go by, but the rain’s going to put up a blue filter and everything in it is going to be pretty dim.” He leaned in toward Hazel. “Couldn’t wait until morning, huh? Anyone out in this weather is either half-sunk or capsized. Unless your guy’s got a bailing bucket.”
“I doubt he has anything.”
“Then I suggest we go find him.”
34
The divers arrived fifteen minutes later and they were six. Quinn led them to the helicopter and they clambered in, slipping on the slick rails. Wingate got as close to the pilot as he could. “Is the front better if it’s a rough ride?”
Quinn was starting up the engines. “This ain’t a 737, Detective, it’s like flying a bathtub. Everyone gets the same ride.”
Hazel smiled at him. “Good times!” she said.
“We better find him,” said Wingate.
Quinn passed back headphones with wraparound microphones. “Everyone hear me?” He passed Hazel the thermal binoculars. “A warm, living body is going to be reddish-orange – 37 Celsius is calibrated to show up red, but anything alive in this weather isn’t going to read that hot. A cold, living body is going to be closer to yellow. You start seeing purple or dark blue, then we’re talking rocks, logs, fish, or something that’s going to need putting in a pine box. Okay everyone? Ready for take-off…”
The blades whined into high speed and the tail of the helicopter rose off the ground, followed by its giant, insect-like body. It took to the air with its head lowered, and Wingate grabbed the arm of his seat with white knuckles. He mouthed the words I hate you to Hazel, who nodded once to acknowledge reception. The team of Tate and Calberson sat quietly in their seats and Childress did her best to hide a terror that was clearly at least as profound as Wingate’s.