The Delicate Storm. Giles Blunt

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       3

      Cardinal drove out past his father’s place to the northern limit of Algonquin Bay, where he made a left onto Ojibwa Road. There were only three houses on Ojibwa – two decrepit bungalows and Bressard’s brick split-level. Even in the mist it looked like any other middle-class suburban residence; there was nothing about it to tell the passerby that the owner made his living the way generations of his forefathers had, by trapping animals for their fur.

      Paul Bressard himself was another matter. He was just coming out of the house as Cardinal swung into the drive, and he looked anything but suburban. Fur trappers are a breed apart, with a tendency to eccentricity, even wildness, that makes them stand out in a place as conservative as Algonquin Bay. But even among that flamboyant species Bressard was a man who made an impression. He swept down the front steps in a wide-brimmed beaver hat and a floor-length raccoon coat, even though it was too warm for either. He had a handlebar moustache that drooped past his chin and deep-set brown eyes that were so dark as to be almost black. He turned those eyes on Cardinal now and, recognizing him, broke into a grin that would have done credit to a movie star.

      ‘You working for Natural Resources now? Coming to nail me for some out-of-season crap?’

      ‘No, I heard you were dead, that’s all. Figured I’d stop by to make sure.’

      Bressard frowned. Eyebrows the size of squirrel tails met in mid-brow.

      ‘I hate to alarm you,’ Cardinal went on. ‘It’s just that there’s this rumour going round that you’re deceased. Guess it could be the start of an urban legend.’

      Bressard blinked exactly twice, taking this in. Then once again he flashed his movie-star grin. ‘You came all the way out here just to see if I was okay? I’m touched, man. I’m really, really touched. How was I suppose to be dead?’

      ‘Story is, some guy from out of town – maybe one of those nasty tourists you take hunting – took it into his head to kill you and bury you in the woods.’

      ‘Well, I don’t see too many tourists this time of year. And as you can see, I’m still alive.’

      ‘I know – you’re not even missing. It’s disappointing.’

      Bressard laughed.

      ‘These rumours happen to all the greats,’ Cardinal said. ‘At least now you can say you have something in common with Paul McCartney.’

      ‘You kidding? I’m way better-looking than that guy. Sing better, too.’ Bressard got into his Ford Explorer and rolled down the window. ‘You should come out to The Chinook on karaoke night. You’ll be begging for my autograph.’

      Cardinal watched Bressard drive away toward town, past the edge of the woods where the trapper made his more than adequate living.

      At the intersection of Algonquin and the Highway 11 bypass, Cardinal’s way was blocked by an accident. The back end of a tractor-trailer had swung round into the oncoming lane. Nobody had been killed, but the traffic moved in fits and starts while the truck was sorted out. Cardinal listened to the news while he waited. The provincial NDP leader outlined the party’s platform for the upcoming election: health-care reform, daycare subsides for working mothers and a higher minimum wage. Unfortunately, Cardinal didn’t like the guy, even though he agreed with everything he said. Then came Premier Geoff Mantis’s rejoinder, in which he referred to his opposition as ‘the champions of Tax and Spend.’ There was no doubt about it: the Tories had better slogan writers. They just didn’t seem to think the government should do anything for anybody. Close the hospitals, shutter the schools and voilà – everybody’s happy.

      Then there was the weather. Fog was expected to continue over most of northern Ontario, and then they’d be in for a little rain. An expert explained why this weird warmth was not necessarily a sign of global warming but more likely just a statistical anomaly.

      Cardinal’s cellphone rang.

      ‘Cardinal.’

      It was Mary Flower. She sounded excited. ‘Cardinal, you have to head out to Sackville Road right away – Skyway Service Centre. Delorme’s already on her way.’

      ‘Why? What’s up?’

      ‘They’ve found a body. Sort of.’

      Cardinal turned around and headed west to Sackville Road. The fog was thinner on this side of town, not much more than a mist. Eventually he came to a bedraggled gas station. Skyway Service Centre, Snowmobile & Outboard Repairs. Dented shells of snowmobiles were stacked against the side of the building like multicoloured cordwood.

      As he stepped out of the car, Lise Delorme was just pulling to a stop behind him.

      ‘We can tell Wudky thanks a million, Lise. We should ask the judge to tack on an extra week to whatever damn sentence he gets.’

      ‘Paul Bressard is not dead?’

      ‘Paul Bressard is not only not dead, Paul Bressard is prospering.’

      ‘Well, this should be a little more interesting.’

      A big man came out of the garage in filthy overalls. СКАЧАТЬ