Forever Dead (22 page)

I opened the screen door, raised the heavy metal knocker, and hesitated. Once it fell, I was committed. I let it go. Its thud rumbled through the house like thunder.

After a short wait the door opened slowly and gingerly. An elderly woman with rheumy eyes gazed out through the screen. She was wearing two startling pink barrettes that were losing the battle of keeping her snow white hair out of her eyes.

“Who are you? What do you want? We don't need any fish today, do you hear?” she said in a flat monotone.

“I'm not selling fish,” I said with a smile. Did he still live with his mother?

“Well, we don't want any more of those damned chocolate bars either. I think everybody plays hockey around here, don't you? Always looking for money to keep their ice cold. Why don't they just play in the winter as God intended?” She began to close the door.

“Mrs. Whyte?”

The door stopped closing and slowly reopened as the old lady peered again around the door.

“No, dearie, I wouldn't be seen dead with that wretched man's name attached to me. I go by the name I was born with: Santander. Pity my son won't change, but then he didn't hate his father quite as much as I do. Do you realize what a selfish, whining, snivelling, log-splitting son of a …”

She started at the sound of Patrick's voice calling gently from the bowels of the house. “Mother, Mother, what are you doing?” She looked at me conspiratorially.

I smiled uncertainly. “I have a meeting with Patrick Whyte, please.”

“Oh, you don't want to go upset my little Pattie.” Again, the old woman started to close the door. “He's busy now on his electric computer. There's a sweetie. Run along home and play.”

I started to protest and then heard Patrick's voice again, “Mum, what are you doing? You know you're not supposed to go answering the door. I'll take care of it. You go back to your room.”

The voice was strong, solicitous, and made my knees go weak, but when its owner jerked the door wide he stopped, suddenly embarrassed. Was it because he had forgotten about me or was it because of his mother?

His mother cackled in the hallway. “Your girlfriend called me Mrs. Whyte, Pattie. What a rotten nasty man he was …”

“Mother. Nobody's interested in Dad,” he said gently. “Leave it be. You know it just upsets you. And she's not my girlfriend.” He gently guided his mother back into the house as she called over her shoulder to me.

“You don't want to go upset my little Pattie. He's got his work to do. He's got a paper route, all by himself, and only eleven too. He's gonna be really wealthy one day.”

“I'm sorry. Perhaps I shouldn't have come,” I said, when Patrick returned.

He shrugged as if to say the harm was done.

“It's one of her bad days,” he said. “She just forgets sometimes what day it is.” He looked at me, as if waiting for me to contradict him. I wanted to say something that would make him realize that I understood, make him realize what a terrific person I was, but of course I couldn't find the words. Probably because I didn't really understand what he was going through.

“You wanted to see Diamond's disk before showing me the film? We were to meet at your lab but you weren't there, so …” I trailed off.

“Oh jeez, I'm sorry. I completely forgot.” He glanced back over his shoulder, flicking the hair out of his eyes. “I forgot. Give me five and I'll be right with you.”

I stood in the foyer peering into the dark interior, feeling embarrassed. But why should I feel embarrassed? He was the one who had forgotten. I could hear Mrs. Santander's voice floating querulously back to me. “But Pattie, I don't want Mrs. Brickman again. I don't like her. You know I don't, Pattie.”

It was some time before Patrick came back, ruffling his hand through his hair and sucking on his lower lip.

“Let's go,” he said.

I had to jog to keep up with his rapid walk across a small park, down a residential street, and out onto the campus. He didn't say anything, and the silence was excruciating. Finally, I just said the second thing that came into my head. The first thing was X-rated.

“Who took care of Diamond's film?” I asked.

Without a hesitation in his stride he said, “I did. He'd dump everything on my desk and get me to take it to the lab.”

“Did he take very many pictures when he was in the field?”

Patrick laughed. “It depends on what you mean by many. Jake was a photoholic. He took pictures the way most people eat potato chips — non-stop.”

“What about pictures from that last field trip? Did any turn up?”

“Yeah, that was odd. There were none, at least nothing's arrived at the lab. I suppose Lianna might have them. I hadn't thought to ask her.”

“As I told you, the cops say there were no films at all. No unexposed film either.”

“Odd. He must have lost them, I guess. It's been known to happen before. He once put all his exposed film in a jacket pocket and then lost the jacket. “

“Did he usually keep the canisters to put the exposed film back in? Or did he toss them?”

“Always kept them. He wasn't like most of us, who usually lose a canister or two. His exposed film always went back into a canister. You do ask a lot of questions, don't you?” But at least he said it with a smile.

I thought back to the film Ryan had found. It hadn't been in a canister, and that could mean only one thing: if the film was Diamond's, it had been taken out of his camera by someone else. But why?

When we got to Patrick's lab I handed him the disk and he popped it in.

I pointed to the folders and said, “There were six cats.”

Patrick shook his head and began searching through the files. “Can't be right. We only collared five.”

He punched some keys and said, “No, that's wrong. Diamond's got an old folder mixed up in his current things. He was always doing that sort of thing. It's impossible, you see. We lost the sixth radio collar a year ago — we had only six because they're worth a small fortune. One of the lynx disappeared, and the signal
stopped transmitting. We never did find the collar, much to Davies' annoyance.”

“But look, one of them appears to have been tagged in March,” I said and reached over to take the mouse from him. Our hands touched, and I looked up to see him smiling at me, his eyes dancing and my heart swirling. I looked away in confusion. He took his hand away.

“No way. He never tagged on his own, never. We tagged five cats in April and May. This sixth cat is from last year. We radio-tagged six cats last May, so he's mixed up his folders somehow with them.”

He punched in some numbers and checked the date. There was no year. No wonder Diamond mixed them up. I wondered if he forgot to date his data often.

Patrick stood up, towering over me, and I suddenly felt his strength as he looked down at me, aware for the first time of just how small I was compared with him. Disconcerted by the force of this revelation and the softness of his eyes, I tried to concentrate on all the questions that I wanted to ask him. He walked over to a shabby leather sofa and sat down.

“Have a seat,” he said, patting the sofa beside him and smiling.
Jesus, what do I do now?
I thought. Self-consciously, I walked over and sat down, feeling like the Tin Man needing his joints oiled as his eyes followed me the whole way to the sofa. Suddenly all I wanted to do was get away, afraid I would blow whatever I hoped might develop between us by saying something stupid. I was in that kind of mood, but I needed to know what he knew and it was easier to ask questions than to get up and make some feeble excuse about having to go. I was committed. There was no easier way out than to stay. So I pressed on.

“What I wanted to know was where he was flying during May and June and who flies surveillance for you?”

He turned his eyes away from me then and said, “It would have been over his study area, which is huge, but the notes would pinpoint that. He has the co-ordinates keyed in. I have them here, but you must understand that their home range can be quite big, so I really don't see that their movements will help you at all.”

I sighed. Big dead end.

“What about Jeff? Who was he?”

“Jeff Reardon? He used to take Diamond out. He owned a small wildlife preserve up near Dumoine and did a bit of breeding of wild animals. Had permits, of course. It was a first-class operation.”

He paused, and I could hear a phone ringing in the distance.

“What happened to him?” I asked softly.

“His place burned down in July and took Reardon with it. Everything was lost, all his records, everything. It was a real tragedy. Most of the animals died too. It was a horrible fluke thing. We'd had no rain in weeks — you remember how dry the spring was. There were forest fire alerts out all over the place. And it was too remote for the fire department to get there in time. Lightning hit one of the buildings and there was nothing anyone could do. All the buildings were wood. It was gone in twenty minutes, they say. Reardon died trying to save his animals.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Yeah, me too. It's a horrible way to die. ”

I didn't know what to say to that so I just nodded, and waited a respectful amount of time before asking, “Would Jake have worked with him on artificial insemination?”

“You mean the captive lynx? Absolutely. One of Diamond's females was shot by some goon a few years back, and the three cubs, two females and a male, were left to die, so Diamond took them to Jeff and they were
raised semi-wild. They experimented with artificial insemination. Jeff picked up a couple more, a male and female, on a reconnaissance flight in New Brunswick. Another hunter's nervous trigger finger had orphaned them, I gather. Anyway, that gave Diamond and Jeff a lot of cubs to work with, and I think all three females got pregnant. Diamond used to go up there a lot to watch them in their compound and see what difference it made being in captivity and that sort of thing. He spent a lot of time up there this past spring.”

“Did you ever go up there and see the cubs?”

“No point. The cubs were strictly off limits to anyone but Diamond and Jeff. Guarding their turf, I guess. Diamond was like that. Fiercely protective of his research. Hated anyone ogling him.”

“There's a locked folder on the disk Shannon gave me. Any idea of the password?”

“Locked folder? What's it called?' He rose to check it out on the computer, but then changed his mind and sat back, shifting himself closer to me so that his left thigh pressed against mine.

“Wild card.” Somehow I managed to get the word out as my mind lingered on the warmth of his body.

“Doesn't mean anything to me,” he said, smiling down at me. “Must be personal, but I'm afraid I can't help you. His passwords were always names — even his bank card number, he turned that into a name — said it was easier to remember. Anyone tell you you have beautiful eyes?”

God, now what do I do?
I thought, startled by this sudden change of events. Seeing my confusion he stood up and offered me his hand. I hesitated a fraction of a second and then gave it to him. He pulled me up faster than both of us realized and I stumbled against him. I felt his other arm come around my waist to steady me
and I wanted to melt into his arms in the worst way. I looked up into his eyes and got lost in their warmth. He didn't let go of me, but stared into my eyes.

“Who are you, Cordi O'Callaghan?” he asked in a soft voice, as he languidly traced a finger around my mouth. Footsteps sounded down the hall and he gently let go of me, and I screamed inside for what I had been sure I had seen in his eyes. He said, as if nothing had just passed between us, “Let's go see the film.” I gathered my senses together and followed him out the door, marvelling at my composure. He led me down a maze of corridors and out into a courtyard. He took my arm then and we walked in silence, my thoughts in turmoil, until we came to a large three-storey old stone building, the only old building on the campus. We walked up the wide stairs, through the massive oak door, and down a long tiled corridor. The walls were warm wood panelling and the high ceilings soared over Patrick's lanky frame. He told me that it was an old courthouse that had been turned into the university's multimedia centre. We stopped at the main desk in a central foyer, and Patrick rang the piercing bell that stood on the desk. A big, burly dishevelled redhead appeared from an inner office.

“Kevin, buddy. Here's the lady that wanted to see the footage of the peace camp meetings — the ones that the students of 101 filmed where Diamond and the loggers nearly came to blows.”

Patrick turned to me as Kevin left to retrieve the film and said, “I've got to get back. Are you around for dinner?” I don't know why I said no. It certainly wasn't what I wanted to say but out it came, and he just smiled and said, “Maybe another time then?” I mutely nodded and then he was gone. The ache in my mind that he had ignited grew stronger as I watched him disappear. Why had I said no?

What was I afraid of? Was I on the threshold of something good or something bad? I stood there in the hall twiddling my thumbs and thinking about him. I must have been mistaken about the look he gave me. It must have meant something else. He was really just being polite asking me to dinner. I tried to put him out of my mind. I didn't need this.

“Dr. O'Callaghan!”

I turned with a sinking heart and saw Eric Davies walking briskly toward me, his small frame and hair and red face bristling with purpose. I braced myself for the onslaught. He was at least ten feet away when he held out his hand and sailed in on me, saying, “I think I owe you an apology for my behaviour the other day.”

Was this damage control, I wondered, and if so, why?

“It was inexcusable. I do get carried away when it comes to guarding the reputation of my department.” He took me by the arm and said, “I hope you won't make any trouble for us here. You know our university doesn't need negative publicity. We don't want anything more in the papers.”