Fanatics (23 page)

“Good. The late professor would have been most gratified to know that an intelligent young woman like Miss Skye had read his book.”

She blew her nose and continued to pull herself back together.

“Well,” she sighed, making a final dab with her hanky and stuffing it up her sleeve, “an interesting conversation to be sure.”

“It’s not over yet.”

“In that case.” She held up the bottle to ask if I wanted more, and reading my refusal in my face, she topped up her drink.

“I have a few questions, if you don’t mind,” I said.

She took a slug. “Please go on.”

“This may sound strange, but have you ever noticed the odour of smoke around the house? Or even outside?”

I kept my eyes on her face, certain that if she tried to be evasive or dishonest I’d notice.

“Not since the library was cleaned and the draperies and rugs laundered.”

It was possible. Her activities in the mansion were mainly confined to her bedroom, the kitchen, and the room where we were sitting now. The spectre could reveal himself when he wanted. And to whoever he wished. Did the odour he left behind follow the same rule of ghostly physics?

I pushed on. “You’ve told me that toward the end of his life the late professor was very secretive, and that he asked you to stay away from the library. I get the impression that
he was acting … um, in a way that was uncharacteristic.”

I had almost said “acting crazy” but caught myself just in time.

“I …” She paused momentarily. “I used to love that library,” she said sadly. “It was—is—such a beautiful room, so full of light. It was our custom each morning to take our coffee there before our breakfast. We would chat or read contentedly, surrounded by our books, discussing our plans to return one day to Italy and retire to a small village outside Florence. Our house there has been in the Corbizzi family for three hundred years. There is a small garden and a few olive trees on the rise beyond the yard. I regret to say it passed into other hands when the professor needed to raise money quickly last year for his research.

“There was a time, Mr. Havelock, when I would not have shared with you what I am about to relate. But you have proved to be a reliable and, may I say, a caring young man, and I feel that I can confide in you.

“During the last few years the professor began to act in a way that was, as you say, uncharacteristic. He was frequently agitated. He had begun a new project, his last book, he promised, his best and most important. I saw immediately that it was not like the others, which he composed at an orderly pace, working an hour or two each morning after breakfast, then again after lunch. He became obsessed, as if his life would have been rendered meaningless if he didn’t finish the project.

“He grew increasingly secretive, retreating to the library behind closed doors. He made me swear to keep confidential all facts pertaining to his most recent work. Eventually he requested, then demanded, that I stay away from the room
in which we had passed so many pleasant hours. He worked feverishly, often long into the night, as if desperate to reach some self-imposed deadline. Occasionally I would open the doors to see him asleep at his work.

“I feared for his health. He lost weight and his colour was not good. Sometimes I heard him talking to himself, at times remonstrating, as if he was arguing with someone. I looked forward to the day when that accursed book would be finished for good and all. But of course, he passed on before … I was about to say, ‘before he brought the book to a conclusion,’ but you’ve said it
is
finished.”

“Did his change in behaviour begin as soon as he started the book?”

“Shortly thereafter. He was conducting preliminary research and drafting the outline when he told me excitedly that he had made some sort of breakthrough or discovery and it was imperative that he go immediately to Florence. It was subsequent to his return that he … changed. For some reason, the journey altered him, and he evolved from a kind and gentle man to a person possessed. He was frantic to finish the project.”

“Did he bring anything home with him?”

“Papers. Notes from his research. Books. And something he refused to let me see. He kept it in the library, out of sight.”

“So you don’t know what it was.”

“Not until today. I know now. It had to have been that cross.”

Everything Mrs. Stoppini had told me fit with what Raphaella and I had deduced. Now I had to proceed cautiously. I couldn’t let slip anything about the spirit haunting
the library. If I did, Mrs. Stoppini would think I had flipped my lid.

“Mrs. Stoppini, there are two important—crucial—suggestions Raphaella and I want to make.”

“Very well.”

“But you can’t ask why we’re making them.”

“Indeed. Well, Mr. Havelock, you
are
mysterious when the spirit takes you.”

You’re not kidding, I almost said, not realizing at first that she was using the word “spirit” in a different way.

“About the cross. If it is bequeathed to the university”—she nodded as I spoke—“please don’t take it to Italy yourself. Don’t let anyone take it. Send it. The second thing is that Raphaella and I are certain there is only one copy of the professor’s manuscript. There should be a backup copy. We’d like your permission to take it out of the house to have it photocopied.”

I had decided not to tell her that Raphaella had photos of each page, taken without permission.

“We hope you’ll have it published,” I said.

“Yes, Mr. Havelock, I agree. As I said, I was not aware that the late professor had completed the book. That fact alters my original intention to include it among his papers and add it to the bequest. I shall not do so. But I see no need to hurry publication. The manuscript will keep, I am sure.”

Not if it burns first, I wanted to say but couldn’t.

“In addition,” she went on, “you are quite correct about making a photocopy. I shall lodge the second copy with my lawyer. He keeps a safe in his chambers. I would be most grateful if you and Miss Skye could attend to that task as soon as is convenient.”

I relaxed a bit and took another sip of the grappa. We sat together for a few minutes in what Mrs. Stoppini would have called a companionable silence. I heard her sigh, then she spoke softly.

“In a way, Mr. Havelock, the late professor gave his life to that manuscript.”

She didn’t know how right she was.

I
T WAS LATE AFTERNOON
when I got home to find Dad assaulting the hemlock hedge that borders our yard, his electric clippers buzzing and clattering as he slashed away like a cavalier. Mom was relaxing in a chaise longue on the patio, spooning boysenberry yogurt into her mouth.

“How was your day?” she asked.

“Eventful.”

“How so?”

“Tell you later. I gotta hit the shower. Make sure Dad still has all his fingers when he’s done.”

I stood under the hot water a long time, letting the shower sluice away the day’s sweat and tension and trying to decide what had been more intimidating, the testosterone-charged atmosphere of the paintball camp or the mournful face of Mrs. Stoppini. I was pleased that she had opened up a bit. When I thought about it, I recognized that she had placed a lot of trust in me from the start—in certain areas.
Not that I blamed her for guarding her personal business. It was her unexplained behaviour concerning the secret cupboard that had weakened my trust in her and led me to wonder if, in a way, I was being used and purposely kept in the dark. Now I believed in her, and that made me both glad and relieved, because I liked Mrs. Stoppini.

I was getting into clean clothes when my cell rang.

“It’s your companion,” Raphaella said.

“Nice to hear your voice, Ethel.”

“Hah-hah. What did she say?”

I sat down on the edge of my bed and replayed my conversation with Mrs. Stoppini.

“It must have been hard on her, going over the events of the prof’s death again,” Raphaella remarked.

“Yeah. There were lots of tears. But I got the feeling she was relieved, too, like she was unburdening herself.”

“She’d been holding it all in since he died.”

“Right.”

“But you’re certain she knows nothing about our favourite ghost?”

“I’m pretty sure.”

“Good. And you got her permission to take the manuscript away and get it copied?”

“Yup.”

“You’re brilliant.”

“Come over for supper. We can pick up a movie and flop in front of the
TV
for the evening.”

“Okay. Who’s cooking?”

“Dad.”

“Oh.”

“Come anyway. It’s barbecue.”

“Barbecued what?”

“I don’t know. Some dead animal or other. I’ll try to get Dad to throw some veggie burgers on the grill while he’s at it.”

W
HEN
I
CAME DOWNSTAIRS
Dad was still raising mayhem in the yard, a clutter of hemlock cuttings at his feet. I dragged a chair beside Mom and sat down.

“How’s the research going?” I asked.

“You haven’t explained your cryptic answer to my question when you came home.”

“You first.”

“Are you still my confidential source?”

“Yup.”

“Meaning anything I tell you can’t be shared.”

I nodded.

“Even with Raphaella.”

“No dice, Mom. I tell her everything. Besides, she already knows most of it.”

“All right. I’m not surprised. Anyway, I’ve contacted the Mounties through my lawyer. The laws relating to terrorist activity and suspected activity are pretty broad, so someone like me has to be careful about even possessing information affecting national security, because that can be interpreted as a crime. Protecting an anonymous source is very difficult. The old rules about reporters refusing to divulge a source don’t really apply. It’s all very unclear, and if it’s unclear, the practical result is that the security forces have very wide powers to make my life hell.”

“So you think these guys
are
terrorists?”

“I think it’s possible. I
know
the Mounties will think it’s likely. I can’t tell the authorities about the cellphone—not yet anyway—without getting into legal complications. In the meantime, my lawyer has worked out a deal with the cops. My position is that an anonymous source warned me about some suspicious-looking guys at a hunt camp near Orillia. I followed up and got enough info for a story, and I want to go ahead. But I understand the cops’ position that I can’t compromise an investigation. So I’ll agree to hold off. When the cops break the story, the basic facts will go out via the usual press conference. Once it’s announced, I have the exclusive on all the details.”

“That’s great, Mom. You can continue your research so you’ll be ready when you get the green light.”

“Exactly.”

“Will it go worldwide, d’you think?”

“Probably. For which I have you to thank.”

“True,” I replied, smiling.

“Even though you bribed me.”

“If you want to play in the big leagues, Mom, you gotta be tough.”

She laughed. “Right. My son, the hard rock.”

“Anyway, go on before Dad finishes.”

“The phone was the key,” she continued. “By tracking down many of the numbers I’ve been able to identify some of the men. Most of them live in the Scarborough area. A lot of the calls were made to a particular mosque in the same locality. I’m beginning to piece together a scenario, but I have lots more research to do, including a trip to the city to confirm a lot of what I have.”

“How does the drowned guy who was found up on Cumberland Beach fit into all this?”

“I’m coming to that. You were right about the link between the cellphone, the
GPS
, and the drowned man. There’s been an information blackout on the corpse. Since the body was discovered there has been no further information about him—no name, no cause of death, no autopsy report. When I made enquiries I was stonewalled. The Mounties won’t confirm or deny that there
was
an autopsy.”

I remembered one of Mom’s reporter’s maxims: if the authorities refused to tell you something, it was because they had something to hide. Which demanded the question …

“Why?”

“Good question. One of the first things I did was follow the links. The dead man owned the
GPS
you found. The
GPS
took you to the camp, where you came across the cellphone. The info on the phone’s memory card led me to the Scarborough mosque and the men I mentioned before. But there’s more. It turns out that whoever owned the cellphone made dozens of calls to a certain very interesting telephone number. I pulled in a few favours and discovered that telephone number belongs to a cop. A Mountie.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not kidding. The Mountie was the drowned man’s controller. The dead guy must have been undercover.”

“Meaning he was also a cop.”

“Or working for them as an informer. Feeding them intelligence. Or helping them to set up a sting. Everything you and I know—and more—the cops are also aware of.”

“Meaning,” I added with a shudder, “there’s a good chance the undercover was found out by the gang and killed.”

I recalled the night at the mansion, when I stood at the window and watched the thunderstorm tear up the sky. I had
thought I heard a motorboat. Were the paintballers dumping the body of the murdered undercover man, not realizing that somehow his
GPS
had floated away?

“I wonder what the paintballers are planning,” I muttered.

“You should stop calling them that. It makes them seem like innocent sportsmen. These guys are serious characters. They’re in training. They were considered dangerous enough for the cops to infiltrate the group.”

I thought of the paintball hits around the door and window of the cabin out at the camp, and of the leader, with his commanding air and the machine pistol hanging across his chest. But then I saw in my mind’s eye the so-called sentry I had come upon that very morning. He didn’t seem dangerous. He was a joke, playing at soldier with his music-player buds in his ears.

“The Mounties still don’t know about the
GPS
and the cellphone,” Mom said. “That’s why I had you take the cell to your new workshop. It’s evidence. If the cops turn on me and get a search warrant for the house to take away my files and computer and so on—and they’ve done it before to other journalists with pretty flimsy cause—I need the cell to be off-site where the search warrant won’t apply.”