GILES BLUNT

THE DELICATE STORM

For Janna

Epigraph

It is that these distant pawnsBreach this human wish,Crashing as they doUpon so particular a heaven.

DONALD LORIMER,

The Delicate Storm

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Epigraph

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

Black Fly Season

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading

About the Author

By the Same Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

1

First came the warmth. Three weeks after New Year’s and the thermometer did what it never does in January in Algonquin Bay: it rose above the freezing mark. Within a matter of hours the streets were shiny and black with melted snow.

There wasn’t a trace of sun. A ceiling of cloud installed itself above the cathedral spire and gave every appearance of permanence. The warm days that followed passed in an oppressive twilight that lasted from breakfast to late afternoon. Everywhere there were dark mutterings about global warming.

Then came the fog.

At first it moved in fine tendrils among the trees and forests that surround Algonquin Bay. By Saturday afternoon it was rolling in thick clouds along the highways. The wide expanse of Lake Nipissing dwindled to a faint outline, then vanished utterly. Slowly the fog squeezed its way into town and pressed itself up against the stores and the churches. One by one the red brick houses retired behind the grubby grey curtain.

By Monday morning Ivan Bergeron couldn’t even see his own hand. He had slept late, having drunk an unwise amount of beer while watching the hockey game the night before. Now he was making his way from the house to his garage, which was less than twenty yards away but totally obscured by fog. The stuff clung in webs to Bergeron’s face and hands; he could feel it trailing through his fingers. And it played tricks with sound. The yellow bloom of headlights glided by, dead slow, followed – after an otherworldly delay – by the sound of tires on wet road.

Somewhere his dog was barking. Normally, Shep was a quiet, self-sufficient kind of mutt. But for some reason – maybe the fog – he was out in the woods and barking maniacally. The sound pierced Bergeron’s hungover skull like needles.

‘Shep! Come here, Shep!’ He waited for a few moments in the murk, but the dog didn’t come.

Bergeron opened up the garage and went to work on the battered Ski-Doo he had promised to fix by last Thursday. The owner was coming for it at noon, and the thing was still in bits and pieces around the shop.

He switched on the radio, and the voices of the CBC filled the garage. Usually, when it was warm enough, he worked with the garage door open, but the fog lay in the driveway like some creature out of a nightmare and he found it depressing. He was just about to pull the door down when the dog’s barking got louder, sounding like it was coming from the backyard now.

‘Shep!’ Bergeron waded through the fog, one hand out before him like a blind man. ‘Shep! For God’s sake, can it, willya?’

The barking changed to growling, interrupted by peculiar canine whines. A tremor of unease passed through Bergeron’s outsize frame. Last time this had happened, the dog had been playing with a snake.

‘Shep. Take it easy, boy. I’m coming.’

Bergeron moved with small steps now, edging his way forward like a man on a ledge. He squinted into the fog.

‘Shep?’

He could just make the dog out, six feet away, down on his forepaws, clawing at something on the ground. Bergeron edged closer and took hold of the dog’s collar.

‘Easy, boy.’

The dog whined a little and licked his hand. Bergeron bent lower to see what was on the ground.

‘Oh my God.’

It lay there, fishbelly white, hair curling along one side. Toward the wrist end, the flesh still bore the zigzag impression of a watch with an expandable bracelet. Even though there was no hand attached, there was no doubt that the thing lying in Ivan Bergeron’s backyard was a human arm.

If it hadn’t been for Ray Choquette’s decision to retire, John Cardinal would not have been sitting in the waiting room with his father when he could have been down at headquarters catching up on phone calls, or – better yet – out on the street making life a misery for one of Algonquin Bay’s bad guys. But no. Here he was, stuck with his father, waiting to see a doctor neither of them had ever met. A female doctor at that – as if Stan Cardinal was going to take advice from a woman. Ray Choquette, Cardinal thought, I could wring your lazy, inconsiderate neck.

The senior Cardinal was eighty-three – physically. The hair on his forearms was white now, and he had the watery eyes of a very old man. In other ways, his son was thinking, the guy never got past the age of four.

‘How much longer is she gonna make us wait?’ Stan asked for the third time. ‘Forty-five minutes we’ve been sitting here. What kind of respect does that show for other people’s time? How can she possibly be a good doctor?’

‘It’s like anything else, Dad. A good doctor’s a busy doctor.’

‘Nonsense. It’s greed. A hundred percent pure capitalist greed. You know, I was happy making thirty-five thousand dollars a year on the railroad. We had to fight like hell to get that kind of money, and by God we fought for it. But nobody goes to medical school because they want to make thirty-five thousand dollars.’

Here we go, Cardinal thought. Rant number 27D. It was like his father’s brain consisted of a collection of cassettes.

‘And then you’ve got the government playing Scrooge with these guys,’ Stan went on. ‘So they become stockbrokers or lawyers, where they can make the kind of money they want. And then we end up with no damn doctors.’

‘Talk to Geoff Mantis. He’s the one who took the chainsaw to medicare.’

‘They’d make you wait, anyways, no matter how many of them there were,’ Stan said. ‘It’s a class thing. Class not only must exist, it must be seen to exist. Making you wait is their way of saying, “I’m important and you’re not.”’

‘Dad, there’s a shortage of doctors. That’s why we have to wait.’

‘What I want to know is, what kind of young woman spends her day looking down people’s throats and up their anuses? I’d never do it.’

‘Mr Cardinal?’

Stan got to his feet with difficulty. The young receptionist came round from behind her desk, clutching a file folder.

‘Do you need some help?’

‘I’m fine, I’m fine.’ Stan turned to his son. ‘You coming, or what?’

‘I don’t need to go in with you,’ Cardinal said.

‘No, you come too. I want you to hear this. You think I’m not fit to drive, I want you to hear the truth.’

The receptionist opened the door to the consulting room and they went in.

‘Mr Cardinal? Winter Cates.’ The doctor couldn’t have been much more than thirty, but she rose from behind her desk and came round to shake hands with the brisk efficiency of an old pro. She had fine, pale skin that contrasted sharply with her black hair. Dark eyebrows knit themselves in a quizzical look now, aimed at Cardinal.

‘I’m his son. He asked me to come in with him.’

‘He thinks I can’t drive,’ Stan said. ‘But I know my feet are better, and I want him to hear it from the horse’s mouth. How old are you, anyway?’

‘I’m thirty-two. How old are you?’

Stan emitted a quack of surprise. ‘I’m eighty-three.’

Dr Cates gestured at a chair facing the desk.

‘That’s okay. I’ll stand for now.’

The three of them stood there in the middle of the room, Dr Cates flipping through Stan’s chart. Her hair was held in place by a clip; without it, it would be springing out all over the place, wild and black. She radiated a sense of enormous vitality, barely held in check by the seriousness of her profession.

‘Well, you’ve been a healthy guy up until recently,’ the doctor said.

‘Never smoked. Never drank more than a beer with dinner.’

‘Smart guy, too, then.’

‘Some people might not think so.’ Stan shot a glance at his son that Cardinal ignored.

‘And you have diabetes, which you keep under control with Glucophage. You’re self-monitoring?’

‘Oh, yeah. Can’t say I enjoy pricking my finger every five minutes, but yeah. I keep my blood sugar right in the normal range. You’re welcome to check it.’

‘I plan to.’

Stan looked at Cardinal. His expression said, ‘Is this woman being rude to me? By God, if this woman’s being rude to me …’

‘And Dr Choquette notes you had considerable neuropathy in your feet.’

‘Had. It’s better now.’

‘You were having trouble walking. Standing, even. Driving must have been out of the question, right?’

‘Well, I wouldn’t say that. My feet just felt – not numb, exactly – but like they had sponges on ’em. It didn’t slow me up much.’

Please don’t let him drive, Cardinal was thinking. He’ll kill himself or somebody else, and I don’t want to get that phone call.

Dr Cates led Stan to a door off to the right. ‘Just take a seat in the examining room. Remove your shoes and socks and shirt.’

‘My shirt?’

‘I want to listen to your heart. Dr Choquette noted some arrhythmia and referred you to a cardiologist. That was six months ago, but I don’t see any results here.’

‘Yeah, well, I never got to see that cardiologist.’

‘That’s not good,’ Dr Cates said. There was a note of flint in her voice.

‘He was busy, I was busy. You know how it is. It just never happened.’

‘You have heart failure in your family history, Mr Cardinal. That is not something you ignore.’ She turned to Cardinal. She had the kind of cool gaze he found sexy in a woman, no doubt because it was meant not to be. ‘I think you’d better wait out here.’

‘Fine with me.’ Cardinal took a seat.

There was a rap on the door and the receptionist came in. ‘Sorry. Craig Simmons is here. He insists I tell you he’s still waiting.’

‘Melissa, I’m with a patient. I have patients lined up all day. He can’t just drop in like this.’

‘I know that. I keep telling him. I’ve told him fifty times. He won’t listen.’

‘All right. Tell him I can see him for five minutes after this patient. But this is the last time … Sorry about that,’ Dr Cates said when her receptionist had gone, her dark eyes no longer cool. ‘Some people can’t take no for an answer.’

She went into the examining room and closed the door. Cardinal could hear their voices but not what they said. He looked around at the consulting room. In Ray Choquette’s day it had been all chrome and vinyl. Now there were leather chairs, a ceiling fan and two glass-fronted book-cases crammed with medical texts. A deep red Persian rug gave the place a warm, inviting feel, more like a study than an office.

Fifteen minutes later Dr Cates came out of the examining room, followed by his father, who was looking thunderous.

She pulled out her pad and spoke while she wrote. ‘I’m giving you two prescriptions. The first one is a diuretic; that should help keep your chest clear. And the other one is a blood thinner, to keep your blood pressure down.’ She tore off the scrips and handed them to Stan. ‘I’m going to call the cardiologist myself. That way we’ll be sure to get you in. My assistant will call you to let you know what time.’

‘What about the driving?’ Cardinal said.

Dr Cates shook her head. A strand of black hair came loose and curled around her neck. ‘No driving.’

That did it for Stan. ‘Goddammit. How would you like it if you had to call someone every time you wanted to go out? Thirty years old, what do you know about anything? How do you know what I can or can’t feel – in my feet or any other damn place? I was driving twenty years before you were born. Never had an accident. Never had so much as a speeding ticket. And now you’re telling me I can’t drive? What am I supposed to do? Call him every five minutes?’

‘I know it’s upsetting, Mr Cardinal. And you’re right: I wouldn’t like it at all. But there’s a couple of things you might want to keep in mind.’

‘Oh, sure. Now you can tell me what to think, too.’

‘Let me finish.’

‘What did you say to me?’

‘I said let me finish.’

Good for you, Cardinal thought. A lot of people were cowed by Stan’s bluster – including his own son sometimes – but this young woman was holding her own.

‘A couple of things to keep in mind. First, this neuropathy will probably get better. You’ve been looking after your blood sugar, and that’s the best thing you can do. Three or four more months might make all the difference. Second, everybody depends on other people. We all have to learn to ask for what we need.’

‘It’s like being crippled, for God’s sake.’

‘It’s not the end of the world. Frankly, I’m far more worried about your heart. I’m hearing a lot of fluid in your chest. Let’s get that looked after and then we’ll worry about your driving, all right?’

When Cardinal and his father stepped back into the waiting room, a man got out of his chair and brushed by them. Something about him was familiar – the combination of blond hair and the gym-rat physique – but he entered the consulting room and closed the door before Cardinal could place him.

Cardinal waited while the receptionist explained a referral form to his father. Angry voices issued from the consulting room.

‘Dr Cates get many patients like that?’ Cardinal said to the receptionist.

‘He’s not a patient. He’s a – well, I don’t know what you’d call him.’

‘Can we please get out of here?’ said Stan. ‘Believe it or not, I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in a doctor’s office.’

Cardinal had to take it slow up Algonquin. The fog that had been blanketing the region for the past few days was thickest at the bottom of Airport Hill. The end of January and it was as warm as April. Normally this time of year you’d expect blinding blue skies and temperatures so far below zero it didn’t bear thinking about. But the fog was beginning to have a permanent look.

‘Of course, there’s no such thing as global warming,’ Cardinal said, trying to shake his father out of his mood.

‘She talked to me like I was six years old,’ Stan said.

‘She told you the truth. Telling someone the truth is a mark of respect.’

‘Like you don’t have better things to do than drive me all over hell’s half acre.’

‘Well, you’re always telling me I’m in a lousy line of work.’

‘Which is true. Why you want to spend your time chasing lunatics and vagabonds is beyond me. Or those domestics you get? Husbands so drunk they can’t stand up? You and I both know the only reason anyone ever gets caught is because the crooks are even dumber than the – Where are you going, John? That was my driveway back there.’

‘Sorry. Can’t see a thing with this fog.’

‘Look, you can just make out the squirrel there.’

Stan Cardinal had a huge copper squirrel in his front yard, an ancient weather vane he’d salvaged years ago. The fog lent it a nightmarish cast. Cardinal made a careful U-turn and pulled into the drive.

‘Give me a call tomorrow and we’ll get you to the cardiologist. If I can’t do it, Catherine will be happy to – Hold on.’ His cellphone was buzzing.

‘Cardinal, where are you?’ It was Duty Sergeant Mary Flower. ‘We got a 10–47 at Main and MacPherson and we need everyone we’ve got.’

‘I’m on it.’ He clicked off the phone. ‘Gotta run,’ he said to Stan. ‘Call Catherine later and let her know what time tomorrow.’

‘Major crisis, is it? Another one of your domestics, I bet.’

‘Actually, it’s a bank robbery.’

The Federal Trust was right downtown, on Main Street – a low, red brick structure that made no attempt to blend in with the century-old buildings that surrounded it. Cardinal didn’t bank there, but he remembered going inside with his father as a kid. By the time he pulled up in front, there were already three black-and-whites parked at crazy angles in the street and on the sidewalk.

Ken Szelagy, the size of a grizzly bear and by his own description a mad Hungarian, was at the door, jabbering into his cellphone. He raised a hand as Cardinal approached. ‘Guy’s long gone. We’re trying to get access to the security tape right now. Gonna be fun looking for him in this pea soup, eh?’

‘Anybody hurt?’

‘Nope. Shaken up some, though.’

‘Delorme inside?’

‘Yeah. She’s got things pretty much under control.’

Lise Delorme, in addition to being a first-class detective, had a calm, reasonable manner that was a real asset in dealing with the public. She had compelling physical qualities, too, but right now it was that reasonable manner that counted. Cardinal had handled several bank robberies, and usually it meant a scene of excitement verging on hysteria. But Delorme had got all the employees sitting quietly at their desks, waiting to be interviewed. Cardinal found her talking to the manager in his glass-fronted office.

The manager himself hadn’t seen anything of the robbery but led them to the young teller who just minutes before had been looking at the barrel of a gun. Cardinal let Delorme ask the questions.

‘He was wearing a scarf over his face,’ the teller said. ‘A plaid scarf. He had it pulled up like an outlaw, you know, in a western. It all happened so fast.’

‘What about his voice?’ Delorme said. ‘What did he sound like?’

‘I never heard his voice. He didn’t say anything – at least, I don’t think so. He just stood there staring at me and passed a note over the counter. It was terrifying.’

‘Do you still have that note?’

She shook her head. ‘He took it with him.’

Cardinal glanced around. There was a balled-up piece of paper at his feet. He picked it up and opened it by the edges, trying to preserve any fingerprints. There was typing on one side, and on the other, printed in pencil with idiosyncratic spelling: Don’t make a sound or I’ll shot. Don’t press any alarms or I’ll shot. Hand over all the money in your droor.

‘I emptied the top drawer and put it in a manila envelope. That’s what we’re supposed to do in this situation, we’re just supposed to do what they ask. He shoved the money in his knapsack.’

‘What colour was the knapsack?’

‘Red.’

‘Are you sure he said nothing at all?’ Delorme said. ‘I’m sure it happened very quickly, but try and think back.’

‘He said, “Just do it.” Something like that. Oh, and “Hurry up.”’

‘Did he have an accent?’ Delorme asked. ‘English? French Canadian?’ Her own accent was light French Canadian. The only time Cardinal noticed it was when she was angry.

‘I was so terrified he was going to shoot me, I didn’t notice.’

‘Oh my God,’ Cardinal said, staring at the other side of the note. ‘It’s Wudky.’ He stepped away from the counter and gestured for Delorme to follow.

‘What the hell is a Wudky?’ she wanted to know. Delorme had worked the mostly white-collar arena of Special Investigations for six years before moving to CID. There were gaps in her knowledge of the local fauna.

‘WDC – or Wudky – short for World’s Dumbest Criminal. Wudky is Robert Henry Hewitt.’

‘You’re saying you know this Hewitt’s the guy?’

Cardinal handed her the note. ‘Hold it by the edge, there.’

Delorme peered at both sides of the note, then caught her breath. ‘It’s an old arrest warrant. The guy writes a holdup note on the back of his own arrest warrant? I don’t believe it.’

‘You don’t win the title of World’s Dumbest Criminal by half-measures. Robert Henry Hewitt is a real champ, and I happen to know where he lives.’

‘Well, so do I. It’s right here on his holdup note.’

Robert Henry Hewitt lived in the basement apartment of a miniature, rundown house tucked into the crevasse of a rock cut behind Ojibwa Secondary School. Cardinal stopped the car in a grey swirl of fog. They could just make out the row of dented garbage cans at the end of the driveway. ‘Looks like we beat him home.’

‘If he isn’t home by now, what makes you think he’s coming?’

Cardinal shrugged. ‘It’s the dumbest thing I can think of.’

‘What kind of car does he drive?’

‘Orange Toyota, about a hundred years old. Even the spackling is rusty.’

They heard the car approach before they saw it – a disembodied collection of sound effects for the Tin Man. Then it clattered past them, a dangling exhaust pipe scraping the sidewalk as it pulled into the driveway.

‘Open your door,’ Cardinal said. ‘Let’s be ready to move.’

‘But he’s armed,’ Delorme said. ‘Shouldn’t we call for backup?’ She looked at him, those earnest brown eyes sizing him up. Cardinal thought about Delorme’s eyes more often than he would have liked.

‘Technically, yes. On the other hand, I know Robert. We’re not in a hell of a lot of danger.’

The Toyota’s one good tail light dimmed and went out.

Cardinal and Delorme got out of the car and left the doors open so as not to make a sound. Stepping carefully on the wet pavement, they moved in on the Toyota.

The driver, a small man with frizzy ginger hair and a plaid scarf around his neck, got out and opened the trunk. He pulled out a bulging plastic FoodMart bag, slung a red knapsack over his shoulder and slammed the trunk shut with his elbow.

‘Robert Henry Hewitt?’

He dropped the knapsack and the groceries and started to run, but Cardinal caught hold of his jacket and the two of them fell to the ground in a tangle of arms and legs. Then Cardinal hauled him up, and Algonquin Bay’s master thief found himself face down against the trunk of the Toyota, feet spread wide behind him.

‘If he moves, spank him,’ Cardinal said, and patted him down. He pulled a pistol from a jacket pocket. ‘Goodness me. A firearm.’

‘That there is a toy,’ Hewitt said. ‘I wasn’t gonna hurt nobody.’

‘Wasn’t gonna hurt nobody where?’

‘At the bank, for Chrissake.’

‘Robert, what do I say to you every time I see you?’

Wudky turned to look over his shoulder. When he recognized Cardinal, he grinned, showing splayed front teeth in appalling condition. ‘Oh, hi! How you doing? I was just thinking about you, eh?’

‘Robert? What do I say to you? Every time I see you.’

Wudky thought for a moment. ‘You say, “Stay out of trouble, Robert.”’

‘Nobody listens to me, Sergeant Delorme,’ Cardinal said. ‘It’s a real problem. Check the knapsack there. I’d say we have probable cause.’

Delorme unzipped the knapsack and pulled out a plump manila envelope with Federal Trust stencilled in one corner. She opened it wide and showed the contents to Cardinal.

Cardinal gave a low whistle of appreciation. ‘Quite a haul there, Robert. Why, it looks like you made off with tens of dollars.’

2

After Wudky was safely booked and in his cell, Cardinal went back to his desk to type up his supplementary reports.

The amount of money Wudky had made off with was minuscule. If he’d stolen it from a cash register, he wouldn’t be likely to get more than probation, but Cardinal knew the Crown would insist on a charge of bank robbery and wrote his report accordingly.

He was almost finished when Duty Sergeant Mary Flower called out to him, ‘Hey, Cardinal, I think you better talk to Wudky.’ She was coming out of the doorway that led from the cells to the front desk.

‘Wudky?’ Cardinal said. ‘How important can it be?’

‘He says he has information on some murder.’

Cardinal looked over at Delorme, several desks away. She rolled her eyes.

‘Do you know how unlikely that is?’ Cardinal said.

Flower shrugged. ‘Tell him. Don’t tell me.’

Cardinal and Delorme went back to the holding area. There were eight cells that formed an L between Booking and the garage. Wudky was in the second-last cell, the only one occupied at the moment.

‘I ain’t telling nothing for free,’ Wudky said, trying to sound tough. He looked as forlorn a creature as Cardinal had ever seen, with his hangdog eyes and his smelly sweatshirt. ‘I want to like make a deal. Like so’s I can get out on bail maybe?’

‘Chances aren’t great on that score,’ Cardinal said. ‘But it depends what you have to tell us. I can’t make any promises.’

‘But you’d put in a good word for me? Tell them I did my duty as a citizen? I helped the police?’

‘If you give us some valuable information, I will tell the prosecutor that you have been helpful.’

‘And apologetic too, eh? Tell him I’m sorry about the bank. I don’t know what I was thinking.’

‘I’ll tell him. What have you got, Robert?’

‘I mean, I feel bad, you know – especially since you’re always telling me to stay out of trouble – and I appreciate that. I don’t want you to think I don’t listen. I do listen. I just forget. You know, an idea gets in my head and it kinda worlds around in there like a clothes dryer.’

‘Robert?’

‘What?’

‘Just tell us what you’ve got.’

‘Okay. Day before I pretended to rob the bank?’

‘You took money,’ Delorme said. ‘That isn’t pretending.’

‘Okay, okay. Day before. I’m down in Toronto visiting my girlfriend.’

Cardinal made a mental note – when he had a lot of time – to hear more about this girlfriend. She would have to be either a lunatic or a saint.

‘I’m down in T.O. to see my girlfriend, and I decides to go out one night to a bar. You know, just a night out on my own. So I goes over to Spadina – you know the Penny Wheel?’

‘All too well.’ Before Algonquin Bay, Cardinal had spent ten years on the Toronto force. Every Toronto cop knew the Penny Wheel. It was a dank basement on Spadina, the kind of red-vinyl dive that only a criminal could love. The remarkable thing was that, unlike practically every other square foot of Toronto, this particular dive had managed to remain utterly unchanged.

‘So, I’m over at the Penny Wheel, when who comes in but Thierry Ferand. You know Thierry – he’s like a trapper and shit.’

‘I know Thierry.’ Ferand was indeed one of the local fur trappers. Twice a year he came in out of the woods to sell his wares at the fur auction. Every time he did, he was arrested for drunk and disorderly, and often some variation of assault. There were rumours he occasionally did some work for the local version of the Mafia, but nothing had ever been proved. He was a small guy, but mean with it, and sneaky. When he was upset, his filthy little hand would sprout brass knuckles.

‘Well, me and Thierry go way back.’

‘To Kingston Pen if I recall correctly.’

‘Wow! How’d you know that? You guys’re amazing. Anyways, I see Thierry sitting in a corner by himself, so I go over and we start shooting the breeze. And Thierry is really drunk, eh? I mean really drunk. And he starts telling me things.’ Wudky stepped right up to the bars of his cell and peered both ways along the corridor. Then, in a tone implying information of national import, he said, ‘Big things.’

‘Such as?’

‘Oh, nothing. Just a little murder. Would you be interested in that?’ Whatever else Robert Henry Hewitt may have been, he was easily the world’s worst actor. Cardinal had difficulty keeping a straight face. He was afraid even to glance at Delorme in case they both broke up.

‘Why, yes, Robert. We would be interested in murder.’

‘And you’ll tell the Crown guy I helped you out?’

‘That’s it, I’m leaving.’ Cardinal started for the door.

‘Wait! Wait! Okay, okay! I’ll tell you. You’re such a hard-ass. I’ve met guys in stir that’re more calmer.’ As if to clear Cardinal’s impatience from his brain, Wudky inserted a finger into his own ear and reamed it out. ‘So, what I was saying: Thierry is really drunk and he starts telling me this stuff he knew about that like really scared him, you know? He finishes like his tenth beer or so, and he’s leaning all over the table and he tells me what happened to a friend of his. Guy named Paul Bressard. He’s another trapper, eh? Turns out Paul Bressard got himself murdered. Some guy from out of town he owed money to. Could be Mafia, maybe, a godfather or something. You ever rent that movie?’

‘Could we just stick with the story here, Robert?’ Bressard had indeed, though long ago, been charged with aggravated assault after half killing a man who owed money to Leon Petrucci. Perhaps it was the chilling sound on the tapes from the wiretap of Petrucci’s voice synthesizer (legacy of a fondness for Cuban cigars) telling Bressard he’d be well rewarded for ‘explaining their position,’ but the jury had got cold feet and neither Bressard nor Petrucci served a day. It was just possible his mob connections had somehow come back to bite Bressard.

‘I’m telling you. This guy – some bad guy – comes up to Algonquin Bay from out of town and kills Bressard, and Thierry says he knows where the body is.’

Cardinal turned to Delorme. ‘We receive any missing persons report on Paul Bressard?’

‘Not that I know of. I’ll go check the board.’

‘Okay, Robert, where’s the body?’

‘Do I have to know that before you help me out?’

‘Let’s just say it would add to your chances. And how did Thierry Ferand happen to know where the so-called body was buried in the first place?’

‘I don’t know! I didn’t ask!’ Wudky cocked his head to one side like the RCA dog and scratched his scalp. ‘Well, maybe he did tell me, only I can’t remember. I had a few beers myself. But I’m telling you about a murder you didn’t know about, right? The Crown’ll like take that under consignment, right?’

‘I’ll check it out,’ Cardinal said. ‘But I hope you’re not wasting my time.’

‘Oh, no. I would never do a thing like that, eh?’

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. He was wide at the shoulders, narrow at the hips and at one time would have been an imposing figure. But the overalls were distended in front, as if they concealed a basketball. His face was submerged in the bushy beard of a cartoon woodsman, black shot through with grey. Ivan Bergeron was one-half of the Bergeron brothers, a pair of identical twins who had dominated team sports at Algonquin High for the entire six years they attended it. That had been a little before Cardinal’s time, but he still remembered Ivan and his brother Carl as a dynamite combination on both the hockey and football teams back when he had been a freshman.

‘Tell us what you found,’ Cardinal said. ‘Then we’ll go take a look.’

‘I’m in the shop,’ Bergeron told them, ‘trying to resuscitate a ’74 Ski-Doo that should have been tossed on the junk heap twenty years ago. The dog starts barking. This is a very quiet dog, not usually a problem, and suddenly he’s barking like a maniac. I yell at him to shut up, but he keeps on yapping. Finally I come outside, and there he is in the backyard and – Why don’t you follow me? I’ll show you.’

Around the side, a two-storey house slumped against the garage as if it had lost consciousness. Bergeron led them past it to the backyard. ‘That’s it, right there,’ he said, pointing. ‘I dragged the dumb-ass dog straight into the house when I saw what it was. He was expecting me to congratulate him or something, but I was like, “This is unreal.”’

‘What time was this?’ Cardinal asked.

‘I don’t know – round ten, maybe?’

‘And you waited till now to call us?’

‘Well, how’m I supposed to know what to do? It didn’t seem like exactly an emergency. And to tell you the truth, I didn’t really want to think about it.’

Cardinal had seen a lot of unpleasant things in his twenty years as a cop, but he had never seen a human arm completely detached from its owner. They were standing maybe ten feet away. Ivan Bergeron showed no inclination to go closer. He planted his feet wide apart and folded his arms across his belly.

Cardinal and Delorme approached the thing.

‘You guys are taking it with you, I hope.’

‘Not right away,’ Cardinal said. ‘Are you certain the dog brought it here? You didn’t actually see him, right? You came out and found him barking at it?’

‘He must have dragged it in from the bush. He was rompin’ around out there for quite a while before he brung it back.’

Cardinal’s stomach was making odd manoeuvres. There was something unsettling about a part of a human being so absolutely out of place. It lay on a grubby crust of snow, pale white except for the black hair that curled thickly toward the elbow end, thinner toward the wrist. There were deep claw marks but very little blood.

‘Looks like someone had an argument with a bear,’ Cardinal said.

‘A bear?’ Delorme said. ‘Aren’t bears hibernating this time of year?’

‘They can get confused by a warm patch,’ Cardinal said. ‘It’s not unusual for them to wake up. And when they do, they tend to be peckish. Gonna be fun trying to ID this guy.’

‘Look at the hair on the forearm,’ Delorme said, pointing. ‘It’s grey.’

‘Yeah. We’ll have to run through Missing Persons for older men. In the meantime, we’re going to have to find whatever’s left of the guy.’

‘You’re gonna get that thing out of here, right?’ Bergeron said again. ‘I find I can’t work too good with an arm on my lawn.’

In the end, Ivan Bergeron had to work with an arm on his lawn for the entire afternoon. Cardinal got on the phone and ordered up as many off-duty constables as Mary Flower could muster. Then he called the Ontario Provincial Police and arranged for thirty officers. Last, he called the fire marshall and brought another thirty firemen to help – and most important, they brought with them three cadaver dogs. Cadaver dogs have nothing to do with the Dalmatians associated with fire stations; they are German shepherds trained to sniff out corpses in burned-out buildings that are too dangerous to send a human being into.

Within an hour Cardinal had a squad of constables, augmented by firemen and OPP cops, searching the woods, a small army of men and women in blue uniforms moving slowly among glistening pines and birches. No one spoke. It was as if they were in a movie with the sound turned off.

They tramped through sodden underbrush, the earth releasing rich smells of pine and rotting leaves. Branches stung their cheeks and clung to their hair. After about ten minutes Constable Larry Burke made the next discovery, this time a leg. Once again Cardinal experienced that weird tumbling sensation. What they were looking at was a man’s leg torn at the hip, whole at the foot, with tremendous rips in the flesh of the thigh.

‘Jesus,’ Delorme said.

‘Definitely a bear.’ Cardinal pointed to the wounds. ‘You can see there. And there. Thing must have teeth the size of your hand.’

The fog kept things slow. It was another two hours before they found more pieces of the body: another partially eaten leg and a lower torso so chewed as to be barely recognizable; one of the cadaver dogs had growled at it underneath the trunk of a fallen tree. Presumably the bear or bears had hidden it there to finish it off later.

Later Cardinal found a bit of ear and scalp with a pair of tinted aviator glasses still attached.

‘Does this distribution look random to you?’ he asked Paul Arsenault, who was photographing the glasses. ‘Or do you think somebody could have spread the parts around?’

‘You mean somebody not a bear?’

‘Somebody not a bear.’

Arsenault sat back on his haunches, chewing one end of his moustache. ‘If there’s a pattern, I don’t think we’re going to see it from here. We need an aerial view.’

‘The fog’s thinning, but we’re still not going to be able to see anything through the trees. Not even with red markers.’

Arsenault chewed the other end of his moustache. ‘We could put up helium balloons. My daughter had a birthday last week, and we’ve got a bunch of ’em at home.’

A constable was duly dispatched to Arsenault’s house and returned twenty minutes later with the balloons. They attached thirty yards of fishing line to each balloon, tied to a weight on the ground near each piece of evidence. Then the OPP took pictures from the air.

Cardinal and Delorme were back at Skyway Service Centre redeploying searchers when a black Lexus pulled up. Cardinal recognized it and sagged inwardly. Dr Alex Barnhouse was the kind of irritant an investigation didn’t need. A good coroner, true, but he ruffled feathers, and not just Cardinal’s.

Barnhouse rolled down his window. ‘Let’s get a move on, shall we? I haven’t got all day.’

Cardinal waved cheerily. ‘Hi there, Doc! How are you?’

‘Can we get moving, please?’

‘Isn’t this the most gorgeous day you’ve ever seen? The trees? The mist? Right out of a storybook, don’t you think?’

‘I can’t imagine anything less relevant.’

‘You’re right. Better park that beautiful Buick of yours over there and we’ll get started.’

Barnhouse got out of the car, carrying his bag. ‘God help us,’ he said, ‘when the local constabulary can’t tell the difference between a Buick and a Lexus.’

‘You’re being naughty,’ Delorme said quietly as they headed to the backyard.

‘He does tend to bring out my immature side.’

Barnhouse examined the severed arm, then followed them into the woods, black bag in hand. He barely glanced at the various body parts.

‘Detective Cardinal,’ he said. ‘It is my professional opinion that this unidentified male met with his fate in an unnatural manner. There being no clothes near the body is one such indicator. The small amount of blood is another. Given the severity of the injuries inflicted by the animal or animals, these trees and leaves should be covered with blood. They are not.’

‘But that could just mean the bears killed him someplace else and dragged the body all over the place.’

Barnhouse shook his head. ‘The bear or bears ate him. They didn’t kill him. You can see it in the major bones. It is my opinion that some of the injuries were inflicted not by an animal but by a man or men wielding an axe or other sharp object. The bones appear to be chopped through, not yanked out. I am no expert in such matters and no doubt you will be availing yourself of the services of the Forensic Centre in Toronto.’

‘What can you give us on time of death?’

‘Great God, man. How can I give you anything on time of death? We haven’t even got a stomach to measure contents.’

‘Well, what about this axe business? Was that inflicted after death, or before?’

‘After. There’s no bleeding into the bones, which means the heart had stopped before the chopping up. And for that, I’m sure we’re all grateful.’ Barnhouse scribbled on a form, tore off the top sheet and handed it to Cardinal. ‘Give my regards to the Forensic Centre. Now if someone will be good enough to show me the way out of here, I’ll bid you good day.’

Cardinal motioned to Larry Burke.

‘This way, Doc,’ Burke said. And Cardinal watched the two of them head off into the mist.

‘I should be used to him by now,’ Delorme said. ‘But I’m not.’

Cardinal’s walkie-talkie squawked and a voice said something unintelligible.

‘Cardinal. Could you repeat that?’

‘I said we’ve got a structure down here.’ It was Arsenault’s voice. ‘I think you should take a look.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Downhill from the service centre. Follow the creek west.’

Delorme looked off into the woods, the webs of pale grey. ‘West? It would be nice if there was a trail.’

They found the creek and followed it, and eventually they heard voices. The dim outline of a cabin took shape. Arsenault was on his knees beside a bush, doing something with a penknife and a test tube.

‘What have you got?’ Cardinal asked.

‘Paint scrapings. Looks like someone drove in here recently.’ He jerked his thumb behind him, where there was a faint outline of tire tracks. ‘This could be where it went down,’ he added. ‘I mean before the bears got to him.’

Cardinal took a closer look at the tire tracks. ‘You think we can get a mould out of these?’

‘Nope,’ Arsenault said. ‘Too many leaves.’

‘That’s what I figured. What is this, an old logging road?’

‘Yeah. Must be from eighty years ago. You can see it’s been used, though. Probably by whoever owned that wreck of a place.’

Arsenault’s ident partner, Bob Collingwood, was inside the shack.

‘Gah,’ Delorme said. ‘The smell.’

The cabin was hardly more than twelve feet square, constructed of rough-hewn lumber that did little to keep out the cold and nothing to keep out the damp. There was a fridge, a rusted cot with a stained mattress rolled up at one end, a metal counter with two sinks and an ancient cast-iron wood stove with the door hanging open on a broken hinge. The whole place smelled of decay – mildew, mould and rotting wood.

‘There was no lock on it,’ Arsenault said from behind her. ‘The door was just hanging open.’

‘Hasn’t been used for a long time.’ Delorme pointed at the giant cobwebs around the doorway. ‘Is it a trapper’s shack?’

‘Totally illegal, of course,’ Cardinal said. ‘They build them wherever they damn well want. The question is, whose trapper’s shack? There must be at least a dozen guys make their living out here.’

Collingwood was young, jug-eared, thorough and silent. Cardinal could count on one hand the number of complete sentences he had uttered in his entire career, because he tended to speak, when he spoke at all, in single words. He was pointing silently to the sinks. They were the kind with a pump handle where the taps should be. Wearing a latex glove, Collingwood stuck his finger in the drain and brought it up again, stained.

‘Is that rust or blood?’ Cardinal asked.

‘Blood.’

‘So he could have been killed here. On the other hand, it may just be animal blood.’

Delorme was kneeling in front of the wood stove. ‘Looks like somebody tried to burn clothes in this thing. Collingwood, have you got a drop sheet?’

Collingwood opened a leather case that contained all the tools of his craft and together they spread a thin plastic drop cloth, white so that evidence would be visible against it. They used a pair of tongs to extract the blackened mass from inside the stove. There was a pair of denims, reduced to little more than the waistband, a shirt collar, several buttons, most of a pair of shoe soles and a mass of burned, unidentifiable material.

Collingwood took an instrument from his case and measured the shoe soles. ‘Elevens.’

‘All right,’ Cardinal said. ‘We’ll need sizes from the waistband and the shirt collar, too, if there’s enough left to measure.’

Delorme, ever so gently, was stirring the burned matter with the tongs. ‘What’s this?’ She said it more to herself than to the others.

She held a small lump of fused metal in the tongs. She turned it over on the drop sheet. The other side was shinier, and there was part of the incised outline of an animal.

‘Looks like a loon,’ she said. She looked at the two men.

Cardinal leaned over her shoulder to get a better view. ‘I think I know exactly what that is.’

4

The northern shore of Lake Nipissing is one of the prettiest places in Ontario, but Lakeshore Drive, which runs along the top of the inlet that gives Algonquin Bay its name, could have been designed for the sole purpose of keeping this fact from the public. It has been a magnet for eyesores for as long as anybody can remember. On the lake side there are fast-food joints, gas stations and quaintly named but charm-free motels; across from these, car dealerships and shopping malls.

Loon Lodge was at the western edge of this ugliness. It was not actually a lodge but a dozen miniature white cabins with green shutters and country-style curtains, having been built in the fifties before the log-cabin look became the fashion. Many people in Algonquin Bay imagine such businesses are closed in winter, but in fact they have two sources of winter income. One is from ice fishermen, the dentists and insurance salesmen who take a few days off to come up north with their buddies and drink themselves into oblivion. The other is from people who want a dirt-cheap place to live, and nothing is cheaper, off-season, than a cabin on Lakeshore Drive.

Cardinal had been to Loon Lodge a few times. Every so often one of the winter residents would knock his wife’s teeth out. Or the wife would tire of her husband’s drinking and insert a steak knife neatly into his ribs. Occasionally there were drug dealers. Then in summer it was all sunburnt Americans, families on a tight budget, taking advantage of the reliably frail Canadian dollar.

Cardinal and Delorme were in the first of Loon Lodge’s white clapboard cabins, the one marked Office. It was four times bigger than the rental units, and the proprietor lived in it with his wife and kids. He was an egg-shaped man named Wallace. His face was puffy, with a wounded expression, as if he suffered from toothache. An equally egg-shaped and disconsolate four-year-old boy was watching cartoons in the next room. Smells of supper hung in the air, and Cardinal suddenly realized he was hungry.

Wallace pulled out a guest register, found the name and turned the book around on the counter.

‘Howard Matlock,’ Delorme read aloud, ‘312 East Ninety-first Street, New York City.’

‘I wish I’d never set eyes on the guy, now,’ Wallace said. ‘Was a really slow week last week, so I was glad as hell to see him, even though he only wanted to stay a few days.’

‘Ford Escort,’ Delorme read, and copied down the licence number.

‘Yeah,’ Wallace said. ‘Bright red one. Not that I’ve seen it for a couple of days.’

‘What day did he arrive?’ Cardinal asked.

‘Thursday, I think. Yeah, Thursday. I’d just turned away a couple of Indians who wanted to rent a place. Sorry, but I don’t care how many vacancies I’ve got, I won’t rent to those people. I just got tired of cleaning up the blood and the puke. I have a reputation to maintain.’

‘You better hope none of them lays a discrimination complaint on you,’ Delorme said.

‘People don’t understand about Indians. Put two or three of them together with a bottle of Four Aces and you got a unit that’s unrentable.’

‘And what have you got now?’

‘You say you took this key ring off a dead body?’ He pointed to the melted mass in the Baggie that Cardinal had put on the counter.

‘More or less.’

‘Then I guess I got a bill that’s not paid and a tenant that’s not alive.’ Wallace shook his head and cursed under his breath. ‘Do you have any idea how long it takes to build a reputation like Loon Lodge? It doesn’t happen overnight.’

‘I’m sure it doesn’t,’ Cardinal said. ‘Did Mr Matlock say why he was in Algonquin Bay?’

‘I’m telling you, something like this comes along and all that effort – all those extra little touches that make a motel a special place, the kind of place people want to come back to – all of it comes to nothing. I might as well take down my shingle and declare bankruptcy.’

Cardinal wondered how anyone as gloomy as Mr Wallace would have had the optimism to open a motel in the first place, but he stuck to his original question. ‘Did Mr Matlock say why he was in Algonquin Bay?’

‘Ice fishing’s what he told me.’

‘Little early in the year for ice fishing. Even without the warm spell.’

‘That’s exactly what I said. I told him no one’s going out on that lake for at least another two weeks, even without the warm snap. He said he was well aware of that fact. Said he was only up here scoping the place out for a bunch of buddies who were planning to come up with him late February.’

‘From New York?’ Delorme said. ‘New York seems like a long way to come just to check out the ice fishing.’

Wallace shrugged. ‘Americans.’

He plucked a key from the rack behind the counter and they followed him outside past several cabins.

‘Never seemed like much of a sport to me,’ Cardinal said to Delorme. ‘The fish are stunned with cold. They’re starving. Where’s the skill? Sitting over a hole in a dingy little shack.’

‘You’re leaving out the beer.’

‘Oh, don’t leave out the beer,’ Wallace said. ‘You wouldn’t believe the cases these guys haul out there. I keep a toboggan in each unit, supposedly for the kiddies, but do you see any hills around here? They use ’em to haul their two-fours out on the lake.’

‘You say Mr Matlock arrived on Thursday. When did you notice the car wasn’t here?’

‘I guess that’d be Saturday. Two days ago. Yeah, that’s right. Because I asked him to move it Friday morning. Had it parked in the spot for number four. Not that there was anybody in number four. Anyways, it definitely wasn’t there Saturday morning. Which made me think something was up. Car’s gone, and I haven’t seen any smoke coming from the stovepipe. Knocked on the door this morning, got no answer and figured I’d give him another few hours before I started to worry I’d been stiffed.’

‘Did he make any phone calls?’ Cardinal asked. ‘Would you know if he had?’

‘Long-distance I’d know about – he didn’t make any of those. I don’t keep track of local.’

‘Thanks, Mr Wallace. We’ll take it from here.’

‘Fine with me.’ Wallace opened the door for them. ‘If there’s any cash in there, I figure I’m due a hundred and forty.’

The inside of a Loon Lodge cabin hadn’t changed since the last time Cardinal had seen one. Double bed tucked in an alcove, a floral couch, and a kitchenette in the corner: mini-fridge, hot plate, aluminum sink. A memory assailed Cardinal – a shrieking woman hurling a frying pan at him when he had come to arrest her husband.

There was a table covered with yellow oilcloth beside one window. A copy of the New York Times lay on it. Dated five days previously, Cardinal noted, and probably acquired on the airplane.

The bed (slightly tattered chenille cover complete with the same Loon Lodge emblem that was on the key ring) was neatly made. Beside it lay a small wheeled suitcase containing enough clothes for a weekend and a paperback novel by Tom Clancy.

‘Here’s his wallet,’ Delorme said. She retrieved it from under the kitchen table, nearly toppling a lamp (loon emblem on the shade) in the process.

‘Well, here’s a question,’ Cardinal said. ‘The car’s gone. Why would you go out in your car and not take your wallet with you? You go out in the car, you take your licence, right?’

‘Maybe whoever killed him showed up at his door.’

‘Possible. And he loses his wallet in the struggle – although there isn’t much sign of a struggle in here.’

Delorme opened the wallet. ‘In any case, I think we can rule out robbery as a motive. There’s eighty-seven dollars here, all American. Maybe he just went out to buy a pack of cigarettes. Didn’t need his wallet.’

‘He’s got cigarettes.’ Cardinal pointed to a half-empty pack of Marlboros on the nightstand.

‘“Howard Matlock,”’ Delorme read from one of the wallet cards in a formal voice, ‘“is a certified professional accountant in the state of New York.”’

‘Ice fishermen – I swear they’re all accountants.’

‘He is also a member of the New York Public Library, Blockbuster Video and carries a New York driver’s licence.’

She showed Cardinal. The dead man stared out at him from the licence photo. He was wearing the same aviator glasses they had found in the woods.

They both glanced around the room.

‘Except for the wallet on the floor, everything looks undisturbed,’ Cardinal said. ‘And his room key was still in his pocket, but not his car key. Which makes me think the killer or killers made off with his car.’

‘If you’re going to steal a car, why pick a Ford Escort? And if you’re covering up a car theft, chopping the body up in the woods seems a little extreme.’

‘Maybe there was something incriminating in the car.’

They went through the contents of the suitcase: three store-label shirts, three pairs of Hanes underwear, three pairs of socks, two with holes in them.

‘I thought accountants made decent money,’ Delorme said. ‘But this guy looks like he wasn’t doing so well.’

On the bathroom shelf they found a roll of Tums, and travel packets of Imodium and Ex-Lax. ‘Obviously a Boy Scout,’ Delorme said. ‘Prepared for anything.’

‘Anything except hunting or fishing, you notice. No rod, no reel, no tackle. Nothing. I know he said he was just scoping the place out, but still.’

‘Maybe he kept it in the car. When we find the car …’

They stood facing each other in the middle of the cabin. Waiting for an idea to descend, Cardinal thought. A theory.

‘This is a strange one,’ Delorme said. ‘As far as we know, Howard Matlock, visiting CPA, came up here to check out the ice fishing. While here, he goes out for a drive – without his wallet – and gets himself killed. Maybe someone tried to rob him and killed him out of frustration because he wasn’t carrying his wallet.’

‘Thank you, Detective Delorme. That explains everything. Obviously, we can close this case right now.’

‘All right. So it has a few holes.’

‘I think we both find the ice-fishing business a little thin. And …’

‘And what? You look worried.’

‘I’m getting a bad feeling about this. My guru on the Toronto force used to say it takes three things to solve any case where the perpetrator isn’t readily apparent: talent, persistence and luck. Any one of those is missing, you don’t make your case. Call me egotistical, but I’m not worried about the first two.’

‘Come on, Cardinal. We’ve barely started.’

‘I know. The problem is, if we don’t believe Matlock came up here to check out the ice fishing, then we don’t have the first clue what he was doing here – or who he came to see – let alone who wanted to kill him.’

The call went out to be on the alert for Matlock’s red Ford Escort, a rental from the Avis counter at Toronto’s Pearson Airport. The search in the woods went on until dark. All the body parts that could be found were gathered together and shipped to the Forensic Centre in Toronto. The aerial photographs were developed and tacked up on the bulletin board in the ident room. The Mylar balloons glittered amid the mist and trees, but there was no pattern visible in their distribution.

Back at his desk, Cardinal spent a good two hours writing up the reports for the day and wishing he had a decent idea about how to proceed. He was tired and hungry and looking forward to being with Catherine, but he didn’t want to go home feeling that the case was at a dead end. He needed some time alone, away from the reports and the noise of his colleagues shouting to one another, to think about Howard Matlock and why this American had ended up dead in Algonquin Bay.

Down by the lake, the fog was still thick, wedged like grey batting among the cabins and the trees. The Loon Lodge vacancy sign glowed dull red. The parking lot was empty.

Cardinal opened the cabin that had been Howard Matlock’s and ducked under the yellow police tape. Inside, he flipped a switch, but the light didn’t come on; the proprietor would have turned off the power until he had another paying tenant. No heat either. Cardinal switched on his flashlight and shone it over the bed, the chair, the nightstand. Ident had been so busy with the scene in the woods that they would not be finished here until the next day at least. Howard Matlock’s personal effects were still here, right down to the half-smoked pack of Marlboros beside the loon lamp.

In the dark and the silence Cardinal tried once more to visualize what had happened here. He imagined the American sitting in the white wicker chair, watching the tiny television, when there was a knock at the door. But who would come to him, and kill him, and drive him away in his own car? Did someone follow him here from New York?

Cardinal sat on the edge of the bed. Trying to figure out this case was like trying to catch smoke. Half the time – at least in a place the size of Algonquin Bay – it was the killer himself who called cops to the scene of the crime. Now here was a genuine mystery and Cardinal didn’t have a single lead. An American citizen had come up to his town and – if he hadn’t been followed – had managed in a very short time to upset somebody enough to get himself murdered. And whoever it was didn’t just kill him, they fed him to the bears. Why?

Cardinal could feel the fine end of a theory in his mind but couldn’t quite grasp it. He stared at the closet door. It had been open earlier; now it was closed, dotted with powder where ident had gone over it for prints.

Cardinal stood up and slid back the door. Before it was half open, a hand shot out from the darkness and fixed itself around his neck. A fist plunged into his gut and doubled him over.

Cardinal staggered back, gasping. An expert kick swept his legs out from under him, and then he was face down on the floor, one arm pulled up behind his back. The cold barrel of a gun was pressed into the back of his head. His own holstered Beretta was digging painfully into his ribs.

‘You wouldn’t happen to be armed, would you?’ The voice was young, male, unfamiliar – WASP, at a guess.

‘No.’

‘Uh-huh. And what’s this?’ Cardinal’s jacket was yanked up and his Beretta removed.

‘You’re making a mistake,’ Cardinal managed to say before his head was forced down again.

A hand went for his inner pocket and removed his wallet. ‘You’re a cop?’

‘In my spare time. When I’m not getting beaten up in tourist cabins.’

The man’s weight shifted on Cardinal’s back. ‘I can’t believe you walked into this,’ he said. ‘On your own? In the middle of the night? I could have been anybody.’

‘Yes. I’ve been meaning to ask you about that.’

‘All right. Here’s what I’m gonna do. I’m going to get off you. I’m going to hang on to your gun, but I’m going to get off you. So let’s be civilized, okay? Don’t try anything or I’ll have to put you down again.’

‘Fine.’

‘You’re going to get up and put your hands against the wall. I’ll stand over by the door.’

The man got off him, and Cardinal took a deep breath before he stood up and dusted himself off. Jesus, the indignity.

Behind the snub-nosed .38 that was pointed at him stood the youngest gunman Cardinal had ever seen – blond hair cropped close to the skull, pale fuzz on the cheeks and chin. He wore a houndstooth sports jacket, as if trying to impersonate an older man. He opened the door slightly and peered out at the parking lot.

‘You really did come alone.’ When he spoke, the kid’s mouth gleamed with too many teeth. ‘All right, turn around and put your hands against the wall. You know the position – feet spread, on your toes.’

The .38 glinted in the light from the window. Cardinal did as he was told and stared at the wall. ‘What are you,’ he said. ‘about eighteen?’

‘You’re way off. And we’ve got more important things to talk about.’ The kid patted him down, looking for an ankle holster. Cardinal didn’t carry one. ‘For starters, how do we get out of this?’

‘What do you mean, “we”? You’re the one who just assaulted a police officer. And I have a feeling that – unless you’re RCMP – you’re not licenced to carry that .38, junior.’

‘And you’re the cop who just let his gun be taken away. I don’t think we want word of that getting around town, do we?’

‘That would be embarrassing. Give it back and I’ll shoot myself right now.’

‘What do you know about Howard Matlock?’

‘Did Malcolm Musgrave send you? He always had a roundabout way of making a point, even for a Mountie.’

‘I asked you a question,’ the kid said. ‘What do you know about Howard Matlock?’

‘He’s an American. He’s a chartered accountant. He’s dead. Why are you so interested?’

‘I have the guns, so I think it’s more appropriate if I ask the questions. Why did you come back here? Your scene work must be done.’

‘Look, obviously you’re RCMP. Why don’t you tell me who you are and what you’re up to?’

‘I asked why you came back to the cabin.’

‘Obviously for the same reason you’re here – to find out more about Howard Matlock. When a tourist comes to visit my town and gets fed to the bears, it doesn’t look good. Except that he probably wasn’t a tourist, which bothers me too. I came back because I wanted to get a better sense of the guy. I came back because a lot of things aren’t clear to me. I came back because at the moment there’s no way to go forward. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get on with my job.’ Cardinal waited for a moment, listening. There wasn’t a sound from the doorway. He turned to look.

The doorway was empty. His Beretta was lying on the kitchen table, minus the clip. He got to the doorway too late to see anything. He cursed under his breath. The missing clip would be difficult to explain.

He closed the closet door and took one last look around the cabin before locking it up. The kid was good, he had to admit. Catches him by surprise, lifts his gun and melts away like a wisp of fog. On the way up to the parking lot Cardinal thought about putting out an all-points on blond WASPS. But when he got to his car, he found his Beretta clip sitting on the roof above the driver-side door.

When he got home, Catherine was sitting in the lotus position, absolutely motionless. A candle flickered in the breeze from Cardinal’s entry. Smoke spiralled up from a stick of incense on top of the television.

‘You’re home late,’ she said.

‘Smells like Shangri-La in here.’ Cardinal always made a comment about her incense and she always ignored it. ‘How’s my swami?’

‘More like a Buddha than a swami. I’m never going to get rid of this hospital fat.’

‘You’re not fat.’

‘All that bread and potatoes they fed me in the O.P.H. I can’t fit into any of my clothes.’

It was true that Catherine had put on a few pounds in the Ontario Psychiatric Hospital – she always did – but on the whole Cardinal thought his wife looked great. A little heavier in the hips, a slight increase in belly maybe, but for a woman with a twenty-six-year-old kid she looked damn good.

As she untangled her legs, Catherine let out a long sigh. Cardinal was always glad to see her doing yoga, even late at night; she rarely got sick when she was taking care of herself.

‘Your dad called. He has an appointment with the cardiologist tomorrow morning. I’ll drive him over.’

‘That’s excellent. His new doctor really knows how to get things done.’

‘You look a little upset,’ Catherine said. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Bad day at work, that’s all. Nothing to worry about.’

‘You want to tell me about it?’

‘Nope.’ He rarely did. None of the detectives on the squad talked to their wives about what happened at work. ‘Misguided chivalry,’ a friend had told Cardinal once, and maybe he was right, but he probably didn’t live with a manic-depressive. Cardinal was not about to add to his wife’s burdens. Besides, he was still too embarrassed about having given up his gun. He flopped down on the couch and breathed in the scent of sandalwood. Very high vibrations, Catherine had assured him.

The house was beautifully quiet. His refuge. The last embers of a fire in the wood stove cast a warm glow.

‘This came for you,’ Catherine said, handing him a square envelope. ‘Very messy handwriting.’

No return address, either, Cardinal noticed. He tore it open and pulled out a card decorated with a big red heart. Embossed on the front: It’s been twelve years, honey … And on the inside: … but I still love you like the day we met! Underneath this, someone had written, ‘See you soon.’

It was unsigned, of course, they always were, but Cardinal knew who it was from. Twelve years ago he had helped put a man in prison; that man would be out soon. But the crucial message was not on the card, it was on the envelope, inscribed between the lines of Cardinal’s home address: We know where you live.

Catherine was saying something to him, but Cardinal couldn’t quite focus. His mind was fixed on the events of more than a decade ago, the single biggest mistake of his career – of his life, really. It had cast a pall over every moment since, and now, even though he had tried to rectify it, it was presenting a threat to his home. His refuge, yes; but between his wife’s emotional fragility and the demands of his profession, not an impregnable one.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘What were you saying?’

‘I said Kelly called a while ago. Are you sure you’re all right? What was that card about?’

Cardinal stuffed the card in his pocket. ‘Nothing. Garbage. Funny how Kelly always manages to call when I’m out. She must have someone watching the house.’

‘Don’t say that, John. She asked after you. I really don’t think Kelly’s capable of holding a grudge. Not against you, anyway.’

‘Uh-huh.’

‘She’s found a new place. Sharing an apartment in the East Village. She says it’s very funky but liveable.’

‘God knows why she wants to live in New York in the first place. You couldn’t pay me enough money to live there. Toronto was bad enough.’

Cardinal went into the bathroom and ran the shower as hot as he could stand it, then turned it gradually colder. The sting of the water restored his spirits a little, but his mind still kept going back to the events of a dozen years ago. He had crossed a line, and when he tried to go back – back to the last point where he had been his real self, his full self – it turned out not to be a line at all, but a chasm.

Cardinal forced himself to think of the present, of the farce at Loon Lodge. He remembered that just before he had been attacked, a thought had been forming in his mind. Then, as he was rinsing off, the thought came back to him. It had been about Wudky.

He dried off, wrapped himself in a thick dressing gown and went out into the living room to use the phone.

‘Delorme? It’s Cardinal.’

‘Cardinal, do you know what time it is? Believe it or not, I do have a life.’

‘No, you don’t. I’ve been thinking about Wudky. You know he told us Paul Bressard got himself murdered and buried in the woods?’

‘Wudky is retarded. Everybody knows he’s retarded. I’m surprised you bothered to check his story out.’

‘But look at what we’ve got. We’ve got an American chewed up in the woods, right? Near an old trapper’s shack, right? And Paul Bressard is a trapper.’

‘Right. And Wudky said Paul Bressard got murdered, and Wudky was wrong.’

‘And why? Because Wudky is the world’s dumbest criminal. And why else? Because Wudky had had a lot to drink the night he heard that story. But suppose Wudky got it backwards? Suppose Paul Bressard killed a tourist and did away with him in the woods? That would make more sense, wouldn’t it? Maybe he even killed him accidentally and tried to cover it up.’

‘Me, I don’t think feeding a guy to the bears is accidental. Even just to cover up.’

‘But it’s the sort of thing that would occur to a trapper. Someone who knows exactly where the bears are.’

‘I guess. Yeah, you could be on to something.’

‘Are you just saying that to get me off the phone?’

‘No. But I thought you already talked to Bressard.’

‘I did. And he seemed completely innocent. But then, I was just checking to see if he was alive.’

‘Maybe we should talk to him again. Oh, sorry – maybe you and Malcolm Musgrave should talk to him. Matlock was American. That means working with the Horsemen.’

‘Don’t remind me.’

Cardinal went back to the bathroom and dried his hair. He had an idea now. A direction. When he went into the bedroom, Catherine was under the covers, fast asleep. Beside her, an oversize library book called New York and New Yorkers lay open to a picture of the East Village.

Cardinal got into bed beside her and turned out the light. He listened to the rhythm of her breathing, the sound of peace, love and security. And then he thought again about the card.

5

Detective Sergeant Daniel Chouinard was still trying to rid his office of his predecessor’s ghost. D.S. Dyson, aside from being a crook, had been a supernaturally neat man, and so Chouinard felt it necessary to keep his office in a state of turmoil. Half-installed blinds hung from the windows at alarming angles, law books and procedural manuals tilted in precarious towers on the floor, and the bookshelves formed a lean-to against the wall. On his desk lay a hammer, a variety of screwdrivers and a tablet of white foolscap on which it was his habit to take illegible notes.

When the position of detective sergeant had become available, it had been offered to Cardinal. He was one of the more senior detectives, after all, and had cleared some of the highest-profile cases in Algonquin Bay’s history. But Cardinal had turned the job down, even though it would have meant more money and regular hours. At the time, he had been on the brink of quitting the force – Delorme had stopped him at the last minute – and felt he didn’t deserve any promotion. Also, there was the undeniable fact that being detective sergeant was a desk job. Cardinal just couldn’t see it. Being out on the street, dealing with real people, was the best thing about police work, the only thing that made him feel useful.

The only factor that made Cardinal hesitate at all was fear that the job would go to Ian McLeod. McLeod, who was away on vacation at the moment, had a knack for sowing discord that would have made him an out-and-out disaster. In the end Chief Kendall had offered the job to Daniel Chouinard, who had been a detective long enough to understand the needs of the CID staff. He had suffered along with the rest of the squad under the unpredictable D.S. Dyson, and he had solid organizational skills. Most important of all, he knew every one of the eight detectives well enough to know whose strengths would balance out whose weaknesses.

When he’d heard about the appointment, McLeod had declared it was simply because Chouinard was French Canadian: it made the department look strongly bilingual, which it was not. But nobody else found any reason to be upset with Daniel Chouinard. The worst that could be said of him was that he was bland – especially for a French Canadian. All right, he was boring. He was so boring you could really only define him by what he lacked – such as any sense of irony or for that matter any sense of humour. He had no axe to grind, no political ambitions and no major psychological problems. He was given neither to tantrums nor to vendettas. The man didn’t even have an accent. Despite the messy office, the new D.S. was just, well, reasonable. Sometimes unbearably reasonable.

‘Let me sum things up,’ Chouinard said. Delorme and Cardinal were on their feet in the at-ease position, owing to Chouinard’s chairs being covered with stacks of acoustic tile. ‘We have an American male in his late fifties or early sixties found in the woods where he was eaten by a bear.’

‘Murdered by persons unknown and then eaten by a bear,’ Delorme corrected him.

‘The fact that he’s American means we have to bring in the Mounties; anything international is their turf. Which means we’ll be working with Malcolm Musgrave. So, I don’t think we need Delorme on this just now.’

‘Actually,’ Cardinal said, ‘Delorme’s the best possible person to work with Musgrave. They’ve worked together before and they get along fine. That’s bound to speed things up.’

‘Maybe,’ Chouinard said. ‘But I don’t want too many cooks on this.’

‘D.S., I want to be in on it,’ Delorme said. ‘I’d be happy to work with Musgrave.’

‘Sorry. Cardinal, you’re the more senior officer and you should be the one to coordinate with the esteemed sergeant.’

‘Really, D.S., I don’t think I should be working with Musgrave right now.’

‘Why? Is he annoyed with you? Why would a Mountie stationed in Sudbury be annoyed with a detective in Algonquin Bay?’

‘You’re forgetting he sicced the entire department on me last year.’

‘Oh, now that’s not fair,’ Chouinard said in his reasonable way. ‘He had good grounds to think there was a leak in our department and it turned out he was right. He just had the wrong man, that’s all.’

‘A minor detail,’ Cardinal said. ‘Can’t imagine why it bothered me.’ What was bothering him even more, just then, was that a young Mountie had snatched his gun away the night before.

Chouinard was silent for a few moments, his soft features moving ever so slightly, as if he were working out several equations. Then, as if the calculations had become a physical problem, he swivelled around in his chair and shifted several law books from one windowsill to another, carefully examining the spine of each before setting it down. When he turned around again, his expression was more cheerful.

‘So there’s bad blood between you and the Horsemen,’ he said. ‘That’s a shame. But the truth of the matter is that we’re never going to have a better opportunity to smooth things out with our colleagues in scarlet. So you work with the Mounties – make sure you give them everything, understand – and you and Musgrave will be on excellent terms in no time. That’ll be good for the case, and also for the long-term interests of the department.’

‘But, D.S., I don’t think you realize how bad the communication problem is between Musgrave and me.’

‘All the more reason. You’re the one who has the problem. Therefore, there’s no one better qualified to repair it, is there?’

Although it should have been first on his agenda, Cardinal put off calling Musgrave. Instead, he called the Toronto Centre for Forensic Sciences, where he spoke to Vlatko Setevic in Chemistry. Two things about Vlatko you could count on. He was an absolute workaholic, first into the office, last out, and never happy unless he had cleared his desk. The other thing was his unpredictable moods. Vlatko had been in Canada since the sixties and had been an even-tempered sort until Yugoslavia came apart in the nineties. Since that time his disposition had taken a decided turn toward the stormy. Sometimes he could be funny, other times he could be a bastard; you just never knew what you were going to get. Cardinal asked him about the paint sample they had sent and braced himself for heavy weather.

‘Paint sample? I didn’t get any paint sample. Not from Algonquin Bay.’

‘You better have or there’s going to be serious trouble. Are you telling me you guys never—’

A big Slavic laugh blew over the line from Toronto. ‘Relax, detective. I was joking. I got your precious paint sample right here.’

‘Hilarious, Vlatko. Sense of humour like that, you could be on Royal Canadian Air Farce.’

‘So tense, you northern guys. Take up yoga, maybe – you’ll get centred, feel calmer, be one with the universe.’

‘My wife says the same thing. What have you got for us?’

‘It’s kind of lucky, actually. The paint matches so-called walnut brown that Ford started using on its Explorers last year. New batch. So you’re looking for this year’s Explorer – Explorer with bad scratch.’

‘You’re doing my heart good, Vlatko. Keep going.’

‘In another way, you’re also unlucky. In Canada alone? Ford sold thirty-five thousand Explorers, give or take.’

‘Let me guess. The most popular colour?’

‘Of course. Walnut brown.’

When it couldn’t be put off any longer, Cardinal called the Sudbury detachment. The civilian who answered informed him that Musgrave was out of town. Cardinal put down the phone with relief, only to have it ring in his hand. It was Musgrave.

‘You and I have to talk,’ the sergeant said without preliminaries. ‘About a certain individual named Howard Matlock.’

It turned out he was already in Algonquin Bay, at the Federal Building a few blocks away on MacPherson. At one time the RCMP had maintained a detachment there, but the Mounties lived in the age of cutbacks like everyone else and now their closest headquarters was in Sudbury, eighty miles away.

Cardinal drove over to the Federal Building and parked in a space marked Post Office Vehicles Only. He found Musgrave in an office furnished with nothing but a metal desk, a phone and three plastic chairs in primary colours.

The sergeant had the self-confidence of a man who can rely on always being the biggest, toughest male in the room. He was V-shaped, and looked like he’d been carved out of the Precambrian Shield. Throw a rock at him, Cardinal figured, and there was a good chance the rock would shatter.

‘Sit,’ Musgrave said, gesturing at the chairs. ‘I want you to know I have no bad feelings about last year.’

‘That’s big of you. Considering you nearly screwed me out of my job.’

‘Look at it objectively. I was just following procedure.’

‘I’ll tell you something about procedure.’ Cardinal had been rehearsing in the car. ‘The murder of a foreign citizen on Canadian soil may fall under the jurisdiction of the RCMP, but that doesn’t give you carte blanche to trample over a local investigation. If you want to examine a crime scene in my bailiwick, you call me. If you want background on the case, ask me. Don’t send your flunkies unannounced into my turf or next time they’ll end up in my jail.’

Musgrave regarded him with a cool blue gaze. ‘I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re talking about.’

‘I think you do.’

‘Listen, Cardinal. You have a dead American citizen. An American. As you say, that makes it an RCMP matter. How long were you going to wait before you told me about it?’

‘If I had my way, I’d never tell you. You’re an unpleasant person. But the law being what it is, I called you this morning, just before you called me.’

‘Uh-huh. Then why do I hear about it from our Ottawa division first?’ Musgrave threw a copy of the fax at him. It was just a small item, one of a number in a bulleted list. American Howard Matlock found murdered in Algonquin Bay.

Cardinal stared at the page. How could Mountie headquarters have got hold of it so fast? And if the kid who had taken his gun away wasn’t with Musgrave, who was he?

There was a rap on the door.

Musgrave nodded at it. ‘Someone you’re going to want to meet.’

Cardinal looked up from the fax.

‘Detective John Cardinal, this is Calvin Squier. Detective Cardinal is with Algonquin Bay police. Mr Squier is an intelligence officer with CSIS.’

Standing in the doorway in a sport coat and tie, the blond young man looked like a teenager trying on his father’s clothes. Nothing about him indicated he could take your gun away from you in a darkened cabin.

‘Pleased to meet you,’ Squier said, and put out a hand that was pale as a veal chop.

‘Likewise,’ Cardinal managed to say. He felt a blush rising from under his collar and travelling up his neck.

‘Great job you did on the Windigo killer,’ Squier said. ‘Read up on you this morning.’

‘You’re with CSIS?’

‘Canadian Security Intelligence Service,’ Musgrave said.

‘I know who they are, thanks.’

‘That’s right. I’ve been with them five years.’

‘They must have hired you when you were nine.’ Cardinal sat down on a sky-blue chair that creaked like a new shoe. He turned to Musgrave. ‘What’s the deal here?’

‘I’ll let him tell you.’

Squier opened his briefcase and set a silvery laptop on the desk. He unfolded it so that the screen was visible to all of them and pushed a button; it sprang to life with a chime. He pulled a small object the size of a lipstick from his pocket and pointed. A graphic appeared, showing the command structure of NORAD – North American Aerospace Defence.

‘As you may know,’ Squier said, ‘NORAD is a joint operation of the U.S. and Canada that was developed during the Cold War to keep us safe from Russian invaders.’ He clicked his remote and the graphic changed to Joint Command Installations. ‘Each country built what they called a ground environment – basically a three-storey office building inside a mountain. The Americans have theirs at Cheyenne Mountain in Colorado. We have ours in Algonquin Bay, out by Trout Lake.’

‘I grew up here,’ Cardinal said. ‘You really don’t need to be telling me this.’

‘I’d like to do this right, if you’ll just be patient,’ Squier said. ‘Besides, Sergeant Musgrave didn’t grow up here.’

‘Sergeant Musgrave would like to get on with it,’ Musgrave said. ‘Assume we know about the CADS base.’

‘Okay. The Cold War may be over, but the Canadian Air Defence System is still in place. There are still a hundred and fifty people inside that mountain. They still have their eyes on radar screens. And those radar screens still light up with any object coming into Canadian airspace.’

‘They’re closing the place down, I heard,’ Cardinal put in. ‘Algonquin Bay doesn’t even have an air base any more.’

‘They may move it. But it’s not going to close, believe me.’ A muffled twitter interrupted them. ‘Sorry,’ Squier said, and reached into his jacket pocket. ‘Forgot to turn it off.’

He aimed the remote at the screen again and it changed to a radar readout. White objects shaped like planes throbbed in the upper right corner. ‘CADS monitors all incoming traffic. This is just a simulation, of course, showing regular commercial traffic. With the end of the Cold War, the CADS base has found new things to do. They keep an eye out for drug flights, for example. Recently they were instrumental in stopping twenty million dollars’ worth of heroin, simply by relaying data on a suspicious Cessna to an RCMP drug squad.’

A click of the remote and the screen changed again. An object that did not look like a plane entered the screen from the upper left side. It glowed red and began to flash with a throaty beep. ‘Post-September 11, the most important part of the CADS mandate – at least as far as my outfit is concerned – is anti-terrorism. This could be anything from a hijacked aircraft to a rogue missile. That’s what we have on the screen now.’

‘Simulated, of course,’ Musgrave said pointedly.

‘Oh, yes,’ Squier said. ‘There’s no way on God’s green earth I could be walking around with a real CADS readout. Now, I know you’re wondering why I’m here, so I’ll get right to it. Friday morning CSIS got a call from the CADS base. Their security unit caught a man with a pair of binoculars up on the hill. Apparently, he didn’t seem to be doing anything much. They questioned him, and he said he was a tourist, a birdwatcher. It’s not like he’s wearing a turban. They didn’t have enough to hold him or even to call in you guys.’ He nodded at Cardinal. ‘So they checked his ID and told him to vamoose, basically.

‘They phoned the info down to us. Completely routine procedure. We run a check on Howard Matlock. Nothing against. Then – and this is the same day I’m talking about – the guy turns up again in the middle of the night. Night-shift security catches him on the perimeter, with those binoculars practically glued to his face.’

‘On the perimeter,’ Cardinal said. ‘If he was a spy, he must be the most inept spy the world has ever seen. I’ve been up to that base, and there’s absolutely nothing to see until you get two miles inside the mountain. It’s trees and rock. Period.’

‘True enough. But his objective may not have been the installation hardware – it may have been the security itself. The whole point may have been to check out their strength by getting himself caught. We just don’t know. The worst thing is, security screwed up. Screwed up big time. They neglected to check the day ledger when they caught the guy, so they didn’t know he’d already been nicked earlier. Unbelievable as it seems, they let him go. By the time security realized their mistake, it was too late. That’s when they called us for the second time. There were some red faces up there.’

Squier clicked his remote and the laptop went dark. He folded it up with a snap. ‘My superior called me at six in the morning. Told me to be on the seven o’clock flight to Algonquin Bay. Security had taken down Matlock’s licence plate number – a rental car from Toronto airport – and the Loon Lodge address. But I got here too late. I never even caught sight of him, and then suddenly you guys were all over his cabin.’

‘What would you have done if you had found him?’

‘Followed him, of course. Not me personally – we use surveillants for that sort of thing.’

‘Really,’ Musgrave said. ‘We use cops.’

‘It’s unfortunate I didn’t catch up with this individual before he got killed. Personally, I suspect he isn’t anything to worry about. No links to al-Qaeda or anyone like that. But not having cleared him, and him being dead after two hits on CADS security – well, let’s just say it raises red flags. And that’s what puts us in the ball game.’

‘Well, maybe we could get the OPP in on this too,’ Cardinal said.

‘Oh, I don’t think the provincial police have any jurisdiction here.’

‘He was joking,’ Musgrave said.

‘We could get the Knights of Columbus and the Ladies’ Auxiliary,’ Cardinal went on. ‘And the Elks might be interested too. I mean, we’ve practically got enough for a curling team already.’

‘Yes, I thought you might not be pleased,’ Squier said. ‘Home turf and all that. I just want you to know that I’m here – and CSIS is here – to give you every possible assistance. You’ll probably want to see my ID.’ He pulled out an embossed employment card with his picture on it. ‘You can call that number for confirmation of everything I’ve said.’

‘Believe me,’ Musgrave said to Cardinal, ‘I’ve done that. He’s for real, and so is CSIS, and that’s just the way things are. Make whatever calls you have to make, and then why don’t you bring us up to date on where you’re at with the investigation?’

Cardinal considered calling Chouinard and raising bloody hell, but he had a strong sense that it would get him nowhere. He was also grateful that Squier was pretending they’d never met.

‘Basically, there’s nothing to tell,’ he began. ‘Forensics doesn’t have a lot to work with – an arm, an ear, pieces of leg, scalp, bits of pelvis. The guy was killed, then he was hacked up, then he was fed to the bears. The story Matlock gave the owner of Loon Lodge is that he was here to check out the ice fishing. There were no other guests, and so far the only lead we have is a paint scraping taken from where the body was chopped up. We’re looking for a late-model Ford Explorer, walnut brown. We’ve got an ad coming out in tonight’s Lode asking for help from anyone who may have talked to Matlock.’

‘Tell me if I’m being rude,’ Musgrave said, ‘but have you examined his car? CSIS here says he rented a red Escort.’

‘We’re looking for the car. Are we done here? I’d like to get on with it.’

‘What about the American end?’ Squier asked. ‘What’s first on the agenda down there?’

Musgrave stared out the grimy window at the traffic on MacPherson, as if the question had nothing to do with him.

‘First thing we have to do with New York,’ Cardinal said, ‘is notify next of kin, if there are any, and interview them. We’ll have to ask the usual questions – any enemies, et cetera, recent altercations …’

‘I can do that,’ Squier said with childlike eagerness. ‘Why don’t you let me do that? I have to handle a lot of American stuff anyway, liaising with the FBI and so on.’

Musgrave turned on him. ‘Do us all a favour, will you? Put one of your former Mounties on it. What the hell do you CSIS infants know about investigating a murder? Or investigating anything for that matter?’

‘The top brass at CSIS may still be former Mounties from the old security service days,’ Squier said, ‘but among the rank and file there’s hardly any of them left. And frankly, I don’t think my superior is going to want them on this case.’

‘You little dorks with your laptops and your cellphones – you think you run the universe, don’t you.’

‘Sergeant Musgrave, I’m sure you know that the former Mounties on CSIS staff were never criminal investigators; they were security officers, same as I am.’

‘Oh, really? And I’m sure you know – or would know, if you took the trouble to look back a little further – that a lot of those security men put in ten or fifteen years in the criminal divisions before moving on to security. Unfortunately, when the media went Mountie-hunting, a little window dressing was in order, so Ottawa passes a new law and abracadabra: you jerks do exactly what the Mounties were doing, only now it’s legal. Oh yes, and dear me, so sorry, I hope you don’t mind – a lot of damned good men were forced out.’

There was a slight tremor in Musgrave’s voice that spoke of emotions more complicated than anger. Cardinal had never seen him so upset, and surprised himself by feeling the beginnings of something like sympathy for the man.

Squier started to speak, then apparently thought better of it and started over. ‘I can’t change ancient history. And believe it or not, I’m not here to make trouble. But we need your co-operation, and the fact is, I’m not asking. If you want to dispute that, either of you can take it up with my superior in Toronto or with CSIS Ottawa. You have the number. When you’re ready to co-operate, give me a call. I’m at the Hilltop Motel.’ He tucked his laptop under his arm and left the room.

When he was gone, Cardinal gave a low whistle.

‘My God,’ Musgrave said. ‘Somebody shoot me.’

6

Cardinal drove to the Trianon Hotel out on the bypass. If Algonquin Bay could be said to have a scene for power lunches, the Trianon would be it – not that anyone would give the food anything more than two stars – simply because, of the few higher-class places in town, it was by far the most expensive.

And the Trianon possessed, Cardinal had to admit, a certain Old World charm that was hard to find in Algonquin Bay. As he stepped inside, he could see it gleaming in the silver, twinkling in the chandeliers and candelabra. He could only afford to come here on special occasions; the last had been Kelly’s graduation.

‘Which party?’ the maître d’ inquired, with a passable imitation of Parisian hauteur.

‘I’m meeting R.J. Kendall.’

The maître d’ led him across the crowded dining room. Cardinal recognized an assistant Crown attorney and nodded to a provincial court justice. Police Chief Kendall was ensconced in a plush side room that Cardinal had never seen before.

‘It’s the Windigo man himself,’ Kendall said as Cardinal entered. The chief’s face was florid, not from embarrassment or drink but from high blood pressure. ‘Do you know Paul Laroche, here? Of Laroche Real Estate?’

‘Of course. I mean, I know who you are,’ Cardinal said, shaking hands with the man who stood to greet him. Laroche was no taller than Cardinal, but he gave the impression of size – massive chest, wide shoulders – a man who could take care of himself. His grip was strong without being showy.

‘Haven’t I seen you out at the club?’ Laroche said.

‘Blue Heron Club,’ R.J. explained. ‘Paul owns it.’

‘With partners,’ Laroche said. ‘Are you a golfer?’

‘Not me,’ Cardinal said. ‘Haven’t got the patience. I want to just carry the ball right over to the pocket.’

‘Not a golfer. Are you a hunting man, then? A skier?’

‘None of the above. In summer I like to go out in the boat. Watching the hockey game’s about as close to any sport as I get. Unless you consider woodworking a sport.’

Laroche smiled. His dark hair had flecks of grey in it, but it was close-cropped, in a clinging style that flattered his well-shaped head. He was wearing a beautifully cut chalk-stripe that must have cost four times the highest sum Cardinal had ever paid for a suit. He looked like an investment banker.

‘You said you’re impatient. But I would have thought patience was a necessary virtue in your line of work,’ he said, sitting down again.

‘Actually, Detective Cardinal is one of our stars,’ R.J. said. ‘Remember the Windigo case?’

‘Really? That must have been something,’ Laroche said. ‘To take down two serial killers in one case. Quite a victory. And you probably saved a lot of lives.’

‘I had help. Lise Delorme was the one who actually—’

Laroche raised his hand. ‘Lise Delorme,’ he said. ‘I know that name …’

‘Well, she was in the papers a lot with the Windigo thing. She—’

‘No,’ Laroche said. ‘She’s the one who brought Mayor Wells to grief.’

‘Yes, she did. Performed a real service to the city that time.’

‘Oh? You think so?’

‘Excuse me, gentlemen,’ R.J. said. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, but we’d better get our orders in. What’s good, Paul?’

‘The maple-glazed venison is your best bet. But you must let me order the wine.’

The Trianon mostly succeeds in its efforts to ape European elegance, but the one area in which it falls down is the staff. Instead of old professionals, diners are waited on by charming but not necessarily competent young women. Laroche was polite but firm with the knock-kneed, freckled creature who served them.

Real estate was obviously a paying proposition. Laroche’s whole being glowed with money the way an athlete’s body glows with health. It shone in the gold cufflinks, glinting against the snowy perfection of French cuffs. It shone in the just-right shade of tan of Laroche’s face – a skier, Cardinal surmised.

After they had ordered, Kendall said, ‘You mustn’t get Paul onto politics, Detective Cardinal. He’s one of the key men behind Premier Mantis.’

‘Of course. You ran his local campaign,’ Cardinal said.

‘Which is the reason for this meeting,’ Kendall said. ‘The Conservatives are having a major fundraiser this coming weekend, and Paul is asking for extra police presence.’

‘Plain clothes? Shouldn’t you be talking to Chouinard about this?’

‘Chouinard’s already agreed. We’re thinking two detectives – Delorme and you.’

‘This will not be too onerous,’ Laroche said. ‘It’s going to be at our new ski club – the Highlands? – and the dinner will be sumptuous, I assure you. Except for being on watch for suspicious individuals, I think you’ll manage to enjoy yourselves.’

‘You’ll need more than two detectives to secure an event like that.’

‘We’ll have our own private security, of course. They will be on the doors and backstage and so on. But frankly – in the wake of September 11 – I don’t think private security’s enough. I’ll be much more comfortable if we have a couple of professionals right in among the tables. Premier Mantis is a very prominent figure.’

‘We’ll put three or four patrolmen outside as well,’ R.J. said.

‘Are we going to be doing this for the Liberals and the NDP, too?’ Cardinal said to Kendall.

‘Certainly. If they ask us.’

‘They won’t,’ Laroche said. ‘Their political fortunes are such, these days, any fundraiser they hold is likely to be a low-profile affair. We are, after all, the only party with a provincial premier as its candidate.’

The food arrived, and the venison was as good as any Cardinal had ever tasted. He was tempted to try the Bordeaux with it – the chief wouldn’t have minded – but he wanted to be absolutely clear-headed for the afternoon.

They discussed various angles of security for the fundraiser. Cardinal tried not to let his impatience show. Security detail was the last thing he wanted to be thinking about while investigating a murder. Laroche had brought a floor plan of the new club, and they talked about deployment of the security personnel inside, patrol officers outside and the two detectives among the guests.

When they were having their coffee, Laroche said to Cardinal, ‘So you didn’t care for Mayor Wells, I take it? You know, he was a wonderful mayor.’

‘Well, yes – if you ignore the fact that he was stuffing ballot boxes. You don’t think he deserved what he got?’

Laroche looked Cardinal up and down – taking his time about it. ‘People in our society have decided it is a crime to stuff ballot boxes. That makes it a crime. In other places it’s not a crime, or it’s overlooked. It’s not inherently evil. And one shouldn’t forget all the things Mayor Wells did for this city.’

‘He built the airport. He built the overpass. Then he stole an election.’

‘Let’s not make him out to be Richard Nixon,’ Kendall said.

‘There’s good and bad mixed in every man, don’t you think?’ Laroche said. ‘For example, you saved the city from a murderous rampage, but I’m willing to bet there are things in your life that might not look so heroic on page one of the Toronto Star.’

‘You’re right there,’ Cardinal said. He thought of the anniversary card. We know where you live.

‘And Wells was a character. People underestimate how important that is in a leader. That’s why I could never run for office myself, much as I’d love to. Too colourless.’

‘But you’re very impressive,’ Cardinal said. ‘We’ve just been introduced, and I’m sitting here, impressed. That’s half the battle, isn’t it?’

Laroche laughed, showing perfect teeth.

‘I’m a behind-the-scenes man, born and bred, Detective. Give me a candidate like Geoff Mantis, I’ll do everything I can to get him elected. I’ll call in the debts, twist the arms, you name it. But run for office myself? Not a chance.’

Laroche spoke as if he were laying out his points in a seminar, his modulation highly educated. Cardinal wondered if he had lived abroad. Laroche gripped Cardinal’s arm lightly. ‘Forgive me for being so earnest. These questions are on my mind, what with the election coming up.’

‘Is Geoff Mantis going to win again?’

‘Oh, yes. I’m going to make sure of it.’

After the luxurious interior of the Trianon, the parking lot felt even more cold and damp. Disembodied headlights glided through the mist along the bypass, and rain felt imminent.

Laroche climbed behind the wheel of a Lincoln Navigator that was parked by the restaurant entrance. He rolled down the window and said, ‘R.J., I forgot to ask – how are things progressing with your body in the woods?’

Kendall shrugged. ‘It’s Detective Cardinal’s case. We have some leads. We’re moving along. Right, Detective?’

‘Not as fast as I’d like. But I always feel that way.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Laroche said. ‘If your record on the Windigo case is anything to go by, you’ll have this matter wrapped up in no time.’ He drove off into the fog, his turn signal winking toward town.

‘Smooth character,’ Cardinal said.

‘Rich character. Not bad for a guy who grew up in an orphanage. I mean, running the premier’s campaign?’

‘I voted against Mantis.’

‘Luckily,’ Kendall said, ‘most people had better sense.’

On his way downtown again, Cardinal called his father on the cellphone.

‘Hold on a second. I’m just pulling some chocolate chip cookies out of the oven.’

Since his wife had died ten years previously, Stan had taken up an interest in cooking. It still gave Cardinal a kick to see his father – tough, sinewy Stan Cardinal, with his muscular forearms and powerful chest – wearing an apron and wiping flour from his hands. Cookies were his specialty.

‘Did you see the cardiologist?’

‘Catherine drove me up this morning. Dr Cates irritated the hell out of me, but she knows how to get things done, I’ll say that for her.’

‘What’s the cardiologist say?’

‘He’s scheduling me for a bunch of tests up at the hospital. He thinks I have congestive heart failure.’

‘What? Dad, why didn’t you get this taken care of six months ago?’

‘It’s not a big deal, John. It’s just some tests. And he’s giving me tons of drugs. I think they’re working already.’

‘Heart failure, though. I wish you weren’t living out to hell and gone.’

‘Nonsense. Whole reason I moved in here was so you wouldn’t have to worry about me. Why the hell do you think I got a bungalow? No damn stairs to break my neck on, that’s why. This is the easiest place in the world to keep clean and get around in. I’ve got peace and quiet and fresh air. I’ve got my stereo and my VCR and the best microwave on the market. I’m telling you, I’m king of the castle, here.’

‘Well, if the fog gets any worse, you might want to think about moving in with us for the duration.’

‘Drop it, John.’

Cardinal turned onto MacPherson, skirting a messy construction site.

‘They said on the news you found a chewed-up body in the woods?’ Stan said. ‘Sounds a little more interesting than the usual crap you get.’

Great, Cardinal thought. Here we go.

‘Those trailer trash constantly shooting each other. Drug dealers. Robbers. Fat-assed drunkards. I don’t know why you didn’t go into a more interesting line of work. It’s not like you didn’t have the education. Your ma and I saw to it you and your brother got to college. You could have gone into any profession you wanted.’

‘That’s exactly what I did, Dad. I went into the profession I wanted. A line of work that can actually make a difference in people’s lives. A lot of my colleagues didn’t go to university – that doesn’t mean they’re stupid. Look at the people you worked with.’

‘Morons, the bunch of them! Except for Mark McCabe. Mark was the smartest guy I ever knew. Read more books than most college professors. Did long division in his head. But he was a union man through and through. And it was guys like you – your oh-so-brainy colleagues – that saw fit to bust his head open for having the guts to call a strike against the fat bastards that run this country. That nightstick came down on his head – and I heard it. It sounded like a plank dropping on a cement floor. That nightstick came down on Mark’s head and for the next three years he did nothing but drool, and then he died. A good, good man.’

The line went quiet. Cardinal heard his father sniff and knew that he was crying. His dad, who for most of his long life had displayed few emotions other than irritation, now became teary when he talked of the past. It didn’t seem to be self-pity but some deeper, long-abiding sorrow. The tears would flow for a minute, then be gone.

‘You okay, Dad?’

There was a loud sniff from the other end of the line. ‘Fog’s turning to rain,’ Stan said. ‘Maybe I’ll plant some zinnias in the spring.’

7

‘Listen,’ Musgrave said. ‘I’ve gone over it with my regional commander. I’m not working with that laptop-toting twerp from CSIS. What we do is, I deal with you, you deal with him.’

‘Squier didn’t seem all that bad to me,’ Cardinal said.

‘You haven’t worked with CSIS before, have you.’

‘No.’

‘You poor bastard. Anyway,’ Musgrave said, looking at his watch, ‘this is forty-five minutes of my life we’ve wasted. Tell me again what we’re doing here.’

They were parked in an unmarked on Main East. The fog had finally condensed into actual rain that was drumming on the roof.

The moment Cardinal had hung up with his father, the cellphone had rung in his hand and Arsenault was on the line telling him they’d matched a print at the trapper’s shack to a name: Paul Bressard. Cardinal had driven straight out to the house. Bressard’s wife, who was already reeking of scotch at one-thirty in the afternoon, told him Paul would probably be at Duane’s Billiard Emporium. Cardinal didn’t mention that he was a cop, and she wasn’t sober enough to tell.

Which was how he and Musgrave came to be sitting in the unmarked on Main East watching the decayed entrance to Duane’s Billiard Emporium.

‘Duane’s is a hangout for the guys who can’t quite make it to big-time crime,’ Cardinal said. ‘Bikers that failed the entrance exam to Satan’s Choice, Italian guys too dumb for the mob.’

‘And the wife just handed you this information? Why’d she take a shine to you?’

‘In Cutty Sark veritas.’

‘In Cutty Sark bullshit, it looks like.’

‘Tell me something, Musgrave. Does your wife know your every move?’

‘You could fill a mountain of CD-ROM with what my wife doesn’t know. It’s a point of pride with her.’

‘Fine. So let’s give it another half-hour.’

They listened to the rain hammering down for another ten minutes, and then the Explorer came into view.

‘That’s him with the moustache?’

‘That’s him. The guy with him is Thierry Ferand, another trapper.’

Bressard parked half a block away, then he and Ferand came slouching back toward the pool hall through the rain. Ferand was half the other man’s size and had to scuttle along beside him like a dachshund.

‘Bressard’s a dresser,’ Musgrave said. ‘Get a load of the coat.’

‘He better hope the anti-fur movement never hits Algonquin Bay.’

Bressard and Ferand entered the building. Cardinal and Musgrave left the unmarked and went to examine the Explorer. A jagged line ran across two doors on the passenger side. ‘We’ll have to get our ident guys on it,’ Cardinal said, ‘but for now I’d say that looks fresh, wouldn’t you?’

‘I would. Is this guy going to be a problem?’

‘Bressard? No way. Bressard will come along voluntarily.’

Musgrave laughed. ‘Christ, Cardinal. I’d never have pegged you for an optimist.’

As they stepped into the dark stairwell that led down to Duane’s, Cardinal said, ‘Watch out for Ferand. He’s little, but he’s got a mean streak a mile wide, and he’s fond of brass knuckles.’

‘Let me handle him.’ Musgrave hitched up his belt. ‘It’s always the small guys.’

When Cardinal was a teenager, the poolroom had been like a secret society. Cardinal and his friends would play endless games of Boston, High-Low or snooker, chain-smoking their Player’s and du Mauriers like thirties gangsters. Smoke used to hang like storm clouds over a landscape of green felt. So he was a little surprised to step into Duane’s and find that the air was not even visible. Even pool players had become more health-conscious.

Duane himself was behind the counter from which he served easily the worst hamburger in town, for twice the going price. He was a great fat stoat of a man who, without ever having been convicted of anything more than the odd traffic offence, radiated an air of sleaze.

Most of the clientele were in their late teens or early twenties, all male, all trying with varying degrees of success to look tough. With a single glance around the room, Cardinal recognized two drug dealers and one car thief. Bressard and Ferand had started up a game at a corner table. Bressard was bent, lining up a shot. Without straightening, he looked along the cue at Cardinal as they approached. Ferand was drinking a Dr Pepper and spilled a good deal of it over his shirt when he caught sight of them. Cardinal had arrested him twice for assault, though only one charge had stuck. Ferand cursed, placed his cue in the wall rack and grabbed his coat.

‘Relax, Thierry,’ Cardinal said, flashing his badge. ‘We just need to talk to your buddy here.’

‘Don’t tell me,’ Bressard said. ‘You’ve come to make sure I’m not dead.’

‘Oh no, I can see you’re not dead, Paul. I just need some help clearing up a few things with that story I mentioned to you yesterday.’

Ferand said, ‘What are you looking at?’

Musgrave was standing in front of the rear exit, arms folded across his massive chest, and staring at Ferand with a funny little grin, a barely perceptible uptilt in the corner of his mouth.

‘See, we still have this story about a murder in the woods,’ Cardinal said to Bressard. ‘We’ve even got a body now – not yours, obviously – but maybe you heard about it on the news.’

‘What if I have?’

‘Well, you’re the only person whose name’s come up in this whole deal. So I was hoping you’d come down to the station and help us clear it up.’

‘What the fuck are you looking at?’ Ferand said again. ‘You a faggot or something?’

Musgrave was still planted like a sphinx in the doorway, still doing that funny little Mona Lisa thing at Ferand.

‘Tell him to stop looking at me.’

‘Shut up, Thierry,’ Bressard said. ‘He’s just trying to psych you out. And you’re letting him do it.’

‘So, what do you say, Paul? Come on downtown with us, we’ll have a chat about how your name got mixed up in this. I’m sure it’s nothing we can’t—’

A small blur launched itself past Cardinal in Musgrave’s direction. Before he could even turn to look, the small blur came flying back and landed on the pool table. Balls went flying, the overhead lamp swung crazily back and forth. Something gold or brass glittered in Ferand’s hand as he lay groaning on the table, and then it slid to the floor with a clang.

‘Assaulting a police officer,’ Musgrave said. ‘He’s even dumber than he looks.’

8

Ferand was booked and placed in the cells, after Wudky had been transferred to the jail for his own protection, in case Ferand should happen to remember who it was he had mentioned the murder to.

Musgrave was all for going at Bressard full force, which was one reason Cardinal insisted that he do the interview by himself.

Musgrave shrugged. ‘I’m heading back to Sudbury. Let me know what the habitant has to say for himself.’

Cardinal sat Bressard down in the interview room. The trapper tried to appear calm, lounging in his seat, but he kept playing with the straw in his can of Coke. Cardinal’s manner was inquisitive but not unfriendly – just two colleagues out to solve this peculiar set of events together.

‘I’m hoping you can help me out here, Paul, because right now I have to say it looks pretty bad. How’s it happen that we find a dead body near your old shack in the woods? Can you help me clear that up?’

Bressard took a sip of his Coke, stared at the wall a moment and went back to twirling his straw.

‘We know it was chopped up at your old shack, by the way. There’s no doubt about that. Blood everywhere. All sorts of evidence.’

Bressard took a deep breath, sighed, shook his head.

‘You know, I might be inclined to think it had nothing to do with you. Somebody had an argument and got rid of the body in your old neck of the woods, maybe. But there’s one thing bothers me, and I hope you can explain it.’ He waited, but Bressard didn’t look at him. ‘Just tell me this, Paul. How’d you get the scratch on your front passenger door?’

No answer.

‘You might want to respond to that one, Paul. Because our scene man, and the Forensics Centre, and Ford Motors all say the paint we found on a stump in the woods matches the paint on your Explorer.’

Bressard sucked on the straw of his Coke until the contents rattled.

‘You may think I don’t know anything about you, Paul, but in fact I have a very good idea how you make your living. Number one, there’s the trapping – you have good years and bad years with that, like everything else. Number two, there’s the odd job for Leon Petrucci.’

The corner of Bressard’s mouth lifted in the beginning of a smile, but he didn’t take the bait.

‘Leon Petrucci. It’s been a while, maybe, but we know you’ve worked for him in the past. Number three, there’s the guiding. I know that a good part of your income comes from taking novice hunters out into the woods and finding a bear or two for them to shoot. And I also know that you don’t rely on luck for that. Put a few steaks out on the trail at the right time of year, you’re going to see a bear – especially if you know where they live, which I’m sure a long-time professional like you does.

‘Howard Matlock told the Loon Lodge people he was interested in ice fishing. He didn’t bring any guns or knives with him. Didn’t show the slightest interest in hunting. Now, I don’t mean to sound unpleasant, but how does Mr Matlock come to be eaten by bears near your old shack, Paul?’

Bressard burped quietly, picked up the Coke can and read the French side of the label. Cardinal had been at this game long enough to know when he was getting nowhere. One more shot, he thought. I’ll just give it one more shot.

‘You had a fight about something. Maybe he came after you first. Maybe you shot him accidentally – I won’t even pretend to know how – and then you decided to get rid of the body. I have to give you credit for originality there. But however it happened, unless you give me some kind of explanation, there’s a good chance you’ll go down for second-degree murder on this. It may take us a while to make the case, but we have a good beginning.’

Bressard set his Coke can on the table, turning it slowly. Cardinal grabbed it and tossed it into the wastebasket, where it landed with an enormous racket.

‘All right,’ Cardinal said, rising. ‘I was trying to help you, but you’re just making things worse for yourself. Unless you give me some reason not to, we’re going to have to charge you with murder. The Crown already has the paperwork; he’s just waiting to hear how co-operative you were.’

Bressard didn’t move a muscle.

‘Oh, for Chrissake,’ Cardinal said. ‘Let’s go.’

He reached for Bressard’s elbow, but before he could take hold, Bressard swung mournful eyes his way and said, ‘I got a serious problem.’

That’s a world-class understatement, Cardinal thought, but he didn’t say so. He sat back down and all he said was, ‘Tell me.’

‘If I don’t say anything, you take these bits and pieces you have and put me away for life – maybe or maybe not.’

‘You fed him to the bears, Paul. I don’t think there’s a lot of maybe here.’

‘So, me, I have a question.’

‘Shoot.’

‘What exactly can you offer in terms of witness protection? Would I get a new name, resettle somewhere?’

Cardinal sighed. Since Canada inaugurated its witness protection program in 1996, every thug with even the most tangential connection to organized crime has fantasies that, should the day come when the gang gets rounded up, he’ll turn ‘state’s evidence’ in return for a new identity and a nice cottage on a distant lake.

‘I have no control over witness protection, Paul. The Mounties decide who qualifies, and it’s seriously underfunded. I wouldn’t hold my breath.’

‘Then why the hell should I give you Petrucci?’

‘Are you saying you killed this guy for Leon Petrucci?’

‘I didn’t kill nobody. Me, I’m just asking a question. If I go to prison, at least I get life. With Petrucci, I get a nice view of the bottom of Trout Lake.’

‘So you’re going to go down for him? You want to do his time for him? You’re a nicer guy than I thought, Paul. Lot of guys wouldn’t sacrifice their entire lives for a guy like Petrucci. It’s very thoughtful of you, and I have to wonder how much he’ll appreciate it.’

‘So you, you keep talking, Cardinal. You got nothing to lose. Me, I got everything to lose.’

‘You’re making a mistake about Petrucci. I’m not an organized-crime expert – that’s an RCMP job, thank God – but I can tell you this: Leon Petrucci is not Don Corleone. Leon Petrucci has a distant, and I emphasize distant, connection with the Carbone family in Hamilton. They back him on a few enterprises up here in return for their cut, but they do not whack people for him, and I don’t think they’re going to miss him a whole lot if he gets put away.’

‘So, what do I get if I do this?’

‘Concentrate on what’s going to happen if you don’t. You will go down for murder. A murder you say you didn’t commit. If you can help us nail Leon Petrucci, you’re still an accessory after the fact, but I will ask the Crown to reduce your charges to something like interfering with a dead body or whatever the hell the statute is.’

‘Interfering? ’stie, I’m no pervert.’

‘I just mean you disposed of the damn thing. You fed it to the bears, right?’

‘Okay, I fed it to the bears. But I don’t want no stories getting around I interfered with it.’

‘Depending what you can give us on Petrucci, I’m prepared to ask the Crown to push for protective custody. And I’ll talk to Musgrave about witness protection.’

Bressard stared down at the floor and cursed. ‘Like I say, I didn’t kill nobody. Last Sunday, it’s nine in the morning, me and the wife are having breakfast. The doorbell rings. My wife goes to answer it and there’s no one there, just a fat envelope stuck between the doors. The envelope is marked Personal for me, nothing else on it. I open it up and there’s five thousand dollars cash, along with a note.’

‘What’d the note say?’

‘The note says, “At your shack you’ll find a fresh supply of bait. There’s another five thousand when the bears have had their dinner.”’

‘Was it signed?’

‘Just P. Initial P. Petrucci, he has to write everything. He’s got no voice box.’

‘I know that. Was it handwritten or typed?’

‘Typed. First I was gonna toss it, but you never know how things are gonna turn out. I thought maybe I might need it.’ Bressard reached into his pocket and pulled out a wallet.

‘Wait,’ Cardinal said. ‘Don’t touch it any more than you have to. Just dump it on the table there.’

Bressard held his wallet upside down so that a square-folded piece of paper fell to the table, along with some coins and half a dozen Lotto tickets.

Carefully, using just his fingernails, Cardinal unfolded the paper without smoothing it out. The wording was pretty much as Bressard had said: There’s a fresh supply of bait at your old shack. There’s another five when the bears have had their dinner. It was signed simply P. It looked like it was from a computer printer; they wouldn’t be tracing any typewriters here.

‘It could be from anybody,’ Cardinal observed. ‘And the last I heard, Leon Petrucci moved down to Toronto to be close to Mount Sinai Hospital.’

‘Yeah, sure. And you think that’s gonna get in the way of business? Not too many people are gonna drop five grand in my mailbox and leave me a dead fucking body to get rid of. I told you. Petrucci don’t talk. He’s got no goddam voice box. Who the fuck else you think it’s going to be from?’

‘How do I know you didn’t type this up to cover your ass?’

‘Jesus, Cardinal. You’re so fucking skeptical.’

‘I’m paid to be skeptical.’

‘How do you get on in life? How do you cross the street? I mean, how do you know the street isn’t going to cave in the minute you step on it? Some things you just got to believe, you know what I mean, or there’s no point in living.’

‘Fine. So what did you do?’

‘I go out to my shack – the old one that I haven’t used for like seven, eight years. That’s how I met Petrucci years ago, by the way; I took him on a bear hunt, must be ten years ago. Anyways, I find this big sack on the ground outside. Like a duffle bag. Right away I knew what was in it. I didn’t even have to open it. It’s a dead guy, right? This is the first I know for sure it’s a body. So what am I gonna do, call the sanitation department?’

‘You could have called the police department.’

‘Obviously you know Leon Petrucci really well. Besides, I figured the guy’s already dead, I’m not hurting him any.’

‘We know you took the body into your shack. Did Ferand help you?’

‘No.’

‘Was he involved in this in any way? You’re not helping yourself if he was and you don’t mention it.’

‘Thierry had nothing to do with this. I never told him about it till after.’ It was true the ident guys hadn’t found any evidence linking Ferand to the crime.

‘Did you cut the body up yourself, or did you have help?’

‘Myself. There was quite a bit of blood. To tell you the truth, the first thing I did when I got in there was throw up. I don’t know, I’ve seen a million dead animals, doesn’t bother me, but there’s something about a dead person, even if you don’t know them. Know what I mean?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Anyway, I didn’t want to get blood all over me. I bundled up the pieces and attached a rope so I could drag it to the bear trail. I knew they were awake and I knew they’d be hungry. I didn’t figure there’d be too much left of the guy.’

‘Was the body stripped when you found it?’

‘No, I did that. Didn’t want to be sawing through clothes. Didn’t figure the bears’d be interested in polyester or whatever, either.’

‘We found some material in the stove. Was there anything else with the body – any kind of ID or personal effects you might have kept?’

‘I didn’t keep nothing. There was nothing to keep. I slung everything into the stove.’

‘Did you recognize the victim?’

‘Never seen him before in my life.’

‘Frankly, I’m still a long way from buying the godfather angle. Do you have any idea why Petrucci would have wanted this guy dead?’

‘No. And I wasn’t about to ask, either.’

‘You have a good business, Paul. A wife. Nice house. Why’d you do this to a guy you didn’t even know?’

‘Why?’ Bressard looked away at the far wall of the interview room. After a few moments of reflection he turned back to Cardinal. ‘Two reasons. One: Leon Petrucci. And two: Leon Petrucci. What do you think he’s going to do if I tell him thanks but I can’t do it? You think he’s just going to let me walk away from this? I don’t think so.’

‘And there was the ten thousand.’

‘Five. I’m still waiting for the other five.’

Cardinal had Bressard sign a brief statement, then led him back to the cells. He would be formally charged that afternoon and let go on his own recognizance, mostly so he could be watched.

Cardinal called Musgrave, who was still on the road.

‘You think it’s the mob?’ Musgrave said. ‘You think that note means the order came from Petrucci?’

‘Well, Bressard has worked for Petrucci before. I think the case was before your time – about eight years ago?’

‘Yeah, I was in Montreal back then.’

‘We had a case where Bressard beat a guy pretty bad on orders from Petrucci. We could never nail Petrucci for it because Bressard was too scared to involve him. But when we were making the case, lots of characters did mention him – and one of them had a note, initialled P. We knew Petrucci had his larynx out years ago – it wasn’t unusual for him to write notes. On the other hand, Bressard could be lying through his teeth.’

‘I’m impressed that you got him to talk at all, considering. But you know Leon Petrucci moved down to Toronto.’

‘Yeah, I heard.’

‘Which leaves it barely in the realm of the possible. Tell you what – why don’t you let me handle the Petrucci angle? I’ll get someone from our Toronto detachment on it. They work organized crime all the time.’

‘Sounds good to me.’

Musgrave let out a curse.

‘What’s the matter? You all right?’

‘Goddam truck driver just cut me off. I’m telling you, there’s never any cops around when you need one.’

9

The Crown attorney’s office was on MacIntosh Street in an aggressively ugly building of poured concrete that also housed local offices for the Ministry of Community and Social Services. It was right across the street from the Algonquin Lode, a location that came in handy when Reginald Rose, QC, wanted to make his opinions known to the public, which he often did.

Everything about Reginald Rose was long. He was tall and thin, with a slight stoop that gave him the look of a scholar. He had long fingers that handled documents and evidence and even the knot of his tie with grace. He was given to red neckties and starched white shirts and red suspenders that – when he wasn’t wearing his habitual blue blazer – gave him the look of a crisp new Canadian flag.

He was just now addressing himself to a group gathered around a long oak table – an odd-looking group, Cardinal thought. Aside from the elongated Rose himself, there was Robert Henry Hewitt, a.k.a. Wudky, who kept drooping over the table like a dormouse. There was Bob Brackett, his pro bono attorney – deceptively plump and harmless-looking, but a lethal criminal lawyer. And there was Cardinal himself, who was sure he must look as uncomfortable as he felt, because although he was usually perfectly clear about what side he was on, just now he had his doubts.

‘I must tell you right from the start,’ Rose said, ‘that I am not of a mind to make a deal in this case. Why should I? According to all the evidence – and there’s a mountain of evidence – Robert Henry Hewitt is guilty of armed robbery. And not just a little guilty, but absolutely, positively, deadbang guilty. We have his admission of guilt—’

‘Of course you do. Obtained without benefit of counsel.’

‘Mr Brackett, let me finish. We have your client’s admission of guilt. We have the cash from his knapsack. We have the plaid scarf he wore over his face. We have the holdup note written in his appalling but distinctive penmanship – written on the back of his previous arrest warrant, which coincidentally provides his name and address. Why should we make any deal?’

Bob Brackett leaned forward against the conference table. He was dressed in impeccable pinstripes; he always was – perhaps because it lent an edge to his portly figure that otherwise had no edges at all. Pinstripes were nothing unusual in the legal trade, of course, but the gold hoop gleaming in Bob Brackett’s left earlobe most definitely was – especially on a half bald, tubby man in his mid-fifties. He had never married, and in a place the size of Algonquin Bay that alone was enough to feed rumours. Toss in one gold earring and the whispers rose a good deal higher in volume. Not that it mattered; as far as his clients were concerned, Bob Brackett could show up in a tutu as long as he was in their corner.

‘Come now, Mr Rose,’ he said. His voice was soft, reasonable, friendly. ‘Don’t you take any pride in your work? Are you really so desperate for victories that you have to corner a mentally impaired young man and put him away for fifteen years?’

‘Have him plead guilty – I’ll ask for ten.’

Brackett turned to Cardinal. Cardinal was ready to give his views on the Matlock case and how Wudky had tried to help them out. Unfortunately, Brackett had something else in mind. ‘Detective Cardinal, I believe you have a nickname for my client down at police headquarters.’

Cardinal coughed, partly from surprise, partly as a stall. ‘I don’t think we need to go into that, do we? I thought we were just going to—’

‘Do you or do you not have a nickname for my client down at headquarters?’ Brackett’s voice never wavered from its note of pleasant inquiry.

‘Detective Cardinal is not in the witness box,’ Rose said. ‘You don’t get to cross-examine him.’

‘I’m not cross-examining him. He’ll know when I’m cross-examining him. I’m asking a simple question.’

‘We have nicknames for a lot of our customers,’ Cardinal said. ‘They’re not intended for public consumption.’

‘I’m not interested in your other customers, as you call them. What is my client’s nickname, please?’

‘Wudky.’

‘Wudky. An unusual cognomen. Could you spell that for us, please?’

‘W, D, C.’

‘W, D, C. An unusual spelling, too. What do the letters stand for?’

‘I’d really rather not say with Robert in the room.’

Brackett smiled. It was a smile of great benevolence and gave not one inch of ground. ‘Nevertheless, Detective, we await your answer.’

‘It stands for World’s Dumbest Criminal. Sorry, Robert.’

‘That’s okay.’ Hewitt was slumped over the conference table, his chin resting on both folded hands. Speech made his head bob up and down.

‘World’s Dumbest Criminal. And you call him that why, exactly?’ Brackett’s round face was devoid of guile, just asking for information, please.

‘I thought we were going to discuss this just the three of us.’

‘Oh, no, that was never on the table,’ Brackett said. ‘Please tell us why you call my client the World’s Dumbest Criminal.’

‘Because he’s just not competent. He makes dumb mistakes.’

‘Well, yes. Mr Rose has the holdup note as Exhibit A.’

Rose tapped his legal pad with the eraser end of his pencil. ‘Your client has been found in previous trials to be mentally competent to contribute to his legal defence and to understand the nature of his crimes. Do you expect that to suddenly change?’

Brackett’s smile was cherubic. ‘You’re so ferocious in the pursuit of the retarded, Mr Rose. Perhaps you’d prefer to ship my client to the United States. They execute them down there.’

‘Not for robbery, last I heard.’

‘May I continue?’

‘I wish you would.’

‘Detective Cardinal, despite my client’s intellectual limitations, I believe he has recently been extremely helpful to the police. Is that correct?’

At last, Cardinal thought. ‘He was a little off on the details. He told us of a conversation he’d had with a known felon named Thierry Ferand. And Ferand told him that a man from down south somewhere had killed Paul Bressard and got rid of the body in the woods.’

The Crown tossed his pencil onto his pad so hard it bounced onto the floor. ‘Paul Bressard is alive and kicking. I saw him this morning. You can’t miss him in that raccoon coat, for God’s sake.’

‘Like I say, Robert was wrong on the details.’

‘The details? It’s a completely false statement.’

Mr Brackett twiddled pudgy fingers in the air. ‘Stop. Could we stop, please, and just move on to how much of Mr Hewitt’s information turned out to be correct?’

‘Well, once we figured out that he had some names mixed up, it turned out he was right. That is to say, Paul Bressard wasn’t murdered and buried in the woods, but Bressard does admit to disposing of a body in the woods. And the body is indeed from down south – an American named Howard Matlock. So you see, Robert just kind of had things reversed.’

‘Thank you, Detective. That’s extraordinarily helpful.’ Brackett removed his glasses and polished them with the back of his tie, another gesture that emphasized his pure harmlessness. ‘Would it also be fair to say you wouldn’t have known about this murder without my client’s help?’

‘Not exactly. It’s true he told us about it before we knew about it for ourselves, but we did hear of it from the person who found the body – part of it, anyway. But Robert also gave us the name of Paul Bressard, which made him a suspect sooner than he might have been otherwise. So all in all, yes, I would say he was very helpful and co-operative.’

‘Thank you, Detective.’ Brackett turned to the crown. ‘So, Mr Rose, it would appear the Crown attorney’s office has a choice: it can throw the book at a mentally challenged young man, or it can offer a deal to an extraordinarily helpful citizen.’

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