THE FIELDS OF GRIEF
by
Giles Blunt.

In this eagerly awaited new novel from Canada's king of crime, Detective John Cardinal faces his most personal case yet.

For years, John Cardinal's wife, Catherine, has battled severe depression. People are saddened when she finally takes her own life, but they are not really
surprised. Cardinal, of course, is devastated. Despite the suicide note in Catherine's own handwriting and the coroner's finding that there is no evidence
of foul play, Cardinal cannot bring himself to believe that Catherine has really killed herself. 
When hateful notes about his wife's death begin to arrive in the mail, he begins to suspect murder - perhaps revenge from one of the many criminals he
has put away over the years. But because the police have not opened a case, he is forced to investigate on his own. Even his longtime colleague Lise Delorme
can't help 
him - she's wrapped up in a nasty case of her own.
Cardinal enlists the help of Catherine's psychiatrist to help him figure out who is behind the notes. And as he investigates further, he uncovers an alarming
rash of suicides in Algonquin Bay - far more than would seem natural for such a small city. Is it possible that they are, in fact, murders?
“I'm acting, Cardinal thought. I'm acting like a man having a conversation. This is how it's done: you listen, you nod, you ask a question or two, but
I'm not here. I'm not even alive. I'm as gone as the World Trade Center. Catherine is dead. My heart is ground zero.”
- From By the Time You Read This 

Also by Giles Blunt

Black Fly Season
The Delicate Storm
Forty Words for Sorrow
Cold Eye
GILES BLUNT

The Fields of Grief
This novel is entirely a work of fiction.
The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are
the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, events or localities
is entirely coincidental.

HarperCollinsPwWzs&m
77-85 Fulham Palace Road, London W6 8JB

www.harpercollins.co.uk

1
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPMMsters 2006
Copyright © Giles Blunt 2006

Giles Blunt asserts the moral right to
be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book
is available from the British Library

ISBN-13: 978 0 00 715137 0
ISBN-10: 0 00 715137 3

Typeset in Meridien by Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Grangemouth, Stirlingshire

Printed and bound in Great Britain by
Clays Ltd, St Ives pic

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted,
in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,
photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior
permission of the publishers.
To Janna
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I wish to thank Greg Dawson, of the Centre of
Forensic Sciences, for details on the handling of
suspect documents.
I am also grateful, once again, to Staff Sergeant
(Ret.) Rick Sapinski of the North Bay police for
information on police procedures. Any errors that
remain are despite his generous efforts.
I know I could kill someone. I know
I could kill myself.

The Journals of Sylvia Plath
1

Nothing bad could ever happen on Madonna Road.
It curls around the western shore of a small lake
just outside Algonquin Bay, Ontario, providing a
pine-scented refuge for affluent families with
young children, yuppies fond of canoes and
kayaks, and an artful population of chipmunks
chased by galumphing dogs. It's the kind of spot tranquil,
shady and secluded - that promises an exemption
from tragedy and sorrow.
Detective John Cardinal and his wife, Catherine,
lived in the smallest house on Madonna Road, but
even that tiny place would have been beyond their
means were it not for the fact that, being situated
across the road from the water, they owned neither
an inch of beach nor so much as a millimetre of
lake frontage. On weekends Cardinal spent most
of his time down in the basement breathing smells
of sawdust, paint and Minwax, carpentry affording
him a sense of creativity and control that did not
tend to flourish in the squad room.

1
But even when he was not woodworking, he
loved to be in his tiny house enveloped in the
serenity of the lakeshore. It was autumn now,
early October, the quietest time of the year. The
motorboats and Sea-Doos had been hauled away,
and the snowmobiles were not yet blasting their
way across ice and snow.

Autumn in Algonquin Bay was the season
that redeemed the other three. Colours of scarlet
and rust, ochre and gold swarmed across the
hills, the sky turned an alarming blue, and you
could almost forget the sweat-drenched summer,
the bug festival that was spring, the pitiless razor
of winter. Trout Lake was pretematurally still,
black onyx amid fire. Even having grown up
here (when he took it completely for granted),
and now having lived in Algonquin Bay again
for the past dozen years, Cardinal was never
quite prepared for how beautiful it was in the
fall. This time of year, he liked to spend every
spare minute at home. On this particular evening
he had made the fifteen-minute drive from work,
even though he had only an hour, affording him
exactly thirty minutes at the dinner table before
he had to head back.

Catherine tossed a pill into her mouth, washed
it down with a few swallows of water, and snapped
the cap back on the bottle.

There's more shepherd's pie, if you want,' she
said.

'No, I'm fine. That was great,' Cardinal said.
He was trying to corner the last peas on his
plate.

There's no dessert, unless you want cookies.'

'I always want cookies. The question is whether
I want to be hoisted out of here by a forklift.'

Catherine took her plate and glass into the
kitchen.

'What time are you heading out?' he called
after her.

'Right now. It's dark, the moon is up. Why not?'

Cardinal glanced outside. The full moon, an
orange disk riding low above the lake, was quartered
by the mullions of their window.

'You're taking pictures of the moon? Don't tell
me you're going into the calendar business.'

But Catherine wasn't listening. She had disappeared
down to the basement, and he could hear
her pulling things off the shelves in her darkroom.
Cardinal put the leftovers in the fridge and slotted
his dishes into the dishwasher.

Catherine came back upstairs, zipped up her
camera bag and dumped it beside the door while
she put on her coat. It was a golden tan colour
with brown leather trim on the cuffs and collar.
She pulled a scarf from a hook and wrapped it
once, twice, about her neck, then undid it again.

'No,' she said to herself. It'll be in the way.'

'How long is this expedition of yours?' Cardinal
said, but his wife didn't hear him. They'd been
married nearly thirty years, but she still kept him
guessing. Sometimes when she was going out to
photograph, she would be chatty and excited,
telling him every detail of her project until he was
cross-eyed with the fine points of focal lengths
and f-stops. Other times he wouldn't know what
she was planning until she emerged from her darkroom
days or weeks later, clutching her prints like
trophies from a personal safari. Tonight she was
subdued.

'What time do you think you'll get back?'
Cardinal said.

Catherine tied a short plaid scarf around her
neck and tucked it inside her jacket. 'Does it
matter? I thought you had to go back to work.'

'I do. Just curious.'

'Well, I'll be home long before you.' She pulled
her hair out from under her scarf and shook her
head. Cardinal caught a whiff of her shampoo, a
faint almondy smell. She sat down on the bench
by the front door and opened her camera bag
again. 'Split-field filter. I knew I forgot something.'

She disappeared downstairs for a few moments
and came back with the filter, which she dropped
into the camera bag. Cardinal had no idea what
a split-field filter might be.

'You going to the government dock again?' In
the spring Catherine had done a series of photos
on the shore of Lake Nipissing when the ice was
breaking up. Great white slabs of ice stacking
themselves up like geological strata.

'I've done the dock,' Catherine said, frowning
a little. She strapped a collapsible tripod to the
bottom of the camera bag. 'Why all these questions?'

'Some people take pictures, other people ask
questions.'

'I wish you wouldn't. You know I don't like to
talk about stuff ahead of time.'

'Sometimes you do.'

'Not this time.' She stood up and slung the
camera bag, bulky and heavy, over her shoulder.

'What a gorgeous night,' Cardinal said when
they were outside. He stood for a moment looking
up at the stars, but the glow of the moon washed
most of them out. He took a deep breath, inhaling
smells of pine and fallen leaves. It was Catherine's
favourite time of year too, but she wasn't paying
attention at the moment. She got straight into her
car, a maroon PT Cruiser she'd bought used a
couple of years earlier, started the engine, and
pulled out of the drive.

Cardinal followed her in the Camry along the
dark, curving highway that took them into town.
As they approached the lights at the Highway 11
bypass, Catherine signalled and shifted into the
left lane. Cardinal continued on through the intersection,
heading down Sumner toward the police
station.

Catherine was headed toward the east end of
town, and he briefly wondered where she was
going. But it was always good to see her involved
in her work, and she was taking her medication.
If she was a little moody, that was okay. She'd
been out of the psychiatric hospital for a year now.
Last time, she had been out for nearly two years
when she suddenly embarked on a manic episode
that put her in hospital for three months. But as
long as she was taking her medication, Cardinal
didn't let himself worry too much.

It was a Tuesday night, and there was not a lot
going on in the criminal world. Cardinal spent the
next couple of hours catching up on paperwork.
They'd had the annual carpet cleaning done and the air was rich with flowery chemicals and the smell of wet carpet. The only other detective on duty was Ian McLeod, and even McLeod, the station loudmouth during the day, maintained a comparative solemnity at night.
Cardinal was putting a rubber band round a file
he had just closed when McLeod's florid face
appeared over the acoustic divider that separated
their desks.
'Hey, Cardinal. I have to give you a head's up.
It's about the mayor.'
'What's he want?'
'Came in last night when you were off. He
wanted to put in a missing-person report on his
wife. Problem is, she's not really missing. Everybody
in town knows where she is except the goddamn mayor.'
'She's still having the affair with Reg Wilcox?'
'Yeah. In fact she was seen last night with our
esteemed director of sanitation. Szelagy's on a
stakeout at the Birches Motel, keeping an eye
on the Porcini brothers. They got out of Kingston
six months ago and seem to have the idea they
can actually get back into business up here.
Anyways, Szelagy's reporting back and happens
to mention he sees the mayor's wife coming out
of Room 12 with Reggie Wilcox. I was never
keen on the jerk myself - I don't know what
women see in him.'

'He's a good-looking guy.'

'Oh, come on. He looks like one of those Sears
guys modelling the suits.' By way of imitation,
McLeod gave him a three-quarter profile with a
fake-hearty grin.

'Some people consider that handsome,' Cardinal
said. Though not on you.'

'Well, some people can kiss my - Anyway, I
told His Worship last night, I said, look, your wife
is not missing. She's an adult. She's been seen
downtown. If she's not coming home, that's
apparently her choice at this particular moment
in time.'

'What'd he say to that?'

'"Who saw her? Where? What time?" Same
questions anybody'd ask. I told him I wasn't at
liberty to say. She'd been seen in the vicinity of
Worth and Macintosh, and we could not file a
missing-person report at this time. She's at the
Birches again with Wilcox. I told Feckworth to
come on down, you'd be happy to talk to him.'

'What the hell did you do that for?'
'He'll take it better from you. Him and me don't
get along so good.'
'You don't get along with anyone so good.'
'Now, that's just hurtful.'

While he was waiting for the mayor to arrive,
Cardinal made out an expense report for the
previous month and wrote up the top sheet on
a case he had just closed. He found his thoughts
wandering to Catherine. She had been doing
well for the past year, and was back teaching at
the community college this semester. But she
had seemed a little distant at dinner, a little impatient,
in a way that might indicate some preoccupation
other than her photographic project.
Catherine was in her late forties and going
through menopause, which played havoc with
her moods and necessitated constant tweaking
of her medication. If she seemed a little distant,
well, there was no shortage of plausible reasons.
On the other hand, how well do we really know
the people we love? Just look at the mayor.
When His Worship Mayor Lance Feckworth
arrived, Cardinal took him to one of the interview
rooms so they could talk in private.
'I want to get to the bottom of this,' the mayor
told him. 'A full investigation.' Feckworth was a
lumpy little man, much given to bowties, and was
perched uncomfortably on the edge of a plastic
seat that was usually occupied by suspects. 'I know
I'm mayor, and that doesn't give me the right to

8
more attention than any other voter, but I don't
expect less, either. What if she's had an accident
of some kind?'
Feckworth was not much of a mayor. During
his tenure, all the city council seemed to do was
study problems endlessly and agree to let them
drift. But he was usually an affable man, ready
with a joke or a slap on the back. It was unsettling
to see him in pain, as if a building one had
grown used to over the years had suddenly been
painted a garish colour.
As gently as possible, Cardinal pointed out that
Mrs Feckworth had been seen in town the
previous night, and there had been no major accidents
that week.
'Damn it, why is my entire police force telling
me she's been seen around town but you won't
say where or by who? How would you feel if it
was your wife? You'd want to know the truth,
right?'
'Yes, I would.'
'Then I suggest you explain to me exactly what
is going on, Detective. Otherwise, I'll just have to
deal directly with Chief Kendall, and you can be
sure I won't have anything good to say about you
or that lunkhead McLeod.'

Which was how Cardinal came to be sitting in
his car with the mayor of Algonquin Bay in the
courtyard of the Birches Motel. Despite its name,
the Birches was nowhere near a birch tree. It
was not near a tree of any kind, being located
in the heart of downtown on Macintosh Street.
In fact, it was no longer even the Birches Motel,
having been taken over by Sunset Inns at least
two years previously, but everybody still called
it the Birches.
Cardinal was parked a dozen paces from Room
12. Szelagy was parked across the lot, but they
didn't acknowledge one another. Cardinal rolled
the window down a little to keep the glass from
fogging up. Even here in the middle of downtown,
you could smell fallen leaves and from
someone's fireplace the comforting smell of wood smoke.
'You're telling me she's in there?' the mayor
said. 'My wife's in that room?'
Surely he must know, Cardinal thought. How
could it get to this stage - his wife staying out for
days at a time and renting motel rooms - without
his knowing?
'I don't believe it,' Feckworth said. 'It's too
tawdry.' But there was less conviction in his voice
now, as if seeing the actual motel-room door was
beginning to shatter his faith. 'Cynthia's a loyal
person,' he added. 'She prides herself on it.'
Cynthia Feckworth had in fact been sleeping
her way around Algonquin Bay for at least the
past four years; the mayor was the only one who
didn't know it. And who am I to tear off his
blinders? Cardinal asked himself. Who am I to
refuse anyone the sweet anaesthetic of denial?

'Oh, she couldn't be screwing someone else.
That would be - if she's letting another man . . .
that's it. I'll dump her. You watch me. Oh, God,
if she's doing those things . . .' Feckworth groaned
and hid his face in his hands.
As if summoned by his anguish, the door to
Room 12 opened and a man stepped out. He had
the perfectly groomed look of a catalogue model:
take advantage of our mid-autumn sale on men's
windbreakers.
It's Reg Wilcox,' the mayor said. 'Sanitation.
What would Reg be doing here?'
Wilcox ambled to his Ford Explorer with the
slouchy, smug air of the well laid. Then he backed
out of his space and drove off.
'Well, at least Cynthia wasn't in there. That's
something,' Feckworth said. 'Maybe I should just
head home now and hope for the best.'
The door to Room 12 opened again and an
attractive woman peered out for a moment before
closing the door behind her. She buttoned up her
coat against the chill night air and headed toward
the exit.
The mayor jumped out of the car and ran to
block her path. Cardinal rolled up his window,
not wanting to hear. His cell phone buzzed.
'Cardinal, why the hell don't you answer your
bloody radio?'
'I'm in my own car, Sergeant Flower. It's too boring to explain.'
'All right, listen. We got a caller says there's a

dead one behind Gateway condos. You know the
new building?'
The Gateway? Just off the bypass? I didn't even
realize it was finished yet. Are we sure it isn't a
drunk sleeping it off?'
'We're sure. Patrol on the scene already
confirmed.'
'All right. I'm just a few blocks away.'

The mayor and his wife were quarrelling.
Cynthia Feckworth had her arms folded across her
chest, head bowed. Her husband faced her, hands
extended, palms out, in the classic gesture of the pleading mate. An employee was outlined in the doorway of the motel office, watching.
The mayor didn't even notice as Cardinal drove away.

The Gateway building was in the east end of
town, one of the few high-rises in an area that
was breaking out in new strip malls every day.
In fact the ground floor of the building was a
mini-mall with a dry cleaner, a convenience
store, and a large computer-repair concern called
CompuClinic that had moved here from Main
Street. The businesses had been open for a while,
but many of the building's apartments were still
unsold. Road crews were working on a new
cloverleaf to accommodate traffic to and from
the burgeoning neighbourhood, if it could be
called a neighbourhood. Cardinal had to drive
through a gauntlet of orange witches' hats and

then detour by the new Tim Hortons and Home
Depot to get there.
He passed a row of newly built 'townhomes',
most still unoccupied, although lights were on in
a few of them. There was a PT Cruiser parked in
front of the last one, and Cardinal thought for a
second that it was Catherine's. Once or twice a
year he had such moments: a sudden worry that
Catherine was in trouble - manic and somewhere
dangerous, or depressed and suicidal - and then
relief to find it was not so.
He pulled into the Gateway's driveway and
parked under a sign that said resident parking only;
visitors park on street. A uniformed cop was
standing beside a ribbon of crime-scene tape.
'Oh, hi, Sergeant,' he said as Cardinal
approached. He looked about eighteen years old,
and Cardinal could not for the life of him
remember his name. 'Got a dead woman back
there. Looks like she took a nasty fall. Thought
I'd better secure a perimeter till we know what's
what.'
Cardinal looked beyond him into the area
behind the building. All he could see were a
Dumpster and a couple of cars.
'Did you touch anything?'
'Um, yeah. I checked the body for a pulse and
there wasn't one. And I searched pockets for ID but didn't find any. Could be a resident, I guess,
went off one of those balconies.'
Cardinal looked around. Usually there was a

small crowd at such scenes. 'No witnesses? No one
heard anything?'
'Building's mostly empty, I think, except for the
businesses on the ground floor. There was no one
around when I got here.'
'Okay. Let me borrow your flashlight.'
The kid handed it over and let Cardinal by
before attaching the end of the tape to a utility
pole.
Cardinal walked in slowly, not wanting to ruin
the scene by assuming the kid's idea of a fall was correct. He went by the Dumpster, which seemed to be full of old computers. A keyboard dangled over the side by its cable, and there were a couple
of circuit boards that appeared to have exploded
on the ground.
The body was just beyond the Dumpster, face
down, dressed in a tan fall coat with leather at
the cuffs.
'I don't see any of the windows or doors open
on any of the balconies up there,' the young cop
said. 'Probably the super'll be able to give us an
ID.'
'Her ID's in the car,' Cardinal said.
The young cop looked around. There were two
cars parked along the side of the building.
'I don't get it,' the young cop said. 'You know
which car is hers?'
But Cardinal did not appear to be listening. The
young cop watched in astonishment as Sergeant
John Cardinal - star player on the CID team,

veteran of the city's highest profile cases, legendary
for his meticulous approach to crime scenes - went
down on his knees in the pool of blood and cradled
the shattered woman in his arms.

Normally, Lise Delorme would have been irritated
at being called in on her day off. It happened
all the time, but that didn't make it any less
annoying to be hauled out of whatever you were
doing. She had been at a pub, enjoying a particularly
pungent curry with a new boyfriend - a
very good-looking lawyer only a year or two her
junior - whom she had met when he unsuccessfully
defended a long-time thug Delorme had
nabbed for extortion. This was their third date,
and even though the concept of sleeping with a
lawyer was extremely hard for her to accept,
Delorme had been planning to invite him in for
a drink when he took her home. Shane Cosgrove
was his name.
It would have been sexier if Shane had been
a better lawyer. Delorme actually thought his
thuggy client should have gotten off, considering
the meagre pile of evidence she had managed
to put together. But still, he was good looking

and good company and such men, single, were
hard to come by in a place the size of Algonquin
Bay. '
When she returned to the table, Shane asked
her if she needed to lie down, she had turned that
white. Detective Sergeant Chouinard had just told
her that the victim was John Cardinal's wife and
that Cardinal himself was at the scene. A patrol
unit had called Chouinard at home and Chouinard
had in turn called Delorme.
'Get him out of there, Lise,' he had said.
'Whatever else is going on inside him right now,
Cardinal's been a cop for thirty years. He knows
as well as you and me that until we rule out foul
play, he's suspect number one.'
'DS,' Delorme said, 'Cardinal's been absolutely
loyal to his wife through a lot of '
'A lot of shit. Yes, I know that. I also know it's
possible he finally got fed up. It's possible some
little straw just broke the camel's back. So get your
ass over there and make sure you think dirty. That
place is a homicide scene until such time as we
rule out foul play.'
So there was no irritation in Delorme's heart as
she drove across town, only sorrow. Although she
had met Cardinal's wife on social occasions, she'd
never gotten to know her well. Of course, she knew
what everyone in the department knew: that every
couple of years Catherine went into the psychiatric
hospital following a manic or depressive episode.
And every time Delorme had encountered

Catherine Cardinal, she had wondered how that
was possible.
For Catherine Cardinal, at least when she was
well, was one of the few women Delorme had
ever met who could with any degree of accuracy
be described as 'radiant'. The words 'manic'
and 'depressive' - not to mention 'bipolar' or
'psychotic' - evoked images of the frazzled, the
wild-eyed. But Catherine had radiated gentleness,
intelligence, even wisdom.
Delorme, single for more years than she cared
to count, often found the company of married
couples tedious. In general, they lacked the spark
of people still on the hunt. And they had an exasperating
way of implying that single people were
in some way defective. Most upsetting of all, many
seemed not even to like each other, treating each
other with a rudeness they would never dream
of inflicting on a stranger. But Cardinal and his
wife, married God knew how long, seemed
genuinely to enjoy each other's company. Cardinal
talked about Catherine almost every day, unless
she was in hospital, and then his silence had always
struck Delorme as an expression not of shame but
of loyalty. He was always telling Delorme about
Catherine's latest photograph, or how she had
helped some former student get a job, about an
award she had won, or something funny she had
said.
But in Delorme's experience there was something
imposing about Catherine, something

commanding, even when you knew her psychiatric
history. In fact, it may partly have been an
effect of that very psychiatric history: the aura of
someone who had travelled into the depths of
madness and come back to tell the tale. Only this
time she hadn't come back.
And maybe Cardinal's better off, Delorme
thought. Maybe it's not the worst thing for him
to be free of this beautiful albatross. Delorme had
witnessed the toll on Cardinal when his wife had
been admitted to hospital, and at such times she
found herself surprisingly angry at the woman
who could make his life a misery.
Lise Delorme, she cursed herself as she came
to a stop at the crime-scene tape, sometimes you
can be a hundred per cent, unforgivable, unmitigated
bitch.
If Chouinard had been hoping his speedy
dispatch of Delorme would prevent suspect
number one from messing up a crime scene, he
was too late. As she got out of the car, she could
see Cardinal holding his wife in his arms, blood
all over his suede jacket.
A young cop - Sanderson was his name - was
standing guard by the crime-scene tape.
'You were first on the scene?' Delorme asked frim.
'Got an anonymous call from someone in the
building. Said there appeared to be a body out
back. I proceeded here, ascertained that she was dead, and put in a call to the sarge. She called

CID and Cardinal got here first. I had no idea it
was his wife.' There was a trill of panic in his
voice. There's no ID on the body. There's no way
I could've known.'
'That's all right,' Delorme said. 'You did the
right thing.'
'If I'd have known, I'd have kept him away
from the body. But he didn't know either till he
got up close. I'm not gonna get in trouble over
this, am I?'
'Calm down, Sanderson, you're not in trouble.
Ident and the coroner will be here any second.'
Delorme went over to Cardinal. She could tell
from the damage to his wife that she had fallen
from a high floor. Cardinal had turned her over
and was holding her up in his arms as if she
were asleep. His face was streaked with blood
and tears.
Delorme squatted beside him. She gently
touched Catherine's wrist and then her neck,
establishing two things: there was no pulse, and
the body was still warm, though beginning to cool
at the extremities. There was a camera bag nearby,
some of its contents spilling out on to the asphalt.

'John,' she said softly.
When he did not respond, she said his name
again, her voice even softer. 'John, listen. I'm only
going to say this once. What we have here, this
is breaking my heart, okay? Right now I feel like
curling up in a corner and crying and not coming
out till somebody tells me this isn't real. You hear

me? My heart is going out to you. But you and
I both know what has to happen.'
Cardinal nodded. 'I didn't realize it was . . . till
I got up close.'
'I understand,' Delorme said. 'But you're going
to have to put her down now.'
Cardinal was crying, and she just let him.
Arsenault and Collingwood, the ident team, were
heading toward them. She held her hand up to
ward them off.
'John. Can you put her down for me now? I
need you to put her back just the way she was
when you found her. Ident's here. The coroner's
going to be here. However this happened, we need
to do this investigation by the book.'

Cardinal shifted Catherine off his knees and,
with futile tenderness, turned her face down. He
arranged her left hand over her head. 'This hand
was up like this,' he said. 'This one,' he said, taking
her other arm by the wrist, 'was down by her
side. Her arms are broken, Lise.'
'I know.' Delorme wanted to touch him, comfort
him, but she forced her professional self to keep
control. 'Come with me now, John. Let ident do
their work, okay?'
Cardinal got to his feet, swaying a little.
Sanderson had been joined by lots of uniformed
colleagues, and Delorme was aware of one or two
people watching from balconies as she led Cardinal
past the scene tape and over to her car. Bits of
computer crunched underfoot. She opened the

passenger door for him and he got in. She got in
on the driver's side and shut the door.
'Where were you when you got the call?'
Delorme said.
She couldn't be sure from Cardinal's expression
if he was taking anything in. Was he aware of the
ambulance, its lights uselessly flashing? Did he see
the coroner heading toward the body with his
medical bag? Arsenault and Collingwood in their
white paper jumpsuits? McLeod slowly pacing the
perimeter, eyes to the ground? She couldn't tell.
'John, I know it's a terrible time to ask questions
. . .' It was what they always said. She hoped
he understood that she had to do this, probe the
wound with the knife still in it.
When he spoke, his voice was surprisingly clear;
he just sounded exhausted. 'I was at the Birches
Motel, in my car, with the mayor.'
'Mayor Feckworth? How come?'
'He was demanding a full missing-persons on
his wife, threatening to go to the chief, the papers.
Someone had to break the bad news to him.'
'How long were you with him?'
'About two and a half hours, all told. He came
to the station first. McLeod can confirm all this.
Szelagy, too.'
'Szelagy was still staking out the motel on the
Porcini case?'
Cardinal nodded. 'He may still be there. He'll
have his radio off. You would too, if you were
watching the Porcinis.'

'Do you know why Catherine would be here
at this building?'
'She went out to take photographs. I don't know
if she knew anybody here. Must have, I guess, to
get access.'
Delorme could almost hear Cardinal's cop mind
trying to click back into gear.
'We should be checking out the roof,' he said.
'If that's not where she went over, then we should
be canvassing the upper floors. You should be, I
mean. I can't be involved.'
'Wait here a minute,' Delorme said.
She got out of the car and found McLeod over
by the Dumpster.
'Lot of crap all over the place,' he said. 'Looks
like someone blew up a computer back here.'
'CompuClinic's out front,' Delorme said. 'Listen,
did you see Cardinal earlier this evening?'
'Yeah, he was in the office till seven-thirty or
so. Mayor showed up around seven-fifteen and
they went out together. Probably to the Birches
Motel, where his wife's been boinking the
Sanitation Department. You want me to call the
mayor?'
'You have his number?'
'Do I ever. Guy's been bugging me all week.'
McLeod had already pulled out his cell phone and
selected a number from a list that glowed lilac in
his palm.
Delorme went over to the ident guys. They were
down on their knees picking up small items and

dropping them into evidence bags. The moon was
higher now, and no longer orange. It lit the scene
with a silvery light. A cool breeze carried smells
of old leaves. Why do the worst horrors occur on
the most beautiful nights? Delorme wondered.
'You bagged her hands?' she said to Arsenault.
He looked up at her. 'Well, yeah. Until we actually
rule out foul play.'
Collingwood, the younger member of the ident
team, was extracting objects from the camera bag
that lay a few feet from the body. He was young,
blond, and laconic almost to the point of hostility. 'Camera,' he said, holding up a Nikon. The lens
was smashed.
'She was a photographer,' Delorme said.
'Cardinal said she went out this evening to take
pictures. What else?'
'Spare rolls of film. Battery. Lenses. Filters. Lens
tissue.'
'About what you'd expect, in other words.'
He didn't reply. Sometimes it was as if you
hadn't quite hit Collingwood's Enter button.
'Found car keys in her coat pocket,' Arsenault
said, handing them over.
'I'll check out her car,' Delorme said, reaching
for them.
The coroner was getting up from the body,
whacking dust from the lower part of his overcoat.
It was Dr Claybourne, already balding in his
early thirties. Delorme had worked with him a
couple of times before. He had asked her out once,

but she had declined, saying she was already seeing
someone, untrue at the time. Some men were too
nice, in Delorme's view, too harmless, too bland.
It was like being alone but without privacy.
'What do you think?' Delorme said.
Dr Claybourne had a ring of red hair round his
pate, and pale, almost translucent skin. He blushed
a lot, Delorme had noticed, which she put down
to his complexion.
'Well, she's taken a terrible fall, obviously. And
from the amount of blood, she was certainly alive
when she fell.'
"Time of death?'
'I only have body temperature to go on at the
moment, and the lack of rigor. I'd say she's been
dead about two hours.'
Delorme looked at her watch. 'Which would
put it at about eight-thirty. What do the measurements
tell you?'
'Oh, I'd have to bow to your forensics experts
on that. She's eight feet from the edge of the
building. The balconies extend five feet. She could
have fallen from a balcony, or a window.'
'From how high, do you think?'
'Hard to say. Somewhere around ten storeys is
my guess.'
'The building's only nine. We should probably
start with the roof.'
'All right. I'm not seeing any evidence of foul
play, so far.'
'I have a feeling you won't find any. The victim

is known to me, Doctor. Are you aware of her
medical history?'
'No.'
'Call the psychiatric hospital. She's been hospitalized
up there at least four times in the past eight
years. Her last stay was about a year ago and lasted
three months. When you've done that, why don't
we go up to the roof?'
McLeod was waving her over. She left
Claybourne dialling his cell phone.
'Feckless Feckworth was not happy to hear from
me. I could hear the wife screaming at him in the
background. Naturally I brought all my diplomatic
and social skills to bear.'
'I can imagine.'
'His worship says Cardinal was with him at
the Birches till nine-thirty. Szelagy says the
same.'
'You heard from Szelagy?'
'Yeah, he's off the Porcinis for the night. He's
on his way.'
Delorme went to her car. Cardinal was where
she had left him, looking as if he had taken a
large-calibre round in the gut. Delorme led him
over to the ambulance.
The paramedic was a hard-looking woman with
very short blonde hair. Her uniform was tight on
her.
'Victim's husband,' Delorme said. 'Take care of
him, will you?' She turned to Cardinal. 'John, I'm
heading up to the roof now. Stay here and let

these people look after you. I'll be back in about
ten minutes.'
Cardinal sat down on the folded-out tail of the
ambulance. Once again Delorme suppressed an
urge to put her arms around him, her friend in
agony and she has to remain all business.
McLeod and Dr Claybourne went with her in the
elevator to the top floor. Then they had to take the
stairwell up another flight to a door marked patio.
The door was propped open with a brick. McLeod
found a switch and turned on the exterior lights.
The roof had been covered with pressed wood
flooring, and there were picnic tables with holes for
umbrellas. The umbrellas had been taken in; the
autumn breezes were already too cold for anyone
to enjoy sitting outside for more than a few minutes.
'I can see why she might have come up here to
take pictures,' Delorme said, looking around. To the
north, a string of highway lights wound up the hill
toward the airport. Slightly to the east was the dark
shoulder of the escarpment, and to the south, the
lights of the city, the cathedral spire, and the Post
Office communications tower. The moon was rolling
out from behind the belfries of the French church.
McLeod pointed to an unadorned concrete wall,
waist-high, that surrounded the roof. 'Doesn't look
like the kind of thing you could easily fall over.
Maybe she was leaning over to take a picture.
Might want to look at what's on her camera.'
The camera was in the bag, so I don't think
she was shooting when she fell.'

'Might wanna check anyway.'
Delorme pointed in the direction of the moon.
That's where she went off.'
'Why don't you examine it first?' Dr Claybourne
said. 'I'll take a look when you're done.'
Delorme and McLeod, careful where they
stepped, walked slowly toward the edge of the
roof. McLeod said in a low voice, 'I think the doc's sweet on you.'
'McLeod, really.'
'Come on. Did you see the way he blushed?'
'McLeod
Delorme approached the wall, head bowed,
looking at the flooring in front of her. The area
was well lit by the moon and by the roof lights.
She paused at the wall and peered over, then
walked slowly to the left, then back to the right
beyond where she had started.
'I'm not seeing any obvious signs of struggle,'
she said. 'No signs at all, in fact.'
'Here's something.' McLeod had spotted a piece
of paper wedged under a planter and stooped to
pick it up. He brought it over to Delorme, a lined
page about four by six, torn from a spiral notebook.
It
contained a few sentences, in ballpoint,
written in a small, intense hand.

Dear John,
By the time you read this, I will have hurt you
beyond all forgiveness. There are no words to tell

2&
you how sorry I am. Please know that I've always
loved you - never more so than at this moment and
if there had been any other way . . .
Catherine

When Delorme got back downstairs, she found
Szelagy just entering the lobby with a distraught
woman in black: black skirt, black blazer, black
hat, black scarf.

'Sergeant Delorme,' Szelagy said, 'this is Eleanor
Cathcart. She lives on the ninth floor, and she
knows Catherine.'

'I can't believe this is happening,' the woman
said. She removed her hat and swept black hair
from her forehead in a dramatic gesture. Everything
about her seemed exaggerated: she had dark
eyebrows, dark lipstick, and skin as pale as china,
though there was nothing remotely fragile about
her. Her pronunciation of certain words hinted at
a cozy familiarity with Paris. 'I let her into the
building and she goes off the roof? It's just too,
too macabre.'

'How do you know Catherine Cardinal?'
Delorme said.

'I teach up at the community college. Theatre
Arts. Catherine teaches photography there. Mon
Dieu, I can't believe this. I just let her in a couple
of hours ago.'
'Why did you let her in?'
'Oh, I'd been raving about the views from my
apartment. She asked me if she could come up and
take photographs. We're the only building of any
height this side of town. She's been talking about
it for months, but we'd just recently set up an actual rendezvous.'
'For her to come to your apartment?'
'No, she just needed access to the roof. There's
a patio thingy up there. I showed her where it
was and showed her how to prop the door open
- it locks you out otherwise, as I've learned from
bitter experience. I didn't linger. She was working,
she didn't want company. The arts demand a great
deal of solitude.'
'You're quite sure she was alone, then.'
'She was alone.'
'Where were you going?'
'Rehearsal at the Capital Centre. We're opening The Doll's House two weeks from now, and believe
me, some of us are not ready for prime time. Our
Torvald is still on book, for God's sake.'
'Was Catherine showing any signs of distress?'
'None. Well, wait. She was very intense, very
anxious to get to the roof, but I took that as
excitement about her work. Then again, Catherine
is not an easy read, if you know what I mean.
She regularly gets depressed enough to be

hospitalized, and I never saw that coming either.
Of course, like most artists, I'm somewhat prone
to self-absorption.'
'So, it wouldn't surprise you if she committed
suicide?'
'Well, it's a shock, I mean, mon Dieu. You
imagine I'd just hand her the key to the roof and
say, "Ta-ta, darling. Have a nice suicide while I
just pop out to rehearsal"? Please.'
The woman paused, tossing her head back and
looking up at the ceiling. Then she levelled a look
at Delorme with dark, theatrical eyes. 'Put it this
way,' she said. 1 stand here thunderstruck, but at
the same time, out of all the people I know - and
I know a lot - I'd say that Catherine Cardinal was
the most likely to kill herself. You don't get hospitalized
for a simple case of the blues, you don't
get slapped into the ward for a slight disappointment,
and you don't take lithium for PMS. And
have you seen her work?'
'Some,' Delorme said. She was remembering
an exhibition at the library a couple of years ago:
a photograph of a child crying on the cathedral
steps, an empty park bench, a single red umbrella
in a landscape of rain. Photographs of longing.
Like Catherine herself, beautiful but sad.
'I rest my case,' Ms Cathcart said.
Just as Delorme's inner magistrate was
condemning her for displaying an unforgivable
lack of sympathy, the woman exploded into tears
- and not the decorous weeping of the stage, but

the messy, mucus-y wails of real, unrehearsed
pain.

Delorme went with Dr Claybourne to the ambulance,
where they found Cardinal still sitting in
the back. He spoke before they even reached him,
his voice thick and oppressed.
'Was there a note?'
Claybourne held it out so he could read it. 'Can
you confirm whether this is your wife's handwriting?'
Cardinal
nodded. 'It's hers,' he said, and looked
away.
Delorme walked Claybourne over to his car.
'Well, you saw that,' the coroner said. 'He identifies
the handwriting as his wife's.'
'Yeah,' Delorme said. 'I saw.'
'There'll have to be an autopsy, of course, but
it's suicide as far as I'm concerned. We have no
signs of a struggle, we have a note, and we have
a history of depression.'
'You spoke to the hospital?'
'I got hold of her psychiatrist at home. He's
distressed, of course - it's always upsetting to lose
a patient - but he's not surprised.'
'All right. Thanks, Doctor. We'll finish canvassing
the building, just in case. Let me know if there's
anything else we can do.'
'I will,' Claybourne said, and got into his car.
'Depressing, isn't it? Suicide?'
'To put it mildly,' Delorme said. She had

attended the scenes of two others in the past few
months.
She looked around for Cardinal, who wasn't by
the ambulance any more, and spotted him behind
the wheel of his car. He didn't look like he was
leaving.
Delorme got in the passenger side.
'There'll be an autopsy, but the coroner's going
to make a finding of suicide,' she said.
'You're not going to canvass the building?'
'Of course. But I don't think we're going to find
anything.'
Cardinal dipped his head. Delorme couldn't
imagine what he was thinking. When he finally
did speak, it wasn't what she was expecting.
'I'm sitting here trying to figure out how I'm
going to get her car home,' he said. 'There's probably
a simple solution, but right now it seems like
an insurmountable problem.'
'I'll get it to your place,' Delorme said. 'When
we're done here. In the meantime, is there anyone
I can call? Someone who can come and stay with
you? You shouldn't be alone at a time like this.'
'I'll call Kelly. I'll call Kelly soon as I get home.'
'But Kelly's in New York, no? Don't you have
anyone here?'
Cardinal started his car. 'I'll be all right,' he said.
He didn't sound all right.

'Do those shoes hurt?'
Kelly Cardinal was sitting at the dining-room
table, wrapping a framed photograph of her
mother in bubble wrap. She wanted to take one
to the funeral home to place beside the casket.
Cardinal sat down in the chair opposite. Several
days had passed, but he was still stunned, unable
to take the world in. His daughter's words hadn't
organized themselves into anything he could decipher.
He had to ask her to repeat herself.
Those shoes you're wearing,' she said. They
look brand new. Are they pinching your feet?'
'A little. I've only worn them once - to Dad's
funeral.'
That was two years ago.'
'Oh, I love that picture.'
Cardinal reached for the portrait of Catherine in
working mode. Dressed in a yellow anorak, her
hair wild with rain, she was burdened with two
cameras - one round her neck, the other slung over


her shoulder. She was looking exasperated. Cardinal
remembered snapping the photo with the little
point-and-shoot that remained the only photographic
apparatus he had ever mastered. Catherine
had indeed been exasperated with him, first because
she was trying to work, and second because she
knew what the rain was doing to her beautiful hair
and didn't want to be photographed. In dry weather
her hair fell in soft cascades to her shoulders; when
it was raining it went wild and frizzy, which pricked
her vanity. But Cardinal loved her hair wild.
'For a photographer, she sure hated getting her
picture taken,' he said.
'Maybe we shouldn't use it. She looks a little
annoyed.'
'No, no. Please. That's Catherine doing what
she loved.'
Cardinal had at first resisted the idea of having
a photograph; it had struck him as undignified, to
say nothing of the fact that the sight of Catherine's
face tore his heart open.
But Catherine thought in photographs. Come
into a room when she was working and before
you could open your mouth she had taken your
picture. It was as if the camera were a protective
mechanism that had evolved over the years solely
to provide a defence for elusive, breakable people
like her. She wasn't a snob about photographs,
either. She could be as ecstatic over a lucky snap
of a street scene as over a series of images she
had struggled with for months.

I ; 1 I



Kelly put the wrapped picture into her bag. 'Go
and change your shoes. You don't want to be
standing around in shoes that don't fit.'
'They fit/ Cardinal said. 'They're just not
broken-in yet.'
'Go on, Dad.'
Cardinal went into the bedroom and opened
the closet. He tried not to look at the half of it
that contained Catherine's clothes, but he couldn't
help himself. She mostly wore jeans and T-shirts
or sweaters. She was the kind of woman, even
approaching fifty, who still looked good in jeans
and T-shirts. But there were small black dresses,
some silky blouses, a camisole or two, mostly in
the greys and blacks she had always preferred.
'My governess colours,' she called them.
Cardinal pulled out the black shoes he wore
every day and set about polishing them. The doorbell
rang, and he heard Kelly thanking a neighbour
who had brought food and condolences.
When she came into the bedroom, Cardinal was
embarrassed to realize he was kneeling on the
floor in front of the closet, shoe brush in hand,
motionless as a victim of Pompeii.
'We're going to have to leave pretty soon,' Kelly
said. 'We have an hour to ourselves there before
people start arriving.'
'Uh-huh.'
'Shoes, Dad. Shoes.'
'Right.'
Kelly sat on the edge of the bed behind him as

Cardinal started brushing. He could see her reflection
in the mirror on the closet door. She had his
eyes, people always told him. But she had
Catherine's mouth, with tiny parentheses at the
corners that grew when she smiled. And she would
have Catherine's hair too, if she let it grow out
from the rather severe bob of the moment, with
its single streak of mauve. She was more impatient
than her mother, seemed to expect more
from other people, who were always disappointing
her, but perhaps that was just a matter of being
young. She could be a harsh judge of herself, too,
often to the point of tears, and not so long ago
she had been a harsh judge of her father. But she
had relented the last time Catherine had been
admitted to hospital, and they had been getting
along pretty well since then.
'It's bad enough for me,' Kelly said, 'but I really
don't understand how Mom could do this to you.
All those years you stood by her when she was
such a loony.'
'She was a lot more than that, Kelly.'
'I know, but all you had to go through! Looking
after me - raising a little kid practically by yourself.
And all the stuff you put up with from her.
I remember one time - back when we were living
in Toronto - you'd been building this really complicated
cabinet, full of drawers and little doors. I
think you'd been working on it for like a year or
something, and one day you come home and she's
smashed it to pieces so she could burn it! She was

3fi
on some trip about fire and creative destruction
and some manic rap that made no sense at all,
and she destroyed this thing you were creating
with such devotion. How do you forgive something
like that?'
Cardinal was silent for a time. Finally he turned
to look at his daughter. 'Catherine never did
anything I didn't forgive.'
That's because of who you are, not because of what she was. How could she not realize how
lucky she was? How could she just throw it all
away?'
Kelly was crying now. Cardinal touched her
shoulder and she leaned against him, hot tears
soaking through his shirt the way her mother's
had so often done.
'She was in pain,' Cardinal said. 'She was
suffering in a way no one could reach. That's what
you have to remember. Difficult as she could be
sometimes to live with, she's the one who suffered
the most. No one hated her disease more than
she did.
'And if you think she wasn't grateful to be loved,
you're wrong, Kelly. If there was one phrase she
used more than any other, it was "I'm so lucky."
She said it all the time. We'd just be having dinner
or something and she'd touch my hand and say,
''I'm so lucky." She used to say it about you, too.
She felt terrible that she missed so much of your
growing up. She did everything she could to fight
this disease and in the end it just beat her, that's


all. Your mother had tremendous courage - and
loyalty - to last as long as she did.'
'God,' Kelly said. She sounded like she had a
cold now, nose all stuffed up. 'I wish I was half
as compassionate as you. Now I've gone and
ruined your shirt.'
'I wasn't going to wear this one anyway.'
He handed her a box of Kleenex and she
plucked out a handful.
'I gotta go wash my face,' she said. 'I look like
Medea.'
Cardinal wasn't sure who Medea was. Nor was
he at all sure about the comforting things he had
just told his daughter. What do I know about
anything? he thought. I didn't even see this
coming. I'm worse than the mayor. Nearly thirty
years together, and I don't see that the woman I
love is on the verge of killing herself?


Prompted by that very question, Cardinal had the
previous day driven into town to talk to Catherine's
psychiatrist.
He had met Frederick Bell a couple of times
during Catherine's last stay in hospital. They had
not talked long enough for Cardinal to form much
more than an impression of intelligence and
competence. But Catherine had been delighted to
discover him because, unlike most psychiatrists, Bell was a talk therapist as well as a prescriber of
drugs. He was also a specialist in depression who
had written books on the subject.

His office was in his house, an Edwardian
monstrosity of red brick located on Randall Street,
just behind the cathedral. Previous owners
included a member of parliament and a man who
went on to become a minor media baron. With
its turrets and gingerbread, not to mention its elaborate
garden and wrought-iron fence, the house
dominated the neighbourhood.
Cardinal was met at the door by Mrs Bell, a
friendly woman in her fifties, who was on her
way out. When Cardinal introduced himself, she
said, 'Oh, Detective Cardinal, I'm so sorry for your
loss.'
Thank you.'
'You're not here in any official capacity, are
you?'
'No, no. My wife was a patient of your husband's
and'
'Of course, of course. You're bound to have
questions.'
She went off to find her husband, and Cardinal
looked around at his surroundings. Polished hardwood,
oak panelling and mouldings - and that
was just the waiting area. He was about to sit
down in one of a row of chairs when a door swung
open and Dr Bell was there, bigger than Cardinal
remembered him, well over six feet, with a curly
brown beard, grey at the jaw line, and a pleasant
English accent that Cardinal knew was neither
extremely posh nor working class.
He took Cardinal's hand in both of his and shook

it. 'Detective Cardinal, let me say again, I'm so
terribly sorry about Catherine. You have my
deepest, deepest sympathy. Come in, come in.'
Except for a vast desk and the lack of a television,
they might have been in someone's living
room. Bookshelves, crammed to the ceiling with
medical and psychology texts, journals and
binders, covered all four walls. Plump leather
chairs, battered and far from matching, were set
at conversational angles. And of course, there was
a couch - a comfortable, home-style sofa, not the
severe, geometric kind you saw in movies featuring
psychiatrists.
At the doctor's urging, Cardinal took a seat on
the couch.
'Can I get you something to drink? Coffee? Tea?'
Thanks, I'm fine. Thank you for seeing me on
such short notice.'
'Oh, no. It's the least I can do,' Dr Bell said. He
hitched his corduroy trousers before sitting in one
of the leather chairs. He was wearing an Irish wool
sweater and didn't look at all like a medical man.
A college professor, Cardinal thought, or perhaps
a violinist.
'I imagine you're asking yourself how it is you
didn't see this coming,' Bell said, expressing exactly
what had been running through Cardinal's mind.
'Yes,' Cardinal said. 'That pretty much sums it
up.'
'You're not alone. Here I am, someone with
whom Catherine has been discussing her emotional


life in detail for nearly a year, and / didn't see it
coming.'
He sat back and shook his woolly head. Cardinal
was reminded of an Airedale. After a moment the
doctor said softly, 'Obviously, I would have
admitted her if I had.'
'But isn't it unusual?' Cardinal said. 'To have a
patient who keeps coming to see you, but doesn't
mention that she's planning to ... Why would
anyone continue seeing a therapist they couldn't,
or wouldn't, confide in?'
'She did confide in me. Catherine was no
stranger to suicidal thoughts. Now don't get me
wrong, she gave no indication of any imminent
plan. But certainly we discussed her feelings about
suicide. Part of her was horrified by the idea, part
of her found it very attractive - as I'm sure you
know.'
Cardinal nodded. 'It's one of the first things she
told me about herself, before we were married.'
'Honesty was one of Catherine's strengths,' Bell
said. 'She often said she would rather die than go
through another major depression - and not just
to spare herself, I hasten to add. Like most people
who suffer from depression, she hated the fact
that it made life so difficult for people she loved.
I'd be surprised if she hadn't expressed this to you
over the years.'
'Many times,' Cardinal said, and felt something
collapse inside him. The room went blurry, and
the doctor handed him a box of Kleenex.

After a few moments, Dr Bell knit his brows
and leaned forward in his chair. 'You couldn't have
done anything, you know. Please let me set your
mind at rest on that point. It's quite common for
people who commit suicide to give no sign of their
intention.'
'I know. She wasn't giving away objects that
were precious to her or anything like that.'
'No. None of the classic signs. Nor is there a
previous attempt in her medical records, although
there is plenty of suicidal ideation. But what we
do have is an ongoing, decades-long battle with
clinical depression, part of her bipolar disorder.
The statistics are indisputable: people who suffer
from manic depression are the most likely to kill
themselves, bar none. There is no other group of
people more likely. God, I almost sound like I
know what I'm talking about, don't I?' Dr Bell
held his hands up in a gesture of helplessness.
'Something like this, well, it makes you feel pretty
incompetent.'
'I'm sure it's not your fault,' Cardinal said. He
didn't know what he was doing here. Had he really
come to listen to this rumpled Englishman talk
about statistics and probabilities? Clearly, I'm the
one who sees her every day, he thought. I'm the one who's known her longest. I'm the one
who didn't pay attention. Too stupid, too selfish,
too blind.
'It's tempting to blame yourself, isn't it?' Bell
said, once again reading his thoughts.

'Merely factual in my case,' Cardinal said, and
could not miss the bitterness in his own voice.
'But I'm doing the same thing,' the doctor said.
'It's the collateral damage of suicide. Anyone close
to someone who commits suicide is going to feel
they didn't do enough, they weren't sensitive
enough, they should have intervened. But that
doesn't mean those feelings are accurate assessments
of reality.'
The doctor said some other things that Cardinal
seemed to miss. His mind was a burned-out
building. A shell. How could he expect to know
what was going on around him at any given
moment?
As Cardinal was leaving, Bell said, 'Catherine
was fortunate to be married to you. And she knew
it.'
The doctor's words threatened to undo him all
over again. He just managed to hold himself
together, like a patient fresh off the operating table
clutching together his stitched halves. Somehow
he blundered his way out through the waiting
room and into the gold autumn light.

Desmond's Funeral Home is centrally located at
the corner of Sumner and Earl streets, which pretty
much means anyone coming in or out of town
has to drive past it, turning it into a daily memento
mori for the citizens of Algonquin Bay. It's not a
pretty building, little more than a cement-block
rhomboid, painted a cream colour to soften the
severity of its outlines and lighten the darkness of
its implications. Whenever Cardinal's father had
driven by, he would always wave and yell, 'You
haven't got me yet, Mr Desmond! You haven't got
me yet!'
But of course Mr Desmond had got Stan Cardinal
in the end, just as he had got Cardinal's mother
before him and would get every other resident of
Algonquin Bay. The Catholics, anyway. There was
another funeral home a few blocks east that got
the Protestants, and still another, newer establishment
that seemed to be doing a brisk business with
recently deceased Jews, Muslims, and 'others'.

Mr Desmond was not in fact one man but a
many-personned entity whose sad but necessary
tasks were vigorously carried out by numerous
Desmond sons, daughters and in-laws.
As Cardinal stepped through the funeral home
entrance with Kelly, thick clouds of emotion gathered
in his chest. His knees began to tremble. David
Desmond, a neat young man married to precision,
shook hands with them. He wore a trim grey suit
with just the right rectangle of perfectly starched
handkerchief showing above the breast pocket.
His shoes were gleaming black brogues more suited to an older man.
'You have forty-three minutes before people
start arriving,' he said. 'Would you like to go in
now?'
Cardinal nodded.
'AH right. You're in the Rose Room just over
that way, the second pair of oak doors on the
right, just past the highboy with the head-and
shoulders clock.' The directions were delivered as
if they were embarking on a journey of some miles
instead of thirty feet of pastel carpet. In any case
Mr Desmond Jr escorted them, and slid open the
doors.
'Please go right in,' he said. 'I'll be here if you
need anything.'
Cardinal had been in this room before and knew
what to. expect: walls a soothing dusty pink,
matching couches and armchairs, tasteful end
tables dominated by gauzy lamps that bathed

everything in diffuse, benevolent light. But when
he stepped through the doorway he stopped, emitting
one syllable - actually a sigh, a sudden expulsion
of breath not intended as speech.
'What is it?' Kelly said from behind him. 'Is
something wrong?'
'I asked for a closed casket,' Cardinal managed
to say. 'I wasn't expecting to see her again.'
'Uh, no. Me either.'
The two of them stood just inside the doorway.
The room stretched into a rose-coloured tunnel,
at the other end of which Catherine, impossibly
beautiful, lay waiting.
Finally Kelly said, 'Do you want me to ask them
to close it?'
Cardinal didn't answer. He crossed the room
with slow, tentative steps, as if the floor might
give way at any moment.
Years previously, when Cardinal's mother had
been laid out in this same room, the figure in the
coffin had scarcely resembled her. The disease that
had consumed her had left no vestige of the chirpy,
strong-willed woman who had loved him all his
life. And his father too, minus his glasses and his
combative manner, might have been a complete
stranger.
But Catherine was Catherine: the wide brow,
the full mouth with its tiny parentheses, the
brown hair curling gracefully to her shoulders.
How the Desmonds had repaired the damage
inflicted by the fall, Cardinal didn't want to know.

The left cheekbone had been completely smashed,
but now here was his wife, face whole, cheekbones
intact.
The sight yanked him into yet another dimension
of pain. Pain was not a big enough word for
this country of agony, this Yukon of grief.
A bend in time, and he was huddled on one
of the pink couches, exhausted and sighing. Kelly
was beside him, clutching a soggy ball of Kleenex.
Someone was speaking to him. Cardinal rose
unsteadily and shook hands with Mr and Mrs
Walcott, neighbours on Madonna Road. They were
retired schoolteachers who spent most of their
time bickering. Today they had apparently agreed
to a ceasefire and presented a united front that
was formal and subdued.
'Very sorry for your loss,' Mr Walcott said.
Mrs Walcott took a nimble step forward. 'Such
a tragedy,' she said. 'At such a lovely time of year,
too.'
'Yes,' Cardinal said. 'Autumn was always
Catherine's favourite season.'
'Did you get the casserole all right?'
Cardinal looked at Kelly, who nodded.
'Yes, thank you. It's very kind of you.'
'You just have to reheat it. Twenty minutes at
two-fifty ought to do it.'
Others were arriving. One at a time they went
to stand by the coffin, some kneeling and crossing
themselves. There were teachers from Northern
University and the community college where

Catherine had taught. Former students. There was
white-haired Mr Fisk, for decades the proprietor
of Fisk's Camera Shop until it was put out of business,
like half of Main Street, by the deadly munificence
of Wal-Mart.
'That's a great picture of Catherine, with the
cameras,' Mr Fisk said. 'She used to come into the
store looking just like that. Always she'd be wearing
that anorak or the fishing vest. Remember that
fishing vest?' Nervousness was manifesting itself
in Mr Fisk as jauntiness, as if they were discussing
an eccentric friend who had moved away.
'Nice turnout,' he added, looking around with
approval.
Catherine's students, middle-aged some of them,
others young and teary-eyed, murmured kind
words at Cardinal. No matter how conventional,
they pierced Cardinal in a way that surprised him.
Who would have thought mere words could be so
powerful?
His colleagues showed up: McLeod in a suit that
had been cut for a smaller man, Collingwood and
Arsenault looking like an out-of-work comedy
duo. Larry Burke made the sign of the cross in
front of the coffin and stood before it with head
bowed for some time. He didn't know Cardinal
all that well - he was new to the detective squad
- but he came over and said how sorry he was.
Delorme showed up in a dark blue dress.
Cardinal couldn't remember the last time he'd seen
her in a dress.

SO
'Such a sad day,' she said, hugging him. He
could feel her trembling slightly, fighting tears of
sympathy, and he couldn't speak. She knelt before
the coffin for a few minutes, and then came back
to give Cardinal another hug, her eyes wet.
Police Chief R.J. Kendall came, along with
Detective Sergeant Chouinard, Ken Szelagy everyone
from CID - and various patrol constables.
Another
bend in the afternoon, and now they
were at Highlawn Crematorium. Cardinal had no
memory of the drive out into the hills. It had been
Catherine's request that there be no church
service, but in the will she and Cardinal had had
drawn up, she had asked that Father Samson
Mkembe say a few words.
When Cardinal had been an altar boy, all of
the priests had been of Irish descent, or French
Canadian. But now the church had to recruit from
farther afield, and Father Mkembe had come all
the way from Sierra Leone. He stood at the front
of the crematory chapel, a tall, bony man with a
face of high-gloss ebony.
The chapel was almost full. Cardinal saw
Meredith Moore, head of the art department up
at the college, and Sally Westlake, a close friend
of Catherine's. And he could make out among the
mourners the woolly head of Dr Bell.
Father Mkembe talked about Catherine's
strength. Indeed, he got most of her good qualities
right - no doubt because he had phoned

earlier asking Kelly for tips. But he spoke also
about how Catherine's faith had sustained her in
adversity - a patent falsehood, as Catherine only
went to church for the big occasions and had long
ago stopped believing in God.
The furnace doors opened and the flames flared
for an instant. The coffin rolled in, the doors closed,
and the priest said a final prayer. A doomsday bell
was tolling in Cardinal's heart: You failed her.
The colours of the world outside were unnaturally
bright. The sky was the blue of a gas flame,
and the carpet of autumn leaves seemed to emit
light, not just reflect it - golds and yellows and
rusty reds. A shadow passed over Cardinal as the
smoke that had been his wife dimmed the sun.
'Mr Cardinal, I don't know if you remember
me . . .'
Meredith Moore was shaking Cardinal's hand
in her dry little palm. She was a wisp of a woman,
so dehydrated she looked as if she should be
dropped in water to expand to her natural size.
'Catherine and I were colleagues . . .'
'Yes, Mrs Moore. We've met a few times over
the years.' In fact, Mrs Moore had fought a nasty
battle with Catherine over control of the art
department. She had not been shy about raising
Catherine's psychiatric history as an impediment,
and in the end she had prevailed.
'Catherine will be sorely missed,' she said, adding,
'The students are so fond of her,' in a tone that
implied the complete bankruptcy of student opinion.

Cardinal left her to find Kelly, who was being
hugged by Sally Westlake. Sally was an outsized
woman with an outsized heart and one of the few
people Cardinal had called personally about
Catherine's death.
'Oh, John,' she said, dabbing her eyes. 'I'm
going to miss her so much. She was my best friend.
My inspiration. That's not just a cliche: she was
always challenging me to think more about my
photographs, to shoot more, to spend more time
in the darkroom. She was just the best. And she
was so proud of you,' she said to Kelly.
'I don't see why,' Kelly said.
'Because you're just like her, talented and brave.
Pursuing a career in art in New York? Takes guts,
my dear.'
'On the other hand, it could be a complete waste
of time.'
'Oh, don't say that!' For a moment, Cardinal
thought Sally was going to pinch his daughter's
cheek or ruffle her hair.
Dr Bell came up to give his condolences once
more.
'It's kind of you to come,' Cardinal said. 'This
is my daughter, Kelly. She's just up from New
York for a few days. Dr Bell was Catherine's psychiatrist.'
Kelly
gave a rueful smile. 'Not one of your
success stories, I guess.'
'Kelly
'No, no, that's all right. Perfectly legitimate.

Unfortunately, specializing in depression is a bit
like being an oncologist - a low success rate is to
be expected. But I didn't want to disturb you, I
just wanted to pay my respects.'
When he was gone, Kelly turned to her father.
'You said Mom didn't seem particularly depressed.'
'I know. But she's fooled me before.'

'Everyone's being so kind,' Kelly said when they
were back home. Troops of sympathy cards stood
in formation across the dining-room table, and in
the kitchen, the counter and table were heaped
with Tupperware containers of casseroles, risottos, ratatouilles, meatloaves, tarts and tourtieres, even
a baked ham.
'A nice tradition, this food thing,' Cardinal said.
'You start to feel all hollow and you know you
must be hungry, but the thought of cooking is just
too much. The thought of anything's too much.'
'Why don't you go and lie down?' Kelly said,
taking off her coat.
'No, I'd only feel worse. I'm going to put something
in the microwave.' He picked up a plastic
container and stood contemplating it in the middle
of the kitchen as if it were a device from the neighbourhood
of Arcturus.
'Even more cards,' Kelly said, dropping a fistful
on the kitchen table.
'Why don't you open them?'
Cardinal put the container in the microwave
and faced the rows of buttons. Another hiatus.

The simplest tasks were beyond him; Catherine
was gone. What was the point of food? Of sleep?
Of life? You won't survive, an inner voice told him. You 'we had it.
'Oh, my God,' Kelly said.
'What?'
She was clutching a card in one hand and
covering her mouth with the other.
'What is it?' Cardinal said. 'Let me see.'
Kelly shook her head and pulled the card away.
'Kelly, let me see that.'
He took hold of her wrist and plucked the card
from her hand.
'Just throw it out, Dad. Don't even look at it.
Just throw it away.'
The card was an expensive one, with a still life
of a lily on it. Inside, the standard message of
condolence had been covered by a small rectangle
of paper, on which someone had typed: How does it feel, asshole? Just no telling how things will turn out,
is there?

The planet Grief. An incalculable number of light
years from the warmth of the sun. When the rain
falls, it falls in droplets of grief, and when the
light shines, it is in waves and particles of grief.
From whatever direction the wind blows - south,
east, north, or west - it blows cinders of grief
before it. Grief stings your eyes and sucks the
breath from your lungs. No oxygen on this planet,
no nitrogen; the atmosphere is composed entirely
of grief.
Grief came at Cardinal not just from the myriad
objects that had been Catherine's: photographs,
CDs, books, clothes, refrigerator magnets, the
furniture she had chosen, the walls she had
painted, the plants she had tended. Grief squeezed
its way through the seams of the house, under
the doors and around the windows.
He couldn't sleep. The note repeated itself over
and over in his head. He got up from his bed and
studied it under the bright lights of the kitchen.

SA
Kelly had thrown out the envelope, but he
retrieved it from the trash. The type was clearly
the work of a computer printer, but there was
nothing distinctive about it - at least, nothing he
could detect with the naked eye.
Nor was there anything remarkable about the
card itself. A Hallmark sympathy card and envelope
was available at any drug or stationery store
across the country.
The postmark showed the date and time - that
would be the date and time it was processed, of
course, not the date and time of mailing - and
the postal code. That code, Cardinal knew, did not
indicate the exact location of mailing, but the location
of the processing plant where the card was
handled. Cardinal recognized the postmark as
Mattawa's. He knew a few people who lived in
Mattawa, acquaintances who could have no
possible reason to hurt him. Of course, Mattawa
was prime cottage country, lots of people went
there from all over Ontario for weekends by the
river. But it was well into October, and most people
had closed their cottages for the winter.
Of course, if you wanted to disguise your true
whereabouts, there was nothing to stop you driving
to Mattawa and mailing a card from there; it was
right on Highway 17, little more than half an hour
from Algonquin Bay.

Lise Delorme was surprised to see him. It was
Sunday, and he had caught her in the middle of

washing her windows. She was wearing jeans with
huge rips at the knees and a paint-stained gingham
shirt that looked at least twenty years old. Her
house, a bungalow at the top of Rayne Street,
smelled of vinegar and newsprint.

'I've been meaning to wash them since August,'
she said, as if he had asked, 'and only just got
around to it.'

She made coffee. 'Decaf for you,' she said.
'Obviously you haven't been sleeping.'

'That's true, but there's a reason. I mean another
reason.'

Delorme brought the coffee and a plate of
chocolate-chip cookies into the living room.

'Why don't you ask your doctor for some
Valium?' she said. 'There's no point making things
worse with lack of sleep.'

'Tell me what you think of this.' He pulled the
card and envelope out of a manila folder and
placed them on the coffee table. They were in a
clear plastic sleeve, now, the card open, the envelope
address-side up.

Delorme raised an eyebrow. 'Work? How can
you be bringing me work? I thought you were off
for a week or two. Hell, if I were you, I'd be gone
for months.'

'Just take a look.'

Delorme leaned over the coffee table. 'Somebody
sent you this?'

'Yeah.'

'Oh, John. I'm so sorry. It's so sick.'
'I'd like to know who sent it. I thought you
could give me your first impressions.'
Delorme looked at the card. 'Well, whoever it
is went to the trouble of printing out this two
line message instead of writing it by hand. That
tells me it's someone who thinks you might recognize
their handwriting - or at least be able to
match it up.'
'Any candidates spring to mind?'
'Well, anyone you've put in jail, of course.'
'Anyone? I'm not so sure. You know, I put Tony
Capozzi away for assault a couple of months ago
and, sure, he's pissed off, but I don't see him doing
something like this.'
'I meant guys who are doing serious time. Five
years or more, maybe. There's not so many of those.'
'And of those, it's got to be someone who's
sophisticated enough - and persistent enough to
find out my home address. It's not like I'm
listed in the phone book. I'm thinking maybe
someone connected with Rick Bouchard's gang.'
Rick Bouchard had been one of the world's
natural-born creeps - even by the low standards
of drug dealers - until he had been killed in prison
a couple of years previously. Cardinal had helped
put him there for a fifteen-year stretch and
Bouchard, who, unlike most criminals, had many
resources and a good deal of natural intelligence,
had pursued him until the day he died.
'Possible,' Delorme said. 'But how likely is that?
With Bouchard dead and all.'

They know my address, and it's their style. Kiki
B. showed up at my door with a threatening letter
a couple of years ago.'
'But Bouchard was still alive, then, and Kiki
has since retired, you told me.'
'Do guys like Kiki ever really retire?'
'Lots of bad guys are going to know your
address. There's the Internet, for one thing. And
remember that idiot reporter a few years ago did
a stand-up right outside your house? That was a
huge case. Who knows how many people saw
that?'
'They didn't use that clip nationally. I checked.
It was just local.'
'Local covers a lot of territory. John. . .' Delorme
took his hand between her warm palms, one of
the few times she had ever touched him. Her face
was soft, and even through the blur of pain perhaps
because of his pain - Cardinal thought her
at that moment extraordinarily beautiful. He realized she must put on an entirely different face for
work, armoured for the daily sarcasm festival of
the squad room. Of course, so did he, so did
everyone, but he had a sudden sense of Delorme,
the only woman of the group, as a dolphin in a
tank full of sharks.
'It could just as easily be some sick neighbour,'
she said. 'Somebody with a grudge against the
police. It isn't necessarily personal.'
Cardinal picked up the plastic folder. 'The postmark
indicates Mattawa.'

Aft
'Yeah, well . . . Why don't you let this go? It
isn't going to help you. It's not going to make you
feel any better. And you'd have to go to one hell
of a lot of trouble. I'm not even sure you could.'
'I was going to ask you to do it.'
The.' She regarded him, her eyes a little less
soft.
'I can't do it, Lise. I'm involved.'
'I can't investigate this. It's not a crime to send a nasty card through the mail.'
'"Just no telling how things will turn out,"'
Cardinal read. 'You don't see that as a threat?
Given the circumstances?'
The, I'd call it a statement. About life in general.
It doesn't contain any threat of future harm.'
'You don't find it ambiguous, even?'
'No, John, I don't. The first part is obviously
nasty, but it's not a threat. The whole thing
amounts to a sneer. You can't go investigating
people for sneering.'
'Suppose Catherine didn't kill herself,' Cardinal
said. 'Suppose she was actually murdered.'
'But she wasn't murdered. She left a note. She
has a history. People who suffer from manic depression
kill themselves all the time.'
'I know that
'You saw it in her own handwriting. I searched
her car afterward. I found the spiral notebook she
wrote it in. The pen was there, too. You recognized
it right away as her handwriting.'
'Yeah, well, it's not like I'm an expert.'


'No one saw or heard anything suspicious.'
'But the building just opened. How many people
live there? Five?'
'Fifteen of the apartments have been bought.
Ten of them are occupied so far.'
'It's a ghost town, in other words. What were
the chances of anyone seeing or hearing
anything?'
'John, there were no signs of struggle. None. I
searched that roof myself. No blood, no scrape
marks, nothing broken, nothing cracked. The ident
guys and the coroner found her position on the
ground consistent with a fall.'
'Consistent with a fall. Meaning she could have
been pushed.'
'The autopsy didn't show anything either.
Everything is consistent with suicide. Nothing
points to anything else.'
'I want to know who sent that note, Lise. Are
you going to help me or not?'
'I can't. The moment we heard back from the
pathologist, Chouinard closed the case. If there's
no case, that means there's no case number. What
do I tell people? We're talking about my job here.'
'All right,' Cardinal said. 'Forget I asked.' He got
up and retrieved his jacket from the chair. He stood
in front of the window, doing up the buttons.
Outside, the sky was still an otherworldly blue, and
the fallen leaves made a duvet of ochre and gold.
'John, no one wants to believe the person they
love killed themselves.'

?a
'You missed a spot,' Cardinal said, pointing to
the window. Two little girls were playing in the
leaves next door, wriggling around in them like
puppies.
'You don't have to do this. There's no need to
find a culprit. It's not your fault she's dead.'
'I know that,' Cardinal said. 'But maybe it's not
Catherine's fault, either.'

7

All the next morning, Delorme couldn't get
Cardinal out of her mind. She had a stack of
reports to excavate, various assault and burglary
charges to follow up, and a rapist who was coming
to trial the next week. Her best witness was getting
cold feet, and the whole case was threatening to
come apart.
And then Detective Sergeant Chouinard
dropped a new one in her lap.
'You're gonna get a call from Toronto Sex
Crimes,' he said. 'Looks like they've got something
for us.'
'Why would Toronto Sex Crimes have something
for Algonquin Bay?'
'They're envious of our worldwide reputation,
obviously. Anyway, don't thank me. You're not
going to like this one.'
The call came half an hour later, from a
Sergeant Leo Dukovsky who claimed to remember
Delorme from a forensics conference in Ottawa

a couple of years earlier. He'd been giving a talk
on computers; Delorme had been on a panel
discussing accounting.
'Forensic accounting?' Delorme said. That
would make it almost ten years ago. I must've
done something awful for you to remember me
after so long.'
'Nope. I just remember you as a very attractive
French person, with a '
'French-Canadian,' Delorme corrected him. She
was willing to be charmed, but there were limits.
Sergeant Dukovsky didn't waver for a moment.
'- with a very French name and no accent whatsoever.'
'Why?
You think we all live in the backwoods?
Talk like Jean Chretien?'
'That's another thing I remember about you.
Kinda prickly.'
'Maybe it's something you bring out in people,
Sergeant. Did you ever think of that?'
'See, that's just the kind of remark that makes
a man remember you,' Dukovsky said, 'when he
has some really nasty work to be done. Although
you may end up actually liking this one. It's going
to be a lot of plodding, but the payoff - assuming
there is one - could be pretty good. We've been
monitoring child pornography on the Web for a
long time now. One particular little girl keeps cropping
up. She was around seven when we first
started seeing her. We think she might be thirteen
or fourteen by now.'

'She's showing up in different settings? With
different abusers?'
'No, it's always the same guy. Naturally, he's
pretty careful to keep his face out of the pictures.
But it always seems to be the same few locations.
We've been trying to isolate elements in the background
- furniture, views out windows, that kind
of thing.'
'And you think she lives in Algonquin Bay?'
'Either lives there or visits there. We're not a
hundred per cent sure. The stuff's already on its
way to you by courier. Let us know what you
think. If it is Algonquin Bay in the pictures, we'll
do everything we can to help you, but obviously
the case would be yours. Now aren't you glad I
remembered you?'

But not even a phone call like that could distract
her for long; John Cardinal kept invading her
thoughts. His desk was right next to hers, and
it was extremely unusual for him to miss a day
of work. Even when his father had died, he
hadn't taken more than a day off. It might be
good for the department, she figured, but it was
probably on the whole a weakness rather than
a strength to be incapable of leaving your work.
Delorme recognized that she herself was much
the same. She got bored on her days off, and when
the end of the year rolled around, she usually had
a couple of weeks' vacation pay coming to her.
She looked at the photograph of Catherine on

Cardinal's desk. She must have been at least
forty-five in the photograph, but retaining more
than her fair share of sexiness. It was there in
the slightly sceptical gaze, the glint of wetness
on the lower lip. It was easy to see how Cardinal
had fallen in love. But what have you done to
my friend? Delorme wanted to ask her. Why
have you done this unforgivable thing? Then
again, why does anybody do it? She could
remember several recent cases off the top of her
head: a mother of three, a social services administrator,
and a teenaged boy, all dead by their
own hands.
Delorme opened the notebook she had found
in Catherine's car, a small standard-issue spiral
with Northern University printed on the cover.
Judging by the contents, it had served as a sort
of catch-all. Phone numbers and names were
scrawled at odd angles alongside recipes for
mushroom bisque and some kind of sauce,
reminders to pick up dry cleaning or pay bills,
and ideas for photographic projects: Telephone series - all shots of people on phones: pay phones, cell
phones, two-way radios, kids on tin cans, everything. And another: New homeless series: portraits of homeless
people, but all fixed up and dressed in good suits,
point being to remove as much of their 'otherness' as
possible. Some other way? Less contrived? On the next page she had simply written: John's birthday.
Delorme had the pen as well. It had been in
Catherine's shoulder bag along with the notebook.

A simple Paper Mate, with very pale blue ink.
Delorme wrote the words personal effects on a sheet
of paper and compared it with the notes. It was
the same ink - as far as one could tell without a
lab test.
And then there was the note itself. The handwriting
appeared to be the same as that in the
notebook. The minimalist J in John, the t in other crossed and looped over the h in both the notebook
and the suicide note. That terrible note,
and yet the handwriting did not appear to be
any more emphatic or wobbly than the rest of
the jottings. In fact, the note was a good deal
neater, as if the decision to die had brought with
it an untouchable calm. But you had a good man,
a loving, loyal husband. Why did you do this
terrible thing? Delorme wanted to ask her. No
matter how much pain you were in. How could
you?
She placed all three items in a padded envelope
and sealed it.

A few hours later that envelope was open on
the kitchen table of John Cardinal's house on
Madonna Road. Kelly Cardinal was watching her
father carefully flip through the spiral notebook.
The sight of her mother's handwriting made
Kelly's heart liquefy in her chest. Every now and
again, her father made a note in his own notebook.
'How
can you stand to look at that stuff, Dad?'

'Why don't you go in the other room, sweetheart?
This is something I have to do.'
'I don't know how you can bear it.'
'I can't. It's just something I have to do.'
'But why? It's just going to make you crazy.'
'Actually, it's making me feel better in a weird
way. I have something to focus on other than the
simple fact that Catherine's
Kelly reached out and touched his sleeve. 'Maybe that's exactly what you should be focusing
on, rather than going over her notebook. It's not
healthy, Dad. Maybe you should just lie down and
cry. Scream, if you have to.'
Her father was holding the notebook under the
light that hung low over the kitchen table. He
tilted it this way and that, first examining a blank
page, and then a page with writing on it. His
concentration was irritating.
'Look at this,' he said. 'I mean, not if you don't
want to. But this is interesting.'
'What, for God's sake? I can't believe you're
messing with that stuff.' Thinking, I sound like a
teenager. I must be reverting under the stress.
'As far as I can tell, this is Catherine's handwriting.'
'Of course it is. I can tell that, even upside
down. She makes those funny loops on her t's.'
'And it's written with this pen - or one just like
it - on a page torn from this notebook.'
'Surely your colleagues already determined that,
Dad. Why? Do you think somebody else wrote
Mom's note for her?'

'No, I don't - not yet, anyway. But look. Come
round this side.'
Kelly debated whether to just go into the other
room and turn on the TV. She didn't want to
encourage her father, but on the other hand, she
didn't want to do anything that would make things
worse. She got up and stood behind him.
'See, what strikes me funny about this,' Cardinal
said, 'is that the suicide note is not the last thing
Catherine wrote in this notebook.'
'What do you mean?'
'You can see the impressions back here, earlier
on. They're very faint, but you can just make them
out when you hold the notebook at the right angle.
Can you see?'
'Frankly, no.'
'You're not at the right angle. You have to sit
down.'
Cardinal pulled out the chair beside him and
Kelly sat down. He tilted the notebook slowly back
and forth.
'Wait!' Kelly said. 'I can see it now.'
Cardinal held the notebook steady in the light.
There at the top of a page of random notes was
a faint impression of the words Dear John. Cardinal
tilted it slightly. Lower on the page, Kelly could just make out any other way ... Catherine. The middle was obscured by other notes, including a
reminder for Cardinal's birthday.
'My birthday's in July,' he said. 'Over three
months ago.'

'You think she wrote her note three months
ago? I suppose it's possible. Pretty weird to carry
around a suicide note for three months, though.'
Cardinal dropped the notebook on to the table
and sat back. "On the other hand, there could be
some perfectly simple explanation: she wrote it
out one day, intending to ... but then she changed
her mind. For a while, at least. Or maybe she accidentally
skipped a page in her notebook three
months ago, and then, the other day, she just
happened to use the first blank page in the book.'
'Out of a concern for neatness? Seems a pretty
odd time to be worried about using every page in
your ninety-five-cent notebook.'
'It does, doesn't it?'
'But it's her writing. Her pen. In the long run,
what difference does it make what page she wrote
it on?'
'I don't know,' Cardinal said. 'I truly don't
know.'

Cardinal had learned long ago that a detective
thrives on contacts. In the overworked and underfunded
endeavours of forensic science, the slightest
personal connection can help nudge a case along
quicker than the average, and an actual friendship
can work magic.
Tommy Hunn had never been a friend. Tommy
Hunn had been a colleague of Cardinal's back in
the early days of his career in Toronto, when he
was still working Vice. In many ways, Hunn had

been a police force's nightmare: excessively
muscled, casually violent, cheerfully racist. He had
also been a pretty good detective right up until
he got caught in a bawdy house by his own squad.
He could have faced charges much more serious
than conduct unbecoming had not Cardinal gone
to bat for him at his disciplinary hearing. He wrote
letters of support for him, and later, when Hunn
was looking for a new line of work, a letter of
reference. Hunn had gone back to school, and
eventually managed to get himself into the documents
section of the Ontario Centre of Forensic
Sciences, where he had been leading an apparently
honourable life ever since.
'Hoo, boy, it's Cardinal the friendly ghost,' Hunn
said when he answered the phone. 'Got to be
something really special. Otherwise, I say to
myself, why wouldn't he go through our central
receiving office?'
'I got a couple of documents for you, Tommy
- maybe three. I'm hoping you can help me out.'
'You wanna cut in, is that it? I gotta tell ya,
John, we are hellaciously backed up down here.
Only thing I'm supposed to work on these days
is stuff that's five seconds from being in court.'
'Yeah, I know.'
All cops expect to have to repay any favour
somewhere down the line, possibly decades later.
Cardinal did not have to give Hunn any reminders.
'Why don't you tell me what you got,' he said.
'I'll see what I can do.'

'I have a greeting card with a piece of paper
glued inside. On that piece of paper there's a
message that looks like it was printed out on a
computer. It's just two sentences long, but I'm
hoping you can give me some idea where it came
from. Frankly, I can't even tell if it's ink-jet or
laser.'
'Either way, it's not going to get us very far
without another printout to compare it to. It ain't
like the old days with typewriters. What else you
got?'
'A suicide note.'
'Suicide. All this trouble, you're working on a
suicide? Goddamn suicides burn my ass. Anyone
who kills themselves is just chickenshit, far as I'm
concerned.'
'Oh, yeah,' Cardinal said. 'Complete cowards.
No question.'
'And selfish,' Hunn went on. 'There's gotta be
no more self-centred act than killing yourself. All
these resources get called into play: your time, my
time, doctors, nurses, ambulances, shrinks, you
name it. All of this for someone that doesn't even
want to live. It's just plain selfish.'
'Thoughtless,' Cardinal said. 'Completely
thoughtless.'
'That's when they don't succeed. When they
do succeed, they leave all this grief behind. I had
a friend - best friend, actually - who ate his
service revolver a few years back. I'm telling you,
I felt like shit for months. Why didn't I see it

coming? Why wasn't I a better friend? But you
know what? He's the lousy friend, not me.'
'Yeah, you put your finger on it there, Tommy.'
'Suicides, man, I tell ya . . .'
'This one may not be a suicide.'
'All right! Different story, entirely. Now you're
engaging my attention.' Hunn put on his
Godfather voice: 'I'm gonna use alia my skills and
alia my powers
'I need this fast, Tommy. Like yesterday.'
'Absolutely. Minute I get it. But if you're
thinking of using this material or any analysis I
give you on it in court, you know you gotta go
through Central Receiving, and Central Receiving
don't rush for nobody. God himself could come
to them with a handwritten note on Satan's letterhead
and they'd tell him, "Get in line, bro."'
'I can't go through Central Receiving, Tommy.
I don't have a case number.'
'Oh, boy . . .'
'But you come back to me with something good,
and I'll get a case number. Then I'll jump through
whatever hoops you need.'
There was a heavy sigh from the other end of
the line. 'All right, John. You're giving me serious
heartburn here, but I'll do it.'

8

Nausea was not quite the word to describe what
Delorme was feeling. The Toronto Sex Crimes Unit
had sent her about twenty images; the package had
been waiting for her when she came back from
lunch. She had looked them over and was now
wishing she hadn't. The photographs provoked a
reaction in her gut, as if she had received a solid
blow to the belly. And then more complicated
emotions set in - distress, almost panic, and yet at
the same time an all but overwhelming hopelessness
about the human species.
The sights and sounds of the office - the click
and slam of the photocopier, McLeod bellowing
at Sergeant Flower, the tapping of keyboards and
the chirping of phones - all diminished around
her. Delorme felt a sob gathering in her chest,
which she tamped down immediately. She had
experienced something similar to this inner
turmoil when reading certain news accounts:
beheadings in Iraq, or the civil war in Africa where

armed men raided villages, raping the women and
chopping the hands off all the men.
She knew the acts captured in the photographs
did not compare to mass murder, but the effect
on her spirit was the same: despair at the depths
to which human nature could sink. Even in a
place the size of Algonquin Bay you heard of such
pictures, but until this moment Delorme had never
seen anything like them. There had been the case
of a social services administrator the previous year,
a man apparently well loved by his family and
friends, who had been charged with possession of
child pornography. But it hadn't been Delorme's
case, and she hadn't seen the evidence. The man
had killed himself while out on bail - apparently
out of shame, even though he had been charged
only with possession of the material, not with
manufacturing or distributing.
The pictures on her desk, Delorme realized,
were actually crime-scene photos. The criminal
had taken them himself in the course of committing
his crime; the creation of child pornography
was unique in that respect. The girl looked to be
as young as seven or eight in some of them, still
with puppy fat around her neck and cheeks; in
others she looked closer to thirteen. She had a
sweet, open face, pale blonde hair, shoulder length,
and eyes almost unnaturally green, the colour
emphasized, in several pictures, by the tears that
flowed from them. There were pictures in a
bedroom, pictures on a couch, pictures on a boat,

in a tent, a hotel room. In one of the photos, a
detail had been blurred out; a hat the little girl
was wearing had been reduced to a blue and white
smear.
The man was careful not to show his face, and
so he became a collection of disparate details. He
was the hairy arm, the furry chest; he was the
sticklike legs, the freckled shoulder, the butt just
beginning to sag. His penis, closely featured in
many shots, looked scorched and red, though
whether from abuse or bad photography it was
impossible to tell. Delorme, no prude and no hater
of men, thought it the ugliest thing she had ever
seen.
It occurred to her that the man was not human;
that he was mere animated flesh, a monster sprung
from a madman's lab. But the spirit-crushing truth,
of course, was that he was human. He could be
anybody, he could be someone Delorme knew.
Not only was he human, he was also beloved by
his victim; too many of the pictures showed her
relaxed and grinning for it to be otherwise. He
had to be either the girl's father or someone very
close to the family. That the little girl loved him,
Delorme had no doubt, and it made her heart
ache.
Toronto had sent two additional envelopes. The
first contained exact copies of the photographs,
but the girl and her abuser had been digitally
removed. Now they were just unexceptional
scenes: an out-of-style sofa, what looked like a

hotel bed, the interior of a tent, a back yard with
a grubby plastic playhouse - settings of no
interest unless you knew what had transpired in
them.
The third envelope contained just one picture,
that of the girl wearing the hat, now enlarged into
a close-up. The hat was a woollen toque, blue and
white, no longer blurred. Delorme had no idea
how the Toronto cops could have managed that,
but she actually stopped breathing for a moment.
She recognized the toque. Not all of the knitted
wording was visible, but you could now clearly
seeALGON. . .WIN. . .FUR. Algonquin Bay Winter
Fur Carnival.
The phone rang.
'Delorme, CID.'
'Sergeant Dukovsky here. You finished throwing
up yet?'
'Sergeant, you may be used to this kind of stuff,
but me, I feel like moving into the forest and living
off roots and berries for the rest of my life.'
'I know what you mean. And this guy is by no
means the worst of what we get. These days we
get pictures of infants, and they're doing this stuff live.'
'Live? I don't understand.'
'Streaming video. Guy gets himself a webcam
and abuses kids online while his brethren around
the world pay to watch.'
'Oh, man.'
'Unfortunately, some of those pictures we sent

you have shown up in the same chat room as the
live stuff, so I wouldn't be surprised if it gives this
guy ideas.'
'Let's hope we nail him before that. Tell me
about the winter carnival hat. How did you
manage to unblur it?'
'We got a couple of 64-bit propeller-heads here,
going gaga over this image-processing tool. Real
bleeding-edge stuff. I asked 'em how it worked
and boy did I regret it. They started blithering
about filter deconvolution and Lucy-Richardson
algorithms. I'm telling you, these guys eat Athlon
chips right out of the bag.'
'And I thought Photoshop was cool. Interesting
thing here, the name of the carnival was changed
a few years back to avoid protesters. It's no longer
the fur carnival, it's just the winter carnival.'
'That could be important. Only we don't know
when she got it or who from.'
'In any case, it doesn't mean the kid lives here.
The carnival draws people from all over the world.'
'Come on. Hordes of people are crossing the
globe to attend the Algonquin Bay Fur Carnival?'
'Not hordes. And they don't come for the
carnival, they come for the fur auction. We get
buyers from the big furriers in Paris, New York,
London, places like that. We even get Russians
coming to check out the competition.'
'You're educating me here, Sergeant Delorme.
I didn't realize Algonquin Bay was such a hive of
international commerce. Did you take a look at

the picture on the boat - the one where there's
other boats in the background?'
Delorme shuffled the photographs, stopping
when she came to the picture. It showed a cabin
cruiser with lots of wooden trim, wooden floors,
and comfortable-looking red seats with tuck-and
roll upholstery. The girl was lounging on one of
these, wearing blue jeans and a yellow T-shirt.
She was ten or eleven in this shot, grinning into
the camera.
There's a good reason why I missed this one,'
Delorme said. 'It's one of the pictures where he's
not doing anything to her. The kid looks happy.'
'Check out the background.'
'There's a small plane with pontoons on it.
And you can just make out part of its tail number.
C-G-K.'
'Exactly. It's a Cessna Skylane and the whole
number is CGKMC. Took us about five minutes
cross-checking those letters with Cessnas and
Algonquin Bay. We get a guy named Frank Rowley.
I can give you his address and phone number, too.
I hope I'm impressing you here.'
'But the plane is just in the background. There's
no reason to think there's any connection between
the owner of the plane and the creep in the
pictures, is there?'
'No, but it's a start. Believe me, we'll hand
you anything we get, minute we get it. In the
meantime, maybe you can focus your logical
French-Canadian mind on those pictures, spend

some quality time with them, and narrow things
down.'
'What if we posted a picture of the girl - just
do it like a missing-person picture? We could put
her face up in the post office and hope somebody
who's seen her calls in. We've got to do something
fast. He's destroying this kid's life.'
'Problem with posting a picture is, the perp is
most likely gonna see it before the kid does.
Pedophiles aren't usually violent, but if he thinks
she's gonna put him away for years, he just might
kill her.'

Next morning, Kelly came into the kitchen in her
running gear - black leggings, mauve sweatshirt
with a tiny elephant stitched on it - and grabbed
an orange off the counter. Catherine bought those
oranges, Cardinal thought. Did you buy half a
dozen oranges when you were about to kill yourself?
He
poured his daughter a coffee. 'You want
some oatmeal?'
'Maybe when I come back. Don't want to lug
any extra weight around. God, you look exhausted,
Dad.'
'You should talk.' Kelly's eyes looked puffy and
red. 'Are you managing to sleep at all?'
'Not much. I seem to wake up every half hour,'
she said, dropping bits of orange peel into the
green bin. 'I never realized how physical the
emotions are. I wake up and my calves are locked
up, and I feel like a wreck, even though I haven't
done anything. I just can't believe she's gone. I

mean, if she came in that front door right now I
don't even think I'd be surprised.'
'I found this,' Cardinal said. He held out a
photograph he'd discovered buried in an album
crammed with loose pictures, a black-and-white
portrait of Catherine, aged about eighteen, looking
very moody and artistic in a black turtleneck and
silver hoop earrings.
Kelly burst into tears, and Cardinal was taken by
surprise. Perhaps in an effort to ease his own grief,
his daughter had been comparatively restrained, but
now she wailed like a little girl. He rested a hand
on her shoulder as she cried herself out.
'Wow,' she said, coming back from washing her
face. 'I guess I needed that.'
That's how she looked when we met,' Cardinal
said. 'I just thought she was the most beautiful
person I'd ever seen. The kind of person you're
only supposed to meet in movies.'
'Was she always that intense?'
'No, not at all. She made fun of herself all the
time.'
'Why don't you come running with me?' Kelly
said suddenly. 'It'll make us feel better.'
'Oh, I don't know
'Come on. You still run, don't you?'
'Not as often as I used to . . .'
'Come on, Dad. You'll feel better. We both will.'

Madonna Road was just off Highway 69, so they
had to run along the shoulder for half a kilometre

or so and then make a left on to Water Road,
which skirted the edge of Trout Lake. The day was
brilliant and clear, the air with a sharp autumn
tang.
'Wow, smell the leaves,' Kelly said. Those hills
have every colour except blue.'
Kelly was not by nature a perky young woman;
she was making an effort to cheer Cardinal up,
and he was touched by it. He was indeed aware
of the beauty of the day, but as they ran through
the suburb, their steps seemed to beat in time with the words Catherine's dead, Catherine's dead. Cardinal felt the contradictory sensations of being both
hollowed out and yet extremely heavy - as if his
heart had been replaced by a ball of lead. Catherine breathed this frosty air too.
'When do you have to be back in New York?'
he asked Kelly.
'Well, I told them I was gonna take two weeks.'

'Oh, you don't have to stay that long, you know.
I'm sure you need to get back.'
'It's fine, Dad. I want to stay.'
'How about today? You have any plans?'
'I was thinking about calling Kim Delaney, but
I don't know. You remember Kim?'
Cardinal recalled a big strapping blonde girl angry
at the world and very political. She and
Kelly had been inseparable in their last years of
high school.
'I would have thought Kim would have
ventured out into the big bad world by now.'

'Yeah, so would I.'
'You sound mournful.' Cardinal accidentally
brushed against a recycling bin. A Jack Russell
bounced up and down on the other side of the
fence, yapping elaborate canine threats.
'Well, we were best friends for a while, but now
I'm not even sure if I should call her,' Kelly said.
'Kim was the smartest girl at Algonquin High way
smarter than me - head of the debating club,
delegate at the junior UN, editor of the yearbook.
And now it's like she wants to be Queen of Suburbia.'
'Not everyone wants to move to New York.'
'I know that. But Kim's twenty-seven and she's
already got three kids, and she owns two - two! SUVs.'

Cardinal pointed at a driveway they were just
passing: one Grand Cherokee, one Wagoneer.
'All she can talk about is sports. Honestly, I
think Kim's life revolves around curling and
hockey and ringette. I'm surprised she isn't into
bowling yet.'
'Priorities change when you have kids.'
'Well, I never want kids if it means you have
to check your mind at the door. Kim hasn't read
a newspaper in years. All she watches on TV is Survivor and Canadian Idol and hockey. Hockey!
She hated sports when we were in school.
Honestly, I thought Kim and I would be friends forever, but now I'm thinking maybe I won't
call.'

'Well, here's an idea. You feel like making a
quick trip down to Toronto?'
Kelly looked over at him. There was a fine film
of sweat on her upper lip and her cheeks were
flushed. 'You're going to Toronto? What brought
this on?'
'Something cooking at the Forensic Centre. I
want to deal with it in person.'
'This is to do with Mom?'
'Yeah.'
For a few moments there was just the sound
of their breathing - Cardinal's breathing, anyway.
Kelly didn't seem to be having any trouble. Water
Road ended in a turning circle. The two of them
slowed and ran in place for a few moments.
Beyond the red-brick bungalows, with their neat
lawns and rows of stout yard-waste bags, the lake
was deep indigo.
'Dad,' Kelly said, 'Mom killed herself. She
killed herself and it hurts like hell, but the truth
is she was manic depressive, she was in and out
of hospitals for a long time, and it's really, ultimately,
not so surprising that she wanted out.'
She touched his arm. 'You know it wasn't about
you.'
'Are you gonna come?'
'Boy, you don't mess around when you set your
mind on something, do you?' She gave it a second.
'All right, I'll come. But just to keep you company
on the drive.'
Cardinal pointed to a path that looped

away through the trees. 'Let's go back the scenic
way.'

All the way south down Highway 11, Cardinal
could not think of anything but Catherine.
Although think was not the word. He felt her
absence in the beauty of the hills. He felt her
hovering above the highway; it had always been
the road that took Cardinal away from or back to
Catherine. But she had not been there this time
to wave goodbye, would not be there when he
came back.
Kelly fiddled with the radio dial.
'Hey, put it back,' Cardinal said. That was the
Beatles!'
'Ugh. I can't stand the Beatles.'
'How can anyone hate the Beatles? That's like
hating sunshine. It's like hating ice cream.'
'It's just their early stuff I can't stand. They
sound like little wind-up toys.'
Cardinal glanced over at her. Twenty-seven. His
daughter was older now than Catherine had been
when Kelly was born. Cardinal asked her about
New York.
For the next little while Kelly told him about
her latest frustrations in trying to make it as an
artist. New York was a hard town to be broke in.
She had to share an apartment with three other
women, and they didn't always get along. And
she was obliged to work at two jobs to make ends
meet: she was assisting a painter named Klaus

Meier - stretching canvases for him, doing his
books - and also working as a waitress three days
a week. It didn't leave a lot of time for her own
painting.

'And doing all this, you never feel the pull of
suburban life? The yearning for a small town?'

'Never. I miss Canada sometimes, though. It's
kind of hard to be friends with Americans.'

'How's that?'

'Americans are the friendliest people in the
world, on the surface. At first I found it almost
intoxicating - they're so much more outgoing than
Canadians. And they're not afraid to have a good
time.'

'That's true. Canadians are more reserved.'

I'm acting, Cardinal thought. I'm not having a
conversation, I'm acting like a man having a
conversation. This is how it's done: you listen, you
nod, you ask a question. But I'm not here. I'm as
gone as the World Trade Center. My heart is
Ground Zero. He wanted to talk to Catherine about
this, but Catherine was not there.

He struggled to focus.

'Somewhere along the line Americans invented
a kind of fake intimacy,' Kelly said. 'They'll tell
you about their divorce the first time they meet
you, or their history of child abuse. I'm not
kidding. I had one guy tell me how his father used
to "incest" him, as he put it. That was on the first
date. In the beginning I thought everyone was
really trusting, but they're not at all. They just
don't have any sense of decorum. Why are you
smiling?'
'It's just funny, hearing you talk about decorum.
Unconventional girl like you.'
'I'm actually pretty conventional, when you get
down to it. I have a feeling it's going to be my
downfall as an artist. God, look at the trees.'
The drive to Toronto took four hours. Cardinal
dropped Kelly at a Second Cup on College Street
where she had arranged to meet an old friend,
then he headed over to the Forensic Centre on
Grenville.

As a piece of architecture, the Forensic Centre is
of no interest whatsoever. It's just a slab tossed
up, like so many other government buildings, in
the era when poured concrete replaced brick and
stone as the material of choice. Inside, it's a collection
of putty-coloured dividers, tweedy carpet, and
mordant cartoons cut from newspapers and taped
above people's desks.
Cardinal had been here many times, though
not to the documents section, and the very
familiarity of the place unnerved him. He was
drowning in the deepest agony of his life; everything
should have been changed. And yet the
security guards, the rattling elevator, the plain
offices, desks, charts and displays were exactly
as before.
'Okay, so we got three little items here,' Tommy
Hunn said, laying them out on the laboratory

counter. Unlike the building, Tommy had changed.
His hair had got thinner, and his belt was hidden
beneath a roll of flab, as if there were a dachshund
asleep under his shirt.
'We got one suicide note. We got one notebook
in which said suicide note may or may not have
been written. And we have one nasty sympathy
card with a typed message inside.'
'Why don't we start with the sympathy card?'
Cardinal said. 'It's not going to be related to the other two items.'
'Sympathy card first/ Hunn said. He put on a pair
of latex gloves, removed the card from its plastic folder
and opened it. '"How does it feel, asshole?"' he read
in a flat monotone. '"Just no telling how things will
turn out, is there?" Cute.'
He held the note next to the window, tilting it
to catch the light.
'Well, it's an ink-jet printer, I can see that right
off. No idiosyncrasies visible to the naked eye. Not
my eye, anyway. But let's do a little detecting.'
He held a loupe to his eye and brought the note
up to his face. 'Here we go. Printer flaw on the
second line. Look at the h's and the t's.'
He handed Cardinal the loupe. At first Cardinal
couldn't see anything, but when his eye adjusted
he could make out a pale, threadlike line running
through the crossbars of the h's and the t's.
'The good news is, if a printer does something
like that, it does it consistently. You notice there's
no flaw through the first line of type. But if we

had another page the guy printed out, it would
show the same flaw on the second line.'
'How helpful is that going to be?' Cardinal
asked.
'Without another sample to compare it to? Not
helpful at all. And the bad news is, they change
the cartridge, they change the flaws. Far as we're
concerned, it's like they've bought themselves a
whole new printer.'
Cardinal pointed to the notebook. 'What can
you do with these?'
'Depends what you want to know.'
'I'd like to be sure the note was written with
the same pen as the rest of the notebook. And
when it was written in relation to the last entries.
If you open it to the one that mentions "John's
birthday".'
'John's birthday. Ha! Maybe she was addressing
it to you!' Hunn flicked through the pages, then
held the notebook up to the light the way he had
the card. 'Oh, yeah. You've got impressions here.
I can make out "Dear John". First thing we do is
stick 'em both in the comparator.'
He lifted a wide door on something labelled VSC 2000.
'Look through the window there, when I flick
the switch. I can shine several different kinds of
light on the samples, see what kicks up. Ink may
look identical to the human eye, but even the
same make and model of pen will show differences
under infrared. The chemistry of different

ink batches reacts differently. I can't tell you how
many fraudulent wills I've busted using this gizmo.
"Dear John." Gotta love it.'
Cardinal bent over to peer through the window.
The writing on the pages glowed.
'These are identical,' Hunn said from behind
him. 'Same pen wrote the suicide note and the
birthday note.'
'Can you tell me which one was written first?'

'Sure. First thing we do is stick it in the humidifier.'
Hunn put the notebook into a small machine
with a glass front that looked like a toaster oven.
'Just needs a minute or so. Indentations will show
up way better if the paper is humid.'
The machine beeped, and he took out the notebook.
'Now we'll run a little ESDA magic on it,
see what we can see.'
'A little what?'
'E-S-D-A. Electrostatic detection apparatus.'
This was a hulk of a machine with a venting
hood on top. Hunn laid the notebook down so
that the single page was flat against a layer of
foam. Then he spread a sheet of plastic wrap over
it.
'Underneath the foam we got a vacuum that
pulls the air through. It'll hold the document and
the plastic down tight. Now I take my Corona unit don't
worry, I'm not gonna open my pants
Hunn picked up a wandlike instrument and
flicked a switch. 'Little mother puts out several
thousand volts,' he said over the hum. He waved

it over the plastic sheet a few times. There was
no change that Cardinal could see.
'Now I take my fairy dust . . .' Hunn shook
what looked like iron filings out of a small canister.
'Actually, these are tiny glass beads covered in
toner. I'm just gonna cascade 'em over my set-up
here . . .'
He poured the black powder over the plastic
that covered the notebook page. The beads slid
off, leaving toner behind in the impressions. There
was a flash of light.
'Now I got us a picture,' Hunn said, 'and we
shall see what we shall see. Have these been dusted
for fingerprints?'
'Not yet. Why?'
'The toner'll often pick up prints - not as good
as dusting powder. They have to be pretty good
prints for it to work. Take a look.'
A photograph scrolled out of a slot. Cardinal
reached for it.
There was a small dark thumbprint to the left
of "John's birthday", which now appeared in white.
There was a short straight line across the whorls
where Catherine had cut herself in the kitchen years ago. Catherine's thumbprint, where she braced
the notebook on her lap. She was alive. She was thinking
of me, planning for my birthday, imagining a future. Cardinal coughed to cover the cry that threatened
to escape his throat. The impression of the suicide
note was now complete, clearly inscribed in black toner. By the time you read this ...

It's her handwriting. You know it's her handwriting.
Why are you putting yourself through
this?
'Okay,' Cardinal said. 'So we know the suicide
note was written on top of the later page, which
makes sense. The later pages should have been
blank when she wrote the suicide note. But can
you tell if the ink on the later page, I mean the
ink of the birthday note, is on top of the impressions
left from the suicide note? Or underneath
them?'
'Oh, I like a man who thinks dirty,' Hunn said.
'Let's pop it under the microscope. If the white
lines of the birthday note are interrupted by
black, that means the indentations were made at
a later time than the ink.' Hunn peered into the
microscope and adjusted the focus. 'Nope. We
got black interrupted by white - ink over indentations.'
'So
the suicide note was definitely written before the birthday note.'
'Definitely. I'm assuming you know when the
mysterious John's birthday occurred?'
'Yeah. Over three months ago.'
'Hmm. Not your usual sort of suicide, then.'
'No. Can I keep the picture you took?'
'Oh, sure. That way the original doesn't have
to be handled so much.' Hunn pulled the original
out of the ESDA machine and put it back in its
folder.
'Do one more thing for me, Tommy?'

I

'What's that?'
'Pour some of that fairy dust on the suicide
note too.'
'You wanna check it for earlier impressions as
well? You already have the birthday thing.'
'I'd really appreciate it. My brothers in arms up
north aren't exactly on the team on this one.'
Hunn looked at him, pale blue eyes calculating.
'Okay, sure.'
He repeated the routine of humidifying the
note, securing it under plastic, charging it. Then
he poured the powder over the plastic.
'Looks like lots of impressions from notes earlier
in the notebook. We can stick it under the microscope
and be certain which ones came first, if you
want.'
'Look at this,' Cardinal said. He pulled out the
photo curling from the slot. The suicide note was
now in white. But there was something else at
the top of the photo, in the centre, outlined in
black toner.
'Quite a bit bigger than the other one,' Hunn
said. 'And no scar. I'm no ident man, but I'd say
you're now dealing with a very different pair of
thumbs.'
A little later Hunn walked him down to the
elevators, where they waited in silence a few
moments. Then the bell pinged, announcing the
arrival of the elevator. Cardinal got in and hit the
button for the ground floor.
'Say, listen,' Hunn said in the tone of one who

has been turning something over in his mind. 'That
stuff isn't connected to you, is it? I mean, personally?
You wouldn't be the John in the notebook,
would you?'
'Thanks for all your help, Tommy,' Cardinal said
as the elevator doors closed between them. 'Much
appreciated.'

Travelling back to Algonquin Bay the same day
meant Cardinal and Kelly spent a total of eight
hours together in the car. The ride back was quiet.
Cardinal asked Kelly how things had gone with
her friend.
'Fine. At least she hasn't turned into a vegetable
like Kim. She's still involved in art, and she seems
to have some idea of what's going on in the world.'
Kelly twisted a strand of her blue-black hair
as she stared out the window. Cardinal remembered
how his own friends had changed at that
age. Many had lost interest in him when he
became a cop, and a lot of his Toronto associates
wrote him off when he moved back to
Algonquin Bay.
'You never know about people,' Catherine had
said. 'Everybody has their own storyline, and
sometimes it doesn't include us - usually when
we wish it did. And sometimes it does include us
- usually when we wish it didn't.'
And what about now, Catherine? How do I deal
with your being gone?
'Like a cop,' he imagined her saying, with the

little half smile she gave whenever she was teasing
him. The way you handle everything.'
But it doesn't help, he wanted to cry. Nothing
helps.
They passed WonderWorld, a vast amusement
park just north of Toronto with a fake pointy
mountain and gigantic rides. Kelly asked him how
things had gone at Forensics, but Cardinal
mumbled something noncommittal. He didn't
want to see the look of pity and frustration in her
eyes.
When Orillia was behind them, she said, 'I
suppose this means dinner at the Sundial?'
'Unfortunately not,' Cardinal said. 'Sundial's
closed.'
'My oh my. The end of an era.'
They had to settle for bland little sandwiches
at a Tim Hortons.
It was dark by the time they got home. The
hills and the trees were silent, a salve to the ears
after the endless clatter of Toronto. Colder, too. A
half-hidden moon lit tendrils of cloud that hung
motionless over the water, the lake itself shiny
and black as patent leather.
When Cardinal opened the front door, he
stepped on the corner of a square white envelope.
He picked it up without showing Kelly.
Tm going to take a shower,' Kelly said, taking
off her coat. 'Nothing like a day in the car to make
you feel grubby.'
Cardinal took the envelope into the kitchen,

holding it by the corner. He switched on the overhead
light and peered at the address. He was pretty
sure he could make out a pale, threadlike line
running through the M and the R of Madonna Road.

10

Cardinal had not noticed on his previous visit how
thoroughly Dr Bell's office was set up for the
comfort of his patients. The large sunny windows,
with their gauzy blinds bright as sails, the floorto-ceiling
walls of psychology and philosophy texts
with their reassuring smells of ink and glue and
paper, the worn Persian rugs, everything about
the room conveyed stability, permanence, wisdom
- qualities that psychiatric patients might feel
lacking in their own lives. The place was a refuge
from the mess of life, a cocoon that invited safe
reflection.
Cardinal sank into the couch. He noted the
boxes of Kleenex discreetly placed at either end,
and on the coffee table - as much Kleenex as at
Desmond's Funeral Home - and he wondered how
many times Catherine had sat here and wept. Had
she also talked about her disappointment in her
husband - who didn't pay her enough attention,
was not kind enough, or patient enough?

"'How she must have hated you/" Dr Bell read
from the latest sympathy card. "'You failed her so
completely.'" He looked at Cardinal over tiny
reading glasses. 'What was your reaction when
you read that? Your immediate reaction, I mean.'
'That he's right. Or she. Whoever wrote it. That
it's true I failed her and she probably hated me
for it.'
'Do you believe that?'
The doctor's mild eyes on him - not probing,
not trying to X-ray - just waiting, bright squares
of window glinting in his glasses.
'I believe that I failed her, yes.'
What Cardinal could not believe was that he
was talking to anyone like this. He never talked
to anyone like this, except Catherine. Something
about Dr Bell - an air of gentle expectation, not
to mention the wiry eyebrows and all that
corduroy - compelled honesty. No wonder
Catherine liked him, although . . .
'What?' Dr Bell said. 'You're hesitating now.'
'Just remembering something,' Cardinal said.
'Something Catherine said to me one time just
after she had seen you. I could tell she had been
crying, and I asked her what was wrong. How it
went. And she said, "I love Dr Bell. I think he's
great. But sometimes even the best doctor has to
hurt you."'
'You thought of that now because my question
hurt.'
Cardinal nodded.

There's a common saying in psychotherapy: It
has to get worse before it gets better.'
'Yeah. Catherine told me that, too.'
'Not that one ever intends to make a patient
feel worse,' Dr Bell said. His hands toyed with a
brass object on his desk. It looked like a miniature
steam engine. 'But we all build up defences
against certain truths about ourselves or our situations
- against reality, essentially - and therapy
provides a place where it's safe to dismantle those
defences. The patient does the dismantling, not
the therapist, but the process is bound to be painful
nevertheless.'
'Luckily, I'm not here as a patient. I just wanted
to ask you about those cards. I realize you're not
a profiler
'No forensic experience at all, I'm afraid.'
'That's all right - this isn't an official investigation.
But I was hoping you would help by giving
me your opinion on what kind of person would
write these cards. They were mailed from two
different locations, but they were printed by the
same machine.'
'What exactly is it that is under investigation officially
or otherwise?'
'Catherine's d--' Cardinal's breath caught on
the word. He still could not say that word about
Catherine, even though it was more than a week
now. 'Catherine.'
'You mean you don't believe she killed herself?'
'The coroner has made a finding of suicide, and

my colleagues down at the station agree.
Personally, I find it a little harder to accept, though
you'll probably tell me that's just my defence.'
'Oh, no, I would never say it was just a defence.
I have great respect for defences, Detective.
They're what get us through the day, not to
mention the night. Nor would I second-guess your
expertise on matters of homicide. My own experience
of Catherine makes me think it indeed highly
likely she killed herself, but if evidence were to
show otherwise, I would not try to argue black
is white. Certainly a finding of accidental death
would be much easier for me to accept. But you're
not thinking it was an accident, are you?'
'No.'
'You're thinking she was killed. And that
whoever wrote these nasty cards was behind the
killing.'
'Let's just say I'm pursuing several lines of
inquiry at the moment. I'd be willing to pay you
- I should have said that right away.'
'Oh, no, no. I couldn't possibly accept payment.
This is not my field. I'm happy to give you my
opinion, off the record, but to accept payment
would imply a commercial service offered with
confidence. It most assuredly is not.' Dr Bell
smiled, eyes disappearing for a moment in fur.
'That's a considerable caveat. Do you still wish me
to proceed?'
'If you would.'
Dr Bell rolled his shoulders and shook his head.

If you were going to have tics, Cardinal supposed,
they weren't the worst ones to have. The doctor
picked up the first card and adjusted his glasses.
He swivelled slightly in his chair, bringing the card
into the light. Then he went still, a figure in a
painting.
'All right,' he said, after some time. 'First of all,
what is the nature of someone who writes a note
like this? Essentially, you've got someone who is
sneering at you.'
'A friend of mine used the same word.'
'And the author is not even sneering at you in
person, he's doing it behind your back. Or she.
Rather in the way of a child who calls someone
names from a safe distance. He knows you can't
retaliate. It's a cowardly, fearful sort of attack.
'Whereas killing someone - killing someone is
very personal and face to face. Usually. To link
these cards with Catherine's possible murder, you
must assume the motive in both cases is the same:
the goal is to hurt you, and Catherine was just a
means to that end. Somehow, in order to hurt you, the killer first got hold of her suicide note unless
you're thinking it's not in fact her handwriting.
Are you in doubt about the handwriting?'
'For now, we'll assume it's genuine.'
'Which would mean someone got hold of her
suicide note. How could that be?'
'I don't know - at least, not yet. Please go on.'
'He intends to hurt you by hurting her,

perhaps follows her for a time. Possibly a good

long time. Possibly snoops through her things
and finds a suicide note she wrote on a particularly
bad day. Possibly even finds it after she
discarded it, who knows? In any case, he follows
her on this night when she's quite alone and
pushes her off the roof, leaving the note behind
to throw everyone off the scent. If that is in fact
what happened, it seems to me the person
capable of going through with all that - the
stalking, the waiting, and then the final violence
itself - is not the sort of shrinking violet who's
going to bother writing anonymous squibs. Am
I making sense so far?'
'I wish OPP Behavioural Science was this fast,'
Cardinal said. 'Keep going.'
'I would say in the case of the card writer you're
looking for someone who knows you. And I
emphasize you as opposed to Catherine. He's gone
to the trouble of hiding his handwriting. And you
say he's mailed the cards from two different locations.'
Dr Bell sank back into his chair, rocking it
with one foot propped on the coffee table, and
resumed, Td say this is going to be someone
nervous and withdrawn. Someone who feels
himself - or herself - a failure. Almost certainly
unemployed. Self-esteem deep in the negative
zone. Also - to judge by the first card - someone
who has suffered a great loss for which you are
to blame. I imagine you've already considered the
possibility, Detective, that this is someone you
nicked?'

'Mm,' Cardinal said. 'And there are a lot of
those.'
'Yes, but that "How does it feel?" That rings
with a very specific intent, don't you find?
Someone steps on your foot, so you stomp on his.
How does it feel? How do you like it? My point
being, it's not just someone you've imprisoned,
but perhaps someone who lost his wife as a result
of that imprisonment.'
'We don't keep statistics, but there's probably
a lot of those too. Marriages don't tend to thrive
on imprisonment.'
'Nor on hospitalization, though I note your own
admirable exception to this.'
Cardinal wanted to say, 'I did my best, obviously
it wasn't enough,' but grief closed its bony
hand around his throat. He opened his briefcase
and pulled out Catherine's suicide note, the original
encased in plastic.
Once again Dr Bell turned toward the window
light. A few pensive scratchings among his sandy
and grey curls, and then he went still again.
After a few moments he said, 'That must have
been painful to read.'
'How does it read to you, Doctor? Does it sound
genuine?'
'Ah. So you do have doubts about the handwriting?'
'Just
tell me how it sounds to you, if you would.'
'It reads exactly like Catherine. A deeply sad
woman, often hopeless, but also capable of great

love. I think it was that love that kept her going
through depressions that by all rights should have
proved lethal years earlier. Her main concern, and
I heard this from her over and over again, was
how it would affect you - apparently even at the
end.'
'If it was the end,' Cardinal said.

11

Larry Burke was new in CID. He'd only been out
of uniform a few months, in fact, and he very
much wanted to make a good impression on his
colleagues. He even worried that stopping into the
Country Style at the top of Algonquin for a quiet
lunch might be viewed as a complete cliche, the
cop in the donut shop. But the truth was he didn't
give a damn about donuts, he just liked Country
Style coffee. And they were making a decent sandwich
these days, when you got down to it, so why
shouldn't he eat where he liked?
It was his favourite thing to do on his day off,
stop into the Country Style with the Toronto Sun - you couldn't beat the Sun for sports coverage order
himself a gigantic coffee and a chicken salad
sandwich and linger for a good hour and a half.
Today the sunlight streamed through the windows, and Burke was actually hot, even though it was a chilly October day. Outside, the hills were scarlet and gold.

He licked the last of the chicken salad off his
fingers and took a swig of coffee. There was a bran
muffin sitting there waiting for him, but he didn't
want lunch to be over too fast. The truth was,
days off had become a little bleak since he and
Brenda had split - or rather since Brenda had split.
Burke would have happily kept their fitful
romance going for another tepid year or two.
He thought about calling her on the cell, just
see how she was doing, but he didn't want to
seem pathetic. Anyway, Brenda was right: they
hadn't had much of a future.
'Man, I don't believe what I just saw.'
Burke looked up from an article on the Grey
Cup. The guy at the next table was staring out the
window at something beyond Burke's shoulder.
Burke turned around to look, but all he could see
was the parking lot, nothing much happening
there.
'He's gone now,' the guy said. 'But I swear, fella
just got out of that Honda Civic was carrying a
shotgun. He went into the laundromat. Looked
pissed off, too.'
'Are you sure he was carrying a gun?'

'Hey, man, I just bagged six duck last weekend.
I know a double-ought when I see one.'
Burke's mouth dried. He didn't have his service
firearm with him, no radio either. He flipped open
his phone and hit the speed dial for the duty
sergeant.
'Hey, Mo, it's Burke. Yeah, yeah, I know, listen.

I got a report of a man carrying a firearm into the
laundromat next to the Country Style top of
Algonquin. I didn't see him, but there's a hunter
two seats over who swears the guy's carrying a
shotgun.'
He heard the sergeant hitting the radio and
hung up, then he went out into the parking lot
and over to the laundromat. Smells of leaves
mingled with the scent of laundry detergent
blowing from the building's vents. The air was
cold enough to give him goosebumps. At least, he
thought it was the air.
He didn't hesitate. In Burke's experience, the
anticipation was the worst aspect of this sort of
thing. These situations never improved. He was
hoping the guy was either carrying a toy or just
on his way to get his hunting rifle repaired.

He opened the door of the laundromat and went
in. A young man - thin, scrawny even, with a stalk
of a neck, and prematurely balding in his, what,
mid-twenties at most - was staring at a spin dryer
on the far side of a row of washers, as if it displayed
college football and not a spiral of laundry. At the
front of the place, in a row of plastic chairs, three
women were reading magazines or listening to
iPods. None of them looked up.
Under the pretence of grabbing a magazine,
Burke moved toward the other side of the washers
and saw that the man was indeed holding a shotgun.
It dangled in a loose grip, pointing toward the floor.
The guy didn't seem aware of anyone else.

Burke backed up a couple of steps. He tapped
the first woman on the shoulder and when she
looked up from her Chatelaine, startled, he put a
finger to his lips. He showed her his police ID and
pointed to the door. The woman opened her
mouth, but Burke again gestured with his finger
to his lips. She retrieved a small knapsack from
the floor and went out.
By now the other two women were watching.
Burke gestured to them as well to leave the laundromat.
They both stood up, but instead of going
out, one of them headed toward the dryers.
'Oh, my God,' she said. 'He's got a gun.'
Burke took hold of her elbow and spoke quietly.
'Out, now. Get out now and stay away from the
windows. Don't let anyone else in until my backup
units arrive. Go. Go.'
The woman didn't look back; the door slammed
shut behind her.
Other people at the far end of the laundromat
hadn't heard anything over the gurgle and clatter
of the machines, and the armed man sat between
Burke and them. He was looking at Burke now.

'What do you want?' he said. He had an
unpleasant voice, a ducklike quack that belonged
to a much older man.
Burke smiled. 'Some guy next door panicked
when he saw you had a weapon there. Thought
I'd come in and check it out.'
'I'm not going to hurt anybody.'
'That's good. But do you realize it's an offence

to carry an unsheathed firearm within city limits?'
'What are you, a cop?'
Burke nodded, gave another little smile. He
looked up at the ceiling a moment then back at
the guy. He was trying to remember what the
Police College at Aylmer had taught him about
eye contact with disturbed individuals. Some
found it threatening, but some found it reassuring.
He couldn't remember which, so he just tried a
bit of both.
'My day off,' Burke said. 'Now, hand that
firearm over to me, butt first.'
'No. I'm not going to do that.'
The people in the back were still oblivious. If
Burke could get them out, then he could leave
too and keep the place empty till backup arrived.
Where the hell were they, anyway?
'Listen,' Burke said. 'I'm just going to ask the
other people to leave. I'm a little concerned that
weapon of yours is going to go off, and we don't
want any bystanders to get hurt, do we?'
'Fine. Get 'em out of here. You go, too.'
'Excuse me!' Burke had to yell over the washers.
'Excuse me - sir? Ma'am?' He held up his ID, not
that they would be able to make it out from where
they were. 'Sir? Ma'am? Police officer. I'm going
to have to ask you to leave. I need you to step
outside and stay clear of the building for a little
bit.'
'What the hell for?' the man said. 'My stuff's
just about ready to come out of the dryer.'

Ill
'Just step outside, sir. I need to secure this
building.'
The man grumbled, gathering up a knapsack
and a bottle of iced tea. He grumbled all the way
out the door, through which the woman had
already made a less recalcitrant exit.
Burke turned back to the man with the gun,
almost a boy, really.
'I'm going to ask you again. Would you hand
that weapon over, please? Butt first.'
By way of reply the man shucked a shell into
the chamber. Burke's heart fell into his shoes.
'All right, look.' Burke raised his hands. 'I'm
not armed. I told you, it's my day off. Just put
the gun down, and we can have a dialogue about
this.' Have a dialogue? A dialogue? Be nice if I
could sound like a human being, he told himself.
'Just go back outside,' the man said in that
ducklike voice. 'I'm not going to hurt anyone. Just
myself.'
'Well, at least tell me your name. I mean, we're
gonna have to identify you and all that.'
'Perry,' the man said. 'Perry Dorn.'
'My name's Larry,' Burke said. 'Perry and Larry,
how about that?' Twinning, they called that. Find
some way to identify with the guy. If he lights a
smoke, you light one too. If he feels like pizza,
you ask if you can share it. Twinning could make
a real difference, they see you as human, they
see you as sympathetic. 'So, where do you live,
Perry?'

'Woodruff Avenue. Three forty-one Woodruff.'
'Oh, yeah. That building by the old CNR station?
That looks like a nice place.'
'It's a dump.'
'Really. You wouldn't know from the outside.'
'Yeah, well. It's amazing what you don't know
from the outside.'
'Very true,' Burke said. 'That's very true. Why
don't you tell me a little about what's going on
with you? You look like a guy with a certain
amount of stamina. Guy who can take a few hits
and stay on his feet. What's going on, Perry?
What's got you down? Job? Girlfriend?'
The man shook his head. One side of his mouth
crept up a little, as if he was tasting bile.
'If I tell you, will you go away and leave me
alone?'
'I can't leave while you have a gun, Perry. I'd
get in serious trouble if I did that. Why don't you
tell me anyway?'
The man blinked several times. A heavy sweat
had broken out on his forehead, dripping down
into his eyes. It was hot in the laundromat, but
not that hot.
'I don't have a girlfriend and I don't have a job.
Those are the givens. Let X be a student. A former
student. I was going to go to McGill to do graduate
work. But I didn't want to go unless my girlfriend came with me. Let Y be my girlfriend.
Ex-girlfriend. She said she was going to, but then
she changed her mind after I'd already been

accepted and had my ticket and everything. I knew
something wasn't right with this equation. Before
she backed out, I knew. I knew it couldn't possibly
go that well. And I was right. I got the right answer,
I just didn't know how I got it.'
That's tough, Perry,' Burke said. That's a lot
to handle. You know, it might not hurt to give
yourself a little time to get over this.'
The man ignored him.
'I was supposed to go to McGill. They were
going to pay all my tuition. All I was going to
have to cover was books and living expenses, and
now I can't go. See, it wasn't just she didn't want
to go to Montreal. That was not the problem. The
reason she dumped me was she was sleeping with
a guy I thought was my friend. Let him be Z.
Stanley, my so-called friend.'
Burke might have thought he was making
progress here, getting the guy talking about himself
and his troubles. But he wasn't speaking with any
feeling. He was quacking his way through his
algebra of misery and was not about to be
distracted. All that mathematical jargon, like his
life was just some math problem. The coldness in
that voice, the lack of feeling, had Burke's heart
beating double time.
'Well, hell, Perry. This just gets worse and worse.
No wonder you're down in the dumps. Anybody
would be. You need some time off, fella. Some
time to recuperate from all the punishment you've
taken.'

'Time off. I was supposed to show up for my
graduate course weeks ago. I've lost my slot there
now. And as for my girlfriend
'What's her name?'
'Margaret. Everyone calls her Peg, though.'
'Margaret. That's an Irish name.'
The guy wasn't listening.
'She's been screwing around,' he said, as if he
hadn't already mentioned it. 'Kinda brings a new
vector into the equation. She's been unfaithful to
me. For a long time now, behind my back. She
says no, it's just recent. I can't prove it, but I know
she's lying. It's just a feeling I get. Everything's
false.'
The guy should be crying now, but he's got that
dead voice, that it's-all-over voice. The machines
have all gone quiet, except for one dryer slamming
against the back wall. Burke hears cars
pulling up: the cavalry at last. He has a sudden
inspiration, the kind of hunch worthy of a CID
man. He points around at the laundromat.
'Is this where you met her, Perry? Would this
happen to be where you and Margaret first met?'
'A-plus plus,' the guy says, and gives him a big
grin.
Connection! Burke figures. Now we're getting
somewhere. And just as he's thinking that, Perry
Dorn flips the shotgun so the muzzle is under his
own chin and pulls the trigger.

12

One of the aspects of small-city police work that
makes it both more interesting than big-city stuff, and more frustrating, is that a detective has to
deal with all sorts of crimes. He or she is not a
vice cop, or a homicide cop, or a bunko specialist;
they take whatever gets assigned to them by their
detective sergeant. With Cardinal on bereavement
leave and McLeod and Burke on their days off,
that meant Lise Delorme was now, in addition to
her new hunt for a child molester, covering
another suicide - this time in a laundromat that
smelled of lint and hot metal and soapy water.
But Delorme could also smell the blood. The
spray had hit the ceiling along with a good deal
of brain matter, and there were streaks and
blotches and scarlet smears where he had fallen
against the washers. The pool on the floor was
already dark and congealing.
'Gee,' Szelagy said. 'What do you suppose could
be the cause of death?'

Standing next to Ken Szelagy was like standing
next to the Empire State; he was six-four and
always made Delorme feel puny, which she was
not. She tended to compensate by being gruff with
him, which was unnecessary, since Szelagy was
the easiest-going member of CID.
They were hanging back a little so the coroner
could go about his work. It was Dr Claybourne
again, reflections of fluorescent lights gleaming on
his head.
Delorme flipped through the dead man's wallet.
It was hard to pull out the individual cards and
papers wearing latex gloves, but she finally managed
to extract a driver's licence, not that the stern, somewhat
lopsided face in the licence bore any resemblance
to the carmine wreckage on the floor.
Terry Wallace Dorn,' she read. 'Lives on
Woodruff, if this address is still current.'
'Kinda far from here,' Szelagy said. 'You'd think
he'd at least pick his own laundromat. Maybe a
machine ate his quarter.'
Delorme bypassed several credit cards, Algonquin
Bay library card, medical insurance card, Chapters
bookstore discount card, Northern University
student card, expired.
'Here we go,' she said. 'Birth certificate.'
She turned it over. Unfortunately, it was the
short-form certificate that did not give parents'
names. She handed the card to Szelagy. 'Call the
Registrar General and get the parents' names, and
see if Perry was ever married.'

Szelagy flipped open his cell phone, and Delorme
reached down to take a piece of paper that Dr
Claybourne was handing to her.
'It was in his jacket pocket/ he said. Dr
Claybourne's face was bright red. A matter of his
complexion, Delorme reminded herself, whatever
McLeod might say. McLeod was always wrong
about everything; it was amazing he ever managed
to make detective.
The note had been crumpled up in a tight ball
at some point, then smoothed out and folded up
again more neatly. In any case, it would not be
going down in the history of great romantic letters.
Dear Margaret, it said. Then that had been
crossed out and rewritten several times in different spots on the page. Dear Margaret, Dear Margaret,
Dear . . .
No points for eloquence there, Perry. But then
Delorme reconsidered. Perhaps that was all that
needed to be said when you were going to quit
the scene. No thanks. I've had enough. You guys
go on without me. Maybe Perry Dorn had distilled
the suicide note to its essence: Dear ...
You'd think it would be just losers, Delorme
thought, complete failures or people with no
prospects at all. But she had seen enough by now
to know that suicide was an equal-opportunity
exit. Smart or stupid, ugly or beautiful, anyone
could walk out at any time. But why this particular
time? Why October? Delorme knew enough
about suicide to know that the myth was wrong:

there was no Christmas rush, not in Ontario. The
numbers were worst in the month of February.
Which made sense, because by February you were
so sick of snow and cold that suicide could look
like a reasonable option. Which was why, come
February, virtually the entire population of
Algonquin Bay transposed itself to Florida or the
Caribbean.
Why kill yourself in the fall? It was so beautiful,
the hills heartbreaking swells of colour. The
fall was the time Delorme felt happiest. It was
always autumn, not New Year's, when she made
her resolutions. Maybe it was just a legacy of the
educational system; the fall was when you bought
bright new notebooks, their fresh clean pages
inviting you to write neat, comprehensive notes.
Later in the year, your notes deteriorated into
ambiguous little blurts that jogged the memory
inconclusively if at all. But those first few days,
when the air carried the first crisp notes of winter
and the sky burned blowtorch blue, it was impossible,
at least for Delorme, not to be happy. Even
though every summer seemed to bring a new
romantic reversal, each fall made her heart expand with hope.
Outside, the sun was so bright, the parking lot
looked overexposed. Inside, everything that wasn't
bloody was grey and drained of colour, like
clothing that has been through the wash too many
times.
The door slammed on its springs and Burke


came in, notebook in fist. 'Checked his car. Back
seat's full of new books and binders and crap.'
Burke was trying to sound gruff, but his face
was white and his hand was shaking.
'We have his student card,' Delorme said.
'Listen, Larry, why don't you go home and lie
down for a while? Guy blows his head off in front
of you, it's not something you're going to get over
in five minutes.'
'Look at this, though.'
He handed her a sheet of paper, expensive
letterhead with a red crest. Dated early April.
'"Dear Mr Dorn,"' she read. '"I am delighted to
inform you that McGill University has accepted you
into its graduate program in Mathematics. In view
of your extremely impressive record at Northern,
I think I am safe in saying that this acceptance will
come with a substantial grant. Subject to confirmation
from the student awards department, your
expenses will probably be limited to rent and other
living expenses. We look forward to meeting you
in the fall." School year started ages ago. If he's
accepted at McGill, why isn't he in Montreal?'
'Clearly the guy didn't have all his marbles,'
Burke said. 'Jerk,' he added, but he was not a
convincing hardass.
'Really, Larry,' Delorme said, 'go home and lie
down. You're not in shape to be working. Go
ahead. No one's going to think badly of you.'
'I'm all right. Kinda thing's all in a day's work. Kinda shit we deal with, right?'

'No, it isn't. I've never seen anyone shoot themselves
and I don't ever want to. What's that in
your hand?'
'Huh?' Burke held up a PalmPilot and stared
at it as if it had just been beamed into his hand.
'Oh, yeah. Was in his car. Figured you might want
it.'
'Good thinking. Now, go home.'
'Maybe I'll just go sit outside for a few minutes,'
Burke said.
Szelagy snapped his cell phone shut. 'Registrar's
gonna call me back.'
'Might not need them,' Delorme said. She was
poking the stylus at the Palm, scrolling up and
down through addresses. Not under D for Dorn,
not under P for parents. 'Here we go. Under M for Mom.'

13

Cardinal feels a strange happiness suffusing his body.
Here the three of them are - Catherine, Cardinal
and Kelly - at the Trianon Restaurant having the
best meal Algonquin Bay has to offer. The Trianon
is their tradition for special occasions: birthdays,
wedding anniversaries, or sometimes just because
Kelly is up for a visit. And here she is, visiting from
New York, and Catherine is in a great mood, the
hospital a distant, green-tiled memory. Cardinal's
heart is aloft in his chest like a helium balloon.
He may have had a little too much to drink,
because he is bubbling over with sentimentality,
saying, This is great. This is the way it's supposed
to be. We could be a heartwarming TV show. The Goode Family.'
Kelly rolls her eyes. 'Dad, really.'

'No, look at us,' Cardinal insists. Okay, so he's
feeling all that Bordeaux, but he has to say it.
'Beautiful, intelligent daughter, competent husband
'

'Mad wife,' Catherine interjects, and the other
two smile.
Cardinal covers her warm hand with his. I'm
just so grateful,' he says. 'Gratitude isn't a big
enough word for what I feel. I'm just so '
'Dad, what are you going on about!' Kelly looks
as if she's going to signal for the check and catch
the first plane back to New York. 'Can't we just
have a normal conversation?'
'This is a normal conversation,' Cardinal says.
'That's what's so wonderful. I dreamed Catherine
was dead, and now here we all are together, just
being normal.' He lays a hand on his heart, feels
the warmth from that furnace of joy.
Catherine's serious brown eyes, sizing him up,
tiny parentheses forming at the corners of her
mouth. 'You dreamed I was dead?'
'And it was so real! It was horrible!'
'Poor you,' Catherine says. The honey of
concern in her voice. She puts a hand on his cheek
and he feels the heat of the blood flowing through
her fingers. 'Are you okay now?'
'Okay? Am I okay?' Cardinal laughs. 'Oh, I'm
so okay, they could bottle it and sell it on street
corners. It would put heroin and ecstasy out of
business. I'm so okay, I could . . .' His voice cracks,
and now he can't speak because he's crying. He's
actually crying tears of happiness, tears of joy, wife
and daughter rippling through his tears like
computer effects.
The sensation of tears cooling on his face woke

Cardinal up. He'd been sleeping on his back, and
the tears were puddled in his eyes. His nose was
running, his upper lip hot with a rivulet of mucus,
tears cooling around his ears and neck. Such joy!
He wiped his eyes and turned over on his elbow
to tell Catherine.

The dream set his nerves on edge. Every move he
made was amplified tenfold. The mere placing of
a cup on the kitchen counter made a clack that
hurt his ears. Water running in the kitchen sink
was rough and ugly, mingling cutlery a torture.
Even the newspaper, as he turned a page, made noises that were glassy and sibilant. And he could
read nothing, take nothing in. Even the headlines
were opaque.
And Catherine was everywhere. Every object
in his house had its degree of Catherine-ness.
Anything she had chosen was high on the scale.
She had put effort into it, made a trip to buy it,
thought about it. Anything she used daily was
highly Catherined: in the medicine cabinet, her
raft of medications, the little tubes of shadow
eraser and moisturizer. Her hairbrush, with strands
of her hair. Do you keep such things? How do
you come to throw them out?
There were tulips she had brought home - was
it two weeks ago? - long wilted in their vase.
Cardinal couldn't bring himself to toss them out;
neither could Kelly, apparently. Then there were
the photographs Catherine had chosen to frame:

a portrait of Kelly, a quiet shot of the two of them
she had taken with a timer. The music cabinet
was stacked with CDs she had chosen: the Goldberg Variations, the Well-Tempered Clavier by Gould and by Landowska. Bonnie Raitt, Sheryl Crow. Will I
ever be able to bear that music? Should I throw
it out?
In the empty kitchen, Cardinal poured himself
a bowl of Corn Flakes. He never ate cold cereal,
but he thought it would be bland enough to go
down without his noticing. He was staring at the
flakes floating in milk when the phone on the
kitchen counter rang.
Cardinal got up to answer it. There was a
woman on the other end, not a voice he recognized.
'Hello,
is Catherine there?'
Cardinal stood by the sink, gripping the phone,
unable to move.
'Hello? Is this the right number for Catherine
Cardinal?'
'Yes,' Cardinal managed. 'Yes, it is.'
'May I speak to her, please?'
'Uh, no. She, uh - she isn't here.'
'When will she be back, do you know?'
'No. I mean, I'm not sure.'
'Oh. Well, if I leave my name and number,
could you have her call me when she gets in? Do
you have a pen?'
Cardinal picked up a pen and listened as she
told him her name and Toronto number. Catherine

should call her about a weekend workshop in
advanced digital photography. Cardinal held the
pen above the little notepad that he and Catherine
used to relay phone messages, but he wrote
nothing down.

He escaped to work. Catherine had set foot in the
squad room probably no more than half a dozen
times. Except for her picture on Cardinal's desk,
there were no reminders of her there. It was a
guy place, despite the presence of Lise Delorme
and Sergeant Flower and Frances and the other
support personnel. The squad room was a guy
place; Catherine could not claim him there.
'You're back,' McLeod said. 'Just when the place
was beginning to seem civilized.'
'I'm not here,' Cardinal said. 'Just came in to
clear up a few things.'
'Really,' McLeod said. 'I just came in to catch
up on my sleep.'
Cardinal grabbed his desk calendar and flipped
it back to January. The Renaud case: two brothers
who had pulled a series of break-ins. The back of
their van had looked like a pawnshop when they
were pulled over for a moving violation. It would
have ended there, if one of their break-ins had
not gone horribly wrong. One of the houses they
broke into had surprised them by being occupied
and, in a panic, the brothers had beaten the owner
half to death. Cardinal had interrogated them over
a period of weeks, finally managing to get one to

turn on the other. They were both in the Kingston
Pen now, doing six years.
'What are you doing here?' Delorme said. She
came right up and gave him a hug and Cardinal,
hypersensitized by grief, felt himself choke up.
Delorme cast an investigative eye at his desk, the
open calendar, and said, 'Aha! Bad guys you have
known and loved. Me, I'd say you're tracking
down whoever's behind that horrible card.'
'Cards,' he said. 'I got another one.'
Delorme scanned his face. 'Same postmark?'
'This one's from Sturgeon.'
Sturgeon Falls was about half an hour west of
Algonquin Bay. It only took Delorme a second
before she voiced Cardinal's own thoughts on the
matter. 'Mattawa. Sturgeon. Assuming it's from
the same person, makes me think he's probably
from here. It's like disguising his handwriting.'
'I'm pretty sure he used the same printer again,
too.'
Delorme's desk was right next to Cardinal's. She
sat down in her chair and swivelled to face him.
'You gonna show me?'
'You didn't want to know, before.'
'Oh, John. Don't twist what I said.'
Calling him by his first name in the office.
Cardinal was surprised by how it touched him.
He pulled the card in its plastic sleeve out of his
briefcase.
How she must have hated you. You failed her so
completely.

Ill
'Bastard,' Delorme said. 'Assuming it's a guy.
Women can be pretty nasty too, I'm sure you've
noticed. You think it's the Renaud brothers?' She
pronounced it brudders - her French-Canadian
accent tended to flower when she was emotional.
'If they did this, I will personally drive down to
Kingston to kick their asses.'
'I don't think they did it. For one thing, how
would they even know Catherine was
'News travels fast in prison, you know that.
And they've still got family in town. Someone
could have mentioned it.'
'And then what? They get someone to send
one card from Mattawa, and another one from
Sturgeon Falls, but both out of the same printer?
Seems like a stretch to me.'
'Well, you know your caseload better than me.'

Delorme's phone rang. She picked it up and
began talking in hushed tones to Larry Burke
about the boy who killed himself in the laundromat.
Cardinal had heard the news report on
the radio driving in. It would be the most pressing
piece of business on Delorme's calendar this week,
but she hadn't mentioned it to him; she wouldn't
want to upset him with talk of a suicide. Cardinal
was not sure he liked being treated with kid gloves.
He continued flipping through his calendar.
Every few minutes someone would come by with
some variant of, 'Cardinal! Good to see you back!'
and Cardinal would say again, 'I'm not here.'
He went through his file drawer, thumbing back

the tabs one after another. So many names, so
many felons and miscreants, and yet very few
seemed likely candidates for the position of card
writer, let alone murderer.
7/she was murdered. Everyone else saw suicide,
despite the fact that she gave no warning. And
even though her note had apparently been written
months before, it wouldn't be enough, Cardinal
knew. It wouldn't be enough to sway even
Delorme, let alone the coroner, a judge, a jury,
and doubts were eating away at his own heart
too.
He pushed them out of his mind and reached
into what he called his Halfway-In Box, which
was where he put material that had to be dealt
with that he never had time for. Among the notices
of policy changes, upcoming conferences, court
paperwork, there were Department of Corrections
notices of recent releases. These were not just
Cardinal's cases, but all criminals from the jurisdiction.
He
could hear Delorme talking quietly into the
phone. 'Larry, it wasn't your fault. You should talk
to someone about this. You're allowed to be
human.'
Delorme sounded impossibly far away, as if
Cardinal were underwater. He felt like a drowning
man, his lungs filling with grief. These released
felons and miscreants were just so much wreckage
to cling to as he waited for rescue, and what would
rescue consist of?

Catherine alive.
Still, he carried on, and by the time he was
done he had a shortlist of three candidates. All
were living in Algonquin Bay, all had been released
in the past twelve months, and all had served at
least five years in prison thanks to John Cardinal.

14

Algonquin Bay has a lot of churches, and some
of them are quite attractive, but St Hilda's Catholic
Church is not one of them. A ghastly red-brick
structure on Sumner Street, St Hilda's has not
been improved by the addition of a corrugated tin
roof that is painted, unconvincingly, to look like
weathered copper. Still, it is one of the benefits
of the city's ever-shrinking congregations that the
church parking lots provide acres of free parking.
Cardinal parked in St Hilda's shadow and walked
along Sedgewick Street. This area was known as
a 'mixed' neighbourhood, meaning among its
shabby bungalows and bony-looking duplexes you
could find elementary school teachers, young cops,
or the likes of Connor Plaskett.
Connor Plaskett had conceived an interest in
glue sniffing while still in short pants. Later on he
developed an affection for marijuana and alcohol
in all its forms, although bottles of cheap port became a favourite, perhaps because of the sugar

content. At one point, following a nasty altercation
with a city bus, he had seen the light and
joined AA.
He got sober, he started a business in Web design,
he got married. His business grew to the point
where he could support his new young wife and
child quite comfortably. Then the Web bubble burst,
he rapidly went broke, and alcohol provided a
ready anaesthetic.
Plaskett was coming out of a two-week bender
when he took it into his head to rob a local convenience
store. And he did it with the help of a gun.
He had the presence of mind to take the videotape
out of the security system, not realizing that
the tape he took away with him was a dummy
set up for precisely this purpose, so that the
prospective thief would not take the tape that
mattered.
So it was that Connor Plaskett appeared on the
six o'clock news demanding that the teenager
behind the counter hand over all the day's receipts.
It was one of the easiest cases that Cardinal had
ever had to clear.
Plaskett was then unlucky in his prosecutor and
his judge, not to mention his wife. He was sent
up for five years, and while he was away, his wife
discovered that she had in fact been lesbian all
her life and left him (taking the child with her)
for a woman who climbed hydro poles for a living.
Plaskett took it badly, contriving while in prison
to become re-addicted to old substances and even

to add some new ones. He emerged after serving
his five-year sentence in worse shape than he had
begun it.
Shortly after, Plaskett had accosted Cardinal one
night outside the Chinook Tavern. Cardinal had
just finished arresting someone else entirely someone
he could not now even recall - when
Plaskett came reeling out of the tavern and recognized
Cardinal.
Tucker,' he had said, spraying spit and beer
fumes into the cool night air. 'Motherfucker. You
totally destroyed my life.'
'No, Connor,' Cardinal had said. 'I think you
deserve the credit for that.'
'I had a family before you came along. I'm
gonna fix you good.'
Plaskett had staggered over and taken a
pathetic swing at Cardinal before collapsing right
there in the middle of the parking lot. Cardinal
had taken his car keys off him, pushed him into
the back seat of his clapped-out pickup and shut
the door, dropping the keys off with the Chinook
bartender.
Number 164 was a tiny brown-and-white
bungalow that leaned noticeably into the wind,
as if it too were sniffing intoxicants. Number 164B
turned out to be the door to the concrete-block
addition that had been cemented on to the house
in a misguided attempt at improvement.
Cardinal pressed the bell but heard nothing
from inside. He rapped on the door, on to which

a picture of a Christmas wreath had been stencilled
some years before.
A harsh voice, possibly female, answered, 'Just
a minute!' This was followed by a crash, as of a
tea tray falling from a great height, and a series
of unimaginative curses.
'Slattern', although well within his vocabulary,
was not a word that occurred frequently to
Cardinal. But it certainly did when the door
opened.
The woman looked as if she had been rolled to
this address across a field of mud and broken glass
some months before and had not yet had a chance
to clean herself up. Her eyes were red, her knuckles
scabbed, her hair an unnerving tangle and possible
wildlife habitat.
'Whaddaya want?' A lot of that broken glass had got into her voice.
'I'm looking for Connor Plaskett.'
'Good,' she said. 'So am I.'
She opened the door, and Cardinal stepped into
what had apparently been intended to be a kitchen
but looked like a rag-and-bone shop.
'Excuse the mess,' she said. 'Got no cupboards.'
In the murky light that slipped through the tiny
window Cardinal could make out a sink against
one wall, a hot plate sitting atop a half-size fridge,
and some apple crates that formed makeshift
cupboards which moisture and overuse had
reduced to wreckage.
Cardinal followed the woman into the next room,

1U
which was even murkier. She sat on an unmade
sofa bed so low that her chin was barely above her
knees. Cardinal leaned against the door frame. The
place stank of old cigarette smoke and wet carpet.
'Where's Connor?' he asked.
'Damned if I know. Cigarette?'
'No, thanks. What's your relationship to him?'
'Fuck-buddy.' Seeing his look, she gave a snort
and said, 'What didja think? Financial adviser?'
'And you don't know where he is right now?'
'Haven't a clue.'
'Well, if you don't know, I suspect his parole
officer doesn't know either, and that would put
Connor in breach.'
'Really,' the woman said. After many tries, she
had finally got her lighter to work and was sucking
avidly on a DuMaurier. She released a stream of
smoke in Cardinal's direction. 'Bummer. Whaddaya
want him for?'
'It's in connection with a recent death.'
'Connor couldn't kill anybody. He can barely
tie his boots.'
The hellish surroundings were eloquent testimony
to that. While it might have made a reasonable
lair for someone capable of stalking a woman
and murdering her, it didn't look the home of
someone who could get it together to buy a card,
type it out, and mail it from Mattawa or Sturgeon
Falls.
But Plaskett's words rang anew in Cardinal's ears: I'm gonna fix you.

'Where does Connor hang out these days?'
Cardinal said. I'm going to need addresses.'
'Christ, Connor doesn't go nowhere - that's
what's so weird. He sits in front of that TV watching
football all day and all night. I can't get him to do a damn thing. I'm going to have a beer. You
probably don't want one.'
'No, thank you.'
She went to the fridge and pulled out a can of
Molson Canadian. She popped the top and drank
most of it in one go. When she went to sit back
down on the bed, she misjudged and knocked
over an end table, sending the phone clattering
to the floor. She squinted at it for a few moments
as if trying to recall its name.
'That reminds me,' she said finally. 'Had a funny
phone conversation last night.'
'Who with?'
'Christ, I don't know. I didn't know the guy.
Said he was a friend of Russell McQuaig, who's
like a drinking buddy of Connor's, and Russell tole
him to call. Him and Connor take off to Toronto
every now and again. Hit the big lights, you know.
Personally, I couldn't give a shit about Toronto.
Too dirty. Anyways, this guy tried to tell me that
Connor wasn't coming back.'
'What do you mean, not coming back? He took
off to Toronto and some stranger called you to say
he wasn't coming back?'
'Yeah. I think so. Something like that.' She
rubbed at her filthy hair. 'Actually, now that I


think of it, he even tried to tell me Connor was
dead. Yeah.'
'You seem to be taking it pretty well.'
'Well, yeah, 'cause like I didn't know this guy
from Adam. Why should I believe him? And
second of all, if Connor was dead, the police and
that would have had to call me, right? The hospital
or whatever. They would've had to call me and
like notify the next of kin.'
"Tuck-buddy" isn't generally recognized as next
of kin,' Cardinal said. 'They would have called a
blood relative first, or even his former wife, before
they would call you. A hospital might not even
know of your existence.'
'Well, I don't know.' She brushed a web of hair
away from her face as if it were fog. 'You think
Connor's dead?'
'I don't know,' Cardinal said. 'It should be easy
enough to find out.'
'Shit, I hope he's not dead,' the woman said.
She tipped her head back and poured the last of
her beer down her throat. She crushed the can
and tried to stifle a belch. 'I really couldn't face
moving again.'

15

Sergeant Mary Flower came into the squad room
and sat on Delorme's desk. That was what she did
when she wanted you to drop everything and pay
attention to her. Annoying but effective.
Delorme was on the phone with the coroner's
office, trying without success to determine the
whereabouts of his evidence concerning a case of
domestic murder that was coming to trial in two
weeks. She put her hand over the phone and
cocked an eyebrow at Flower.
yWe got Mrs Dorn outside, mad as hell,' she
said. 'She wants to speak to you, I don't know
why.'
It turns out I know her daughter.'
'Good. She's here too. I love that top, by the
way, is that Gap?'
'Benetton. Tell them I'll be right out.'

Delorme found them in the waiting area. A woman
in her fifties was standing under the clock, arms

folded across her chest, one foot tapping furiously
as if she were counting every split second of justice
delayed. Her daughter, Shelly, was seated in a chair
behind her. Shelly was an amusing red-haired
friend of Delorme's from the health club. They
often took treadmills next to each other and
chatted to pass the time. Delorme liked her, but
Shelly was married with two kids, and this was
the first time Delorme had seen her outside the
club. She stood up when she saw Delorme.
'Lise, I know we shouldn't show up unannounced.'
'That's
all right,' Delorme said. I'm so sorry
about your brother. He was so young.'
'Yes, he was young,' the older woman said, and
even in those first few words Delorme could hear
the agony that was coming out as fury. 'He was
hardly more than a boy. He was still a student, a
brilliant student. He was accepted at McGill, he
had every reason to live, and he didn't have to
die.'
'Lise, this is my mother, Beverly Dorn.'
'Mrs Dorn, I'm sorry for your loss.'
'But are you going to help us with it? That's
what I want to know. What are you going to do
to help us right this terrible wrong? Perry was a
smart person, a sensitive person, and now he's dead
and it didn't have to happen. There should be an
inquest, an investigation. We deserve answers.'
'Mom, Lise will do whatever she can. Just take
it easy.'

'Why don't you come with me,' Delorme said.
She showed them into a room that was often used
for families under stress. Unlike the other interview
rooms, it had carpeting and an almost
comfortable couch. There was a scratchy-looking
artwork of a mother and child on one wall, a
blackboard without chalk on the other. Delorme
closed the door behind them.
'Won't you sit down?' Delorme said.
'I don't feel like sitting,' Mrs Dorn said. I'm
too angry.'
'Mom, you don't have any reason to be angry
at Lise.'
'There was another officer in that laundromat
with Perry. What about him? He was right there
when it happened. He was there before it happened.
Why did he not disarm him, can you tell me that?
Why didn't he do something?'
Delorme gestured once again toward the couch
and waited until Mrs Dorn sat beside her daughter.
Her eyes were red and raw from the kind of crying
that brings no relief, her hyper-agitation that of
one whom sleep has abandoned.
Delorme sat across from them and spoke softly.
'Yes, there was a police officer at the laundromat.
He was in the coffee shop next door, off duty,
when the man beside him saw your son entering
the laundromat with a shotgun. After calling for
backup, the officer followed your son inside.'
'Why didn't he take the gun away from him?
That's what I want to know. Why didn't he tear

that gun right out of his hand? He just stood by
and let it happen!'
The officer's first concern was the safety of
everyone in the laundromat. There were other
people there. He focused on getting them to safety
as quickly as possible.'
Terry has never been a danger to anyone but
himself. It's obvious when you look at him. He
wouldn't hurt a fly. That is literally true, by the
way. He'll go to enormous lengths to get an insect
out of the house without injuring it.'
'The officer did not know your son. All he saw
was a distraught man, armed, in a room full of
people. He got the others out first, which was the
appropriate action.'
'And he lets my obviously distraught son kill
himself. Bravo. Give the man a medal.'
'Mom. Let her talk.' Shelly put a hand on her
mother's forearm, but Mrs Dorn jerked it away.
'Don't patronize me.'
'Nobody's patronizing you. You asked a question,
and Lise is answering it. Let her finish.'
'The officer then tried to '
'The officer, the officer - does this person have
a name? A badge number?'
'He does. And you're welcome to that information,
but it won't change the facts. He tried to
calm your son down. He spoke quietly with him
and encouraged him to put the gun down. Your
son refused.'
'He was just a boy! You have a trained police

officer, and he can't stop a boy from killing
himself? Why didn't he grab that gun!'
Delorme let the question - accusation, rather
- hang there in the air for a minute.
'I think you know the answer to that question,
Mrs Dorn.'
Mrs Dorn shook her head tightly.
'The officer did not want to upset Perry any
more than he already was. And he didn't want to
get shot himself. I repeat, he was unarmed.'
'It's a policeman's job to take risks. He should
have talked calmly to him, and got himself close
enough to get that gun away from him.'
'And I'm sure he would have done so, had it
been possible. He was trying to talk him down,
to calm him, just as you say. They were talking,
and then Perry suddenly turned the gun on himself
and fired.'
'And nobody stopped him.'
'Mrs Dorn, from the time your son was seen
entering the laundromat to the time he pulled the
trigger took less than eight minutes. It took three
or four minutes to get the other people out. That
gave the officer and your son at most about five
minutes to work things out.'
'Time enough to save his life. Why didn't he
stop him? Dear God, why didn't he stop him, he
was just a boy!'
'He did his best, Mrs Dorn. There simply wasn't
time.'
'Could I speak to this officer, please?'

'Mom '
'He isn't here today,' Delorme said. 'The reason
is, he's devastated by what happened. No police
officer enters into a situation like that without
wanting the best possible outcome. At that
moment, believe me, Mrs Dorn, no one wanted
your son to live more than that police officer. Had
he succeeded in talking Perry out of it, he would
be here today and he would be on top of the
world. But he isn't, he's miserable.'
'Maybe because he feels guilty. Maybe that's
why he's miserable. Maybe because he didn't do
his job.'
'I hope when you're calmer you'll see it differently.'
Mrs
Dorn sniffed. She looked at the picture on
the wall, then back to her daughter.
'Well, we certainly plan to demand an investigation.'
'There's
no longer a Special Investigations officer
up here, but I'll give you their number in Toronto.
If they feel it's warranted, they'll investigate.'

16

It was a relief to finally escape the office and hit
the road on the child porn case. Poor Burke had
not been able to save Perry Dorn, but Delorme
was optimistic she could find this mystery girl and
save her from further abuse.
She drove out to Trout Lake and parked in the
small lot above Lakeside Marina. As she went
down the wooden steps, a chill breeze was blowing
off the water. The air alone at this time of year
was worth the drive. Pure oxygen, with the first
hint of frost. It made you want to do things,
embark on new projects, solve crimes.
Delorme had taken swimming lessons here as
a kid - not right here at the marina, but just a
few hundred yards away at the Ministry of Natural
Resources dock. The instructors would order their
victims to plunge in off that dock when the water
was barely fifty degrees and practice hauling each
other around with various rescue holds. She had
had to practice mouth-to-mouth on Maureen

Stegg, and it still gave her a peculiar feeling in the
pit of her stomach to think about it.
The fresh air was invaded by the dock smells
of rope and creosote and gasoline. Most of the
boats had already been hauled away for winter
storage, but a couple of cabin cruisers lay anchored
a little way from the wharf, rocking gently on the
rippling water. Delorme's heart gave a kick when
she saw the Cessna shining in the sun, the tail
number the same as it was in the photograph of
the girl.
'Can I help you?'
The man was wearing expensive sunglasses and
a Lakeside Marina baseball cap. A hardy type,
apparently, dressed in shorts, although it was not
by any means shorts weather.
'I'm wondering what it costs to rent space here.'
Delorme had never owned a boat, and had no
idea of the correct terminology. Probably should
have said 'to lease a berth' or some such thing.
'Depends what you need,' he said. Delorme saw
his eyes angle down to her hand, looking for the
wedding band that wasn't there, and back up
again.
'Need?'
'Well, if you're going to be using power and
lights and so on, that's one thing. Also, size is a
factor, obviously. You from around here?'
Delorme turned and pointed to the Cessna. 'Out
there by the plane. Right at the end of the dock.
How much would it cost to dock there?'

'Not much turnover in those slots, I'm afraid.
Those are the most desirable, the most expensive,
and they're rented by the same people year after
year. Even when they move away - Sudbury,
Sundridge, doesn't matter - they hang on to those
spots.'
'So that plane, for example - that's always
anchored in the same spot?'
'Oh yeah. Planes change even less than the boats.
That guy's been floating there for at least since I've
owned the place, and that's ten years now.'
'Really? Can you show me what's so special
about those slots at the end of the dock? The ones
that look like they're fenced off?'
The guy grinned, big white teeth in a face still
tanned from the summer. He thinks he's getting
somewhere, Delorme saw. He was kind of cute
with that curly blond hair and the big grin - ropy
muscles, too - and he was probably used to girls
on vacation paying some attention. He was
certainly not the child molester - too young, hair
the wrong colour and texture, and too thin.
He opened a gate and led her along the dock.
'These boats go for what?' Delorme said. 'Forty
grand?'
'Oh, you're way low. More like seventy, eighty,
even more. Here we go. You see here?' He rested
his hand on a blue box attached to a light post.
'This connects you to all the comforts of home.
Electricity, cable TV, satellite, you name it.'
'Don't all the docks have that?'


'No, no. Just these two. Couple of others will
get you electricity, but that's it. Plus these, as you
can see, have extra security. We've got the lights
overhead, the extra cameras. Anyone breaks in
here is going to get caught.'
'And the other docks it's open season?'
The guy looked hurt. 'AH our docks are secure.
I'm just saying you pay extra, you get extra.'
'And what's the insurance situation?'
'Insurance, you're on your own,' he told her.
'Obviously we have our own fire and theft and
so on. And massive liability. But if your boat gets
stolen or vandalized, it's your insurance going to
pay, not ours.'
'I see. I'm Detective Delorme with Algonquin
Bay Police Services.' She had her ID out, showing
him. She could see the guy's interest in her cooling
drastically; it was always the way. Some men may
be turned on by the idea of female cops, but in
Delorme's experience it wasn't many, and it was
never the right kind.
'Jeff Quigly,' he said, shaking her hand none
too enthusiastically.
'I'm conducting an investigation into a couple
of violations that may have taken place in the
neighbourhood, and I need your help.'
'Oh, sure. Anything I can do.'
Anything I can do to get you off my dock and
out of sight, he meant.
'I need to know who rents these slots from
you.'

'What, both these docks?'
'That's right. And not just now, but for the past
ten years.'
'Even if I wanted to, I don't know if I have all
that information.'
'You just said the tenants don't change much.'
The guy had folded his arms across his chest.
He was looking out across the lake now, no longer
at Delorme.
'Look, I don't think I can be giving out information
on our renters. That's not the way I do
things. People have a right to their privacy.'
'You run a marina, not a hospital. It's not privileged
information.'
'No, but look. Suppose I give out the information
that this slot is rented by so-and-so. And soand-so's
boat just happens to be out. A thief might
take that to mean so-and-so is on vacation, touring
the Great Lakes somewhere. Cruising down to
New York or something. And his house gets
burgled. What does that make me?'
'Innocent. Mr Quigly, I'm not a thief, I'm a
police officer investigating a crime.'
'Yeah, well, see that's another thing. What are
you investigating? Sure, people drink on their
boats, they smoke dope, but it's a weird time of
year to be investigating that stuff, and I don't think
you should be asking me to compromise people's
privacy over some minor infraction.'
Delorme didn't want to reveal the nature of the
crime. Mention child molesting and the place

would go wild with rumours. And she didn't want
her quarry to get even a whiff of the investigation
before she was ready to put the cuffs on him.
'I have to count on your discretion,' Delorme
said. 'You can't be mentioning this to anybody.'
'No, of course not.'
'I'm investigating an assault.'
'Really.' He shook his head. 'Must've been
minor or I'd have heard about it.'
'I can't give you any more detail than that. Are
you going to help me? I could go get a warrant,
but that's going to take at least a day and it's just
going to delay getting a criminal off the streets.'
Quigly took her into the marina office. It was
a cluttered place with a detailed map of Trout Lake
on one wall and a gigantic model of the Bluenose leaning up against the other. There were fishing
photographs and enlarged cartoons of sailing jokes
everywhere. He rooted through a file cabinet and
came up with some manila folders.
'Rental slips going back ten years,' he said.
'You're not going to find them in any kind of
order, though.'

17

Delorme organized her list of names geographically,
and that put Frank Rowley at the top. She
wasn't sure what she had been expecting from a
man with his own plane - an oversized brick
mansion high on Beaufort Hill, maybe. Or one of
those old Victorian places down on Main West.
But Frank Rowley, it turned out, lived in a plain
little house of white brick just a couple of blocks
from the bypass. Delorme pulled into the drive
and parked behind a tan Ford Escort, a modest,
unassuming vehicle that did not fit with her idea
of a man who flew.
A small maple in the front yard had dropped
all its leaves in a colourful circle, but a trim row
of holly bushes against the front of the house was
deep green. Even before she got out of her
unmarked, she could hear the screech and wail
of an electric guitar. It sounded as if some
tormented ghost had broken loose in the neighbourhood.

The guitar screamed, halted, then started up
again. A Beatles riff this time, but Delorme couldn't
have named the song.
In answer to her knock, a completely bald man
of about forty opened the front door, still wearing
his guitar. Men and their toys, Delorme thought.
'Mr Rowley?'
'That's me. Can I help you?'
She held up her ID. 'Can I take up a few minutes
of your time?'
The interior of the house smelled richly of something
baking, and Delorme noted with approval
a white scuff of flour on Rowley's bald head.
She followed him into the living room, where dolls and stuffed animals were strewn across a
colourful rug like victims of some benign catastrophe.
There was a child's scooter, and large gaudy
books splayed open on the couch and chairs.
Delorme tripped slightly on the edge of the rug.
'Sorry,' Rowley said. 'It's got a bad repair - only
reason I could afford it.'
'You have kids, I see,' Delorme said. 'How old
are they?'
'We have one daughter - Tara. She's seven.
She'll be home from school soon. Please, have a
seat.'
Delorme sat in a deep armchair with split-log
legs and arms. All of the furniture had a comfortable,
country-style, lived-in look, lots of wood
everywhere, and cushions and throw rugs, not to
mention the larger rug with its deep blue and

black chevrons. And the owner of all this, a
middle-aged man with a guitar over his shoulder,
and a head that would not have been out of place
on a billiard table. The man in the pictures had
almost shoulder-length hair, and in any case
Delorme had no reason to suspect Rowley, since
his plane merely appeared in the background of
one photograph. Also, his daughter was too young.
But she sized him up anyway.
'Mr Rowley, you have a pilot's licence, is that
correct?'
'That's right. I work for Northwind,' he said,
naming an airline that flew small planes out of
Algonquin Bay to northern cities such as Timmins
and Hearst.
'Business is slow these days?'
'No, I work four days on, four days off, which
is why you find me here doing the house-husband
thing.'
'And you keep a small plane at Lakeside Marina,
right?' Delorme read him the tail number from
her notebook.
'Why? Did something happen to it?'

'I just want to make sure I'm talking to the
right person.'
'You are. Can I get you a coffee or something?
I was just about to make a pot.'
'No, that's all right. Thank you.'
'And I've got some pretty spectacular muffins
that should be ready soon. Tara's crazy about
them.'

Rowley switched off a Vox amplifier and leaned
his guitar against the wall. It was a big black instrument
with lots of knobs and chrome, and Delorme
thought it would be more suited to country music
than the Beatles, but guitars were not her strong
point.
'Are you down at the marina a lot, Mr Rowley?'
'Depends what you consider a lot. If I go there,
it's just because I want to take Bessie up.'
'Bessie?'
'Bessie the Cessna.' He grinned. 'That's just her
name, don't ask me why. I take her up once or
twice a week for maybe an hour or two at a time.
Wendy - that's my wife - wanted me to get rid
of it. Too dangerous, she says. But I can't give it
up. I just love to fly, and it's a lot more fun on
your own than it is for work.'
'I can imagine,' Delorme said. Rowley looked
like a man who enjoyed his life, baking muffins
and playing guitar surrounded by scattered books
and toys. 'Do you know many of the people at
the marina?'
'Well, I know Jeff Quigly, the manager.'
'Anybody else?'
Rowley shrugged. 'Not really. I don't hang out
there. I don't go to the bar afterwards or anything,
like a lot of guys do. Place is kind of a clubhouse,
when you get down to it. But it's not a club I'd
want to join - you know, guys whose idea of a
good time is to get a case of two-four and go out
on the lake to get absolutely rip-roaring drunk.

Not something I enjoyed in my twenties, and I'm
sure as hell not interested in my forties. Besides,
I got a wife and kid. I don't know where these
guys find the time.'
Tell me a little about them. I need to know
more about the people who hang out at the
marina.'
'Why? What are you investigating?'
'Assault,' Delorme said.
'Oh, wow. Well, when I was talking about beer
parties I certainly didn't mean to imply that any
of these people would be capable of violence.'
'No, of course not. It's witnesses I'm looking
for. Can you tell me anything at all?'
'The only one I know very well is Owen Glenn.'
Delorme wrote the name in her notebook. She
had already come across it at the marina, where
the records showed he did not rent any of the slots that interested her.
'Owen's a fellow flier. Owns a little Piper he
likes to take up about once a month. I bump into
him a lot, especially in summer. But we're not
buddies or anything. He's much more conservative
than I am. The couple of times politics came
up, I had to politely excuse myself, you know
what I mean? He's the kind of guy who thinks
Mike Harris didn't go far enough with the budget
cuts and who wishes we were in Iraq.'
'So he doesn't own one of those cabin cruisers
you see parked out there all the time?'

'No, he just has a little skiff, same as me.'

'Do you know any of those people?'
'Just to say hi to.'
'Really? But you go right past them to get to
your plane, no?'
'The skiffs are around the north side of the
marina. Under the deck of the bar? I just row out
from there to the plane, so it's not really conducive
to chatting with my neighbours, if you want to
call them that.'
'Do you know any of them by name?'
'Sure. There's Matt Morton. He owns a cruiser.
I've known Matt since high school, although I
wouldn't exactly call us friends. He was kind of a
sports guy, and I was more of a - nerd, I guess
you could say.'
'An artistic type,' Delorme suggested.
'An artistic type!' Rowley grinned. 'Exactly.
That's me. Now all I have to find is an art I can
master.'
'You were doing a pretty good Beatles impression,
from what I heard. You play professionally?'
'Just a hobby. I play in a Beatles tribute band.
Sergeant Tripper? We play weddings and bar mitzvahs
mostly.'
'Which slot is Mr Morton in at the marina?'
Delorme knew the answer, but detectives learn
early always to confirm a fact when the opportunity
presents itself.
'Matt's moored at the end of number three, on
the north side.'
'Which is where, in relation to you?'

'About as close as you can be. I mean, sometimes
I can see right down into his cabin. Not that
I want to, particularly.'
'Why? Have you ever seen anything
disturbing?'
'In Matt's boat? No, nothing at all/
'How would you describe Mr Morton?'
'Matt? I don't know. Medium-sized kind of guy.
Used to play football in high school. Brown hair
going grey - like all of us. Not that I've got much
to worry about.' He grinned and rubbed a hand
over his pate, missing the flour.
'Any kids?'
'A boy and a girl, I think. I don't remember
their names.'
'What about the slot opposite to Mr Morton?'

'The south side? I don't know them. Huge boat,
though.'
According to Jeff Quigly and the marina's
records, the slot was rented by one Andre Ferrier.
The rent was always paid on time, but the marina
hardly ever saw him.
Delorme took down the information, then
snapped her notebook shut. 'Like I said, Mr
Rowley, at this point I'm just looking for witnesses.
You've been very helpful.'
She gave him her card. On her way to the front
door she tried to catch glimpses of other rooms,
but there were no walls, no objects, no furnishings
- nothing obvious, anyway - that matched
the settings in the photographs.

'If I think of anything else, I'll give you a call,'
Rowley said. 'But I've sure as hell never met
anybody out there who seemed capable of assault.'
'You might be surprised,' Delorme said. 'I'm
constantly amazed by who turns out to be capable
of what.'

18

Frederick Bell finished his strawberry shortcake
and scraped up the last dabs of whipped cream
with his fork.
'Are you sure this is low-fat?' he asked his
wife, Dorothy, who was organizing things in the
fridge.
'I got it out of Heart Healthy/ she said, her voice
muffled a little by the fridge door. 'It's not high
calorie.'
'But that's if you only eat one serving. What if
you find yourself lusting for another?'
'You don't get another.' Dorothy laid claim to a
large store of common sense. It had served her well
in her years as a nurse, and it served her equally
well as a psychiatrist's wife. 'If you have another
piece, you're just defeating the purpose of reduced
calories.'
'I've devoted my life to missing the point and defeating the purpose. I don't see why I should
stop now.' Bell swallowed the last of his tea. It


was cold, but he didn't mind cold tea; tea of any
kind was good. Some British habits died hard.
'I found a really charming little cottage near
Nottingham/ Dorothy said. 'I left the picture for
you on your desk. I don't suppose you looked at
it yet.'
'Alas, I have failed you once again.'
'Frederick, what's so hard about taking a look
at a picture?'
'I don't know. I suppose I just haven't accepted
this idea of retiring back in England.'
'We've talked about it. I thought we agreed
we'd both be happiest there. It's a pretty little
place, a short walk from the River Trent. You've
always said you wanted to live near water when
you retire.'
'Heroic figures never retire. It's not in our
nature.'
'You'll have to, one day, and I'm not having
you mooching around the house through these
endless Canadian winters.'
'England's too bloody expensive. The pound is
sky-high.'
'It's come down a lot lately. We can afford this
place, and it's so cute.'
On this one issue, Dorothy's common sense had
deserted her as far as Bell was concerned. Here
in Canada they had a huge place, almost a
mansion. But back in England even the pokiest
little houses cost close to half a million quid.
Dorothy seemed to have an exaggerated sense of

what a psychiatrist made over here. It wasn't as
if they were living in the States. Oh well, she
enjoyed looking at her cottages and gardens, and
it didn't hurt her to dream.
Bell put his dish and cup on the counter and
pinched his wife's behind.
Dorothy turned and gave his wrist a light smack.
'Don't you start with that now. It's the middle of
the day.'
'Nothing could be further from my mind. I've
got a patient in five minutes. I must prepare my gravitas.'
'Oh, yes. Mustn't forget the gravitas. Where
would we be without that?'
In their early days, back in London, Bell and
his wife had been tearing each other's clothes off
constantly. But over the years they had settled
into a more routine kind of sex life, and that was
fine with Bell. They loved each other and looked
after each other, and that was all he needed. Of
course, Dorothy wasn't in his class - not brilliant,
not even a doctor - but she was good company.
And still good looking, even in her mid-fifties. She
had the kind of thin face that ages well, and the
slim figure of a much younger woman.
Bell washed his hands in the downstairs bathroom.
He rolled his shoulders, then opened the
door that separated the kitchen from the front hall
and his office. A young woman with blonde hair
badly in need of a wash was sitting on the bench
in the hall. Other patients might have leafed

through a New Yorker or fiddled with an iPod, but
this woman was just slouched in her coat, arms
folded across her chest. This was Melanie, eighteen
years old and the picture of misery.
'Hello, Melanie/ Bell said.
'Hello.'
Even in that single word he could detect a slowness,
a thickness, that spoke of the enormous effort
expended to express two syllables. Immediately,
depression was a third entity in the room. Bell
pictured it - him, really - as a silent figure, The
Entity, caped and masked, invisible to the patient.
Bell sometimes felt like the old priest in The Exorcist, fated to wrestle repeatedly an immortal nemesis.
The Entity.
Melanie followed him into the office and sat
on the couch, unbuttoning her coat and letting
her shoulder bag slide to the floor. She leaned
back and stared at her feet. Dr Bell sat in one of
the small chairs opposite, notebook on knee, not
smiling, but face composed into an expression of
calm expectation. It was important for the patient,
after the usual pleasantries, to be the first one to
speak; those first words revealed so much. But
sometimes it was hard, as now, to wait for a client
to overcome whatever it was they had to overcome
before they could begin. The minutes ticked
by.
Melanie looked a lot older than eighteen. She
was small-boned and small-breasted, with something
of a drowned-rat look, longish flat nose

dividing stringy curtains of hair. The Northern
University sweatshirt didn't do a lot for her, either.
When she finally did speak, she kept her eyes
focused on her outstretched feet.
'I could barely come here,' she said.
'You found it difficult? Can you tell me why?'
'I don't know . . .' A long pause while she
remained still, except for one foot, ticking from
side to side like a metronome. I'm just so sick of
myself. Sick of thinking about myself. Sick of
talking about myself. There's nothing worth
saying. So why come here? Why run through it
all again and again?'
'You mean you feel that you're not worth
talking about? Or that nothing you say will help
you get better?'
She looked at him for the first time, green eyes
two pits of despair, then quickly back at her feet.
'Both, I guess.'
Dr Bell let the silence hold for a few moments,
let her feel her own exaggerations, or rather the
exaggerations of the hooded figure lurking in the
shadows just beyond her vision. The Entity always
compelled his victims to speak like this: accuse themselves
of worthlessness in order to prevent them
from making the slightest effort to save themselves.
'Let me ask you something,' Bell said. 'Suppose
someone came to you - a friend, a stranger, doesn't
matter - and said, "You shouldn't talk to me. I'm
so worthless. I'm not worth even thinking about."
What would you say to her?'

'I'd say she was wrong. That nobody's worthless.'
'But you won't accord yourself the same kindness
you would someone else.'
'I don't know . . . All I know is, I'm in this pain
all the time. I'm sick of talking about it. Talking
doesn't help. Nothing helps. I just want it to be
over. I even '
'Even what?'
Melanie started to cry. After a moment Bell
picked up the Kleenex box from the end table and
handed it to her. She yanked out a couple but
didn't use them right away. She cried hard, hiding
her face behind her hand.
'Why are you hiding?' he asked, and that only
made her cry more. You could see the release in
her shoulders, hear it in the jagged, breathy wails.
'God,' she said when the tears had left her.
'You needed that.'
'I guess so. Phew.' She sounded spent.
'You said, "I just want it to be over. I even
'Yeah.' Melanie blew her nose wetly, still
gasping and sighing. 'Yeah. I was in Coles bookstore
the other day and they had a book on suicide.
Assisted suicide, I guess. It tells you how to do it
- how to kill yourself - painlessly. Basically, you
just tie a plastic bag over your head.'
'And?'
'Well, I didn't buy it or anything. But I stood
there in the store reading it for a long time.'
'Because you'd been thinking about killing yourself.'

'Yeah.'
'Okay. Straight factual question, Melanie - I
need to know this: Have you ever actually tried
to kill yourself?' He was sure the answer was negative.
'No.
Not really.'
'How do you mean, "not really"?'
'Well, I scratched at my wrist with a razor blade
once, but it really stung. I'm completely chicken
when it comes to pain. I couldn't even cut deep
enough to make it bleed.'
'When was this?'
'Oh, a long time ago. When I was maybe twelve
or so.'
'Twelve. Did you write out a note?'
'No. I guess I wasn't serious. I was just miserable.'
'Worse
than now?'
'No, no. Now's much worse. Much worse.'
'How often are you thinking of suicide these
days?'
'I don't know
'You probably do, Melanie.'
It was impossible to make his voice any softer.
He tried to suffuse every syllable with warmth and
encouragement - above all, unconditional positive
regard. You're safe here, he wanted her to
know, you can face any demon you can name.

'I think about killing myself a lot,' she said.
'Every day, I guess. Mostly in the afternoons. The
late afternoons. That's when everything looks

blackest to me. Another day is nearly dead and
my life still amounts to nothing. I'm nothing. I
hear my roommates laughing and talking on the
phone and going out and having a good time, and
they seem like, I don't know, another species or
something. I don't think I was ever that happy.
Four o'clock, five o'clock, another day down the
drain. Another day trying to write an essay that
is completely meaningless. Another day worrying
about what my teachers think of me, what my
friends think of me. That's when I really dwell on
it.'
'All these thoughts of suicide. Have you ever
written out a note?'
'I've thought about it a lot, but I've never actually
done it.'
'If you did, what would it say?' She doesn't
want to hurt her mother; it's not her fault. Here
she is in absolute agony, and it'll be her mother
she's most worried about.
'I guess my note would say ... I don't know,
exactly. I'd want my mother to know I don't blame her. She did her best and all that. Bringing me
up, I mean. Mostly on her own.'
'Melanie, I know you're finding university a
little demanding these days, the written work and
so on, but I'm going to give you a bit of homework,
is that all right?'
Melanie shrugged. Tiny breasts shifted under
her sweatshirt.
'What I'd like you to do is write that note,' Dr

Bell continued. Tut your thoughts in writing. I
think it would be very good for you. It might
clarify exactly what you're feeling these days. Do
you think you could do that?'
'I guess.'
'Don't labour over it too much. It doesn't have
to be long. Just write out exactly what you would
say if you were actually going to kill yourself.'

19

It's no secret that a certain type of man, or another
type of man in a certain type of mood, will seek
out exactly the person, place or thing that is most
likely to bring him the maximum pain. A drunk
will head to the bar, a compulsive gambler to a
loved one's savings account, a forlorn lover to the
scene of parting. John Cardinal was in the basement
the next afternoon, standing motionless in
the dim light and chemical smells of Catherine's
darkroom.
The darkroom had been hers and hers alone,
and he had never set foot in here uninvited. Although Catherine would sometimes chat
about a project beforehand, she never talked about
her work in the darkroom. She was like a chef
who doesn't want anyone else in the kitchen,
preferring to bring out the perfect meal as if it has
been conjured out of thin air. She liked to come
upstairs with a fistful of new prints and spread
them out on the kitchen table. Then she would

stand back while Cardinal examined them one by
one.
If Cardinal was too slow to form an opinion,
she would speak her own over his shoulder. 'I
like the fire escape in that one, the diagonal is so
dramatic' Or 'Look at the cyclist in the background,
heading in the opposite direction. I love
accidental things like that.' Half the time Cardinal
sensed that he was admiring the wrong thing: how
cute the little kid was, how pretty the snow. But
Catherine didn't seem to mind.
There were several prints of the same photograph
clipped to a line over her sinks, which
Cardinal had installed for her years ago. The prints
were black-and-white, and showed a brick wall
in the foreground, a man approaching in the background,
maybe half a block away. Man and wall
were equally in focus, and Cardinal knew from
his own limited experience that that was hard to
do. It gave a slightly dislocated feel to the image,
as if man and wall were equally inhuman. The
man's head was down, his face hidden by the kind
of hat people rarely wear these days. An ominous
picture ... or maybe it just seemed that way in
retrospect.
'What are you doing down here?' Kelly was
leaning in the doorway, looking effortlessly lovely
in white shirt and blue jeans. Catherine twenty
years ago.
Cardinal pointed to the shelves that lined one
wall, the tall closet for cameras and lenses, the

wide shelves for storing prints. The bins for
frames.
'I built those for her,' he said.
'I know,' Kelly said.
'Catherine designed it, of course. I mean, it was
her workspace.'
'She was happy here,' Kelly said, and Cardinal
felt a crimp in his heart.
I'm going to ask you to do me a favour, Kelly.
Not now, but a few months from now, maybe.'
'Sure. What do you need?'
'I don't know anything about photography. And
to tell you the truth, I liked every single picture
Catherine ever took. She saw it, she thought it
was worth photographing, to me it was valuable.
But you're an artist.'
'Struggling painter, Dad. Not a photographer.'
'You have an artist's eye. I was hoping sometime,
not now, you could go through Catherine's
photos and select the best ones. I was thinking next
year, maybe - we could put on a show of
her work at the university or the library.'

'Sure, Dad. I'd be happy to do that. But you
shouldn't be hanging around down here.
Everything's still too raw, don't you think?'
'Yeah. It is.'
'Come on,' she said, and actually took his hand
and led him out of the darkroom. It all but undid
him.
Kelly was right, though. He found it easier to
breathe upstairs, in the domain that had been half

his. He went into the living room and looked over
the titles on the bookshelves. Catherine bought
most of the books in the house. The majority were
photography books, but she had also bought books
about yoga, Buddhism, the novels of John Irving,
and a lot of psychology, too - books about depression
and bipolar disorder. He took down Against
Self-Slaughter by Frederick Bell.
There were several other books listed on the
flyleaf, all of them with academic-sounding titles,
but this one appeared to be aimed at a general
audience, its tone calm, reassuring, and surprisingly
self-revelatory. The first few pages related
how Bell's father had committed suicide when he
was eight, and his mother ten years later when
he was beginning university. Not surprising that
such a background might lead one to labour, as
Bell put it in the introduction, 'in the fields of
grief and despair'.
Cardinal flipped through. The book was organized
around several case studies, each chapter beginning
with a description of a suicide attempt that
brought the patient into Bell's practice. There was
also a section dealing with partners of suicides, with
particular emphasis on people who had married
more than one person who had committed suicide.
'Some people with deep, repressed suicidal fantasies
of their own,' Bell wrote, 'need to be near people
who are able to kill themselves. Unable to hurl
themselves over that mortal precipice, they need
someone to commit suicide for them.'

Cardinal decided it probably wasn't the best
thing for him to be reading just then.
He went into the kitchen, where Kelly had settled
herself over a sketchbook. He picked up the mail
from the counter where she had stacked it. Most
of it was for Catherine: a photography magazine,
notices from the Art Gallery of Ontario and the
Royal Ontario Museum of upcoming shows, a bill for her MasterCard, as well as various mass mailings
from Northern University. There were a couple
of square envelopes addressed to him, more cards.

He was looking for his letter opener when the
phone rang.
It was Brian Overholt, a Toronto homicide cop
Cardinal had known forever. They had worked
vice together more than twenty years ago, and
after that narcotics. Together they had made an
effective team, and Overholt was one of the few
Toronto colleagues he missed. Cardinal had called
him about Connor Plaskett.
'John, I got an answer for you. Plaskett is indeed
an ex-person. Got run over by an Escalade in the
club district here a couple of weeks ago. Hung in
on the critical list for a while, but he died a week
ago last Saturday.'
'Was he into anything down there I should
know about?'
'Not that we know of. His associates scattered
into the woodwork when he got run over, so draw
your own conclusions. They clearly didn't want
to pass the time of day with law enforcement.'

'You catch the driver?'
'No, but it's just a matter of time. Anything else
I can do for you? Hello? You still there?'
Cardinal had opened one of the envelopes
addressed to him and now he was staring at the
card it had contained.
'Uh, yeah, Brian. Listen, thanks a lot. Any time
I can return the favour.'
'Sure. Next time I'm looking for an Eskimo, I'll
hold you to it. Hey, how's Catherine?'
'Gotta run, Brian. Something just came up.'
This card was postmarked Mattawa, just as the
first one had been, again a semi-glossy Hallmark
of the sort available at any large drugstore, not to
mention every stationery store in the nation. So
the sender had bought at least three. Maybe he
had bought them all at the same time in the same
store. A clerk might notice someone who bought
three sympathy cards at once.
Cardinal tried to keep his mind fixed in investigative
mode and not react to the words inside
the card.
What a terrific husband you must have been, it said. Same set-up as before, original message of the
card covered up with a typed message. She preferred death to living with you. Think about it. She literally
preferred to die. That should give you some idea of what
you 're worth.
Cardinal went to the window and tilted the
card this way and that in the light. Yes, he could
just make out a thin line across the capital letters.

Almost certainly the same printer, and even if not,
almost certainly the same sender. Whoever it was,
it could not be Connor Plaskett, who had died
before Catherine. Connor Plaskett, as Brian
Overholt had so eloquently put it, was an ex
person.
She preferred death to living with you.
'Oh, fuck you!' Cardinal slammed his fist on
the fridge, sending magnets, notes and snapshots
to the floor.
'Dad, are you all right?'
Kelly had leapt up from her chair and was
regarding him with dark, alarmed eyes.
I'm fine.'
She put a hand to her heart. 'I don't think I've
ever heard you swear like that.'
'You may have to get used to it,' he said, shrugging
on his jacket.
'You're going out?'
Cardinal grabbed his car keys.
'Don't hold supper for me,' he said.

20

'Can you give me an address on Neil Codwallader?'
Cardinal was heading into town on 63. The heat
of his anger surprised him. He could feel it pulsing
in his wrists, throbbing in his temples.
'Neil Codwallader is single now, John. He
doesn't have anyone to beat up at the moment.'
It was Wes Beattie on the other end of the line,
a parole officer. Beattie had an imperturbable and
comforting purr of a voice; it was hard to believe
he had ever been a cop, but he had put in fifteen
years with the OPP before being reborn into the
gentler avatar of parole officer. Whenever he spoke
to Beattie on the phone, Cardinal pictured a fat
tabby.
'I need to see him about something else,'
Cardinal said, and honked at a Focus that suddenly
changed lanes without signalling. 'And I need to
see him now.'
'You sound rather ruffled, there, John. If Neil
has committed some kind of breach, you'd better

tell me about it. Can't go keeping secrets from our
brother and sister agencies, now, can we?'
'I'll tell you after I talk to him. Are you going
to give me an address?'
'Six-ninety Main Street East. But he won't be
there right now. He's working two jobs.'
'Let me guess: he's a volunteer counsellor at
the Crisis Centre.'
'No, I can't imagine Neil will be consoling
battered women any time soon, but he is working
at Wal-Mart three days a week. And he puts in
another four at Zappers.'
'The photocopy place?'
'The very one. Listen, John, you're not going
to go crashing around and jeopardize his employment,
are you? I don't nurse any more affection
for wife beaters than you do, but Neil has paid
his debt to society and now he's making an honest effort to '
'Well, what do you know? Here I am at WalMart,'
Cardinal said, and disconnected. He swung
into a parking lot the size of several football fields.
Cardinal rarely set foot in Wal-Mart. It was
always so difficult to find anything, and the prices
didn't seem to justify the aggravation. Half the
time the aisles were jammed with obese couples
pushing prams, although today they were relatively
empty. In any case, he preferred to support
the independent downtown stores - a goal that
seemed more quixotic with each passing year.
The only thing Cardinal liked about Wal-Mart

was that it employed older people. Although it
had its fair share of teenagers expert in feigned
helplessness, it also had a good many retirees
supplementing their pensions by helping bewildered
shoppers find their elusive consumer items.
He asked a tiny lady who looked near seventy
where he could find greeting cards.
'You're already there,' she said. They're in the
next aisle oyer.'
Cardinal zeroed in on the sympathy area. Yes,
there were plenty of Hallmark cards.
'Here we go,' he said under his breath. '"With
deepest sympathy . . ."'
He picked out a card identical to the third one
he had received, and then another, identical to
the second card. Apparently the first card had sold
out.
'Did you find what you were looking for?' the
tiny lady asked him as he walked by.
'I did. Thank you. Can you tell me if Neil
Codwallader is working today?'
'Neil? Is he the tall gentleman who works in
the photo place?'
'Lots of muscles, lots of tattoos,' Cardinal said.
'Oh, yes. He was here earlier. But I believe he's
gone home.'
She directed him to the photo booth, several
aisles west and one south. You really needed a
moped to get around this place.
'Neil left an hour ago,' the kid in the photo department
told him. 'He's got another job somewheres.'

Ten minutes later Cardinal was on the other
side of town, parked illegally on Lakeshore in front
of Zappers.
Zappers was the kind of place you go to if you're
from out of town and you need to check your email
right this instant, or if you need to send or receive
a fax, or if you run a fraudulent business that
requires an anonymous mailbox. Mostly it offered
the use of obsolete computer equipment at minimal
rates. There was only one customer in the place,
an Asian woman typing at lightning speed.
Codwallader was behind the counter, his back
to the store, photocopying an enormous stack of
paper. When he turned around, he did not appear
to recognize Cardinal.
His long hair and walrus moustache would have
been in fashion thirty years ago, assuming he had
been a rock star. Prison had not reduced the
muscles that threatened to burst the seams of his
T-shirt. His forearms were paisley with tattoos.
'Help you?' he said.
'You tell me,' Cardinal said.
Codwallader went still, not looking Cardinal up
and down the way a normal person might, but
giving him the dead cold prison stare.
'I know you,' he said. 'You're the cop.'

'And you're the wife beater.'
'So you said. That doesn't make it true.'
'Well, the hospital records, the doctors and the
social workers all seemed to agree. Not to mention
Cora herself.'

'I got nothing to say to you, pal. I don't even
remember your name.'
'Cardinal. John Cardinal. I'm the one who told
the judge how I found your wife with her nose
broken and her arm fractured and patches of her
hair torn out. How both her eyes were blackened,
and how her clothes had been all cut up.'
'Like I told the court, I didn't do any of that
shit.'
'Spoken like a true abuser. Never guilty, never
wrong.'
The reason I got no wife now is thanks to
people like you. People who like to interfere. Right
now I'm just doing what I have to do to get by,
one day at a time. So if you're not gonna use a
computer or something, why don't you just get
the hell out?'
'Actually, it was your printers I was interested
in.'
'Printers are over there.' A paisley finger indicated
a row of three machines. 'Two bucks first
page, after that ten cents a page. Knock yourself
out.'
Cardinal opened his briefcase. He took out a
computer disk, slid it into one of the computers,
and selected a letter he had written to his insurance
broker. That policy would have to be changed
now, since Catherine had been his beneficiary.

Cardinal selected printer number one, then
two, then three, and printed out three copies
of the letter. There were various flaws in the

characters, but no hairline scar across the capitals.
Of course, in a shop like this, the cartridges
would be changed often. If all the messages had
been printed out at the same time - say, a day
or two after Catherine died - that cartridge would
no longer be in these machines. For that matter,
if Codwallader had done it, he could have used
his own cartridge.
Cardinal put the copies into his briefcase and
took his disk out of the computer.
'How much do I owe you?'
'Two seventy-five plus tax. Three sixteen.'
Cardinal paid him.
'Tell me something, Cardinal. You married?'
Cardinal held up his left hand, showing the
plain gold band. Catherine's name was engraved
on the inside. He had always planned to be buried
with it on his finger.
'You're so righteous and all,' Codwallader said.
'Tell me the truth. You never feel like giving your
wife a tap on the head? A little smack? I'm not
saying you acted on it. I'm just asking. Be honest. You don't never sometimes feel like giving her a
smack?'
'No. And now I need you to answer me one
question. Where were you on the night of October
seventh? Last Tuesday.'
'Tuesday? I woulda been right here. We're open
till ten p.m. weeknights. Listen, if something
happened to Cora, I got no idea where she even
lives or if she changed her name or nothing. So

if she got beat up Tuesday night or whatever, it's
got nothing to do with me.'
'So you say.'
'You can check the security cameras.' He
pointed at the tiny camera above the entrance. 'They go back at least a month. Ask the manager.'
1 will. Where is he?'
'Away. He'll be back next week. Fucking Cora.
I thought I was through with that bitch.'

21

Delorme had waited until six o'clock, when she
was pretty sure Matt Morton would be home,
before driving round to Warren Street, a dead end
on the east side of town. She doubted if she had
set foot there more than twice in her entire life.
The Morton residence was a low wooden
bungalow that looked to be a tight squeeze for a
couple, let alone a couple with two children, and
it was dwarfed by the vehicles in the driveway.
There was a Toyota Land Cruiser and a Chrysler
Padfica, and - the only car of normal size - a Ford
Taurus. Beside the garage, two bright red snowmobiles
were parked under an overhang.
The crowning piece was the boat, a gigantic
Chris-Craft - not that Delorme would have known
a Chris-Craft from a submarine, but the manufacturer's
name was in big chrome script on the
side. To her untutored eye the thing was quite
ungainly, too much snout, not enough top, but
probably it was built for speed, not a handsome

profile - and who knew how it might look in the
water? Delorme had no idea what kind of horsepower
it might have, but the propeller looked
serious.
Why would you have all these oversize vehicles
and then live in a dinky little house? Delorme
had often wondered about people - you came
across a lot of them in police work - who seemed
to spend all their money on pursuits other than
their home. She had been in near-hovels that
contained televisions the size of blackboards.
Not that the Morton home fell into this category;
it looked to be in excellent repair.
The same could not be said of Matt Morton. If
he had indeed ever been a football player, as Frank
Rowley had said, there was little evidence of it
now. Any muscle had long since subsided into
several cubic feet of pudge and blubber. His shape
was top-heavy, as if he had been squeezed tightly
at the ankles and all the fat had moved up into
his neck and shoulders. His hair was the same
brown as the perpetrator's in the pictures, though
trimmed into a neat, executive cut.
Delorme introduced herself, showing her ID.
'Come on in,' Morton said. 'I only have a
minute. We're about to sit down for dinner.'
'That's okay. I won't take up much of your
time.' The living room, off to the left, contained
nothing that she'd seen in the photographs. At
the far end of the hall was the kitchen, too far to
see much detail beyond a few wooden cupboards.

Delorme heard kids yelling and a woman shushing
them. It sounded like a boy and a girl.
'I was admiring your machines out front,'
Delorme said. 'Particularly the boat.'
'My pride and joy, that one. Better be, for what
I paid. Still paying.'
'Mr Morton, I'm investigating a number of
crimes that have been committed out at Lakeside
Marina and I need to take a look at your boat.
Would that be all right?'
'What kind of crimes?'
'Assault, among others.'
'Assault. Got nothing to do with me, I can tell
you that right now.'
'We're just looking for witnesses at this point.'
'Well, I never saw anything that resembled an
assault. Never heard anything either, for that
matter. So how would it involve my boat?'
'It may not. If I could just take a quick look,
Mr Morton, that would be very helpful.'
'Go ahead. I don't care.'
'Thank you.'
Morton put on a Maple Leafs windbreaker and
led her out to the boat, walking with the careful,
gliding gait of the very heavy. A man could put on
a lot of pounds in a few years, however, and Delorme
had not yet ruled Matt Morton out as a suspect.
'You actually need to see inside?'

'Yes, I do.'

'There was no assault on this boat. I don't see what good it'll do looking inside.'

'It'll help us rule a few things out, Mr Morton.
Can I just climb up on to the trailer?'
Td rather you used a ladder.'

Delorme helped him retrieve an eight-foot
aluminum ladder from the garage. The two
minutes of exertion had the ex-footballer sweating
and wheezing. Nevertheless, he went up first and
climbed over the side of the boat. Delorme
followed, and stepped down on to the deck.
'Doesn't look its best right now,' Morton said.
'It's like looking at a racehorse in the barn. You
don't really get an idea.'
'Oh, I think I get the idea,' Delorme said, looking
around. 'It must be a lot of fun to be out on the
water in this.'
'There's nothing like it, I guarantee you. The
air, the sunshine. Not to mention the beer. And
everyone's in a good mood. The kids're having
fun, the wife's in seventh heaven, and I'm as far
away from work as I can be.'
'What line of work are you in, Mr Morton?'
'IT. Computer networks. Used to be a good way
to make a living. Not any more. Not in this town.
We were all set to buy a bigger house, but that's
not gonna happen now.'
'You mind if we lift the plastic sheeting off the
seats there?' Delorme was already pretty sure this
wasn't the boat in the photograph. The steering
wheel was white, and the one in the picture was
wooden. Steering wheels can be replaced, of
course, but there was no wooden trim visible on

this boat, and she doubted that anyone would
have had that changed.
Morton lifted the plastic off the two seats closest
to the stern. They were the swivel kind, smooth
white upholstery, with small fixed tables nearby.
The photograph had shown back-to-back seats
with red upholstery of the tuck-and-roll variety.
The entire back of the boat was different.
'You need to see the galley, too? The cabin?'
'No, thanks, Mr Morton. You've been very
helpful.'
'It's no trouble. Now that we're here, I mean.'
'All right, then. A quick look won't hurt.'
She let him show her around, Morton proudly
pointing out various features for her to appreciate.
A couple of times he said, 'The wife would kill
me if she knew how much I paid for that.'
'I guess it's kind of like having a second home,'
Delorme said. 'At least in summer.'
'That's exactly what it's like.' Morton emphasized
the point with a finger the size of a sausage.
'You said a true thing there.'
Delorme had never been particularly attracted
to boats, but the interior had a neatness about it
that appealed to her. Lots of tiny cupboards and
containers, everything miniaturized and the edges
rounded off.
'Your kids must love it,' she said.
'Oh, my son would stay on the boat full-time
if he could. Brittney couldn't care less, though.
She's thirteen.'

Delorme very much wanted to see the girl but
couldn't think of a way right at that moment to
manage it.
'Mr Morton, how do you get along with the
other people out at the marina? Do you see much
of them?'
'Not really. It's mostly families, you know.
Everybody's so busy with their own kids, they
don't have much time to get to know each other.
We talk about the weather, that kind of thing.'
'It's pretty close quarters out there. And this is
an expensive piece of equipment. You ever have
any complaints?'
'What, about the marina?'
'Or about the people who park next to you.'
Morton thought a moment. He ran a hand over
his head.
'Well, there's some Italian asshole always plays
his music too loud. He's at the other end of the
dock, but noise travels when you're on the water.
I'd be happy if you'd arrest him or deport him or
something.'
'Not likely. What about the people near you?'
'The Ferriers? They're good people. We're not
close, but we get along fine. Andre and I have the
occasional beer, talk about the game. That's about
it.'
'They have kids?'
'Two girls: Alex and Sadie. Sadie's eight or so.
Alex is Brit's age, thirteen going on thirty, way
they are these days.'

Thirteen years old. Delorme wanted to ask more
about the girls, but didn't want to draw too much
attention to that angle just yet. What if Morton was the one diddling the neighbours' kids? To draw him
away from that area, she mentioned Frank Rowley.
'Frank I know from high school. I got no
complaints about Frank.' Morton suddenly snapped
his fingers. 'I just remembered something. You're
investigating assaults?'
That's right.'
'Guy named Fred Bell. I saved his ass one time
some crazy bastard threw a punch at him.'
'Frederick Bell?' Delorme had never met Dr Bell
in person, but she knew he was a psychiatrist.
'That's it. English fella. But it wasn't at the
marina, exactly. It was outside the seafood joint
next door.'
'What was the fight about?'
'I don't know. Guy was yelling about the treatment
Bell gave his son. Kid killed himself, I guess.
Anyway, he was clearly out of it and swinging
like a madman, so I just kinda stepped between
'em and suggested he move on. Wasn't much of
an assault, when you get down to it. This was
about a year, year and a half ago.'
'Do you know his name?'
'I forget - Whiteside or something like that.'
'Last question, Mr Morton. You ever see or hear
anything else around the marina that upset you,
maybe made you think it wasn't a good place for
your kids to be?'

'How do you mean? Like safety-wise?'
'Like any-wise.'
Morton shook his head. 'The marina's like a
neighbourhood. People generally look out for each
other. Help out with a cup of sugar, that kind of
thing, you know? Even though we don't know
each other well, there's a kind of camaraderie, a
kind of trust, that you don't find in a lot of places.
Perfect little sanctuary - for anybody, especially
kids.'

22

Cardinal was dealing with bills at the dining-room
table. Kelly was watching an ER rerun in the living
room. She watched television just like Catherine,
with a bowl of popcorn in her lap, and making
comments at the TV every now and again. 'Oh,
come on,' she would say. 'No doctor in their right
mind would do that.'
Cardinal had written checks for Catherine's
credit cards, and had scrawled on each payment
stub 'Deceased, please cancel.'
His thoughts drifted to the two people he had
tracked down so far: one of them dead before
Catherine was killed, the other still a possibility. He
had yet to confirm Codwallader's alibi, but his gut
was telling him that it would probably hold. Cardinal
sensed that he was missing something obvious, that
he was on some entirely wrong track. So far he had
been focused on motivation and opportunity: Who
had reason to hurt him through his wife? Who had
recently been released from prison?

But there were more basic things to consider:
Who knew his address? Who knew Catherine was
his wife? Who was in a position to pounce on this
information with such alacrity? Not a drunk like
Connor Plaskett (even if he had been alive), and
maybe not a self-absorbed loser like Codwallader either.
Cardinal's address and phone number were not
listed in the phone book, and the police station
certainly didn't give them out. Ever since his days
on the drug squad back in Toronto, he had made
it a rule to keep an eye out for people watching
him, people following. If you weren't vigilant,
someone could follow you home, threaten your
family. He would have known if anyone was
following him.
He sifted through the rest of the bills. There were
requests from the Audubon Society, the Sierra Club,
and Amnesty International (Catherine's) and others
from the Hospital for Sick Children, UNICEF, and
March of Dimes (Cardinal's). There were bills from
Algonquin Bay Hydro, the water department, the
phone company, and Desmond's Funeral Home.
Most of these were already opened if not already
paid. Cardinal examined them one by one, holding
them under the gooseneck lamp beside the phone.
He put on a pair of reading glasses to make sure.
None of them showed the same printer flaw as
the vicious sympathy cards.
All right, maybe that was too simple. Almost
all of these, with the exception of the smaller

charities, would be addressed by computer. No
human being would even see the bills until they
came back with checks attached. He opened the
bill from the funeral home.

Dear Mr Cardinal,
We at Desmond's Funeral Home wish you to know
that we sympathize with you in your time of loss.
We also want to thank you for choosing us.
We hope that our services have brought you
some measure of comfort and security during
one of life's most difficult transitions.
Our invoice is enclosed. Please remit your
payment as soon as it may be convenient. And
please know that if there is anything else we
can do to serve your needs at this difficult time,
we are always ready to help.
With thanks, and deepest sympathy.

It was signed by David Desmond. None of the
capital letters showed any trace of the printer flaw.
'She is such a crack head,' Kelly said to the TV.
'How could she ever get to be a nurse?'
At the commercial break she stopped by
Cardinal on her way to the kitchen. 'Why don't
you come and watch, Dad?'
'I will in a second.'
'It's such a pleasure to see people screw up their
lives worse than you screw up your own. Although
I guess you see that pretty much every day at work.'

'I do, indeed.'

'I'm getting myself a diet Coke. You want one?'
'Sure.'
Cardinal was looking at the invoice that had
come enclosed with the letter from Desmond's.
One item in particular had caught his attention,
and it wasn't the price, which came as no surprise.
Casket - Superior Walnut, Natural - $2,500.
There was a distinct line through the capital
letters.
And lower down: Payment Received - $3,400.
The same line through the P and the R.
The show's back on,' Kelly called from the
living room. 'Your Coke's in here.'
Cardinal pulled the three cards from his briefcase. She preferred death ... A line through the
capital S. How she must have hated you. Same line through the capital H. He dug out a magnifying
glass and squinted at the relevant letters. A match.
Could a funeral director get tired of sympathizing
with all that pain he or she saw every day
of the year? Could you get sick of all the tears,
the prayers, the dithering over details of services,
the relentless implication that this loved one was
really something special, unlike, say, the other
people you buried day in and day out? He
supposed that, yes, you could get sick of it, and
yes, you might one day snap and start sending
Unsympathy cards through the mail.
But the cover letter itself was free of flaws.
He called David Desmond at home.
A professional to the bone, Desmond didn't miss

a beat. 'Yes, John,' he said. 'What can I do for
you?'
'I was just looking at my invoice from you.'
'Oh, there's no rush to pay that. You've already
paid half of it on deposit, and I'm sure you have
lots of other things on your mind.'
'I was wondering if you prepare them yourself.'
'Well,
we write up the initial figures, of course.
But later on, after the services, we hand everything
over to our bookkeeping service.'
'They seem to do a good job for you. I've got some rather complicated tax stuff coming up this
year and I was wondering if I could get their name
and address from you.'
'Oh, certainly. It's Beckwith and Beaulne. Hold
on a second, I've got the card here somewhere.'
'Which guy do you use - Beckwith or Beaulne?'
'Neither. It's a fellow named Roger Felt.'
'You're kidding.'
'Why? You know Roger?'

23


Roger Felt. Cardinal had not thought about Roger
Felt for at least five or six years. Roger Felt had
been a stockbroker/financial adviser/investment
analyst for the Algonquin Bay office of Fraser,
Grant. He had enjoyed a reputation for being a
local Midas with growth stocks.
Like just about every other financial adviser in
town, Felt's bread and butter lay in mutual funds.
He took people's nest eggs and savings accounts
and rainy-day funds and put them into more or
less conservative allocations of five-star funds. But
he had not been satisfied with that sort of program
for his own retirement planning. Too many years
of reading the financial press had filled his head
with profiles of financial wizards who made killings
and retired with sailboats and ski mansions and
houses in the south of France. You weren't
supposed to end up with a ranch-style split level
in Algonquin Bay and a cottage on Mud Lake.
And so Roger Felt had embarked on an ambitious

scheme to make the big leagues. He moved his
own portfolio into the riskier stocks, the testosterone
market, and he started betting on margin.
And when the first margin calls had come in, he
rapidly paid them off with his own cash.
Of course, this cash was also supposed to pay
for his wife's retirement, not just his own. It was
meant to cover assisted living for his mother-in
law and the educations of their three kids, who
were all heading off, seriatim, to university. No
problem. When the market turned around, as his
economic savvy told him it must, he would be so
rich he could pay for all of those things with
pocket money.
Many losses and many margin calls later, Roger
Felt found himself in the uncomfortable position
of having drained not just his own accounts but
those of his wealthiest clients. In Algonquin Bay,
these 'wealthiest' were not millionaires, but
retirees with plump pensions and paid-off houses
who had a little extra cash. Roger Felt 'borrowed'
liberally from their accounts to pay off his margin
calls and to place bigger investments with the
intention, he later told the court, of paying everybody
back - with interest, of course.
Dreams of luxury on the Cote d'Azur began to
fade, and dwindled into dreams of paying back
the funds he had pilfered, dreams of restoring his
own family to financial health, dreams of staying
out of jail.
It was not to be.

One of his clients, a Mrs Gertrude M. Lowry,
wished to consolidate all her funds with another
firm. When she tired of Felt's evasions, she called
the police. Cardinal got the case and, since he was
no financial wizard, Delorme was soon put on it
too. She had been just a few months short of an
MBA when she joined the police and had spent
half a dozen years chasing white-collar criminals.
They arrested Felt on charges of fraud, misappropriation
of funds, and breach of fiduciary duty.
He was found guilty on all three. His lawyer,
Leonard Scofield, made an eloquent request for a
minimum sentence that the judge received coolly.
He could do little else after hearing from the parade
of witnesses: men long past their prime who had
been forced to go back to work, young people
whose dreams of owning a house had come to
nothing, angry couples who had lost their homes,
and tremulous old women now working at menial
jobs to keep their heads above water. Roger Felt
was banished to a medium-security prison for eight
years, from which he had been paroled after
serving five.
Cardinal rolled up in front of the address Desmond had given him. It turned out to be an
apartment above a fabric store on Sumner. To get
to the downstairs door, Cardinal had to squeeze
his way through a passageway so narrow that he
was forced to turn sideways.
The door had been decorated by consecutive
generations of graffiti artists, the least imaginative

of whom had written I Love You in raspberry
coloured letters a foot tall. Cardinal buzzed the
intercom and waited, looking around the alley
with its crushed soda cans, its flyaway sandwich
wrappers, even a laceless, soggy tennis shoe. All
in all, a long way down from the lakeside property
Roger Felt had owned when Cardinal and
Delorme had arrested him. He had been swinging
in a hammock with a rum and Coke in his hand
at the time.
A voice caused the intercom's torn speaker to
flap and buzz. 'Who is it?'
'Courier.'
'Hold on, I'll be right down.'
Heavy footsteps on the stairs within, and then
the door opened.
Prison had done nothing good for Roger Felt's
appearance. He had always been a squarish man,
not graceful, but expensive suits and a regular
squash game had combined to make him look like
a person you might call sir. But now he was squat
and trollish. His shirt looked as if it had not been
ironed for decades, and there we're rings of sweat
under his arms. He reeked of cigarettes, and was
wheezing from the stairs.
'Are you from Alma's?' he said, naming a Main
Street restaurant. 'I'm not really expecting
anything.'
Cardinal held up his shield. 'Surprise.'
Felt peered up at him through thick lenses. 'Oh,
no.'

Cardinal pushed the door open. 'Mr Felt, we
have reason to believe you are in breach of your
parole. I need to come in and take a look around.'
'Let's see a warrant first.'
'You're a convicted felon on parole, Mr Felt,
and I have reasonable grounds to suspect you are
in breach. No warrant required.'
Cardinal pushed his way past him and went up
the dark stairwell. The door at the top opened on
to a cramped, lopsided kitchen lit with one of
those fluorescent rings beloved of penny-pinching
landlords. A cigarette sent up coils of smoke from
an ashtray. Beside it there was an adding machine,
a stack of files, a battered-looking laptop, and a
small printer.
Cardinal pulled a sheet of paper from its out
tray.
It was an invoice from Beckwith and Beaulne
addressed to Nautilus Marine Storage and Repair.
The capital Us and Rs had lines running through
them. Cardinal usually stayed pretty cool when it
came to arresting criminals. But now, as Roger
Felt came huffing into the kitchen, he felt a surge
of rage. Immediately, some other part of his character
locked this rage away. He pointed to the
adding machine, the files, the columns of figures
on the laptop screen.
'The terms of your parole are that you not be
employed in the financial sector. Clearly, you are
performing accountancy services. May I speak to
Mr Beckwith?'

'He isn't here.'
'And Mr Beaulne?'
'He's not available either.'
'Beaulne and Beckwith are fictitious entities,
aren't they?'
'It's just a name. It sounded good.'

'You're running a fictitious company, Mr Felt.
For purposes once again of duping the public'
'I need clients. The name sounded good. You
can't expect me to live on the income from a job
in a sandwich shop.'
'With your record of fraud and breach of fiduciary
duty, I think a judge is going to be very interested
in the fictitious Mr Beaulne and Mr
Beckwith.'
'Please don't do that. I can't go back to jail.'
'Get your shoes on, Mr Felt. That's exactly
where we're going.'

24

Roger Felt was booked and, after being allowed
to call his lawyer, was placed in a holding cell.
Cardinal alerted the Crown Attorney and the
parole office. He wrote up his notes, finished the
rest of the paperwork, and carried the boxes of
material he had removed from Felt's apartment
into the boardroom.
The boardroom was the quietest and most
respectable-looking place in the station. The long
oak table and handsome chairs gave it the feel of
the headquarters of a small but prosperous corporation.
Cardinal opened the first box and lifted
out the adding machine, the laptop, the printer.
He opened the second box and removed stacks of
files and stationery.
Staff Sergeant Mary Flower came in. Mary was
the kind of woman for whom the harsh word broad must have been originally coined. No more
than five foot three, but big of chest and voice.
She was protective of her uniformed brood, but

if she suspected a street cop of slacking, she could
deliver a reprimand so fierce that the place reeked
of brimstone for weeks. Over the years she had
nursed a crush on John Cardinal, a fact he had
occasionally used to shameless advantage in prying
favours out of the uniformed division.
'Listen, John.' They had been colleagues long
enough to be on a first-name basis when out of
earshot of her troops. 'You're gonna tell me it's
none of my business, but '
'It's none of your business, Mary
'But it is, sorta. Because it goes to proper
conduct of business in the shop and that goes very
much to my bailiwick of training the juniors, but
that's not why I'm bringing it up. I'm bringing it
up because you're a friend and I respect you
enough to tell you when I think you're making
a mistake.'
'I make lots of mistakes. Which one did you
have in fnind?'
'First of all, honey, you shouldn't be back here
yet. You're still hurting, and you're gonna be
hurting for a long time. The cop shop is no place
for a broken heart.'
'She didn't dump me. She, uh . . .' Died. He
would never be able to say that word. Not in
connection to Catherine.
'I know that, John. So allow yourself to admit
that you're human. Allow yourself to admit that
your judgment might be off, that you might be
prone to mistakes just now. I'm not a detective,

I'm not gonna second-guess your investigative
work.'
'He's been breaching parole. Conditions either
mean something or they don't. You can't have it
both ways.'
'See, right there, that doesn't sound like you.
You're not usually an all-or-nothing, black-or
white kind of guy. I'm just asking you to take
some time off. You're not running on all cylinders
here.'
'You done?'
'Momma Mary is done, honey.'
'Good. Because I have some actual work to do.'

It turned out that Wes Beattie was Roger Felt's
parole officer. Although they talked on the phone
quite often, Cardinal had not actually seen Beattie
face to face for more than a year. He had grown
a big bushy beard since then, and was uncharacteristically
formal in dark suit and tie.
'Gee, Wes,' Cardinal said. 'Did you arrive here
in a limo?'
'You've interrupted me in a night at the opera,'
Beattie purred. 'Thus ruining my yearly attempt
at culture.'
'Algonquin Bay doesn't have an opera.'

'This evening it does. The Manhattan Light
Opera Company is at the Capital Centre for exactly
one night, and you yanked me out of it.'
'Felt's lawyer's on the way, and we're also
waiting for the Crown.'

'No point holding your breath,' Beattie said.
I've spoken to the Crown, and he doesn't want
to pursue this unless I do, and I have to tell you,
John, I really, really don't.'
'Roger Felt is in breach of parole, Wes. He's
running a financial operation under false pretences.
He's been sending me threatening and harassing
letters - which you might want to see before you
make up your mind, let alone the Crown Attorney's
mind.'
Beattie was one of those large men who seem
to give off a kind of calm that is hard to resist. He
stood before Cardinal, rocking gently back and
forth on his heels as he listened. The whole time,
he was nodding sympathetically. A parole officer
- besieged by judges, criminals, victims, lawyers,
not to mention highly aggrieved cops - learns to
be a good listener or he goes insane.
'Can we sit down somewhere and talk?' he said
quietly. His understanding tone suddenly made
Cardinal feel like a ranter.
'Yeah, sure.'
Cardinal took him back to the boardroom,
where Felt's accounting equipment was spread
out.
Cardinal held up a sheet of letterhead. 'You
realize Beckwith and Beaulne is a fictitious organization?'
'Strictly
speaking, John, it isn't. It's a bookkeeping
operation run by Roger Felt, essentially
a home business. Beckwith and Beaulne is just a

name - it doesn't matter that they're not real entities.
Merrill and Lynch have been dead a long time
too.'
'Merrill and Lynch were real people who
founded a company.'
'John, you're not going to make the fraudulent
part stick. Roger does in fact provide the bookkeeping
service that he promises. Nothing more,
nothing less.'
'He's doing people's taxes for them. That
involves tax advice, which is financial advice,
which his conditions of release strictly prohibit.'
'I disagree and so will the court, John. He's not
doing accounting, he's doing bookkeeping. That's
simple record keeping and arithmetic. He has no
access to accounts, no fiduciary duties. It's a worthwhile
service and an effective use of his skills.'
'The court may see it differently.'
'John, I ran it by a judge before I gave Roger
the go-ahead. He didn't have a problem with it.
And the Crown doesn't either, which is why he
isn't here.'
'You were out of bounds heading him off, Wes.'
'I'm trying to do you a favour. Believe me, you
don't want this to get to court. Roger is a changed
man. His crime cost him everything he had, and
I mean everything. Not just his money. You saw
where he's living. His wife left him shortly after
he went to jail. Two of his kids want nothing to
do with him. He lost his friends, you name it.'
'And you think he's a changed man.'

'I know it, the parole board knew it. He rediscovered
his faith in prison - he's a Catholic - and
while I usually don't pay the slightest attention
to claims of that sort, in Roger's case it seems to
be true. He's very involved in the Church now.'
Cardinal pulled out several blank sympathy
cards from the box.
'I found these next to his laptop.' He opened
his briefcase and pulled out the cards he had
received in the mail. 'And he sent me these. Go
on. Take a look at them, Wes. Take a look at them,
and then tell me what a changed man he is.'
Beattie went over the cards carefully. They were
open, sheathed in plastic. He held each one for a
few seconds, turned it over, and let it drop to the
table.
'You think he sent you these cards?'
'He used a computer so I wouldn't see his handwriting,
but there's a printer flaw in the capital
letters. You can see it with this.'
He handed Beattie a magnifying glass. Beattie
looked at one of the cards, then looked at the
invoice Cardinal had received from the funeral
home. He compared it with the other two cards.
Beattie tapped a finger on the cards.
'John, I'm sorry you received these. It must
have been very upsetting.'
'Upsetting is not the word. My wife is - you
know what happened to my wife. The coroner
may think she killed herself, but I don't. Suppose
you killed someone and made it look like suicide.

That might give you the idea to write a note like
this, don't you think?'
I'm losing it, Cardinal thought. I know I'm
losing it. It was a mistake to mention his suspicions
about murder, but he couldn't stop himself.
'Six years ago I arrest Felt for stealing people's
savings. Like you say, it destroys his reputation,
costs him his friends, his kids, his wife. Life as he
knew it is over, and he has five years in jail to
work up a hatred for me for nailing him. He figures
if I hadn't stopped him, he would've been able to
make that killer investment that would have made
him rich and would have covered all he stole borrowed,
as he liked to put it.
'How does he get even? By killing me? No, it's
too simple, too direct, and it doesn't really make
it as revenge, either, because I wouldn't suffer the
way he's suffered, knowing his wife left him. So
he kills my wife to get even, then writes those
cards to rub my face in it. He's scum, Wes. He
always has been.'
Even to Cardinal's own ears, it sounded like
the shriek of a wounded animal. And now he had
to suffer the awful look of compassion on Wes
Beattie's bearded face. Beattie actually put a hand
out and gripped Cardinal's shoulder.
'John, what are you even doing here? You
should not be back at work yet.'
'Why are you trying to make a case for the guy,
Wes? He's already got Scofield working for him.
You think it's impossible he wrote these notes?'

'No, I can see the flaws match on the cards and
the invoice. I know Felt handles the billing for
Desmond's Funeral Home. I can put two and two
together. I can even see him writing the notes,
sick as they are. The man has devious tendencies,
no question. But he's the least violent guy you're
ever likely to meet, so any suspicion that he hurt
anyone is way out in left field. John, you don't
even have a finding of murder. Take some time
off. See a grief counsellor.'
'Even putting this in its best light, we have a
parolee who's sending threatening, harassing
letters through the mail. That's enough to put him
back inside.'
The notes are nasty. The notes are unpleasant.
The notes are mean. But do they constitute
"harassment"? I don't know. It's debatable. But
"threatening" is a stretch. You'll never get a judge
to buy "threatening". Answer me this, John: if
you accepted that the finding of suicide was
correct, if you had no suspicion of murder, would
you even be bothering chasing down these cards?'

The door banged open and Leonard Scofield
was standing before them with a calfskin briefcase
in one hand, and a letter-size document in
the other. Scofield's suits always looked as if he
had just come back from an appointment in Savile
Row, and his shoes as if they had never been worn
before. Here it was ten-thirty at night and he
shows up in a dark pinstripe suit and a snow
white shirt and a deep burgundy tie.

Scofield also had a sonorous voice - a newscaster's
tonal authority that made even his weakest
arguments sound reasonable. Cardinal had
managed to put two or three of Scofield's clients
in jail, but never for as long as they deserved.
As if all this were not irritating enough, Scofield
was also a decent human being. Cardinal, like
most cops, had an innate suspicion of lawyers,
even though he was smart enough to know it was
unfounded. But Scofield was a guy you had to
respect, even when he was tearing your case to
shreds in court. He was always amenable to pretrial
discussion, always receptive to rational argument,
and, even while defending his client ferociously,
managed to convey a sense of absolute decency.
Cardinal had often wished he would run for office.
In short, Cardinal was always dismayed to see
Scofield on the other side of a case.
'Gentlemen,' Scofield said, 'I can't tell you how
upsetting it is to be summoned at this unconscionable
hour.'
'If you're representing Felt,' Cardinal said,
'you're going to wish you weren't summoned at
any hour.'
Scofield had dark eyebrows - very expressive,
and very useful in court for conveying silent but
eloquent scepticism and a wide array of other,
more subtle, emotions, such as, in this instance,
friendly concern.
'Detective Cardinal,' he said, 'let me say how
sorry I was to hear about your wife.'

Thank you.' Scofield was either a man who
was bullshit-free, or able to fake sincerity with
Hollywood's finest.
'And let me give you this.' Scofield handed over
several documents, and then proffered copies to
Wes Beattie. This is why I was late. I stopped off
at the cathedral and talked to Father Mkembe. I
know he's a priest and you probably wouldn't
require a sworn affidavit, but here it is anyway.
Father Mkembe swears that Roger Felt was at the
cathedral's fundraiser the night of Tuesday the
seventh, from eight p.m. until eleven p.m. The other
affidavits are from a deacon and from Sister
Catherine Wellesley, also swearing that Roger Felt
was in their presence at that time. It seems he was
keeping track of the takings from their annual flea
market and auction - a service, I note for the record,
for which he did not charge.'
Cardinal was not a self-righteous man. Having
been born and raised a Catholic, he had entered
adult life fully equipped with an oversize sense of
guilt. He knew that he was capable of doing things
of which he was ashamed, even of breaking the
law, so he was not a policeman who arrived at a
crime scene on a high horse, ready to smite the
evil who walk among us. Furthermore, the older
he got - and the more distance he put between
himself and his religion of birth - the less he
trusted people who were given to righteousness:
the righteous gang members who beat rivals to a pulp for trespassing on their turf, the righteous

husbands who kicked and stabbed and sometimes
murdered the wives who had 'disrespected' them,
the righteous cops who got in an extra knee or
elbow when arresting those they saw as slipping
through the cogs of the justice system. Cardinal
spent his life in the cause of justice and had come
to realize that much injustice was accompanied
by just such righteousness.
And so he was appalled to find himself
unmasked before his own eyes as a self-righteous
cop, intent on railroading the innocent. Shame
was burning its way up his neck, and a hot sweat
prickled on his brow.
Wes Beattie was slow to catch on. 1 don't understand.
What the hell has Tuesday the seventh got
to do with Roger sending cards through the mail?'
'That's the night Detective Cardinal's wife died,'
Scofield said. 'Again, Detective, my condolences.
I only raise the matter because circumstances force
me to.'
Beattie had been slouched in his chair, but now
shifted his weight forward and perched his enormous
chest over the table. 'You mean to tell me
you stopped off on the way here and got three
affidavits - in the defence of a client who has yet
to be charged? Nobody even mentioned the possibility
of murder - at least not to you. At least not
yet.'
'Exactly, Mr Beattie. It occurred to me the
moment I got your call that there could be only
one reason for this unfortunate state of affairs.

oin
I've known Detective Cardinal too long, and
indeed tilted ineffectively at his testimony far too
many times not to have enormous respect for him.
Tor Detective Cardinal to go to such lengths to
haul my imperfectly rehabilitated client off to jail,
there must be something more at work than an
unfortunate use of the mails. I have been in criminal
court on a multitude of cases in the past week,
and the rumours I have heard have been suggestive.'
'Rumours?'
Cardinal said. 'Rumours that I'm
off my rocker? That I'm crazy with grief and can't
accept reality?'
'Nothing nearly so harsh, Detective. Rumours
that the coroner was young and inexperienced,
that an older man - or woman for that matter might
well have ordered an inquest.'
Cardinal was a little - not much - heartened
to hear of the possibility of support, the possibility
that he was not alone.
'And rumours,' Scofield went on, 'that Detective
Cardinal here was on a one-man crusade to find
the person or persons unknown who might be
behind said possible foul play. Under the circumstances,
I can absolutely understand it. And that
is why it seemed likely that my client was the
victim of a misjudgment on the detective's part understandable,
given the circumstances, but a
misjudgment nevertheless.
'I'm hoping these affidavits will change your
mind on the matter.'

'You haven't seen what he sent me,' Cardinal
said, and pushed the cards across the table.
Scofield perused them without touching them,
as if they might be infected.
'That is easily the ugliest writing I have ever
seen committed to paper,' the lawyer said.
Beattie spoke up. 'Printer flaws on the cards
match an invoice John received from the funeral
home. Roger does their bookkeeping.'
'Marvellous,' Scofield said. 'You have the ugly
and the stupid combined, as they so often are. So
stupid, in this case, that it seems the author of
the notes wanted to get caught. Still, in light of
these affidavits
Cardinal stood up. 'Let me have a talk with him.'
'I can't have you asking him questions at this
point. Not without me present.'
'I don't have any questions. You can sit outside
and watch.'
Cardinal took them both to a small kitchen.
There were Coke and candy machines, and a TV
monitor that showed an image of the interview
room.
Then he had Felt brought in from the cells and
sat him down at the interview table.
'My lawyer's here,' Felt said nervously. 'You can't
ask me questions without my lawyer present.'
Cardinal laid out the cards in their plastic
wrappers one by one, in order, open to their
hostile messages. And then he laid out the
funeral home invoice.

-M 7
'I got your cards/ he said quietly.
'Oh, God,' Felt said.
He looked at the cards, he looked at the invoice.
'Oh, God,' he said again. And then he surprised
Cardinal by bursting into tears. At first he tried to
hide his face, leaning forward and covering his
eyes with both hands. But as he wept longer, he
sat back and let the tears flow in sheets down his
face, making no attempt to wipe them away. He
was trying to speak, but his voice emerged in
incomprehensible fragments.
Cardinal waited.
Felt eventually found the box of Kleenex on
the table and wiped his face, blew his nose. He
leaned forward, resting his forehead against his
hand, and shook his head silently. His breath still
came in shudders. He started to speak and then
the tears took him over again, and once more
Cardinal waited.
Eventually he subsided. Cardinal handed him
a drink of water in a paper cup.
'I'm so sorry,' Felt said. 'I don't have words to
say how sorry I am.'
'Funny how the prospect of prison brings out
the apologies.'
'It's true, the thought of going back to prison
terrifies me. But that's not why I'm sorry. It's just
.. . seeing the words, there. Seeing them as you
must have seen them. Seeing them next to the
invoice for your wife's funeral service . . .'
Tears invaded his voice and he was forced to

break off. Once more the Kleenex. Again the drink
of water.
'I'm just so horrified by what I've done.' He
looked at Cardinal, his eyes pleading. 'Have you
ever done something - something that totally
shames you? Something you would not want
anyone to know you did?' He pointed at the cards.
This is ... this is ... It's disgusting. How could
anyone do such a thing to another human being?
I did it, and yet I can't answer that question: How
can anyone do such a thing to another human
being?'
He sobbed a little and shook his head again.
His shirt front was soaked, as if he had just stepped
in from a thunderstorm.
'My wife left me after I'd been in jail for a
year,' Felt said. 'She took my daughters with her.
They were all disgusted with me. I thought I had
finally come to accept my own guilt. I thought I
had stopped blaming everybody else for everything
I lost. But then, last week, I was doing the
books for Desmond's and I came across your file.
For your wife. And I don't know what came over
me.'
'It's called revenge,' Cardinal said.
'I guess it is.'
Felt's red eyes looking at him, no longer
pleading. No longer begging for understanding.
Just exhausted.
Cardinal was exhausted himself. He wanted
nothing more than to be at home, asleep, as far

from the police station as possible. He got to his
feet and held the door open.
'Back to the cell, I suppose/ Felt said.
Cardinal shook his head. 'You're free to go.'
'Really?' Felt looked around the room as if there
might be others watching to see if he would fall
for the prank. 'You mean, I can go home?'
Cardinal remembered the horrible little room
with the hot plate and the lopsided walls, and the
complete absence of anything like love. Some
home.
'On one condition,' Cardinal said.
'Anything. Really. Name it.'
'Don't keep in touch.'

25

Dr Frederick Bell considered himself a calm,
rational man, so it was disturbing to find himself
more and more agitated of late. He blamed
Catherine Cardinal for that. It could have ended
so differently, and everyone would have been
happier, but no. Raising his hands before his face,
he noted the trembling in his fingers. It wouldn't
do. He could not afford to lose control.
Dr Bell hit the Play button and immediately the
trembling in his fingers eased a little. The DVD
recorder was a British-made state-of-the-art
Arcam, with a hundred-gigabyte hard drive, bookmarking
capability, and automatic archive-to-tape
functions. And it was whisper quiet - a serious
consideration in a therapy session.
But the best feature was the digital videocam,
a Canon slightly larger than a golf ball, completely
hidden in the sconce beside the bookshelves. The
wide-angle lens (courtesy of Carl Zeiss) could take
in both doctor and patient with no distortion. The

microphone, an omnidirectional marvel hidden in
the Arts and Crafts chandelier above the coffee
table, was the size of an eraser. The recording software
included a feature that counteracted the
distance between speaker and microphone, and
the quality of the sound still gave Dr Bell deep
pleasure on playback.
He watched the beginning. When he had first
started recording, he had not activated the system
until doctor and patient were past the preliminary
greetings and hesitations. But now he recorded
his sessions entire.
He watched Perry Dorn enter the frame and sit
down, daylight gleaming a little through his thinning
hair. He listened to the polite exchanges, his
excitement growing. Then there was a pause, his
onscreen patient so still and silent that Dr Bell
imagined for a moment that he had accidentally
hit the freeze-frame.
Every therapist has to learn what to do
with pauses in the conversation. Some believe
that if a patient is hesitant, it is not the therapist's
place to prod them into speech. Five
minutes, ten, let them blow the whole fifty
minutes if they want. You go at the patient's speed
and no faster.
Others won't let a pause last much beyond a
minute. A patient can misinterpret the therapist's
return silence as hostility, as letting them twist in
the wind. The appropriate response may be a
gentle question, nothing too probing, or perhaps

a quiet summary of where they left off at the
previous session. Still others, more hands-on, will
ask about any 'homework' they may have
assigned.
It's young Perry who breaks the silence. Poor
Perry.
'I'm so sorry I called the other day,' he says.
'I'm sorry I interrupted you.'
'That's all right,' Dr Bell says. I'm sorry I
couldn't be more attentive just then. It simply
wasn't possible.'
'Oh, I know that. I can't expect people to drop
everything every time I get depressed. I felt bad
about calling. I just - I really thought I was going
to do it, you know. I really thought I was going
to . . .'
How long to let that silence hang? Speak his
thought for him? Or let him hear it ringing over
and over in his own head? Dr Bell had seen a
movie when he was a boy, an old sword-and
sandals epic in which one poor unfortunate had
a giant bell lowered over him. His tormentors then
proceeded to beat on the bell with hammers. When
it was lifted up again, blood was trickling from
the victim's ears. Sometimes maintaining a silence
could have the same effect as that bell. Kill myself,
kill myself, kill myself, ringing inside the skull over
and over again.
Then it was endgame. Bell watched it with the
pleasure of a chess champion reliving a recent
victory. At each step, since he was winning, he

had more and more options, more plays available
to him. But for the patient, who was losing - who
was not even aware there was a game in progress
- each move left fewer and fewer choices, until
eventually he had none.
Onscreen, Dr Bell lets the silence bloom.
Perry lowers his head.
Dr Bell lets the silence expand to fill the room
like gas.
Perry starts to sob.
Dr Bell slides a box of Kleenex across the coffee
table. Knight to Queen-4.
Perry takes a Kleenex and blows his nose.
'Sorry,' he says.
'You were feeling desperate,' Dr Bell says. 'You
wanted to kill yourself.'
Perry nods.
'But you didn't.'
'No.'
'Why not?'
'Too chicken, I guess. Chicken to the tenth
power, that's me.'
Perry gives a little snort of self-derision. This
results in the need for another Kleenex.
It was amazing how filled with self-hatred a
person can be and yet still be walking around, Dr
Bell thought. By all rights Perry Dorn should have
killed himself years ago, but no, he hung on day
after day, month after month, year after year,
wallowing in misery.
'Surely it's more than a matter of being chicken,'

Dr Bell says onscreen. 'After all, what was there
to be afraid of?'
A shrug.
'The pain. Partly the pain. Also, I'm scared I
might make a mistake and just blow my face off
without actually killing myself.'
'That could happen, I suppose, if one were not
careful. But perhaps there was something else
about the plan that didn't seem adequate?'
'I don't know what you mean.'
'Well, what would Margaret think if she were
to find out you'd killed yourself?'
'Honestly?'
'Honestly.'
Perry thinks a few moments.
'Well, in the short term she'd be upset, I
suppose.'
'And then? In the long term?'
'Long term, I don't think she'd give a shit. She'd
just think it was another sign of my
'Defectiveness?'
'Exactly. My defectiveness.'
'She'd feel well rid of you.'
'Exactly. Like she'd made a smart move by
dumping me.'
Suicide as revenge, Dr Bell had thought but not
said. To voice that observation would have hauled
an unspoken motive to the surface. Perry could have
examined it, perhaps even rejected it. Certainly, if
your objective were to keep the patient alive at all
costs, that would be the correct thing to do.

'You want her to know what she's done to you.
How she's destroyed your happiness.'
'Right, right. I didn't used to be like this!'
Bell had had his doubts on that score, and still
did. There was suicide in Perry's background, a
history of antidepressants. There was the angry
mother, the more competent sister.
'Have you had any other thoughts since, on
how you might change that? Enhance the effect,
so to speak?'
'Hey,' Perry says, and there's almost a smile on
his face. Almost. Perry has never actually smiled
in Dr Bell's office. 'Aren't you supposed to be
talking me out of this?'
'Oh, I certainly don't want to talk you into
anything. My job is to help you recognize patterns
in your life. To analyze your feelings about them.
And to help you discover alternatives to these
patterns that bring you so much pain.'
'You mean like my pattern of getting dumped
by women I worship.'
'That's one. Harshly put, but yes, that is one.'
'And my habit of destroying anything good that
comes into my life. Academic future, et cetera.'
'Again, harshly put.'
'You know, I've been thinking about something
you said long ago. When I first came here. You
said, "We can find happiness in our work. Or we
can find happiness in love." And some lucky few,
you said, I guess like movie stars and so on, may
find happiness in both.'

'But I also said that it's possible, indeed
common, to find happiness in one but not the
other. Many people are happy in their work but
wretched in their marriage. Or the reverse. And
they manage to have fulfilling lives.'
'Exactly! That's what you said way back. And
you said it's very difficult to go on if you don't
find happiness in love or in work. And I just realized
the other day that that describes me to a T.
I mean, it's obvious, now. I liked being a student,
but I can't even consider going to McGill with
Margaret here in Algonquin Bay. My graduate
career is over.'
'Costing you one source of happiness.'
'Right. And then Margaret dumps me.'
'Costing you the other.'
'So what's the point of going on? I mean logically.
I'm not trying to whine or gain sympathy
or anything. I'm just saying it's like there's no
point in my living any more. I have zero source
of happiness. I'm a black hole for happiness. What's
the point of staying alive? I'm just in agony all
the time.'
'I can't answer that for you, Perry. No one can.
We all have to find our own reasons for living. I
mean, if you really wanted me to, I could say all
sorts of reasons: you're young, you're good
looking, you're intelligent, things can change,
clouds part, flood waters recede.'
'Happy talk, you mean. I don't want happy talk.'
'No.'

'I want the truth.'
'I know you do. That's why I say you don't
really strike me as "too chicken" to do anything.
I think you can complete whatever you set your
mind to. The question is, how to know when your
mind is really set on something. Clearly, the other
day, you didn't pull the trigger, it wasn't set. It
wasn't satisfactory. Margaret wouldn't know it was
about her.'
That's true.' Perry sags even deeper into the
couch. 'Nothing I say or do reaches her. Never
did, I guess. She had me fooled for a while, though.
For a while there, I actually thought I mattered
to her. I actually thought I existed.'
In the long silence that follows, Perry shoves
his hands between his knees and all but curls up
on the couch. His face goes blank and every angle
of his bony frame expresses despair.
Dr Bell froze the image. Most psychiatrists
would have judged Perry a sure candidate for
admission to hospital and a course of antidepressants. History, posture, ideation and personal
circumstances would all go under the 'reasons for
admission' heading. And yet it was so unnecessary
to prolong his suffering. He was banging his
head on an open door.
Dr Bell unfroze the image.
'Did you do the homework we talked about?'
he says onscreen. And when there's no answer,
'Perry?'
Perry stirs. 'I tried to.'

'And what happened?'
Perry reaches into his pocket and pulls out a
balled-up piece of paper. In a move that appears
to exhaust him, he sits up and rolls it across the
table to the doctor.
Dr Bell opens it up and smooths it out.
'"Dear Margaret/" Dr Bell reads. 'Why did you
give up after "Dear Margaret"?'
'Because what's the point? She doesn't want to hear from me. She doesn't want to know my
thoughts. She doesn't want to know I still love
her. She wants me out of her life. That's why I
think I should save her the trouble and take myself
out of her life for good.'
'And yet you haven't.'

'Not yet. Part of me is afraid that blowing my
head off will just make her and Stanley happy.'
'Do you mean that?' Bell said. 'Do you really
think it will make them happy? Suppose I put it
another way: What do you think will be Margaret's
reaction when she first hears the news? And when
she gets your note? Such as it is
'Shock, I guess. She'll be upset. Mostly because
she'll worry that people will blame her. But they
won't. They'll be all concerned for her - everyone
looks after Margaret - and tell her it wasn't her
fault. "Oh, you were so kind to him." "Poor
Margaret, you tried so hard not to hurt him." The
problem was with me. There was something wrong
with me. I had issues.'
'Will she believe them?'

'Oh, sure. She believes everything negative
about me.'
A silence descends.
Dr Bell felt now, watching the disk, just as he
had felt then: He knew Perry's suicide plan was
not adequate. It was not going to have the punch
the young man wanted it to have. Really, it was
like shaping a theatrical performance. Tweaking
the dialogue, blocking the scenes. Onscreen, Dr
Bell makes his move. Bishop to King-1, the Knight
of the farewell note blocking the other escape
routes.
'Something's missing,' Dr Bell says, and tilts his
chair back, contemplating the ceiling as if he were
a philosopher chewing away on the meaning of
life, testing his own theory for weaknesses. 'No,
that's not right
'What?' Perry sits up, a cat hearing the rattle
of its bowl.
'No, really. It's nothing. Stray thought

'No, what? Really. What were you going to
say?'
'Well, I was just thinking of the laundromat. I
was thinking how, when you started going out
with Margaret, it seemed symbolic. You said yourself
it was like you were starting out clean. I
remember thinking that a witty remark. Neither
of you carrying germs, you said - I'm sure that
was your word - of previous relationships. And I
was wondering
'The laundromat,' Perry says. He tosses a ragged

Kleenex on to the coffee table. 'Yeah, she'd have
to notice the laundromat.'
Dr Bell pressed his thumb down on the freeze
frame.
Mate.

26

In all the time she had worked with Cardinal,
Delorme had never had the slightest reason to
doubt his sanity. But when she heard about his
hauling in Roger Felt on suspicion of having
murdered Catherine - the story got around the
squad room instantly - she began to wonder if
grief was pushing him over the edge.
But she couldn't think about him right now. Somewhere there was a twelve- or thirteen-year
old kid who had been horribly abused and would
likely keep on being abused unless Delorme, with
the help of the Toronto Sex Crimes Unit, could
find her. Which was why she was at the home of
Andre Ferrier on Sunday, her day off.
Delorme was no one's idea of a great housekeeper.
There were days - all right, weeks - where
the laundry piled up, the dishes didn't get done,
and tumbleweeds of dust gathered under the furniture.
Living alone, well, no one cared if you didn't
clean up all the time. So she was not overly

judgmental when it came to other people's housekeeping
habits.
But the Ferrier household, well, the Ferriers
took messiness to a whole new level. Their Venetian
blinds were down and set so that the overall
gloom was sliced by slats of light that hit the ceiling
rather than the floor. There were mirrors and
photographs and artwork everywhere. But the
clutter itself was not artful, it was random and
uncomfortable.
As if for contrast, Mrs Ferrier herself was a neat,
trim woman, whose dark hair was secured by an
uncompromising snood that allowed no strand to
escape. She ushered Delorme into the living room
and urged her to sit on a chair that was suffocating
under an avalanche of cushions.
'Oh, sorry,' Mrs Ferrier said, and heaved
armloads of them on to the floor, one, two, three.
Then she excavated a place for herself in the
middle of the couch and sat, her feet disappearing
into a floor-level nebula of cushions, toys, and
sleeping dogs - nothing Delorme recognized from
the photographs. There was a St Bernard snoring
near a radiator, apparently stone deaf, a grey
poodle that raised one eyebrow at Delorme before
falling back to sleep, and a brown-and-white
sheltie that may actually have been defunct. The
air carried a distinct aroma of hound.
Delorme, with no known allergies, began to itch.
'Now, what was it you wanted to ask?' Mrs
Ferrier said. In contrast to the chaos of her living

1Oft
room, she looked positively antiseptic in a plain
pale sweater and blue jeans. Mid-thirties, but with
the air of someone older. To the childless Delorme,
anyone with children seemed impossibly mature.
She told Mrs Ferrier about the marina, the
assault.
'Well, I'm shocked. We've certainly never had
any trouble out there. When did this happen?'
'We're not certain of the exact date,' Delorme
said. She wasn't about to say possibly two or three
years ago.
She asked the questions she had asked the
others: about the neighbours, any complaints, ever
see anything suspicious. The answers were much
the same: neighbours at the marina were friendly
but not close, there were occasional disagreements,
there was nothing that ever made her think the
place was in any way unsafe.
Delorme's eye fell on the photographs covering
one entire wall.
'What does your husband do, Mrs Ferrier?'
'He's a car salesman. Down at the Nissan dealership?
But that's his real passion,' she added,
waving a trim hand at the wall. 'Andre's a born
shutterbug.'
A blast of TV noise from upstairs, ray guns firing
and barked commands involving futuristic
weaponry. Fast footsteps on the stairs and then a
little girl was in the room with them. She looked
seven or eight, blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail
that made her eyes appear slanted.

'Mom, can I go over to Roberta's? Tammy and
Gayle are going.'
'I thought Roberta was coming over here.'
'Oh, please, Mommy, please!'
Mrs Ferrier looked at her watch. 'All right. But
I want you back here for lunch.'
'Yayyyy!'
The girl did a little dance and dashed out the
door.
'Cute girl,' Delorme said. 'Bet she keeps you
busy.'
'Sadie's still a little kid, thank God. It's her sister
that's starting to give us headaches. In fact, she
should have been home by now. Do you have
kids? I'm guessing not, judging by the shape you're
in.'
'Not married,' Delorme said, and moved to the
wall for a closer look at the photographs. As she
did so, she tried to get a view of the next room,
but the door was half closed, and it was dim.
'Nice pictures,' she said. There were images of
boats, pictures of people, pictures of trees, houses,
trains, buildings. The photographs were much
better quality than the pornographic ones Toronto
had sent her. Not that that meant much. Even a
pro might let his standards slip in the grip of lust.
Mrs Ferrier got up and joined her, a sudden
whiff of lemony soap.
'That's Sadie,' she said, pointing to a photo of
a four-year-old sitting on the back of the St
Bernard. 'That was taken a few years ago, when

we first got Ludwig. Oh, she tormented that dog.
The poor thing had to ride her around as if he
was a pony. No wonder he sleeps all the time
these days, don't you, Ludwig?'
'And you have another girl, you said?'
'Alex. Alex hates having her picture taken. She
even took down the old ones we had of her.
Thirteen-year-olds are so ... passionate about
everything.'
'Is Alex home right now?'
'No, she's spending the weekend at her cousin's
in Toronto.'
There was the sound of the front door opening.
'Here's Andre now,' Mrs Ferrier said. 'He'll be
able to tell you more about the marina.'
There was a loud sigh from the front hall and
the noise of shoes being removed.
'God, am I beat.' This from the front hall.
'We're in here,' Mrs Ferrier called.
'We?' Mr Ferrier came in and held out his hand
to Delorme. 'Andre Ferrier,' he said before his wife
could introduce them.
'Lise Delorme.'
'Ms Delorme is a detective,' Mrs Ferrier said.
'She's investigating something that happened at
the marina. An assault of some kind.'
'At the marina? God, who got assaulted? I
suppose you can't tell me that.'
'No, I can't. Do you mind if I ask you a few
questions, Mr Ferrier?'
'Not at all. As long as I can put my feet up. I

just played nine rounds out at Pinegrove and my
dogs are barking.'
'Isn't it a little cold for golf these days?'
'Tell my boss that. He's a fanatic. Honey, do we
have an extra diet Coke or something for the detective?'
'That's
okay,' Delorme said. 'I'm fine.'
Andre Ferrier settled himself into the chaos of
the couch. He was average sized, broad in the
shoulder, but in better shape than one might
expect of a salesman. Medium brown hair just
covered his ears and collar.
It's possible, Delorme thought. He could be the
guy in the pictures, though with shorter hair. She
wanted to see his boat, wanted to see it right away,
but didn't want to put him on his guard. She
trotted out her questions once more. By now she
was practiced at making them sound as if she were
circling around an assault that might have
happened at a wild party, maybe teenagers out of
control.
Mr Ferrier sipped lazily at his drink as he
answered the questions. He didn't seem worried
in the least.
'You have to be on your feet a lot?' he said at
one point. 'With what you do, are you standing
a lot of the time?'
'Not any more,' Delorme said. 'That's the best
thing about getting out of uniform.'
'I'm standing in the showroom most of the day,
talking to customers. You'd be amazed how

2 2
exhausting it is. That's probably why my boss has
us playing golf all the time. Born sadist.'
'But I see you have your own hobby,' Delorme
said.
'What? Oh, my photographs. Yeah, I love
photography. That's my idea of the perfect afternoon
- go out somewhere I've never been before,
couple of cameras on my shoulder, and just shoot
pictures all day.'
'You hardly ever do it any more,' Mrs Ferrier
said. 'You should get out more often.'
'It's hard with kids,' Ferrier said. 'They don't
want to hang around while you frame your shot,
decide on a lens, all that. Let alone watch you
take multiple shots of the same thing. But that's
what you have to do. When you see something
you want to shoot, just fire away as many times
as necessary. No point saving film.'
'A couple of cameras, you said? Digital or film?'
'I'm just getting into digital. Tell you the truth,
the technology isn't quite there yet. For the kind
of results I want, I'd have to spend thousands of
dollars on a camera - and then it would be obsolete
in a couple of years anyway. I have a little
point-and-shoot digital, but that's not why I take
two cameras with me. You take two so that you
don't have to change lenses all the time. I keep a
wide angle on one, a telephoto on the other. Little trick I learned from a great teacher I had.'
'Can't you just use a zoom?'
Ferrier winced. 'Heavy. Clumsy. Too much glass.'

'And you develop your own pictures?'
'Oh, yeah. That's the only way you get any
control.'
'Mr Ferrier, it would greatly assist in our investigation
if you were to allow me to look at your
boat.'
'Hey, wait a minute. You think somebody got
beat up on our boat? Sorry, but that's nuts,
Detective. Nobody ever goes on it except us.'
'Even when you're away?'

'Nope. We keep an eye on things for each other
out there. If I tell Matt Morton or Frank Rowley
I'm gonna be away, they'll make sure nobody
messes with the boat.'
'But it's not like a house - they're not there all
the time.'
'True. But there's all sorts of security out there.
Has to be. They had a run of break-ins a few years
back and now they have cameras.'
'You're certainly within your rights to expect a
search warrant,' Delorme said, and stood up. 'Mrs
Ferrier, thanks for your help.'
'I don't think Andre meant to say you couldn't
look at the boat, did you, dear?'
'Well, no. Not really. I just think it's a waste of
time, that's all.'
'Even if we just rule it out as a crime scene,
that's useful,' Delorme said. 'Our problem right
now is that most of the boats are already out of
the water. Where do you keep yours in winter?'
'Four Mile Marina. Other side of the lake.

They have a lot more room and they're a lot
less pricey.'
'Is that off Island Road?'
Take Island. Make a right at Royal. Go about
half a kilometre, you'll see a sign. Can't miss it.
I'll tell 'em you're coming.'

Island Road was four miles out of town, north on
Highway 63. Delorme had to drive past Madonna
Road on the way. Following Trout Lake's western
edge, Madonna Road curved back along the
highway after a few hundred yards. Cardinal's
house was a dark rectangle below brilliant clouds
of coloured leaves. She wondered if his daughter
was still there, or if she had gone back to New
York.
Work wasn't the same without Cardinal around.
Delorme liked to do all the footwork, cover all the
bases, and keep her supplementary reports up to
the minute. Cardinal was all for narrowing the
focus as soon as possible, and he was right almost
every time. Then he would go back and cover all
the bases, just like Delorme. 'Working together,'
Chouinard had said to them one time, 'you two
might add up to a decent investigator.'
The two ident guys lived in their own world.
Szelagy was such a chatterbox, it was practically
like having a radio going all the time. McLeod was
always making the world a present of his opinions
- and his opinions were insufferable. At least
once a day Delorme prayed he was only kidding

with some sexist or racist or anti-civilian remark.
She hadn't realized how much Cardinal kept a lid
on such things at the office until he was gone.
She made the turn on to Island Road,
wondering how Cardinal was coping. Never
having had a husband, Delorme had never lost
one, but she remembered how she had grieved
when her mother died. A dozen years ago now.
Delorme had been a student at Carleton University
in Ottawa. But she still remembered how it hurt,
day in and day out, for weeks and months. She
hoped that Cardinal would soon begin to feel some
respite.
A daydream visited her. She saw herself having
dinner with Cardinal at an expensive restaurant.
In Montreal, for some reason. And then they were
walking on Mount Royal, the city spread out below
them. She was giving him a hug, just to comfort
him, and then he was hugging her back, and her
heart stirred with something more than friendship.
'Jesus,
Delorme,' she said aloud, and slammed
on the brakes. She had missed the turn on to
Royal Road. She backed up, provoking honks of
protest from an oncoming Jeep, and wheeled on
to the dirt road.

FOUR MILE MARINA: SALES, SERVICE, STORAGE. The Sign
came up sooner than she expected, at the foot of a driveway wide enough to accommodate boats
and trailers.
A young man in cargo pants and elaborate


running shoes showed her to the boathouse. The
structure resembled an enormous shoe rack with
rolling metal shutters for doors. It was two levels
high, and Delorme was glad to learn that the
Ferriers' boat was stored on the lower level.
'I better get back to the office,' the kid said.
'Gimme a holler if you need anything.'
'I will. Thank you.'
The place was deserted. A light rain began to
fall, rattling on corrugated tin, and intensifying
the surrounding smells of pine and wet leaves.
Delorme opened the padlock and pushed up the
shutter. She found a light switch and flipped it
on.
The boat was up on its trailer, which made it
seem enormous. The hull alone looked to be about
six feet deep, all blinding white fibreglass. The
upper cabin was crowned with aerials, lights, and
a satellite dish.
Delorme stepped on to the trailer, and then on
to the little chrome ladder attached to the stern.
When she could see over the edge, she paused.
Except for the wooden trim of the gunwales (if
that was the right term), the entire deck of the
boat was swathed in opaque plastic sheeting
fastened with yellow cord looped through a border
of grommets.
Ten minutes, fifteen, went by while Delorme
fiddled with knots. Eventually she managed to
loosen the covering and pull it back far enough
so she could climb into the boat.

She stood and looked around at the wooden
floors, the polished wooden trim. She climbed into
the upper cabin, and examined the wooden wheel,
surrounded by brass fittings. Toward the stern,
there were back-to-back seats in red tuck-and-roll
upholstery. It was the boat in the photograph.
She stepped back down to the deck, and sat on
the bottom step. This was where he had sat to
take the picture. The girl, not more than ten or
eleven at the time, had sat on the front-facing
rear seat. Frank Rowley's Cessna had been off to
the right, the south. Delorme made a picture
frame, film-director style, with her fingers and
held it in front of her face. Yes, it was easy to
picture the plane angled in the corner of the shot.
Despite his care to remain anonymous, the photographer
was so wrapped up in his pornographic
project that he missed the identifying feature of
the plane's tail number.
She had her crime scene - one of them, at least
- and she was getting closer to her criminal. But
it was his victim she most wanted to find.

27

Dr Bell came out of the downstairs bathroom
drying his hands. There had been no need to scrub
up, he wasn't a surgeon, but it was a habit he had
got into long ago, during his medical training.
Whenever he was about to see a patient, he
washed his hands. He kept the mildest soap
possible for this purpose: Caswell-Massey glycerine
soap, faintly scented with almonds.
It was a ritual that helped him feel in control,
and he needed it now, because lately his mind
seemed somehow not entirely his own.
Maintaining his equanimity was becoming harder
and harder, and unwanted thoughts were
intruding into his mind. These days he found
himself clenching his hands, ready to batter some
of his patients into submission.
He called out Dorothy's name, but then he
recalled she was out for the afternoon, he couldn't
for the life of him remember where. Old age
creeping up.

He opened the door into the 'public' part of his
house. Melanie was seated in her usual spot,
although not in her usual depressed posture. She
was reading a Toronto Life she must have brought
with her. Dr Bell took The New Yorker.
Melanie was so absorbed in the article, she
didn't even look up right away. Bell suspected she
was in a comparatively good mood. An interest
in the outside world was always a sign of abatement
in depression.
'Hello, Melanie,' he said.
'Oh, hi.' She stuffed the magazine into her
knapsack and followed him into the office. 'Is it okay if I sit there for a change?' She pointed
to a chair beside the couch.
'Of course.'
Melanie plunked herself down in the chair. 'Just
seeing that couch, I suddenly felt depressed, and
I thought, why not sit somewhere else - somewhere
you might sit if you weren't depressed.'
'I see.'
'I mean, I get so tired of myself. So tired of my
moaning and groaning. And I think part of it is I
see myself as this pathetic person - a hopeless
patient wailing on the shrink's couch - and I
thought, why don't I just not do that for a change.'

'A fresh perspective, so to speak.'
'Exactly. Yeah. I feel good today. Better,
anyway.'
'So I see. Is that why you asked for this extra
session?'

'Uh-huh. I have something important to tell
you, but first I just want to tell you the normal
stuff.'
'By all means. Bring me up to date, Melanie.'
Brighter affect was evident in every aspect of
her behaviour. Great actors understand the physiognomy
of the emotions instinctively. Bell was an
expert partly by instinct and partly by long study.
Young Melanie was at this moment almost a
cartoon of - happiness was not the word - but a
mixture of relief and excitement. It was visible in
the unaccustomed animation of her features: the
twin commas of her eyebrows riding high above
her glasses instead of in their usual furrowed V.
It was there in the bigger gestures: the small hands
flying away from her body, this way and that, as
she described her week to him. It was there in
the loose-limbed way she crossed one leg over the
other, ankle on thigh, not her usual defensive
clench. She bounced one knee up and down as
she talked. He felt a surge of frustration and rigorously
suppressed it.
'I actually managed to read a whole novel in
the past couple of days,' Melanie said. 'You know,
I was way behind in my English Lit. survey, but
I just suddenly got so into it. It was this E.M.
Forster thing, and I just didn't want it to end. I
loved the characters, I loved his descriptions, and
I loved not thinking about myself for a change.'
'You turned your mind to things other than
yourself.'

'Exactly. And the amazing thing was that it was
so easy.'
She sat forward and swung her long hair to
one side. Hair that had been freshly washed, Bell
noted. The drowned-rat look was now a pentimento
beneath the eager face before him.
'The amazing thing about reading that book which
I had been putting off and putting off because
I was afraid I wouldn't be able to follow it and it
would end up depressing me - the amazing thing
is that it was easier reading it than not reading it.
You know what I mean? I was in such a state about
getting behind and about putting it off and waiting
for just the right time to start and feeling so guilty
and depressed. But once I started, it just went great.'
'That's good to hear,' Dr Bell said. 'Do you have
any idea what accounts for the change?'
'That's the funny thing. Because what happened to me was something that should have upset the
hell out of me, but it didn't. I mean, it did, but
not in a way that depressed me. I haven't told
anybody about this, and
Bell waited.
Melanie let out a deep breath, small shoulders
dropping. 'I haven't told my mom. I haven't told
Rachel
Rachel was her sometime best friend and
current housemate. Melanie had already told Bell
lots of things she had never divulged to Rachel,
or to her mother for that matter, and she would
tell him this too.

1 saw The Bastard,' she said.
'You did? You saw your stepfather?'
'Former stepfather. I can't call him that. I'll just
keep calling him The Bastard, which is what he
is.'
'Call him what you like. But I thought he had
moved away.'
'He did - not very far. To Sudbury.'
'Where did you see him?'
'At Algonquin Mall. He was coming out of the
Radio Shack. I was just coming out of the Shoppers
Drug Mart, and he was coming out of Radio Shack.
I can't believe he's back in town.'
'And yet you said it made you happier?'
'Did I?' She looked at him blankly for a moment.
'I guess I did.'
'This was the man who molested you repeatedly.
Used you as his sex toy for years and years.
Can you think why it made you happy to see
him?'
'I expressed myself badly. It didn't make me
happy to see him. In fact, it felt like a kick in the
belly at first. I literally almost doubled over. But
then I followed him. He didn't look at me. And
maybe he wouldn't have even recognized me if
he had. But I followed him out into the parking
lot. And I watched him get into his car. There was
no one else in it. I wrote down his licence-plate
number.'
'Why did you do that?'
One of the hands stopped its fluttering. 'I don't

know. I didn't think about it. I just did it. I took
out my pen and wrote it down on my hand. Isn't
that weird?'
'You think it's weird?'
'Well, not weird maybe. But it was just completely
instinctive. And my heart was hammering away the
whole time.' She thumped her small fist up and
down on her sternum. 'Boom. Boom. Boom. I could
actually hear it. And when he drove out of the
parking lot, I followed him. Isn't that wild?'
'Go on.'
'I followed him home. He's living in this
completely suburban-looking brick house. Big
garage and all. I watched him park in the driveway.
I just stopped a little way back on the road and
pretended to, like, look around, as if I was trying
to find an address or a street or something, but I
saw him go into the house. So I know where he
lives now. At first I was gonna call Mom and tell
her all about it, but then I decided against it. It
would just upset her too much. She can't bear to
hear his name as it is.
'So I didn't call Mom, I just went straight back
to the rooming house and put on the new
Radiohead CD. I just sat on the end of my bed and
listened to it right through from beginning to end.'
'What were you thinking while you did that?'
'Nothing. I don't think I was thinking anything
whatsoever.'
'How were you feeling?'
'Good. Better, anyway. Like - I don't know as if this huge rubber band that had been squeezing
the life out of me had suddenly been undone
somehow. Like I could breathe again.' She looked
at Bell, eyes searching his face. 'Why would that be?'
'Well, on one level, you liked him, remember?'
'I suppose.'
'He was very seductive. He got you to like him,
to trust him. He took you to these great places.'
'That's true. He took me to WonderWorld.'
'And to see the Musical Ride, you told me.
Things a little girl was bound to love.'
'That's not why I felt good after I saw him,
though.'
'Why, then? Can you tell me?'
He knew why, of course. Sighting her stepfather
would have done two things for Melanie.
First, he would be cut down to size; he would no
longer be the giant monster of her imagination.
He had become a human being, a man who buys
his batteries at Radio Shack, who gets into his car
in a parking lot like anybody else. This was good,
Bell could work with this. It wasn't the setback
he'd feared. But there was something else she was
struggling now to articulate.
'Did your stepfather see you?' he asked. 'You
said you followed him out into the parking lot.
Did he see you?'
'No.' Spoken emphatically. Not a trace of doubt.
'You saw him, but he didn't see you. How did
that make you feel?'

'Like I had an advantage.'
Bell nodded.
'It was like I was watching a bird or something.
I mean, I was frightened. My heart was pounding,
like I said. But part of me was not scared at all.
In fact, part of me felt pretty good.'
'Like he was a bird,' Bell said, 'and you were
a . . .'
'Cat,' she said.
'A hunter,' Bell said.
'Exactly. Not the hunted, for once.'
She flopped back in her chair, pleased with
herself, hands open, relaxed. Let her have her
triumph. Next thing you know, she might even
have a plan of attack. Totally out of character. It
wouldn't change the ultimate outcome, though.
The whole art of therapy was to help patients see
their choices, allowing them to pick the right one.
Bell would gently bring her to a point on the
precipice where she could see that, yes, one step
and all that pain would cease. To do that he would
have to keep calm, yet once again the biochemicals
of anger were making his heartbeat tachy, his
respiration rapid and shallow. He had a sudden
vivid image of slapping Melanie across the face,
the scarlet imprint of his hand on her cheek, but
he took a deep breath and held it at bay.
'Are you thinking of hunting your stepfather
in some way, now?'
'As we're sitting here now, I'm starting to feel
awfully angry at him. I wouldn't mind an apology

from him. Some acknowledgment that he hurt
me.'
Pretty feeble, considering that Melanie had
already told him things that would put her stepfather
in prison for years. If she chose to become
a huntress, she could get her apology and a good
measure of revenge as well. But then that would
reduce her own guilt and depression and that
wouldn't do. She would just become a perpetual
whiner and a burden to everyone. For now he let
her natter on about letters she might write, calls
she might make, but they would have to go over
those early events in more detail.
'Our time is almost upjor today,' Bell said when
she finally slowed down.
'I know. I always start to feel lousy when the
hour's almost up.'
'A couple of points I want you to think about
before next time. First, you didn't write me the
note you promised.'
'The suicide note? I forgot all about it. I mean,
after I saw my stepfather I really didn't think about
it again.'
'You were thinking of what you might say to
him.'
'I still am.'
'We can talk about that. But first I want you
to write that note. If you want to vanquish your
depression, it's crucial to articulate it. One must
name the beast, so to speak.'
'I'll do it. I promise.'

'Second thing. You're feeling an advantage over
your stepfather at the moment, that you might
be able to wring an apology out of him. It might
even be a good thing to do. I can find you a dozen
textbooks that would say exactly that. But let's
not rush into it.'
'Why not? Don't you think he should apologize
for what he did? Look at me. I'm eighteen
years old, and most days I can barely get up in
the morning. Half the time I'm thinking I'd be
better off dead.'
'If I were a surgeon, would you want me to
rush an operation?'
'No.'
'If you had a tumour, would you want me to
cut short your chemotherapy? Even if it nauseated
you?'
'No, but I'm not sure this is like that
'Well, let's leave it all up to you, Melanie. You're
the surgeon here, not me. I'm just advising you
that it might be better if we examine exactly what
your stepfather did to you. In detail.'
'Tell you the exact details? Oh, God. Now I do
feel nauseous.'
'As long as you don't articulate them, they will
continue to have power over you. Also, you may
be somewhat confused over just what he has to
apologize for, just what he's guilty of. I'd like to
see you absolutely clear on these matters.'
'I know you're right. It makes perfect sense,
but . . .'

'But?'
'I was feeling so good when I came in. And
now I feel so lousy.'
'Self-knowledge is rarely good news. But you're
a strong young woman.'
'I don't think so. Right now I feel horrible.'
'So.' Bell stood up. 'Next time we'll have a lot
to talk about. We'll have your note, and we'll have
a precise history of what you did with your stepfather.
You can write that out, too, if you like. It
might be easier than saying it face to face, though
of course we'll have to talk about it.'
'I don't think I can say some of the things he
did to me.'
'There's absolutely no rush,' Bell said. 'We'll go
at your own speed and no quicker.'
Melanie gathered up her backpack and got to
her feet. The energy had drained out of her; the
drowned-rat look was back.
'Okay,' she said. 'I'll see you next time, I guess.'
'Bye-bye, Melanie.'

28

Dr Bell was only trying to help, Melanie understood
that. He was a wonderful doctor, even with
those funny little tics of his, the way he was always
rolling his shoulders and shaking his head. Half
the time she expected him to woof like a big mutt.
And he kept that funny little antique engine on
his desk. He had even showed her how it worked
one day. As he named the parts and flipped the
levers, he was like the best kind of father, the kind
she had never had.
So, he was sincerely trying to help, but Melanie
wished he hadn't set her such a difficult piece of
homework. How do you write a suicide note when
you're not actually planning to kill yourself? Three
or four weeks ago she could've written one, no
problem. Three or four weeks ago the only thing
that had stopped her from killing herself was that
she didn't have the energy.
Down the hall she could hear her roommates
Rachel and Laryssa laughing about something.

Melanie and Rachel had been best friends when
they were younger, but over the past few years
Rachel seemed to have cooled a little - no doubt
because Melanie was always so depressed. She
and Laryssa were very different from her, always
with their doors open, always heading out to some
social event or other.
Melanie had just started studying English
Literature this year at the university, and she
decided, now, to think of her suicide note as a
literary rather than a therapeutic exercise. When
she had been close to offing herself, she had
composed - in her head, at least - several suicide
notes. Sometimes they were addressed to her
mother, sometimes to her stepfather, sometimes
to the natural father she had never known, and
sometimes to the world at large. But she had never
actually written one down.
It wasn't exactly a literary form you could study
up and learn from the pros. She had read Sylvia
Plath's Ariel poems - one long suicide note, as far
as she was concerned, a letter from a Lady Lazarus
who decided she would just as soon step back to
the other side. A suicide of white-hot anger.
And then there was Diane Arbus. Melanie had
been struck by her pictures of freaks: the man
with the flea circus, the transvestite, the Jewish
giant. Clearly the photographer had felt like a freak
herself. On the whole, Melanie felt more like an Arbus than a Plath; she had the feeling she and Arbus would have been good friends.

In any case, Melanie thought, I'm not a poet.
I wouldn't have a clue how to write like Plath
even if I wanted to. And all Arbus had written,
before taking an overdose and cutting her wrists,
was 'The last supper . . .' It was as if she didn't
want to bother anyone with a note. The last
supper.
Well, Melanie had just had a peanut butter and
jam sandwich, and she wasn't about to write 'The
last lunch' and bring it in to Dr Bell. She had the
feeling he already thought she might be a little
dim; she wanted to impress him.
It's just too painful to go on ... she wrote. That would be to the world at large, she supposed, as
if the world cared. It was about as uninteresting
a thing as you could possibly say, also the truest.
It stated the case, so why waste words? Perhaps
that was why a lot of artists committed suicide. It
is, if nothing else, the most eloquent and yet
economical statement. Words might be redundant.

Dear Mom,
This is going to hurt you terribly, so I want you
to know beyond a shadow of a doubt. IT ISN'T
YOUR FAULT. Whoever my father was, he did a
bad thing by leaving you alone to have a baby,
and I think you did a great job, considering.
Much better than I would have done. You made
one mistake, marrying The Bastard, as we call
him, but I realize now you were a single mom,
alone with a little kid, bored and afraid with no

joy in your life, and when he came along
offering love and protection and a few laughs it
must have been the most tremendous rush. He
hurt you terribly, and I'll never forgive him for
that . . .

No point telling her mother what The Bastard
had done to her. Not in a suicide note.

I'm so sorry to repay all the care and comfort
and joy you gave me in this awful way. But I
seem to suffer from terminal sadness the way
other people suffer from terminal cancer. My
quality of life is gone. I can't enjoy food or
sunshine or even sleep any more. I wake up each
morning with nothing but dread and weariness.
And even though I see a wonderful psychiatrist, I
understand now that there is no hope of recovery.

It was almost dark now. The house was quiet:
Rachel and Laryssa had either gone out or settled
down to study. Melanie remained in the gathering
gloom, pen poised in the air, and fell into a blank
space. She did that sometimes, sat absolutely still,
staring into space, her mind an empty white mist.
Sometimes an hour would pass, sometimes two.
This time it was only half an hour.
So she got up, went down the hall to the bathroom.
Tiny dabs of brown and black and blue
dotted the sink, as if it had developed multicoloured
measles. Laryssa had obviously been

experimenting with makeup again. She was
always revising her face, Laryssa, which was something
Melanie might do if she could ever stand
looking in a mirror long enough.
When she got back to her room, she pulled out
her cell phone.
'Mom?'
'Hi, Mel. You want to come over for supper?
I've got lamb pie in the oven.'
'Urn, no, that's okay. But I was wondering if I
could borrow the car for a little while.'
'Of course. I don't need it this evening. I do
want it back tonight, though. I need it for work
in the morning.'
'Yeah, I only need it for a while. Just wanna
go out to the Chinook with some friends, and it's
such a drag waiting for the bus.'
'You know, if you lived at home, honey, you'd
actually have a lot more freedom.'
I'm too old to live at home, Mom.'
She put on a jacket and walked the few blocks
to her home, as she still thought of it. She would
never think of the boarding house as home, no
matter how kind Mrs Kemper was. Her mother
asked her all sorts of questions about her classes
and her roommates and it took forever to get away.
But now here she was, parked a little way down
from The Bastard's place, waiting for - well, she
wasn't quite sure what for. His car was in the
driveway, and the lights were on inside the house.
It didn't look like the kind of place where a single

person would live, far too big and suburban
looking.
If he came out, she would speak to him. Just
come on out of there, you bastard, and I'll tell
you exactly what I think of you. Let me tell you
what it cost me, the things you did to me. How
I've felt sick and ashamed and guilty my whole
life. If he came out, she would tell him how she
could not so much as kiss a boy without thinking
of The Bastard, seeing his face in front of her, his
penis, his huge hands. The hands that had gripped
and probed and bound. The hands that had held
the camera.
She would tell him how she could not use the
Internet these days without wondering if her
pictures were on it somewhere. Why else would he
take all those photographs? She would tell him how she burned with shame to think of them. Even now,
the shame crept up her back and over her shoulders
and up her neck like a rash, burning her ears.
She thought she would be sick, but the wave
of nausea became a wave of sorrow rolling upward
through her chest and into her eyes until the tears
prickled. She would not cry; she refused to cry.
She stared at the brick house with its big yard and its big garage and she thought, you bastard, if you
have a new wife in there, I'm going to tell her
everything. I'm going to tell her exactly what you did to me, and she'll leave you and maybe even report you to the police, which is what I should have done years ago.

Yes, I hope you have a wife. I hope she's young
and beautiful and I hope you adore her, because,
when I'm finished, she's going to drop you so fast
you're going to feel your ribs break.

'Arch your back, honey. Come on, Mel. Arch your
back. That's right. Oh, you look so beautiful like
that!'
The camera clicks, clicks, clicks, as he moves
closer, closer, sometimes only inches away. And
then more instructions.
'Okay, lie down on your belly and pretend
you're asleep.'
The smell of bleach on the hotel sheets, sheets
creased and crisp, not the comfy kind at home.
Sunlight spills through the windows along with
rollicking music from the fairground: calliopes,
organs, glockenspiels, and rock music. The shouts
of children whooshing down the waterslide, the
screams of young mothers on the Tilt-A-Whirl,
the Slingshot, the Wild Mouse.
'Daddy, can we go on the Wild Mouse?'
'Soon, baby. Just close your eyes now.'
Click, click, click.
With eyes closed: 'Daddy, now can we please
go on the Wild Mouse?'
'Soon, Mel. Okay, let's pull that sheet a little lower.'
Click, click, click.
'Daddy, you promised.'
'I know, sweetheart. Oh, you look so beautiful,
I could just eat you up!'

7SA
Click, click, click.
A frolic then, sloppy kisses on her neck, and
tickling her ribs till she can hardly breathe. Such
fun! And then he leaves her breathless and excited.
She jumps off the bed and looks for her shorts
and the rest of her clothes.
'What are you doing, Mel?'
'Getting dressed. I wanna go on the Wild
Mouse.'
'Honey, we're going to go on the Wild Mouse,
just like I promised. But right now you have to
get back on the bed.'
He hoists her from under her armpits and lowers
her back where he wants her. He isn't wearing any
clothes now, and she knows what's going to happen.
She knew it all along but didn't want to think about
it. She wanted this trip so bad. WonderWorld!
'I don't want to be in bed now. I want to go
on the rides. You promised.'
'I'll make a deal with you, Mel. We're going to
go on the rides. But which rides we go on depends
entirely on you. Now, you can earn each ride by
doing certain things for Daddy. You do one thing,
you get the Tilt-A-Whirl. You do another thing,
you get the Slingshot. And if you do something
really super special for Daddy, you get the Wild
Mouse. But first let's snuggle up close.'
He holds her tight, and it's like a boa constrictor
wrapping itself around her chest. 'You remember
what I said about this, right, honey? About it being
our secret?'

'I know.'
'You can't tell Mom or anyone. No one. You
remember?'
'I remember.'
'Never, ever, right?'

'Never, ever.'
'And what will happen if you do?'
'The police will come and take me away and
put me in a home for bad girls.'
'That's right. And we don't want that, do we?
Okay, now we're going to be special, special
friends.'

More than a decade later and Melanie's in her
mother's car watching The Bastard's house, hoping
he'll come out. She roots around in her backpack
for a Kleenex, finding an old crumpled pack. She
wipes her eyes, blows her nose. She never cried
back when he was doing those things to her. Well,
only once or twice when he actually hurt her, his
full-grown body too large for her not-yet-developed
one.
But mostly he didn't hurt her, physically.
WonderWorld. How she'd wanted to go there. All
her friends had gone, and raved about it. And
then, as a surprise for her eighth birthday, he took
her. Somehow he had arranged it so her mother
hadn't come with them. Melanie had been so
excited, she hadn't worried about anything. It was
like waiting for Christmas.
But the minute they set their bags down in the

?«
hotel room, a sourness grew in her stomach and
she felt shaky all over. She hadn't had a word for
it back then, that swampy feeling in her belly.
That dread. That fear, chemically enhanced with
excitement. Her heart was in complete confusion
because, when he did those things to her, he was
also so nice. Attentive. Kind. Funny. He'd do
anything she wanted - play with her dolls, have
tea parties with imaginary guests - as long as she
did what he wanted.
Then there were the fishing trips. He would
take her out to the smaller lakes with a flat
bottomed boat. He was good at showing her how
to attach the hooks and lures. He was patient,
teaching her to cast the line from the small rod
he bought for her. He showed her how to clean
the fish they caught and how to fry them up so
that they tasted wonderful.
Of course, it wasn't free. In the tent at night,
she had to earn all that attention and instruction
and fun. In the tent, she was expected to pose
and perform. In the tent, her job was to please
him. And he was always finding new ways for
her to please him.
One day, years later, her friend Rachel had
shocked her by opening some images she had
discovered on the computer she shared with her
older brother. Rachel had clicked from one to the
next, wide-eyed and giggling and appalled and
fascinated. They had both been twelve years old
at the time.

'Oh, gross!' Rachel would cry.
'Oh, gross!' Melanie would say too, trying for
the same tone. But she could tell she wasn't seeing
the pictures the way Rachel was seeing them. It
was obvious from her shock and amazement that
Rachel, unlike Melanie, was innocent.
'Do people really do that?' Rachel cried. 'It's so
disgusting!'
'Weird,' Melanie said.
'This is just like the most perverted stuff I've
ever seen! I think I'm going to barf!'
No, Rachel had never seen such things before.
But Melanie had not only seen them, she had
done them. She'd been doing them since she was
seven years old.

Occasionally a shadow rippled across the curtains
in the picture window. A man's shadow.
'Come out,' Melanie said in the car. 'Gome out,
you bastard, and I'll tell you what I think of you
now.'
That day with the computer images had put a
distance between her and her best friend. Rachel
had been so disgusted that Melanie was forced to
wonder, What would she think of me if she knew?
She would be horrified, repulsed. She wouldn't
want anything to do with Melanie ever again.
A new fear had slithered into her heart. Here
were all these pictures on a computer: images of
ordinary people, some of them teenagers. For the
first time Melanie worried that there might be

1AA
hundreds of pictures of her on the Internet, just
waiting for a friend to discover. She had lived with
that fear of discovery ever since.
All those pictures, countless pictures. Because
it didn't happen only on special trips. Even at
home, whenever her mother was out for a couple
of hours, The Bastard would come after her. When
hugs and attention were no longer enough, he'd
use money. How about some cash for that new
CD? Could there be a pair of Guess jeans in your
future? We'll just have to see how things go. A
few days later her mother had asked about those
jeans: Those are expensive. Where did you get the
money for those?
'Oh, Mel helped me tidy up the basement,' The
Bastard said, 'and I gave her some money towards
them.'
Then there was that time on the boat, that beautiful
cabin cruiser The Bastard had borrowed from
someone. The three of them in the same cabin,
cruising around Trout Lake for days. Mom and
The Bastard sleeping on one side, Melanie on the
other. She would have been about eleven. In the
middle of the night she had awoken with a start.
He was sitting on the edge of her bed with his
hands in her pyjamas, her mother not three feet
away. He must have put some drug in her wine.
That night Melanie earned a new pair of Nikes.

And now the sick bastard was coming out of the
house. Five years hadn't made much difference

to his appearance. His jacket was different, a light
blue nylon windbreaker, and he had a baseball
cap on his head. He never used to wear baseball
caps. He came a few steps down the driveway,
tilting his head back - breathing in the cool evening
air. He stopped, hands in pockets, waiting, stepped
over on to the lawn to examine some flaw or
other.
Just like a normal person might do, Melanie
thought. As if you're just like everybody else.
She put her hand on the car door and took a
deep breath. She would tell him, oh boy, would
she tell him. Then she stopped.
A woman came out the side door of the house
and joined her former stepfather. She was pretty,
maybe forty, with dark hair curling to her shoulders.
Her denim jacket and khaki trousers looked
good on her. She still had a real figure. Better
looking than Mom, Melanie thought, and it made
her sad.
I'm going to tell this new wife everything,
absolutely everything. Even if he denies it, even
if he calls me insane, she's going to know it's true.
That pretty face of hers will crumple in shock. The
happy gleam in her eye will turn to suspicion,
anger, loathing.
Melanie opened the car door. There was no
other traffic, no other pedestrians. The happy
couple were turned back toward the house now,
their postures expectant. Well, here's something
they won't expect.

"iA"i
Melanie was twenty yards down the road from
them, crossing at a diagonal. She ordered her heart
to calm down. She did not want to look crazy; it
was important that this woman believe her, that
she sound rational. Her pace was brisk, businesslike,
a young executive headed to a meeting.
The side door of the house opened, and a little
girl came out carrying a Nerf ball and paddle.
'Where are we going?' she said in a piping little
voice.
'We're just going for a walk,' the woman said,
'it's such a nice night. You won't be able to see
that ball in the dark, though.'
'Yes, I will.'
'Okay, hon, but you forgot to close the door.'
The little girl stopped and turned back to look
at the house.
'Go on and close it, sweetie.'
The girl went back toward the house uncertainly.
'I'll
do it,' The Bastard said, and headed toward
the girl.
The blast of a car horn made Melanie jump.
Her feet literally left the ground for a split second.
She turned just as a car stopped less than a yard
from her knees.
'Sorry,' she managed to say. She headed back
to her car. 'Sorry, sorry
The man in the car shook his head and drove on.
Melanie got back into her mother's car, quivering.

The key refused to fit into the ignition. All three
members of that pathetic family were staring in
her direction. She finally managed to start the car
and drove past them, face averted, pretending to
fiddle with the radio.
Her pulse pounded in her ears, and she missed
the turn back on to Algonquin. She pulled into
the parking lot of a Mac's Milk and sat with the
motor running, trying to catch her breath. The
Bastard had a new daughter, seven years old or
thereabouts. The Bastard had another little girl.

" AA
29

Kelly put the prints back and closed the drawer.
'I think that's the last batch,' she said, 'at least
here. She's probably got tons of prints up at the
college. Negatives too, I bet.'
'Oh, yeah,' Cardinal said. 'She has a couple of
filing cabinets up there.'
He had been sitting on a trunk in a corner of
the darkroom, watching, even though Kelly had
asked him to go away and do something else. He
couldn't help it; he wanted to be around his
daughter, especially while she was doing something
for her mother.
'You might want to check with the school,' she
said. 'There may be someone up there who's up
on what she was doing. They might have better
insights into her work than me.'
'No way, Kell. You're an artist, you're her
daughter. Who could know better?'
'A fellow photographer. Someone who worked with her all the time. I just think you might want

to check first. If it still seems like I'm the best
person to organize a show, I'll be happy to do it.
In fact, I'd love to do it.'

'She always worked alone. She didn't like
company when she was taking pictures. Or in the
darkroom.'

'Please just check, Dad. We want to do what's
best for her work.'

1 will. I'll let you know.'

It's a bit of a surprise to me,' Kelly said, touching
the white chest of drawers she had just closed,
'but Mom was actually a very organized person.'

'Oh, yes. She liked to know where everything
was. Liked to get things done on time. She had
her problems, but she wasn't scatterbrained.'

'She has all of her contact sheets here, filed and
dated, and the negatives attached. Prints have
negative numbers on the back.'

'Yeah, she'd get very upset if she couldn't find
the exact image she wanted. And she was always
ordering her students to keep things shipshape.
She wouldn't tolerate sloppiness.'

Kelly touched a file cabinet with her index
finger, her smallest gesture reminiscent of her
mother's.

'Even the more recent stuff. The digital stuff.
She's got disks filed with them, and lists of file
numbers inside the jacket. I wish I was that organized.'

'That's funny. She often wished she was a
painter, like you. "I'd love to just get down in the
mess sometime," she'd say. "Photography seems
so clinical sometimes. All this damn equipment/"
Kelly opened the tall cupboard in the corner.
Inside, neat rows of lenses and filters were interrupted
by gaps for the equipment she had taken
on her last - her final - project.

That evening, Kelly trundled her small suitcase
out to the car, and Cardinal drove her to the
airport. She had seen him through the funeral
and his first two weeks alone, what more could
he ask? He tried to make conversation, but her
mind was already travelling ahead of her to New
York. New York. Not so far, geographically, but
psychologically she might as well have been in
Shanghai.
He stayed in the waiting area with her until it
was time for her to go through security. She
hugged him fiercely and said, I'll call you soon,
Dad.'
'Look after yourself down there.'
'I will.'
Cardinal drove slowly back down Airport Hill,
but not slowly enough. He didn't want to go home,
didn't want to face that silence. Instead of making
the left on to Highway 11, he continued straight
into town.
He drove to Main, and from there along the
waterfront. Beneath a moon misshapen by clouds,
scattered joggers trotted along the shore and dog
walkers stood in small groups surrounded by

sniffing, leaping canines. Cardinal turned back into
the west end of town and drove back and forth
along the side streets. Pretty pathetic, he thought,
to be afraid of going home.
He found himself driving past Lise Delorme's
place, a small bungalow on the corner of a quiet
crescent off Rayne Street. Her lights were on, and
he wondered what she was doing. He had a strong urge to pull into her driveway, knock on her door,
but what would he say? He didn't want to look
pathetic in front of Delorme.
What would she be doing? Reading? Watching
television? In some ways he knew Delorme very
well, they had worked so many cases together.
They got on well, laughed a lot. But when you
got down to it, he didn't know how she spent her
spare time, didn't even know if she had a boyfriend
right now, although he had seen her chatting with
Shane Cosgrove a little more amiably than necessary.
Her
company would have been good, though. In
this evening hour that didn't even feel like a particular
hour in a particular place, but more like a space
between hours, an interregnum between two lives:
his life with Catherine and whatever was left.
He stopped at the traffic light on the corner.
'Pathetic,' he said aloud. 'Haven't even been
alone five minutes.'
He sat there for quite a while, until he realized
the light was green.

His house was silent in a way he had never known.
The absence of sound was so deep, it was as if it
was not just around him but inside him, through
him. It was as if, except for whatever space he
occupied at any moment, the world had disappeared.
There
was no sound of Catherine in the other
rooms. No footsteps of any kind: no slippers, no
bare feet, no tap of dress shoes, no stamp of snowy
boots. From the darkroom below, no sound of
Fleetwood Mac or Aimee Mann. No rattle of developing
trays, no whine of hair dryer. No sudden
call, 'John, come and take a look at this!'
Cardinal tried to read and found he could not.
He flicked on the television. A CSI team was busy
destroying evidence. He stared at the screen for a
while, taking nothing in.
'Trying to act normal,' he muttered. But nothing
was normal.
He took Catherine's photograph from the bookshelf
where Kelly had placed it. It was the one of
her in the anorak, with two cameras slung over
her shoulders.
Did you kill yourself?
All the times she had railed at him for taking
her to the hospital, cursed him for interfering in
her mania, bridled at his checking on her medication.
All those cries and tears over the decades had
she meant them, after all? Had that been the real Catherine? He could not bring himself to believe that the woman he had loved so long could

have thrown that love back in his face, could have
said, No, your love is not enough, you are not
enough, I'd rather die than spend another minute
in your company. That was what Roger Felt had
said on his cards. No, he couldn't believe that.
And yet he had no proof that it was otherwise.
Roger Felt, his number one suspect, had turned
out to be nothing more than a vengeful loser. And
Codwallader's manager had confirmed that he had
been at work when he said. The security tapes
would confirm it.
You wrote the note. But could you really have killed
yourselp
Had Catherine had enemies? Cardinal had
investigated enough deaths to know that people
can surprise you on this count. A small-time drug
dealer may turn out to have been the kindestsouled
person in the neighbourhood, his death
caused not by rivals but by his own pharmaceutical
miscalculation.
And then you could have the saint, the woman
who does all the charity work, who is always the
first to get friends and associates to 'sign the card
for Shirley', to organize visits to the hospital, to
raise money for the summer camp. Such paragons
could turn out to have slept with the wrong
woman's husband - pilfered money, suffered
delusions, nursed compulsions - and they end up
the victim, or the perpetrator, of a homicide.
But Catherine? All right, yes, she had had her
turf wars up at the college. Lost them all, too. God

knows, she could have a sharp tongue when she
was angry, and it was just conceivable that a rival
in the art department had been outraged by some
ill-considered remark. And she had won prizes for
her photography - several provincial, one national
- and her work had been exhibited locally many
times, and every couple of years in Toronto. When
a person wins a prize, someone else may feel robbed.

Cardinal went into the kitchen and made
himself a drink. The clink of the ice, the glug of
the whiskey, sounded absurdly loud in the silence.
He switched on the radio and heard a split second
of country music before he switched it off again.
He never listened to the radio at night, it was just
desperation.
He sat at the kitchen table. Nights when he could
not sleep, he would come in here and scrounge up
some cookies and milk. The room hadn't seemed
bleak then, with his wife sleeping in the other room.
He opened his case file on Catherine. It was thinner
than any case file he had ever worked. By definition,
if you had a case, you had notes, you had
leads, you had some direction. But this file contained
almost nothing.
There were the bogus sympathy cards, useless
now. There were his notes concerning Codwallader
and Felt, footsteps into the same cul-de-sac. And
there was the page torn from Catherine's notebook.
The pale blue ink from her favourite PaperMate.
And her handwriting, with its unadorned j's and
looped fs.

By the time you read this ...

The file contained two versions of the note: the
original in blue ink, and the copy that Tommy
Hunn had made at the Forensic Centre, white
writing on a graphite background, where the toner
had brought out the fingerprints invisible on the
original. There was Catherine's thumbprint along
the edge, with the small white line where she had
cut herself years ago. And the smaller prints along
the edges, those would be Catherine's too; it would
be simple to check.
But then there was that thumbprint at the
bottom of the note, too large to be Catherine's.
And Catherine was right-handed. When she went
to tear the page from the notebook, she would
have grabbed it by the right-hand side and pulled.
But whose thumbprint was on the bottom of the
page, in the middle? If it was not the coroner's
and not Delorme's or anyone else's who had been
on the scene, who had held Catherine's suicide
note in his or her hand?

30

Dead Mother and Child. The Edvard Munch painting
was Frederick Bell's favourite, and he knew exactly
why. The still form of the dead mother, pale, almost
transparent, on the bed, and the family members
attending to her, ignoring the little girl in the foreground,
her hands wavering about her head as
though to cover her eyes, or perhaps her ears, to
shut out the reality of her mother's death. The
mother had died of consumption, Bell knew, when
Munch was still a boy, and it had coloured his
whole life. It had made him miserable, and it had
made him an artist.
Consumption. Medicine had come a long way
in the past hundred years. Consumption, or tuberculosis,
with the help of antibiotics, had been virtually
erased from the planet. Depression, of course,
was flourishing.
Munch had had his deathbed. Bell had known
two.
The first had been his father's, when Bell was

eight years old. Every day he would have to sit
with his father for an hour, between the time
school got out and the time his mother got home
from her job as a nurse.
His father had been a dark man: thick moustache,
a single lintel of brow above his eyes, and
curly black hair. Black Irish, his mother had called
him, and the young Bell had wondered if that
meant his father had had a background in the
Troubles of Northern Ireland. Later, he realized
his father had never set foot in that country. Later,
he learned all sorts of things.
But back then at Deathbed One, his father's
dark good looks were made even more heroic by
the swaths of white bandages wrapped around his
head, covering one eye. He looked like a soldier
just back from a war, wounded in the defence of
his brothers, struck dumb by the horrors he had
witnessed.
An accident, his mother had told him. A terrible
accident while cleaning his pistol - a Luger liberated from the dead hand of a German soldier in
1945.
The door to his father's study hung open, as it
never had before. His father's study had always
been a place you did not venture into uninvited.
The young Frederick had been inside only a few
times, once to receive congratulations for having
come first in his class, other times to receive
punishment.
His father had terrified him - such black moods,

such tantrums - and yet he could also be kind.
One summer he had taken Frederick out into the
fields to catch and classify butterflies, an afternoon
that was to become one of his happiest memories.
His father taught science at a nearby grammar
school, and indeed he always seemed happiest
when he was teaching something.
Those evenings when he took it into his head
to instruct his son, he was transformed into a
different man: patient, good-natured, and knowledgeable
about a wide range of subjects (the history
of flight, the principles of internal combustion, the
intricacies of cellular reproduction, the diatonic
scale). He would sit beside the lad for a couple of
hours explaining, giving context, analyzing, even
suggesting what Frederick might want to write
down or draw to help him remember. Every once
in a while he would lay a hand on the boy's
shoulder and say, 'Don't roll your shoulders like
that, son, it'll develop into a habit.'
Bell still had the model steam engine his father
had given him; it had been a gift to him from his
own father. A simple, elegant toy, it consisted of
a miniature brass boiler suspended on brass
brackets above an oak base. You filled it by
unscrewing a tight-fitting brass cap and pouring
water from a measuring cup into a tiny hole. A
single piston, a driveshaft, a flywheel, and that
was it. You placed a tiny lamp filled with methyl
hydrate under the boiler. When the water boiled,
it moved the piston and the piston drove the shaft

that cranked the wheel. The best part was a miniature
valve at one end of the boiler that you could
open with a lever, causing it to emit a surprisingly
throaty whistle.
Those pedagogical afternoons and evenings
were infrequent. Mr Bell was prone to depressions
that sent him into his study for days on end.
When he was like that, you didn't want to disturb
him. Even if you were lonely and bored and all
your friends had gone away somewhere for the
holidays, you didn't dare knock on that door.
Sometimes Frederick would sit on the hall chair
just outside the study, not doing anything, just
sitting, swinging his feet, waiting for his father to
emerge.
Sometimes he would hear weeping, papers
tearing, a book being thrown, even though there
was no one else in there with his father. The sobs
tore into Frederick, frightening him. His mother
would sometimes tap with a light hand on the
door. The sobbing would cease and she would
enter, and then Frederick would hear her voice,
questioning, soothing, pleading, and his father's
laconic, unintelligible replies.
Nobody called it anything back then, at least
no one in his family's circle. People had moods,
some people had severe moods, that was all. This
was England, they had come through the war,
nothing could be as bad as that. You were supposed
to keep your chin up, stiff upper lip, mustn't
grumble, and under no circumstances suggest that

you had any complicated emotions. No one uttered the word depression.
So when his mother told him that his father
had suffered a terrible accident with his pistol,
Frederick did not question her. Although he was
surprised. On one of his more instructive afternoons,
Mr Bell had invited Frederick into his study
to show him how to clean and care for a gun. It
was a manly sort of endeavour, involving manly
smells of oil and metal. His father had explained
how you never kept a pistol loaded, and you never
stored the ammunition in the same location as
the pistol. He admonished him how you never
pointed the barrel at anyone, yourself included,
not even in jest, not even in the most transient
gesture. Instead, you held it pointed toward the
floor, toward the corner, in fact, while you
removed the various cunning parts and set them
out on a cloth.
Much later, after he had become a doctor, Bell
realized that the bullet must have entered toward
the posterior nasopharynx, crashing through the
palate, probably fracturing the eye socket, before
exiting through the anterior of the skull.
Emergency rooms were not then as skilled as they
would later become at dealing with gunshot
wounds. Today such a wound would probably
send a man home with impaired speech and
eyesight. In the fifties, the damage was enough to
kill, but not immediately.
His father lingered. A hospital bed was set up

in the living room. A nurse came every other day
to check his condition and change his bandage.
Frederick was always ordered out of the room
when she did this. Sometimes his father muttered
things, irrelevant words and sentence fragments.
'Dragon's foot' was one phrase. 'On the wire' was
another.
Frederick's mother was so riven with grief,
she was little help to her young son. Indeed, it
was he who tried to comfort her, bringing her
tea and sandwiches that his various aunts had
made. She would smile wanly at him, and her
eyes would overflow. Frederick felt himself to
be invisible during this time. His aunts talked as
if he were not there, and more than once he
heard one of them - Aunt May, it was - whispering
into the phone the phrase 'shot himself,
in a way that made it sound, well, not accidental.
The
invisible boy would sit in the gloom at the
top of the stairs, listening. Whenever anyone came
up to use the bathroom, he would scuttle back to
his bedroom and pretend to be reading. He heard
more phrases, and several times his mother
wailing, 'Why did he do it? Why!'
'He must have been in terrible pain,' Aunt May
answered.
'He was not in his right mind,' said Aunt
Josephine.
And so the young Frederick came to understand,
with a sick feeling in his stomach, that his

27ft
father had shot himself on purpose. There was
nothing he could do with the information. There
were no priests or nuns to consult, not that they
would have done any good; he had been brought
up without religion. And he couldn't go to his
mother, because she still insisted that it had been
an accident. He was like the girl in the Munch
painting: bewildered and alone, with nowhere to
turn.
The sick feeling stayed in his stomach and
hardened into something else. At school, the
teacher began to sound very far away, as if
talking to him from the edge of a deep well into
which he had tumbled. He had no urge to climb
out. His fellow pupils no longer interested him
with their silliness and their games. During recess
he took to sitting under a tree, counting stones
or bits of grass, or reading one of his science
biographies.
His father sank ever deeper into unconsciousness.
According to the nurse, things were taking
a grave turn. A doctor came to visit - they still
made house calls then - and then another doctor.
Both said there was nothing they could do;
Frederick's father would either wake up or he
wouldn't.
Nothing To Be Done.
Dr Bell often reflected that if Munch had painted
a picture of himself as a boy sitting by that
deathbed, that's what he would have titled it. Nothing To Be Done. Nothing to do but mourn and

be consumed by all the emotions that were not
to be mentioned in a 1950s British household. As
a psychiatrist, Bell knew that he must have experienced
tremendous rage at his father for abandoning
him in this hideous way, for the torment
he had inflicted on his mother. But he never felt
it, not then, not now.
It was on a Friday afternoon in March of 1952
that Frederick Bell's father died. The boy was not
actually in the room with him, nor was his mother.
His Aunt May had been on duty at the time.
According to her (the eavesdropping boy heard
her telling someone sotto voce on the phone), it
had been the most terrifying event. Mr Bell, who
had barely moved for the past three weeks,
suddenly sat up in his bed, staring straight ahead
with his one uncovered eye. Aunt May had been
too frightened to move. Her brother sat there, bolt
upright, staring for a few moments, perhaps not
even a minute.
Then he spoke,' she said. 'It was as if someone
had just handed him some bad news. Oh my God, he said. No, not in a way at all religious. I don't
believe he had a revelation of that sort. It was the
tone you would use if someone told you a school
had burned down, a kind of horrified wonder. Oh
my God, he said, and lay back down. I went to his
side and tried to speak to him, but he didn't say
anything else, he just made a kind of gasp and that
was it. It's been massively hard on Jane, of course.'
Jane was his mother, and it had been just the two

of them after that. Eventually she turned his father's
study back to its original function as a parlour, but
neither of them ever set foot in the room again.
Shortly after that, financial pressures forced them to
move to much meaner accommodation, a dark, cold
flat where they lived for the next ten years. One day
Frederick came home from his part-time job assisting
the local pharmacist and found a note in his mother's
handwriting on the door:

Frederick, don't come in. Please go round to your
Aunt May's and have her call the doctor.

And so, Deathbed Two. This one comparatively
brief. His mother had taken an overdose of sleeping
pills, but she had thrown up. Consequently, it took
her three days to die instead of the hour or two
she had no doubt intended. In the end, so much
brain function was suppressed that the other
organs failed.
Frederick had to move out of the flat and into
a basement room at Aunt Josephine's. While
cleaning out his mother's papers, he found an old
envelope with just one word scrawled on it in
his father's handwriting: Jane. This was inside:

Dear Jane,
I'm going to kill myself and end this farce. I'm
sorry to leave a mess. I just can't seem to get
control of myself.

No signature, no expression of love, no mention
of their son. Frederick Bell, eighteen years old,
sat down in his mother's bedroom surrounded
by the overstuffed bags and boxes, and stared at
his father's handwriting - stared for a long, long
time.

Luckily, he was an intelligent young man, and
determined to succeed. He put himself through university entirely through scholarships and part
time jobs. Thanks to Aunt Josephine, his living
expenses were minimal while he attended Sussex
University.
Calm and jocular on the outside, on the inside
he was launched on a private crusade. As he put
it to himself, he wanted to cure blindness - the
blindness of the medical profession to the problem
of suicide. He had lost two parents, both of
whom had been seeing family doctors, neither
of whom had been diagnosed as depressed, let
alone suicidal.
He wanted to perfect that treatment himself.
He was fascinated both by the prospects of pharmaceutical
treatment and also by the various kinds
of talking therapy. Except for his occasional foray
on to a nearby river in a small rowboat, he had
no other interests. Essentially, he entered the
university library one September day and emerged
years later an MD. Another four years at London
University and he was a board-certified psychiatrist,
armed for battle with The Entity.

Through his various residencies his supervisors
noted the young doctor's particular affinity for
depressed patients; his evaluations were uniformly
excellent. His final residency was at the Kensington
Clinic, where at the end of six months he was
offered a staff position. He was dedicated, sensitive,
and up-to-the-minute on the latest medications.
His results spoke for themselves.
His first year was all work and success.
Somehow along the way he found time to court
Dorothy Miller, a nurse at the hospital. She found
him a gentle and amusing bundle of nervous tics,
what with his shoulder rolling and head shaking,
and she admired him. For his part, he found
Dorothy attractive, and liked it that she forced
him to go to the occasional movie or dinner out,
insisting that he live like a human being now and
again.
It was during his second year as a full-fledged
psychiatrist that he began to experience difficulties.
Even thirty years later he remembered the
first time the change had really taken hold. For
some weeks he had been having more and more
trouble listening to his patients. He would
suddenly be startled to find they were asking him
a question and he hadn't heard it. Or they had
just finished telling him something important and
he had not responded. The patient would be sitting
there looking at him expectantly and he hadn't a
clue what for.
Then one day a middle-aged man, married

twelve years and a father of three, was telling
him how deathly depressed he was, how he woke
each morning with a groan and a curse because
he could not face another day. And Bell felt a
surge of anger in his belly. He couldn't account
for it; it seemed quite anomalous. His life was
going well, he enjoyed his work, and his patient
had said nothing in particular to irk him, and
yet he had felt anger radiating up from his belly
and into his chest - so much so that he had a
split-second fantasy of crossing the room and
grabbing the man by his collar and shaking him.
Hard.
That day, the feeling passed quickly, but these
surges became more and more frequent. And it
wasn't just this one patient who provoked them;
it was all of his patients - at least, all of the
depressed ones. It was an alarming development
that threatened to become debilitating, and he was
afraid to discuss it with any of his colleagues.
It became increasingly uncomfortable for him
even to face his patients. He could not bear to
hear how they hated themselves. Could not bear
to hear them summarize their lives with deep derision.
Could not bear to hear how the future held
nothing for them, how they were sick of everything,
sick of themselves. Especially themselves.
It was torture.
And then one day it happened, the anger broke
through.
Edgar Vail was a thirty-six-year-old commercial

artist, admitted to the clinic after he had tried to
kill himself by drowning only to discover that he
was a better swimmer than he remembered. There
was suicide in his family's past, and the isolation
of life in the present. Contributing factors were the
sorrows of a recent divorce and a series of career
disappointments. Plenty to be sad about, in other
words.
He wanted to paint serious art. In fact, he did
paint serious pictures, he just couldn't get a gallery
to handle his work or a single soul outside his
immediate circle of friends to buy anything. He
was going on about it, staring at the floor and
shaking his head, and mumbling how he didn't
know why he bothered painting at all, how he
should just throw away his brushes and give up
entirely. It was a perfect mirror of his romantic
life, he went on, all this effort, all this struggle,
and nothing to show for it.
'Why don't you just kill yourself?' Bell burst
out. 'Why not just do yourself in, and make a
thorough job of it this time?'
Vail looked up sharply. The shock in his usually
haunted eyes frightened Bell.
He had tried to recover, saying, 'Well, I mean,
I certainly didn't intend it to sound so harsh. I just
meant, there you were, you had a bottle full of
Seconal at home, and yet you jumped into water
knowing perfectly well you can swim. My point
being that you could have ended all this pain, this terrible pain you suffer from, right there with a

few pills, and yet you chose not to. Why don't we
concentrate on what was behind that choice?'
The shock had dwindled in Vail's eyes.
1 thought for a second there you were attacking
me.'
'Good heavens, no. Last thing on earth I want
to do. Please continue.'
The reassurance seemed to work. Vail sank back
into the couch, and into the comfortable assumption
that his psychiatrist was trying to help him.
Over the next few months, Bell set himself the
task of learning to hide the anger. He tried
reminding himself of happy events just before he
had a scheduled session. That didn't work; he
simply forgot them in the face of his patients'
misery. He tried exercise, taking up rowing again.
It made his muscles ache so much that his temper
actually became worse - with everybody, not just
patients.
But eventually he mastered his anger by
training himself to not even feel it. And the way
he did this was to behave just like any other
psychiatrist. It came to him one afternoon when
he was about to go out rowing. He stopped, with
the oars in his hand, and sat down heavily on a
bench beside the water.
The Thames shimmered, silver fringed with
fire in the last of the afternoon light. He heard
the lapping water, the breeze through the leaves,
and all the million individual traffic noises. For
some moments he had the sense that he was

hearing a conversation taking place blocks away.
A moment of hideous confusion, one might
think, but Bell recognized it as absolute, razor
sharp clarity.
What he had realized in that instant was that
you could use the tools of therapy in a brand
new way, just as a surgeon might choose to employ
his blade. You could ask the same questions, raise
your eyebrows in just the same way, show great
empathy, positive regard, all the rest of it. And
yet you could skew it all just slightly, change the
angle by a few degrees, and you could steer your
patient in quite a different direction.
The next time Edgar Vail left his office, with a
prescription for yet more sedatives, Bell spoke
aloud to his book-lined walls.
'Kill yourself and get it over with, you pathetic
waste of space.'
The words seemed to echo in the empty room,
and Bell felt giddy. He began to laugh. It was all
so simple; why hadn't he seen it before? He
laughed with surprise, with shock, with recognition,
but also with the sheer hilarity of relief.


It was amazing how easy it was. Pick a patient
who is desperately unhappy, take a few sessions
to establish trust and empathy, then prescribe a
month's supply of sleeping pills. Barbiturates, they
were, back then. Handled correctly, absolutely
lethal.
In certain cases, like Edgar Vail's, where the

patient was consumed with self-loathing and yet
still fully functional, you had to be sure they were
aware of the right dosage. Too much - as Bell
knew from his mother's experience - and they
throw up, possibly surviving. Too little, and they
just end up with a bad hangover.
In other cases, where a patient was prostrate
with the inarticulate grief that had eaten his father
alive, Bell had to be a little more artful. In these
cases what he did was schedule them for a Monday
or Tuesday and send them home with a scrip for
one of the tricyclics, something fast-acting. Come
the weekend, the patient has the energy to pick
up the gun, to climb to the roof, to tie the noose.
It was like lighting a fuse. Of the first twenty suicides under his care, probably half came to their
end this way. Another twenty-five per cent
(including Edgar Vail) chose sedatives. The rest
had been so far gone they no doubt would have
killed themselves anyway. Bell didn't take credit
for those.
But there were problems with the pharmaceutical
approach. The simple fact was that it was too easy. Really, the drugs did all the work; any psychiatrist
could have managed it. Also, it was risky. A
large prescription for sedatives does not look good
in the medical history of a suicidal patient, as the
'wake-up-and-die' effect of tricyclics is well
known. He had got into a spot of trouble in
Swindon over this. Later on, too, in Manchester,
there had been rumours of an inquiry, but that

was about his mortality rate, not about over
prescribing per se. In any case, Bell had thought
it prudent to move to Canada. He had long ago
eased up on the chemicals, and now relied solely
on his skills as a therapist.

31

Melanie Greene had only a few weeks to live, that
was Dr Bell's professional estimate. She had done
her homework this time, bringing in three - count
'em, three! - suicide notes. Not that he would
need them. If he couldn't manipulate a miserable
teenager into topping herself, he might as well
take down his shingle. There would be no mistakes
this time.
She told him about driving to her stepfather's
place, about her plan to tell his new wife about
his sexual proclivities, and how seeing the little
girl had prevented her. Such failure of nerve was
typical with Melanie, and might prove a minor
obstacle in getting her to make a decent exit. But
only minor.
'What made you stop?' Bell said. 'You were
going to tell his new wife, why not tell his new
daughter what he had done?'
'Well, she's only around six years old, for one
thing. Maybe seven.'

'You didn't think a six-year-old should hear
about such things?'
'No, of course not.'
These things that were done to you at a similar
age? When you were seven?'
'I don't think little kids should even know about
them, let alone do them. I mean, do you think
people should be talking to six-year-olds about
oral sex?'
'It's your feelings that matter, Melanie.'
'Well, I'm not gonna talk to a little kid about
that stuff. But the reason I stopped was just pure
shock. I mean, bad enough The Bastard's married
again and he's probably going to put this woman
through hell. But to have another little kid ... I
was just, like, stunned. I nearly got run over by
a car. She's going to go through everything I went
through on those fishing trips, on the boat, at
WonderWorld.'
Dr Bell felt his control slipping. There was a
sudden heat in his hands and he realized he was
imagining choking her, shaking her, screaming in
her face, 'Can't you see? You don't belong here.
Do us all a favour and kill yourself once and for
all.' It was a struggle to quiet the pounding in his chest. He decided to take Melanie out of the
present and back to her traumas.
'What was the worst part of it? Back then, back
when you were a little girl. What was truly the
worst? Was it the physical pain?'
Melanie shook her head.

She'll start chewing her knuckles in a minute,
Bell thought.
As if he had willed it, her left hand rose to her
mouth and paused there as she gnawed on a
knuckle.
'There wasn't usually any physical pain. Just
once or twice when he, when he ... you know.
Oh, God. From behind.'
'Anal sex?'
'Um, yeah.'
'Did you bleed?'
She shook her head, stared at her feet. Bell saw
her shiver as The Entity slipped into the room.
The shadowed, hooded figure composed of ice and
death enfolded the young woman under his caped
arm.
'He was usually very careful that way,' Melanie
said. 'And mostly it was oral. My lips would be
numb. Sometimes I was sore between my legs. A
few times, when I couldn't sleep, my mother asked
me what was wrong, and I wanted to tell her. Oh,
I wanted to tell her so bad.'
'But you didn't.'
'No.'
'Because . . .'
'Because I was too afraid. He told me if anyone
found out, the Children's Aid would come and
take me away. And he would go to prison.'
'So it wasn't the physical pain that was the
worst. Would you say it was the fear, then?'
Melanie nodded, hugging herself as if it were

freezing in the room, though in fact the sunlight
through the windows had overheated the office.
'I was afraid all the time. I was terrified of being
found out.'
'Because of the consequences you just
mentioned?'
'Yes. But also - this was later, when I was thirteen
or so - I was afraid of Mom finding out.
Because I knew it would hurt her. And because
I knew I was taking something that was hers. I
was doing something wrong to my own mother.'
'You were sleeping with her husband.'
That should open the spigot, Bell thought,
noting the gulping movement in her throat.
'It's like I was the other woman. It's
The tears would not be stopped. They burst
from her with pitiful cries, and she seemed to
shatter.
Dr Bell handed her the Kleenex box and waited.
He marvelled at the power of guilt. Properly
administered, it was far more potent than any
drug.
When there came a lull in Melanie's sobs, he
said: 'So you had to deal with the fear. You had
to deal with the guilt of stealing your mother's
man. It's a lot for a little girl to cope with. But
let's go back to WonderWorld. Something you said
earlier made me think that WonderWorld might
be the worst, but we haven't gone into any detail
yet.'
Melanie nodded. Tears had reddened her eyes,

streaked her makeup. The Entity had transformed
her into a rag doll.
Generally, in therapy, the patient is allowed to
move at their own speed. It's usually counterproductive
to push, the risks being twofold: either
the material is too much for the patient to digest,
causing them to develop an even thicker armour
of denial, or it can unleash a torrent of emotion
for which they are not adequately prepared.
Depending on the presenting neurosis, this can
result in any number of ways of acting out:
running away, rages, and, of course, suicide.
And so Dr Bell prompted his patient for detail.
Melanie was young and passionate and had a
strong drive to be rid of her pain; Dr Bell knew
he could count on that.
'First, let me be sure I understand you correctly.
You were dying to go on all the rides at
WonderWorld, and that's exactly what he promised
you. So you get down there, he has you in
a hotel room, and he won't let you go on the
rides until you satisfy him. For you to get the
rides, you had to give him sex.'
'Right.'
'You hinted at this, I think, when you said he
had asked you ahead of time for a list of your
favourite rides. Sort of a Christmas list. You
mentioned the Tilt-A-Whirl.'
'That's right. If I wanted to go on the Tilt-A
Whirl he, uh . . .'
'Take your time, Melanie.'

She pulled out the whole array of delaying
tactics: looked at her feet, stared at her fingernails,
heaved deep sighs, stared out the window,
looked at the clock. Finally, when there was no
option left short of complete catatonia, she said and
this in a voice so tiny Bell had to lean forward
to catch it - 'If I wanted to go on the Tilt-A-Whirl,
I had to give him oral sex.'
Her right hand rose, fanlike, to cover her face.
'So, it was like a contract. A negotiation, perhaps.'
A shake of the head. 'There wasn't any negotiating.
He just told me the way things were, you
know. I was seven years old, for God's sake. I
didn't question him. He was my father. I thought
of him as my father, anyway. He'd been living
with us a couple of years by then.'
'And did he get what he wanted?'
'Yes.'
'And you got the Tilt-A-Whirl.'
'Yes.'
Bell let her weep again, watched the face
crumple and the mucus run, listened to the ugly
cries. He didn't let it go on too long; he needed
the momentum.
'And there was the waterslide,' he said. 'I believe
you indicated that that was on your list.'

Melanie nodded. 'I'm feeling a little sick. Do
you think maybe
'Would you like to lie down? Sometimes going
over old pain can be overwhelming.'
'Urn, maybe I will.' Melanie got up unsteadily.

'It seems like such a cartoon - you know, lying
on a psychiatrist's couch - you see jokes about it
all the time. But I'm feeling really dizzy.'
'Lie down, then. No jokes, I promise.'
She lay down, gingerly, feet politely hanging
off to one side. She took one of the cushions and
was about to place it on the floor, thought better
of it and placed it over her genital region.
Sometimes patients could be so eloquent without
knowing it. A shaft of sunlight made her hair
shine.
'You were talking about the waterslide.'
'Yeah. I really wanted the waterslide. I think
that was the single most fun I ever had as a kid,
flying down that slide. It's such a thrill, but it feels
completely safe at the same time.'
'What did he suggest you do in exchange?'

'He didn't suggest anything. There wasn't any
maybe about it. He just laid down the law.'
'But didn't you say he told you that if you
wanted to go on one ride, you'd have to do this?
If you wanted to go on another ride, you'd have
to do that? Wasn't he in effect giving you a menu
of choices?'
'I suppose so.'
'And you chose the waterslide?'
'Right.'
'Chose it. You weren't forced to go on it, were
you?'
1 guess not. Oh, God.'
'And what did it cost you? What was the going

price of a ride on the waterslide that particular
summer day?'
'I had to let him . . . well, intercourse, I guess.'
'Full intercourse. Vaginal intercourse.'
'Yeah.'
'And you did that?'
He had to wait a long time while she wept.
'And then there was the Wild Mouse,' Bell said.
'Your absolute favourite, you said. You couldn't
wait to go on it.'
'Anal sex,' she said, just like that, her voice
dead. 'If I wanted to go on the Wild Mouse, he
had to get anal sex.'
'And did he?'
'Yes. He turned me into a little whore. Just
turning eight, and already a prostitute.'
'Keep in mind, Melanie, the age of consent in
this country is fourteen years old. Almost twice
the age you were.'
It cost Bell a lot to say that, and Melanie received
it like balm. He could see the effect right away:
her lower lip began to quiver. It cost him, but
anything less might have struck her as callous,
which could provoke anger and resistance he
would only have to break down again. So if a
little kindness and understanding added a week
or two until endgame, that was just the price of
being a professional.
'That's in Canada,' he went on, 'and a lot of
people in this country think the age of consent should be much higher. In most other places, it


is. In the UK, anyone under sixteen is considered
to be incapable of giving an informed consent.
You were seven, Melanie. Just turning Eight.'
'It's not like I didn't know what he was doing.
By the time he took me to WonderWorld, he'd
already introduced me to all of it.'
'Nevertheless, Melanie, we're talking about rape
here.'
'All right.'
It was hard, sometimes, to be so comforting. It
went against the grain, felt as if he were working
against himself. But it was also necessary. They
had to believe you were on their side, that you
were saving them from themselves.
'So, would you say, then, we've gotten to the
worst of things, Melanie? He made you feel like
the Other Woman. And he made you feel like a
whore. It's as if he turned WonderWorld into a
House of Horrors.'
She sat up suddenly, gripping the edges of the
couch. 'WonderWorld wasn't the worst,' she said.
'Despite everything that happened there?
WonderWorld wasn't the worst, not by a long
shot.'
'I must have misunderstood, then. You're telling
me there were other times, other places, when
your stepfather did even worse things to you?'
'No. Not things he did. WonderWorld was as
bad as it got, physically. But he did those same
things to me in other places. Even at home, if you
want to know the truth. Even in my mother's bed,

sometimes. Can you imagine? That bastard. In my
mother's bed. But even that wasn't the worst.'
She lay back again, her ribcage rising and falling
with laboured breathing. The worst was the boat.'
The fishing trips you mentioned before? The
camping and so on?'
Melanie shook her head. 'No. This was a
different boat. A beautiful cabin cruiser. I think
he must have borrowed it or something, or maybe
he was looking after it for someone. It was just a
couple of times, when I was about eleven. There
was the time my mother was on the boat. But
there was another time when it was just me and
him. It was toward the end of the whole business.
He took a lot of pictures.'
'Sexual poses. Like before?'
ySome of them were normal. I guess so he could
show them to Mom - you know, "Here we are
still in the marina. Here we are at the island." But
a lot of them were completely pornographic. I just
hope to God he didn't put them on the Internet.
That's all I need, for someone I know to come
across them.'
'Do you think that's likely?'
'I don't know. He used to spend a lot of time
on his computer. I mean, you hear about stuff like
that.'
Tell me more about the boat. What do you
remember most, when you think about those
times?'
'Lying in the bed at night. It was Trout Lake,

you know, dead calm most of the time. And once
it got quiet, dead dark. The rocking was just so
gentle, it was like you were suspended in some
warm, sweet place where nothing bad could ever
happen to you. And yet
Dr Bell let her have the hesitation. Her
momentum toward revelation was palpable.
'And yet,' she said again. 'Oh, I feel sick, remembering
'You're
safe here. Truly safe. Not like the boat.'
She looked up at him. 'You know what I think
about all this stuff, don't you? I mean, you know
that I know it was wrong. That it was sick and
perverted and illegal and all the rest of it.'
'Yes, I know you think that. But just because
a thought occurs to you doesn't make it true.'
That one went right by her, as he knew it would.
She was turned so inward at this moment, he
could have nominated her for sainthood and she
wouldn't have heard it.
'Like I say. It felt wonderful to lie there in the
dark. To listen to the waves against the hull, I guess
you call it. To hear the breeze flapping the little
pennants on the back of the boat. It should have
been the most peaceful, restful feeling in the world.
But there's no way I could sleep. He was in his bed
on one side of the cabin, I was in mine on the other.
It was hot, so I was wearing just pyjama bottoms,
and he never wore anything to bed, he always let
it all hang out. So quiet, but I couldn't sleep a wink.
I was completely tense and wide awake.'

And it wasn't because you were afraid, that you
couldn't sleep, Dr Bell was almost tempted to say
aloud. It wasn't because you were afraid of what
he would do, and it wasn't because you wanted
your mother. That wasn't why you couldn't sleep.
Eleven, twelve years old, doesn't matter. It wasn't
because you were angry. I know exactly why you
couldn't sleep. The only question is whether you
can bear to reveal it to me. To reveal the worst
part of yourself and have it accepted, not judged,
was the very crux of therapy. Without those
moments there is no therapy, no progress, no
healing, there's just talk. Hours and hours of talk.
Bell's voice was as soft as it could be while
remaining audible, the gentlest beckoning:
'Can you tell me why, Melanie? Can you tell
me why you couldn't sleep? What were the feelings
that kept you awake?'
'Well, um ... I knew it was going to happen.
I mean, it always did, whenever he had me alone. Especially at night
'You were a child, Melanie.'
'I was eleven years old! Maybe twelve! I should
have known better by then!'
'Why? How could you have known? Did
someone hand out an instruction manual: "How
to Tell Mom that Your Stepfather Rapes You"?
Have you ever observed twelve-year-old girls on
the street? At the movies? Wherever?'
'Well, yes . . .'
'And what are they like?'

'Airheads, most of them. Complete ditzes.'
'Kids, in other words.'
'Kids. Right.'
'So there you are, eleven years old, maybe
twelve, a child lying in the dark in this completely
safe and secret environment with a man who
professes to love you. Maybe in his way did love
you. No one else is around. What was that little
girl feeling?'
I'm going to be sick.'
'Feel like you're going to throw up?'
A tight nod. She's pale and quivering, gripping
the edge of the couch.
'It's the words you need to throw up, Melanie.
The secrets. Tell me this one thing and the feeling
will pass, I promise.'
'No, I'm really going to be sick.'
'You're lying in the dark. You're eleven or
twelve. There's a full-grown man beside you. You
know he's going to come over to your bed. You know
what he's going to do to you. What are you
feeling? Tell me this one thing, Melanie, and the
nausea will pass. You know he's going to come to
you. What are your feelings before he crosses that
dark space and comes over to your bed?'
'He didn't! That's just it, don't you see? He didn't
come over to me!'
'What happened, then, Melanie? Tell me.'
'I can't! I can't! I don't want to!'
'Yes, you do. You wouldn't be here, otherwise.'
'Please. I just can't.'

'He didn't come over to you, you said. He didn't
come over to you . . . and then?'
'I can't . . .'
'He didn't come over to you
'Oh, God . . .'
'He didn't come over to you, and
'I went over to him!'
The tears that came from her then drowned all
the tears that had gone before. In all his years as
a psychiatrist, Dr Bell had never seen anyone cry
harder.
'I wanted it! I'm so sick! I'm so sick! I wanted
him to do it! I wanted him to do it! I did it to
him! I did it to him that time, do you see? Oh,
God, I deserve to die. I'm such a fucking whore!'
Bell watched her cry and cry until there were
no tears left.
'I'm so sick,' she said weakly. 'Really, I don't know why I'm still walking around.' She looked
smaller, as if guilt had taken up physical space in
her small frame.
'I'm afraid that's all we have time for, today.'
'Oh, God.'
'Stay another minute or two, if you like.'
'No, no. That's okay. I'm all right.'
Melanie smoothed her hair and stood up,
tottering a little. She gathered her things, still sniffling,
and moved toward the door. She opened it,
then stopped.
'God. I don't know how I'm going to make it
till next week.'

'Oh, that reminds me. Sorry, Melanie, I should
have told you at the top of the hour.'
Told me what?'
'I'm not going to be available next week.'

32

After lunch, Cardinal took the note with its
thumbprint to the station to speak to Paul
Arsenault. He was not yet ready to declare himself
officially back at work. If he did, there would be
a stack of assignments he would be expected to
deal with, and pursuit of non-police business
would become difficult, if not impossible.
Arsenault took a swig from a coffee mug bearing
his last name under the Acadian flag. 'You want
me to run this for you on the q.t.?'
'You know it's not orthodox,' Cardinal said.
'It's not officially a case.'
'You're right, John. It's not.'
The use of his first name was a bad sign. The
use of his first name meant pity or maybe even
something worse. Arsenault would have heard
about his arrest of Roger Felt. He put his patriotic
mug down, got up from his desk and closed
the door that separated ident from the evidence
room and the rest of the station.

'Look, John. You come to me with this, your
wife's suicide note, and ask me to run prints,
I want to help. Of course I want to help. And
I'll do it if you really want me to. But the
coroner looked into this. Delorme looked into
it. The pathologist. We all looked into it. There's
just no reason to think anyone else was
involved.'
'So humour me. Do it out of pity, I don't care.
As long as it gets done. I want to know who
touched that note other than Catherine.'
'But it's not a fake, John, you said so yourself.'
'All
the more reason why there shouldn't be
any fingerprints on it other than Catherine's.'
'Suppose it comes back and it's the coroner's
thumbprint? Where's that gonna get anyone?'
'If the coroner or some uniform made a mistake,
fine. People make mistakes, I don't care about
mistakes.'
Arsenault gave it a beat, contemplating the last
of his coffee. 'You really think she was killed,
John?'
'I think someone else read that note. I want to
know who.'

'All right, kids. Take ten!'
Eleanor Cathcart came down from the stage
wiping imaginary sweat from her brow and sat
down in the front row of the Capital Centre auditorium.
Cardinal had been here many times as a

kid, back when it had been the biggest movie
theatre in town.
'My God, we open tomorrow night and our
Torvald still has a closer relationship to the
prompter than he does to me. What brings you
here? I'm so sorry about Catherine, by the way.
That woman will be missed.'
'I just wanted to talk to you,' Cardinal said.
'You were the last person to see Catherine alive.' As far as we know.
'Yes, I feel in some way responsible. If only I
hadn't raved about my wonderful views! If only
I hadn't let her in! If only I'd stayed!'
'It must be very hard on you.'
'Well, I carry on, you know, but it does have
a dampening effect on one's joie de vivre. I have
of late and wherefore I know not lost all my mirth,
so to speak, though of course I know very well wherefore. Catherine's gone, she'll come no more.
I have already told your distaff colleague everything
I know, of course.'
'This is personal. I'm just trying to clarify a
few things in my mind.'
'Yes, of course, poor man.' She laid a benevolent
hand on his wrist. 'I know exactly how you feel.'
Cardinal asked the questions he knew Delorme
would have already asked. Catherine had expressed
interest in photographing the view from her apartment
building; a date was arranged, Ms Cathcart
let her in and went off to rehearse with the
Algonquin Bay Players.

'Did you see Catherine a lot? Up at the school,
I mean?'
'Not really. Just bumped into her now and
again. Said hello. That kind of thing. We weren't
palsy-walsy or anything. Just cordial. I admired
her from a distance, I suppose you could say. There
was something beautifully self-contained about
Catherine.'
That was true, Cardinal knew, when she was
well.
'So you wouldn't know about her other relationships
up at the college.'
'No. I have my own little province in Theatrical
Arts. Doesn't overlap terribly much with photography.'
'Did
you ever see her with a stranger? Or
anyone else that seemed out of place around the
college?'
'No. She was usually alone or with students
when I saw her.'
'Did you ever see her upset with anyone? Or
anyone upset with her?'
'Never. I mean, people worried about her, you
must know that. And, well, sometimes other
instructors had to fill in for her. But I'm sure they
accepted that this was not a matter of caprice.'
Ms Cathcart touched her forehead with elegant
fingertips. 'Of course, she did have rather a contretemps with Meredith Moore.'
'Tell me about that,' Cardinal said. He had heard
Catherine's side of the story many times.

'Oh, it was just college politics as usual.
Control of a department becomes available, out
come the knives. Really, the Borgias have
nothing on academics. When Sophie Klein got
hired away by York University, both Catherine
and Meredith wanted to run the art department.
They were probably equally qualified: Catherine
had more honours for her creative work, but
Meredith had an edge in administrative experience.
The stupid thing was, Meredith seemed to
take it as a personal affront that Catherine
would even apply. I mean, she seemed to
think the crown should have just automatically
descended upon her anointed head, God knows
why.
'And Meredith was not above pointing out
Catherine's, um, psychological vagaries as a
disqualifying factor. There was even a rumour
that the dean had received a copy of Catherine's
medical records anonymously, but that smacks of
urban legend, at least to me. The outcome you
know.'
'Meredith got the job.'
'And I always admired the way Catherine
handled it. She never said a bad word about
Meredith, or expressed any resentment. But
Meredith
'But Meredith what?'
Ms Cathcart flashed a thin blade of smile. 'You
know what they say: people can never forgive you the wrongs they've done you. I'm sure Meredith

would have loved to have Catherine replaced. She
could barely stand to be in the same room after
that, and was always sniping at her behind her
back. Dry old stick.'

And yet, when he went to see her, Meredith Moore
was graciousness personified. She clasped Cardinal's
hand in both her woody little palms, looked him
in the eye and said, 'It's such a shame about
Catherine. Such a tragedy.'
'Have you found somebody to teach her
courses?'
'In the middle of the semester? Not likely.
We have somebody filling in, but it's not the
same as having the person who prepared the
course.'
I've heard you weren't particularly happy with
Catherine. That you were probably looking to
replace her.'
Meredith Moore had a brittle appearance at
the best of times: hair that looked as if it might
break off, and a face of fine crepe. Cardinal could
almost hear the crackle as she set her mouth in
a thin line.
'Whoever you heard that from,' she said, 'did
not know what they were talking about. Catherine
had nothing but excellent evaluations, and her
photographs were highly respected.'
'So you weren't looking to replace her.'
1 was not.'
'How would you characterize your relationship

nn
with Catherine? How did you get along?'
Tine. We weren't close friends, but I'd say
we had a collegial relationship. I have to say,
I know you're a policeman and maybe the
manner sticks with you whether you want it to
or not, but this feels very much like an interrogation.'
You
said Catherine's student reviews were
excellent. Do you know if there was any student
in particular who was giving her trouble?
Someone who might have taken offence at a low
grade?'
'Not that I know of. And I rather doubt it. She
was a good teacher, but an easy marker. Some
people are too severe, some are lenient. I try to
be somewhere in the middle myself. Catherine
was on the lenient side, I think she'd agree with
me on that.'
That was true, Cardinal knew. Catherine hated
to give anyone who made the least effort a bad
grade, and would get upset when she had no
choice.
'Did you ever have a student come in here,
upset, and ask you to change a grade Catherine
had given?'
'No. Mind you, it's too early in the semester
for people to be worried about failing.'
'Catherine wanted to be chair of the department
too.'
'She certainly did. She made a strong case for
herself.'

1 imagine that could put quite a strain on your
"collegia!" relationship. Did it?'

'Is that what Catherine said?'

'I'm asking you.'

'It's safe to say it made us both a little tense.
That's understandable, don't you think? I don't
imagine the police department is free of competition.'

'Well, no one's gone off a roof so far.'

Ms Moore's mouth opened with an audible
snap. 'You think she killed herself because she
didn't get chair?'

'No, I don't.'

'Good. Because she showed no ill effects from
it that I'm aware of. And Catherine was a - well,
a sensitive soul, wouldn't you say?'

'Yes. Did you see her the day she died?'

'I saw her in the hall here, around lunchtime.
She was heading into her noon class.'

'What about in the evening?'

'She doesn't teach on Tuesday evenings.'

'That isn't what I asked.'

Ms Moore was turning red, but from the set of
her mouth it was the heat of anger, not embarrassment.

'The answer is no.'

'Were you here at the school?'

'I was at home watching The Antiques Road
Show. Look, I don't know how to say this
to you. I'm sorry about what happened to
Catherine, I truly am. But my sympathy does
not extend to being cross-questioned like a criminal.'
"I realize that,' Cardinal said, and headed for
the exit. 'Criminals don't like it either.'

33

Dorothy Bell was bundling up the newspapers for
recycling when an article caught her eye. She
spread the paper out on the kitchen table and
peered at it nearsightedly. According to the article,
over two hundred mourners had attended Perry
Dorn's funeral. Perry Dorn, it said, a recent graduate
of Northern University, had had many friends
and the respect of his professors. The newspaper
quoted several people who had known him.
'He was a very generous guy,' one said.
'Whatever Perry had, he'd share it with you. Even
when he was broke.'
'Always looking out for others,' said another.
'A very sharp intellect,' according to a professor
of mathematics. 'You had to work hard to keep
up with Perry.'
The reason the Algonquin Lode was giving the
funeral so much space, of course, was that Perry
Dorn had shocked the community by blowing his
brains out in a laundromat.

% A
Long subject to depression, the paper said.
'But lately he seemed to be getting better/ said
a fellow student. 'He was looking forward to doing
graduate work in Montreal. He was very excited
about McGill.'
One of the subheads read 'Romantic Reversals',
and under this a former roommate stated that
Perry Dorn had had a tendency to become
emotionally entangled with unattainable women.
'The shame of it was, he could have had lots of
girlfriends. There were lots of girls who would
have gladly gone out with him, he was so smart
and gentle. But he always went for the ones who
weren't interested. Then he'd get depressed and
wouldn't eat or sleep or even talk for days. It could
get kinda spooky.'
Shelly Lanois, the young man's sister, said only:
'We're all too devastated to comment.'
The name Perry Dorn didn't mean anything to
Dorothy Bell, but she might have recognized his
face in the picture sooner had he not been wearing
the graduation cap. It hid his prematurely thinning
hair, but it did not hide the scrawny chicken
neck, the outsized Adam's apple, the deep-set,
mournful eyes of the young man she had seen
several times in the waiting area outside her
husband's office.
The moment she did recognize him, her heart
began to pound. A young man on the verge of
graduate school chooses instead to end his life and
in a spectacular manner. A young man who

had many reasons to be happy and optimistic. A
young man who had been a patient of her
husband's.
When Dorothy had first met Frederick - well
over thirty years ago now - she had been deeply
impressed by his intelligence. She had been no
slouch herself, winning excellent marks in nursing
school, but he had the kind of brilliance she had
known she would never possess. He was dark and
handsome - no beard, no specs - with a charming
array of nervous tics. Even in his twenties he was
a bit of a star at the London hospital where they
worked.
When one day he asked her to go out to dinner
with him, she had trouble forming the words to
answer him. She turned around to look behind
herself, to see if there were some other young
doctors in the hallway who were in on the joke.
But there was no one.
Neither of them had any money in those days.
He took her to an American-style joint on the
King's Road with jukeboxes and bottles of Heinz
ketchup in each booth. Hamburgers were an exotic
treat in London in those days. Long after they
were married, Bell told her that the place had
turned out to be much more expensive than he
had anticipated. He had had just enough to cover
the meal, no tip.
'Never dared set foot in there again,' he liked
to tell friends when he recounted the story. 'Too
embarrassed.'

2U
From the first, Dorothy enjoyed his intelligence
and his sense of humour. He liked her sensitivity,
and the way she could transform a dreary apartment
into a real home. They were so contented
that they saw no reason to disrupt the pleasantness
of their life with children. That, at least, was
the way Frederick had put it. Dorothy would have
liked to try, but she sensed from things he said
that he was not a man who would enjoy fatherhood.
She
could still think back on those first few
years with nostalgia. They amused themselves with
weekend forays to obscure English villages and
the odd walking tour.
Gradually - she couldn't have said when it
started exactly - the early happiness began to be
marred by a certain instability in Frederick's professional
life. He had been overjoyed to be on the
staff of the Kensington Clinic; it had a great reputation,
and he was lucky to be there. But after
only eighteen months he'd suddenly announced
that they were moving to Swindon, where he was
going to join the Swindon General Hospital. It was
a pleasant enough place to work, and Dorothy
enjoyed the other nurses there, but it had seemed
a considerable step down. This was not a view she
aired aloud.
It was while at Swindon that Frederick was
investigated for over-prescribing. As he had
explained it to her, all he had done was prescribe
a tricyclic for a depressed patient, hardly an exotic

line of treatment, but the patient had almost
immediately swallowed a bottle of sleeping pills,
also prescribed by Dr Bell. The bereaved family
claimed Bell had ignored obvious cries for help,
that the boy should have been hospitalized. The
hospital's inquiry merely found him somewhat lax
in follow-up, and gave him a reprimand. Even so,
he had been outraged.
'Idiots,' he had cried. 'Morons. What do they
know? Depressed people kill themselves all the
time. For all they know, that kid would have been
dead months ago if it wasn't for me. Suicide is
what depressed people do. Hiding their intentions
is also what depressed people do. They get good
at it. If the charge is that I failed to read his mind,
fine. I plead guilty.'
Of course, reading minds is exactly a psychiatrist's
job, Dorothy thought, even at the time. But
Frederick was her husband and she stood by him,
sharing his outrage. The young doctor had been
so grateful that this early adversity strengthened
their marriage.
Despite this episode, Frederick managed to find
himself a better position soon after, this time in
Lancashire, at the Manchester Centre for Mental
Health. It suited him much better. They became
active in the community, made many friends, gave
enviable parties. Just when Dorothy had begun
to think they were really set, really secure, the
Centre informed them there would be another
inquiry into Frederick's practice. The hospital had

ift
become concerned by the number of suicides
among the patients under his care.
But it was brief and largely exculpatory. No
abnormalities were found in his prescribing. If
anything, he made less use of drugs than his
contemporaries.
'We over-prescribe, in my opinion,' he told the
committee. 'I believe the optimum treatment for
depression to be a combination of psychotherapy
and medication. Neither alone is enough, not for
severe cases, but the risks of relying on medication
are high, because the treatment proceeds at
the speed of the drug rather than at the speed of
the patient's capacity to heal.'
In this, he was ahead of his time. By then he
was known as one of the foremost authorities in
England on the causes and treatment of depression. He took on a Herculean caseload, and specialized
almost exclusively in depression. This, the
review committee noted, was bound to result in
a high number of suicides among his patients. Still, Frederick had been offended by the whole
debacle. 'The insult, the ingratitude,' he said over
and over again. 'The incredible stupidity. They
have to mount a committee of inquiry to discover
the obvious: sad people kill themselves.'
Soon after, the couple had emigrated. Despite
the hospital's clearing of her husband, Dorothy had found her faith in his abilities shaken. She knew enough of hospital politics to know that the administration would be quite capable of keeping

a lid on scandal. When, in the course of packing,
she discovered a letter from the National Health
Service announcing that it was beginning proceedings
for yet another investigation - this one into
the entire term of his practice from Swindon to
Manchester - she had been thoroughly shocked.
The letter was dated just after the Manchester
investigation, and yet Frederick had said nothing.
She could not bring herself to discuss it with
him. She did not want him calling her idiot, moron,
fool. But from the moment of their arrival in
Toronto, Dorothy Bell had told herself that,
without snooping, she would keep a closer eye
on what happened with her husband's caseload.
Obviously, patient confidentiality precluded her
knowing the names of most of his patients.
Occasionally, though, she would overhear him on
the phone. And a couple of times, when someone
had died, he had said to her, 'Patient of mine.
Poor fella.'
She noticed that he clipped the obituaries.
Frederick never took to Toronto, and after a
short stint at the Queen Street Mental Health
Centre he had accepted a post with the Ontario
Hospital at Algonquin Bay. He told his wife he
was sick of city living, that he wanted to live in
a smaller town, and she had no reason to disbelieve
him.
That had been two years ago. But since then
Dorothy had become aware of three suicides
under her husband's care: Leonard Keswick, a

"5n
social services administrator; Catherine Cardinal,
a teacher and photographer; and now this Perry
Dorn. All three had been in the paper, one because
he had been charged with a crime, one because
she had been found dead next to a brand-new
building, and the last one because he had killed
himself in such a public manner. It was hard to
admit, but Dorothy knew it was likely there were
more.
And this young man, this Perry Dorn. Why had
Frederick not mentioned that he had been a
patient? It had been all over the news and the
local paper. An expression of shock or dismay
might have been in order, but he had said nothing,
not a word.
Dorothy put the article aside and finished
tying up the last of the newspapers. It was time
to do the grocery shopping, before the late afternoon
rush. On her way out, she paused in front
of Frederick's closed office door. You couldn't
hear much through solid oak, but she could
make out his voice, and quieter responses from
a patient. He didn't have a patient now; the next
one wasn't due for another half hour. No, no,
he was watching a recording of a session. He did
that a lot.
She had asked him about it once: Why did he
go over his sessions so much?
'Self-improvement,' he said in his jaunty way.
'You're never too old to get better. When I replay
sessions, I see subtle cues I missed, body language

I didn't notice at the time. And of course, it helps
me remember things better.'
It's gone way past self-training, she thought as
she locked the front door behind her. Frederick
now spent every spare minute watching his
recordings, retiring to his office late at night when
other people might be reading or watching television
or getting ready for bed.
There was something unhealthy about it.

34

Police Chief RJ. Kendall did not tend to be a harsh
man. Cardinal had seen him give members of the
force second, third, even fourth chances when he
himself would have yanked badges and guns. But
Kendall was also inconsistent to the point where
you wondered if inconsistency was a policy with
him, a way to keep staff on their toes. When
provoked, he would shout abuse loud enough that
the whole station could hear. Then a week later
he'd be saying what a good job the former malefactor
was doing.
Kendall was seated in his big leather chair now,
the light from the window behind him turning
his thinning silver hair into a dull halo. He had
not asked Cardinal to sit down.
'It's not that I'm unsympathetic,' he said. 'If my
wife were to die in similar circumstances - God
forbid - I would probably be tempted to do the
same thing.'
'Chief, I saw her just three hours before. She

was fine. She was looking forward to working on
her project. Not the kind of thing you expect from
someone about to do herself in.'
'We have a coroner's finding of suicide.'

'A young doctor. Inexperienced as a coroner.'
'You read the note yourself. You identified the
writing. I don't think we have to go into her
history, do we?'
'She was doing fine, Chief. She was not in any
emotional distress.'
'Delorme, McLeod, Szelagy - all of them were
there with the coroner. None of them found
anything inconsistent with suicide. Nor did the
pathologist. There is nothing to investigate. We
have no case.'
'Her note was written months ago. I had a guy
in Documents confirm it.'
'Which you should not have done,' the chief
said, a warning flush of crimson forming at his
jawline. 'That's called a misuse of police resources.
We have no case.'
'In order to believe it was suicide, you have to
believe that she wrote a note three months ago.
That she went on with her life as usual, giving no
sign of her intentions. Then one night, in the
middle of a photographic project, she takes along
the note to leave at the scene before jumping off
the roof.'
'We have NO CASE.' Kendall was on his feet
now, his face a brilliant cardiac red. He was not
a tall man, but he made up in decibels what he

lacked in centimetres. 'You will not come in here
and tell me how the entire law enforcement
community is wrong and you are right. And you
will refrain from cross-questioning the chair of a
college department as if she was a member of the
mob! Do I make myself clear?'
'Chief, there are reasonable grounds to '
'You were not even on the job, Cardinal, you
were on leave. And you interrogated this woman as if she was a subject in a murder case. But there
is NO SUCH CASE. Your behaviour would be out
of line if she were a streetwalker, if she were a
drug dealer. But Meredith Moore is chair of a
college department and you do not interrogate
such people when you have no warrant, no justification,
and NO CASE!'
Cardinal started to speak, but the chief raised
a traffic-stopping hand.
'I don't want you to go out of here thinking
this is going to be a matter where I'm going
to give you second, third, or fourth chances. It
isn't. You want to be back at work, fine, you're
back at work. But you are here to pursue cases
that I and your detective sergeant approve.
Everything else is unlawful use of police resources,
and I will not tolerate it. Do you understand
me?'
'Yes.'
'Good. I hope this matter is now closed.'
'I just have one question.'
'What is it?'

'What would it take to make you open a case
on Catherine?'
'More than you have.'

When he returned to his desk, Cardinal found a
new email waiting for him.

To: parsenault, Iburke, rcollingwood, Idelorme,
imcleod, kszelagy
From: rjk
I know that you are all deeply saddened by
John Cardinal's tragic loss, and I share that
sadness. However, I must remind you that
there has been a finding of suicide in the
matter and as a result no police file has been
opened. Therefore there is no investigation.
I repeat, there is no investigation. Anyone
using police resources to pursue a different
finding is in breach of The Police Services
Act and will be dealt with accordingly.
RJ Kendall
Chief of Police

Cardinal's own name was conspicuously absent
from the address list; the message had been forwarded
to him by Arsenault. Arsenault was now
waving him over to the hallway connecting CID
to ident.
'I wanted to talk to you about the Zellers break
in,' Arsenault said, loud enough for everyone to
hear.

Cardinal followed him into ident. Collingwood
was out, and except for the two of them the place
was empty.
'I ran the print,' Arsenault said.
'Obviously we can't talk about it right now.'
'Why? The air belongs to Police Services?'
'The time does.'
'It's okay. RJ has left the building.' He jerked a
thumb toward the parking lot. 'Just saw him take
off in a limo.'
'Thanks for forwarding the email. I don't want to get anyone else in trouble.'
'Forget it. RJ's a pussycat. Anyway, just wanted
to let you know we came back negative on the
thumbprint.'
'Nothing at all?'
'Nothing local, nothing national. Total bust.'
'All right. It was worth a try.'
'I got a few more avenues I can explore. You
want me to keep trying?'
'Just make sure RJ doesn't find out.'
Cardinal picked up his mail and phone
messages, and sat down at his desk. From the
brass-framed photograph on his desk, Catherine
smiled at him - the same smile that had sent his
heart spinning way back when they had first met.
Cardinal opened his middle drawer, put the picture
inside, and closed the drawer.
He began sorting his inbox: notices to appear in
court, office memos, notices of parole committee
hearings, missives from his pension plan, the payroll

department, and various unclassif iable material that
went straight to the recycle bin.
He opened the middle drawer, took out the
photograph, and set it once more in the corner.

'Are you really here this time?'
Delorme was dropping her briefcase on to her
desk. She looked tired and frustrated, a slight pout
forming on her mouth, but that was not unusual
for Delorme.
'I'm back,' Cardinal said. 'At least physically.'
Delorme sat down and rolled her chair up close.
'Let me tell you about a case might take your
mind off things.'
'Oh, yeah?'
She began pulling file folders from her briefcase.
'I've got a crime scene but no witnesses, no
victim, and no perpetrator. How familiar are you
with child porn?'
'Haven't had that many cases. Keswick remember
him?'
'Keswick was nothing. Get ready for a real
stomach-turner.'

35

Leonard Keswick leans forward on the couch, gripping
and twisting a shredded Kleenex. He is a
roughly spheroid man, and looks weak and dispirited,
like a partially deflated soccer ball. His eyes
are large and watery, slightly protuberant - a
bloodhound's eyes. He looks up mournfully at the
unseen camera.
'I don't know what to do,' he says. 'I don't
know where to turn with this problem.'
'Well, you've turned here,' Dr Bell says onscreen. 'That's a start, isn't it?'
'Yes, but I don't seem to be getting over this.
It's been months now, and I'm not getting any
better.'
Dr Bell, watching this a year later, nodded his
agreement. 'Because you don't want to get better,' he said quietly, although not onscreen. 'You just
won't admit it.'
The office phone rang and Dr Bell froze the
image. He had set the voice mail to pick up on

the first ring so he could monitor the message. He
knew who it would be. She had already called
twice, the second message considerably more
distraught than the first.
'Dr Bell? It's Melanie. Oh, God, you're probably
at the hospital or with another patient. Please
call me as soon as you get this. I'm feeling really,
really bad . . .'
'Of course you feel bad,' Dr Bell said to the
room. 'You always feel bad.'
'I'm afraid I might really do it this time. I can't
stop thinking about it.'
Bell clasped his hands behind his head and
spoke to the ceiling. 'Sounds like real progress to
me.'
'Please call me when you get this. Please. I'm
sorry. I just need - I just - please.'
'Please-I just-Please-I just-Please-I just,' Bell
mimicked her. 'Gimme, gimme, gimme. I, I, /.'
'Something about seeing my stepfather again
really put me over the edge. Everything is just
black. Absolutely black, and I can hardly breathe. Please give me a call when you get this.'
There was a timid click as she hung up.
Bell sat back and pressed Play.
'What I can't get over,' Keswick says, 'is how
helpless I am over this. And it came on so suddenly.
I mean, I looked at porno magazines as a kid,
same as everybody else. Looked at them right
through college and even a little after. But magazines
are different. Magazines, it's just normal:

no
adult women, adult guys. It's not as if I went
searching for the stuff I'm staring at these days!'
'I believe you,' Dr Bell says. There are people
addicted to eBay, to shopping online, gambling
online - people who had no problems with these
areas before the Internet came into their lives.'
'Yes, because you used to have to go way out
of your way to do them. Let's face it, it used to
be difficult to be a shopaholic in Algonquin Bay.
What are you going to do, buy up the entire
collection of ski pants? Same with gambling.
There's no casinos here. The most damage you
could do to yourself was with the lottery. But this
stuff is right in my home. It's as if they filled my
drawers and closets with an endless supply of
pictures.'
'Is it just pictures?' Dr Bell says onscreen.
'What?' Keswick looks bewildered, as if the
doctor has suddenly addressed him in Farsi. 'Well,
yeah. I would never touch a kid. I never thought
about kids sexually before. I still don't - not actual
kids I see on the street. And I know the damage
sexual abuse can cause. I would never do that to
a kid. Never.'
'Well, let's talk about exactly what it is you are doing.'
'I'm looking at pictures. That's all. I get them
from file-sharing sites.'
'Do you ever post any pictures yourself?'
'God, no.'
'Do you pay for the pictures you look at?'

'No. And I never would. That would be encouraging
the whole enterprise.'
'All right. So tell me, what is it you do that's
so terrible? You haven't molested any children.
You haven't taken pictures of any children. You
haven't paid anyone else to take them. You haven't
sent them to anyone.'
'No! I just look at them! But it's sick! It's sick!
I shouldn't be looking at them! Oh, God, I'm so
ashamed. So ashamed.'
Keswick is weeping now, tears filming his
cheeks. He takes his glasses off and tries to put
them on the table but drops them. He doesn't
stoop to retrieve them, just sits there in a soggy,
rumpled heap, crying.
Finally, when he is able to speak again: 'I have
kids of my own, that's the real kicker. Jenny and
Rob. They're three and five - younger than the
pictures I'm looking at - but still, it makes me
want to throw up. I can't imagine what I'd do if
I found out someone was taking pictures of my
kids. I think I would even be able to kill someone
in that situation.'
'This has been going on how long? A year?
Eighteen months?'
'About eighteen months. It was like instantaneous
with me. The minute I stumbled on to that
site, it was like a lock turned inside me. Like these
tumblers clanked into place and suddenly I go
from being a more or less normal human being
to a sex fiend. A pervert.'

He cries again, and Dr Bell watches him in
silence.
'I've tried twelve-step, like you suggested. I
found a site online. It's better than nothing, I guess,
but it's only once a week and sometimes hardly
anyone logs on. There's no sex addiction groups
here that I know of. And even if there were, I
could never tell them what I've been looking at.'
'You've told me. Why couldn't you tell them?'
That's different. You're a doctor. Our conversations
are privileged. There might be people I
knew at the meetings. I would die if this ever got
out. Literally. I would have to kill myself.'
'Well, perhaps we should work on reducing
some of this shame you're suffering from.'
'But it is shameful. What I do is shameful.'
'Let me finish. With all addictions there's a cycle
of shame that seems to operate. Take heroin, for
example. An addict has resolved to quit using, but
he's feeling a little nervous, a little jumpy.
Eventually he goes out and buys some dope and
shoots up. Magic. All that anxiety is gone. It's a
powerful thing. But it wears off, of course, and
then the addict is left with his shame at having
used the drug again. Then he needs something to
counteract the shame - and what's the first thing
that comes to mind?'
'More dope.'
'More dope. Exactly. And that's one of the
reasons twelve-step programs enjoy some success. Being in a room full of people who accept you

and your weakness, who even share it, is a
powerful way to reduce shame. It's certainly a
pity, as you say, that there's no such group here
in town. Suppose we were to have a couple of
sessions with your wife '
'Never. Don't even think that. She doesn't even
know I'm seeing you.'
'But you've said many times you have a loving
relationship with your wife. Wouldn't that love
survive the possible disappointment of finding out
you have an unfortunate weakness?'
'She would hate me. She would dump me. She
would take the kids away from me and I'd never
get to see any of them again.'
'Are you sure?'
'Oh, yeah. I've heard her talk about it. You
know, when there's a story in the paper or on TV,
about a teacher, or a priest or whatever. She's
always completely disgusted. She says stuff like,
"Oh, they should boil that guy in oil." "They ought
to castrate that man."'
Dr Bell is the calm voice of reason. 'But priests,
teachers - those are people who are responsible
for lots of children. They're in positions of trust.'
'Look, I work for ComSoc. Social assistance. I'm
surrounded by social workers. You think they're
going to tolerate having a child porno addict in
their midst? I'd be out of there in five seconds.'
'We were talking about your wife, not your
colleagues. This would only be sharing the information
with your wife. Is there not any possibility

she was exaggerating her response to the stories
you mentioned? One often says things like, "They
ought to hang that man." But one doesn't necessarily
mean them.'
'She may have been exaggerating. Meg isn't
one to hold back her feelings. She may have been
exaggerating about the punishments, castration
and so on, but she wasn't exaggerating her disgust.
I could hear contempt in every word. If she ever
felt that kind of contempt toward me, I couldn't
live with it. I'd sooner die, I swear. I'd sooner die.'
Bell froze the image, savouring his patient's
horrified gaze, his absolute helplessness, then hit
the Off button. Keswick had been a lamb to the
slaughter. A little too easy, really, to be completely
satisfying. Still, there was a neatness about it, an
almost Greek inevitability, that one could appreciate.
The
phone rang again.
'Hello, Melanie,' Bell said without picking up.
'Little distressed, are we? Lurching toward an
actual decision?'
'Dr Bell, it's Melanie again. I know you said
you'd be unavailable this week, but I thought you'd
be checking messages. This is pretty critical . . .'
He could hear a sniffle, loud and wet. He got
up and took the DVD out of the player, slipping
it into a numbered sleeve.
'Please call me back, Dr Bell. My thinking gets
so distorted. I think maybe I should go to the
hospital. If you could just get me into the hospital.

I actually have the pills. I have them in my room
and it just seems like the best thing to do, but I
don't know.'
Dr Bell took out a CD of Haydn's Seven Last Words of Christ. Eli, Eli, why hast thou forsaken me? An agony of ropes and nails and abandonment.
'Oh, God. I can't stand this any more. I don't
know why I'm alive, I truly don't.' There was a
messy disconnection as she had trouble hanging
up.
Bell pushed Play and lay back on the sofa.

36

Cardinal woke up the next day and Catherine's
absence sucked his breath away, as if his bedroom
were adrift in space and someone had thrown
open the airlock.
As he stumbled through his morning routine toast
and coffee and the Globe and Mail - he forced
his thoughts toward work, toward Delorme's case
of the child pornographer, Arsenault's series of
break-ins.
At one point he looked up from his newspaper
and stared into the emptiness across the table.
'I don't want to think about you,' he said. 'I
don't want to think about you.'
He went back to the Globe, but could not
concentrate; his eyes were scratchy from a night
of fitful sleep. The sooner he got into work, the
better. He put his plate in the dishwasher and
tossed the rest of his coffee down the kitchen sink.
He rushed through his shower, threw on his
clothes and headed out.

The mornings were getting crisper now. There
was a scent of winter, a hint of ice, even though
there was not yet any ice on the lake, nor would
there be for another month or so. He shivered in
his sports jacket. It would soon be time for a heavy
coat. The sky was dazzling blue and he thought
of how Catherine would have loved it. Her PT
Cruiser sat empty in the driveway.
'I don't want to think about you,' he said again,
and got into his Camry.
He was backing out of the drive when a car
pulled up and blocked his exit. Paul Arsenault
rolled down the window and waved a gloved
hand.
'Morning!'
Cardinal knew he must have something good.
No way Arsenault would stop by before work
unless he had something pretty tasty to share.
Cardinal got out of his car and went over to
Arsenault's window.
'Thought I'd stop by so we don't use up any of
that precious Police Services' time.'
'You get something interesting?'
'Well, yes and no. I don't know how you're
going to take it.'
'Just give it to me, Paul.'
'In the end, I got it from the Immigration database
- and no, I'm not going to tell you how. We
got a British national, moved here a couple of
years ago.' He handed a printout through the
window.

It showed two thumbprints. The photograph
above them was kinder than the general run of
such documents. In the curly hair, the salt-and
pepper beard, it captured the canine amiability of
the man. Frederick David Bell, MD.

When Cardinal got to work, he called Bell and
arranged to meet him on his lunch hour up at
the psychiatric hospital.
He drove out along Highway 11 and turned in
at the all too familiar driveway of the Ontario
Hospital. Cardinal had been here countless times
- professionally, because it often housed criminals,
and personally, because of Catherine. Usually
when she was booked in here, it was the dead
grey month of February.
The red-brick building was nearly lost amid the
glory of the leaves. A crisp wind blew over the
hilltop, and the poplars and birches dipped their
heads like dancers. All of Cardinal's history with
the place blurred into one long ache, all the times
Catherine had been taken here because she was
manic and spouting some loony idea as if it made
perfect sense, or because she was so depressed she
was an inch away from sliding a razor across her
wrist.
He took the elevator to the third floor. Dr Bell's
door was open. He was in his chair, looking out
over the parking lot and the hills beyond. He sat
very still, and Cardinal was put in mind of a dog
at the window, waiting for its owner to return.

He knocked - loudly, with the intent to startle
- and was gratified to see the effect. Bell's shoulders
shot up and he turned around. He stood up
when he saw Cardinal.
'Detective. Please come in. Have a seat.'
Cardinal set his briefcase on the floor and sat
down.
'You were right about the cards,' he said. 'They
weren't from a murderer.'
'No, I thought not.'
'They were from a guy I put in jail for fraud a
few years back.'
'Well, that makes perfect sense. Fraud is such
a sneaking, knavish thing. Fits in with the style
of the poisoned pen. And did he lose his wife as
a result of your efforts?'
'Yes. You were right about that too.'
'Probably not by suicide, though.'
'No. But how would you know that?'

'Because - at least on the face of things - the
shame in such a case would be all with the criminal
and not the criminal's family. Different story
if, say, the crimes were a long-standing series of
sexual assaults, or racist violence, something a
spouse might be expected to know about, or at
least suspect. Do you have something else for me?
Is that why this sudden trip up here? I was
thinking, just before you arrived, that it would be
painful for you to come up here. All the memories
of Catherine.'
'It doesn't make any difference where I am.'

Cardinal opened his briefcase and pulled out
Catherine's suicide note. This time he handed the
doctor the version that had been through the ESDA
machine. It was encased in plastic, the writing a
ghostly white script on a background of graphite,
Catherine's small prints dotting one edge, and a
fat splotch of thumbprint at the bottom.
Dr Bell put on small reading glasses and peered
at the note. 'Mm, you showed me this before. I
see it's now been processed in some way.'
'Right again, Doctor. And that's your
thumbprint at the bottom.'
Cardinal was watching Bell's face for any reaction,
but there was none. Of course, he was a
psychiatrist, trained to keep his own emotions
hidden while others wept and wailed.
Bell handed the note back. 'Yes. Catherine did
show me such a note a few months ago.'
'Funny, you didn't mention that when I brought
it to you last week.'
Dr Bell winced and removed his glasses,
massaging the bridge of his nose. Without the thick
lenses he looked oddly vulnerable, a lemur in
daylight.
'I've gone and put my foot in it, haven't I?
Detective, I'm so sorry. I admit I wasn't keen for
you to know I'd seen this. I was afraid you'd think
I'd been negligent in some way, that Catherine
had written a suicide note in a pitch of agony and
I had blithely ignored it.'
'Now, why would I think a thing like that?'

Cardinal said. 'After all, it's only a suicide note.
She only has a history of serious depression.'
'Well, of course, now you're angry '
'She even shows you the note, hoping against
hope that somehow you will help her with these
terrible urges. You have a little chat, and at the
end of the hour you hand it back.'
'It's easy to make it sound bad in retrospect.'
'And during the next three months, as these
suicidal thoughts are apparently building up and
building up, and Catherine is coming to see you
two or three times a month, you never see fit to
admit her to hospital. You don't even see fit to
call me in for a consultation. After all, I'm only
her husband, I've only lived with her for decades,
why should you bother to let me know? So, as
far as the rest of the world is concerned, Catherine
is doing fine. You, on the other hand, happen to
know she's planning to kill herself and you choose
to do nothing about it.'
'Detective, you're making exactly the sorts of
assumptions I was afraid you'd make. I labour
in the fields of grief and despair - with people
who are unbearably depressed. Sadly, they often
want to end their lives and sometimes they
succeed. It's no one's fault. Families get upset
and they can rush to judgment. I'm sure it
happens in your line of work too. I read in the
paper that the Dorn family is extremely upset
with the way the police handled that young man's
suicide.'

The difference is, the officer did everything he
could to stop that guy.'
'And I did everything I could to help your wife.'
'Allowing her to carry around a suicide note
for three months? So that one night, when she's
in the middle of an interesting photographic
project, on impulse, she pulls it out and jumps.'
'Detective, I've been dealing with depression
for over thirty years now, and believe me, at this
point there's nothing that would surprise me. The
only certainty with this disease is that it will surprise you.'
'Really? Personally, I've always found it
hideously predictable.'
'Forgive me, Detective, but clearly not. You
didn't see it coming any more than I did. As to
her using a note she'd written earlier, it's most
likely an example of Catherine's thoughtfulness.
She wanted to use words she'd written when she
was not too overwrought, a note that would
express her feelings less harshly than something
scribbled in the heat of the moment. Most suicide
notes, as you probably know, are not full of
concern for those left behind.'
'Did you even think about calling me after she
wrote that note?'
'No. Catherine was not upset when she brought
it in. We discussed it as we would a dream or a
fantasy. She was emphatic that she had no imminent
plans to harm herself.'
'I believe her. I would have seen it coming.'

'You're still suggesting there's some other explanation
for her death? The original reason you
suspected she might have been murdered was that
you were receiving those nasty cards in the mail.
You thought that only someone who had killed
your wife would do such a thing. And so you
tracked down the person who wrote them, and it
turns out he hasn't killed anyone. Isn't that right?
Or am I missing something?'
I'm off my game, Cardinal thought. The shrink
has me nailed: I have no hard evidence. Nothing.
'She wasn't upset the day she died,' was all he
could manage. 'She gave no sign that she was
thinking of suicide.'
'Over the years, she gave every sign. I've read
her medical records, Detective. Catherine has
stayed in this hospital more than half a dozen
times - once for an episode of mania, but all the
other admissions were for unmanageable depression.
All those times she was feeling that she
wanted to die, that suicide was the only way out
for her. It seems clear to me that she decided to
actually do the deed when she was in a relatively
lucid state, when she could carry it out with some
degree of control, some forethought.'
'I would have seen it coming,' Cardinal said
again, knowing how lame it sounded. Catherine, what have you done? What have you done to me?
'Surely in your line of work, Detective, you've had occasions where people miss the obvious
about people they live with?'

Cardinal thought of the mayor and his trollop
of a wife. Am I that blind? Does everyone know
the truth but me?
'Is it not possible, Detective, that you, in your
grief, are missing what is obvious to everyone else?
Why not allow yourself the possibility of being
wrong? You've lost your wife, your thinking is
bound to be clouded at best, and who wouldn't
be subject to the palliative effects of denial? The
nasty cards were sent by a resentful ex-con; there's
no reason to believe anyone killed your wife. I
knew Catherine for going on two years, and I
can't imagine her having any serious enemies.
You've known her for decades - have you come
up with anyone who might have a motive?'
'No,' Cardinal said. 'But motives aren't always
personal.'
'Psychopaths, you mean. But there's no reason
to suppose this was the work of a serial killer.
Especially not one who had handy access to her
suicide note and could leave it behind at the scene
of the crime.
'If you believe Catherine was murdered, then
knowing that she wrote a suicide note three
months earlier would not have prevented it. If
you believe she committed suicide, then you have
nothing to investigate, unless you intend to sue
me for malpractice. As I say - and as you say she
gave no indication she was intending such an
act. None. And so I treated the note at face value.
It was the answer to a question I posed to her.'

'What question was that?'
'We were talking about the reasons why she hadn't killed herself, despite years of emotional
suffering. Her biggest reason was what it would
do to you - to you and your daughter. My question
was, What would you say to your husband
if you did commit suicide? What would you say
in a note? I wanted her to articulate the feelings
right then and there, but Catherine didn't answer
me. She said she would have to think about it.
And then, to my surprise, she brought a note in,
next session. As you see, it clearly expresses her
love for you.'
Cardinal's throat felt swollen shut. And then,
to his horror, he found that he was weeping.
'You might think about taking some more time
off,' Dr Bell said gently. 'Clearly you haven't yet
had time to grieve properly. Maybe you should
consider allowing yourself that kindness.'

37

Normally Delorme loved the morning meetings.
All six CID detectives would assemble in the
boardroom with their coffee and muffins and
discuss the status of their various cases with the
whole team. What with ident and the two street
crime guys, the intelligence officer, the joint forces
officer, and the Crime Stoppers co-ordinator, some
days there could be as many as sixteen people in
the room, although today there would just be
seven.
The point of these meetings was to focus the
day's tactics and assign various tasks to individuals.
It was always interesting, and sometimes
appalling, to hear how other detectives handled
their cases, and there was usually a lot of humour.
If there were going to be any laughs in the course of a day, this was where they would come. McLeod
might go into one of his patented full-tilt rants,
or Szelagy would come up with some earnest observation that just cracked everybody up. And

Cardinal could be funny too, though his humour
tended to be quiet and self-deprecating.
But today Cardinal's presence was casting a
pall. While they were waiting for Chouinard,
everyone just kept to themselves, pretending to
read over their notes or look at documents.
McLeod was reading the Toronto Sun sports
pages. Cardinal himself just sat quietly, his notebook
open to a clean page on the table before
him. He must have been aware of his effect
on the room, and Delorme's heart went out to
him.
Chouinard breezed in, carrying a giant Tim
Hortons mug in one hand and a thin file folder
in the other. If oatmeal could be a person, Ian
McLeod liked to say, it would be Daniel Chouinard.
The detective sergeant was dull but dependable,
bland but reasonable, solemn but solid.
'Don't get up,' he said. He always said that,
because of course no one ever did get up.
'See, that's why I want to be detective sergeant
someday.' McLeod snatched Chouinard's thin file
and held it up. 'We're all lugging fifty-pound briefcases
and he's carrying a lunch menu.'
'It's the natural order of things,' Chouinard said.
'Didn't you study the divine right of kings?'
'I musta been out that day.'
'All right.' Chouinard took a huge sip from his
coffee and found it good. He opened his file to
the single typed sheet he always carried into the
meetings. 'Sergeant Delorme, ladies first, why

don't you enlighten us on what's happening with
your little boat girl?'
'I've found the cabin cruiser where at least one
sexual assault took place. It's currently in storage
at Four Mile Marina. I searched it with the permission
of the owners, the Ferriers, but I have not
informed them of the finding yet. The little we
can see of the perpetrator isn't enough to
absolutely rule out Mr Ferrier. Also, he's got a
daughter who is blonde and thirteen, but I haven't
been able to interview her yet. It's possible she is
the victim, maybe by a friend of the family or an
acquaintance.'
'So we have a crime scene. You didn't make
any effort to preserve it?'
'It's years old - the girl's about eleven in
those pictures - and it's been in wind and
water and storage since the crime took place. I
don't think we're going to get anything off that
boat. Even so, I'd like a watch to be put on the
storage facility to make sure no one tampers
with it.'
That's easy enough. We'll get that right away.'
Delorme opened a manila envelope containing
two more pictures Toronto had sent. There was
another one of the boat. In this one the girl was
dressed, smiling, and in the background there
was the hill they now knew to be the hill beside
Trout Lake. Part of Highway 63 was visible, snaking
off into the trees. The other picture showed her
as a much younger girl, naked this time, giggling

at the camera, lying on a rug. There was a section
of blue sofa in the background.
That's her home, we figure,' Delorme said.
'That blue sofa appears in a lot of the shots.'
'That's Highway 63 in the background?'
Chouinard said.
'Right. Toronto thinks this one is about two
years old. Some of the others show her that age.
So we're looking for a thirteen-year-old girl,
blonde, green eyes.'
'Toronto thinks this picture is two years old?'
Everyone looked at Cardinal. Delorme could
feel the relief in the room that he had spoken.
Spoken about business, something day-to-day.
'I'm not sure what they're basing that on,'
Delorme said. 'Other than the fact that we have
no pictures showing her older than about thirteen.'
'You're
not looking for a thirteen-year-old,'
Cardinal said. 'She's going to be eighteen or thereabouts.'
'Why
do you say that?'
'Look at the highway lights. Those are the old
sodium lights. Don't you remember when they
replaced those with the new white ones?'
'You're the only one who lives out that way,'
Chouinard said. 'Why don't you remind us?'
'I can tell you exactly, because I'd just bought
my car, and it's a 1999 model. Day I got it, I'm
driving home and this rookie OPP pulls me over
for driving too fast for conditions. The street lights

were all dark. He was giving me a lecture about
how I should be more careful, nice brand-new car
and all. I could've killed him.'
'He actually gave you the ticket?' McLeod said.
'He did.'
'See, that's the problem with the OPP,' McLeod
said. 'They train 'em all wrong right from the
beginning. They see the rules, they don't see reality, they don't see the situation. Gimme two weeks in
Orillia, man - I'd turn that place around.'
'Upside down is more like it,' Chouinard said.
'So, if she was eleven or twelve in 1999,'
Cardinal said, 'she's got to be seventeen or eighteen
now.'
Delorme was still trying to process what
Cardinal had given her. It was like having a bone
reset, and it would take her a while to get used
to it. She was no longer looking for a thirteenyear-old.
She was looking for an eighteen-year
old.
'I asked Toronto to send me more pictures,'
Delorme said. 'They say I should have them today.
Apparently they've just hauled in about a hundred
disks from some perv and our girl appears in a lot
of the images. I'm hoping the backgrounds in the
new shots might be useful.'
'All right,' Chouinard said. 'Cardinal, you work
with Delorme on this. I really want to nail this
bastard, but I'm not sure we need the whole
department on it. It's not like we're dealing with
a major porn ring here. As far as we know, it's

one guy victimizing one girl. That's bad enough,
but I don't want to squander resources. And
Delorme, please let's treat these pictures with
serious security. Strictly a need-to-see basis, all
right?'
'Of course.'
'What about the people at the marina? Nobody
remembers anything suspicious?'
'Nothing. It's a pretty peaceful spot. I've just
been telling them I'm investigating an assault, so
they're not thinking child rape. Only violence
anyone's mentioned wasn't actually at the marina.
Some guy tried to punch out Frederick Bell outside
the restaurant next door.'
Cardinal looked up.
'The psychiatrist?' Chouinard said.
'Right. This was a little over a year ago. A
distraught father. Bell had been treating his son,
who committed suicide.' Delorme couldn't bear
to look at Cardinal as she said the word, but she
could feel his eyes on her.
'I know how that goes,' Burke said ruefully,
and made things worse by adding, 'Some people
really don't want to live.'
'You did all you could. I told Mrs Dorn that,'
Delorme said. Then, praying could they please,
God, get off the subject of suicide, she turned to
Chouinard. 'DS, I know Perry Dorn's older sister.
I think I should have another word with her.'
He shook his head. 'It's not an open case, and
the family is threatening legal action.'

'I could talk to her informally. We're good
enough friends for that. As it happens, her
brother's shrink was also Dr Bell.'
Tine. But do not discuss it on police property
or using a police telephone. What's next?'
Delorme had to sit through Arsenault's list of
suspects on the Zellers break-in. And McLeod had
a series of assaults he was working where none
of the witnesses would talk. Naturally, this was
McLeod's cue for a detailed rant on the multicoloured
wall of silence.
Cardinal spoke to her the moment they were
back at their desks.
This guy that attacked Dr Bell,' he said quietly,
'what was his name?'
'Burnside,' Delorme said. 'William Burnside. His
son's name was Jonathan.'
'I remember that case. Did you know Bell was
Catherine's psychiatrist too?'
'It was in the coroner's report.'

Cardinal was looking at her with an intensity
she found unnerving. Usually he was such an
even-tempered guy, a little morose sometimes, but
mostly calm and good natured.
'Jonathan Burnside, Perry Dorn, and Catherine.
Don't you think that's a lot of suicides for one
guy's caseload? What are the odds of three suicides
in that amount of time?'
'Four,' Delorme said. 'I was going over our
previous child porn cases yesterday.'
'Of course,' Cardinal said. 'Keswick.'

'Leonard Keswick. Shot himself when he was
out on bail. Which was pretty surprising, since it
was a relatively minor charge: a few pictures on
his computer, mostly teenagers, and it wasn't like
he was taking them himself, he was just looking
at them.'
'I remember. Apparently the shame was too
much for him.'
'Losing your job doesn't help.'
'Remind me,' Cardinal said. 'How did we get
on to Keswick initially? If he wasn't selling child
porn or trading it or even buying it, why did we
know about him?'
'It was an anonymous tip. Somebody just
phoned it in. Maybe one of those computer vigilantes
you hear about.'
'Yeah,' Cardinal said. 'Maybe.'

38

Cardinal helped Delorme with her child porn case
that morning and afternoon, but thoughts of Dr
Bell kept running through his mind like a
persistent radio signal. Several times he had to ask
Delorme to repeat something she had just said.
Even so, the investigative work brought him some
relief - relief enough that he found himself
dreading going home.
For Cardinal, home had turned into a house
made of knives; there was nowhere he could move
that did not hurt. That night he lay in bed, but
sleep was out of the question. After a while he
got up and hauled the television into the bedroom
and set it on top of the chest of drawers. It was
a bad viewing angle, and he didn't much like the
idea of a TV in the bedroom, but he had a faint
hope of perhaps watching an old movie until he
fell asleep.
He flipped through all forty channels before he
gave up. He went into the kitchen, poured himself

a glass of milk, and stood in bathrobe and slippers
contemplating Catherine's computer, a slim
silver laptop that sat on a little desk beside the
telephone. She was much more computer savvy
than Cardinal, and used her Mac for everything
from paying bills to making travel arrangements
to buying camera equipment.
But a computer was private, and Cardinal had
never touched Catherine's. He didn't like to use
computers at home, anyway. Whenever he needed
to check email on a weekend, he logged on to a
dial-up network on a clunky old PC in the basement.
But
now he sat down and opened the laptop,
and it came right up with Catherine's desktop
screen, a dreamy turquoise. He clicked on the Web
browser icon, which opened to Catherine's home
page, a photographers' site that offered a button
for today's 'hot shots'. Cardinal ignored this and
clicked on the pull-down menu of bookmarked
sites. She had everything neatly sorted into folders.
He clicked on one labelled Health. He knew there
was an online support group she liked, for people
who suffered from bipolar disorder.
He found something labelled bipolar.org and
clicked on that. A window opened up asking for
a login name and password. The login slot filled
itself in with the name IceFire, but the password
field was blank. He knew Catherine used the word Nikon as a password on some of her accounts, but
when he typed it in, the site informed him in red

type that it was incorrect. He tried to remember
the make of her digital camera. He typed in Cannon, and was once again scolded. He retyped
it, this time omitting one n, all lower case.
The screen flashed and took him to a List of
Threads. There were themes of medication ('Why
I hate/love Lithium'; 'Suicidal reactions to SSRIs'),
themes of resolution ('High Goodbye: Saying yes
to sanity') and finally one that looked more promising:
'Shrink Raps'.
He opened the thread and scrolled down for
postings bearing Catherine's login. The first one
he found was a reply to someone else's thread.
'Sorry, sweetheart,' Cardinal whispered, and
clicked on the message.
If you're not comfortable with your therapist after
six sessions or so, I'd look for someone else, she had
written. You don't want to give up too soon, because
it takes a while to establish rapport. On the other hand,
if the relationship isn 't productive by then, there's a
good chance it may never be.
That was Catherine: cool and deliberate and
decisive about the things that mattered. She had
written this just three days before she died.
Cardinal read a few more of her messages. None
was about Dr Bell. Mostly they were replies to
queries, telling people where to turn for referrals,
or recommending books she had found helpful.
He clicked on a New Message button and wrote the following:

Urgent: I need to hear from anyone who has had
experience with Dr Frederick Bell, currently in practice
in Algonquin Bay, Ontario, formerly in Toronto
and before that in England. Any comments, positive
or negative, gratefully received.

He read the message over, hit Enter, and closed
the computer.

When he woke the next morning, he went straight
to the kitchen and logged on. The website informed
him there were three replies.

IceFire, I saw Dr Bell for about six months in
Toronto, just before I moved back to Nova Scotia.
I found him to be sensitive and intelligent and I
was sorry to lose him. I was coming off a manic
binge at the time, so mostly our meetings were
around medication that would keep me grounded.
Can't say how he'd be with someone whose difficulties
were more to do with depression. Hope this
helps.

Hey, the next one began, thought you loved your
shrink. What gives?
The third was from England.

IceFire, if you are considering seeing Frederick Bell
for bipolar disorder, or depression, I would
STRONGLY advise against it. There's no denying
the guy is intelligent - he's very well respected in

his field - and he may keep you from flying off
into the outer limits of mania, but I saw him for
close to three years after I tried to kill myself with
a bottle of sleeping pills (BAD IDEA!) In those
three years, I would say that not only did I not
improve, I was getting steadily, but quite subtly,
WORSE. It's hard to put my finger on it, but I
began to feel that he did not want me to get better.
Think about that. He did not want me to get better.
In case you 're wondering, paranoia is not one of
my problems. In fact, I tend to be too trusting and
it has got me into trouble many times in life. But
I was treading suicidal waters the whole time I
was seeing Bell, and his interest seemed to me,
frankly, morbid. Once or twice I even got the feeling
he was encouraging me to view suicide as a viable
option. One example: I'm a struggling writer,
poetry mostly, and one day he brought up Sylvia
Plath. And he was subtle about it, but he was
kind of leaning on the idea that her suicide had
made her famous. A small thing, you might say,
but if you were a psychiatrist treating a struggling
writer for suicidal tendencies, would YOU bring
up Sylvia Plath?
There were lots of things like this - in themselves,
maybe nothing much, but cumulatively I
think they had an extremely negative effect on me.
I now see a psychologist for therapy and a psychiatrist
for prescriptions, and the difference is night
and day. My therapist really reflects back at me
my negative thought patterns, but in such a way

that I see them for what they are, which is
LETHAL! The result is my thoughts tend far less
in that direction now. I'm no Sunshine Sally, but
suicidal thoughts are definitely gone and I'm far
more productive than I ever was. Maybe other
people had a good experience with Bell, but frankly
I doubt it.
By the way. The clincher that made me dump
Bell? When I was in a really black period - I'd
just been rejected for a grant, my dog had died,
and my husband was having an affair (ARRRGH!) - he suggested I write out a suicide note. Actually
write one out. Nice, huh? Why not hand me a .45
while you 're at it?

Cardinal closed the computer and reached for the phone. The number for Dr Carl Jonas at the
Clarke Institute was still on the list of frequently
dialled numbers on the fridge. There were several
numbers for Dr Jonas, including his cell, he was
that kind of doctor. It was eight-thirty in the
morning. Cardinal dialled his cell phone, not really
expecting to get hold of him.
'Hallo! Jonas!' the doctor yelled. It was always
the way he answered the phone. Forty years in
Canada, he still sounded as Hungarian as goulash.
'Dr Jonas, it's John Cardinal calling.'
'John Cardinal. Hold on a moment, you've just
caught me trying to avoid being decimated by a
lady parking her sport-futility vehicle. I could drive
right inside this machine and still have room to

turn around. Hah! She's given up. Looking for a
landing strip to park in, I suppose. Such monsters,
they are, it's an incredible. What I can do for you?
Catherine is all right?'
When would he get used to this question? Even
knowing it was going to come was no defence.
'No,' was all he could manage.
'No? What means this "no"? What's going on
with Catherine?'
'She's dead, Doctor. Catherine is dead.'
There was a long pause.
'Doctor, are you there?'
'Yes, I'm here. I'm just so - If you're calling
me, I'm thinking she did not die by accidental
means.'
'She went off a nine-storey building. Leaving
a suicide note.'
'Oh, I'm so sorry. What a sad, sad thing. I don't
have what to say, Detective. Such a brave, creative
woman. It's too sad. I was very fond of her.'
'Well, you meant a lot to her, I hope you realize.
She could never say enough good things about
you. In fact, she referred someone to you just the
other day. Really, you would blush to read the
things she had to say about you.'
'You make my heart glow,' the doctor said
quietly. 'Tell me, Detective, if you don't mind, was
Catherine hospitalized?'
'No. Out for a year now.'
'But she was seeing the Englishman, was she not? Dr Bell?'

'Yes, and frankly, she seemed to like him okay.'
'Naturally, you believe he failed her. Perhaps
you believe the same of me too.'
'Not at all. You hadn't seen her for a long time.'
'Was she despondent before she died?'
'No. I thought she was in good shape. You
know, busy, working on a project.'
'Sadly, this is often the way. They make up their
minds and - boom, they leave the rest of us to
cry. I never expected this of Catherine, though, I
must say. She loved too much to do this, I always
thought. That's why, despite the severity of her
problems, she always managed to get to the
hospital in time. She wanted to survive, and above
all she did not want to hurt you or your daughter.
Ach, so sad it is. Was there something I can do
for you, John?'
'I just have one question. And since you treated
Catherine for many years, I hope that you'll be
able to give me a clear, solid answer.'

'I'll do my best. Though things, as you know,
are not so often black and white. What is your
question?'
'Would you ever ask a manic-depressive to write
a suicide note? Or a depressive of any kind?'
'Never. Absolutely not.'
'Not even as part of therapy? Maybe to get their
suicidal thoughts out on the table?'
'Never. The first question one asks of a
depressed patient is, Have you ever considered
suicide? And if the answer is yes, there are two

follow-up questions: How often? Have you taken
any concrete steps? That is how you gauge the
seriousness of suicidal ideation, if they have taken
steps. By getting them to write out a note, you
are making real what was previously only fantasy.
They are taking a concrete step.'
Tut that in context for me. Is that your personal
view, or is that general practice?'
'No, no, it's basic, basic, basic. Anyone trained
in psychotherapy will tell you the same. A suicidal
patient is seeking help with such thoughts. Asking
them to write a suicide note would be sending
the message that writing suicide notes is a healthy
thing to do. It is not. Suicide notes are intended
either to accompany the patient's extinction or
they are meant as a cry for help. Since in the first
place we don't want the patient to become extinct
and in the second place they are already crying
for help, such a note would serve neither of these
purposes.
'Look, a terminal cancer patient in terrible pain,
no quality of life, a few weeks left to live, by all
means, if you want to end your pain, that's a legitimate
choice, maybe a positive choice, so practice
a few notes, say exactly what you want to say. But
as therapy for suicide? Please. It's like suggesting
to a pedophile, Why don't you draw me a few
pictures of your fantasies. Or to a serial killer, Why
don't you write out a nice description of your ideal
victim and we'll talk about it. I'm sorry, I make
depressed people sound like criminals now, and I

don't mean to, but you get my point. Perhaps it's
more like saying to someone killing themselves
with anorexia, Why don't you bring me in some
pictures of the models and actresses you'd most
like to look like. They already suffer from extreme
negative self-image, extreme body dysmorphia, and
you're going to help them by such an enterprise?
No, no, it's an incredible.'
'All right, well, that's clear. But isn't it possible
another therapist would see it as a way of clarifying
a patient's negative feelings?'
1 sincerely hope not. It's completely irresponsible.
Are you saying Bell asked this of Catherine?'
'Her suicide note had his thumbprint on it. He
admits seeing it before she died, but he says she
brought it in on her own. It was her idea.'
'Well, that's totally different. Obviously '
'The thing is, I'm not sure I believe him. Another
patient told me he asked her to bring in a suicide
note. She was extremely depressed at the time and
he asked her to write one out - for therapy - and
to bring it in. She dumped him because of it.'
'Well, I'm sitting here shocked, Detective. The
parking enforcement is eyeing me suspiciously and
I'm sitting here not knowing what to make of this.
It strikes me as extremely bad therapy, if true. I
can't believe. And anyway, even if he didn't ask
for Catherine's note, he should have hospitalized
her when she wrote it. There was no discussion
of this?'
'None that included me.'

'I can't believe. Okay, so question is what to
do. Suppose he did ask for the note, it's now a
legal matter on which I can't advise you. He's
negligent? It's malpractice? Those are questions
for lawyers and ethics committees. You're planning
to pursue such an avenue?'
'Ethics committees?' Cardinal said. yNo, I have
something a little different in mind.'

39

Dorothy Bell went to the hairdresser in the morning
and in the afternoon spent a tranquil hour raking
leaves and bagging them for recycling. She was
back inside, watering the houseplants, when she
heard a patient leaving, and then the connecting
door opened and Frederick came in.
'What a nice surprise,' he said, and kissed the
top of her head. 1 thought you were going downtown.'
'I've
been downtown. I'm back.'
'Gosh, only four o'clock and I'm starving. Those
sandwiches at the hospital are so skimpy. A person
could starve up there and no one would know.'
He was rooting around in the cupboard.
'What are you looking for?'
'Biscuits, my dear! Biscuits! My kingdom for a
biscuit!'
'They're in the other cupboard. Red tin.'
'Hiding them again,' he said cheerfully. 'Keeping
them from me.'

That Dorn boy,' she said. The one that shot
himself in the laundromat. He was one of your
patients, wasn't he?'
'Yes, he was. Poor fellow.'
I'm surprised you weren't more upset about it.'
'I was upset about it.'
'You didn't mention it.'
'I didn't want to worry you, that's all.'
'Why would it worry me?'
'I don't know. You're worried now, it would
seem.'
'I just wonder why you didn't mention it. It's
a pretty dramatic way to lose a patient, after all.
And it was in the papers.'
'Oddly enough, Dorothy, I see it as my job to
worry about my patient, not yours. Some young
men want to kill themselves, it's a fact of life. Lots
of them come to me when either it's too late to
do anything for them or when they don't really
want to change. That is to say, they really, really want to kill themselves. And so they do.'
'And that's fine with you?'
'Darling, what's got into you?'
'I just find it appalling that you can have a
patient go into a public place and blow his head
off and you say not one word about it.'
'I talk to people all day, I listen to people all
day. Sometimes I don't feel like talking at home.
No doubt there are doctors who drag their entire
caseload home with them and worry their families
with it day and night. I'm not one of them.

16?
End of story.' He put the milk back into the fridge
and picked up his glass and plate. 'I don't have
another patient until five. Until then I'm going to
be writing up some notes.'
He closed the door after himself, and Dorothy
listened to his footsteps recede.

Dr Bell set his milk and cookies on the coffee table
and inserted a DVD into the player. He had had to
leave the kitchen immediately, all but overwhelmed
by the urge to strike his wife, something he had
never done - or even wished to do - in his life.
Her accusations rattled him. Dorn's departure, it
was now obvious, had been too flamboyant to be
considered a hundred per cent optimal outcome.
Bell used to have endless patience; he could
allow his flock to move at their own pace. But he was losing that now, and it unnerved him. He had
dealt with enough obsessives to know that they
rarely remained stable, they got worse and worse
until their lives spun horribly out of control and
they ended up in hospital, doped to stupefaction.
He yearned to be back the way he was, before
everything had begun to slip from his fingers.
'Leonard Keswick,' he said aloud, to clear his
head. 'Further adventures of.'
Keswick would cheer him up. He fast-forwarded
to the good bits. Onscreen, Kleenexes were
snatched up and used. Keswick's hands covered
his face then flew away in a jerky peek-a-boo.
Then Bell hit Play.

'It's my worst nightmare,' Keswick says
onscreen. His voice is fogged with tears, hushed
with shame. 'You know what my wife did when
she found out?'
'I'm sure you'll tell us,' Bell said, and bit off a
piece of cookie. Peanut butter. Not his favourite.
'She spit on me,' Keswick says. 'She actually
spit on me. In my face. My own wife.'
The Dr Bell on the TV is all therapeutic patience
and understanding. The one in the office made
masturbating motions in the air.
'How did the police find out?' Keswick wails.
'How could they have known?'
'Didn't they tell you? Surely they have to give
you some idea of the evidence?'
'Evidence? The evidence was on my computer!
It was full of pictures of thirteen-year-old girls!'
'Boys, too,' Bell said over a mouthful of cookie.
'Let's not forget the boys, you old ponce.'
'All they would say was they were "acting on
information received".'
'What do you suppose they mean by that?' Dr
Bell says.
'I don't know. Maybe something to do with the
Internet portal or provider or whatever they call
it. Not that it matters. I'm going to lose my job,
I'm probably going to lose my family. And I'm in
hell, Doctor, that's the truth. It's like I've already
died and gone to hell, and I just don't know what
to do.'
Dr Bell gulped the last of his milk and wiped

cookie crumbs from his lap. 'Oh, I think you know
what to do, Lenny. I think you know exactly what
to do.'
The phone rang, and then he heard the voice
of Gillian McRae, a receptionist at the hospital.
'Doctor, it's Gillian. Have you not gotten back
to Melanie Greene? She's called twice this afternoon.
She sounds really distraught, and I think
you should talk to her first chance you get.'
'Absolutely, Gillian,' Bell said without picking
up. 'I'll get right on it.'

40

Delorme slid the file across the table to Cardinal.
Her brown eyes, those earnest brown eyes, gave
nothing away.
Cardinal opened the file and his immediate reaction
was two words: 'Oh, no.'
'It gets worse,' Delorme said.
If DS Chouinard was trying to take Cardinal's
mind off his loss by assigning him to help Delorme,
he couldn't have picked a better case. Cardinal
had seen some wicked things in his decades as a
policeman - disgusting, evil things - but he had
never seen anything that shocked him more than
the pictures he was looking at now.
He shook his head, as if to physically shake the
taint from his mind. 'She can't be more than seven
years old in some of these.'
'I know,' Delorme said, examining her thumbnail
absently, as if she dealt with this kind of
masculine evil every day. 'And it goes on for years.
At least until she's thirteen.'

In the later pictures, the tears were gone. In
most of them the girl wore a blank expression,
like a sheep being sheared. Perhaps she was
turning her mind somewhere else, trying to think
of arithmetic problems, the names of rivers,
anything to take her mind off what this man her
father or guardian - was taking from her. The
things she would never get back.
1 don't know about you,' Delorme said, 'but
me, one of the sweetest moments in my life was
my first kiss. Donny Leroux. We were so young
- not even teenagers yet. I think I was twelve,
maybe only eleven, he was probably the same.
We were in his guesthouse. His family lived out
on Trout Lake, on Water Road, and they had a
tiny guesthouse down by the water. Just a cabin,
really, with two sets of bunk beds.
'I went with my friend Michelle Godin, and I
forget who the other boy was. And somebody
pulled out a bottle and started spinning it. I'd heard
of spin the bottle before, but never played it. And
you know, the funny thing was, I hadn't even
really thought about being kissed. It wasn't something
I was yearning for or wondering about. I
must've been just eleven, because I sure thought
about it later.
'Anyway, it ended up Donny kissed me. Just,
you know, closed mouth and only for maybe a
microsecond, and I'll never forget it. Well, here it
is twenty-five years later or whatever and I still
remember it, the sweet thrill of it. Like tiny threads

of electricity snaking all over my body, down to
my toes and fingertips. Like being tickled, only
from the inside, somehow.'
'Sounds like love,' Cardinal said.
'Oh, no. I thought about it and thought about
it, afterward, but I didn't want to do anything
more with him. I don't think I had the concept
of dating yet, but I don't remember particularly
wanting to know him better or spend lots of time
with him. It was like having seen the northern
lights for the first time. You remember them, you
never forget them, but you don't build your life
around them.'
'Maybe the boy felt differently.'

Delorme shrugged. 'Who knows if it was the
first time for him? Anyway, my point was that
our mystery girl will never have that experience.
The man in the picture has robbed her of that.
When she kisses a boy her own age, it will be an
entirely different experience.'
And that may be the least of it, Cardinal thought
as he shuffled through the rest of the photographs.
'Toronto's come up with some great stuff.' She
pointed to one of the pictures, a hotel room to
judge by the plain symmetry of the bed and its
two night tables. 'They figured out that that's the
Traveller's Rest motel just north of Toronto.'
'I don't know it,' Cardinal said.
'I didn't either. But apparently if you have little
kids you know it. It's the closest inexpensive motel
near WonderWorld.'

'Nice,' Cardinal said. Takes her on a special trip
and then does that to her. And they traced them
to Algonquin Bay how? The plane?'
'Yeah. I talked to the owner of the plane, guy
named Frank Rowley. Doesn't look like our perp.
No hair, for one thing. He's got a wife and kid
and a serious guitar habit in addition to his plane.
He gave me a lot of stuff on his neighbours at the
marina, but he never saw anything that made him
suspicious.'
The squad-room door opened and Mary Flower
came in with another padded envelope.
'You wanted me to let you know the minute
it got here?' she said. 'It just got here.'
'More stuff from Toronto,' Delorme said. 'Those
guys have been working hard. They'd love to see
us nab this guy.'
Delorme slit open the envelope and pulled out
more photos. 'No motel this time. No boat, either.'
'All the same house, looks like,' Cardinal said.
'You've got living room, kitchen, bedroom
'I know. Unfortunately, none of it matches with
any of the houses I saw. I tried to catch glimpses
of other rooms when I could, but none of them
looked like this. None of the kitchens had blue
tile, for example.'
'What about these curtains?' Cardinal had
pulled out a photo taken in a living room. The
little girl on the couch. Behind her, the edge of a
curtain that looked blue with a gold medallion
motif.

Those weren't visible in the earlier pictures.
But I'm pretty sure none of the houses had curtains
like those. Of course, people change their curtains
all the time.'
Cardinal shuffled through the rest of the
pictures. The images draped a whole other layer
of sadness over his own personal grief. This poor
girl. He had little doubt that the man in the pictures
was her father or stepfather - her face was too
full of delight in the non-sexual pictures, too full
of trust. And then to have that trust ripped from
you and torn in pieces, how would you ever learn
to trust again?
'Let's arrange these with the others according
to her age,' Delorme said. 'You set these out and
I'll go get the others.'
Cardinal laid the photographs out on the table
one by one. With each image his heart grew
heavier. Leaving aside the question of how a man
could lust after a child nowhere near puberty,
Cardinal could not understand how he could have
looked at that sweet face and betrayed the growing
spirit behind it. How could you hold that little
hand, receive the innocent kisses of the Cupid's
bow mouth, and then abuse her? He could not
comprehend the mind of someone capable of such
treachery toward a child.
From what Cardinal could see, the man
appeared to be in his thirties, with long, almost
shoulder-length dark hair. Although they showed
everything else, none of the photographs showed

his whole face. An eyebrow here, an ear there, a
bit of nose. It was impossible to tell from such
fragments, but he seemed to be a reasonably good
looking man, able to have a sex life in the normal
way. So why plunder the childhood of a little girl
in your care?
Delorme had brought the earlier pictures in and
added them to the arrangement on the table.
'Well, she never looks any older than the later
one on the boat,' Delorme said. 'And if that was
taken five years ago, it could mean a number of
things. Possibly the kid got sick and tired of being
his sex toy and told him to drop dead. Or maybe
even told someone else.'
'I doubt it,' Cardinal said. 'I'm not sure why maybe
it's just the way she clearly loves the guy
in some of the non-sexual shots - but I can't see
her turning him in. Not back then, anyway.'
The, I think it's possible. Which means this guy
could already be in jail.'
'It's a happy thought . . .' Cardinal said.
'What? You look distracted.'
'I'm just trying to think what it means, these
pictures being five years old. I read somewhere
that the average family these days moves every
five years.'
'Which makes it unlikely that any of the homes
I visited was the actual crime scene.' She gestured
at the pictures and corrected herself. 'Scenes. And
not only that, the family could have broken up.
Seems likely, given the problems this guy has.'

'And causes.' Cardinal shook his head. 'A guy
like that could destroy a lot of families before he's
through.'
The two of them stood with arms folded, heads
bowed like wartime strategists surveying pictures
of bombed-out cities, smoking ruins. There were
enough photos now to cover most of the boardroom
table.
'People take furniture with them, when they
move,' Delorme said. 'I keep hoping to recognize
a chair, a table, books, something.'
'He was pretty careful to keep out any identifying
features.'
'Yeah. He's sickeningly fond of close-ups.'
'What about the sofa in this one?' Cardinal held
up a picture of the girl asleep on a love seat. It
had red plush seats and interesting wooden trim.
'No. I'd have remembered a piece of furniture
like that.'
'What about this?' Cardinal held up a picture
that included the leg and corner of a coffee table
in the Swedish modern style. 'The table's pretty
distinctive.'
Delorme peered at it and shook her head. 'The
Ferriers had something a lot bigger, in darker
wood. And Rowley's was some kind of country
look, sort of a split-log effect. He's a real wholewheater,
that guy.'
'There's a fireplace in this one,' Cardinal said,
holding up another shot.
Delorme shrugged. 'I didn't see any fireplaces.

Anyway, as you say, after five years chances are
they've moved and the fireplace is no longer part
of the picture.'
'Yeah, but the implements might be. The brass
poker and shovel.'
'I didn't see anything like that.'
'I wish I'd gone with you to the houses. Two
heads are better than one, and we could have split
up - you know, one of us uses the bathroom while
the other takes a gander at the kitchen.'
Delorme didn't respond. She was standing, head
bowed, chin in hand, pondering the table. She
reached for a photograph, put it back. Reached
for it again. Cardinal and Delorme were not partners
- the Algonquin Bay police service does not
have partners as such, personnel are assigned to
a case as needed - but he had worked with
Delorme enough to know when an idea was
forming behind those serious brown eyes. She
would go quite still, tuned to her own private
station.
She picked up another photograph and held
the two together, side by side. 'Look at this,' she
said.
Cardinal put down the boat picture he had been
looking at and came to stand beside her.
'Frank Rowley has a rug like this,' she said.
'Navajo kind of thing.'
'Well, I'm no rug expert. I couldn't tell you if
that's an expensive item that someone would be
likely to hang on to.'

'It looks expensive to me. In fact, I noticed at
his house, the colours were so rich. Those blacks
and blues. Everything in that house is made of
wood and it looked really good against the colours
of that rug. But I don't think this is the same one.'
'Why? Just because you liked the guy?'
'No, his had a repair in it. In fact, I tripped on
it. It had a jagged line, like a scar running through
the pattern.'
Cardinal had been scanning the other photos
on the table, looking for any that might include
the rug. He found one. You could hardly expect
to notice the corner of rug right away, overshadowed
as it was by a scene of child rape. He picked
up the photo.
'You mean a jagged line like this one?'

41

Wendy Merritt put the last of the dishes in the
dishwasher, loaded the little compartment with
detergent and slammed the door shut. The timer
was set to start after midnight. It was noisy, but
it used energy when it was cheapest. She was very
energy conscious, especially since she and Frank
had started living together.
What a huge decision that had been, and only
a year and a half after her husband's death. He
had died of a heart attack after running a marathon
in Toronto, and the shock had left her stunned
and weeping for two months solid. After that, she
was just stunned. Without Tara, she would almost
certainly have settled into the long decline of the
dedicated alcoholic, but she pulled herself together
in order to look after her little girl, eventually
even beginning to appreciate the sweeter moments
of life as a single mother.
But Wendy did not want to be single forever.
She took to eyeing the personal ads, and went to

church functions where there were likely to be
single men. She even went out to the pub occasionally
with her friend Pat to size up 'the local
talent', as Pat called the men who hung around
the Chinook Tavern and the Five Bells.
The cliche had proved sadly true: the best men
really were married or gay. Honestly, the single
men in this town are just pitiful, she and Pat used
to say. They'd have their two beers at the bar, talk
to whoever talked to them, and then head off to
their separate homes faintly depressed by the
whole exercise.
Lots of the men who spoke to them seemed to
be outright crazy. It wasn't that they had outlandish
hobbies or that they behaved in a threatening
manner, although some of them were pretty rough
around the edges. No, for the most part it was just
that these lonely men were vacant, like abandoned
houses. You just had the sense that there might
have been a person in there a long time ago, but
then something had happened and that person had
never developed. Instead you got the guy who
bought you a drink and then stared at the bottles
behind the bar, saying nothing. Then, just before
it was time to leave, he'd put a hand on your leg
as if you'd been having the most intimate, exciting
conversation of your life. Most of them hadn't read
a book in ten years, never read the newspaper
except for the sports pages, and had no opinion on
anything that mattered - because there was no one living behind their blank eyes to take an interest.

Even if Wendy had been interested in sleeping with
any of them, or befriending any of them, which
she had not, there had not been a single man among
them whom she considered worth introducing to
her six-year-old daughter.
Tara had weathered her father's death as well
as could be expected. At first Wendy had thought
the tears would never end. But gradually Tara had
got used to their new life, and eventually stopped
asking about her father. In a way, that had made
Wendy even sadder.
So, a year and a half of single motherhood. Her
love for Tara became a golden bridge across a dark
chasm, the thing that kept her alive. And although
she would never have thought it possible, it
seemed her love for her daughter grew deeper.
She worried about it sometimes, that her daughter
had become almost too important to her, as if she
were becoming a surrogate for the missing
husband. That was one of the reasons she had so
wanted to find a man, and had been so dismayed
with the local talent - until she met Frank Rowley.
Wendy liked to say that Frank had flown into
her life like somebody out of a movie - a white
knight wafting out of the sky to save her and Tara
- but the truth was much less interesting. She and
Tara had been just ahead of him in the checkout
line at the No Frills. He had made some sort of
inconsequential comment, and she hadn't thought
anything of it, beyond thinking he was cute for a
bald guy. (These days she thought he was super

cute, and she thought his bald head was one of
the sexiest things about him.)
Afterward, she and Tara had been in the parking
lot, about to drive away, when Tara said, 'Here
comes that man, Mommy.'
'What man, sweetheart?'
'The man in the store. He's running.'
Wendy had turned to look and he waved at
her and came up puffing. A grin. The window
rolling down, the bag handed over, the thanks. It
all took less than a minute, and she would not
have given it another thought if it hadn't been
for their next encounter.
And this time he was a white knight.
She and Tara had gone out in a boat on Trout
Lake. She had rented a small motorboat from the
marina, just a fifteen-horse on the back. They'd
had a wonderful day, putt-putting around the tiny
islands near Four Mile Bay. Wendy had beached
the boat on a sandy point and the two of them
had become absorbed in a game of 'Indians'.
Mostly it was a game of hide-and-seek, but it
stretched on and on and Wendy had not noticed
the storm clouds coming up.
They were only a few hundred yards from the
island when the motor quit. Wendy tried and tried to start it until her arm was just about falling off, but she found a bad rip in the fuel line and knew they wouldn't be going anywhere unless it was by rowing.
But the oars turned out to be heavy and


unwieldy, and they hurt her hands. She simply
could not get the boat moving with any speed.
The air grew thick and dark and there were flashes
of lightning beyond the hills. Pulling with all her
strength on the oars, Wendy overbalanced and fell
backwards in the boat. Both oars came out of the
oarlocks and went into the water. She and Tara
were paddling after them by hand. Tara's efforts
were more counterproductive than useful, and
Wendy was becoming genuinely frightened. In a
matter of minutes the wind had blown them a
long way from shore, there were few houses
visible, and there wasn't another soul on the lake.
Everyone else had had the sense to clear off.
She heard it before she saw it. A low roar, louder
and louder. She looked up and there was nothing
but the grey and purple turmoil of clouds. Then
the plane dropped through them and nearly deafened
them as it flew by. It disappeared to the north
between two more islands, and Wendy had a faint
hope that he would report their marooned 'vessel'
to someone at the marina who could come and
get them. By the time she had retrieved the drifting
oars and put them into the locks, raindrops had
begun pelting down - heavy drops the size of
marbles.
'Wow,' Tara said, over and over again. 'I'm not
scared, Mommy. Hey, Mommy, I'm not even
scared.'
'That's good, honey,' Wendy had said, although
she considered it more rational to be frightened at

this point, both of them soaked through, lightning
pogo-ing over the hills toward them, and their
aluminum boat the highest point on a flat surface.
Blisters were stinging the palms of her hands
when they again heard a motor, much quieter this
time.
They had rounded the point that took them
into the main bay when they saw the plane
ploughing its way toward them, pontoons sending
up white frills on black water. It came within
twenty yards of them, propellers roaring. The plane
seemed to pivot on one pontoon, then the tiny
side door opened and a man leaned out.
'Storm's gonna break any minute, and it won't
be pretty. You better let me tow you in, all right?'
In no time at all he had tossed them a tow rope
that Wendy tied to the metal ring on the prow. They
were no more than twenty feet apart when she did
this, and she could feel Frank staring at them.
'Do I know you?' he said. 'Have we met somewhere?'
'Possibly.
It's not that big a town, is it.'
He snapped his fingers. 'The No Frills. You were
ahead of me at the checkout line. You forgot one
of your bags.'
'I remember you,' Tara said. 'You brought our
bag.'
'That's right,' Frank said. 'I remember you, too.
Are you ready for a tow?'
'I am!' Tara said. 'Are you going to take us up in the air behind you?'

'No. I'm just going to drive across the bay here
on the pontoons.'
'Oh.' Tara plunked down on the aluminum seat,
disappointed. The rain made her hair cling to her
perfectly round skull.
'We're ready,' Wendy said.
Frank closed the door, the propellers roared
again, and soon they were following along in the
V of his wake. The wind from his propellers
competed with the winds of the storm, whipping
wet strands of hair across their faces. It was nearly
as dark as night. Along the shore, photosensitive
dock lights winked on.
'I wish he'd fly up in the air,' Tara said. 'That
would be awesome.'
'I don't think the plane's strong enough for that,
honey.'
'We could fly over the hills and all the way
home in the boat.'
It took less than fifteen minutes to cross the
bay, a distance that would have taken them an
hour of rowing. Frank hooked his plane on to
his buoy at the marina, then hauled their tin
boat in.
'Can you make it to the dock from here?' He
had to shout over the thunder. 'I have to take my
little painter in, or I'll have no way of getting to
the plane next time.'
'I think we can make it,' Wendy said. 'Thank
you so much!'
He hauled them toward the plane as he coiled

up the rope. Wendy untied it and he reached down
to shake her hand.
'Frank Rowley/ he said.
'Wendy Merritt. And this is Tara.'

And that was how Frank Rowley had flown into
their lives.
Wendy started scouring a pot that was too big
for the dishwasher. Frank came in wearing his
wig. His sixties tribute band was playing the
Chinook this week, and he liked to wear his John
Lennon wig onstage. That was how his hair had
looked before he lost most of it at the early age
of thirty; he'd shown her pictures.
'Are you off to your gig?' Wendy said.
'In a minute. Stuff's already in the car. I want
to show you something.' He pulled two coupons
out of his back pocket. 'Bob Thibeault gave me
two free passes for WonderWorld next weekend
- well, actually Friday and Saturday.'
'Oh, that's too bad,' Wendy said. 'I can't go next
weekend. It's the conference.'
Wendy had the autumn teachers' conference
coming up. On Friday the schools would be closed
for a professional development day.
'I know, honey. But I wanted to run something
by you. I've been thinking - we've been together
eight months now, and I think Tara and I are
getting along pretty well.'
'More than pretty well, honey. She's crazy about
you.'

'Do you think?' Frank said, visibly pleased.
'She always wants to know where you are.
Always asks when you're coming home. I think she
still doesn't quite believe you're real. And she thinks
maybe you'll disappear like her other dad did.'
'Well, that's kinda what I was thinking. Tara
and I haven't had a chance to really do any
bonding stuff, just the two of us, you know?'
'But you've taken her up in the plane, you've
done a couple of hikes. And you took the cruise on the Chippewa Princess/
'That's true. But those are just a couple of hours.
I think it would be really great to spend a couple
of days together. I think it might really make us
a unit, you know? A real dad and daughter.'
Wendy leaned back against the counter, arms
folded. The thought of Tara going away for a couple
of days - to another town - made her nervous.
Her daughter had been to day camps. And she'd
slept over at friends' houses. But she'd never gone
out of town without Wendy. And WonderWorld
was two hundred miles away, almost in Toronto.
She said as much to Frank.
'Well, okay,' he said, disappointed. 'If you feel
she's not ready. I just thought it was a great opportunity.
But hey, I can give these away, no problem.'
'No, no, don't do that.'
'Well, if we're not going to use them.'
What am I worrying about? Wendy chastised
herself. Frank's the most responsible guy I've ever
met.

I'm just being silly,' she decided. 'Of course she
can go. I think the two of you would have a great
time. Except - are you willing to spend two days
at an amusement park?'
'I have to admit, it wouldn't normally be my
idea of a good time. But it seems like such a great
opportunity for me and Tara to get to really know
each other.'
The television went off in the living room. Tara
came in, clutching a stuffed lion. She laughed
when she saw Frank. 'You're wearing your hair!'
Frank primped a little. 'How do I look? Ozzy
Osbourne?'
'I love it,' Tara said, tugging at it.
'Oops, careful, honey. It'll fall over my face and I won't be able to see where I'm driving.'

'Mommy, can I get a cell phone? I want a Harry
Potter cell phone.'
'No you don't. You've just seen a commercial.'
'I do! I do! Then I could call Courtenay and
Bridget.'
'You can call them now.'
'It's not the same. Mommy, please, can I?'
'Actually, Frank has something better. You want
to tell her, Frank?'
Frank crouched down to be on Tara's level, the
way he always did when he spoke to her. 'How
would you like to go to WonderWorld this
weekend, just you and me?'
'WonderWorld? Are you serious? That would
be triple awesome!'

'Well, think about it a second,' Wendy said.
'Would you be okay just going with Frank?
Mommy can't go, because of work.'
'I wanna go! I wanna go! When? Tomorrow?'
'Friday,' Frank said. 'We'll have all day Friday
and all day Saturday together. Won't that be fun?
Maybe I'll even wear my hair for you.'

42

Patients turning up dead and Frederick completely
unconcerned. It's Manchester all over again,
Dorothy Bell thought, as her mind tumbled back
to their life in England. In England, Frederick had
been unconcerned when three patients killed
themselves in little more than a week. He had
been unconcerned when the mother of one young
suicide stood outside the hospital with a sign that
read: Dr bell murdered my son. And he had been
unconcerned when his colleagues pointed out the
high death rate among his patients.
He developed some stock responses. You try to
help people and this is the thanks you get, he
would say, with a heavy sigh and a world-weary
shrug. Nobody understands what a lethal killer
depression is, he would say. Most doctors won't
even take it on. He painted himself as a swashbuckling
surgeon venturing with his knife into
hostile territory where others fear to tread.
And yet he had been unconcerned in Swindon


when a teenaged girl in his care had blown up
her entire house in the course of gassing herself.
And unconcerned when a man in his late fifties,
about to become a grandfather, had blown his
head off in his daughter's back yard. And unconcerned
when nurses at the Manchester hospital,
where Dorothy also worked, began referring to
him as Dr Death. She had told him about it, and
he had merely shrugged that world-weary shrug
and said, 'Against stupidity, the gods themselves
labour in vain.'
The only time Frederick had seemed at all
worried was when colleagues at Manchester had
demanded an inquiry from the National Health
Service into his habit of prescribing seven times
more sleeping pills than psychiatrists with
similar caseloads. 'There are no psychiatrists
with similar caseloads,' he had fumed, even as
they were packing for Canada. 'Depression causes
sleeplessness. What am I supposed to do, let them
go psychotic with insomnia?'
This was around the time Dr Harold Shipman
had been on trial for murdering some 250 patients
with massive overdoses of heroin. Shipman had
been known as a good, kindly doctor who made
house calls. Indeed, many of his patients died even
as he was visiting them, or shortly after. His plump
wife had stood stolidly by him, attending his
lengthy trial every day, never saying a word to
the media.
And now here was Frederick with that boy who


killed himself a couple of summers ago, and that
Mr Keswick, and that policeman's wife, and that
poor Dorn boy who shot himself in the laundromat.
How could her husband be so untroubled
by it all? Of course, he wasn't Harold Shipman,
he wasn't going around killing people, but he must be doing something wrong for so many of his
patients to be killing themselves.
She remembered saying to herself, when
Shipman was convicted, that unlike Mrs Shipman, she would have known, she would have done
something.
I'm doing something now, she told herself as
she slipped into Frederick's office. She wasn't
entirely sure what she was doing, but she could
not - no, would not - sit still again while bodies
started piling up. She was not going to be Mrs
Shipman.
She unlocked the closet where Frederick kept
his session recordings. So obsessive, the way he
watched them. Years ago, back when he had been
using videotape, she had worried that they were
pornographic movies, but a few listens at his office
door had quelled that particular fear. No grunts
and groans, no cries of not quite credible ecstasy.
The only sounds that issued under and around
his heavy door were the murmur of confession,
the voice of reassurance, the tears of despair.
The disks were identified by file numbers, not
by names; it would be a simple matter to match them up to the files in his cabinets.

Frederick wasn't due back from hospital rounds
for hours. She took the first disk out of its sleeve
and popped it into the player. Then she went over
to the couch, where so many of her husband's
patients had wept and confided, and sat down to
watch.

43

Even though Cardinal's caseload was lighter than
usual, he still had to pay attention to the petty crimes
that are the usual fare in a small city. Break-ins,
robberies and assaults demanded investigation, and
reams of paperwork had to be completed for court.
In the morning, he had helped track down the
former Mrs Rowley, but Delorme didn't need him
at the moment, so he was making quiet inquiries
on the background of Dr Bell. Internet searches
led him to abstracts of papers the doctor had given,
boards he had belonged to, degrees he held, and
all his affiliations, past and present. He focused on
the earliest of Bell's associations - the Kensington
Clinic in London, England. Unfortunately, both
the doctors who had been there during Bell's
tenure informed Cardinal that they were far too
busy to discuss a former colleague.
He had better luck with Dr Irv Kantor at the
Swindon General Hospital. Dr Kantor spoke in the
sorrowful tones of a former friend.

'I thought Frederick was a good psychiatrist,'
Dr Kantor said. 'Hardworking, productive, caring.
Nobody had a better understanding of depression.
No one.'
'But you sound doubtful,' Cardinal said.
'Well, then there was all the trouble.'
'What kind of trouble?'
'Frederick was a resident here, but he received
a reprimand for over-prescribing - which meant
he would never get a staff position.'
'Over-prescribing what?'
'Sleeping pills. I think the disciplinary
committee thought he must've been an addict
himself from the amount he was prescribing, but
he wasn't. He was just giving them to an awful
lot of patients. A number of them committed
suicide with the pills he prescribed.'
'Was he charged with malpractice?'
'One patient's family tried to bring a charge,
but they couldn't get any psychiatrist to testify
that it's a gross error to prescribe sleeping pills to
someone who is not sleeping - even if they are
depressed. The most any of us could say is that
we might not have prescribed so many pills. It
might have been misjudgment, but not malpractice.'
'I'm
surprised you're telling me about it, then.'
'If that were all there was to it, I wouldn't. But
we live in a post-Shipman world - you're aware
of the physician who killed hundreds of patients?'
'Yes, I read about it. There had been suspicions

about him for some time, as I recall, but one
hospital did not inform another, is that right?'
That's right. Nobody talked to each other. And
there was more about Frederick. He left Swindon
shortly after the committee's report. We had all
liked him, but we also all breathed a sigh of relief
when he left. He joined the Manchester Centre
for Mental Health - it's the biggest psychiatric
hospital in the north. A couple of years after he
went there, they had an extraordinary number of
suicides, something like four times the rate in
similar hospitals. There was a story in the papers
and demands for a National Health Service investigation,
but it didn't happen for some reason.
Frederick moved away, and I believe the matter
was dropped.'
'Where did he move to?'
'I don't know. Once he left here, our paths
never crossed again.'
Cardinal put in a call to the Manchester hospital.
The personnel department would tell him only
the years of Bell's employment, the Standards and
Practice Committee chair refused to give anything
at all without a British warrant, and the chief of
psychiatry did not return his call.
Cardinal knew that the relationship between
those who diagnose patients and those who actually
look after them is often bumpy, if not openly
hostile. Which was why his next call was to the
head of nursing.
Police in Ontario are not normally allowed to

gain information by outright subterfuge, and it
was an indication of Cardinal's overstressed state
of mind that he, usually a stickler in matters of
procedure, gave it barely a moment's thought.
The Manchester head of nursing was a woman
named Claire Whitestone, who had a mannish
voice and a tone that suggested she had fifteen
other things she would rather be doing than
talking to one George Becker, assistant chief of
nursing at Algonquin Bay Psychiatric.
'Algonquin Bay,' Sister Whitestone noted.
'Sounds like a place where you might run into igloos and polar bears.'
'Bears and Indians,' Cardinal said. 'No igloos.'
'What can I do for you?'
'We've got a serious problem over here and I
need some help from your outfit. Some information.
And your administration, your physicians?
Well, it's like talking to a brick wall.'
'You'll get no sympathy from me, mate. I bang
my head on those same walls every single day.
Banes of my bloody existence. What's the
problem?'
'I need background on a psychiatrist who used
to work with you. He had problems with a
previous employer on matters of over-prescribing.'
'I already know who you're talking about. If
you want dirt on Frederick Bell, I can't give it to
you. Despite all the Shipman fuss, there are still
all sorts of rules about sharing disciplinary records.
It can be done, but it can't be done quickly, and

it can't be done through me. You have to go
through the '
Through the National Health Service. I know
that.'
They're not going to give you anything over
the phone, and neither am I. I assume you have
laws against slander and libel in your country?'
'Yes, of course.'
Then you'll understand why I can't tell you anything negative about that wonderful,
wonderful man, that inspired physician, that
shining beacon to us all.'
Cardinal definitely got the feeling she wished
it were otherwise. He had an answer prepared.
'We're going to request every record under
the sun,' he told her. 'But, as you say, that's
going to take time. Meanwhile, we've got people
dying over here and you may be able to save us
a lot of time and energy, and actually save some
lives.'
'Get on with it, Mr Becker. We're short-handed
over here, it's already been a hell of a day, and
I'm facing another shift.'
'I can put it to you very simply. We have a situation
here where we have a suspiciously high
number of suicides. All treated by the same psychiatrist.'
'Are
you getting complaints from patients?
Patients' families?'
'One family member took a swing at the doctor
- I'd call that a complaint. And another former

patient says he kept encouraging her to write out
a suicide note.'
A snort and its slight echo were transmitted to
Cardinal via satellite.
'So let me put it to you this way: if we were to
get a detailed report from your National Health
Service on this doctor, would it be likely to show
a similar pattern? Notice I have not named any
doctor.'
'Noted and appreciated, Mr Becker. If the NHS
ever got off its collective arse and did a detailed
investigation, it would indeed show similar occurrences
here.'
'Was there any suggestion of foul play?'
'Other than negligence? Nothing official. But,
you know, in my book, when someone jumps off
a building '
'Someone jumped?'
'I'm no bloody forensic expert, but I always
found that one suspicious. Mind you, that's just
me. There was in fact a note and everything. But
you say he was asking for notes, your doctor.'
'Yes. In at least two cases.'
'That doesn't sound like good therapy to me.
How does it sound to you?'
'Worthy of further investigation.'
'Frankly, Mr Becker, you don't sound like a
nurse. What are you, exactly?'
'I'm a husband.' The word widower would not
come to his tongue. It did not even enter his mind
until husband was already out. 'My wife went out


one day to take some photographs. It appears she
jumped to her death, leaving a note.'
There was the briefest of pauses.
I'm sorry to hear that, Mr Becker. I'm going
to hang up now. You put your question simply,
so I can answer it simply. Would an investigation
show similarities between our caseload and
Algonquin Bay Psychiatric's? The answer to your
purely hypothetical question is a very unhypothetical
yes.'
When he got back to the station, Mary Flower
held up a plump padded envelope addressed to
him.
'Looks like Christmas arrived early for you,
John,' she said, and then she coloured. 'Sorry.
Stupid thing to say,' she muttered, and turned
away.
There was no return address on the envelope.
Cardinal took it back to his cubicle, opened it, and
slid the contents on to his desk. Six shiny DVDs.

44

The DVDs were in plain white sleeves with clear
plastic windows - no labels save for a white strip
on the back where a number was written in blue
ink. The numeral seven was written in the
Continental style, with a cross through the shaft.
Cardinal shoved the disks back into the envelope
and went into the boardroom, shutting the door
behind him.
There was a large television on a trolley with
a combination VCR/DVD player underneath. It
was used for reviewing interviews with suspects,
procedures at a crime scene, and so on. Cardinal
pulled a disk from the envelope and stuck it into
the machine.
Onscreen: Dr Bell's office - the books, the rugs,
the oak furniture, the comfortable chairs, all beckoning
you to sit down, relax, reveal your heartbreak.
All is soft and welcoming here. A young
man with thinning sandy hair is seated in the
middle of the couch, one ankle crossed over a

-4/n
knee and one hand clasping that ankle. On the
surface it's a posture of comfort and informality,
but the jiggling foot gives away a certain nervousness,
and the jerky movements of his head
speak of someone who is uncomfortable in this
office, in the world, perhaps in his own body:
Perry Dorn, who killed himself in the laundromat.
Cardinal recognized him from pictures on the TV
news. Off to one side sits Dr Bell, notebook
propped open on one knee.
The young man spills out his anguish: how he
had loved mathematics, how he had turned down
an offer from McGill University in order to stay
near the woman he is obsessed with, and how
she has dumped him. Despair cries out in every
crack in his voice, in the defeated slump of his
shoulders. The acid of self-loathing burns and
sizzles over his words, even those of forced cheer.
But the good doctor doesn't suggest an admission
to hospital. Instead, he asks for details on how
Margaret, the young man's beloved, has devastated
him.
And then they talk about how he can't be sure
Margaret would even notice his suicide, she's so
preoccupied with her new lover.
'I was just thinking of the laundromat,' Dr Bell
says. 1 was thinking how, when you started going
out with Margaret, it seemed symbolic. You said
yourself it was like you were starting out clean. I
remember thinking that a witty remark. Neither
of you carrying germs, you said - I'm sure that

was your word - of previous relationships. And I
was wondering
The laundromat,' Perry says, and tosses a
Kleenex on to the coffee table. 'Yeah, she'd have
to notice the laundromat.'
Cardinal replaced the disk with another.
Leonard Keswick, the civil servant who had killed
himself after child pornography was discovered on
his computer. As a senior administrator at
Community and Social Services, Keswick had
crossed paths with Cardinal at various civic functions,
and Cardinal had often seen him on the
evening news.
He fast-forwarded through the preliminaries.
'You know what my wife did when she found
out?' Keswick says. 'She spit on me. She actually
spit on me. In my face. My own wife.' He bursts
into tears. Dr Bell waits patiently in his chair until
howls subside into sobs, sobs into sniffles.
'How did the police find out?' Keswick wails,
muffled behind a Kleenex. 'How could they have
known?'
'Didn't they tell you?' Bell asks with apparent
concern. 'Surely they have to give you some idea
of the evidence?'
'Evidence? The evidence was on my computer!
It was full of pictures of thirteen-year-old girls. I
don't know how they found out. All they would
say was they were "acting on information
received".'
'What do you suppose they mean by that?' Dr

Bell says. He shifts in his seat, rolls his shoulders
and cocks his head this way and that, his doglike
tics becoming more pronounced.
1 don't know. Maybe something to do with the
Internet portal or provider or whatever they call
it. Not that it matters. I'm going to lose my job,
I'm probably going to lose my family. And I'm in
hell, Doctor, that's the truth. It's like I've already
died and gone to hell and I just don't know what
to do.'
Keswick had always seemed such a self
possessed, confident person, and now here he was
unravelling on his psychiatrist's couch.
Cardinal began to understand now how Bell's
patients could be completely taken in by his surface
warmth. His manner spoke of open arms, a
glowing hearth, unconditional positive regard.
Cardinal himself had dissolved in the presence of
that manner when he had first come to Bell; he
had even asked him for advice. All these patients
- Catherine, too - coming to the doctor with
nothing but a wish for help, for a strong, dependable
hand to extract them from the tar pit of
despair. Who would suspect that the man who
extended it would at the same time be pushing
them back down? It brought to Cardinal's mind
the classic definition of seduction: warm manner,
low intent.
The date stamp in the corner of the image put
the Keswick interview about a year ago, the month of his suicide.

Cardinal ran the disk back a little and hit Play.
'All they would say was they were "acting on
information received",' Keswick says miserably.
And from the doctor: 'What do you suppose
they mean by that?'
'As if you didn't know, Doctor.' Cardinal hit the
Stop button. 'As if you didn't know.'
He pulled another disk out of the envelope.
There was a yellow sticky on the front, on which
was written in neat script I'm so sorry for your loss.
A moment later Catherine appeared on the television
screen, and Cardinal's breathing stopped.
His hand, without his willing it, reached out
toward her.
Catherine sits in the centre of the couch,
hunched forward with her hands clenched
between her knees, a posture habitual with her
when discussing something of intense interest, the
earnest student.
Bell is relaxed, thoughtful, one leg crossed over
the other, notepad as always on knee.
'I've been feeling much better lately,' Catherine
says. 'Remember last time I was worried that I
was just on the edge of a depressive episode?'
'Yes.'
'Well, I don't feel that way now. It was just a
little anxiety about my project. I'm going to be
doing a series of shots at different times of the
day - starting with night shots. But it's going to
be precise times of the day: nine a.m., six p.m.,
and nine p.m.'

'I believe you told me they would be aerial
shots of some kind?'
'High shots, not aerial. I wanted to take the first
set from the cathedral spire, but they won't give
me permission. So I'm shooting my first night
photos tonight - you know the new Gateway
building just off the bypass?'
'Oh, yes. I didn't think it was finished yet.'
'It's mostly finished. I have a friend who lives
there, so I'm heading over tonight with my
cameras. She's going to take me up on to her roof
- they have a deck out there - and I'm going to
take shots over the city. Supposed to be a moon
tonight, too, so it should be pretty spectacular.'
Cardinal could hear the enthusiasm in her voice.
The doctor could not have missed it either.
'Your friend will be there with you?' Bell says.
'I thought you always worked alone.'
'She's just going to get me out to the roof and
then she's off to a rehearsal. So I'll have the roof
all to myself.'
'So, what's changed from last week? Last week
you were feeling hopeless about your work.' Bell
flips back through his notebook. '"I don't know
why I bother," you said. "I've never done anything
worthwhile. Nobody cares about my pictures, and
they probably never will."'
Her own words hit her hard. The change in her
face is dramatic, the sudden droop at the corners
of her eyes, her mouth open slightly.
She trusts you, Cardinal thought. She's

completely open with you. Catherine is usually
far more guarded, especially about her work. But
with you she opens right up. She wants your help.
She wants your help to fight off her own dark
impulses. How did you repay that trust?
That was . . .' she begins, then sags a little.
'That was
'You were thinking you should quit photography
altogether. That it was pointless to go on
with it. I don't mean to be harsh, but it's your
deepest feelings we have to bring out in the open
here.'
'No, no, I understand,' Catherine says. 'I'd
forgotten how bad I was feeling last week.'
'Mm-hmm.'
'But I think it was just pre-project blues. I get
those. We've talked about those before. Whenever
I'm starting on a new project, I get anxious and
I start thinking of all the reasons not to do it. Once
I start thinking that way, I just see my life as a
series of failures, and I get blue.'
'"Nothing I've done has any value," you said ...'
Bastard, Cardinal thought.
'That sounds more than a little blue,' Bell
continues. 'Nothing you've done has any value?'

'That was ... I mean ... I was thinking -1 was
thinking. See, that's what happens when I get
nervous about a project: I think of all the reasons
not to do it. And the main reason is, who cares?
It's not like I have a long string of successes behind
me. You know, by my age Karsh was famous for

Ana
his portraits, Andre Kertesz had done the most
beautiful street scenes as well as these wild experiments,
and Diane Arbus had already had an
exhibit at the Museum of Modern Art. Why should
I bother?
That's how I was thinking. But then all those
thoughts drop away, and I just think about the
work - the technical challenges, how interesting
the various exposures will be - and I forget everything
else.'
'Interesting you should bring up Diane Arbus.'
'She was great. Here she was, this nice little
girl from the Upper West Side, and she's going off
into the scariest corners of New York City taking
pictures of transvestites and dwarves and God
knows what else. She was brilliant.'
'Probably the most famous photographer of the
last century.'
'I don't know about that. Most famous female
photographer, yes. That's true.'
'After she killed herself, anyway.'
That was so sad,' Catherine says, as if she has
lost a personal friend. 'I've read everything about
her. She and her husband were just so powerfully
in love. After they broke up, she was never the
same. She never got over it. I don't think any
amount of work or praise could fix that for her.
Not that she blamed him, she still loved him. He
still loved her.'
She speaks about her as if they had known each
other for years, as if they talked and worked

together every day, Cardinal thought. How could
I have missed that? Was I just not listening?

'The fact remains,' Dr Bell says quietly, 'she
killed herself, and she may not be the most famous
photographer, but she's certainly one of the most
famous suicides, and it affected how her work was
seen. You've obviously thought about her a lot.'

'I love her. Her work has meant a lot to me.
And you're right: the way she died does affect the
way her work is seen. It's as if every photograph
is accompanied by this huge red exclamation mark.
Like it's underlined in blood.'

'It increased her fame.'

'Yeah. Still sad, though.'

'And so - and don't take this the wrong way
- I wonder if that might not be somewhere in
your mind when you think about killing yourself.
Do you think that might be part of the attraction?'

'Oh, God,' Catherine begins. Then a long pause
as she looks away, staring offscreen. 'Could I really
be that shallow? Kill myself to get famous?'

'It's not totally unrealistic, right? There are
precedents.'

Bastard, Cardinal thought again.

'I don't think that's a factor. I mean, maybe it
is, but it's not conscious, if so. No, when I think
about suicide, it's just because I'm in such pain I
just want the pain to stop. I want it to be over.
Done. That, and I think what a burden I must be
to John, how he must hate the sight of me, and
I just think, Oh why not take this weight from
around his neck.'
'Oh, honey, no,' Cardinal said aloud. 'No . . .'
'But then I think how it would hurt him, how
sad he'd be, and I can't do it.' Catherine shakes
her head, flinging away the dark thoughts. 'And
you know what? I'm never going to kill myself.
There've been lots of times when I've been close,
but I don't know - I seem to have this inner core
of strength, and I know deep down I'm never
going to do it.'
'I see.' Dr Bell sits back so that his face is in
shadow. 'And you don't think this is just because
you're in a good mood today?'
'No. This is the real me. This is who I am. Last
week was just pre-project anxiety. I'm into it now,
I'm ready to work, and I feel - nervous, yeah, I'm
always anxious - but I want to get down to work.
I want to see how it's going to turn out.'

With those last words searing their way through
his heart, Cardinal drove over to the Crown
Attorney's office on Slater Street.
A DVD player was trundled into a meeting
room, and he and attorney Walter Pierce sat in
silence watching the work of Dr Bell unfold
beneath a portrait of the Queen as she had looked
thirty years previously. Cardinal played him the
last sessions of three patients.
Pierce was a big man, barrel-chested, with pale
skin and very small eyes that blinked a lot with

some nervous disorder. It gave him a gentle, mole
like appearance that had deceived more than a
few felons into thinking they could withstand
cross-examination from such a harmless-looking
creature. Pierce's greatest asset in court was his
voice, a velvet whisper that made the most farfetched
argument seem a reasonable idea that had
occurred to you - and a jury - after the soberest
reflection.
'The woman is your wife, I believe,' he said, as
Cardinal pulled the last disk from the player.
'That's right.'
'I'm sorry for your loss, Detective. I'm surprised
you're back at work so soon. It must be unbearable
for you to watch this.'
'Someone has to stop Bell from killing any more
patients.' Cardinal could hear the rumblings of
rage in his own voice. He added, more softly, 'He
needs to be put away.'
Pierce leaned toward Cardinal. He hadn't made
a single note on the yellow legal pad before him.
'Listen,' he whispered. 'We've presented some
difficult cases together, you and I - won most of
them, too. Largely because you're very good at
organizing your cases and finding evidence to back
up evidence.'
'I have Bell's thumbprint on '
'Let me finish. I can't even begin to imagine
what you think there is in these recordings that
might lead to a criminal charge. If you were new
on the force, I would be on that phone right now

AM
to Chief Kendall asking him where the hell he
found you. Because you don't have here even the
semblance of a case.'
'I have his thumbprint on my wife's suicide
note. I have forensics that prove it was written
months ago - back in July - and he didn't suggest
hospitalization, didn't mention it to anyone.'
Careful, he told himself, keep it calm and rational.
'Even accepting what you say at face value,
that might be construed as malpractice - a civil
matter - and no one would bring that case to
court based on a thumbprint on a note. No one
from my office.'
'We're not talking about one case here. You
saw him with Perry Dorn. The kid is completely
suicidal, yet again and again he turns the conversation
back to the most painful subjects: she left
you, she rejected you, you gave up your future.
He's rubbing his face in it.'
'I agree with you. He appears almost sinister in
some of his remarks.'
The whole time he puts on this pseudo-warm
demeanour. So kind, so concerned. Then he knifes
them.'
'Hardly, Detective.'
'These people are completely vulnerable. And
even when they're not - look at Catherine.'
Cardinal took a deep breath, but he could not
calm the pounding in his chest. 'She goes in, she's
in a good mood, she's excited about her project,
and what does he do? He says, last week you

hated yourself and everything you've ever done.
Do you find that therapeutic?'

It's surprising, I grant you. But a therapy session
is not a casual chat. He's not there to discuss
photography, he's there to help with depression.
Perhaps in his judgment the best way to do that
is to bring the patient back to the most painful
subjects.'

'Look at Keswick. You remember Keswick.'

'I remember Leonard Keswick.'

'How much time was he facing? Tops.'

'Well, the law allows for as much as five years,
but realistically, he was looking at eighteen months
suspended.'

'Eighteen months suspended, and the man is
dead.'

'Being charged with possession of child pornography
is not going to be good for anyone's selfesteem.
He lost his family. He was certainly going
to lose his job.'

'Exactly. And how did it come about? Look at
his file. He had maybe a dozen images on his
computer of teenagers having sex. How did he
ever get charged in the first place? We certainly
weren't looking for him. It was an anonymous
call.'

'And you're saying Bell made that call?'

'I think so.'

'Can you prove it? Do you have the call on
tape?'

'No. All it says in the file is two anonymous
calls. Both from a middle-aged male. The second
one claimed to actually have seen the pictures on
Keswick's computer. We wouldn't have acted on
it otherwise. Who else could it have been? This
was a home computer, not at work.'
Pierce took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge
of his nose. Without the spectacles his face looked
even more like a benign creature out of Beatrix
Potter, snout twitching. 'At this point, you have
nothing,' he said. 'And if you were thinking clearly,
you would know you have nothing. I can only
put it down to your bereavement.'
'It's a hands-off murder,' Cardinal said. 'Murder
by proxy. He knows exactly each patient's most
vulnerable point and he goes right for it. Look at
Perry Dorn. Bell even suggested the venue, the
laundromat. What more do you need? We can't
just sit here and do nothing. The bastard did everything
but sell tickets.'
'Now you're raving.' Pierce stood up. 'Detective,
my wife died two years ago. Not in the same
circumstances as yours - it was a car accident, a
trucker asleep at the wheel. It was out of the blue
and it was not her fault and I was absolutely devastated.
I stayed away from work for a month. There
was no way on earth I would have been able to
do my job during that time. We tend to forget
how big a role the emotions play in our thinking.
There is no such charge as hands-off murder, as
I'm sure you know.'
'There's criminal negligence. At the very least,

criminal negligence. He asks them to write out
suicide notes. You don't think that's reckless disregard?'
'Human
error or misjudgment is not criminal
negligence. You'd need him to prescribe some
preposterous dose of medication, something along
those lines. Notice I'm not even raising the issue
of how you got hold of those disks.'
'They were sent anonymously - probably by
Mrs Bell.'
'Makes no difference. There's nothing in them
that would make a homicide charge stick.'
'Please don't tell me the Crown Attorney's office
is going to do nothing. Are you really going to sit
back and watch this guy push his patients into
killing themselves? People are dying here.'
'Well,' Pierce said softly, 'if you really want to
nail him, you could bring them before the medical
board. They'll almost certainly give him a stern
talking-to.'

A C
45

The little brass wheel gleamed as it rotated, and
the tiny engine made the puffing sounds of a
miniature locomotive. Frederick Bell had used a
nail clipper to trim the wick of the tiny burner
below the boiler and then filled it with methyl
hydrate. The cylindrical boiler was so small it held
less than a half cup of water. All the brass parts
shimmered in the window light, and the flywheel
spun.
This stationary engine was the only memento
he kept of his father - or rather, the only one he
kept in plain sight. It stayed on his desk, to be started up occasionally when the doctor found
himself in a contemplative mood.
He was in such a mood now, contemplating
Melanie Greene. Bell was almost certain he had
nudged the young woman over the edge. There's
nothing like a history of sexual abuse to bring on
low self-esteem and depression. Getting her to talk
about it, and to admit her own ancient ambiguous

feelings about it, was just the most basic psychotherapy.
His master stroke, of course, was the timing
of his rejection. He had seen the trust in those green eyes, the yearning for acceptance. He was fairly sure
she was now in the grip of a despair so deep she
would no longer reach out for help. Today was
the first day she hadn't called since their last session.
But it made him edgy not to be one hundred per
cent sure. He couldn't begin to savour a victory until
it was beyond doubt.
Playing with the little steam engine usually
calmed him. It summoned his best memories of
childhood, when his father had been teaching him
his beloved facts of science. The steam engine
presented opportunities to talk about Boyle's law,
momentum, and the history of steam power in
general. At such times his father had seemed, in
his boy's eyes, to be another Alexander Graham
Bell - he even had the same dark hair and beard.
Sometimes, when he worked the little steam
engine, he would have a complete change of heart
about his negative therapy. He would resolve to
help people recover, as he had in the beginning,
help pull them back from the cliff's edge instead
of nudging them over. But it would only be a
matter of two or three sessions, sometimes the
very first after his new resolution, before he would
shift back to his previous attitude.
1 hate them,' he muttered. He pressed a tiny
brass lever and the engine emitted a cheerful toot.
1 just hate them.'

i a
He held the lever down until the whistle dwindled
to a hiss and the wheel stopped turning. The
engine was not calming him today, and he
certainly wasn't making any resolutions. He extinguished
the little blue flame and set the engine
on the bookcase next to the picture of his mother,
a picture of her smiling in the back yard in one
of her shirtwaist dresses, her hair still swept to
one side in the style of the forties. The picture
had been taken by an aunt just a week before his
mother swallowed the pills that killed her and left
her eighteen-year-old son to make out however
he could.
No, no, even reveries about early childhood
would not calm him today, not while he was
waiting to find out if he had rid the earth of
another useless whiner. It was important work, a
kind of sanitation, really, but he only got real satisfaction
out of getting them to do it themselves.
He was enough of a psychiatrist to know why this
was so, but the self-knowledge changed nothing.
This of course was the dirty little secret of psychiatry:
you could come to know exactly the genesis
of your particular neurosis, obsession, or fetish
and still be no closer to being free of it.
No, the real satisfaction was getting these snivellers
to remove themselves from the face of the
earth. The world was better off, and he had
committed no crime. Catherine Cardinal had not
been at all satisfactory in that regard. He had had
to resort to heroic measures with that one, and

he hadn't been the same since. It was the first
time he had actually killed someone, and that way,
he knew, lay madness, incarceration, death.
He did not see himself as a violent man, but
Catherine Cardinal had driven him to it. All that
insistence on love and art as the saving graces of
her life. What life? Going to hospital every other
year for months at a time? Living on lithium?
How could she not see that death was the only
cure for her? It would destroy the game if he no
longer had the patience to let them kill themselves.
If he resorted to such personal interventions,
the law would be bound to catch up to him.
Just his luck that his first hands-on victim should
be the wife of a detective.
He had been careful to remain unseen. Through
that all-but-abandoned parking lot and the vacant
storefronts, he had moved like a shadow within
shadow. Up the freight elevator and on to the roof,
and not a soul to see him. Then it was done and
he had left the note at the scene and removed the
evidence.
He went to the cabinet where he kept his session
recordings. He wanted to watch Dorn again. All
right, his exit had been too spectacular, but it had
been inevitable. A young man who was determined
to come to no good, Dorn: a born pisser
and moaner, always conceiving these passions for
women who couldn't care less. Left untreated, he
would have gone on plaguing women with
unwanted adoration, and friends with tales of his

Ann
misery. Cut that one off at the knees and no
mistake.
The moment he opened the cabinet, he saw
that disks were missing, half a dozen at least. His
first thought was that a patient had somehow
learned of the camera and decided to steal some.
But then he realized that the patients concerned
- Perry Dorn, Leonard Keswick, Catherine
Cardinal - were all dead. There were two disks
missing for each of them.
'Dorothy!' He went out to the hall, calling her
name. 'Dorothy, where are you!'
Blood pounded in his temples. The hall seemed
to narrow itself into a black tunnel. Somewhere
a part of him recognized rage. I'm in a rage, he
thought from a distance: the tunnel vision, the
pounding pulse, the quivering in my legs, are the
effects of rage. He couldn't have suppressed it now
even if he had wanted to. The threshold had been
crossed, the release was thrilling.
He flung open the door to the kitchen. Dorothy
had her hand on the back door, about to go out.
She turned, and her eyes were two dark little
holes of dread. Munch's eyes. Dead Mother and Child.
'I think you have something of mine,' Bell said.
His words throbbed as if they had pounding pulses
of their own.
Dorothy gripped the doorknob. 'You're doing
something wrong,' she said evenly. 'I stood by you
in Manchester when people started dying. I told

myself he must be right, it must be just that he
has a difficult caseload, he tries to help people
who are really beyond help, and it ends up looking
bad.'
'What have you done with my disks?' Bell said.

46

When he left the Crown Attorney's office, Cardinal
drove straight over to Bell's house. He stopped the
car across the street and sat looking at the dark
gables outlined against an evening sky of mauve.
The silver BMW parked in the driveway would
seem to indicate the doctor was home, but there
was no way to be sure.
Although he could employ violence when the
occasion demanded it, Cardinal was not a violent
man. No matter how angry he got at the thugs
and wretches he was called upon to arrest, he
always managed to find within himself that
rational, controlling part of his mind that could
rein in his feelings. Now, as he sat staring at Bell's
house, it took every ounce of control not to bust
right in and beat Bell into a lingering death on a
ventilator. Finally he put the car in gear and drove
through the crush of evening traffic to the one
place he had thought he would never set foot
again.

When he got there, CompuClinic was just
closing. A woman came out of the dry cleaner's
carrying an armful of plastic-shrouded clothes and
got into her car. Cardinal parked and walked round
the side of the building. He knew he shouldn't be
there, that he was not ready - the quivering in
his hands told him that, as did the sudden swelling
sensation in his throat.
Catherine's blood had been washed away. The
crime-scene tape was gone, and all the little bits
and pieces of computer had been swept up. You
would never know a life had ended here. He
circled the building, looking for entrances. Like
most buildings under construction, security was
not nearly as tight as it might be when the building
was finished. There were two different fire exits,
both closed at the moment, either of which might
have been propped open by a lazy workman or a
careless smoker - the alarms were almost never
active at construction sites. The empty storefronts
were boarded over, but some of these boards
required no more than a sharp tug to come away.
It took him all of ten seconds to open up a space
big enough to walk through.
Inside, there was enough light coming through
the glass door at the rear to see by. The space was
essentially a concrete box with thick wires
extruding from the walls and ceiling. Two-by-fours
were stacked in a neat pile by one of the walls,
and the place smelled of concrete and raw wood.
The door led to a plain hallway bright with

A1A

fluorescent lights. At the end of this, a door marked
stairwell led to the basement and a freight elevator
sitting empty and open. Cardinal put on leather
gloves before stepping inside and pushing the
button for the roof.
In less than two minutes he had got himself to
the rooftop without being seen, just as a killer
could have done. The door to the patio was locked
now, but there was a loose brick right next to it
that could be used to prop it open. Probably one
of the last things Catherine had touched on this
earth.
He went down using the regular elevator and
exited through the front lobby. He stood once more
in the parking lot, staring at the place where
Catherine had been. Would that image of her lying
there be with him for the rest of his life? Her tan
coat, her bloodied face, the smashed camera?
All the way home he tried to replace it with
another image. Of course, he could recall thousands
of different moments with Catherine, but
he could not hold any of them in his mind long
enough to erase the horror of that parking lot.
The only image he could retain for more than a
split second was the one of her in the photograph,
looking slightly annoyed, two cameras slung across
her shoulders.
Two cameras.
If it were not for that memory, that photograph,
Cardinal would probably not have ventured down
to Catherine's darkroom again for months. He

didn't want to hover among her sinks and trays
and strips of film as if he were the ghost. He had
not even yet considered the possibility of clearing
the place out. Catherine's darkroom had to stay
exactly as she had left it. She would be upset,
otherwise. She would be unable to work. Despite
having held her dead body in his arms, despite
the weeks-long absence, he still, somewhere in
his being - everywhere in his being, it felt like expected
Catherine to come back.
The scene from Bell's session recording was
replaying in his head, this time in detective, not
husband, mode.
'You know the new Gateway building just off
the bypass?' The enthusiasm climbing in her voice.
'I'm heading over tonight with my cameras.'
Cameras. Plural.
He opened the narrow white closet where she
kept her gear. No cameras. A few black lenses,
long ones, lay on the shelves, lenses for her old
battered Nikon. She would have taken the smaller
lenses with her. The Canon was missing.
Cameras plural.
He went to the other part of the basement, his
work table where he had put Catherine's things.
Her last things. The plastic bag from the hospital
containing her clothing: her watch, a bracelet, her
sweatshirt, jeans, and underwear. No camera.
Outside again, he checked Catherine's car floor,
trunk, glove compartment. No camera.
When he was back in his own car heading into

town, he called ident. Collingwood kept a schedule
as strict as police work would allow; he did his
shift and then he was gone, like a mechanical
figure on an antique clock. Arsenault seemed to
have been selected for the job purely for contrast,
because you never knew when you would find
him in. He often worked late into the night, so
much so that there was a lot of speculation at the
office on his personal life, or lack thereof.
Arsenault picked up on the first ring.
Cardinal didn't bother with preliminaries. 'I
need to check the boxes from Catherine's scene,'
he said, passing a pickup truck that straddled two
lanes. 'I need to know if there's a camera there.'
'I can tell you that right now. Yes, there was a
camera there. A Nikon. Lens smashed all to hell.'
'Just the one?'
'Yeah, John. There was just the one.' Arsenault
sounded surprised.
'Is there anyone still in the evidence room? Can
you sign the boxes out for me? I'm on my way
in.'
'No need. They're right here in ident. Closed
case, remember? Figured you'd ask for 'em sooner
or later, though.'
'I'll be there in ten minutes.'
Cardinal swerved around a Honda Civic and
shot past Water Road. Luckily, most of the traffic
was going the other way.
The station was quiet. He could hear someone,
probably Szelagy, typing in his cubicle, but other

than that, CID was deserted. He walked straight
through to ident. Arsenault was at his desk,
tapping on his keyboard. Collingwood's desk was
dark.
'Hey, John,' Arsenault said without looking up.
'Stuff's on the counter.'
Two boxes, one large, one small, stood open on
a counter that ran along one wall. Cardinal hit a
switch and the counter was bathed in bright fluorescent
light.
He peered into the smaller box. Catherine's
Nikon, with its shattered lens, lay among other
items that clearly had belonged to her: her camera
bag, and contents that may have spilled out of it
- a notebook, the flat disks of filters, and a couple
more lenses. One of these was silver, and labelled
Canon.
There was no camera in the bigger box. Cardinal
stood still, thinking. The only sound was the click
of Arsenault's keyboard. Assuming Catherine had
been following her custom and taking pictures
with both of her cameras, that meant someone
had taken the Canon: either someone who had
happened on to the scene afterward, or her
attacker.
A thief of opportunity seemed unlikely. How
many people, happening on to a dead body, are
likely to steal a camera from it - a camera that
was almost certainly smashed up? And if you're
going to take one camera, why not take the other?
Assuming her attacker stole it, that could indicate

one of two things: Catherine had been mugged
for her camera, the nice shiny new Canon, and
the robber had pushed her from the roof when
he grabbed it; or her attacker had taken it from
the scene afterward. Cardinal could think of only
one good reason to do that.
The bigger box contained items that had been
found near the body but were not necessarily
connected to it: a cigarette pack, several butts, an
Oh Henry! wrapper, a paper cup from a nearby
Harvey's. There were also many bits of electronics,
junk from the computer repair centre on the
ground floor. Beside the Dumpster, the driveway
had been littered with stray cards, drives, and
chips. Collingwood and Arsenault had dutifully
gathered them up and tagged them.
Each item was in a plastic Baggie, numbered
and labelled with the date, the initials of the ident
person who had found it, distance and clock position
relative to the body. Cardinal looked at several
of these through the plastic. He was no computer
whiz, but he knew memory cards when he saw
them. The ones he was seeing were pretty old
looking, probably from computers beyond even
the ministry of CompuClinic, Inc.
He pulled another couple of items from the box:
a CD drive, a pair of headphones, another tiny
Baggie encasing a chip. He turned this last item
over. It was a chip about the size of a postage
stamp, green-coloured and ridged with tiny teeth.
The other side was obscured by the label. He

opened the Baggie and slid the chip out on to the
counter. Pale grey lettering on the green surface
of the chip spelled out the word Canon.
'Hey, Arsenault,' Cardinal said. 'Do you guys
have a camera that will take this chip?'
Arsenault looked up and shook his head. 'Ours
take memory sticks. Different shape. Why?'
1 think this is the chip from Catherine's camera.
I want to see what's on it.'
That Nikon's not digital.'
'She had another camera with her. A Canon.'
'Really?' Arsenault looked up from his
keyboard. In that case, the printer will show you
what's on the chip.'
'Don't you have to plug a camera into it?'
'Nope. It's got a tray you can stick the chip in.'
Arsenault swivelled away from his desk and
rolled his chair over to the printer. He pressed a
button and a little tray with several indentations
slid out. 'Just drop it in there,' he said, pointing to
the smallest indentation, which was square.
Cardinal pressed the chip into the slot and Arsenault
slid the drawer in.
'If there's anything there, it should show up
on the preview screen.' He tapped a glowing
rectangle on the printer about the size of a playing
card.
The rectangle turned black and the Canon logo
appeared, then the first photograph. It was a high
shot of the city, the lights bright pinpricks. Cardinal
could make out the twin belfries of the French


A'xn

church in the distance. These were the last things
Catherine had seen.
'You can cycle through them,' Arsenault said.
'Just push the Next button.'
Cardinal hit the button and the image changed
slightly: the same view, a little closer. The next
picture was a different angle. Off to the right, the
red warning lights glowed on the Post Office
communications tower. There were several shots
of this and then back to the French church, and
Cardinal saw why she had wanted to take pictures
that particular night. The orange harvest moon
was just beginning to roll into view beside the
church towers.
'Nice,' Arsenault said quietly.
In the next shot the moon was half hidden.
And in the one after that, it was just beginning
to appear between the towers. Another moment
and the moon would be caught between the
towers like a pumpkin. But the next shot was
something else entirely.
It looked accidental, as if she had been jostled,
or startled: a wall, slightly blurred, a streak of light
from overhead and in the right-hand corner
someone's arm. A man's arm. You could just see
the shoulder, arm, glove, and the side of his overcoat.
Cardinal
hit the Next button and heard
Arsenault suck in his breath.
They both stared at the image glowing before
them.

'She got him,' Cardinal said quietly. 'She got
him cold.'
The man's arm was raised in greeting. The light
above the roof door threw a sharp shadow of his
arm, raised like a warning, to the ground. Despite
the shadows, he was clearly recognizable, with
that wide smile and his open features like a large,
friendly dog. He looked like the sort of man anyone
would want for a friend or a teacher - even a
doctor.

A1"

47

The pills were on her desk, little blue lovelies the
soothing indigo of late evening. There were nearly
thirty of them, just under a month's supply, kindly
prescribed by Dr Bell when she had first started
seeing him. What a blessing they were when sleep
deserted you. When the night stretched ahead and
the inside of your skull seemed lit up with floodlights,
they soothed your brow like a mother's
warm touch.
A tall glass of water stood on the desk beside
them, drops of condensation beading on the sides.
Melanie lifted it up and put one of her Northern
University notebooks underneath.
Saying goodbye was taking longer than she had
expected. She had intended to write just a brief
farewell and then be gone. But she found she
could not do that to her mother. Or to Dr Bell,
who had tried so hard to help her.
She spread the pills out in a line on her desk,
tiny blue pillows. Twenty-five of them. Using a

ruler, she divided them into groups of five. She
lingered over this process for a few minutes,
arranging the pills into little star shapes.
Don't ever blame yourself, she wrote, this is not
your fault in any way. You were always a good mother
to me, you always gave me everything I needed. Anyone
else would have grown up into a happy, well-adjusted
young woman.
She swept five pills off the desk into the palm
of her hand and tossed them to the back of her
throat. Two swallows of water and they were
down.
I love you very much, she added in neat script,
and paused.
A few moments went by, during which she just
stared, not at the note, but through it. Then
another five pills. She would have to be quick
now, or she would just fall asleep and wake up
feeling worse than ever. She didn't want to wake
up.
Dr Bell, I don't blame you for turning away from
me. Some of the things I said to you were pretty disgusting
and it's understandable they would make you sick.
She tossed another five pills into her mouth
and picked up the glass of water. The memory of
the things she had told Dr Bell last time made her
choke. She got the pills down, but had an uncomfortable
coughing fit and had to drink nearly all
her water to calm it. Her eyes stung with tears.
But I won't cry, she told herself. I'm done with
crying. Forever.

4A4

Being a good doctor, I guess you saw that I was beyond
help, even though you tried so hard to help me and
couldn 't bring yourself to tell me I was terminal.
Another five pills.
I'm sorry.
Another five pills.
So sorry for everything.

48

Despite what he recognized as his previous misbehaviour,
Cardinal was a firm believer in procedure.
And the proper procedure on this frosty night
- still no snow and yet the temperature heading
toward freezing - would have been to call his
detective sergeant and tell him the evidence he
had. If Chouinard agreed the evidence warranted
immediate arrest, the DS would assign other detectives
to assist him. If not, a discussion with the
Crown might be arranged to see what more was
needed.
As he drove past the cathedral toward Randall
Street, Cardinal knew very well he was violating
procedure by not calling his DS. But then, he was
violating procedure by working on the case at all.
And he was violating procedure by not calling for
backup. He could see DS Chouinard's face forming
in the frost on his windshield. He could hear his
angry words somewhere within the blast of the
Camry's heater.

But none of that stopped him.
The Camry zoomed through a red light, cherry
flashing on the roof. No siren. He didn't want the
doctor to hear him coming.
Three minutes later he was pulling to a stop a
few doors from Bell's house. There were lights on
at the back and upstairs. He went around to the
rear, passing the kitchen windows; there was no
shadow of movement inside. The BMW was still
parked in the driveway.
Cardinal stepped silently on to the back porch.
The upper part of the back door was glass, mostly
covered by gingham curtains on the inside. He
peered through a small gap and saw the far wall,
with its fridge and calendar, a cuckoo clock above
the far door, which was closed. And, changing his
angle a bit, he could see the still form of Mrs Bell,
curled up on the floor in a dark pool of blood.
Cardinal broke the glass with his elbow and
reached in to open the lock.
He paused for a second in the doorway,
listening. The house was huge, and the kitchen
door was closed. If Bell was home, he might not
have heard the window break.
Cardinal tiptoed around the blood and touched
the side of Mrs Bell's neck. She was still warm,
but there was no pulse, and the size of the dark
pool beneath her indicated there never would be.
There were defensive wounds on her forearms,
and a terrible gash across her throat.
Not your best work, Cardinal thought. You're

used to having people kill themselves for you. She
took your disks, stole your precious trophies, and
you went into a rage. The question is, what do
you do next? What does a man obsessed with
suicide, and guilty of at least two murders, do
next?
Cardinal turned the handle of the kitchen door
and moved silently into the front hall, the waiting
area. It was lit by a small, elegant chandelier, but
the doctor's office, off to the left, was dark, as was
the living room on the right. He tried the office
door. Locked. The stairs were carpeted, but old.
He stepped on the edges to minimize creaking, his
Beretta in his hand.
Upstairs, the only light flowed from the front
room. Four steps, and Cardinal was there, gun at
the ready, safety off, right hand cradled in left
palm. The room was large but overfurnished, with
two armoires, two armchairs, an antique vanity, and a vast bed covered in a red quilt on which a
suitcase lay open, half packed with men's clothes.
A quick check showed no one behind the door,
no one under the bed, no one crouched in the
armoires.
Cardinal worked his way swiftly through the
other rooms. A bedroom set up as a sewing room.
A guest room, spicy with the scent of potpourri.
And two other rooms done up in subtle colour
schemes, one a TV room, the other a comfortable
looking library with a small billiard table and a
fireplace.

A A

There were two more doors leading off the hall.
The first proved to be a closet.
A creak. Was that a floorboard overhead?
Someone on the third floor? It could have been
nothing, just the kind of noise an old house makes,
but Cardinal went dead still, listening.

49

Finding Frank Rowley's previous wife required no
subtleties of police work. A few phone calls, a
check of marriage records, and Delorme found
herself at the home of Ms Penelope Greene. Few
houses in Algonquin Bay were smaller than
Delorme's bungalow, but this one managed it. It
was a tiny brick cottage hunched between two
much larger houses like a toddler between its
parents.
The pretty woman who answered the door was
in her forties, with hair fighting to stay more
blonde than grey. Her face had a wary expression,
the green eyes narrowed, but that was less likely
to be pure physiognomy than the result of finding
a policewoman on her doorstep.
'Mrs Rowley?' Delorme said.
'Not any more. I changed back to my maiden
name years ago.'
'I'm Sergeant Delorme.'
'Melanie's not in any trouble, is she?'

'No, your daughter hasn't done anything wrong,
but I need to talk to you about something that
almost certainly involves her.'
Ms Greene showed her into a miniature living
room. A doll-sized love seat and two compact
armchairs seemed to jostle each other for breathing
room, but the place had a comfortable, dog-eared
charm. Delorme sat on the love seat, which was
so low-slung that her view of Melanie's mother
was framed by her own knees. And as she sat
down, Delorme realized it was the love seat from
one of the photographs: intricate wooden trim
around red plush cushions. And through the
doorway beyond Ms Greene, a partial view of the
kitchen showed the distinctive blue tiles that had
appeared in several of the pictures. Yes, Delorme
had come to the right place, but it did not make
her happy.
'Ms Greene, how old is your daughter?'
'Melanie's eighteen. She'll be nineteen in
December.'
'And she has blonde hair like you?' This was
probably an unnecessary question. Ms Greene had
the same green eyes as the girl in the photographs,
the same perfect eyebrows, the same upturned
nose.
'Well, it's much blonder than mine. It's like
mine used to be. Why could you possibly want
to know that? There hasn't been an accident, has
there? Tell me right now. She's all right, isn't
she?'

'No accidents. As far as we know, she's all right.
Her father is Frank Rowley, is that correct?'
'Stepfather. He came into our lives when
Melanie was just starting school. He left nearly
five years ago, though. Married life didn't suit
him, it turned out - or so he said. He moved
away to Sudbury and didn't keep in touch. He
should have kept up some relationship with
Melanie, at least, but he didn't. He's living in
town again now. I've seen him a couple of times,
but I crossed the street to avoid him. He has a
new wife and a step daughter who looks about
six. I haven't even told Melanie he's back. I
should, though. It'll upset her if she bumps into
him.'
Delorme took out the file of pictures and
selected an enlargement that just showed the girl's smiling face, aged seven or eight.
'Is this your daughter?'
'Yes, that's Melanie. Where did you get this? I
have tons of photos, but I don't think I've ever
seen this one.'
Delorme selected another enlargement. Head
and shoulders, the girl at thirteen, the same wary
gaze as her mother.
'Yes, that's Melanie too. She would have been
thirteen. Sergeant Delorme, you're scaring me.
Why do you have pictures of my daughter - old
pictures - that I've never seen?'
Delorme pulled out another two photographs,
carefully cropped to show only the perpetrator

- not what he was doing or to whom. Long hair,
naked torso, turned mostly away from the
camera.
'Ms Greene, do you recognize this man?'
She took the pictures from Delorme with excessive
care, as if they were germ cultures. This is this
is Frank. My husband, Frank. Former husband.'
'You're sure? The pictures don't show much.'
'Well, I just know it's him. The way you do,
when you've lived with someone for years - the
tilt of his head, his jaw line, just his stance - that
slight bend to his shoulders. Besides which, he's
got those three freckles on his shoulder.' She
tapped the photograph. 'His left shoulder. They're
like Orion's belt, a slight triangle. This isn't going
anywhere good, is it?'
'No, I'm afraid not, Ms Greene. Can you tell
me where I can find Melanie?'
'She has her own place now. It's just a boarding
house, but she wanted to be on her own once she
went to college. I'll give you the address. But not
until you tell me what's going on.' Ms Greene
stood up and clenched her hands open and shut,
as if preparing for a terrible fight.
'You might want to sit down,' Delorme said.
'What I have to say is going to upset you.'
'Please just tell me, Detective.'
'I'm sorry to have to say this, but we have
other photographs of Frank and your daughter.
Photographs in which he is having sex with her. They were found on the Internet.'

Ms Greene's right hand rose to her chest.
'What?'
'There are at least a hundred of these photographs.
Where he posted them originally, we've
no idea. People who collect porn often like to
trade it. The result is that now, when the
Toronto police arrest someone for possession of
child porn, they often find images of your
daughter among all the others on the suspects'
computers.'
Ms Greene still had not moved, the hand
wavering uncertainly above her heart in the hopeless
quest to protect it.
'We need to speak to your daughter to see if
she'll testify against Mr Rowley. We're dealing
with serious crimes here, and it seems there's now
another little girl to worry about.'
But Ms Greene was barely hearing her. Delorme
watched the process of shock turning into heartbreak,
pity, sorrow, and regret, and a thousand
other emotions that could only be guessed at. It
was like watching the slow-motion toppling of a
building: both hands rose to cover her face and
she gave a muffled cry, her legs gave way and she
crumpled back into her chair, tipping forward over
her knees.
Delorme went into the kitchen, which was as
tiny and neat as a ship's galley, and made tea. By
the time it was ready, Ms Greene's weeping had
subsided into sniffles, and as she sipped delicately
at her cup, misery was shifting into anger. 'I'll kill

him,' she said at one point. 'I'll absolutely kill
him.'
'You can't do that,' Delorme said gently, 'but
you can help make sure he never does this again.'
Anger became self-recrimination then. 'I
should have known. Why didn't I catch on? My
poor little girl. Oh, God. All those times I left
them alone together. I let him take her camping!
Boating! I let him take her out of town! It
never occurred to me he would do something
like this.'
'He would have made every effort to make sure
you never suspected.'
'I should have known, though. Now that you
tell me and you show me these pictures, I have
no trouble believing it. I know that what you're
saying is true, so why didn't I figure it out for
myself? Oh, all those times he wanted to take her places on his own - I'm such an idiot! Oh, poor
Melanie.'
More tears, more tea, and when finally the tears
no longer came, Ms Greene reached for the phone
and dialled.
'Not answering,' she said, and dialled again. She
dialled three times before Delorme suggested they
just drive over to Melanie's boarding house.

'I don't know why she isn't answering her
phone,' Ms Greene said for the fifth time as they
drove toward Melanie's place. Like most people
in the grip of bad news, she was veering between

expressions of anguish and hope. 'I'm sure she's
all right,' she said next.
Delorme turned off Sumner on to MacPherson.
'What I'm hoping,' she said, 'is that Melanie will
testify against Mr Rowley.'
'Surely the pictures are enough to convict him?
That bastard. He needs to be castrated, that's what
he needs.'
'The pictures will go a long way,' Delorme said.
'But Melanie's testimony would remove any trace
of doubt from a jury's mind. And if she doesn't
testify, they'll wonder why not. It could be used
in his favour.'
'But it would be so horrible for her. All these
years I've wondered why she's so unhappy,
and here she was traumatized by a man she
adored. He uses her like a, like a - oh, I can't
even say it - and then he cuts her out of his life
completely. Testifying will bring back all those
memories.'
'Ms Greene, I've worked with a lot of rape
victims over the past ten years or so. In almost
every case - I can't say all - but in almost every
case, they found that testifying against the person
who hurt them was a positive experience.
Embarrassing, yes. Painful, yes. But not nearly as
painful as staying silent. And if they work toward
it with a good therapist, it can ultimately be very
healing.'
'She's seeing a therapist now. Dr Bell? He's
supposed to be very good.'

Delorme made a left on to Redpath and they
drove two or three blocks in silence. Then Ms
Greene pointed to a foursquare red-brick house
with an electric garden gnome glowing in a heap
of leaves.
That's it. Melanie likes it because it's just half
a block to Algonquin and the bus stops right at
the corner. She can get to Northern in ten minutes,
which is good because she has a couple of eight
o'clock classes. Eight a.m., can you imagine? I
hope she's home. I'm sure she is.
It's just a rooming house,' she went on as they
walked up the front path, 'but Mrs Kemper, the
lady who runs it, seems very nice. She keeps an
eye on the kids -1 think all her renters are students
- but she doesn't boss them around.
'Melanie's on the second floor to the left. Oh,
her lights are on, she must've got home as we
were driving over.'
They went into the closet-sized vestibule and
Ms Greene pressed a buzzer. Those are her boots,
with the furry seams. Mrs Kemper makes them
take their boots off at the door.'
They waited a minute or two, and she pressed
the buzzer again.
Footsteps of someone coming down the stairs.
Ms Greene had a rather too-big smile ready, but
when the inner door opened, it drooped into
polite-greeting mode.
A young woman wearing a hooded Northern
U. sweatshirt and three rings in her left nostril

opened the door. She let out a little cry of
surprise.
'Hello,' Ms Greene said, catching hold of the
door and holding it open. 'Ashley, isn't it? I think
we've met. I'm Melanie's mom?'
'Oh, yeah. Hi.'
'I think Melanie just came in. We were heading
up to see her.'
'Melanie's been in all night, far as I know,' the
girl said. Then, with a 'See ya' tossed over her
shoulder, she was out the door.
Delorme followed Ms Greene up the stairs. The
house was a considerable cut above the places she
had stayed in her own student days: carpeting on
the stairs, nice wallpaper and most of all, everything
clean. Delorme had a sudden memory of a
basement room in Ottawa, grit on the stairs, and
the smell of mould everywhere.
Ms Greene tapped on a solid white door with
a brass number four on it.
From inside, an old rock song finished playing,
and then Delorme recognized the announcer from
EZ Rock, an ad for a local Toyota dealer.
'She must be home,' Ms Greene said. 'Her boots
were downstairs. And it's not like her to leave
lights on and a radio playing.'
Delorme rapped sharply on the door. 'She could
be in the shower.'
'The shower's right there.' Ms Greene pointed
at an open door. 'Shared bathroom. Oh, where is
she?'

'Melanie?' Delorme slammed at the door with
the flat of her palm. A door down the hall opened
and a young female face beamed hatred at them,
then was withdrawn.
Ms Greene leaned against the door and spoke
through it. 'Melanie, if you're in there, please
answer. We don't have to come in, if you don't
want. If you need privacy, that's okay, but just let
us know you're all right.'
'Go downstairs and get the key,' Delorme said.
A look of panic.
'Hurry.'
Delorme continued shouting through the door.
From the floor above a female voice yelled, 'Shut
the fuck up!'
A moment later Ms Greene came up the stairs,
stumbling in her rush. She tried to fit the key into
the lock, but Delorme had to take it from her and
do it herself. When they stepped inside, Ms Greene
let out a cry.
Melanie was on the floor by her desk.
Delorme saw at once the empty pill bottle, the
glass of water, the note. She knelt beside the girl
and felt for a pulse.
'She's alive. Take her feet and we'll get her on
to the bed.'
Ms Greene obeyed numbly, her eyes hollowed
out with dread.
Delorme turned the girl over on to her
stomach and stuck a finger into her throat. A
sudden retch, and scalding vomit spewed over

her hand. She did it again. Another retch, but
nothing came.
Awkwardly, using her left hand, she took out
her cell phone and called for an ambulance. They
were not more than half a dozen blocks from the
hospital.

A n

50

Frank Rowley lifted his guitar case into the trunk
of the car and laid it flat. Then he loaded the
miniature pink suitcase decorated with Disney
creatures for Tara. She was standing in the
driveway now in her pink ski jacket, the wind
whipping her blonde hair across her face. Finally,
he wedged his own suitcase in beside the guitar.
He had packed it carefully, sliding his laptop
between a couple of pairs of jeans, and hiding the
new webcam in a pair of balled-up socks. Soon
he and Tara would be on the road, alone together,
and Rowley's heart was pounding at the prospect.
'Pretty big suitcase for two days,' Wendy said.
She hadn't bothered to put on a coat. She stood
behind Tara, hugging her daughter's oversized
teddy bear to keep warm.
'You know me. I always overpack.'
'It's so windy,' she said. 'Maybe you shouldn't
set out tonight.'
'Nonsense,' Rowley said. 'Best time to go. No

traffic, and we'll get there in plenty of time to have
a good long sleep. Then first thing in the morning
we're gonna be banging on WonderWorld's gate
to let us in. Aren't we, Tara?'
'Yes! Yes!' Tara shouted. 'Wild Mouse!'
'It's gonna work out great,' Frank said to Wendy.
'We get all day Friday at WonderWorld, and
Saturday morning, and then Saturday afternoon
I play my wedding. She'll be fine. They only
booked us for two hours, and Terry'll look after
her.'
Terry was the bass player's wife who insisted
on coming to all the gigs, her husband being a
solid musician but a wayward mate.
'The wind's blowing your wig all crooked,'
Wendy said.
'I know, I know.' Rowley reached up and
adjusted the hairpiece.
'It looks cool!' Tara said.
'I don't know why you're wearing it. You're
not playing till Saturday.'
'Because Tara likes it, and I promised I would.
Didn't I, Tara?'
'Yes, you did.'
'Okay, hotshot. Hop in.'
'I want to put Teddy in first.'
Wendy opened the back door and the bear was
solemnly strapped in. Then she buckled her
daughter into the front passenger seat.
'You be good, now, you hear.'
'I will.'

Wendy gave her a hug and a kiss on the head.
'I'm gonna miss you, sweetums.'
'Mommy, it's only for two days!'
Frank smiled at Wendy with a kids-what-can
you-do sort of smile.
'Don't worry,' he said. 'I'll look after her.'
A car swung into the driveway followed by a
black-and-white patrol car. Rowley shielded his
eyes with his forearm against the headlights. The
silence of their approach, the decisiveness of their
stopping - he knew the police were not here by
mistake. He also knew there was only one thing
it could be about, and felt the first prickle of fear
on his skin, and sweat breaking out between his
shoulder blades.
'Can we help you?' he said, before he recognized
the woman coming toward him. 'Oh, hey,
I remember you. You're the detective from the
marina.'
'That's right,' Detective Delorme said. But she
turned immediately to Wendy and introduced
herself, holding up her ID. 'Ma'am, is that your
daughter in the car?'
'Yes. Why?'
'Would you take her inside, please?'
'Why? What's going on here?'
'Take her inside please. I'm here to arrest Mr
Rowley, and I don't want to do it in front of your
daughter.'
'Arrest him! You can't arrest him. He hasn't
done anything.'

'Go ahead and take her inside,' Rowley said.
'I'll sort it all out at the station.'
'But what's going on?'
'Honey, take her inside.'
Rowley watched Wendy scoop Tara out of the
front seat. The howls of protest started before they
were halfway to the house.
'Frank Rowley, you're under arrest for the
production and distribution of child pornography.
We'll be seizing any computers, cameras, hard
drives, disks, or other storage devices in your
possession. Further charges of child abuse and
sexual assault will be laid at the discretion of the
Crown Attorney.'
'I don't know what you're talking about,'
Rowley said. 'I never touched that girl.'
'We're not talking about this girl,' Delorme said,
and snapped the cuffs on him.

51

Cardinal waited, listening. Old houses creak; it
might have been nothing. Bell could already have
fled, taken a cab to the airport.
A definite footfall.
He crossed the hall in three silent steps and
opened the remaining door. A half flight of stairs
led to a landing. Once more keeping to the edges,
he moved toward the third floor. He could see
nothing beyond the landing. When he reached it,
he took a deep breath and turned toward the next
flight, Beretta up.
'I thought it would be you,' Bell said.
The doctor was seated on the top step, an automatic
in his hand - a Luger, if Cardinal was not
mistaken - pointed right at Cardinal's chest.
Had it happened a few weeks previously,
Cardinal knew, the sight of Dr Bell's Luger pointed
at his chest would have made him tremble. But
standing on the steps below the doctor, he realized
that, at this moment, he didn't care.

'One thing you should know,' he said. 'I have
a significant advantage over you right now.'
'Why? Because you don't care whether you live
or die?'
Once again the doctor had read him perfectly.
'I assure you,' the doctor continued, 'I am quite
at the same point. I too have lost a wife.'
'"Lost" isn't quite the word, is it? I know why
you murdered your wife. She took your trophies.
You've been collecting them for years. Mementos
of your triumphs. Your victories.'
'If you are referring to my disks, a more intelligent
man would realize they are a teaching aid.'
'You don't have any students.'
'Teaching aids for myself. Some of us do try to
keep learning, you know, by reviewing sessions
with particularly difficult clients.'
'Easy to gloat, too. To see how you encouraged
your patients to kill themselves, all the while
pretending to help them.'
'What I do is clarify. By reflecting a patient's
true feelings back at him or her, I give them the
power to act on those feelings. New options can
open up. Some may find new ways to ease the
pain, if not to find earthly bliss. Others may choose
to kill themselves, and that's entirely their choice
and their right.'
'Those disks clearly show you pick and choose
which feelings to reflect. All the negative ones.
Their blackest thoughts. You encourage them.
"Write me out a suicide note. Let's make it real,

here. Let's put it into words. Let's take a real step
toward actually doing it. Think of all the good
things that'll come out of it. An end to pain, for
one. Ease the burden on your family, for another."'
'True, in a lot of cases. Those are legitimate
concerns.'
'And you make sure they have a lot of pills
handy, in case they're squeamish about blood,
or . . .'
'Or what? Disfigurement? Yes, when they jump
it does terrible damage to the facial bones, doesn't
it?'
Cardinal's finger tightened on the Beretta.
'Or you put them on an antidepressant. And
then suddenly change it, or take them off it.
Excellent way to put people over the edge.'
'Detective, if I made all my patients feel suicidal,
I'd have no practice at all. If I really made people
feel worse, no one would come back to me.'
'They don't come back to you. They die.'

'Wonderful. Sherlock Holmes uncovers the
truth about depression. Depressed patients kill
themselves.'
'Yours do. They have to, don't they?'
Bell raised the Luger so that it was now aimed
at Cardinal's face.
Cardinal jerked his Beretta up to firing position.
'I
could kill you now,' he said, 'and it would
be justifiable homicide. I wouldn't even have to
lie about it.'

Alt.'

'Go ahead, then,' Bell said. His gun hand was
wavering.
Cardinal noticed as from a great distance the
fury burning through him, as if he were observing
a wildfire from a helicopter.
1 know you want to kill me,' Bell said.
'And you want me to. It's called suicide by cop.
That's what this is all about, isn't it? I read in your
book how both your parents killed themselves that
might be a good reason for studying the treatment
of depression. On the other hand, it might
be a good reason for hating people who get
depressed. And it might be a good reason for
wanting to kill yourself.'
'You read that in my book too. The so-called
suicide gene.'
'You've wanted to kill yourself for a long time,
but, unlike so many of your patients, you can't
do it. Just like you say in your book: some people
need to be around people who are capable of
killing themselves. You need them to do it for you.
You egg them on, manoeuvre them, manipulate
them, all the time pretending to help them. But
it's you you're trying to help. You're trying to
finish the one suicide you've always wanted to
commit but never had the guts to follow through
on. I wonder if you knew that way back when
you first became a psychiatrist.'
'What have you got, Detective? A grade ten
education? Do you really imagine you can analyze
me?'

'I don't have to. You can do it yourself. Why
else would you devote your life to people you
clearly hate? It must have been quite a strain
keeping up that concerned, caring front all these
years.'
'You don't know anything about the people I
treat. They're scum. Winners. Utterly useless. Utterly
selfish. They've never done anything for anyone
else in their entire miserable lives. Human garbage.'
'How does it make you feel, Doctor? Isn't that
your favourite question? How does it make you
feel when they finally kill themselves? These
whiners, this human garbage. It must feel '
'Wonderful,' Bell said. There's no feeling like it.
I couldn't describe it to you. Better than sex. Better
than heroin. I love it. So why don't you kill me?'
'And when they won't kill themselves,' Cardinal
went on, 'if they're too strong, like Catherine
'It's not my fault she didn't get it. She was
desperate to kill herself, she just wouldn't admit
it. How many times does she need to be hospitalized
before she catches on?'
That must be very . . . upsetting for you. It
must be extremely - what's the right word here
- frustrating?'
Bell's face was a portrait of contempt.
'Infuriating?'
Bell shook his head tightly. 'You don't know
anything about me. No one does.'
They know in Manchester. Or they will know, when they finally open their investigation.'

'You think so?'
'I know it. I also know you killed Catherine.
Because, as you say, she just didn't get it. She
didn't get that her therapist wanted her to commit
suicide, and when she wouldn't give in, when she
just would not take her own life, it was intolerable
for you, and you had to kill her yourself.'
'Wouldn't you like to think so? If she committed
suicide, what does that make you, right? The big
detective. The knight in shining armour. What
becomes of him if he can't save his own wife? If
she can't stand living with him any more? If she
hates him so thoroughly she can throw away the
rest of her life rather than spend it with him?
That's unbearable, isn't it, Detective? No wonder
you have to believe I killed her.'
1 didn't say I believed it,' Cardinal said. 'I said
I know it.'
He held up the tiny Baggie.
'What's that supposed to be?'
'It's a memory chip, Doctor. From Catherine's
camera.'
'Why should I care about that?'
'She took your picture when you came out on
to the roof. She always did that - photographed
whoever was around when she was taking pictures.
She photographed everyone. She was essentially a
shy person. Her camera was a kind of defence. You
knew she took your picture and that's why you
took the camera with you when you left. You went
down to where she fell and you took it away. I

imagine you were too excited at the time to realize
it had broken open, the chip had flown out. You
must've been awfully disappointed when you got
home and realized the camera was empty. I would
have loved to have seen that moment. Better than
heroin, for sure. Well, I've seen what's on that chip,
and your life is essentially over.'
'She was bipolar, Detective. Had been for
decades. How many hospital admissions were
there, all told? A dozen? Twenty?'
1 didn't count them.'
'She would have killed herself eventually.'
'Is that what you tell yourself? Is that how you
get to sleep at night?'
'Go ahead, then. Shoot me.'
'You want me to?'
'Go ahead. I'm not afraid.'
'Sorry, Doctor. No one's going to do it for you
ever again. You're just going to have to shoot
yourself.'
Cardinal lowered his gun so it was pointed at
the floor.
Bell's gun hand shook harder.
'I'll kill you,' he said. 'You know I can do it.'
'I'm not the one you want to kill, Doctor. I'm
not one of your patients. One of your whiners, as
you so compassionately call them. Killing me won't
stop the pain.'
With a jerk of his elbow, a marionette move in
its suddenness, Bell aimed the Luger in a diagonal at his own temple.

'All these years,' Cardinal said, 'it's what you've
really wanted, isn't it?'
Beads of sweat sprung out on Bell's brow. He
squeezed his eyes shut. A single tear rolled down
his cheek and into his beard.
'Go ahead. You don't really want to spend the
rest of your life in prison, do you?'
Hand and gun trembled. Bell's whole body was
shaking. Sweat rolled down the reddening face.
'You can't do it, can you?'
Bell groaned, and a sob escaped from his woolly
beard. The Luger dropped to the floor and tumbled
down the steps. Cardinal picked it up.
'I think we've done some good work today,
Doctor. I'd say we've got to the root of your
problem. Now you'll have a couple of decades in
Kingston to work on it.'

52

The days go by, and the last of the autumn shades
into winter. Mid-November now, and not a single
leaf remains to fall. Every stem has closed, every
branch is black and bare against the clouds. Fallen
leaves have gathered along the sides of roads and
in the culverts, they have gathered on porch steps
and around garage doors. They have gathered on
decks and cars and windowsills. It has rained, and
the lawns are no longer covered in fluffy, multicoloured
layers. Now the leaves are plastered in
flat jagged collages on the sidewalks and on the
driveways and even in the wheel wells of
Algonquin Bay vehicles.
The temperature has dropped, and John Cardinal
is wearing his heavy leather coat, the one with
something like fur for a lining. After the beauties
of October, November is dour, the pretty girl
replaced by the sourpuss. Another week or two
and the leather coat will be replaced by the down parka, his full Nanook, as Catherine called it.
Cardinal is coming back from a morning walk
along the hiking trail that curls up the hill behind
his house, a walk he has taken countless times
with his wife. Delorme had called him earlier,
berating herself yet again for jumping to conclusions
about Catherine. Then she told him that
Melanie Greene is now out of the hospital and
living at home with her mother. Her new therapist
is optimistic.
Mr and Mrs Walcott are coming along the other
side of the road, walking their horrible dog. They
stop bickering when they see Cardinal, in deference
to his loss.
'Supposed to snow,' Mrs Walcott says.
Cardinal agrees with a wave and heads up the
slope to his house. Smells of wood smoke and
bacon mingle with the smell of snow. Snow has
been about to fall for at least a week now. It's late
this year.
He enters his house and hangs up his coat. He
struggles to undo the wet laces of his boots, gets
one off, and then the phone is ringing in the
kitchen and he walks clump-footed with one boot
still on, laces flapping, to answer it.
It is the only person he wants to hear from
right now.
'Kelly, how are you? What are you doing up
this early?'
'I got your message last night, but it was too
late to call.'
Cardinal pries the boot off his foot and takes the

phone into the living room. The line is not great,
full of mysterious crackles, but he sits in his favourite
chair and tells his daughter that Frederick Bell's bail
has been set so high he won't be getting out of jail
pending his trial for murder in the first degree.
A moment later he can hear his daughter crying,
her sobs echoing up the increasingly bad line from
New York. Kelly has still not made the adjustment
demanded by the knowledge that her mother is
dead not by her own but by another's hand. Bitter
either way, and Cardinal wishes Kelly were with
him so that he could give her a hug and tell her
it was all right, that everything would be okay,
even though it wasn't and it wouldn't.

'Kelly?'
The sobbing has stopped, but so has the crackling
of static.
'Kelly?'
The line has gone dead.
Cardinal presses the Flash button and dials her
number, getting only a busy signal.
Outside, the snow is falling now, small rainlike
flakes that fall fast on a slant. If she were there,
Catherine would be gathering up her camera,
putting on her boots. The first snow always got
her outside taking pictures even though they were
too 'calendarish', in her opinion, to be any good.
Cardinal hears a scrabbling on the roof. Taking
the phone with him, he goes to the back door and
opens it, surprising a squirrel in the act of chewing
insulation from an air-conditioning line.

4Afi

'Beat it Cardinal says, but the squirrel just
regards him with a black glistening eye. Flakes of
snow are melting on his ears and tail.
Cardinal raises the phone to him and the
squirrel scampers away, a black squiggle among
the leaves, and then there is silence. Or near
silence. A soft wind threads itself through the
birches, and snow ticks on fallen leaves.
The phone rings in his hand. Cardinal answers
it, and the line to New York is open once more.