Forty Words for Sorrow

"Why do you keep saying that?" Dyson had fumed, not conversational anymore, not avuncular. "Molesters? Perverts? They go for boys, they go for girls, but they almost never- never- go for both."

"Laurence Knapschaefer went for both."

"Laurence Knapschaefer. I knew you'd say Laurence Knapschaefer. Too far out for me, Cardinal."

Laurence Knapschaefer had murdered five kids in Toronto ten years previously. Three boys, two girls. One girl got away, which was how they finally got him.

"The exception that proves the rule, that's what Laurence Knapschaefer is. There are no bodies, therefore this is not homicide. You don't have one scrap of evidence that it is."

"But even that could be taken as evidence for murder."

"What could?"

"The lack of evidence. It only bolsters my theory." He had seen in Dyson's cold blue gaze the doors slam shut, the bolts shoot home. But he couldn't leave it alone, couldn't shut up. "A runaway is seen- by bus passengers, ticket takers, hostel workers, drug dealers. A runaway is noticed. That's how we find them. A runaway leaves clues: a note, extra clothes or money missing, warnings to friends. But a murdered child- a murdered child leaves nothing: no warning, no note, nothing. Katie Pine and Billy LaBelle left nothing."

"Sorry, Cardinal. Your reasoning is out of Alice in Wonderland."

Next morning, Cardinal had ordered a grid search- his third in six weeks- that had come up empty. That afternoon, Dyson yanked him off Pine and LaBelle. Off homicide altogether for the foreseeable future. "Bring in Arthur Wood. He's robbing the citizenry blind."

"I don't believe this. Two missing children, and you're putting me on burglaries?"

"I can't afford you, Cardinal. This is not Toronto. If you miss the big time so much, why don't you go back there? In the meantime, you can bring me the head of Arthur Wood."

The Fogle file landed on top of the others.

Cardinal warmed up a tourtiиre he'd thawed out earlier. Catherine had wheedled the recipe out of a French-Canadian friend, but McLeod had tried it once and claimed they'd stolen it from his mother. It was the sage that gave them away.

He ate in front of the television, watching the news from Sudbury. The discovery of a body on Windigo Island was the lead. Grace Legault had pulled back her hood to do her stand-up on the island, snowflakes winking out like stars on the lion's mane of chestnut hair. She looked a lot taller on television.

"According to Ojibwa legend," she began, "the Windigo is the spirit of a hunter who went out in winter and got lost in the icy woods, where he was forced to live off human flesh. It's easy to believe such a legend when you set foot on this desolate island, where yesterday afternoon the body of an unidentified adolescent was discovered by a couple of snowmobilers."

Thanks, Grace, Cardinal said to himself. We'll be having the "Windigo killer" next, or even "The Windigo." Going to be a circus.

The report cut to file footage of the OPP dragging Lake Nipissing in the fall, while Legault speculated on whether the body might be that of Billy LaBelle or Katie Pine. Then they cut to Cardinal on the island acting cool and official, telling them let's wait and see. I'm a conceited prick, he thought. I see too many movies.

Cardinal wished he could phone Catherine, but she didn't always respond well to such calls, and she rarely called him from the hospital. I feel too embarrassed and ashamed, she told him, and it all but undid Cardinal to think that she could feel that way. Yet somewhere within that welter of feelings, he was aware of a lurking anger that she could abandon him like this. He knew it was not her fault, and he tried never to blame his wife, but Cardinal was not a natural loner, and there were times when he resented being left on his own for months at a time. Then he would blame himself for being selfish.

He wrote a short note to Kelly, enclosing a check for five hundred dollars. With both her and Catherine gone, the house seemed way too big, he wrote, then screwed up the note and tossed it in the wastebasket. He scrawled, I know you can use this, and sealed the envelope. Daughters like their fathers to be invulnerable, and Kelly always squirmed at the least expression of feeling on his part. How strange, that someone he loved so much would never know the truth about him, never know how he had come by the money that paid for her education. How strange and how sad.

He thought about missing persons, missing kids. Dyson was right: If you crossed the country, you went through Algonquin Bay, and it was bound to get more than its fair share of runaways. Cardinal had made a separate file of top sheets from other jurisdictions: cases from Ottawa, the Maritimes, even Vancouver, that had come in over the fax within the past year.