Cardinal's flashlight beam found a pair of sliding doors, presumably leading to the living room, but they were frozen shut. He returned to the kitchen and took the back stairs to the second floor.
Upstairs, the bedrooms showed no sign of disturbance. He lingered briefly in the master bedroom, the last one to be occupied. There was a small television on an antique dresser, which would have been easy to steal.
The bathroom cabinet contained antihistamines, laxatives, Fixodent, and a gigantic bottle of Frosst 222s.
Cardinal went down the main stairway into the front den. An old piano took up most of the space. A pair of elaborate silver candelabra stood on top, surrounded by photographs of the Cowart family. A closer examination of the piano lid showed that the candelabra had been moved, the hexagonal bases had left their outlines in the dust, and the candle stubs looked fairly recent. So someone had sat at the piano by candlelight. Possibly Todd Curry. The lid of the keyboard was smudged with hand-prints. Cardinal shuddered; his bones ached from the cold.
The living room looked like a stage set: two armchairs, plant stand with dead plant, circular rug in front of brick fireplace. The fireplace had been used. The ashes of a log fire lay in the grate, covered with a white dusting of snow. Yes, you would need a fire- no heat, no electricity. Anyone planning to stay here in December would have made a fire right away. A fire would have lit the room up. Wouldn't they be afraid someone would see the smoke? A normal person would be, but I'm not looking for a normal person, Cardinal told himself; I'm looking for a runaway drug user and a child killer, and God knows what else.
Cardinal swung his flashlight past a mantelpiece, past a large television. Above the couch hung a dark old painting, a man in black, a Spaniard, judging by the pointy little beard. His cape was a flowing black velvet with unusual markings.
Beneath this, the couch looked as if someone had upended a gallon of paint over the back. The design in the fabric was completely obliterated. Then Cardinal leaned closer and saw that it was not paint but blood. Blood in large quantities. He shone his flashlight on the wall and saw now that what he had taken to be a wallpaper pattern was in fact droplets of blood- droplets flung upward, as if from someone swinging a heavy instrument. There was blood on the painting, too, he now saw. Those marks on the Spaniard's cloak.
He stood in front of the couch, sweeping the flashlight slowly from one end to the other. One of the cushions was bare, the cover having been removed. A burglar could have used the seat cover to carry booty outside, but what did the killer use it for? He didn't bother to steal those silver candelabra, Cardinal thought, or the tiny television upstairs. He doesn't do this for money.
Cardinal was shivering with cold- at least he thought it was the cold- and tried to figure out where they would have put the body. They hadn't taken it outside, he was reasonably sure, and the upstairs had looked untouched. He went down to the basement, wishing fervently he had more light.
He stopped before a flimsy-looking door under the stairs. In older houses you often found coal chutes under the stairs, although nobody burned coal anymore. There were drag marks in the dust.
Cardinal put the flashlight down on the floor. The beam cast his hunchbacked shadow up and down the wall as he bent to open the half door. It came back with a scrape and a clatter. He knew what would be in there. Even though he could not smell it, he knew what would be there. The cold had killed his sense of smell. He wanted to see it, then get the hell out of there and come back with a team. He picked up the flashlight and ducked into the tiny space.
Polyethylene sheeting had opened up around the body, giving it an unwrapped look, like something precious in a black gift box. The body itself, perfectly preserved by the cold, was curled up in an almost fetal position. The head was wrapped in a bundle stiffened with cold and black with blood. But Cardinal recognized the fabric; it was the seat cover from the couch upstairs. Why had he covered the head? The trousers, raveled about the shins, were black denim, the shoes were black Converse high-tops. Cardinal knew the particulars by heart: Caucasian male, last seen wearing…
Cardinal was aware of the nausea lurking in his belly but he ignored it. Forms passed through his mind, calls he had to make: the coroner, Delorme, the lawyers for the estate, the Crown Attorney. But even as these things flashed in his mind he was taking in the physical details: the cheap watch around the thin wrist, the shriveled and tormented genitals. Cardinal's heart went out to the parents, who would have to be informed, who would be clinging to the hope that their son was alive. Whether or not there was an afterlife, a dead person moved to a place beyond pain and shame and insult. So why did he now feel the same instinct he had criticized in Delorme- to cover the boy up?
CARDINAL was taking a break outside, grateful for the cold and the snow that kept the crowd of onlookers down to a manageable size. Between the coroner, the ident boys, and the body-removal service, the basement was so full of people and equipment it was impossible to move around. It was dark now, and the front yard was lit up like the CN Tower; there were cars all down the block.
A slight edginess was building inside him. He had done excellent work- no high-tech flash, but he had done good work, and had he been a better man, he told himself, and a better cop, he would have been enjoying the moment of satisfaction. He missed the honest cop he had been years ago, wished yet again he could undo the thing he had done, if only because it was spoiling this moment. If Delorme was investigating him, if she looked back far enough, she might find something. It was not likely, but it was possible; it could happen anytime. Just let me finish this case, he prayed to the God he sometimes believed in, just let me finish off the man who did this to Todd Curry.
A pack of media people pressed against the crime-scene tape surrounding the yard. This time it was not just Gwynn and Stoltz from the Lode. Not just Sudbury TV. The Toronto papers were here. The CBC again. CTV. Is it the Windigo? they all wanted to know. Cardinal had nothing to say beyond the bare particulars, until next of kin had been informed. The whir of motor drives was loud.
"Miss Legault? Can we talk a sec?" He steered her a little away from the pack.
"The Windigo," he said. "You must be proud of that one. Way they all picked up on it."
"Oh, come on. Windigo Island? It was only a matter of time."
"You came up with it, though. Don't sell yourself short."
"Two murders and it's only February. About twice what you'd normally get in an entire year, right?"
"Not really."
"Murders of this type. Obviously we're not talking about domestics. Look, what are the chances of a real interview? Off the record, no cameras." Those cool newscaster's eyes taking a reading on him. Cardinal thought of a cat watching a mouse.
"Believe it or not, things are going to be pretty hectic around here. I don't know if-"
"Believe it or not, TV news doesn't try to be stupid."
"Oh, no. I would never accuse you of trying."
Miss Legault pressed on. "So give me a break. Educate me."
She was looking earnest now, and Cardinal had a soft spot for earnest people. Catherine was earnest. So was he, probably. "If you call Katie Pine's killer the Windigo," he said, "you're only likely to get the guy's motor running."
"Is that a refusal?"
Cardinal pointed to the house. "Excuse me. Duty calls."
Body Removal- two men who worked for the local funeral homes when they weren't working for the coroner- came out of the house with the body bag and placed it in the back of the hearse. The younger of the two looked pretty shaky; he blinked in the glare like a mole.