"Some physical deterioration there. Obviously wasn't stored in optimum conditions."

"To put it mildly."

Under Fortier's ministrations, the tape hiss all but vanished. Within moments, Katie Pine's voice sounded as if she were in the room with them. Her terror in such proximity, her attempts to talk her way out, the fictitious cop father- Cardinal fought an urge to cry out. Fortier cocked his head like a spaniel, identifying sounds as they came up. "Girl's voice: twelve or thirteen years old. That accent, she's got to be an Indian."

"That's correct. What about the male?"

Fortier hit a pause button. "He's too far from the mike to place with any certainty- definitely not French, or even francophone. Ottawa Valley's out, too. Southern Ontario, though, that's possible. He doesn't have those terribly round vowels you get up North. Not a lot to work with there, I'm afraid. He's just too far from the mike."

When the tape was done, Fortier spoke quickly as if afraid he might forget something if he stopped to breathe. "First thing: This was made on a pretty good machine with a pretty good microphone."

"Begins to sound like a professional again."

Fortier shook his head impatiently. "No way. Placement of the microphone is grabbing a lot of air. Lot of noise. A professional gets as close to the source as possible."

"Can you tell us anything about the place?"

"Let me put it through again. I had it set to bring up the voices. Let me set it for the background." He lowered some of the sliders on the console and raised others. His index finger sat poised over the play button. "Just for the record, Detective: Those are the ugliest sounds I've ever heard."

"I'd be worried if you didn't think so."

Almost immediately, Fortier hit the pause button. "Something I can hear that maybe you can't: This is a small room, quite bare. Hardwood floor. I can hear the reverberation off his heels. Hardwood floor… leather soles- big heels, possibly cowboy boots."

Even Katie's voice sounded thin and far away, now. But the footsteps, the rustling of cloth, the slaps- these pressed themselves into the dark studio.

"Not much traffic outside. One car, one truck in the entire, what, fifteen minutes? You're not near a highway. It's an old house- you can hear the glass rattle in the window when the truck goes by."

"I can't," said Delorme.

"I can. Blind as a bat and hearing to match. He's taking photographs now." He hit the pause button. "Random thought for you: Do a soundprint of the shutter and winding mechanism. Then you can record other camera models until you get a match."

Delorme looked at Cardinal. "It's a good idea," she said.

Fortier was still focused on what they'd heard. "I'm no camera buff, for obvious reasons, but the technology on that camera is old- no servo motor, no auto advance, and you can hear the click is mechanical, not electronic. Puts the technology- at the latest- somewhere in the mid-seventies. The shutter is slow, which tells me he's in a low-light situation, arguing again for nighttime, right?"

"Good thoughts, Mr. Fortier. Keep 'em coming."

He restarted the tape. "I'm out on a limb here, but I think you've got an upstairs situation. The car and the truck sound like they're coming from below, slightly."

"Can you really tell that?"

"Listening for the internal combustion engine is one of the first things a blind person learns to do."

"What about the music? We know the approximate date. If we can find out which radio station played those songs in that order, we'll know what day and time Katie was killed."

"Uh, sorry to disappoint you, Officer Delorme, but I don't think that music was coming from a radio."

"But it was by all different performers."

"Yes, I can name them: Pearl Jam, the Rolling Stones, and Anne Murray. I'm sure you know the Stones album, and I can tell you the others, if you like. But two things: First, it's an odd selection of music. The first two selections might be played together on the air, but it would be very peculiar to follow the Rolling Stones with Anne Murray. I doubt if any broadcaster would do that. And, second: There was too long between cuts for that to be a radio station. No radio station- even up North- is going to give you that much dead air."

"But there's no sound of records being changed. He walks over, hits a switch, and the music comes on."

"My guess- well, it's more than a guess- is that it's a home recording."

"He might have borrowed the record, you mean. From a library?"

"It's a CD. Even through two tape players, I can hear that electronic sheen they have- a sort of brassy veneer over everything. Not to mention the lack of tics and pops. Yes, lots of people borrow music from the library and tape it. Drives the copyright folks mad."

"But if he's already using the tape recorder to record what's going on…"

"Right. He would have to have two tape recorders."

16

THE Sundial restaurant just outside Orillia on Highway 400 is as circular as its name suggests. The dining room is bright and cheerful, surrounded with high curved windows, and the waitresses are friendly. Cardinal always stopped here on his way home from Toronto.

Delorme came back from the ladies' room, threading her way through the pink vinyl banquettes. She had a distracted look on her face, and when she sat down, she muttered something about getting back on the road before the snow turned into a real blizzard.

"Can't go yet," Cardinal said. "I just ordered the coconut cream pie."

"In that case, I'll have more coffee."

"Personal tradition of mine: stop at the Sundial, have the coconut cream pie. It's the only place I ever eat it."

Delorme nodded vaguely, staring out the window. In a mood, apparently. Cardinal debated whether to ask her about it. Instead, he studied the paper place mat decorated with Canadian prime ministers.

The waitress brought the pie and coffee, and Cardinal pulled out his notes. "I'm not convinced the radio stations are as dead an end as Fortier thought. Anyway, it's not like we've got twenty stations."

"I'll check out the library, if you want."

"You sound a little depressed."

Delorme shrugged. "When we first heard the tape I thought for sure we'd nail this guy quick- tomorrow, the end of the week, soon. I mean, how often do you actually have a murder on tape? But we take it to an expert and what do we come up with? Nothing."

"You're jumping the gun, Delorme. Fortier may come up with something more by the time he's finished his digital enhancement. If he can bring up the killer's voice…"

"But he said he couldn't do that."

"Well, there's still the camera angle to follow up."

"I admit I got excited about that in the studio. It sounds so scientific: soundprints. But think about it. Even if we can say for sure that it's the sound of a 1976 Nikon or whatever, how's that going to help? Might be different if it sounded like something manufactured last year- might actually lead to a sales slip, a credit card. But an old camera? An old camera could have gone through ten different owners by now."

"God, you are depressed."

Delorme was half-turned in the banquette, looking out at the tiny flakes of snow that had been drifting down steadily since Toronto. A Pop Shoppe truck was pulling out of the parking lot, wipers flapping. After a few moments she said, "When I was a little girl, I used to think this place looked more like a spaceship than a sundial."

"I thought so, too. I still think so."

In the space where the truck had been, a father was helping his tiny daughter with the zipper of her parka. She was wearing a bright green toque with a bobble that hung down to her waist. Their breath joined together in a mist, and Cardinal became aware of the cupboard in his heart where fear and regret were locked away. A crimson thread of fear ran through a father's love for his daughter, he reflected. That's why we're so protective.