The kid stirred, and the man turned and kicked his head. It was now or never. Woody shoved him hard, straight-armed the woman, and he was up the stairs, hand on the doorknob. The door was swinging open when the bullet tore into his back, somewhere near the love handles. He toppled over backward, landed on top of the kid, and hit his head a hell of a bang on the concrete floor.

A guy he'd shared a cell with once had told Woody what it was like to be shot: like a hot iron pressing through your body, man, those little fuckers are hot. And Woody discovered now that this was true.

The man was standing over him, big as King Kong. That's how I must look to Dumptruck, Woody thought, and wondered how long before Martha started to worry.

The man's hands were around his neck. Strong thumbs closing his windpipe.

"Break his nose," the woman said again. "Why do you want to choke him, when you can break his nose?"

And carefully, using the butt of his pistol, the man did exactly that.

33

DELORME sat in the half-dark of her kitchen, finishing her third cup of Nescafй. Before her was a stack of files Dyson had sent over. She liked to work in her kitchen at anything except cooking. The remains of a frozen dinner lay forgotten on her plate.

The files were also mostly forgotten; Delorme was thinking about the three Fs. If she was going to do anything with the boat receipt she had seen in Cardinal's files, it would be through them. The three Fs stood for February, French Canadians, and Florida. As anyone who has been to that particular state in that particular month can testify, the Florida gulf in February becomes the Gulf of Quebec. Miami becomes Montreal-On-Sea. Suddenly, Cuban becomes a minority accent, and every other license plate proclaims Je me souviens. Come February, Florida's waiters and bellboys polish off their seasonal stable of Canadian jokes: What's the difference between a Canadian and a canoe? Answer: Canoes tip.

Forty-five minutes and half a dozen phone calls later, Delorme had talked to two French Canadian cops who were about to visit Florida on vacation. Neither of them, unfortunately, was going to be anywhere near the Calloway Marina. So Delorme made a few more calls and got the number of Dollard Langois, who had been in her class at Police College. They had even dated a couple of times, and Delorme was at this moment very grateful to her younger self that she had not slept with him. He had been an awkward, gangly young man, with big gentle hands and hound-dog eyes, and one night after a movie in Aylmer he had confessed that he was absolutely crazy in love with her. Delorme had been all set to sleep with him until he said that. Dollard Langois had been one attractive guy, but she had not been about to mess up her budding career with romance. She had often wondered since, on lonely nights, how he was doing, and what would have happened if- Well, Dollard Langois was a road not taken, put it that way.

They spent a few minutes catching up- speaking English, perhaps because that had been the language at Aylmer. Yes, she told him, she was pretty happy with her career as a cop. No, she was not married.

"That's too bad, Lise. It's so nice to be married. Doesn't surprise me, though- and I don't mean that in a negative way."

"Go ahead, Dollard. Tell me what a failure I am as a human being."

"No, no. I just meant you were hell-bent on a career is all. Single-minded. It's a good thing."

"I can't take any more. Tell me about you."

He was Sergeant Langois, now, assigned to a Quebec Provincial Police detachment twenty miles outside Montreal. Two kids, lovely wife- a nurse, not a cop- and every February they spent a week down in Florida at a place where they had a time-share arrangement. "Why'd you ask?" he wanted to know. "Awful late in the season to be looking for a share."

"It's for work. Something I need to trace."

A heavy sigh traveled down the line from Montreal. "Why am I not surprised?"

"I wouldn't ask unless it was really serious, Dollard."

"It's my vacation, Lise. I'm going to be with my family."

"I wouldn't ask unless it was serious. Do you remember me well enough to know that? We've got a child killer here, Dollard. I can't leave, even for a day."

They went back and forth for a bit. Then, as much to distract him as anything else, Delorme asked where exactly he was going to be staying. It turned out- unhappily for Sergeant Langois- that he would be staying in Hollywood Beach at a condo in the same block as the Calloway Marina. His fate was sealed, and Delorme hung up exceedingly pleased with herself.

SHE spent another hour with the files- early cases of Cardinal's- and found nothing of interest. According to the files, John Cardinal was exactly what he appeared to be- a hardworking cop who got the job done efficiently and thoroughly, without bending the rules. Nearly all his arrests resulted in convictions, although not in the case she was reading now, involving a ne'er-do-well called Raymond Colacott who had since killed himself. The suspect had been brought into custody along with four kilos of cocaine that Cardinal had every reason to believe Colacott was selling. But when the matter was brought to trial, the evidence had gone missing, stolen from the evidence locker. Case dismissed.

The Crown had put its own investigator on the case (file handily included, courtesy of Dyson) and drawn a resounding blank. Cardinal had not been a particular suspect; too many people had had access to the evidence locker. A report was issued, procedures were changed.

Yes, it could have been Cardinal, but for a cop in Algonquin Bay to start selling coke would be far too risky. And Raymond Colacott was not Kyle Corbett, not someone capable of putting a cop on his payroll. If the investigation at the time had got nowhere, Delorme was certainly going to get nowhere nine years later when half the personnel involved had transferred to Winnipeg, Moose Jaw, or God knows where else.

Delorme scraped off her plate and put it in the sink. She had always intended to develop an interest in cooking, maybe even take a course up at the college one day, but lack of time and enthusiasm always seemed to weigh against it. Her mother, were she still alive, would have been horrified.

She went into the living room and pulled aside the curtain. Snowbanks glittered under the streetlights. She remained at the window for some time, staring through her ghostlike reflection, coffee cup in hand. Ten minutes later, she was in her car, driving with no clear intention up Algonquin toward the bypass. She made a right onto the highway, keeping the speedometer well below the speed limit. It was a peculiarity of hers, this aimless driving, and she would have been embarrassed if any of her colleagues had discovered her nocturnal habit. She wasn't sure if it was restlessness or if it was just a way of making daydreaming a physical, as well as a mental, process.

The bypass had a pleasant sweep to it, a graceful curve that held the higher end of town in a gentle embrace. It was a great pleasure to feel the slight but steady centrifugal pull as one drove the length of the city. Sometimes Delorme just drove the bypass out to the intersection with Lakeshore and then back into town along the bay. Other times, only when she was agitated, she did something rather more idiosyncratic: She drove out to the neighborhoods of friends and colleagues, not stopping to visit, just driving by seeing their lights on, their cars in the driveway. She knew it was neurotic, but it gave her a soothing sense of peace all the same.

She made a left on Trout Lake Road and drove all the way out to where it turned into Highway 63. In winter you could see right through the trees down to the houses on Madonna Road. She glanced over and saw the lights on in Cardinal's place, even saw a dark shape at the rear window. Probably that's the kitchen, she figured; he'd be doing dishes or having a late supper.