He examined the stack of books remaining. Wedged among the paperbacks was a fat college edition of Chaucer's Canterbury Tales. Cardinal seemed to remember that some of the stories were a little raunchy, but still- Chaucer seemed worlds away from Eric Fraser's interests.

The phone rang and after the usual search for the handset Cardinal picked it up and heard Lise Delorme shouting at Arsenault to be quiet. "Sounds like chaos over there," he said.

"Some people, when there's no one in charge, you know. I can't wait till R. J. gets back and things get a little more organized."

"I'm trying to figure out where he buried Billy LaBelle. Why don't you come out here and we'll go through this stuff together, toss some ideas around."

"Sounds good to me. Anything to get away from Arsenault. I swear, that guy, he's high on his own work."

"Why? What's up?"

"John, you aren't going to believe this. Are you sitting down?"

"What's going on, Lise?"

"John, they found another set of prints in Fraser's van. All over Fraser's van. Passenger side, steering wheel, all over the rear. It's someone who was in that van a lot. And get this, John. They've got the murder weapon. We're ninety percent sure it's the hammer that killed Todd Curry, and those second set of prints are all over it, too."

"Oh, my God. The son of a bitch had help."

"There were two of them, John. Two of them."

There was silence over the line as Cardinal took in this information. He could hear Delorme breathing. Finally he asked, "What have we got back from records?"

"Nothing. So far we don't have a clue who this new guy is. He could be anybody. I already called Troy and Sutherland. They never saw Fraser with anyone."

"Well, why don't you come out here and go through this stuff with me. Maybe we'll find something."

Delorme promised to leave in a few minutes and hung up.

Two of them, Cardinal thought. Why hadn't he thought of it sooner? But then, why would you? Why would you expect two minds equally sick? What were the chances of there being two murderers on the loose in Algonquin Bay at the same time? That's why the Mountie profile was so confused: It was describing the working of two minds, not one. He pulled the Chaucer from the stack of Fraser's books. Two of them. He mentally scanned the entire case archive in his head, trying to remember if there had been any sign. There had been no other fingerprints at the crime scenes, no other hairs.

The Chaucer felt oddly light in his hands. He riffled the pages. Someone- not very skillfully- had taken a razor and cut a hollow rectangle out of the book. A rectangle about seven inches by four. And inside this rectangle- wadded with tissue paper to make it fit more securely- someone had hidden a plain, unlabeled videocassette. Holding it carefully by the corners, Cardinal pushed the cassette into his VCR. The screen lit up with electronic snow.

It might be nothing, he told himself. It might just be blank. Or it could be just mail-order porn. In that case, of course, why hide it so thoroughly? Cardinal clutched the remote and stood in the middle of his living room, arms folded across his chest, waiting for the screen to clear. It flickered and went dark.

For a moment he thought the tape had switched itself off, but then a murky image took shape: a couch, and behind it, a dark painting on a wall. Cardinal recognized the painting. He was looking at the Cowart house, where Todd Curry had been murdered.

As if hearing his cue, Todd Curry appeared on the screen. He came loping into view and sat down on the couch. "Am I on yet?" he asked someone offscreen.

The sound was even worse than the lighting. A voice answered him, but the words were inaudible. Lights came up, and Todd Curry squinted in the glare. He sipped nervously from a bottle of Heineken.

"Todd Curry," Cardinal said aloud. He froze the image with the remote control just as the kid hoisted his Heineken in a toast. The kid was caught in the harsh light like a rabbit in headlights, surrounded by darkness.

"Todd Curry," Cardinal said again. "You poor little bastard." He remembered the remains curled up in the coal cellar, the jeans around his knees. If only he could hit the stop button and prevent this kid's future. But he released the pause, and the kid guzzled his beer.

The voice came out of the background again, tinny with distance. "Say something," it said.

The kid belched, goofing off. "How's that?"

Cardinal tried to raise the volume, hitting the mute button by mistake. Then there was a tremendous crash from outside, the shriek of crumpling metal, and then a car horn blaring as someone's head hit the wheel. Through the front window he could see a small car had piled into the birches just past his driveway. The damage didn't look nearly as bad as it had sounded.

He didn't bother to put on his coat. He dashed down the front steps, and by the time he reached the car, a woman had staggered out of the driver's seat and was raving incoherently. "Some men. Help me. Please. Help me."

"Are you all right? Are you sure you can walk?"

The woman put a hand to her head, and turned this way and that, utterly confused. "Some men. There were three of them. They raped me. They said they'd kill me."

Cardinal put an arm around her shoulder and helped her toward the house. "Let's get you inside." The freezing air was slamming through his sweater like steel. The woman stumbled along beside him, head down, crying now. "They forced me, they forced me. Oh, God. Please. You have to call the cops."

"That's all right, I am a cop." He got her inside and seated her gently in an armchair by the woodstove. He picked up the phone and dialed 911. It took them an appallingly long time to answer. As he waited, Cardinal took in more details of the woman, the green down coat, the nasty crease on the side of her head, the truly awful case of eczema. The crease in her head looked bad; the bruise had come up terribly fast, and he wondered if she was bleeding under the skin.

Finally, 911 answered. "Yes, this is Detective John Cardinal, Algonquin Bay Police. I need an ambulance out here at 425 Madonna Road. Woman, late twenties- rape, head trauma, I'm not sure what else."

The dispatcher told him to hang on.

"You're the hero, aren't you? The Windigo case? I saw you on TV." The woman was hunched forward as if over a stomach wound, peering up at him strangely. Beyond her, the television had come back to life, without sound. A dark figure moved in the foreground.

"Gimme that address again?"

"Four twenty-five Madonna Road. Take Trout Lake past Pinehaven, it's the second right after Four Mile Road. They can't miss it, there's a car half off the road out front." Cardinal covered the mouthpiece and spoke to the woman. "That's a Pinto you're driving, isn't it? Your car?"

"What? Yeah. Pinto."

"A gray Pinto," Cardinal said into the phone. "You can't miss it."

"I saw you on TV," the woman repeated, swaying slightly in her seat as if she were drunk, though Cardinal had not smelled alcohol on her. Behind her, the figure on the television screen had sat down beside Todd Curry, a woman. The hard light glittered on her damaged skin.

Now the woman before him reached up and touched her face gently, fingers fluttering over the cracked, pebbly surface of her cheek.

Cardinal tried to keep his face neutral. She doesn't know I know, he told himself. She's got herself drunk so she can come out here and threaten me. But at this point she doesn't know I know.

"Who are you calling now?" the woman said sharply.

"Headquarters. I want to get some people over here to take your statement. Don't worry, we have a rape specialist. A woman." Can she hear it in my voice? Can she hear that I know?

Cardinal started to dial, but the woman pulled a gun from the folds of her coat, aimed it at his face, and said, "I don't think you want to do that."