Sorrowful Road

by Alex MacLean

Halifax Homicide Detective Allan Stanton has been haunted for the last year by one case he couldn’t close: the brutal murder of a pretty twenty-two-year-old in Point Pleasant Park. On the anniversary of her death, the body of another young woman is found. The MO suggests the same person killed them both, but the long gap between murders is unusual for a serial killer.

Fellow detective Audra Price joins Stanton in the search for this ruthless predator. But neither is prepared to handle such a unique brand of psychopath. Over a decade of unsolved case files turn up a swath of carnage, cut all across Canada with bone-chilling efficiency. The only way to bring justice to the victims is by following the most horrifying trail of their careers—to a monster who knows he’s being hunted.

Table of Contents

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33, 34, 35, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40, 41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 46, 47, 48, 49, 50, 51, 52, Epilogue

Copyright © 2016 by Alex MacLean

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

ISBN: 978-0987726322

Cover Art by Kip Ayers

Editing and proofing provided by Red Adept Editing

This novel is dedicated in loving memory of

Leo Joseph Gould Jr.

Feb. 6, 1967 – Oct. 1, 2015

I will always remember you, brother of mine,

in my heart I will keep you, so I will be fine.

I will go forward with my head up high,

it might be hard, I cannot lie.

But in my heart you will be,

moving forward, you with me.

Sorrowful Road

Not all men seek rest and peace; some are born with the spirit of the storm in their blood, restless harbingers of violence and bloodshed, knowing no other path.

Robert E. Howard

1

Halifax, NS October 17, 2010

7:32 A.M.

My earliest childhood memory involves screams and the frantic scrapes of fingernails clawing at wood.

I stood outside the cedar chest, listening to my twin brother, Joshua, fighting to get out. At seven years old, I never realized his dire situation. He was suffocating inside that dark wooden tomb.

I remember being captivated by the terror in his voice, growing ever more shrill as the seconds passed. It triggered things in me, changes. I felt a charge of excitement shoot through my body, revving my heart. Euphoria filled my skull, as if my brain had kicked loose a flood of endorphins. It reminded me of the sensations I used to get with our rabbit, Nibbles, and those high-pitched cries he made whenever I’d twist one of his legs a little too hard. He’d sounded just like a human baby.

Joshua and I had been playing hide-and-seek, but I’d grown bored of the game. When my turn came around, I covered my eyes and counted to ten. Joshua ran off. I heard him running up the steps and then down the hallway upstairs. He had chosen one of the bedrooms this time. Probably a closet or under a bed.

I didn’t bother looking. Eventually, he would get tired of hiding and come out asking why I hadn’t searched for him.

Lazy Saturday mornings meant cartoons. He-Man battling Skeletor. Captain Caveman solving mysteries with the Teen Angels. Wile E. Coyote putting together wild contraptions to catch the Road Runner.

In the living room, I switched on the TV and knelt on the floor close to the screen. I soon forgot all about Joshua until I heard the thumps on the ceiling, the muffled cries for help. I snapped my head around, frowning.

Our father, I knew, had gone into town. Our mother was in the backyard, tending the garden. Joshua and I were alone in the house.

I went upstairs and tiptoed down the hallway. The thumps continued. The cries morphed into piercing, frenetic screams.

I stopped at the doorway to our parents’ bedroom, looking in. Mom’s old hope chest bucked on the hardwood floor as if it had come alive. Joshua had decided it would be a perfect spot to hide in. He’d emptied the blankets and pillows onto the floor and climbed inside. I didn’t know it at the time, but the chest had one of those latches that automatically locked when the lid closed. It opened only by pushing a button on the outside. That I did know. And so did Joshua.

The chest was a family heirloom our mother kept at the foot of the bed. It looked solid and expensive. Egg-and-dart molding accented the edges. A carving on the front depicted two hunters chasing wild boars through a forest.

I moved into the room, approaching the chest with slow steps. My young mind couldn’t imagine then what my adult mind can now—the sheer terror Joshua had gone through.

I touched the button, tracing my finger around its outer edge.

Still, I never pressed it.

I listened to Joshua’s body thrashing around inside, his bones making these painful thunks as they impacted the wood. I listened to his screams, his coughs from a throat growing raw. I listened to his breaths turning to ragged gasps.

Still, I never pressed the button.

At the corner of my vision, I caught my reflection in the dresser mirror. I looked over to see my lips drawn back over my teeth in an almost-crazy grin.

“What are you guys doing in here?”

The grin fell away. I spun around to the doorway. Mom stood there, dressed in soiled gloves and overalls. Her eyes darted from me to the chest in rapid flits.

“Oh God,” she screamed, breaking into a run. “What did you do?”

She flung the chest lid open, and Joshua catapulted himself into her arms. He gulped hungrily for air. There were long scratches dug into his face, blood on his fingertips. Welts and bruises covered his arms. Sweat dripped off him in beads.

“I’m here,” Mom said in a comforting tone. “I’m here, honey.”

His fists beat on her back as he sobbed into her shoulder. Mom swung angry eyes toward me.

“Why didn’t you let him out?”

I opened my mouth but offered no explanation. Why didn’t I let him out? In retrospect, I realize my excitement was too great. I didn’t want to see it end.

“What is wrong with you?” Mom yelled. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Holding Joshua to her, she hurried from the room. I found myself looking into the chest, fascinated by the pattern Joshua’s sweat and tears had left behind on the bottom.

That night, our father removed the latch. We were forbidden from ever going near the chest again.

The words my mother said that morning stuck with me more than anything else. What was wrong with me? What the hell was wrong with me?

She often told me about the difficulty she had birthing me. She delivered Joshua with ease. He arrived into the world first, a healthy, vibrant baby boy.

She told me that with a smile. Always with a smile. Like a proud mother reminiscing.

I hadn’t fared nearly as well. There’d been complications. Somehow I ended up in a breech position. When the doctors had to resort to a C-section to get me out, they found me dead. No heartbeat. No breath. No sign of life. Just a grotesque shape of muscles and tendons covered by a pale layer of skin.

She told me that with a frown. Always with a frown. Like a disappointed mother wanting to forget.

The doctors managed to resuscitate me. I spent several weeks in the NICU, hovering between life and death. Mom never expected me to live.

At different times in my life, I’ve found myself wondering if she secretly wished I had died. That maybe the family would’ve been better off. I know a lot of people in the years ahead would’ve been.

Like this woman on the ground below me.

Minutes ago, I looked into her eyes, wide and rabid with fear, and I saw my distorted reflection swimming there in the tears. The fear has disappeared; an expression of surprise replaces it. Surprise, I suppose, that I actually went through with it.

I can no longer feel her pulse throbbing through the rope, but I give the ends an extra tug to make sure. The muscles in my forearms burn and quiver. That familiar high rushes through my brain, almost orgasmic. I call it the climax of the kill. I wonder if big-game hunters experience a similar sensation when their arrow or bullet finds its mark and they see the animal expire.

Staring down at the woman, I try to remember what her face looked like before it became this swollen, purplish mess. It was attractive, I recall. Diamond shaped, with a cute, turned-up nose and chestnut-brown eyes.

Around me, an earthy, musty smell of decaying leaves drifts in the cool air. A dawn chorus of birds fills the woods—trills, whistles, flute-like sounds. I read somewhere they are caused by the males trying to attract mates or to warn other males to stay away from their turf. Nature has its daily battles, just as we do.

I uncoil the rope from the woman’s neck. She scratched my face, and it burns. But the scratch doesn’t feel sticky when I remove my glove to touch it. I see no blood on my fingertip, either. I won’t know how bad it is until I get back to the hotel. Hopefully, there won’t be a mark, because I’ll have to explain it to my wife.

This work is hard and dangerous. Injuries do happen to me occasionally. Some people can have a lot of fight in them. You can never underestimate a person’s strength when they’re in panic mode. I nearly lost an eye in Huntsville last year.

I put my glove back on and drag the woman’s limp body off the trail before someone comes along. Dead weight feels so heavy and awkward. Reaching into my coat pocket, I bring out a cigar cutter. Through trial and error, I’ve found the cutter to be faster and more efficient than a knife.

I pick up the woman’s left arm by the wrist and splay her fingers apart. In the coming days, I’ll learn her name in the newspapers. Just as I did with the last one.

For a moment, I close my eyes, conjuring up her image from the deep well of my memory. Oh yes, there she comes. Gorgeous, curly red hair. Pretty green eyes. I inhale a deep breath, still able to smell that perfume on her freckled skin.

Strawberries.

She smells just like strawberries.

2

Halifax, October 18

10:15 A.M.

Detective Audra Price dreaded this moment. Not because she feared speaking in front of a gymnasium full of junior-high-school students, but because she chose to speak about a subject she’d kept to herself for thirty years.

Walking up to the podium, she wiped her palms on her pants and cleared her throat. She adjusted the microphone toward her.

Amplified by the PA system, she heard the tremulous tone in her voice as she asked, “Can everyone hear me okay?”

Some students in the back rows called out that they could, and Audra flashed a quick smile. She began speaking slowly and carefully, trying to maintain strong eye contact with the audience instead of glancing down too often at her notes.

“Hard words break no bones,” she said. “While that is true, they can break spirit. They can break dreams. They can lead to low self-esteem, depression, social isolation, and paranoia.

“Hard words can hurt and leave scars that last a lifetime. I know because it happened to me.

“It’s difficult to talk about things that bother you. Opening up to your friends, your teachers, your parents. Even though these people can offer you comfort, support, and advice, it’s difficult. I know because it happened to me.

“But those bothersome things don’t always go away. They can nag and fester over time. Or they can sit inside you for years, dormant like a volcano. Then one day they rise to the surface and come out as gushes of anger and tears. That’s what I experienced when I sat down to prepare this speech. I relived the nightmare all over again. Every poignant detail.

“What I’m talking to you about today is bullying. And my own experiences with it.” Audra paused a brief moment so the students could reflect on her words.

Her gaze swept past the faces and settled on her daughter, Daphne, sitting in the front row to the left of the stage. Audra locked eyes with her and gave her a small smile. Daphne responded with a smile of her own and an acknowledgment of empathy and gratitude in the blink of her eyes.

Tabitha Landes sat beside her. It made Audra happy to see the two had rekindled their friendship over the summer. It also made her happy to see Daphne on the road to a full recovery.

Four months after her brain injury, few issues remained. Speech therapy had smoothed out much of her stutter. Physical therapy had smoothed out the slight hitch in her step. Even her energy levels were on par with a normal teenager again.

Daphne didn’t remember the suicide attempt. But a few weeks after being released from the hospital, she began having raw flashbacks of the torment she’d suffered at school. She couldn’t understand what was happening or why. Audra and Daniel hugged her, comforted her, and explained everything.

Audra then gave Daphne the apology note Margi Tanner had written. Audra explained that Margi’s behavior, while inexcusable, might’ve stemmed from an abusive home life with her alcoholic father. Daphne quietly accepted the apology and tucked the note away in her desk drawer. It seemed to provide her with some closure.

Still, Audra worried about her.

She flicked her attention back to the audience.

“My name is Audra Price,” she said. “I’m a fifteen-year veteran with the Halifax Regional Police. Believe it or not, I was bullied in school.

“My parents were like nomads. They never stayed in one place for long. We moved around a lot. Every year or two, I went to a new school. This left me frustrated and lonely at times as a child growing up. I had to say good-bye to friends I had just made. It hurt to do that.

“But each new home brought a new set of friends and a new set of experiences. Some of those experiences were pleasant. Others were downright bad.

“Imagine being twelve years old and going to a new school for the first time. You don’t know anyone. You try to fit in. You want to fit in. But the other kids shun you. Not one of them wants anything to do with you. You’ve never felt so alone in your life. You keep to yourself.”

Audra softened her voice. “This happened to me. And it didn’t take long before a group of girls singled me out. They began taunting me. I was ugly. I was stupid. I was a loser.

“Those hard words hurt me. They bothered me. I used to come home from school and cry in my room. I never wanted to go back there again. My life was a living hell. Then, one day, the girls took it a step further. They beat me up after school.

“When I came home with a black eye, my mother was furious. I told her I got hit in the face with a ball during Phys Ed. I’m not sure if she believed me or not.”

Audra paused again, pretending to glance down at her notes. She needed the quick break to recover her professional side, to stomp down the emotion rising up her throat. The gymnasium was utterly silent. A few students were leaning forward in their seats.

Audra looked over at Daphne and met her glistening eyes. She could see she had rattled something in her, knowing her mother was in pain, knowing they shared a mutual tragedy. Audra gave her a reassuring wink.

She continued. “I dealt with that nightmare for two years before my parents moved again.

“Needless to say, I was terrified to go to another new school. I worked myself up so much the night before the first day that I never slept and ended up getting sick. But the new school turned out better. The other kids were more receptive. I made some good friends there. Some of whom I still keep in touch with.

“And how have those two years of being bullied affected me? Even now, thirty years later, it bothers me to talk about it. It never leaves you. That pain. That humiliation. I know what it’s like to feel alone. To be scared. To be targeted.

“Being bullied hasn’t made me stronger. It’s made me suspicious of people. Cautious.

“I want to get involved when I see someone getting bullied or being taken advantage of. It’s the underlying reason I became a cop.

“I cannot stand to watch children being victimized in any way. And in my line of work, I’ve seen it more than anyone should be forced to. Children the same age as many of you here, even younger, with their whole lives ahead of them. Victims of suicide. They chose to end their lives because they couldn’t see beyond the pain caused by their tormentors. Suicide was the only recourse they thought they had.

“In Canada, suicide is the second-leading cause of death among young people aged ten to twenty-four. Just over five hundred in that age group committed suicide last year. Of those, two hundred thirty were aged ten to nineteen.

“The suicide rate among ten- to fourteen-year-olds has doubled in the past three decades. Bullying has been linked to this increase.

“Ten to fourteen years old. Imagine seeing that body. A body from which no laugh or giggle will ever sound again. It could be your brother. Your sister. Your friend. The boy or girl sitting next to you in class.

“Imagine looking into the ravaged eyes of the devastated mother or father who just lost that child.

“I’ve seen this. And I pray none of you will ever have to, because it’s not pretty. It’s not funny. It’s not something you text your friends about or post on Facebook.

“It’s something you take home with you. You hear the screams of anguished parents. You see the faces of the dead. They haunt you. They invade your dreams at night.

“I’ve seen many police officers turn to alcohol or drugs to deal with the tragedies they face. I’ve seen them question whether the job had any value, and they’d eventually leave the profession. I’ve seen a few who have even committed suicide.

“We’re not paladins or heroes. We’re human beings, like you.”

The sudden shrill of Audra’s pager rang out in the gymnasium, making her flinch and some students perk up at the sound. Instinctively, she reached down for the button to stop it.

“Bullying has gone far beyond what I dealt with in school. In my day, you had to deal with rumors or face-to-face encounters. We never had Internet. Cell phones were coming out, but they belonged to rich men. They cost about four grand and were as big as a brick.

“The Internet and cell phones have made the world a smaller place. The playing field for bullies has changed. They can reach children right in their homes, at any time of day on their cells and computers. They post bad stuff on social media for the entire world to see.

“If you’re being bullied, silence is your worst enemy. Same thing if you witness another child being bullied. So tell someone. Your parents. Your teachers. Principal Scinto. Don’t be afraid. This behavior needs to be reported. It needs to stop in our schools.”

Pausing, Audra gazed out at the audience. The alert on her pager had pulled her attention away from really focusing on the students. Someone in the city was either dead or dying under suspicious circumstances, and she had to respond.

“Work is calling me,” she said, “so I’ll wrap this up by telling you that your education isn’t just about learning math equations or the periodic table. Education trains you to think, to make good choices. Your education is a lifelong process. At times, it can be hard and disappointing. But it can also be exciting and enriching.

“I’ll quote the great Nelson Mandela. ‘Education is the most powerful weapon which you can use to change the world.’

“Remember, it only takes a moment to make memories, good or bad. It takes a lifetime to forget them. So please, be good to one another. And thank you for listening to me today.”

For a moment, there was silence. Then the applause started as a few scattered claps, slowly building, until it passed through the entire crowd. To Audra, it was the sound of respect.

She looked over at Daphne and gave her a smile. Daphne shot her back a smile that was wide, proud.

Audra walked away from the podium. When she reached the edge of the stage, she took out her pager and read the display.

Major crime alert.

Point Pleasant Park.

3

Halifax, October 18

10:44 A.M.

The power had gone out shortly before Hurricane Juan rolled into Halifax with a brutality not seen in over a century. The storm came ashore just after midnight on September 29, 2003, packing one-hundred-mile-per-hour winds.

Detective Allan Stanton remembered the amazing noise, like a locomotive hurtling past the door. It seemed the house would come apart at any moment—the howling wind, the rafters creaking and straining, the attic hatch banging steadily.

He and Melissa rode it out in the living room after rearranging the furniture away from the windows. Allan lay on the sofa, his body stiff with tension. He worried about the roof coming apart, about the safety of his family. Melissa sat in the swivel chair, rocking Brian to sleep.

From a battery-powered radio, the voice of a lone announcer filled the room. Between songs, he invited Nova Scotians to call in and relay their stories live on the air.

“Our big apple tree that’s probably like seventy feet fell over on our neighbor’s house…”

“Akerley Campus, the roof came off…the part by the YMCA…”

“The house is shaking, and flying things are hitting it. Even the support wall is shaking…”

“Have you ever seen anything like this?” Melissa asked.

Allan looked over at her. In the candlelight, her face was sculpted, her eyes blackened.

“Never,” he said.

“I didn’t think it would be this bad.”

“Wasn’t supposed to be. Someone dropped the ball.”

They both settled their eyes on Brian, their sleeping angel of a baby boy.

Melissa patted his back, touched her cheek to the top of his head. “He’s out like a light.”

“I can’t believe it,” Allan said. “How can he sleep through this?”

Melissa smiled. “Because we’re not.”

They survived the night with minimal property damage—leaves plastered to the windows, a huge branch broken off the elm tree out front. Other parts of Halifax had been walloped. Thousands of old-growth trees were uprooted. They’d toppled on houses, cars, and power lines and lay across many streets. Shingles and siding were sheared off buildings. Wharfs were ripped up, sailboats sunken. The sounds of generators and chainsaws filled the city.

Hurricane Juan left its biggest mark on Point Pleasant Park. Seventy thousand trees had blown over like matchsticks. Allan remembered his first trip to the park after it reopened to the public. The devastation he saw broke his heart. There were gaps and wide-open spaces punctuated by dead trees. Seventy percent of the forest had disappeared.

As he carried his field kit through the park now, he saw the regeneration seven years had made. New saplings were sprouting up everywhere. Berry bushes appeared where there were none before. Someone had carved two wooden seals from the stump of a tree brought down by Juan.

Allan continued down Cambridge Drive past Tower Hill Road. It seemed odd, eerie even, to walk the trails without meeting any joggers or cyclists or happy dogs frolicking off leash. Just the odd squirrel darting through dried leaves or blue jay flying from one branch to the next.

The clouds overhead began unraveling. Soon, a blast of sunlight shot down, turning the grassy knolls an impossible green and enhancing the fiery colors of the maples. Allan welcomed the sudden warmth cutting through the autumn chill.

A uniformed officer directed him to an offshoot trail surfaced with gravel. It led Allan into denser woodland, between spots of direct sun and leaf-dappled shadows. He followed the trail up a small hill and stopped. The crime scene loomed about forty feet away. Strung tree to tree like a boxing ring, yellow barrier tape marked the location of the body, hidden from view just off the trail. Two Ident techs, Jim Lucas and Harvey Doucette, were unpacking their equipment. Jim proceeded to shoot away with his camera. Harvey staked off a safe entry point into the scene. Both men were dressed in Tyvek coveralls with attached boots and hoods.

Allan inhaled a deep breath, let it out in one long release. He noted the time on his watch: 10:53 a.m. Setting down his field kit, he opened it up and took out his camera. He snapped off a series of photos from the four cardinal points to record how everything looked upon his arrival.

He knew coming into the park that the victim was dead. Sergeant Malone had given him the preliminary information when he timed in at the Tower Road entrance. The victim was Kate Saint-Pierre. Twenty-five years old. She’d been reported missing by her husband Sunday morning after she failed to return home from her run. A search team went out to look for her. But 185 acres was a lot of ground to cover in the shortened daylight hours of fall. A second search began at daybreak. They found her body a few hours later at 10:22, behind a stand of trees. The park was immediately closed to the public.

Allan lowered his camera. For a moment, he watched Jim drop to a squat and place a numbered placard on the trail.

“What’d you find?” he called out.

“Impressions in the gravel. Like someone had dug in their heels.”

“Point of attack.”

“That’s my guess.” Jim indicated a cluster of yellowing bracken just off the trail. “Disturbance through there. Drag marks in the moss. Flattened grass.”

Allan followed Jim’s finger and saw a line of broken fronds leading into the trees.

“Any footprints?” he asked.

“Nothing clear enough.”

“Shall we call in the dogs later?”

“Wouldn’t hurt.” Jim flashed his camera. “There’s always that possibility the suspect dropped something that we’ll miss in the brush or weeds.”

With a slow sweep of his head, Allan surveyed the immediate area. He tried to grasp the how and why of the murder. Two scenarios leaped right out at him: the suspect had concealed himself behind a tree close to the trail, where he waited to ambush Kate, or he had posed as a fellow jogger and taken her by surprise when he passed her.

Harvey gave the go-ahead to enter the scene. Allan followed the entry point into a circular grove of trees. He could smell the leaves and the soil and the bark. He’d always loved those bracing scents when he jogged through the park. They relaxed him. Refreshed him. Cleared his head.

But not today.

His first glimpses of the body were of aqua-colored shoes with pink laces and then black tights bundled at the ankles below lean, muscular legs. When he saw the whole body, he hitched a breath, and his fingers tightened around the camera.

Kate Saint-Pierre lay face up on the ground beside a cut log riddled with insect holes. Her arms were spread out from her sides, her hands partially covered by leaves. The black top and pink running jacket she had on were pulled up to reveal her breasts.

Allan’s mouth felt dry. He moved closer, studying the contorted face, the eyes peppered with red starbursts, the ligature mark around the neck with the ends crisscrossed below the chin.

The suspect had been on top of her, Allan realized. Kate had peered into his face during her final moments.

“Looks familiar, doesn’t it?”

The closeness of Harvey’s voice startled Allan. He glanced over his shoulder at the tech.

“Yeah,” he said.

Turning back to the body, he grimaced. He knew it did, all right. That chill on his skin didn’t lie.

One year ago to the day, he’d been called to this very park. A female jogger had found the body of a young woman near Shore Road. Hidden in the trees just like this one. Posed just like this one. Murdered the same way.

Allan had never forgotten her.

“Mary,” he whispered.

4

Halifax, October 18

11:37 A.M.

“She’s been mutilated.”

Allan stopped sketching on the graph paper and looked up. From the corner of his eye, he saw Audra suddenly retract her tape measure. She began walking over, the dry leaves crunching under her footsteps.

The comment had come from Dr. Richard Coulter. The medical examiner was crouched next to the body, conducting his scene examination. The assistant ME, Eric Lefevre, stood beside him, taking photos. Jim and Harvey were busy searching the outlying area of the scene in a methodical and systematic fashion.

Allan moved closer. “What’d he do?”

“He severed the distal phalanges from the right hand,” Coulter said. “All of them. Even the thumbs. Precisely at the joints.”

Allan exchanged a small glance with Audra. Coulter came up off his haunches, carefully gauging his own steps as he moved around to the other side of the body. He collected a few bloodstained leaves covering Kate Saint-Pierre’s left hand and called Harvey over to process them.

“Same injuries here too,” Coulter said.

“He left the wedding ring,” Audra noted.

Eric added, “And a nice Garmin watch.”

Allan craned his head, peering over Coulter’s shoulder. The hand, like the right one, was missing the bones at the ends of the fingers. Jaw tight, Allan wondered if Kate Saint-Pierre had fought back; people being strangled usually did. Then biological evidence seemed the likely reason for cutting off the fingertips.

But the suspect hadn’t been overly concerned about leaving evidence behind when he murdered Mary Driscow. He’d been sloppy, amateurish. Was this a sign the man was evolving, getting more careful? Or was he just toying with them?

From those first moments at the scene, Allan told himself things would be different this time. He didn’t want to spend another year wallowing in shame and self-doubt, as he had with the Driscow case. A year wondering just whom or what he had overlooked.

The same man had murdered both women. Allan was 99 percent sure of that. The similarities were just too striking to deny. Location. Victim selection. Use of similar weapons. Same body-disposal scenario. Same signature aspect—Mary Driscow had been displayed with her top pushed up and her pants pulled down. Identical to Kate Saint-Pierre. Then came the date. Mary had been murdered on October 17 of last year, her body found later the same day.

“Looks like they were severed here,” Coulter said. “But I don’t see them.”

Allan figured the suspect had carried the fingertips off. Maybe even ditched them in a garbage barrel or recycling bin somewhere in the park. Those needed to be searched, their contents sifted through.

He looked around, feeling the sheer size of the park, every tree, every bush, the carpet of leaves. A lot of real estate surrounded them, the task of covering it all, enormous.

Additional officers needed to be called in to help with a grid search. Any homeless people squatting in the park needed to be located and questioned. One of them might’ve had a chance meeting with the suspect. Bring in the dogs too. They could detect overlooked items that still retained human scent.

“Did the suspect mutilate Mary Driscow like that?” Audra asked him.

Allan turned to her. “Huh?”

“Mary Driscow. Did he mutilate her like that?”

“No. That’s one difference.”

“Only one?”

“As far as I can see.”

Audra frowned, quiet for a moment. Her eyes went small and distant with memory. She tapped the tape measure against her thigh, the sound like the clop of a horse’s hoof.

“Bits and pieces of that case are coming back to me,” she said. “We have a DNA profile from that one, right?”

“Yeah, from a suction lesion on Mary’s breast.”

“No semen found?”

Allan shook his head. “No.”

“Condom, maybe. We’re seeing that more and more these days.”

“Yeah. But we never found a discarded condom wrapper at the scene or a used condom. Unless he took them with him. Maybe he couldn’t get off. Some men can’t during the act of rape.”

Audra chewed on her lower lip, nodding several times. “Fingernail scrapings didn’t turn up anything?”

“They turned up Mary’s own blood and skin. She left claw marks on her neck as she tried to pull the ligature free.”

Coulter interjected, “This victim has similar injuries, Detective. She was conscious and fighting for her life.”

Allan leaned in for a closer look, the harbor breeze cool on his face as it drifted through the trees with a soft whisper. He could see three scratches curving under the left side of Kate Saint-Pierre’s jaw. Several flashes went off as Eric took photos from different angles.

“The ligature left a parchmented weave pattern in the skin,” Coulter went on. “There’s extensive congestion and petechia above the ligature mark. Two—no, three more curvilinear abrasions on the right side of the neck.”

“What’s the ligature pattern tell you?” Allan asked.

“It’s a spiral weave pattern. Like a rope. The furrow is approximately half an inch wide.”

Allan nodded. Similar, he knew. Maybe even the same one used to strangle Mary Driscow.

“The body is cold and clammy,” Coulter said. “Hypostasis is fixed. Rigor is fully established.”

Audra asked, “What’s your guesstimate?”

“So many variables involved. At this point, I’ll place time of death at eighteen to thirty-six hours. I’ll see if I can narrow it down once I do the post.”

Allan said, “We’ll compare notes later. See what info we can dig up.”

For a moment, he and Audra watched Coulter securing paper bags over each hand of Kate Saint-Pierre. Then Audra held up the tape measure for Allan to see, flicking the steel blade out a few inches and letting it snap back inside.

“Wanna get back to work?” she asked.

“Of course.”

“Where were we?”

Allan checked his sketch. With his pencil, he pointed off to a tree at the southwest edge of the crime scene.

“That’s the last one,” he said.

As Audra walked off to get the measurement, there came the sounds of a commotion out by the jogging trail, several voices yelling at once. Everyone froze, all heads turning toward the noise.

Someone’s voice suddenly shot above the cacophony. “Hey! Stop! You’re not allowed to be here. Stop now.”

Just visible through the gnarled branches, Allan saw a man running down the trail, heading straight for their location. A uniformed officer chased him. In lengthening strides, he was closing the distance.

Allan and Audra hurried from the grove to head the man off. As they left the trees, the officer sprang forward, catching the man high in the back and riding him to the ground. With a grunt, the two of them went sliding through the gravel, the officer on top. They stopped a few feet from the barrier tape.

Chugging air in and out of his mouth, the officer wrenched the man’s arm behind his back and reached for his cuffs.

The man arched up under the officer’s weight, dark hair falling in tangles over his forehead. Allan could see the adrenaline fuming in his eyes.

“Is it Kate?” he cried. “Is that my wife in there?”

Allan swallowed. Beside him, he heard Audra mutter, “Jesus.”

The man’s gaze washed over their faces and settled on Allan.

“Did you find her? Kate Saint-Pierre. Please, is it her? Is it?”

Heart heavy, Allan stared down at him, holding the man’s eyes with his own until he saw what Allan had seen, that it was over, that the worst fear had been confirmed.

“I’m sorry,” Allan said. “But you can’t be here.”

Over the years, he had witnessed a gamut of emotional reactions from loved ones. Screaming rampages. Crying hysterically. Fainting. Vomiting. Others just sitting in stunned silence, unable to move or speak. Allan remembered the mother who, after being notified of her daughter’s suicide, began punching him in the chest then collapsing into his arms, sobbing.

Kate Saint-Pierre’s husband squeezed his eyes shut and lowered his face into the gravel. The low guttural moan coming out of him sounded like a wounded animal.

A second officer came down the trail to help the first one pull the man to his feet. Several times as they ushered him back up the trail, his legs gave out and they had to pick him up.

Watching them, Allan shook his head.

“We need to talk to him,” Audra said.

Allan sighed. “Yeah. Not something I’m looking forward to.”

Audra appeared in front of him suddenly. “Hey. You okay?”

Allan looked at her.

“No,” he said. “No, I’m not.”

5

Burlington, Ont. October 18

4:40 P.M.

Home, sweet home.

I love my job. I spend a week, sometimes two, traveling to different provinces to help businesses streamline and boost their growth. I get to visit new cities, revisit old ones, and see the changes that took place since my last time there.

But all that work on the road makes me appreciate every single thing I miss about being home: my amazing wife, Heidi, and my beautiful daughters, Jade and Jaleesa. And of course, my own bed and that finely honed divot in the mattress.

The trees along Shadeland Avenue have really begun to shed their foliage. As I coast through my neighborhood, there are leaves everywhere. I see a big pile of them raked on our front lawn, and it makes me smile when I imagine Jade and Jaleesa jumping into it, laughing, then dropping armfuls of leaves on each other.

Our home is a bungalow built on a gorgeous ravine lot. We fell in love with the property eight years ago and haven’t once regretted buying it. It’s nice to have the extra privacy in your backyard and not have to look at the backs of other houses. If there’s one problem, it’s the deer that come up the ravine and eat Heidi’s flowers.

I park in the garage and grab my luggage from the trunk. As soon as Heidi sees me, she’ll ask about the bandage on my cheek. I must’ve kicked around a dozen excuses at the hotel room in Halifax. Only two seemed even remotely believable: blame the razor or blame myself.

Walking into the kitchen, I set my luggage on the floor. The house smells of roast chicken with a hint of scalloped potatoes. My stomach rumbles. Another thing I miss when I’m away—Heidi’s cooking.

I call out, “I’m home.”

Heidi comes in from the living room, a big smile on her face that quickly drops into a frown. She cocks her eyebrows and nods toward the bandage. Right on cue.

“What happened there?” she asks.

For a brief moment, the room around me vanishes, and I see a flurry of fingers shooting up from below me, long painted nails clawing at my face, at my eyes.

“I did it shaving,” I tell her. “Got in a rush. Wasn’t paying attention.”

She walks toward me. “Did it cut deep?”

“No, no. It’ll be fine.”

She stops two feet from me. One eyebrow falls, the other stays up.

“I bought you an electric razor for Christmas last year,” she says. “Remember?”

I see my way out of this, and I give her a smile. “Yes, dear. You did.”

“Where is it?”

“In the vanity.”

“You probably never had it out of the case, did you? You’d rather use those cheap disposables. The same one for weeks at a time.”

I nod, feeling like a child being scolded.

“You know they get dull.”

“I know,” I say.

“Start using the electric. That’s why I bought it. They’re safer.”

I sigh. “I will, dear. As soon as this heals up.”

The other eyebrow falls, and she smiles faintly. We hug.

“Missed you,” she says.

“Missed you too.”

Score one for me. Only Heidi doesn’t realize it. Truth is, I hate electric razors. They don’t give you as super-smooth a finish as a manual one. But agreeing with her ends the subject. Roll over and submit to a woman’s wishes, and more often than not, they’ll abandon the issue.

I pull away from Heidi and give a quick look around. “Where are the girls?”

“In their room,” she says. “Jade. Jaleesa. Daddy’s home.”

Jade is five years old. Jaleesa is seven. Seven years, five months, if you ask her. Both of them are the spitting image of their mother. When I hear the patter of their feet on the wood floor, it warms my heart. They come bounding into the kitchen and into my arms.

“Daddy! Daddy!”

As I hug them tight to me, I notice their long hair is done up in fishtail braids, just like Heidi’s.

“Were you and Mommy playing hairdresser again?” I ask them.

Jaleesa corrects me. “It’s beauty parlor, Daddy.”

“Oh, sorry. My mistake.” I look up at Heidi and wink.

“We played it yesterday,” Jaleesa says.

Jade touches the bandage on my face. “Are you hurt, Daddy?”

She has her mother’s big brown eyes.

“No,” I assure her. “It’s just a scratch, honey. I’ll be fine.”

“What happened?” Jaleesa asks.

“Cut myself shaving.” I reach for my luggage. “Say, I brought you girls back something.”

Their faces light up with broad smiles. They can barely contain themselves. Jade begins making fists. Jaleesa rises up and down on her toes.

I open the first bag and bring out two stuffed animals I bought at a gift shop in Halifax. They’re both the same—a moose hugging a lobster. I hand each daughter one.

“Aren’t they cute?” I ask.

“Yes,” they say, almost in unison. “Thank you, Daddy.”

They give me another hug. Then they run off to their room. It’s not hard to change a child’s focus. Just introduce a new toy.

“Supper’s in fifteen minutes,” Heidi calls after them.

“Okay, Mommy,” they call back.

I loosen my tie and pull it over my head. Heidi begins taking plates out of the cupboard and setting them on the table.

She asks, “How’d your presentation go?”

“Good. Good.” I take a beer from the fridge. “Whether or not they implement my recommendations is another story.”

“All you can do is give your best advice.”

“Yep.”

As I twist the cap off the bottle, I notice the Burlington Post on the counter. The headline draws my attention: Man Dies After Fall At Mount Nemo.

I take a mouthful of beer.

“Oh, I forgot to tell you.” Heidi taps a finger on the newspaper. “A man fell at Mount Nemo. Died.”

“Did they give his name?”

“No. But everyone is saying it’s the missing hiker from Toronto. They haven’t confirmed it yet. I keep telling you to watch yourself when you go there.”

“I don’t go near the cliffs,” I tell her. “I keep to the trails. Some people ignore the signs. They don’t heed the danger.”

“You having coffee or tea?”

“Tea.”

Heidi fills the kettle, puts it on the stove. I pick up the paper.

A man was found on Monday at the bottom of a cliff in very rugged terrain.

Halton Regional Police believe the man lost his balance and fell over three hundred feet to his death. Identification was recovered on the remains, but police would not confirm if it’s the body of Roger Pratt. The thirty-two-year-old Torontonian has been missing since October 9. Family members said they thought he went to Mount Nemo to do some bird watching. He hasn’t been heard from since.

I fold the paper and lay it on the counter. Roger Pratt. I pull up his image in my mind. He’s a small man who stands on the cliff ledge, looking out through binoculars. His boots, cargo pants, backpack, and khaki Tilley hat remind me of many other hikers I’ve seen at Mount Nemo.

I climb over a fallen cedar. Roger doesn’t hear me approaching on the rocks. I’m not sure what draws me to him, other than the fact that he’s alone and far off the beaten path.

“Some view, what?” I say as I step up beside him.

Roger’s body jolts at the sound of my voice. He turns to me with his mouth agape. His eyes give me the once-over, but he must consider me harmless, because he turns away and presses the binoculars to his face again.

“Beautiful,” he says.

I nod. Indeed it is. Fall has splashed color all over Milton’s countryside. There are green pastures dotted with bales of hay. Brown squares of freshly cultivated farmland. The panorama extends so far off in the distance, I swear you can see the curvature of the earth.

It’s not only beautiful, it’s stunning.

Roger points to a huge bird circling over the valley. “See that?”

I squint. “What is it? An eagle? Hawk?”

“Turkey vulture,” he says. “Riding the thermals. They can detect the minutest scent of carrion.”

He hands me the binoculars. I bring the bird into focus. From a distance it looked black, but now I see it’s more of a brown color. With its prominent red head, it definitely resembles a turkey and is every bit as ugly.

I give Roger back the binoculars.

“Nature’s cleanup crew,” I say.

“They’re so important to the ecosystem. Can you imagine the world without them? Full of rats and disease.”

The world already is, I want to tell him. Take a look around.

“They sure are ugly, though.”

Roger laughs. “Nah, I think they’re beautiful, intelligent. Some cultures regard them as sacred.” He turns to me. “Tibetan Buddhists let vultures eat their dead. They call it a jhator or sky burial. It’s more out of practicality than anything else.”

“Really? Sounds barbaric to me.”

He smiles. “The Chinese thought so too. The body sustains the life of another living being. If you look at it that way, it doesn’t seem so bad. Buddhists consider it good karma. The body is just an empty vessel. The soul has already moved on.”

He’s an odd fellow. I watch him turn his attention back to the vulture. Fate and circumstance has brought us together, I realize. Glancing behind me, I check the trees. The park feels vast, silent. There’s no one around.

Roger continues his fascination with the vulture. He doesn’t notice me inching closer, moving my hand up to his backpack. With one powerful thrust, off he goes. Arms flailing, he falls over the edge. His high-pitched screams slice the air, and they seem to awaken the pleasure centers of my brain. I smile.

Roger skids headfirst down sheer cliffside. He strikes a rocky protuberance, and the screams end. I stand on the ledge, watching his body disappear into the tree canopy far below. I never hear him hit the ground.

Heidi’s voice comes to me, as if in a dream. I look at her. She stands by the table with her head tilted to one side and her eyes narrowed.

“Pardon?” I say.

“I asked you what the little smirk is for. What are you thinking about?”

“You and the girls,” I tell her. “I’m just happy to be home.”

6

Halifax, October 18

5:03 P.M.

“I’m sorry this happened,” Audra said softly.

Luc Saint-Pierre squeezed his eyes shut, and the muscles at the sides of his jaw bunched up. He looked tired, confused, and broken. He twisted the wedding band on his finger.

“I can’t believe this,” he muttered.

“When did you last see Kate?”

He opened his eyes, and his stare seemed to burn straight through her, fixing on something not inside the interview room. Audra could tell a painful memory was flaring behind his blue eyes.

“Yesterday,” he said. “When she left for her run.”

“What time was that?”

“Six thirty.”

Audra checked the missing-persons report on the table in front of her, comparing the time Luc had originally given. They were the same.

She said, “Kate’s an early riser.”

“We both are.”

“Yeah? You look fit. Did you often run with her?”

Luc winced, dropping his gaze. “But not yesterday. The one day I should have.”

“Weren’t feeling up to it?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I was a little hung over. We’d gone out to a dinner party with friends Saturday night.” A distant look spread across his eyes, and a hint of a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Kate had such a great time. She was so happy. Laughing.”

Audra paused. “Where’d you go?”

“The Bicycle Thief.”

Audra knew of it. Down on Lower Water Street. A place frequented by the younger, hipper crowd.

“Who’d you go with?” she asked.

“Do you want their names?”

“Yes.”

“Larry and Faith Bradden. Owen and Scarlett Mercer. Faith and Kate were best friends.”

Audra wrote the names down in her notebook.

She asked, “So you were up with Kate Sunday morning, right?”

Luc nodded. “I watched her head out the door.”

“Did she drive to the park?”

“Walked,” he said. “Or jogged. We live on Emscote Drive. So we’re close.”

“Okay, I gotcha. Did you see her have breakfast?”

“I had it with her.”

“What’d she have?”

Luc frowned. “Is that important?”

“It’s important information for us.”

“She had a banana and a tablespoon of almond butter.”

“At about what time?”

Luc gave a tiny shrug. “Around six.”

“What’d you do after Kate left for her run?”

“Went back to bed. Slept a few hours.”

“What time did you get up again?”

“Nine or so. I realized Kate hadn’t come back.”

“How long is she usually out for?”

“She’s usually home by eight. Eight fifteen.”

“What’d you do when you realized she hadn’t come back?”

Luc’s throat worked. “I waited until ten, then I went over to the park to look for her. When I couldn’t find her, I called you guys.”

“Does Kate own a cell phone?”

“Yeah, but she never takes it.”

Audra leaned back in her chair. She watched him prop his elbows on top of the table and press his palms to his face. She regarded the backs of his hands. No scratch marks. None on his face, either. His hair didn’t seem to have any clumps torn out.

She doubted he had killed his wife. His posture and demeanor told her as much. In some people you could just see and hear the deception leaking out of their verbal and nonverbal behavior. They would have nervous hand gestures or shift in their chairs. They would slouch back, as if distancing themselves from it all. They would overuse adverbs when answering questions or repeat the questions in order to buy time while they thought up an answer.

Luc Saint-Pierre did none of that. He sat upright, cooperated, and gave direct answers. His grief seemed raw and genuine. And what about Mary Driscow? If Allan Stanton were correct in assuming the same man had killed her and Kate Saint-Pierre, then that person would have to be Luc. No, it just didn’t seem likely.

But on the flip side, anything was possible. Experience had taught Audra not to become blinded by her opinion. Just because you believe something doesn’t make it true. In this profession, you had to remember things might not always be what they seem. And when a woman is murdered, the husband invariably comes under scrutiny.

Audra and Allan would interview Kate’s friends and family. See if any stories abounded about troubles in the marriage, maybe even a possible love triangle. Dr. Coulter would determine if Kate’s body exhibited any new or old injuries suggesting spousal abuse.

“What do you think should happen to the person who did this?” Audra asked.

It was a question meant to gauge reaction. A guilty person generally endorses a light punishment, while an innocent person endorses a harsher one.

Luc lowered his hands to the table and balled them into white-knuckled fists. When he spoke, he bit off each word.

“I know what I’d like to see happen. The person strung up by the neck.”

Audra could see the daggers in his eyes. She felt a wash of pity for him as she pictured him fighting to keep it all together after a wrecking ball had just smashed through his life. That was why she regretted her next question so much.

“Would you mind consenting to a DNA sample?”

Luc’s gaze narrowed at her as if he didn’t understand the language. “What?”

“Would you consent to a DNA sample?”

“Why? Am I a suspect now?”

Audra hated herself. “Should you be?”

Luc shot her an emphatic “No.”

“I’m sorry. But you have to realize we need to look at all angles.”

Luc groaned. He said, “What do you need, my blood?” Forcibly, he began rolling up one shirtsleeve and dropping his bare forearm to the table. “Take it.”

Audra shook her head. “No, no. Nothing like that. It’s a buccal swab. We swipe the inside of your mouth. It’s fast and noninvasive.”

Luc clenched his hands together and leaned back from the table.

“Okay,” he said with a resigned tone. “Let’s get it over with.”

Audra glanced up at the camera looking down upon the room and gave it a nod. Within moments, Allan came into the room carrying a DNA collection kit. He laid out on the table disposable gloves, cotton-tipped swabs, and an evidence submission box and envelope. He set a pen and a permission-to-search form in front of Luc.

“Can you sign this for me, please?”

Luc scribbled his name on the line. Audra and Allan signed the bottom as witnesses. As Allan slipped on the disposable gloves, Audra began filling out the information on the submission box and evidence envelope—report number, Luc’s name, the date and time.

“Are you chewing gum?” Allan asked him.

Luc shook his head.

Allan removed a pair of swabs from one package. Holding them together, he had Luc open his mouth, and then he proceeded to swipe the insides of both cheeks. He put the swabs in the submission box and closed it up. Audra took the box from him and placed it inside the evidence envelope, sealing it then sticking a biohazard tag over the flap.

She said, “Okay, Mr. Saint-Pierre, you’re free to leave.”

“We’ll keep you apprised of any developments,” Allan told him. “We’re sorry for your loss.”

Luc looked at both of them, and Audra saw a pain in his eyes that she wanted to shrink away from. Without a word, he got up and left the room.

Audra blew out a breath. “Well, that was tough.”

Allan slipped off the gloves. “Yeah.”

“I don’t think he’s involved.”

“Me either. A husband who stages a rape-murder of his wife rarely leaves her posed semi-nude like Kate Saint-Pierre was.”

Audra raised her eyebrows. “That’s true.”

“But we have to cover all bases.” Allan picked up the evidence envelope. “I’ll get this off to the lab. Be back in a bit.”

“Al,” she said.

Allan turned around, holding the door open with one hand.

“If you ever want to talk,” Audra said, “I’m here. You know that, right?”

Allan held her gaze for a moment, and she recognized the timeworn fatigue that she’d seen in other cops beaten down by the emotional and physical demands of the job. He’d been evaluated and given clearance to return to work, but part of Audra wondered if he was ready, really ready to come back. She worried about him, and so did Captain Thorne. Two officer-involved shootings in the span of a month, the second one ending in a shootout that cost four people their lives. Few officers ever witness that type of trauma in their entire careers. Few ever have to draw their weapons.

Allan gave her a smile and a nod.

“I know,” he said. “I’ll be fine.”

Audra watched him walk out. She found herself staring at the closed door long after he left.

7

Halifax, October 18

6:18 P.M.

“I didn’t find signs of forcible sexual contact,” Coulter said. “No injuries to the genitalia. No bruising or redness when I examined it with the colposcope. That’s common in females of Kate Saint-Pierre’s age, unless a foreign object is used. Evidence usually shows up on different parts of the body.” He sat back from his desk with a glum look on his face. “I didn’t find any signs there, either.

“The clothing had no tears or missing buttons. No evidence of re-dressing. No bruising on the inner aspects of the thighs or knees. No DNA on the clothing or body. Wet mounts were unremarkable. We’ll see if the lab finds anything when they examine the slides and dry smears. Only a small amount of pubic hair was present, so the combings never produced any free foreign hairs.”

Allan frowned. “So you can’t rule sexual assault this time?”

Coulter spread his hands. “That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question right now.”

“Whenever a female is found nude or partially nude,” Audra said, “you automatically think sex crime. You have to.”

“I agree,” Coulter said. “The scene implies that. I just never found evidence on the body to support it. But the absence of injuries doesn’t always negate sexual assault, and the presence of them doesn’t always prove sexual assault. That’s the challenge. My decision is pending the lab results. In my experience, when I don’t find anything on the slides, the lab seldom does, either.”

Allan leaned his head back over the top of the chair, closed his eyes. He saw Mary Driscow lying amidst the moss and leaf litter, and he winced as a pang of sadness and bitter regret shot through his chest.

“Maybe he got interrupted,” Audra said. “Couldn’t finish what he started.”

Allan opened his eyes and looked across the desk at Coulter.

“These findings,” he said, “are very similar to those in the Mary Driscow case. The only difference is the suction lesion you found on her.”

“You’re right, Detective. I had to review my reports on that case again. I’d forgotten the details.”

“The slides were negative there as well.”

“True.”

“Did you look at your scene photos?”

“I did.”

“See the similarities?”

“They’re undeniable.”

“You ruled sexual assault based on that suction lesion?”

Coulter’s eyebrows twitched downward. He shot Audra a quick glance then focused on Allan again. Allan noticed a slight flush appear in his cheeks.

“Suckling the breast is sexual interaction,” Coulter said. “It doesn’t matter how subtle the interaction is. Penetration isn’t necessary for it to be sexually motivated. And penetration isn’t easily proven in females past a certain age. I based my conclusion on the totality of the scene. Not from the lesion alone.”

From the corner of his eye, Allan saw Audra hunch forward, resting her elbows on her knees and turning her head toward him.

“What are you thinking, Al?” she asked.

Coulter tilted his head, a half smile forming. “I’m curious too, Detective.”

“I’m wondering if we…if I looked at the Driscow case all wrong.”

“What do you mean?” Audra asked.

“The sexual aspect of the crimes. Maybe it’s not about that at all.”

“Things aren’t always what they seem.”

Allan looked at her. “Exactly.”

Coulter asked, “Do you think the suspect staged the scenes to look like sexual homicides?”

“You don’t see that often,” Audra said. “Especially in stranger murders.”

“No, you don’t,” Allan agreed. “It’s usually done by someone acquainted with the victim. They try to steer the investigation away from themselves. To hide the relationship.”

Audra added, “Most often, the victim is found in their own homes or workplace. Not a public park. The suspect would have to know Kate Saint-Pierre was going to be there.”

“I don’t think that’s the case here,” Allan said. “We’ll carefully compare the victimology. I believe Kate became a victim of opportunity. In the wrong place at the wrong time. Same as Mary.” He paused a moment, lowering his eyes. “Maybe I’m losing perspective, but to me, Kate Saint-Pierre’s murder smacks of a taunt. The date. The posing.”

Audra said, “The posing might be to degrade the women. Humiliate them. Even demonstrate the suspect’s power.”

Allan gave it some thought. “Possible.”

“Maybe it’s part of his sexual fantasy,” Audra went on. “He poses them that way for his arousal. Takes photographs and uses them later to relive the murders or to satisfy his sexual fantasy.”

“Paraphilia,” Allan said. “You think these could be lust murders?”

“Don’t know. I’m just tossing theories out there.”

Allan scratched his chin. “You might be on point.”

“Who found Driscow’s body?”

“Lara…Sara,” Allan frowned, unable to remember. “Something like that.”

“A female?”

“Yeah. Her dog actually found the body.”

Coulter leaned into his desk, flipping open a folder and adjusting his glasses. “Sara Reis is her name.”

Allan snapped his fingers. “That’s it. Thanks.”

Audra looked over at Coulter. “The breakfast info I gave you, did it help narrow down the time of death?”

“Very much,” he said. “I found semi-digested food particles in the stomach. Volume was about one sixth of a cup. They had the color and consistency of banana and almond butter.”

“Was death soon after she ate?”

“Within a few hours, yes. Possibly one to two. I factored in everything.” Coulter ticked off the items on his fingers. “Rigor. Hypostasis. Body temp.”

Audra referred to her notebook. “That would put the time between seven and eight.”

“Or possibly a little later,” Coulter said.

Audra said, “Luc Saint-Pierre told me Kate usually got home by eight, eight fifteen. I’m thinking a safe time frame is between seven and eight.”

“The suspect was at the park rather early,” Allan said. “Maybe even before Kate.”

The office went quiet for a few moments, only a low hum coming from the ventilation system.

Eventually, Coulter said, “How many people would be there at that time?”

“On a Sunday?” Allan shrugged. “A few, anyway. The park opens at six.”

Audra said, “I’ve never been there that early.”

“It’s a big park,” Allan said. “Easy to wander around unnoticed if you wanted to.”

Audra turned back to Coulter. “Did you find any signs of domestic abuse on Kate’s body?”

He shook his head. “No evidence of old or recent fractures or trauma. She was a well-nourished, well-developed female. As much as you would expect of someone her age.”

“Ligature strangulation caused death, right?” Allan asked.

“Yes, asphyxia caused by ligature strangulation.”

Allan paused. “Right. Were there any other injuries besides the dismembered fingertips?”

“There were abrasions to the palmar surfaces of the hands. Like you’d find if you fell forward and attempted to break the fall with your hands, perhaps on the gravel trail.”

“It looked like the attack happened there.”

Coulter gave a nod.

“Nothing else?”

“No, but getting back to the fingertips. Those were removed postmortem. I saw no vital reaction in the tissues.”

“Well, that about covers it,” Audra said, closing her notebook and standing up. “We have a lot of legwork ahead of us.”

Allan rose from his chair. “Thank you, Doctor.”

“I’ll have the full report to you tomorrow,” Coulter told them.

While they’d been in Coulter’s office, the blue sky had clouded over. The temperature felt as if it had dropped a few degrees.

Crossing the parking lot to Allan’s car, Audra said, “I think Coulter got insulted when you questioned his ruling in the Driscow case. Did you see his face?”

“Got a bit red, didn’t it?”

Audra chuckled.

“He’ll get over it,” Allan said.

“So?”

“What?”

“Do you question it?”

Allan turned his hands up. “Should’ve questioned it back then. I keep wondering if I spent all those months looking in the wrong direction.”

Audra stopped by the trunk of the car, and Allan stopped with her.

“So what are your thoughts on this?” she asked. “Your theory?”

“I looked into every known sex offender on this side of Canada. None of them turned out to be the suspect. I even looked into men who had minor sex-related charges against them because that’s how a lot of these guys get started. In the end, I had one viable suspect. One, and DNA cleared him.”

“And that has you questioning the sexual aspect of the murders?”

“It has me looking at this from a different angle.”

Audra placed a hand on the trunk of the car, her fingers drumming the metal. “Such as?”

Allan drew a breath. “Motivation isn’t always easy to understand. Maybe this guy never sexually assaulted either woman. Maybe that’s the reason Coulter never found any injuries to prove it. Maybe that’s why there was no ejaculate. He never took it that far.”

“The suction lesion on Mary Driscow’s breast. That is sexual interaction. Coulter is right. C’mon, Al, you know that yourself.”

“I do. But what if it was just a sudden urge the guy had? An afterthought. He never did it with Kate Saint-Pierre.”

Audra shook her head. “I don’t know, Al. I don’t know.”

Allan said, “I’m just speculating here. You asked. I told.”

“If sex isn’t this guy’s motivator, what is?”

“What’s left?”

Audra frowned. “Murder.”

“Yeah.”

For a moment, they shared a careful look.

“Murder,” Allan said. “That just leaves murder.”

8

Burlington, October 18

6:45 P.M.

Kate Saint-Pierre.

She’s a slim figure in black and pink, running down the path toward me. The low early sun streams through the woods and has a strobe-light effect on her body. Her ponytail bounces wildly. Her arms resemble pistons as they pump back and forth in sync with the short strides of her legs. I admire her form—head up, chest out, back straight.

She rounds a bend in the trail and comes down the slope. Our distance is closing fast, two trains barreling straight for each other on the same track. Excitement surges through me. My heart races. My senses heighten.

I hear the crunch of gravel under her feet, the rustle of leaves, the stir of a sudden gust high in the turning trees. I inhale the smell of earthy decay, a whiff of something citrusy. I can see a good one hundred fifty yards of the path trailing Kate Saint-Pierre, and there’s no sign of anyone else. There’s no one behind me, either. We’re the only two humans around. It’s beautiful, this serendipitous moment.

About thirty feet separate us now. I notice her cheeks are flushed. Sweat glistens on her face. Her breaths sound deep and even; she’s not huffing and puffing at all. Probably a belly-breather, and that worries me. She could be an experienced runner who has a lot of gas left in the tank. If she gets away, I might not be able to catch her.

Respectfully, I move to the edge of the trail, giving her room. Just before we intersect, she acknowledges me with a quick smile. I return the gesture. It’s a fraternal thing some runners do, like the motorcyclists and truck drivers you see waving to one another on the highways.

As we pass, I casually stick my foot out, and she catches my instep so hard it makes me wince. She topples forward to the ground with a soft grunt. I stop and look down at her.

“Oh, sorry.” I try my damnedest to sound concerned. “Are you okay?”

She lies there on her stomach for a few moments, making little moaning noises. I wonder if she got the wind knocked out of her. Then she lifts her head and slowly pushes up to her knees. Her hands shake as she begins flicking bits of gravel from her palms.

I reach into the pocket of my hoodie, gripping my piece of rope. The ends are knotted so my hands won’t slip off.

“Are you okay?” I repeat.

She looks back over her shoulder at me. Her eyebrows are squeezed together in a crease. Her mouth is twisted to one side. She spits out a caustic “Fine.”

I give a look around. There’s no one coming. The park isn’t as busy as it was yesterday. Lucky for me; not so much for her.

Kate Saint-Pierre begins to stand.

“Here, let me help you,” I say, moving to the front of her.

She holds up a hand to stop me. “I’m fine. Really.”

No, honey. You’re not.

It takes only a second for me to pull the rope from my pocket and loop it around her neck. Her eyes widen, and her mouth drops open. Her hands fly to her throat. Then she’s falling backward to the ground. A gush of air shoots out of her nostrils as my body weight lands on top of her. Quickly, I cross the ends of the rope and give it a sharp tug. She writhes beneath me, struggling to get free. She whips her nails into a crazy frenzy, clawing for my eyes. I feel the fiery lick as one of them scratches my cheek, and it angers me to no end.

I snap the rope tighter, and her hands scramble to it, trying to pull it free. I watch her face swelling, changing color. She looks up into my eyes, and I see the fear and confusion swimming among the tears. I’ve seen that look many times before. Each of those is burned into my memory. Stored there so I can pull one out at random and soak in warm reminiscence.

The creak of the office door drags me, kicking and screaming, from my pleasant daydream. Right away, I click the mouse on my desk, and the news article about Kate Saint-Pierre disappears from the monitor.

I swivel in my chair to face the source of the intrusion. Heidi stands in the doorway, wiping her hands on a towel. Behind her comes the sound of Jade and Jaleesa laughing and splashing around in the bathroom down the hall.

“Girls,” Heidi calls to them. “Don’t you be making a mess.”

They call back, “We won’t, Mom.”

I smile. Their laughter is infectious. It wraps my whole body in a warm hug. I read somewhere new fathers go through biochemical changes. Testosterone plummets. Estrogen levels rise. The brain rewires itself. Extra neurons form and make new connections. The father literally becomes motherly.

There must be some truth to it, because when Jaleesa was born, a change did come over me. I felt a bond with her that I never had with any other human being. Until, of course, Jade came into the world. Then I had those feelings all over again.

“Whatcha doin’?” Heidi asks me.

“Going through emails,” I tell her.

“Anything important?”

I raise my eyebrows. “Well…depends.”

“On what?”

“Your point of view,” I say. “It can be good news or bad. Depending on how you look at it.” I mimic a balance scale with my hands. “Good for the money. Bad that I’ll be on the road again.”

Heidi shuts her eyes. Disappointment slumps her shoulders, deflates her. She crosses her arms and leans against the jamb.

“Where to?”

“Cranbrook. For a company called Flatbow Lumber. They have about a hundred fifty employees.”

Heidi opens her eyes, frowns. “Is that in BC?”

“Yes.”

“You haven’t been out that way for what, two years?”

It’s closer to three, but I don’t correct her.

“Yes,” I say. “Been a while.”

“When do you have to leave?”

“The board of directors wants to see me on Friday. I’ll need to catch a flight Thursday.”

“Do you have to go?”

No, I want to say. It sucks being away from home so much. But I can’t decline the cash. I can’t wreak havoc on my professional reputation, either. In this stagnant economy, companies look for ways to cut costs, to survive. My business thrives on their financial troubles.

Besides, I want to go to Cranbrook. It’s a quaint little city nestled in the mountains. It’ll be nice to see what’s changed since my last visit. Just a short thirty-minute drive up the highway brings you to Kimberley Nature Park. I imagine it’s beautiful there right about now with all the larches in fall color, yellowing the foothills. I’ve been to the park twice before and came up short both times. Maybe I’ll get lucky this trip. Third time’s the charm, right? I’m a glass-is-half-full type of guy.

I say to Heidi, “Can I afford not to? Can we?”

“The Treats In Our Streets is on this weekend,” she tells me. “I was hoping you’d be home so we could all go.”

I wince. Every year we take the girls to that pre-Halloween event the city holds. Different businesses participate and give out candy and stuff to the kids. I couldn’t care less about it, really. But the girls love it. This will be the first year I miss.

“Shit,” I say. “That’s here already.”

Heidi’s mouth stretches into a tight line. “Saturday’s the twenty-third.”

I shake my head. “I don’t know where this month went.”

“You’ve hardly been home but for a few days.”

“Have to take the work when I can get it,” I say. “It keeps us in this place, Kate. It pays the—”

“Who?”

“What?”

Heidi comes off the doorjamb, tilting her head to one side and narrowing her eyes. “You called me Kate.”

“I did?”

“Yeah, you did.”

My body tenses in the chair. I find my eyes pulled into Heidi’s piercing stare. I can’t believe the Freudian slip I just made. Stupid me.

“Who’s Kate?” she asks.

I scramble for an answer. “I don’t know. Must be the fatigue. My brain feels…it feels like it’s running on fumes right now. I can barely think straight.”

“Ah,” she says.

I watch her gaze move to the bandage on my cheek then back to my eyes. The wheels are turning in her head. I can tell she doesn’t believe me.

“Did you and her get into a quarrel? Is that what really happened to your face?”

My jaw tightens. I feel myself getting a little too warm.

“Of course not,” I say. “You think I’m cheating on you or something?”

“Are you?”

“No.” I trace the sign of the cross on my chest. “Honest to God.”

Heidi smirks and raises one eyebrow higher than the other. “Funny. I’ve never known you to be religious.”

I give her a dismissive shrug. “Doesn’t matter if you don’t believe me. I know the truth. Too much on my mind lately with all this work.”

She crosses her arms, chewing on the inside of her bottom lip. We remain like that for a few moments, looking across the room at one another.

Jaleesa calls out from the bathroom. “Mommy, we’re ready to get out now.”

“Be right there,” Heidi answers.

To me, she says, “Well, I better take them out of the tub before they turn into raisins.”

She turns to the hallway.

“Hey,” I say.

She stops and looks back over her shoulder.

“Are we good?” I ask.

She holds my eyes for a few seconds. “Yeah. Yeah, we’re good.”

I watch her leave. Then I shut my eyes and exhale a long breath.

I must’ve asked myself a thousand times since marrying Heidi: what will I do if she ever finds out about me? To see who I really am. To learn of the things I’ve done. If she ever came between my freedom and me, could I do it? Could I kill my wife, the mother of my daughters?

9

Halifax, October 18

7:53 P.M.

“A thrill killer,” Audra said. “What, like Michael Wayne McGray?”

Allan set the evidence box on his desk and pulled the lid off.

“We should be open to the possibility,” he said. “Not get fixated on one direction. Like I did.”

“Whodunit cases are the hardest to solve.”

Allan gave her a lopsided smile. “They can’t all be dunkers, right?”

“You don’t know if you were wrong, Al. Sometimes it’s a marathon, not a sprint.”

“All I know is I never caught him. Now another woman is dead.”

Audra watched him turn back to the box. He became very still as he stared into it. Only his jaw muscles twitched. He seemed hesitant, afraid to touch whatever was inside. Slowly, he withdrew a manila envelope and held it for a few moments, his usually kind eyes losing their softness, becoming sad.

“Here,” he said. “These are the scene photos from the Driscow case. Tell me what you see.”

Audra sat back and threw her feet up on the desk. As she began looking over the photos, she understood why Allan suspected the same man.

Arms outflung, Mary Driscow’s body faced the sky. Her bangs were swept back off her forehead, and her mouth and eyes were open. A prominent ligature mark formed an X on her throat.

The suspect had left Mary’s yellow running jacket hitched up over her breasts and her black tights pulled down to her ankles. It mirrored what he’d done with Kate Saint-Pierre.

“I bet this empowers him,” Audra said. “The way he seems to hunt them. How he kills them. How he poses them in this degrading manner.”

Allan said, “So we’re in agreement it’s the same man?”

Audra nodded. “The evidence certainly suggests it.”

She could see nothing similar in the women’s physical characteristics. Mary Driscow had reddish-blond hair; Kate Saint-Pierre had dark brown. They had different hairstyles, too. Curly versus straight.

The women’s body types differed as well. Mary was pale and slender. She didn’t have a lot of muscle tone. Kate was just the opposite. She had a light tan, and her body showed the lean muscularity of an athlete who not only ran frequently, but also pumped a bit of iron.

Audra agreed with Allan’s theory—both women were victims of opportunity. In the wrong place at the wrong time. The park was the common denominator. The suspect had been there to hunt anyone who took his fancy.

So where had he been for the past year? In jail for some other crime? Or had he just sat around and waited to strike again on the anniversary of Mary Driscow’s murder? Maybe he had photos of the body to tide him over during that time. Maybe he even revisited the crime scene.

Audra knew these types of killers went through a cooling-off period where they’d blend back into their normal lives. That period could last weeks, months, even years before the urge to kill again became overwhelming. Dennis Rader went years between some of his murders.

Audra slipped the photos inside the envelope. She noticed Allan had begun taking out various reports from a second box and piling them on the desk.

“What’d Mary do?” Audra asked him. “Where’d she work?”

“She was a teller at the RBC on Quinpool.”

Audra chewed on the inside of her lip. “That would’ve brought her into contact with a lot of people.”

“What’re you thinking?”

“Just mulling shit over.”

“Uh-huh.” Allan set the empty box on the floor. “Care to share?”

Audra shrugged. “I was thinking about this guy. About the whole year he seemed to have waited around.”

Allan sat down on the other side of the desk. “I thought about that myself.”

“What’d Mary’s profile reveal?”

“Everyone had wonderful things to say about her. Nothing negative. She was a smart, considerate girl who was a bit of an extrovert. She liked people.”

“Did she have a boyfriend?”

“Not at the time of her death.”

“Any recent breakups?”

“One a few months earlier. His name was Anthony Belding. According to Mary’s parents, he was her first and only boyfriend. They met in university. Dated for about three years before Anthony decided he wasn’t ready to make a real commitment.

“I cleared him as a suspect. And every other male in Mary’s social circle.”

“What about computer records?”

“Her social media footprint was light. Texts and emails to friends and family. Some activity on Facebook. Nowhere else.”

“Nothing valuable?”

“No.”

“Who was this prime suspect you had?”

Allan made a face as if he tasted something bitter. “Oh, that guy.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Oh yeah.” Allan picked up a folder from the pile and handed it to Audra. “Gary Strickland. He was a bit of a transient. Lived in different places throughout the province over the years. Even here in Halifax for a time. His last residence was New Glasgow, where he was working as an electrician until being fired for stealing jewelry from a client’s home.”

Audra opened the folder to see the mug shot of a round-faced man with a sloping forehead and soft chin. He had trim black hair on the sides and a patch of bare skin on top. An ordinary-looking man, you could say. But it was the eyes—to Audra, they were black pits, cold and lifeless, like a shark’s.

“Dude looks serious,” she said.

Allan lifted an eyebrow. “Seriously nuts, maybe.”

“How’d he wind up on your radar?”

“ViCLAS,” he said. “Shortly after I submitted the Driscow case to them, they made a potential link to an unsolved rape and murder from three months earlier. The victim was Ashley Lynn Decker. A twenty-two-year-old cashier from New Glasgow.

“The case appeared related to Mary Driscow’s. Ashley had been raped and strangled with a ligature. The suspect also left her posed in a near-identical way as Mary had been. When I viewed the crime scene photos, I got a chill. The similarities were that uncanny.”

Audra asked, “But there were differences?”

Allan nodded. “Weave patterns in the ligature marks were different. Ashley’s body wasn’t found in a park but a wooded area on the outskirts of New Glasgow.

“Investigators found evidence she’d been getting ready for bed when the suspect showed up at her door. The bathtub was half-filled. Pajamas were set out on the bed. The blankets were turned back.

“It seemed the suspect gained entry under false pretenses and forced Ashley outside in her socked feet to an awaiting vehicle.

“There were no signs of a struggle. No forced entry. Nothing was taken. Ashley’s purse was on the coffee table right in plain sight. Credit cards and loose cash still inside.”

Audra said, “I take it she didn’t live in a secure building.”

“Correct.”

“How many units in it?”

“Twelve.”

“And none of the neighbors heard anything? Saw anything?”

“The ones below her heard water running in the bathroom around nine-thirty,” Allan said. “It stopped a short time later. They never heard any sounds after that.”

Audra mulled the story over. “What about transfer evidence from the suspect’s vehicle?”

“Nothing. But Ashley’s body had lain out in the elements for several days before its discovery.”

“So was this Strickland fella a prime suspect from day one?”

Allan shook his head. “No one even knew of him at the time. And rightfully so. He only had a couple of summary convictions in his past. Both for public intoxication.

“All that changed last April when he tried to abduct a young woman named Lisa Peyton.” Allan retrieved another folder and gave it to Audra. “This is her statement.”

As Audra began to read the report, she envisioned the events of that harrowing night through Lisa Peyton’s own words…

10

New Glasgow, April 16

8:46 P.M.

Lisa leaned in close to the dresser mirror, carefully applying eyeliner to the corners of her bright-blue eyes.

When she heard the doorbell chime, a warm glow of excitement spread through her body. The clock on the bedside table read 8:46. Richard, her fiancé, was early tonight.

Lisa smiled.

She called out, “Just a sec.”

The doorbell rang again—twice, in quick succession.

“Hold your horses. I’m coming.”

Lisa hurried, clasping earrings to her lobes. Then she paused to give her reflection a quick appraisal before she hustled to the door. She sprung it open without checking the peephole and found herself face to face with the black barrel of a revolver.

Lisa hitched a breath.

Behind the revolver stood a doughy man in jeans and a flannel shirt.

Too afraid to move, Lisa watched the fitful movements of his eyes, darting around the living room, over her body, lingering on the swell of her breasts beneath her sweater.

“Who…what…what do you want?”

“Shut up!”

The man stepped forward, and Lisa stepped back, instinctively lifting her hands up in the air.

“Please. Don’t hurt me.”

The man’s face seemed to twitch, a spasm of anger that flashed and vanished in an instant.

“Shut up, I said.” He put the gun to her head. “Make a sound, and I’ll shoot you dead. Got it?”

Lisa felt her legs turn to jelly. She forced back the scream bubbling up her throat.

The man moved up beside her, brushing his nose across her hair and then flicking his tongue along the outer edge of her ear. The smell of rum filled Lisa’s nostrils. Heart pounding, she watched him disappear from the corner of her eye.

Then came the hard nudge of the revolver into her back.

“Move.”

She obeyed.

As she reached the doorway, she stopped.

“Where…where’re we going?”

“You’ll find out.”

“But my shoes.”

“Make it snappy.”

After she slipped them on, the man pushed her through the doorway. Arms stiff at her sides, Lisa skittered her eyes to the left and right. There were no cars coming, no pedestrians on the sidewalks. Even Connie and Scott in the duplex next door weren’t home. Lisa noticed a dark car parked at the curb. The shape of it reminded her of those muscle cars the cops drove.

Without warning, the man placed his free hand on her shoulder, turning her around so she was facing him.

“Close the door,” he said.

She did, and then the man turned her around again, pushing her toward the dark car. He led her to the driver’s door, reached around her, and yanked it open.

“Get in,” he said.

“No, no, no,” Lisa said, fighting back tears. “Please.”

The man tapped her head with the revolver. “Don’t fuck around.”

Lisa slid in behind the wheel and closed the door. Through the windshield, she watched him round the front of the car. As he climbed onto the passenger seat, he dangled a set of keys in front of her face.

“You’re driving,” he said.

“Where?”

Leaning over, the man pressed the muzzle of the revolver behind her ear. “No questions.”

Lisa fumbled the key into the ignition. The motor started. The headlights brightened the street.

Leather covered the steering wheel, making it feel thick under her hands. As she drove away, her gaze shifted to the rearview mirror, where she saw Richard’s car pull into her driveway. The dash clock read 9:00. Right on time.

Lisa moved her hand to the horn, but she couldn’t make herself press it. The man would surely kill her. And what about Richard? She couldn’t jeopardize his life.

Lisa looked back to the street, tears welling in her eyes. This couldn’t be happening. In June, she would be walking down the aisle between the white columns of the church, accepting Richard’s hand in marriage. They would be flying off to Jamaica for their honeymoon.

Would she miss it all? What was this man going to do to her? Why hadn’t he concealed his identity? Did that mean he planned to kill her after all?

Sudden, uncontrollable sobs began to rack her body.

“Quiet.”

The man twisted the muzzle into her skin behind her ear. Lisa winced at the pain, bending her neck away.

In a split second, everything turned chaotic.

The steering wheel jerked out of Lisa’s hands. The car veered hard to the right, the front tire then the rear jumping over the curb onto the grass strip.

“Jesus,” the man said. “Jesus Christ.”

A telephone pole came at them in a rush. Quickly, the man grabbed hold of the wheel and swung the car back onto the street. The pole whipped past them by inches.

“Stupid bitch!” the man shrieked. “You trying to fucking kill us?”

Lisa cringed at the loudness of his voice. She took control of the wheel again, staring straight ahead.

On the other side of the street, a minivan slowed, the driver’s curious face pressed to the window.

Looking back, Lisa mouthed a silent “Help me.”

She watched the minivan continue on, its red taillights receding into the dark with all her hopes.

Her mind wrestled with ideas of how to escape. Maybe she could open the door and dive out. Floor the gas pedal and drive them into a ditch or even a pole like the one they’d missed a few minutes ago. But fear drained her courage.

Wiping her eyes, she composed herself the best she could. She had to focus on her own survival. She would play along with this man. Wait for her chance to escape.

“Pull over,” he said.

Lisa guided the car to the curb. Her arms shook so badly, it took an effort just to turn the steering wheel.

The man grabbed the gearshift and rammed it into park.

“We’re switching places,” he said.

From the corner of her eye, Lisa saw him tuck the revolver into his waistband.

“Look at me,” he said.

Swallowing, she turned to him.

“You try anything, and…” He put an index finger to his temple and curled it back toward his palm. “Understand?”

She gave him a small nod.

He turned the car off and removed the key from the ignition. Then he got out, depressing the lock before closing the door. He went around to the driver’s side. Lisa scooched over the console to the passenger seat, staring at the door handle. A voice in her head told her to go for it. Open the door and run. Run like you have never run in your life. She just couldn’t summon her body to make that initial move.

As the man got in, Lisa noticed the revolver in his hand again. He pointed it at her, the dark eye of the muzzle an inch from her face.

“Put on your seat belt,” he said.

Lisa struggled to get the buckle to snap but finally got it after several tries.

The man started the car and drove off. Lisa sat there, rigid. Her heart pounded in her ears.

She watched as he cut across the George Street Bridge to Westville Road. She realized he was heading for the highway. He could be taking her anywhere, kill her at his own convenience.

Their destination became a remote wooded lot twenty miles outside New Glasgow. Lisa saw nothing but trees and the unused back road. Terror swam inside her brain, making her light-headed.

The man shut off the car and switched on the dome light. Then he reached under his seat and retrieved a black toiletry bag with a single zipper over the top.

Lisa didn’t want to think about what he had inside it.

With an unsettling calm, the man said, “Get out. You try to run, and I’ll shoot you right in the back.”

Lisa unbuckled the seat belt, opened the door. Her knees felt ready to collapse under he weight of her body as she stepped out.

The night was clear, crisp, and windless under a crescent moon.

The man climbed out of the other side and circled to the trunk, where he set the bag on the lid. Unzipping it, he dipped a hand inside.

Lisa’s heart lurched as she watched him.

The man revealed a camera.

“Say cheese,” he said.

The sudden flash blinded Lisa, and she fell against the car, blinking her eyes. She could hear the man laughing at her. A kind of maniacal chuckle only a psychopath could make.

When her vision came back after a good minute or more, she saw him standing in the same spot by the trunk, the camera still in his hands. A sinister smile was stretched across his face.

He pressed the camera to his face again. Lisa imagined him staring at her miniaturized image through the viewfinder as he framed his next shot. She shut her eyes against two more flashes.

The man put the camera away. Lisa tensed as he approached her with the bag and revolver in one hand. He motioned for her to turn around.

“Please,” Lisa said. “Why are you doing this?” She looked at his fingers. No ring. “Don’t you have a girlfriend?”

He stopped, his lips curling.

“Fuck you,” he said. “Trying to control things here? Is that what you’re up to?”

“No, no. Not at all.”

“Bullshit.”

He grabbed hold of her arm with steely fingers and spun her around. Then he punched the muzzle of the revolver between her shoulder blades, pushing her forward.

He marched her into a thick stand of trees. Lisa kept her hands out in front of her to move away the branches in the dark. Her chest began to ache from her heart beating so fast.

The woods were chilly. They smelled of dampness and spring growth coming to life. The recent thaw had made the ground feel like a sponge under her feet. Here and there, patches of snow remained in spots where the sun’s rays couldn’t reach.

Eventually, they came to a clearing. It was about the size of a football field, covered in a sea of flattened yellow grass.

Lisa regarded the trees on the other side. They were maybe one hundred fifty feet away. Too far. She’d be shot in the back long before she made it to them.

“End of the road,” the man said and smacked her across the face.

Lisa pitched back to the ground. The blow left her stunned, and she lay there, trying to recover her bearings. The left side of her face felt numb. Sensation came back gradually in painful throbs. In her mouth, she tasted blood.

She gazed up at the man. His face floated above her, his eyes narrowed to slits, his mouth contorted into a grim rictus. The moon behind him silvered the fringes of his hair.

He raised his fist; Lisa cringed.

“Bitch,” he said and swung.

Lisa folded her arms around her head. One of them took the blow, and she cried out in pain.

When another strike didn’t follow, she looked up. The man stood over her, looking down, his head eclipsing the moon.

“Take your clothes off,” he said.

Lisa’s mind went into a whirlwind.

Oh my God, she thought. He’s going to rape me.

Deep down, she knew the whole time it was leading to this. She just never wanted to admit it to herself.

“Do it,” the man said.

“No.” Lisa skidded away from him on the seat of her jeans. “I won’t.”

The man thrust his jaw forward. “You stubborn bitch. I said take your clothes off.”

“Please,” Lisa said. “Let me go. I won’t tell anyone about this. I mean it.”

The man shook his head, muttering something under his breath.

Lisa watched him set the black bag on the ground. Then he took a step forward with his right leg, leveling the revolver at her, his free hand anchoring in a pants pocket.

Paralyzed, Lisa watched him thumb back the hammer. Her mouth fell open. Her hands rose.

“Please…”

All at once, the revolver jumped in his hand. There was a loud pop and a bright muzzle flash. Every muscle in her body tensed as she braced herself for the impact of the bullet.

Nothing seemed to have hit her. She felt no pain anywhere. Had he missed? How could he at such a close range?

Tears sprang to her eyes. She noticed with humiliation that she had wet herself.

“Fired over your head,” the man said. “To show you this gun is loaded.”

He squatted, patting the ground around him. Seconds later, he found the black bag.

Lisa’s eyes widened as she watched him take out a piece of rope.

Then, without warning, he pounced on her.

The weight of him crushed Lisa. Unable to breathe, she struggled to push him off. She writhed, clawing at his eyes.

Averting his head, he caught one of her wrists, twisted it, and pinned it to the damp grass.

“So you wanna play rough, huh? I’d like nothing more.”

His hand lifted into the air and shot down. The butt of the revolver struck the corner of Lisa’s eye, sending a spatter of dots across her field of vision.

Dazed, her mind didn’t register the rope being looped around her neck until her air supply was suddenly choked off.

She tried to pry the rope from her neck. Couldn’t. She beat on his forearms, scratched the back of his wrists until she swore they bled. But the more she fought, the more he pulled on the rope.

She could feel the hard barrel of the revolver against her jaw. If only she could get it away from him. Turn the tables.

Through her blur of tears, she could see his face bent to hers. The feral look had returned to his eyes. His nostrils flared with each breath.

“Bitch,” he hissed. “I’m gonna make you feel some real pain.”

He tightened the rope more.

Lisa felt helpless. Her carotids throbbed against the rope. Pressure was building up in her head, swelling her face and bulging her eyes. Her vision was dimming. She could feel herself spiraling into darkness at a million miles an hour.

No, she thought. It can’t end like this.

But it was. She knew it.

Her arms flailed, weaker now. A roaring sound filled her ears, drowning out the hammering of her pulse.

Then, suddenly, the man released the rope, and Lisa brought her head off the ground, coughing and gasping. Precious air poured into her lungs.

“Gonna do what I say?” the man said.

“Yes,” Lisa croaked. “An-Anything.”

“I knew it. Just took a little persuading is all.”

Fuck you, Lisa wanted to say.

She touched sticky blood on the side of her face. She swallowed several times, trying to wash the hoarseness from her throat.

“Take your clothes off,” the man said. “Do it now.”

Slowly, Lisa sat up. She couldn’t die like this. She had to do something.

She looked at the revolver aimed at her face. If she grabbed for it, she’d die. One pull of the trigger, and it would be all over.

“Could you point the gun away?” she asked. “It makes me nervous.”

An odd calm crossed the man’s eyes. He lowered the revolver, pointing it off toward the side.

“Happy now?”

Stiffly, Lisa got to her knees. She played with the hem of her sweater, acting as if she were going to take it off. She moved a little closer to the man until she could touch him. With all the strength she had left, she cut loose, upper-cutting him in the balls. Knees buckling, he let out a yelp.

As he doubled over, Lisa scrambled to her feet. She ran across the clearing as fast as she could, heading for the trees.

Shouts rang out behind her. “Get back here!”

Neck straining, Lisa glanced back to see the man chasing her. She could hear his heavy respiration, the hustle of his footsteps closing in. For such a chubby man, he was surprisingly fast.

“Stop! Right now.”

Reaching out for her, the man overbalanced and went tumbling forward. As he fell, Lisa felt his fingers brush down her sweater.

The man hit the ground with a grunt.

Lisa kicked it into another gear, aware that she was running for her life.

The trees were becoming clearer.

Fifty yards.

Forty.

“You’re dead, bitch.”

Thirty yards.

Twenty.

A stitch was forming in Lisa’s side.

Ten yards. Five. Almost there.

Then came the gunshots. Two of them.

The first bullet caught a tree in front of her, throwing wood chips across her face. The second whipped past her head with a whizzing sound, ending God knows where.

Lisa never broke stride. She made it into the trees. Branches slapped her face, caught on her sweater.

When she had covered what she believed was a safe distance, she forced herself to fast-walk, ever mindful of burrows and fallen branches. The last thing she needed was to twist an ankle.

She had no sense of place or direction. The woods in these parts could stretch for miles. You could easily get lost and never find your way out.

Time. She touched her wrist and realized she’d forgotten her watch on the dresser. It had to be well after ten, maybe closer to eleven.

The ground took a dip, and Lisa worked her way down an uneven slope. At the bottom, she stopped. Heart smashing against her ribs, she tried to slow her breathing enough to hear her pursuer. There came no panting, no twigs crackling, no rustling through the brush.

She glanced in one direction then another. Gloomy and silent, the woodland was like a sprawling morass. The night sky was barely visible through the latticework of branches, only a glimmer of the moon and a few stars.

Lisa waded through the dark for maybe thirty minutes, maybe longer. She came upon the wide trunk of a tree, and she leaned against it, propping a foot up on an exposed root to rest.

Suddenly, she began to feel woozy. Clasping her arms, she crouched beside the tree. Her body shook all over, as though an electrical charge surged through it. Then she burst into sobs. Uncontrollable sobs that came out of nowhere. They only lasted a minute and were gone.

Lisa tipped her head back against the rough bark of the tree. So many emotions flooded her mind—hurt, fear, anger.

She curled forward, resting her chin on her knees and peering out at the murk and mystery of the woods. The dark shapes of the trees and bushes seemed to shift and fade. Vague sounds touched her ears now: squeaks, grunts, and barks.

She couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched, and it sent a cold sensation up the back of her neck.

Don’t panic, she told herself. Panic was the enemy. A clear head would find itself.

Logic told her to stay put until morning. If she tried to make it out of the woods in the dark, she could get more lost—even wander around in circles, wasting valuable energy she’d need to keep warm. At daybreak, she might be able to figure out where she was. Go from there.

But that was several hours away. Several nerve-racking hours of sitting in the creepy dark, not knowing what nighttime creatures were lurking out there.

She felt around the ground until she found a hefty stick. Clutching it tight to her chest, she sat against the tree again. She listened into the gloom.

That was when it came. A new sound this time.

Lisa cocked her head. It sounded like the rumble of an engine, followed by the unmistakable jackhammer noise of a tractor-trailer Jake-braking downhill.

Lisa sprang to her feet. The highway had to be nearby.

She turned in a full circle, trying to pinpoint the spot. The sound grew louder, and then it began fading.

Fading.

Gone.

No, wait. Come back.

Lisa scrambled forward, tearing through tangles of branches, hoping she was heading in the right direction.

Eventually, she saw something ahead. Shimmers of light flashed through gaps in the trees. They had to be headlights. Just had to be.

Lisa pressed a palm to her heart. Freedom. Tauntingly close.

She came to the last fringe of trees and found herself standing on the edge of an embankment. Directly below her stretched the 104 Trans Canada Highway.

Headlights bobbed far down the road. Behind them, Lisa could make out the shape of another tractor-trailer.

Overwhelmed with emotion, she began to weep. She went down the side of the embankment, sliding, grabbing at clumps of grass, nearly tumbling to the bottom.

She clambered up the ditch to the shoulder of the road, waving her arms. The tractor-trailer lumbered past without slowing, and the wind gust from it blew Lisa’s hair across her face.

She let out a theatrical groan.

“Thank you, asshole,” she yelled. “Thank you very much.”

As she curled her arms over her head, she noticed headlights on the other side of the highway. A car this time. Quickly, she ran across the median strip, waving frantically.

The car flicked on its brights and began slowing down. Lisa ran to the driver’s door. The middle-aged woman behind the wheel was already lowering her window with cell phone in hand when Lisa started blubbering on about her terrifying ordeal, not even knowing if her words were making any sense.

11

Halifax, October 18

8:17 P.M.

“Whoa,” Audra said. “Lucky girl.”

She gave Allan back the file, and he placed it on the pile.

“How long before they tracked down Strickland?” she asked.

“Days,” Allan said. “Ms. Peyton had managed to remember the make of the car and four digits of the license plate. When officers showed her his picture, she positively identified him.”

“That would’ve given him a lot of time to form an alibi, get rid of evidence.”

“He tried. He’d ditched the black bag that everyone suspected was his prepared rape kit. He got rid of the revolver. Even wiped his car clean of Ms. Peyton. But he forgot one thing...”

“What?”

“His computer. Forensics located pictures of Ashley Decker on it. Uploaded from Strickland’s camera the day after he’d murdered her.”

“Mementos to use later,” Audra said. “Like he’d tried to do with Lisa Peyton.”

Allan nodded. “Part of his signature. Some of the pictures were taken while Ms. Decker knelt in the grass, still alive. Others were taken of her body after Strickland had strangled her.”

Audra asked, “Any of Mary Driscow?”

Allan broke eye contact with her for a second. “None of her, no.”

“Was the revolver registered?”

“Not in his name, if it was.”

“What’d he say about it?”

“Denied even having it.”

“They ever find this camera?”

“They figured he ditched it with the bag. He never revealed where anything was. Clammed up when asked about the pictures on his computer. Didn’t matter; the evidence was enough to charge him with first-degree murder.”

“Deny the crime,” Audra said. “Some of these guys think it’ll prevent them from being arrested.”

Allan said, “When I dug a little deeper into Strickland’s past, I found out he’d lived in Clayton Park for seven months before moving to New Glasgow. Glenforest Drive. Mary Driscow had lived on Hillwood Crescent. A street over from him.”

Audra raised her eyebrows. “Whoa. That’s quite the coincidence.”

Allan pressed his lips into a tight line. “So I thought.”

“I take it he lived there while Mary Driscow did?”

“Yes.”

“He knew that neighborhood. Maybe knew her or saw her around. I can see why you took such an interest in him.”

Allan let out a heavy sigh. “I was excited. I got a warrant for his DNA. You know the rest.” His voice dropped. “Seems like I was always a day late and a dollar short.”

Audra watched him.

He said, “New Glasgow told me they interviewed neighbors of Strickland over there. Turned out that in the weeks leading up to Ms. Decker’s murder, he and his girlfriend had fought often.”

“What’d she say about it?”

“That he was a control freak. Had anger issues. Took fits all the time. That’s why she dumped him.”

Audra considered that. “He probably couldn’t deal with the breakup. So he went out looking for someone to vent his anger on.”

Allan nodded again. “Exactly. You know some of these guys have low resilience. They can’t cope with rejection, or many of life’s problems, for that matter.”

“Add in his anger issues, and you have a ticking time bomb.”

Allan said, “Ashley Decker was known to frequent the Roseland Cabaret. They think Strickland saw her there one night, followed her home, and began watching her place for several days before making his move. Staff at the Roseland recognized him when shown his picture.”

“Did Lisa Peyton have similar habits of going out?”

Allan shook his head. “But she did work as a beautician. And guess who one of her frequent clients was.”

Audra frowned. “Not Strickland?”

“The ex-girlfriend.”

“Okay, I gotcha. And Lisa never recognized him?”

Allan spread his hands. “Maybe they never officially met. Maybe he knew of Ms. Peyton through the girlfriend. Of course, this is all conjecture.”

“But seems to be more than that, doesn’t it?”

“For sure.” Allan checked his watch. “Say, do you want to take these files home and brush up on the Driscow case tonight? We can resume first thing in the morning.”

Audra’s own watch read 8:36 P.M.

As she watched Allan, something bugged her. She’d always known him to work around the clock, obsessively so, in the first days of a murder investigation. Now he wanted to clock out early.

She asked, “Is everything okay?”

Allan ran a hand through his hair, his eyes distant. “There’s something I want to do before it gets too late.”

Audra shrugged. “Sure, Al. Whatever you feel you need to do.”

“Thanks.” He paused on his way to the doorway and looked back at her. “Meet here for six in the morning?”

“Six it is.”

“See you then,” he said and walked out.

12

Halifax, October 18

9:03 P.M.

Allan parked at the curb in front of a split-level home on Morningside Drive. Looking over, he saw a light on in the living room. The glow from a television flickered on the curtains.

The last time he came here, it had been nearly a month after the murder of their daughter. He’d dropped by to convey the progress in the investigation, but more so to see how they were doing.

He remembered Joyce Driscow barely able to speak without breaking down. She had lost weight. Her embattled face had paled so much it drew his focus to the dark hollows under her eyes and made him worry about her health.

Bill Driscow had seemed a little better. He’d carried himself with the strong, stoic composure of a warrior. But it made Allan question whether he appeared that way just for his wife, to be her rock while he internalized his own personal hell.

Allan wondered what he’d find when their door opened this time. Had the months been kind to them? Had they somehow moved on with their lives? Could any parent ever move on from the horror of losing a child?

Allan shut the car off, took a deep breath, and got out. He approached the front walk of the house, his pace growing slower with each step.

Gray clouds hung low under the October sky. A chilly breeze pushed dead leaves across the ground.

Allan rang the doorbell.

In moments, a light came on in the foyer. The blurred image of a person appeared through the privacy glass of the front door.

“Who is it?”

Allan recognized the voice. “Mr. Driscow. I’m Detective Stanton with the Halifax Police. I worked your daughter’s case.”

There was a brief silence. Then the door opened.

What Allan saw caused his breath to catch. The man who stood before him scarcely resembled the Bill Driscow he’d seen eleven months ago. On the street, Allan doubted he would even know him.

Bill had aged considerably. He had dropped an easy twenty-five to thirty pounds on a frame that couldn’t afford it. His face was gaunt and splotchy. His hair stuck out in wispy tufts from his head.

He gave Allan a hesitant smile and held out his hand.

Allan shook it.

“Detective Stanton,” Bill said. “Come in.”

“Mr. Driscow. How are you doing?”

Bill looked down then up. “Seen better days.”

Allan shut the door. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“No, no. Just watching some TV.”

“I stopped by to tell you we’re reopening your daughter’s case.”

Bill tipped his head back, and his gaze became unfocused.

“That girl they found in the park,” he said. “I saw it on the news tonight. Made me think of Mary.”

Allan paused, wondering how much to divulge and if it mattered anyway.

“We believe there’s a connection,” he said.

Bill winced. “Another family has to live through what we did. I pity them.”

“How’s Joyce doing? Is she up?”

Bill closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he said, “She’s gone.”

Allan frowned. “Gone?”

Bill’s chin quivered. “She died.”

Allan felt a sudden ache bore straight through his chest and spill into his stomach.

“When?”

“August twenty-second.” Bill blinked at a swell of tears. “I found her on our bedroom floor when I came home from work.” He sucked at the air. “She never got over Mary. I know the stress killed her. She died of a broken heart.”

“I’m sorry,” Allan said softly. “I didn’t know.”

Bill touched his eyes and then looked at the wet fingertips he came away with.

Allan said, “I guess it was in May I last spoke to her. I called her from my office one day. I got the impression she was doing well.”

“She masked a lot. Even with me. I used to hear her crying all the time, alone in the bathroom.”

Allan tried to hold Bill’s eyes the best he could, but the pained expression on the man’s face eventually made him drop his gaze to the hardwood floor.

“In less than a year,” Bill said brokenly, “I lost my daughter and wife. Now, last month, the doctors gave me months to live. Three, if I’m lucky.”

Allan looked at him, and Bill nodded.

“The big C,” he said.

“How bad is it?”

“Bad. It’s in my liver. They say it’s aggressive. Probably the same form that killed my father.”

“Can they operate?”

Bill shook his head. “It’s too deep.”

“What about treatments?”

“They wanted me to start chemo right away.”

“And you didn’t?”

“No.”

“Why?”

Bill gave a light shrug. “The prognosis isn’t much better. It might buy me a couple extra months if I’m lucky enough that the chemo doesn’t kill me first.

“I saw what the cancer did to my father. Near the end, my mother could’ve picked him up off the bed with two fingers. His skin and eyes had turned all yellow. I won’t let myself reach that point.”

The ache moved up into Allan’s throat. He leaned against the wall of the foyer and folded his arms, wishing he hadn’t come here.

“My God,” he said. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Nothing to say.” Bill set his jaw and pushed his shoulders back. “I’ve accepted it. A diagnosis like that gives you a whole new perspective. Things you thought were important suddenly become trivial. Things you took for granted suddenly become important.”

Allan saw the same strength emerging from Bill that he had seen the day he notified him his daughter had been murdered.

“Is anyone helping you?” he asked.

“The VON and palliative care come in every day. My niece helps out with groceries and stuff.”

“If there’s anything I can do—”

“Catch him, Detective.”

Allan tried to speak, but the words were lost in a hard swallow.

“Catch the son of a bitch,” Bill said. “Before I’m gone. That’s what you can do for me.”

13

Halifax, October 18

9:35 P.M.

Audra carried the case folders into the den and set them on her desk. She began sorting the files in proper sequence so one report built upon the one before it. Lastly, she began laying out heaps of Allan’s notes. They detailed his narrative from the moment he’d arrived at the Mary Driscow murder scene to the day he received the DNA report clearing Gary Strickland.

“Hey, babe.”

Turning, Audra saw Daniel in the doorway. He was still dressed in his office clothes: shirt pulled out over his pants, sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

“Oh, hey,” she said. “Whatcha doin’?”

“Watching the sports highlights.”

“Yankees play tonight?”

“This afternoon.” Daniel twisted one side of his mouth. “They got their asses kicked. Eight zip.”

“Shit. What game was it?”

“Third,” he said. “Rangers are up two to one. They’ll probably take the series.”

“It’s not over yet. They have to win four, right?”

Doubt tightened Daniel’s face. “Hmmm. The fat lady’s warming up her vocal cords.”

“You don’t think they’ll come back?”

“I don’t think they have it this year.”

Audra continued sorting the notes.

Daniel said, “Daphne told me you gave your speech today.”

“I did.”

“How’d it go?”

Audra stopped a moment. “I was scared shitless.”

“I can imagine,” Daniel said. “Are you hungry?”

“I wasn’t until I smelled the pizza.”

“Yeah, we decided to order out.”

Audra raised an eyebrow. “Uh, would it kill either of you to cook something?”

Daniel smiled. “Well…you know my cooking. We have to pray after we eat.”

The two of them burst out laughing.

“Uh-huh,” Audra said. “That’s true.”

“We got you a salad.”

“Piatto’s?”

“Tomavino’s.”

“We haven’t ordered from there in a while.”

“Thought we’d try a different place.”

“Any pizza left?”

“A few slices. Want some?”

“What kind is it?”

“Bel Cibo.”

Audra perked up. “Is that the one with prosciutto and artichokes?”

“Yup. The one you like.”

“In that case, I will have a slice.”

“Tea?”

“Sure.”

“Chamomile?”

“Green. I need to be up for a while. I have all these files to go through.”

Daniel frowned. “All those?”

“All these,” she said.

“I’ll put on the kettle.”

Audra finished laying out Allan’s notes. There had to be over a hundred.

Before starting them, she went upstairs to Daphne’s bedroom. The door was closed. A light shone under it.

Audra gave a quick knock then walked inside. Daphne was sitting at her desk with her nose buried in a textbook. She looked over and flashed a bright grin.

“Hi, Mom,” she said.

“Hi, honey. You doin’ homework?”

Daphne swiveled around in the chair to face her.

“Studying,” she said. “We have a test tomorrow.”

“Oh, I won’t keep you.”

“That’s all right. I’m just reviewing stuff.”

“What’s your test on?”

Daphne wrinkled her nose. “Science.”

“Ah. I always found that intriguing.”

“I guess I’m not the sciency type.”

“What’re you learning?”

“Atomic theory. Protons. Electrons. Neutrons.”

“Cool stuff.”

Daphne shot a quick breath out through her nose.

“You don’t think so?” Audra said.

“Not really.”

Audra smiled at her. “How was your day?”

“Good.” Daphne matched her smile. “I loved your speech this morning.”

“Did it sound okay?”

“It was awesome. A lot of other kids thought so too.”

Audra snorted. “I was scared shitless up there.”

“Really? You didn’t look like it.”

“Oh, I was. Believe me.”

“I don’t know how you did it,” Daphne said. “I couldn’t. Get up there in front of everybody. Talk about that.”

“Talking about bullying was easy. Sharing what I went through was hard.”

Daphne’s face went slack, and a small hint of sadness appeared in her eyes. “Did you do it for me, Mom?”

Audra held her gaze for a moment, felt all that bleak fear and stress of her suicide attempt flooding her mind.

At last, she nodded. “I also did it for the kids.”

Daphne’s smile returned. “I’m proud of you, Mom.”

Audra felt the words melt her heart. There was something priceless in hearing that from your child.

“Oh, honey.” She gave Daphne a hug and kissed the top of her head. “You could never be as proud of me as I am of you.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

“Good luck on your test tomorrow.”

When Audra returned downstairs, Daniel handed her the cup of green tea.

“Pizza’s on your desk,” he said. “I warmed it up for you.”

“Thanks, hon.” Audra stopped at the doorway to the den. “Can you give Daphne a lift to school in the morning? I have to be at the office early.”

“Sure. What time are you leaving?”

“Have to be there for six.”

“Big day ahead?”

“Yeah,” Audra said. “Hopefully, I’ll get a couple hours of sleep before then.”

She walked into the den and closed the door.

14

Halifax, October 18

9:47 P.M.

Allan shut the car off in his driveway and slumped back against the seat. Crossing his right arm over his chest, he gripped his left shoulder and rested his chin on his wrist. It felt as if someone had placed a weighted block on his heart.

Joyce Driscow was dead. Gone to her grave with no closure over her daughter’s murder. In a few months or sooner, Bill would be joining them both.

The whole tragedy sickened Allan. It wasn’t fair. Life could be so damn cruel and so damn heartbreaking.

After this day, he wished he hadn’t crawled out of bed in the morning, and tomorrow he’d have to summon the courage to get up and face the same shit all over again.

Through the windshield, Allan watched a gash form in the cloud cover, revealing a spattering of stars underneath.

He let out a heavy sigh as he felt those old feelings of guilt, sadness, and self-recrimination begin to stir inside him like a dormant virus waking up.

Allan shut his eyes. He thought about the Driscow/Saint-Pierre case. Did he and Audra have a prayer of catching the suspect? A year had passed, and no one knew what the man even looked like. Someone at the park had to have seen him. Was he a regular there? Had he already been interviewed in the course of the first sweep?

The efficient and methodical way he’d committed the murders suggested someone experienced. So had the staging of the bodies. Had he done this before, somewhere else? Then why hadn’t ViCLAS made a connection to any other murders out there, besides the one committed by Gary Strickland?

So many questions and no answers to any of them. Not one.

Allan flung the car door open and stepped out. He walked slowly to the back of the house. Before going inside, he took a brief moment to compose himself.

He set his keys on the kitchen table, removed his jacket, and draped it over the back of a chair.

The place smelled of baked ham. He opened the refrigerator and saw a plate wrapped in tin foil. A note on the top of it read: Supper.

Allan smiled.

He found Melissa in the living room, filing her nails and half-watching a sitcom on TV.

“Hi, Al,” she said. “I thought I heard your car come in.”

“Hi, sweetheart.” He sat on the sofa beside her. “How’d your interview go?”

Melissa gave a soft roll of her eyes. “Well…they’ll call me, they said. Usually, that’s not a good sign.”

“They might call.”

“I’m competing with forty-five other applicants. So not much to be positive about.”

“Wow. Forty-five.”

“I know, right?”

“A sign of the economy,” Allan said. “If not this job, you’ll find something. You’re resourceful.”

Putting the nail file on the coffee table, Melissa slouched back against the cushions and crossed her arms.

She said, “I have another interview in the morning.”

“Awesome. Where at?”

“Penningtons. They’re hiring a manager for their store at the Dartmouth Crossing.”

“That’s right up your alley.”

She nodded. “I hope I get it.”

“I hope so too.”

“Positive thoughts, right?”

Allan forced up a smile. “Exactly. So how was Brian’s day?”

“Good. He played with Nathan for a while after school. I put him to bed ’bout an hour ago.” Melissa cocked her head at him. “How ’bout your day?”

Allan thought of Bill Driscow, and he winced inside. Quietly, he said, “Oh, you know.”

“Good? Bad? Ugly?”

“There’s never much good.”

“Want to talk about it?”

Allan hesitated. “I don’t need to burden you with my work.”

Melissa reached over and lightly stroked his forearm. “Talk to me, Al. Are you okay?”

“I think so.”

“Think so? You look like a castaway. I noticed that when you walked in here. Something’s bothering you.”

Allan saw the mix of love and worry in her hazel eyes. She could see through him so easily. She always had. Always would, he was sure.

He’d never told her about the broken world he dealt with out there. One filled with sorrow and senseless people driven by senseless motives. It was a subject he had never wanted disrupting the peace of their home. But tonight Allan wanted to talk about it, and he didn’t know why.

“A year ago,” he said, “a young woman was murdered in Point Pleasant Park. I exhausted every avenue I could think of. I just couldn’t solve that case. It bothered me for months. Even when I had other cases to work, that one was always there, lingering at the back of my mind.

“That page I got this morning, it was back to Point Pleasant Park.”

Melissa’s mouth dropped open, and her eyes widened. She picked up the remote, muting the TV.

“That missing woman,” she said.

“She’s connected to that case from a year ago,” Allan told her. “The same man killed them both.”

Melissa touched her throat, briefly looking away.

“Oh my God,” she said.

Allan lowered his chin. “I blame myself.”

“Why?”

“’Cause if I had caught him, I might’ve saved two lives.”

“Two?”

Allan clenched his jaw, trying to hold back a sudden surge of emotion. It took a moment before he trusted his voice to speak.

He said, “I found out tonight the mother of the first victim has died. The husband thinks the death of their daughter caused it. That kind of stress—losing a child to murder—can do that to a person.”

“Those are circumstances you can’t control, Al.”

“I know.”

“Then you can’t blame yourself.”

He knew that too. But his damn brain just wouldn’t cooperate. Sometimes it would race out of control, filling him with irrational worries. Other times it would fill his head with haunting flashbacks—the shooting in Acresville or how he’d nearly died at the hands of Lee Higgins and his gang before Seth Connors saved his life. For two months after that brush with death, any loud bang would send him ducking for cover.

Nighttime brought other problems. Besides the bad dreams, any slightest sound in the house would wake him up and send him checking every room, every door and window. A few times, he’d taken his loaded pistol with him.

Since Melissa and Brian moved back in, Allan had managed to keep the flare-ups under control. He didn’t want them screwing things up; he and Melissa had spent months rekindling their relationship. The fact that she wanted it as much as he did aided her decision to reconcile and eventually move back.

It was a crazy paradox he found himself in. Trying to hide the stress of his job from his family only stressed him out even more.

When Allan looked at Melissa, he caught her searching his face.

“Before you went back to work,” she said, “you told me you didn’t know if you were ready.”

Allan gave her a small nod. It was true. Still, he’d lied to Dr. Galloway so she would consider him fit for duty.

“I remember,” he said.

“How do you feel now?”

Slumping forward, Allan clasped his hands together and stared down at his feet. “I’m not sure.”

Melissa rubbed his back. “I think you are. This is why they put you on stress leave, isn’t it?”

Part of him wanted to run from her touch and caring voice. Run from the whole fucked-up world and hide somewhere dark until these feelings passed. Another part of him wanted to hug Melissa and cry out his soul into her shoulder.

“Yes,” he said and hated himself for telling her a half truth.

“Did you eat today?” she asked.

He had to think about that one. “A few coffees.”

“Any food?”

He shook his head.

“Jesus, Al. You have to eat something. I left a plate in the fridge for you.”

“I saw it. Thanks.”

“I’ll heat it up for you.”

He had no appetite, but he didn’t try to stop her. The next sounds he heard were the opening of the microwave door, the beeping of buttons being pushed.

Shutting his eyes, he scraped a hand over his face and let out a long breath. Then he rose from the sofa and went upstairs.

Brian’s bedroom door was open a foot. Allan poked his head inside.

In the semidarkness, he saw Brian curled on his side, hugging one of the pillows. Buddy—their white-and-cinnamon Chantilly—slept on the comforter at the foot of the bed.

Allan stood there for a few minutes, watching his son sleep. He felt a radiant glow spread through his chest. He was so grateful to have them back in his life.

When he went back downstairs, Melissa had set a plate of ham, peas, and sliced potatoes on the kitchen table.

“Eat,” she said.

“I probably won’t finish it all.”

“Then eat what you can. Save the rest for tomorrow.”

Allan sat down and forked a chunk of ham into his mouth. “This is delicious. I love the pineapple glaze.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m probably going to be gone before you get up in the morning. I’m meeting Audra Price at the office for six. We have a lot of work to do.”

Melissa tilted her head. “She’s working with you?”

Allan speared a potato slice. “The captain teamed us up.”

“I always remembered you working alone.”

“It depends on how busy we are. Things are slow right now. Plus, I could use the help. Two heads are better than one.”

Even as those words spilled from his mouth, Allan knew the real reasons—they were watching him, worrying about him. Thorne. Audra. Probably half the department. He could see it in their eyes, hear it in their voices. And deep down, he realized their concerns had merit.

Killing someone in the line of duty ranked as the number-one stressor in a cop’s career. Allan had killed two men in separate shootings.

Being physically attacked ranked number three. Allan had gone through that as well. Beaten within an inch of his life by Lee Higgins and his thugs.

But Allan knew his troubles had started long before those incidents. The critical period in a cop’s career lay between twelve and eighteen years. Over that time, the buildup of stress effects and tragedies could begin to show its ugly face in the form of PTSD.

Common sense told Allan that was his problem.

Melissa said something.

Allan looked at her. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Audra Price. She the one with the daughter?”

“Yes.”

“How’s the daughter now?”

“A lot better. She’s practically made a full recovery.”

“That’s good.”

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, it is.”

Melissa slid her arms around his neck and kissed him. “Think I’m going to get ready for bed.”

“Okay, sweetheart. I’ll be up in a bit.”

Allan sat there for a while, picking at his plate, eating only a few mouthfuls. When he heard the shower running upstairs, he wrapped the plate in foil and put it in the refrigerator. Then he brought down a bottle of rum from the cabinet overhead.

At the sink, he filled a shot glass and tossed it back, grimacing at the burn. He poured another one, then a third.

The rum warmed his stomach. A pleasant lassitude crept through his limbs. Allan welcomed it. He needed it to soften the edge in his brain.

He tipped the bottle to the glass again, stopping just short of pouring a fourth drink. For a long moment, he stood there with the neck of the bottle resting against the rim of the glass. Then he pushed the bottle aside.

Gripping the edge of the sink, he bowed his head and clenched his eyes. He could feel that need to weep building inside him, inflating like a balloon until his throat and lungs grew sore.

The tears came. Gushes of them.

They lasted only briefly and were gone.

Allan raised his eyes to his reflection in the window. Through blurred vision he saw other faces there—ghosts of people, both long dead and recent, staring back at him.

15

Burlington, October 21

8:01 A.M.

Clearly, we are not good. Heidi is looking for evidence of an affair.

I figured this would happen sooner or later, even without the help of my brain fart the other night.

My type of job is dangerous to a marriage. The days and weeks away from home can lead people to infidelity. Men, women, it doesn’t matter the sex. Once they get away from their spouses, they act like animals freed from their cages. I used to see it at business trade shows. Adults fawning over each other with a disgusting spring-break attitude. It’s a sign of the sexualized, self-absorbed culture we live in.

That reality no doubt planted the seed of suspicion in Heidi a long time ago. When I accidentally called her by another woman’s name, it only made that seed grow into the ugly mistrust I’m seeing now.

On Monday night, I left my cell phone charging on the kitchen counter. The next morning, I caught Heidi snooping through it. She never noticed me there in the doorway, watching her. I assume she was checking everything for this phantom mistress: emails, call history, text messages.

I thought about confronting her, about asking her why she was intruding on my privacy. Instead, I let it pass and quietly retreated to the bedroom before she spotted me. The girls didn’t need to see us arguing.

I hoped that would’ve put an end to it. Heidi didn’t find anything on my phone, and that would erase her suspicions. Nope, nothing like that. She’s been treating me like an unwelcome guest in the two days since. She avoids me when she can, barely speaks to me when she can’t.

Her cold shoulder pisses me off and fills me with deep resentment. I provide for her and the girls. I put the food on the table. I keep us in our nice home. One slip of the tongue doesn’t justify the kind of disrespect she’s giving me.

This morning, she took it one step further. She did something that just made my blood boil.

I’m a bit of a neat freak. You could say I border on OCD; the quack shrinks out there would say I already have it, full-blown.

My things must be neat and tidy. They must look right.

I hang my shirts by color. I shelve the books in my office alphabetically by author. I line up my shoes in the closet so the toes face out. And when I pile my paperwork into my briefcase, the edges of it must be in precise alignment. Not one sheet out of order. Certainly not the mess I found.

The time is 8:01. My flight leaves at nine. I’m cutting it close. The drive to the Hamilton airport takes roughly twenty-five minutes in light traffic. At this time of morning, the 403 could be congested.

As I rush through the house with my luggage, I notice Heidi in the living room, putting coats on the girls. Their bus will arrive in a few minutes.

I call out to them, “Girls, don’t leave without giving me a hug.”

Jade calls back, “We won’t, Daddy.”

I load my bags in the car and hit the remote to open the garage door. By the time I come back inside, Jade and Jaleesa are waiting at the front door. I chuckle to myself whenever I see Jade wearing her ladybug backpack. It’s nearly as big as she is.

Heidi is not with them. I find that odd because she always sees them off.

I give each girl a big hug.

Jade asks, “When will you be home, Daddy?”

“Monday, I hope.”

“Will you bring us back a present?”

I smile. “I always do, don’t I?”

“Yeah.”

Jaleesa says, “Can you not get us the same thing this time? I like different things than Jade.”

“What if I get something for Jade that you like more than what I get you?”

Jaleesa’s nose and forehead scrunch together, as if she’s unsure of how to answer. I find myself seeing more and more of her mother emerging from her personality every day.

Heidi’s voice sounds in the room, “Your father gets you girls the same things because he doesn’t want any hurt feelings or fighting between you.”

“We don’t fight, Mommy,” Jaleesa says.

“I know. And we want to keep it that way.”

I see the school bus stop in front of the house. The crossing arm swings out from the front.

“Bye, Mommy,” the girls shout as they head out the door. “Bye, Daddy.”

Heidi calls to them, “Have a good day at school.”

“Bye, girls,” I holler after her.

Heidi moves to the front window to watch them. I watch from the doorway as they board the bus. As the side door closes and the bus moves away, I look at my watch: 8:15. I need to hustle.

When I go into the kitchen to retrieve my briefcase from the counter, I pause. One of the latches is popped.

I feel a tingle sweep up the back of my neck and across my face. I pop the other latch and lift the lid of my briefcase to look inside. My paperwork is a mess.

I grind my teeth. Heat flushes through my body.

I close up my briefcase then carry it into the living room. Heidi remains at the window, facing out.

I try to lessen the bitterness in my voice as I say, “Was there something you were looking for?”

Heidi turns, crossing her arms. I indicate my briefcase, but it doesn’t change her calm facial expression.

She says, “You know my father had a mistress for seven years before my mother found out.”

I shake my head. “I don’t have a mistress.”

Heidi ignores me. “It nearly destroyed her. She was hurt, humiliated. Fifteen years of cooking for him, doing his laundry, cleaning the house, and raising the three of us. And he had the gall to call my mother a bitch. To blame the affair on her. Saying she drove him to it.”

I say nothing. I let her get whatever this is off her chest.

“She left him, of course. Like any good woman would. She was thirty-four at the time. My age. Still young enough to find a decent job and continue raising us without him.

“You might’ve noticed he never comes around to see the girls. Never remembers their birthdays or Christmas. That’s fine by me. He did the same to us after Mom left him. He hardly bothered with my brothers or me. Never paid the alimony he was ordered to. He was a selfish man. Only ever thought of himself. I think that’s why I hate him so much.

“I don’t want the girls to feel the same way about you.”

I let out a breath. “There is no mistress, Heidi. I’m not having an affair.”

“That scratch on your face got me thinking,” she says. “It’s not the first time you came home with one. Last year. Remember? The gash by your eye.”

I stare at her. I do remember. Arrowhead Provincial Park, up in Huntsville. His name was Yi Chen, a smallish Chinese man. He put up one hell of a fight. Nearly knocked us both into the water.

Heidi adds, “You said you broke up a scuffle between some guy and his girlfriend one night at a bar.”

I nod. “I did. At Moose Delaney’s.”

Heidi narrows her eyes. I can tell she’s searching her memory for the name of the bar I told her back then. Just toss some truthful details into a lie, and you won’t need a good memory.

Moose Delaney’s was a short five-minute walk from the inn where I stayed. The waitress told me they had the best wings in town. I must admit they were pretty tasty.

Heidi says, “You’ve come home different times with bruises. On your arms. Your legs. Your back. I never thought much about them at the time.”

“Hiking injuries,” I tell her. “They’re common. Sometimes I hit tree branches. Slip on loose rocks. Trip over a tree root I didn’t see. It doesn’t happen often, but it does happen.”

Heidi gives me a silent look.

“What do you think is going on?” I ask.

She smirks. “Sure it isn’t rough sex?”

“Oh, Jesus Christ. Are you serious?”

“I don’t know.”

I glance at my watch again and wince. 8:26.

“I’m going to miss my flight,” I say, walking for the front door. “I can’t listen to this right now.”

“Better go.”

“I’ll call the girls tonight. We’ll talk then, if you want.”

I back the car out of the garage and hit the remote to close the door. As I pull into the street, I look over at the house. Heidi no longer stands at the front window.

I punch the gas and speed off, strangling the steering wheel with my grip. The drive to the airport is shadowed by Heidi’s accusations.

This problem lies with her, and her alone. I don’t care what her father did in the past, if it led to this jealousy over imagined infidelities. She can’t have any confidence in herself or our marriage to act like this.

Maybe my absence will clear things up with her. It better. I will not live under tension in my own home.

And I can’t risk her finding these journals.

Ever.

16

Halifax, October 21

9:13 A.M.

“Describe him,” Allan said.

Liam Clattenburg’s fingers drummed on the tabletop. He was a balding man with a small frame and gaunt face. A tattoo on his outer forearm read, “I just felt like running.”

He’d come into the department claiming he might’ve seen the suspect at Point Pleasant Park the morning Kate Saint-Pierre had been murdered.

The first thing Allan did as he and Audra led the man into the interview room was to note the absence of injuries on his exposed skin. No scratches on his face, neck, hands, or forearms to indicate self-defense wounds.

“The guy’s about six feet,” Liam said. “Give or take an inch. My chin came to his shoulders.”

Audra asked, “How tall are you?”

“Five-seven.”

“Estimate his weight,” Allan said.

“One-eightyish. Definitely an ecto-mesomorph.”

“Meaning what, exactly?”

“Well, I’m an ectomorph. He’s bigger than me. But not what I’d call a full mesomorph. Sort of in between. Follow me?”

Allan flicked his gaze to Audra. She lifted her eyebrows at him.

“I think so,” Allan said. “He’s not thick or overly muscular.”

Liam gave him a thumbs-up. “Exactly. Kinda like you, I guess. Only a little taller.”

“He was Caucasian?”

“Yes.”

Audra said, “How about age?”

“Thirty. Thirty-five, maybe. I always find it hard guessing someone’s age.”

“What was he wearing?” Allan asked him.

“Blue hoodie. Black Adidas pants. Three white stripes down the legs. They stuck in my head because I own a couple pairs.”

“Any logos, designs on the hoodie?”

Liam squeezed his brows together. “A white logo on the left chest. Not sure what it was. Definitely not Nike or Adidas. I know those.”

“Did he have the hood up or down?”

“Up. But I did see part of his hair.” Liam pointed to his forehead. “Bangs.”

“What color?”

“Brown.”

Allan listed the details in his notebook. “Do you remember any jewelry on him?”

“I don’t recall.”

“How about his face? Get a good look at it?”

“Pretty much, yeah. I remember him having a strong jawline. Cleft chin.”

“Facial hair?”

“Uh-uh.”

“Eye color.”

A slow smile wriggled across Liam’s face. “Brown. Like a rich espresso.”

Allan paused. “How would you judge his general appearance?”

“Neat. Yeah, he didn’t look dirty. Clothes were clean.”

Audra asked, “Have you seen him at the park before?”

“Uh-uh. Never.”

“And you go there often?”

“Every morning. Seven to eight. I clock fifty miles a week.”

Allan thought about the Mary Driscow case. “And you’re sure you never saw this guy before?”

Liam nodded. “Positive.”

“How long you been going there?”

“Ten years.”

“Every single day?”

“Well, barring a hurricane or major snow storm. Or when I go away.”

“Do you go away frequently?”

“A weekend every month. I drive up to see my parents in Miramichi. My sister in Bouctouche.”

Allan tapped his pen on the notebook. He didn’t want to bring Mary Driscow or last October into the discussion. It could prompt Liam into connecting the dots. Maybe even create a false memory in which he believed he’d seen something.

Allan asked him, “When you’re at the park, do you usually run into the same people?”

“The regulars. That’s what I call them. I know most by name. Some of the irregulars, I know by face.”

Audra asked, “Did you know Mrs. Saint-Pierre?”

“Not by name. Her face. She was an irregular.”

“Ever see her there with anyone?”

“A man. I assumed he was the boyfriend or husband. She was always with him. Not Sunday, though.”

“Did you know his name?”

“Uh-uh. Face.”

“Were there many people at the park Sunday morning?”

Liam twisted his face. “A few. Not a lot.”

“Any regulars you know by name?”

Liam flicked his gaze to the ceiling, back down again. “Two. Steve Foster. And Dustin Marks. He walks Apollo there.”

“What’s that, his dog?”

“Yeah, his Great Dane.”

Allan wrote down the names. “This guy in the hoodie. Why did you remember him so vividly?”

Liam’s eyes brightened. “Uh, because he was a new face. I remember thinking, I never saw this guy here before. Plus…he was a darling.”

Audra said, “A darling?”

Liam snorted. “He was attractive.”

“Okay, I gotcha,” she said. “Whereabouts in the park did you see him?”

“Cambridge Drive. We passed each other.”

Allan leaned into the table, a kernel of hope growing inside him. “What direction was he going?”

“North. I was heading south. Toward the water.”

“What time?”

“Probably seven-fifteen. Thereabouts. It was shortly before I saw Mrs. Saint-Pierre.”

“Where exactly did you see her?”

“Arm Road. Down by the battery. I’d just come off Cambridge.”

“Did you see her go up Cambridge?”

Liam nodded again. “She would’ve been a few minutes behind him. Heading in the same direction.”

Allan felt his breath bottle up in his chest. From the corner of his eye, he saw Audra turn to him then back to Liam.

“Did you have any kind of exchange with this man?” she asked.

“Just pleasantries. I smiled at him. He smiled at me. Most new faces you meet never even make eye contact. He did, though.”

“Would you recognize him in a photo?”

“Oh, yes. Definitely.”

“I’ll be right back.”

Audra left the room. She returned a few minutes later with a mug book in her hands. With any luck, the man Liam saw at the park had been booked for another crime in the past. Allan hoped but had an unsettling feeling the odds were against them.

Audra set the book down in front of Liam. “In here is a collection of photographs. Take as much time as you need with each face before moving to the next one. He may or may not be in here. And he may not appear as he did the day you saw him.”

Liam picked up the book. He gave it one quick leaf through, his eyes growing large, incredulous.

“Holy moly!” he said. “There’s a lot of pictures in here.”

“This could take a while,” Allan said. “Would you like a coffee?”

“Please.”

“What do you take?”

“Black. Three sugars.”

Allan turned to Audra. “Would you like one?”

“I’m fine.”

Allan grabbed two coffees from the lunchroom. When he returned, Liam was hunched over the table, absorbed in the faces before him. Allan set the coffee beside him.

“Thank you,” Liam said without looking up.

Allan took his seat and glanced at his watch: 9:51. He sipped at his coffee, watching Liam flipping the pages. Liam would skim over some faces; others he would stop and study with narrowed eyes.

With each page turned over, Allan felt what little hope he had begin to sputter out. It died when Liam reached the final page.

“Nope,” he said, closing the book. “He’s not in here.”

Allan saw Audra slump her shoulders and lower her head.

“That’s all right,” he said. “Don’t worry about it.”

Audra stood up. “Detective, could I speak to you outside, please?”

“Sure.” Allan looked at Liam. “We’ll be right back.”

Audra led him down the hallway a bit.

“What do you think?” she asked.

“The guy he saw is definitely a person of interest.”

“Oh, for sure.”

Allan drew a breath. “I’m always skeptical when listening to someone describing other people. They overestimate their ability to remember things. Memory isn’t like a video recorder.”

“Well, he did take a shine to Mr. Darling.”

“When you consider the length of their encounter—a few seconds. That’s not enough time for his brain to create a detailed memory.”

“Yeah, but if his memory is even somewhat accurate and he can recognize the guy’s face again, then he just cleared everyone we were looking at.”

Allan felt the truth of that in the pit of his stomach. “You’re right.”

“The time frame works, Al.”

“Location too. Cambridge Drive. That offshoot path connects to it. The man could’ve taken it, circled around, and met Kate Saint-Pierre on his way through.”

“Let’s have Mr. Clattenburg see Erin,” Audra said. “We can take the composite and issue a media appeal to the public. Call the guy a person of interest.”

Allan hesitated. “Hmm, recognizing this man in a mug book is one thing; describing his face to Erin is a whole different animal. Look at how involved that process is. The minutiae he has to remember. When’s the last time a sketch worked for us?”

Audra chewed on her lip. “They have…once or twice.”

“Over how many years? Look at all the time wasted chasing false leads.”

Audra grimaced, shook her head. “Jesus, Al. Why the negative Nelly?”

Allan released a weighted sigh. “Sorry. I’m frustrated. I just want to catch this fucking guy.”

“So do I. And this is the best lead we have right now.”

“I know.”

“Look at it this way—if they can sketch a likeness of the guy, it might be enough for someone out there to recognize him or even remember his clothing.”

Allan nodded. “Let’s roll the dice.”

Audra took out her cell. Allan waited as she called Erin Watson, the department’s sketch artist.

When Audra hung up, she said. “She told us to bring him down.”

“Right now?”

“Yep.”

Allan went back to the interview room. “Mr. Clattenburg, you have anything on the go for the next little while?”

Liam froze, the coffee cup halfway to his mouth. “What’s up?”

“We’d like to have you meet with our sketch artist. Describe this man to her.”

“How long will it take?”

“Two hours. Three, tops. She doesn’t like to go beyond that. People’s memories can get confused if it drags on too long.”

Liam perked up in the chair. “I’ll do it. When do we start?”

Allan gave him a reluctant smile. “Right now.”

17

Halifax, October 21

3:07 P.M.

It could be the last face Mary Driscow and Kate Saint-Pierre had seen before they died. Or it could be the face of any number of people out there. That was the problem with composite sketches; they almost never resembled the suspect.

The man in the hood had an angular bone structure—broad forehead and jawline, dimpled chin. Thick brows arched over deep-set eyes. A distinct philtrum formed a trench between the broad nose and oval lips.

Add a spit curl to the forehead, Allan thought, and you had a man who looked a little like Clark Kent.

He set the composite down, his mind anchored with pessimism. He couldn’t help it; he’d been down that road before. Once it was released to the public, he was sure the sketch would trigger dozens of calls from well-intentioned people. Allan foresaw a lot of valuable time and resources wasted chasing false leads.

If nothing else, the sketch might raise public interest in the case.

Allan opened his notebook and wrote down keynotes about the Kate Saint-Pierre case:

1. Victim strangled.

2. Ligature used. Brought to the scene by the offender. Removed after the crime

3. Fingertips severed. Not recovered. DNA of suspect?

4. No other trauma involved

5. No sexual contact

6. No restraints

7. No theft

8. Attack was outdoors. Public area

9. Murder was planned

10. Possible surprise approach with blitz attack

11. Possible con approach with blitz attack

12. Scene demonstrated control

13. Suspect possesses characteristics under the organized dichotomy

14. Process-focused, thrill killer?

15. Used precautions—concealed body in the trees

16. Left body displayed. Taunt?

Suspect’s behavior linking the Driscow/Saint-Pierre cases:

1. Same M.O.

2. Similar approaches to victims

3. Same weapon used

4. Same method of murder

5. Same geographic location

6. Murders occurred exactly one year apart—Oct. 17

Allan’s chair creaked as he leaned back from his desk. He shut his eyes, thinking.

The same questions he had with the Driscow case nagged his brain about this one. The answers, he knew, lay in front of him, somewhere beyond his vision.

The suspect could very well be into health and fitness. Just because Liam Clattenburg hadn’t seen him before didn’t mean the man never frequented the park at other times of day. These types of killers usually committed their murders within familiar territory. Maybe other park “regulars” knew who he was or at least remembered seeing him before. The physical description, and maybe even the composite, might be enough to jog their memories.

Allan logged into his computer. He proceeded to download the ViCLAS booklet. It consisted of over two hundred sixty questions covering all parts of the crime. Once he finished entering the details from the Kate Saint-Pierre case, he’d email the booklet back to the ViCLAS center, where it would all be put into the database of solved and unsolved cases. An analyst there would begin searching for potential links to other crimes.

As Allan worked his way into the victim information, his cell phone chirped. It was a text message from Melissa.

“Penningtons called. I got the job.”

Allan smiled, texted back. “Awesome!!”

“I know, right.”

“I’m happy for you. When you start?”

“Monday.”

“Congrats, sweetheart. I knew you could do it.”

“Thanks. I feel like celebrating. Are you going to be late?”

“What do you have in mind?”

“Supper out?”

“Sure.”

“The Urban Grill? I always wanted to try it out.”

Allan checked his watch: 4:02. He had about an hour left of work to do in the ViCLAS booklet.

He texted, “5:30 OK?”

“Yes. Should I reserve us a table?”

“Might be a good idea.”

“OK.”

“See you soon.”

“OK. Bye. xoxo”

“Bye.”

Allan set the phone down and gave a fist pump. He smiled as he imagined Melissa’s face lighting up when she got the news. Good for her, he thought. Good for her.

He went back to work on the ViCLAS questions, moving on to the offender information. He was halfway through when Audra came into his office. She had a thin pile of composites in her hand.

“The presser’s scheduled for five fifteen,” she said.

Allan looked over. “Who’s doing it?”

“Thorne.”

“Okay.”

She indicated the composites in her hand. “I passed a copy along to all the officers involved in the initial canvass of Point Pleasant Park. Some aren’t on shift today.”

“Anyone recognize him?”

Audra shook her head. “Some of the guys said it looked like Brad Pitt. Smartasses.”

Allan smirked. “I was kinda thinking Clark Kent. Minus the spit curl.”

Audra’s mouth went slack. “What else do we have, Al?”

“Nothing. That’s just it.”

“We gotta try.”

“I think we should take the composite to Point Pleasant Park. Show it around. See what happens. Maybe even take it to the different gyms around in the off chance it does resemble this guy. Maybe he’s a fitness nut.”

“Good idea. What’re you doing?” She took a glance at the computer monitor. “Ah, ViCLAS.”

“Just a thousand questions to go.”

Audra laughed. “Jesus, you are in a mood today.”

“Was,” he said. “Melissa texted me half an hour ago. She landed a job.”

“No way.” Audra smiled. “Hey, that’s great. Where at?”

“Penningtons. Over in Dartmouth.”

“Right on. Bet she’s happy.”

“She is,” Allan said. “We’re going out for supper to celebrate.”

“Good.” Audra looked at her watch. “I have Steve Foster coming in. Hopefully, he remembers seeing this guy.”

“Any luck on the other fella?”

“Dustin Marks? I left a message for him to call me. Nothing yet.”

“Maybe he’s working.”

“Probably.” Audra turned for the doorway. “Have fun tonight. See ya in the morning.”

Allan checked the time: 4:46. By the time he finished completing the ViCLAS questions, the time was 5:20.

He promptly emailed the booklet off. Then he shrugged on his coat and headed out to have supper with his family.

18

Cranbrook, October 21

3:56 P.M.

George always shows me to my room, always gives me a piece of German chocolate as a complimentary gift.

This is my third visit to Cranbrook, and each time, I’ve stayed here at the Elizabeth Lake Lodge. My window faces a bird sanctuary and lake that are backdropped by the majestic Kootenay Rockies. I find the sight beautiful and inspiring.

A bluish-white hue tinges the mountain range. Jagged, snow-capped peaks thrust so high up they seem to pierce the cloud streaks.

I hear it’s quite empowering to climb a mountain and stand there at the top, looking down at the world. The few mountaineers I know have told me it can be a life-changing experience. One day I’d like to give it a try just to see if I feel the same way.

I turn from the window and set my watch to reflect the two-hour time difference. Back home, it’s closing on six o’clock. Heidi will have the girls fed and is probably cleaning up.

I haven’t decided whether I’ll call tonight. Maybe I should wait. Give Heidi a time-out. She might calm down and collect her thoughts. Come to understand she’s overreacting.

Still, I wonder if I’ll go back to an empty house.

I imagine she’s rifled through my office by now, possibly even my dresser drawers and coat pockets. My computer is password-protected. Even if she could access it, I’m careful to delete my browsing history. It’s a good thing I keep these journals in a safe place, one Heidi would never think of.

I always bring them on my business trips. Some evenings, alone in my room, I’ll add entries. Other times I’ll just sit, reminiscing over ones already written, reliving the experiences captured in them. They help flood my mind with euphoria, send soul-deep waves rippling through my body. It’s the next best thing to being there again.

I unpack my bags and put everything in their proper order. This is a ritual I go through after I arrive at a hotel room. I’m not one to live out of a suitcase. The very idea of it seems so chaotic.

I hang my wrinkle-prone clothes in the closet. Line up my toiletries in the bathroom. I leave my underwear sealed in Ziploc bags. I have this weird aversion to using dresser drawers in hotel rooms, no matter how clean the place is.

Shrugging on my coat, I head outside to my rental car. I have two stops on my agenda. First, I want to pick up a set of trekking poles. Second, I want to have a good meal. I know of a Mediterranean restaurant that serves up some mean couscous crab cakes.

Cranbrook isn’t very big. They call it a city, even though it’s no bigger than many towns I’ve been to over the years.

The drive to the downtown core takes only a few minutes from the lodge. I stop at High Country Sports, a modest store that sits beside the desolate Armond Theatre. I’m not sure how long the theatre has been closed down, but the for-sale sign I saw during my last visit still graces the front window.

I go into High Country. The clerk behind the counter is a teenage male with an emo haircut—long black hair highlighted with purple bangs. He wears a gray hoodie that has the words Life is dumb and I want to sleep printed on the front. As I walk past, he seems more interested in his cell phone than me.

I find the trekking poles at the back of the store. The selection is adequate. I’m specifically looking for two-section aluminum poles. They’re stronger and can hold up to a little abuse. The carbon ones can’t take much of an impact. One good whack, and they’ll break or splinter. I found that out when I was at the Riding Mountain National Park a few years ago. Aluminum will just bend on you but can be straightened.

I use poles on my hikes only once in a while. It depends on the terrain. My bum knee flares up if I trek up steep elevations for too long. And I know Kimberley Nature Park has some challenging spots.

“The Black Diamonds are on sale,” the kid calls over. “Comes with three pairs of feet.”

I look at the ones he points out. Carbon shafts with cork handles. Not what I’m looking for.

“Have any aluminum poles?” I ask. “Two piece. Not three. Not the folding ones, either.”

“The folders are the most popular.”

“Not really what I’m after.”

He puts down his phone, comes over. “There should be some Trail Pros left.”

I watch him dig through the selection. Eventually he finds the brand at the back. He hands them to me.

It’s an attractive set. Black aluminum shafts with foam grips and red straps. It’ll be a shame if I have to throw them away.

“Are these on sale?” I ask.

He nods. “All the Black Diamonds are. Twenty percent off.”

“Perfect. I’ll take ’em.”

“Right on, man.”

He rings in the cost at the till. I pay him with cash.

“Would you like to join our customer rewards program?” the kid asks. “You can get up to twelve percent back in store credit.”

“How do I do that? Fill out a form or something?”

“Just leave your name and phone number. Or email, if that’s preferable.”

I don’t even give that a moment’s consideration. I always like to keep a low profile, not leave a trail behind for the wrong people to pick up on. That’s why I pay cash whenever possible.

I politely decline his offer. He hands me back my change.

“Have a good day,” he says.

“You too.”

I walk outside to my car and place the poles on the backseat. I feel those couscous crab cakes beckoning me from across town.

Tomorrow, I’ll have a full day of consulting with Flatbow Lumber. I plan to get up early and jog the trails through the bird sanctuary.

On Saturday I’ll drive north up to Kimberley Nature Park. The forecast looks promising: sunny, with the temps rising to twelve degrees by noon. Perfect hiking weather. Not too hot. Not too cold.

Maybe it’ll get people out. Maybe I’ll get lucky this time.

Third time’s the charm, right?

That’s the eternal optimist in me speaking. I always look on the bright side of things.

19

Halifax, October 21

6:00 P.M.

The Urban Grill was near capacity.

With a sweeping glance, Allan regarded the people there. “Good thing you called in when you did.”

Melissa voiced her wonder. “I know, right. But it is a Thursday.”

The restaurant was open and bright. Accents of creams and yellows contrasted well against the stacked-stone walls. Sputnik chandeliers hung over each table. They resembled stellar explosions—light bulbs shooting out at all different angles.

Their waitress, an amiable blonde, introduced herself as Amy. She took their coats and then led them to a round table by the windows.

“Nice chairs,” Melissa said. “They’re just like the ones Eames made in the fifties.”

Amy said, “I’ve had a few people say that. Shell chairs, I think they called them.”

Melissa nodded. “My grandparents had a pair.”

“Cool.” Amy placed menus on the table. “What can I get y’all to drink?”

Allan sat down, opened the menu. “Coffee for me, thanks.”

Melissa said, “I’ll have a glass of chardonnay.”

Amy turned to Brian. “And you, hon? What’ll you have?”

“Um…do you have chocolate milk?”

“We do. You want that?”

“Yes, please.”

“Be right back,” Amy said.

“Mmm…lobster poutine.” Allan looked over at Brian and wiggled his eyebrows at him.

Brian laughed. “What’s that?”

“Says here it’s lobster and chives chopped up in hollandaise sauce and halloumi cheese.”

“Sounds delicious,” Melissa said.

“Is that what you’re getting, Dad?”

“Nah, I might just get a burger.”

“Me too. Can I have fries with it?”

Allan said, “You can get whatever you want, son.”

Amy returned with their drinks. “Are you ready to order?”

“I’ll have the calamari,” Melissa said. “Beet salad for the side.”

Allan stirred cream into his coffee, removed the spoon. “What’s your burger of the day?”

“It’s a Greek burger. Feta cheese. Black olives. Really good.”

Allan considered Brian. “I don’t think the little man will like it. He and I will get the Kobe burger. Fries with his. Asparagus with mine.”

Amy flashed them a big grin. “Great. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

Allan asked Melissa, “Excited, sweetheart?”

She swirled her wine, looked over the rim of the glass at him. “You bet. It’ll be nice to start working again.”

“We’ll have to make babysitting arrangements,” he said.

“I’ll still be able to take him to school in the mornings. I’ll see if my parents can come over in the afternoons again. Stay with him until I get home.”

Brian took a gulp of chocolate milk, held his glass above the tabletop with both hands.

“Mom,” he said, “when are you going to work?”

“Monday. Nanny and Pop-Pop might come over to babysit. Would you like that?”

“Yeah. They’re cool.”

Allan sipped his coffee, smiling at Brian’s use of the word “cool.” He first noticed him saying it when he went to Toronto for a visit. Since moving back home, Brian seemed to say it more often.

When Brian was four, he’d run around the house and shout honky wonky then erupt into giggles. He’d thought they were the funniest words in the world.

It was weird how you forgot quirky things your children used to say. Nonsensical words or phrases they made up out of nowhere.

“Did you catch any bad guys today, Dad?”

“Not today, son.”

“How come?”

“Some are harder to catch than others.”

“Wait till I get older.”

“And we become partners.” Allan gave Melissa a wink. “We’ll catch them all.”

The smile that spread across Brian’s face was his mother’s—wide and warm like a big hug.

He said, “They won’t have a chance.”

Melissa looked across the table at Allan. “What do you think of that?”

“I think we’ll make a great team. Right, little man?”

“Right, Dad. That’ll be cool.”

Allan smirked, took another sip of coffee. He cast a glance over Melissa’s shoulder to the busy traffic outside. As Melissa talked to Brian about his day at school, Allan found himself drawn to the Impark lot straight across the street. He could see Brad Hawkins there, facedown on the pavement, a pool of blood spread out beneath his mouth.

There they came again—faces, images—burrowing into his brain, unbidden and unwelcome.

Allan felt every muscle in his body tense up, his pulse begin to quicken. When he tried to focus on Melissa and Brian, he realized the edges of his vision were getting blurry.

He squeezed his eyes shut, opened them again. Propping his elbows on the table, he bounced a curled knuckle against his mouth.

“Sweetheart,” he said.

Melissa turned to him.

“Want to switch places?” he asked.

“Why? Don’t you like where you’re sitting?”

“No, no. I just thought you’d like the view of the waterfront. I’d prefer to face the restaurant.”

Melissa gave him a blank expression. “Uh, yeah. Sure. If you want.”

When Allan stood up, his legs were like jelly. He raised a hand to catch Amy’s eye from the other side of the restaurant. She came over.

“Your meals are almost ready,” she said. “Sorry for the wait.”

“Not that,” Allan said. “Can I get a rum, please? Make it a double shot.”

20

Halifax, October 22

8:45 A.M.

“Thanks for coming in,” Audra said. “Have a seat.”

Dustin Marks sat at the table. He was the kind of man who belonged on the cover of a romance novel. You just had to cut off Fabio’s blond locks and brush it into a quiff hairstyle.

Audra shut the door to the interview room. “I have a few questions for you.”

“About that guy,” Dustin said.

“What guy is that?”

“The one Liam saw at the park.”

Audra tilted her head. “Oh, you were talking to Liam?”

“He called yesterday. Left a message.”

“What’d he say?”

“Said he was in to see you. He thinks he saw the guy who killed that girl. I don’t know why he gave you my name.”

“Did he describe this guy to you?”

Dustin shook his head. “That’s all he said. I didn’t call him back. I played your message right after his.”

Audra sat down and slid her chair in close to the table.

“You were at the park on Sunday,” she said. “Correct?”

Dustin undid two buttons on his pea coat. “I was.”

“What time?”

“It was early. Before seven.”

“How often do you go there?”

“Three, four days a week.”

“Do you go for a jog? A walk?”

“I walk my dog there.”

“Oh yeah? What breed?”

“Great Dane.”

“Big dog.”

Dustin’s eyes sparkled. “He’s a horse.”

“How old?”

“Four.”

“Still a pup, really. What’s his name?”

“Apollo.”

“Ah, cool name,” Audra said, smiling. “Do you ever go to the park by yourself?”

“No.”

“Did you see Liam there Sunday?”

“I ran into him before I left.”

“What time was that?”

“Around eight.” He shrugged. “Ten to. Five to.”

“In what area of the park did you run into him?”

“The Tower Road parking lot. Liam was just leaving.”

“Did you guys talk?”

“For a few minutes.”

Audra considered that. “You’ve known each other for a while?”

“Six years.”

“From the park? Or did you know him from elsewhere?”

Dustin licked his lips, blinked. Audra watched a flush creep across his face.

He said, “I…um…originally met him at Menz.”

Audra paused. She knew of the place. It was a popular nightclub among the gay and lesbian community.

“I gotcha,” she said.

She opened a folder and slid a copy of the composite sketch over to him.

“Does he look familiar?”

Dustin leaned in to the table, eyes narrowing on the sketch.

“Is this the guy Liam was talking about?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“And he had the hood over his head?”

“Yes.”

Dustin’s eyes lingered on the face a few moments more, then he sat back.

“No, no,” he said. “I don’t know him. But I’m not good with faces.”

“Were many people at the park on Sunday?”

Dustin shook his head again. “Hardly is at that time of day.”

“Think hard. How many do you remember seeing?”

Dustin stared up at the ceiling. “Well, there was the old couple by the container terminal.”

“Do you know their names?”

“No.”

“Who else?”

Dustin frowned, let out an exaggerated groan. “Another couple by the Naval Memorial. They were walking a small dog. A Border Terrier, I think.”

“Do you know them?”

“No.”

“Who else?”

Dustin threw his hands up in the air. “I caught glimpses of people on the other trails. But I paid no attention to them.”

“Steve Foster?”

Dustin’s eyes widened. “Steve was there?”

Audra nodded.

“Okay, I didn’t see him,” he said. “It’s a big park, you know.”

Audra remembered Steve Foster telling her that he hadn’t seen Dustin, either.

She asked, “You’re sure you never saw a guy in a hoodie?”

Dustin shrugged. “Sorry.”

Audra rolled her shoulders. She could feel tension settling in there, rising into her neck.

“I mean, I see people wearing hoodies there all the time,” Dustin said. “Just not then.”

“Did you know Kate Saint-Pierre?”

“I saw her at the park before.”

“Sunday?”

“I couldn’t even tell you the last time I saw her. I didn’t know her name until I read it in the paper. I recognized her picture. Said to myself, ‘Yeah, I saw her there before.’”

Audra took out her card and gave it to him.

“Just in case you remember anything else,” she said. “Or if you see this guy on your walks. Thanks again for coming in.”

After he left the room, Audra leaned her head back over the chair and shut her eyes. Frustration gnawed at her mind.

She took out her cell phone and called Allan.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” she said. “How’re things there?”

On the other end of the line, she could hear the rush of wind against the receiver.

“No one knows who this guy is,” Allan said. “What’s the word on Marks?”

“He never saw him.”

Allan breathed into the phone. “Figures. So far, Mr. Clattenburg is the only one who did.”

“Looks that way.”

“You sound discouraged.”

“Hard not to be,” Audra said. “Seems like we’re chasing our tails.”

“Someone else here might know him. Or saw him before.”

Audra hesitated. “Don’t know. You might be right about the composite, Al.”

“Oh?”

“Maybe it doesn’t look like anybody.”

“That’s just it. We don’t know.”

“Where in the park are you?”

“The Quarry Pond. You coming over?”

“Yeah,” she said. “I’ll give you a hand.”

“I’ll meet you in the parking lot.”

She hung up. When she left the room, she heard someone call out to her. Turning, she saw Captain Thorne coming down the hall.

“Morning, Detective,” he said. “Where’s Al?”

“Working Point Pleasant Park.”

“I put two officers over there on stakeout.”

“Good.”

Thorne leaned a shoulder against the wall. “I’ve been wanting to ask you. How’s Al doing?”

“What do you mean?”

“Emotionally. Professionally. Does he seem all right?”

Holding his eyes, Audra chewed on the inside of her lip. “You want me to talk behind Al’s back?”

“I know he’s your friend. He’s mine too.”

“Are you asking me as his friend? Or as his captain?”

“Friend, of course.”

Audra smiled.

Thorne waited for her a moment, then he matched her smile. “Your silence speaks volumes.”

Audra shrugged. “Not sure about that.”

“I can tell you’re not telling me something.”

“Maybe you’re getting paranoid in your old age.”

Thorne snickered. “Okay. You win. Good luck today.”

Audra watched him walk away, and her smile fell away. No, she thought, Allan didn’t seem all right.

He seemed distant at times. He shied away from painful situations. On Tuesday morning, they’d interviewed Abigail Brown, Kate Saint-Pierre’s best friend. She took the news of Kate’s death hard. When she broke into uncontrollable sobs, Allan excused himself from the room. After the interview, Audra found him outside, sitting on the porch steps.

He’d asked her if she would mind interviewing Kate Saint-Pierre’s family without him. He gave her the excuse of wanting to pull old case files of unsolved murders throughout the Maritimes.

No, Allan didn’t seem all right.

And that worried Audra.

21

Kimberley, October 23

10:50 A.M.

I hear him well before I see him.

He makes a lot of noise breaking through the brush. The racket of rustling leaves and snapping twigs cuts the tranquility like a skinning knife. Every few seconds, he stops and lets out a throaty grunt. Then he continues on, heralding his approach toward me.

It’s a daunting sound. My heart begins to race. My hands clench the trekking poles. My instincts tell me to hightail it out of there. But I can’t. I need to see him.

The bull moose emerges from the brush. He stops when he notices me on the trail. He’s a majestic beast. Massive. Powerful. Standing face to face with him both scares and exhilarates me.

I’m six feet, and the height of his shoulders tops me by a good four to six inches. The spread of his antlers has to be four feet across. They are free of velvet and curve out from his head like the splayed fingers of a giant. In the sunlight, they appear polished, almost white.

Unafraid, he watches me from thirty yards away. He continues making little grunts. I’m not sure if it’s still rutting season or not. Moose can become aggressive and unpredictable during that time. Some people say they can be more dangerous than grizzlies.

This one seems calm enough. He’s not stomping his feet or peeling his ears back. Better yet, he’s not approaching me. He just stands there, grunting every few seconds.

Slowly, I back away about ten feet. The moose doesn’t move.

This is only the second time I’ve stumbled upon one in the wild. I saw the first one while hiking Skyline Trail in the Cape Breton Highlands three years ago. It darted across the trail and vanished into the trees before I could even get a good look at it.

This moose is larger. That much I can tell.

He casually turns his head away and raises his snout. His huge nostrils begin flaring, and I can hear them snuffling. He seems to be checking the air for something, maybe predators. He moves his snout in one direction and then the other. I guess he deems everything safe, because he stretches his long neck and starts ripping the tips off a nearby shrub.

I take out my cell phone and snap a couple pictures of the beast. I’ll share them with the girls when I get home.

Not wanting to push my luck, I leave the moose alone. I continue on my way, breathing in a few lungfuls of mountain air. It’s clean and fresh and leaves you feeling invigorated. Not like the smellscape of the cities, where the air is so rancid with human stink, you can literally feel it infest every cell of your body. Even the clouds are whiter out here.

Kimberley Nature Park is vast. Several miles of trails lace through the forested hillsides. It’s the biggest park I’ve been to in Canada, and I’ve been to lots over the years.

The nice weather has brought people out. Just as I hoped. Some are biking, trekking, and jogging. Others are just out for a stroll. Everyone I meet on the trails is paired up or in groups.

Most of them smile at me. A few say hello. I’m always polite in return. I can’t risk leaving any lasting impressions. I need to blend in like a chameleon. Be one of them.

I trek down a narrow path that slices into thick woods. Sunlight filters through the trees, dappling the ferns on each side of me. I see old-growth stumps scattered here and there. They are relics of the logging days in the early 1900s. The springboard notches made by lumberjacks back then are still visible.

I make my way to Sunflower Hill. It’s a moderate climb to the top. The area is more open, the trees sparser. Halfway up, I stop to take in the beautiful autumn foliage of St. Mary River Valley. Larches splash golden bands over the valley and up the slopes. But the mountains are what get me every time. They dominate the horizon, their peaks fading in and out of the gray mist. I could sit and stare out at them for hours.

When I crest the hill, I see no one around. The only sounds are the quiver of wind in the tall weeds and the distant singsong of birds.

I keep going.

Eventually, I come to the remnants of an old miner’s cabin. There’s not much left to see—some pieces of charred wood, the outline in the soil where the cabin walls once stood. Wildflowers cover whatever the floor used to be. Nearby lies a pile of tin shingles, three cinder blocks with part of an old stove on top of them.

A few yards away, I follow a path through a dense stand of lodgepole pines. A sign on a tree identifies it as Mountain Mine Road. I came here during my last two visits. The trail leads to the Myrtle Mountain Lookout.

There’s a pleasant surprise waiting for me when I reach the tree line. I see a lone male standing on the mountain shoulder, looking out at the view.

There’s no one else around, only the two of us.

I smile. That familiar rush of excitement pushes through my body. It’s weird, but my insides feel as if they’re vibrating.

He’s a mountain biker dressed in black cycling tights and a blue wind jacket similar to mine. His bike leans against a small spruce close by. An orange helmet hangs from the handlebars.

He looks over his shoulder when he hears me step on some twigs.

“Afternoon,” I call out.

He ignores me, takes a sip from his water bottle.

I realize he’s a young guy. Midtwenties, I’m guessing. A little shorter than me. Dark hair. Lean. Athletic.

He could have a lot of fight in him—“could” being the operative word. Looks can be deceiving. I’ve had big people go down easy and small ones go down hard. The element of surprise is key.

As I walk past the bike, I notice the Yeti name on the frame.

I give a wolf whistle. “Nice bike.”

That gets his attention. He watches me approach with squinted eyes.

“What did it cost you?” I ask.

“Seven big ones.”

The price stops me for a second. “Wow. Seven grand.”

He thrusts his chest out. “I’m a brand whore. My skid lid cost me two-fifty.”

I assume he’s referring to the helmet.

“I heard the Yetis were expensive.” I step up beside him. “But wow. I didn’t know they were that much.”

“They can run over ten, depending on the frame. Upgrades. That one has the Thomson convert dropper.”

I don’t ask him what that is. I don’t care. I can’t get over the fact that he spent seven grand on a bicycle.

I appraise the edge of the mountain. It’s more a steep hillside than a cliff. If someone fell over, they would roll down a good distance, probably end up being stopped by a tree or bush. I can’t see the tumble giving anyone more than a few bump and bruises, maybe a broken bone or two. That’s too bad.

I look out at the rooftops of a small town nestled in the valley. The Canadian Rockies surround it. Today, they’re a dark shape almost lost in the haze.

“Some view, what?” I say.

“Yeah.”

I point off to the town with a trekking pole. “Is that Kimberley?”

“You’re not from around here. I didn’t think I saw you before.”

“Ontario,” I say.

“Trawna?” He laughs. “Isn’t that how they pronounce it there? Trawna.”

“West of there,” I tell him.

“You here on vacation?”

“Business trip.”

He pauses then nudges his chin toward the town. “That’s Marysville. It’s the southern part of Kimberley. Used to be its own town at one time. Bigger than Kimberley when they had the smelter going. I live there.”

“Must be nice to have this park in your own backyard.”

“Uh-huh. I come here every weekend. Rain or shine.”

“It’s a busy place today. Busier than my last visit.”

His face pinches. “Yeah, I hate it. Summer is worse. I always stick to the single tracks. Too much roadkill on the doubles.”

I frown. “Roadkill?”

He gives me a blank expression. “You know. Dogs. People. Especially people. You’re always slowing down for them. I like to hammer it when I’m on the bike.”

His remark makes me smile. I wonder if I’m standing next to a fellow misanthrope. It might almost be a shame to kill this man.

He looks off toward the valley, takes another sip from his water bottle. I check the trees behind us and see no one coming up the trails. I listen but hear no voices.

“It’s shred time, bro.” He turns to leave. “Have fun.”

I let one trekking pole drop quietly to the ground. Then I shorten the other one by shoving the lower section up into the upper section.

The man is a few yards from his bike. I sneak up behind him, drawing the pole back into a baseball swing. I connect with the back of his skull, and the crack echoes in the open air. The impact snaps his head forward, and he falls to his hands and knees. The water bottle rolls across the grass.

I don’t give him time to regain his senses. As he struggles to get back to his feet, I step in front of him and swing the pole again. It catches him square across the bridge of the nose.

That gets a yelp out of him. Hands flying up to his face, he topples onto his back. I quickly jump on top of him and press the pole down across his windpipe.

He squirms beneath me. He pushes at the pole, digs at it with his fingers. He punches my arms. None of it has an effect. My body is stoked with adrenaline.

The man’s face is swelling up into a grotesque shape. Blood bubbles from his nose. Wet gurgling noises come from his throat.

I peer into his eyes and bask in the terror I see swimming there. It’s a look I’ll burn into my memory. Store it there so someday I can pull it out and relive this moment once again.

All at once, something weird happens. Maybe spine-chilling is a better description.

The man’s face dissolves right in front of me. His nose, his eyes, his mouth. They all get swallowed up in the purplish mass.

A new face emerges, and it spikes the hairs on the back of my neck.

It’s Heidi. She gazes up at me with eyes so red and inflated, they look ready to burst out of their sockets. The image causes me to do a double take. I nearly lose focus on what I’m doing.

Quickly, I regain my composure. I press down on the trekking pole with every ounce of strength I have. Something crunches in the man’s throat. His arms fall out to his sides. His body jolts a few times then becomes still. I watch the light fade out of his eyes.

Before someone comes along, I conceal the body in a grove of spruce trees. Wheeling the bike to the edge of the lookout, I push it over. To my surprise, it manages to remain upright for several yards before the front tire wrenches sideways and the bike begins tumbling end over end. Eventually it disappears into the trees.

Seven grand. I still can’t believe it.

I pick up my other trekking pole and then leave the area. As I head down Mountain Mine Road, that image of Heidi’s swollen face shadows me.

What does it mean?

Is it a premonition?

Is my subconscious trying to tell me something?

22

Halifax, October 23

1:10 P.M.

Allan feared it would happen. Resources stretched thin. Focus pulled in too many directions. Valuable time wasted chasing wrong leads. All because of a composite sketch that might resemble a man of interest. “Might” being the operative word.

Since the department released the sketch on Thursday, over a hundred calls had flooded the hotline. Officers manning the phones were told to evaluate the calls and assign them a priority level based on the information gathered.

Allan sat at his desk, reading over tips from the last twelve hours. It was a frustrating task, but part and parcel of an investigation that seemed to be racing toward a brick wall at one hundred miles per hour.

Some tips were downright absurd—the composite resembled a man someone knew fifteen years ago or an ex-husband who refused to pay alimony. You’d be surprised at how many calls came in like that.

The remaining tips were well intentioned but nothing to raise your heart rate. One caller swore she’d seen the suspect in a line at Costco. Another saw him at Home Depot buying lumber. Someone else from Moncton was certain the man lived four doors down from her. He had a reputation as a social misfit and wore a hoodie all the time.

Allan leaned back in the chair with a heavy sigh. Most of the tips had to be checked out regardless of how useless they appeared. Sometimes the smallest piece could lead you to the bigger picture.

Allan doubted that would happen here. Lacing his fingers behind his head, he shut his eyes.

He saw Mary Driscow. He saw Kate Saint-Pierre. He tried to see the killer but saw only dark.

A knock at the door startled him. It was Audra.

“Hey,” she said. “Got something.”

Allan looked at the sheaf of paper in her hand. “Something good?”

Audra flicked her eyebrows. “Anonymous tip. Caller said the suspect is an acquaintance named Rube.”

Allan straightened in the chair. “That rings a bell.”

“His actual name is Reuben Forbes.” Audra began typing on Allan’s computer. “Thirty-two years old. Has a lengthy record that began at sixteen. Assault. Marijuana possession. Breaking and entering. Failure to appear in court.

“He wasn’t incarcerated last October, either. Released the August before.”

When Forbes’s picture came up on Allan’s monitor, he immediately recognized him.

“He was one of the parolees I looked into during the Driscow investigation. Never seemed like a viable suspect.”

Audra looked hopeful. “He resembles the composite. To an extent.”

Allan didn’t see it.

“Jaw and chin is similar,” Audra said. “Nose…kinda.”

“Doesn’t look much like Clark Kent.”

Audra smiled. “Or Brad Pitt.”

“Clattenburg didn’t recognize him in our mug book.”

Audra crossed her arms, frowned. “But you know the more pictures you look at, the less likely you’ll see the person you’re looking for.”

Allan held her gaze. “You know how I feel about witness memory. People suck at identifying strangers.”

“I know, Al. I know.” She looked back to the picture, chewing on her lip. “Height is in the ballpark. Eye color.”

“He’s a bit light. One-sixty soaking wet.”

“Picture’s over a year old. He could’ve put on a few pounds.”

Allan spread his hands.

Audra added, “He does have a little history of violence.”

“Nothing against women, though. A couple scrums outside nightclubs, if I remember correctly.”

“We have to check him out.”

Allan silently appraised her. She was the epitome of confidence. He knew she had the never-say-die attitude. She’d turn over every stone in the pursuit of revealing a suspect. Combine that with a nimble mind and interview skills, and you had yourself an excellent detective. Yet there were times she got a bit too overzealous.

“I admire your optimism,” he told her. “But this guy is a waste of time.”

Even as those words flowed from his mouth, Allan could feel the doubt waking up inside his skull again, the second-guessing beginning to eat its way through his brain.

He was almost certain Reuben Forbes had nothing to do with the murders. But what if he was wrong? What if he’d been wrong a year ago? That catastrophic mistake would haunt him for the rest of his life.

“Probably,” Audra said. “But it’s worth a shot, right?”

Allan looked at the picture of Forbes again, a knot twisting in his gut. “Keep an open mind.”

Audra winked. “Exactly.”

A short drive took them to a nondescript building on Gottingen Street. The main floor housed The Good Food Emporium. The top floor had a series of bedrooms rented out by low-income people or those living on the fringe of society. They shared a kitchen and bathroom.

Police knew the property well. They’d been there over one hundred fifty times for reports of fights, thefts, drug use, and sexual assaults.

Reuben Forbes stayed in room number 5.

As Allan followed Audra down a tight hallway, he noticed something off about each door.

“No locks,” he said. “Aren’t they required?”

Audra nodded. “I don’t think this place is on the up and up.”

They reached the room. Audra knocked.

There came a rustling inside, then the door opened to reveal Reuben Forbes. In the flesh, he looked even less like the sketch. And when Allan saw Audra’s face go slack, he knew she saw it too.

Forbes had stoner’s eyes—baggy and bloodshot. He wore jeans and a white T-shirt. His hair was cropped close to his skull, and there was the silhouette of a bird tattooed near his left temple. Steel tunnels inserted in his earlobes allowed you to see right through them.

Allan glanced at the man’s hands and forearms. No cuts or scratches.

The room behind him was tiny. Clothes littered the bed. One door on the wardrobe closet hung askew. The window had a cracked pane. A kerosene heater sat on the floor below it.

Allan’s cell phone rang. The display revealed a local number. He stepped away to take the call.

The man on the other end identified himself as Cameron Page, an analyst with the provincial ViCLAS Center. He told Allan he’d made a potential link to another unsolved murder in Huntsville, Ontario. Allan shot a glance at Audra, but she was busy talking to Forbes.

Allan asked in a hushed tone, “Who’s the lead investigator in that case?”

“Denis Gagnon,” Page said. “I’ll give you his number.”

Allan wrote it down.

“I was just talking to him,” Page added. “He’s expecting your call.”

“Thank you,” Allan said.

As he hung up, he saw Reuben Forbes close his door on Audra.

“What’d you say to him?” he asked.

“Asked him if he was Anthony Stevens.”

“Anthony Stevens?”

Face pinched, Audra tossed her hands up in the air. “First name that popped into my head. You were right, Al. He’s a waste of time.”

Allan knew she was frustrated, pissed off even. She brushed past him, heading for the exit.

“Hey,” he called out.

Audra stopped and looked over her shoulder at him.

“ViCLAS called me,” he said.

“Oh?”

He walked up next to her. “They made a possible link to another case.”

“Where at this time?”

“Ontario.”

Audra jerked her head back. “Whoa. Three provinces away.”

“I know,” he said, skeptical himself.

They went outside, stopping by the car. Audra leaned against it, tilting her face to the sun, as Allan took out his cell phone. He dialed the number Cameron Page had given him.

The voice that answered was tinged with a French accent. Allan introduced himself.

“Detective Stanton,” Denis Gagnon said. “I was a bit surprised when ViCLAS contacted me. A bit excited too.”

“What are these possible links they made to one of your cases?”

“Two, actually.”

“Pardon?”

“Two cases. They don’t know about the second one.”

“Tell me about them.”

“Li Chen is the case ViCLAS found similarities in. He was a thirty-two-year-old Chinese immigrant. Worked here as a sales manager for Sandvik Mining.

“We found his body in Arrowhead Provincial Park sixteen months ago. He was strangled with a ligature. Had his fingertips cut off.”

Listening, Allan felt a weird frisson down his back. “Was his body posed?”

“Posed?”

“You know. Did the suspect position the body a certain way—”

“No, no,” Denis said. “Not any of that here.”

“Any sex involved?”

“None of that either. Chen was at the park to take pictures. According to his family, he was a budding photographer. We figured the killer ambushed him on Stubbs Falls Trail while he was taking pictures from the bridge. The killer then dragged or carried Chen’s body into the brush twenty-five yards away. We later found his camera downstream, caught up on some rocks.”

Allan said, “He hid the body to delay discovery.”

“Yes.”

Similar MO, Allan thought with cautious hope. Similar hunting areas. But different choices of victims. Coincidence or not?

“Was the camera salvageable?” he asked.

“It was damaged, but we managed to get pictures off the memory card. Nothing beneficial. No people from the park. His last photos were of the falls.”

“We need to meet,” Allan said. “Compare notes.”

“Definitely. I’ll come to you. Never been to Halifax. Maybe the salty air will help my sinuses.”

Allan noticed Audra looking at him now. He gave her a shrug, and she gave him a weak smile.

“I’ll pack up everything today,” Denis added. “Catch a flight out tomorrow. Sound like a plan?”

“Sure does.”

“See you then, Detective.”

“Wait,” Allan said. “This other case you mentioned. Tell me about it.”

“Her name was Hailey Pringle. Twenty-four years old. She worked as a housekeeper for Arowhon Pines.

“Four years ago, a park superintendent found her body in Arrowhead. Beaver Meadow Trail that time. The suspect bludgeoned her with a heavy object. Likely a rock. We think he threw it into the beaver pond. We never found it.”

“He left her body on the trail?”

“Yes.”

“What are the similarities?”

“Location,” Denis said.

Allan frowned. “That it?”

“My gut.” Denis paused a moment. “My gut tells me it’s the same guy.”

23

Cranbrook, October 24

7:49 A.M.

I remember the tragedy of July 29, 1984.

It was a tank-top-and-shorts kind of day. Dazzling sun. Soothing breeze. Wispy layers of clouds banked along the edge of the sky.

Joshua and I were taking turns swinging on the tree swing our father had built for us a month earlier. He’d climbed the massive oak tree in the backyard and tied a thick length of rope to a sturdy branch twenty-five feet above the ground. He made the seat from a block of cedar and engraved the words Up & Away on the front side.

We never sat on the seat. We tried, but the rope pressing into our balls was just too uncomfortable. Instead, we used the seat to stand on and swing like Tarzan.

On this particular day, we were trying to outdo one another by seeing who could get highest in the air. Our mother had already come out to warn us twice. Each time, we’d obey and wait for her to disappear back into the house before we’d start at it again.

Pushing hard, Joshua had an amazing swing going. He went back and forth like a pendulum, each sweep of the arc taking him higher. He was reaching that cloud-duster height where the rope was almost horizontal to the ground.

Then disaster struck.

To this day, I don’t know if his foot slipped off the seat or he lost his grip on the rope, but Joshua fell right at the peak of the swing.

I watched his body sail through the air. It made a chilling thud as it landed near the back fence thirty feet away.

I ran over. Joshua lay on his right side, arm bent at an awkward angle beneath his body. His eyes and mouth were open. I heard a wet gurgling sound coming from his throat.

“Joshua,” I said. “You okay?”

He rolled his eyes toward me, and I could see a harsh awareness, a certain dread. I waited for him to wink, or smile, or burst into laughter because he’d pulled a good one over on me. But it never happened like that.

“Joshua?” I repeated.

His eyes dropped away, staring off into the grass. I no longer heard the gurgling, only the sound of the swing as the rope rubbed the bark on the tree limb.

I crouched beside him and poked his shoulder. “Joshua.”

He never responded.

“Oh my God…”

I jerked my hand back.

“What did you do?”

I spun around.

Mom ran from the house, dropping to her knees next to Joshua. She saw his face and cried out.

“I’m here, baby,” she said. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

She shot me a venomous look. “What did you do, you little monster?”

“Nothing,” I said. “He fell.”

“I told you boys not to swing so high. Didn’t I?”

“Ruth—what is it?”

Mom blinked. Dressed in his work clothes, Dad called from the back porch.

“It’s Joshua. He’s hurt.”

Dad came running over. “What happened?”

“He fell off the swing. He’s not moving. I think his arm is broken.”

Dad bent to Joshua. “His eyes are open. Joshua. Joshua.”

Mom began keening, a thin cry of fear.

“Call a fucking ambulance,” Dad yelled.

As Mom ran to the house, Dad knelt beside Joshua and threw himself across his small frame. It was the first time I heard him cry. He let out a piercing scream like that of a wounded animal.

He knew what I didn’t—Joshua was dead.

My brother.

My twin.

Nine years old.

I remember an article I read a couple of years ago about womb twin survivors. The medical world presumed the fetal brain during the first trimester wasn’t developed enough to have any consciousness. Some researchers now believe that might not be the case at all. They claim when a twin dies in the womb, even during that first trimester, the other twin knows. Others believe it’s more body than brain. The body feels the loss, the abandonment.

Womb twin survivors carry the loss with them to the outside. They grow up feeling something is missing from their lives, something that used to be there but no longer is. I wonder if it’s like the phantom limb. You cut off a man’s arm or leg, and he can still feel it, even though it isn’t there.

In a weird way, that’s similar to how I felt when Joshua died. I could still feel him there, a part of me. Every time I looked into a mirror, I saw him again. He smiled when I smiled. Made silly faces back when I made them at him. And in my young imagination, Joshua lived on with me.

But then I didn’t fully grasp the concept of death. The finality of it. Only when I got older did I realize what a truly heartbreaking tragedy it was.

In retrospect, Dad never considered the safety issue of having a swing that long. Ten, twelve feet would’ve sufficed. Not twenty-five. Not for two nine-year-old boys who didn’t comprehend the danger. The longer the swing, the higher it will go.

My relationship with my parents deteriorated over the years. I often wondered if they’d secretly wished I had fallen from the swing that day, especially Mom. The names she’d call me—evil, dangerous, the devil, a monster. She knew what I was long before I realized it.

When I went off to business college, I never returned home. I haven’t spoken to Mom and Dad in fifteen years. I imagine they’re still alive. Probably still living in Almonte, in that old brick house on Wesley Street.

I’ve been thinking about Joshua a lot lately. Where would he be in his life right now? Married? Kids? Have a decent career? What about us? Would we have a good relationship?

These are my last few hours in British Columbia. I don’t know when I’ll be back here again. Depends if another company out this way needs my help.

I get up and move to the window overlooking the bird sanctuary. I’m welcomed by a brilliant sunrise. A sliver of light traces the horizon and infuses the clouds overhead with beautiful red and orange hues. Elizabeth Lake is a mirror that reflects the colors, the mountains, and the reeds.

I watch a flock of ducks flying in perfect V-formation. They head south and eventually disappear from my sight.

I check the time: 8:08. My flight leaves for Calgary at 12:10. I’m not looking forward to the twin-engine jobbie I’ll be flying in. Even with a small amount of turbulence, it bobs around like a cork. Good thing the trip takes less than an hour. Any longer, and I’d have to fill up on Gravol.

From Calgary, I’ll connect with my main flight back to Hamilton. I estimate I’ll be home by eight tonight.

I wonder about Heidi, if her attitude has improved since I came out to Cranbrook. Every night I called home, she just put the girls on the phone. She never spoke to me.

I bought Jade and Jaleesa a pair of suede moccasins last night. They’re native-made, with beaded flower designs on the tops. I don’t know if the girls will like them.

I just won’t mention they’re trimmed with rabbit fur.

24

Halifax, October 24

2:20 P.M.

With Greek features and a head shaved so smooth it gleamed, Detective Denis Gagnon reminded Audra of Telly Savalas. Dressed in a purple blazer and gray trousers, he carried himself with an air of confidence, if she’d ever seen one.

They set to work in the boardroom because it allowed them more space. Case files from four murders covered the sixteen-foot conference table. Allan sat to Audra’s left, reading over autopsy reports. Denis Gagnon sat opposite them, reviewing the Driscow and Saint-Pierre crime-scene reports. Audra studied photographs from the two murders in Arrowhead Provincial Park.

She saw Hailey Pringle’s bludgeoned body first. She was a light-skinned girl with a slim build. The suspect had left her facedown on the park trail. Blood saturated her blond hair as well as the crushed gravel beneath her head.

“He struck her several times,” Audra said.

“It was a brutal attack,” Denis said. “The medical examiner said her skull was crushed.”

“The suspect would’ve gotten Hailey’s blood on him. Probably a lot, from what I see here.”

“I know. And nobody saw a man covered in blood that day.”

“That’s the way it usually goes,” Audra said.

She picked up another photo showing Hailey alive and well. She stood in the middle of a suspension bridge that hung over a lush forest canopy. She was squinting against the sun, a closed smile on a face softened with innocence.

Audra turned the photo over. Someone’s handwriting said: Monteverde Rainforest.

“Her husband gave me that,” Denis said. “Taken while they were vacationing in Costa Rica six months before.”

Audra felt a stab of sadness. “Did they have kids?”

Denis shook his head. “Hailey’s mother calls me every second Friday. Asks me if I got any updates. Four years now. She’s still looking for closure.”

“You ever hear from the husband?”

“I did for a few months after the murder. Then nothing. He remarried a year later.”

“Was he ever a suspect?” Allan asked him.

Denis nodded. “Only because he was a statistical probability. One-third of women are murdered by someone they know. But according to everyone I interviewed, he and Hailey were happy. No financial problems. No mention of abuse, infidelity, or jealousy.”

“How’d he take the news of Hailey’s death?” Allan asked.

“Bad.” Denis winced. “Bad and…genuine. You know?”

“Yeah,” Allan said in a quiet voice. “I know.”

Audra went back to the crime-scene photos of Hailey Pringle. She focused on the woman’s bare wrists below the cuffs of her scarlet jacket. No rings on her fingers, either.

“Were any of her personal effects missing?” she asked.

Denis said, “Her watch and wedding ring.”

“Were they valuable?”

“Ring was about four thousand. Had a point-forty-five-carat diamond in it. The watch, a hundred bucks. Nothing fancy. Pawnshops in Ontario are required to report any jewelry received by them. Nobody tried to cash in either item. For the longest time, I wondered if robbery precipitated the attack.”

“We had no robbery in our cases,” Audra said. “What about Li Chen? Anything missing from him?”

Denis lowered his eyes. “No,” he said. “The killer left behind his wallet, watch, and wedding ring. Sixty dollars in the wallet.”

From the corner of her eye, Audra saw Allan look up from the reports. She waited a brief moment until Denis began reading again before she turned her face to Allan. As he met her gaze, the grim twist to his mouth told her he shared her skepticism—the Pringle and Chen murders didn’t seem to be related.

When Audra picked up the first photo of Li Chen, a chill rippled over her skin. What she saw bore an uncanny resemblance to Mary Driscow and Kate Saint-Pierre.

Li Chen lay face up on the mossy ground, his face turned toward the camera. His eyes were bloodred, and a prominent ligature mark drew a purple line over his throat. The suspect had severed every fingertip at the DIP joint.

He fought back, Audra told herself. Just like Kate Saint-Pierre.

Li Chen looked to be a short man, dressed in a red-checkered shirt and cargo pants. He still had a black camera bag slung over his shoulder.

Pictures of the surrounding area showed the suspect had concealed Chen within a stand of trees. Audra dug through the autopsy photos, choosing a close-up of the ligature mark.

“Whoa.” She held up the photo for Allan. “Check this out.”

His eyes lit up. “Shit.”

“Similar, isn’t it?”

“Yup.”

Denis asked, “What’s that?”

“The weave pattern in the ligature,” Allan said. “Looks like the one in our cases.”

“Lemme see.”

Audra gave Denis the photo. He compared it to close-ups of Mary Driscow and Kate Saint-Pierre.

Eventually, he said, “Yes, yes. I’m really starting to think the cases are connected.”

Audra shrugged. “I’m reserving judgment right now.”

“Yeah?” Denis looked at Allan. “You?”

Allan spread his hands. “I’m cautiously optimistic about one. Not so much the other.”

“Hailey Pringle. You don’t think she’s part of this vicious cycle?”

“The crime-scene characteristics don’t add up for me. Sorry.”

Denis frowned. “Like what?”

“He left her body as is. Why didn’t he hide it like the others?”

“Maybe he got spooked. Someone was coming.”

“Different cause of death too.”

Denis tapped a finger on the tabletop. Then he loosened his tie so the knot hung by his sternum.

“I respect your opinion, Detective,” he said. “But I’m sticking to my gut on this.”

Allan thumbed his ear. “I know what it’s like to have a case like yours. You take it personally. It becomes a case you have to solve. Not only for the victims’ families, but for yourself. That emotional investment can cause you to lose focus.

“Last year, shortly after I submitted the Mary Driscow case to ViCLAS, they found a potential link to an unsolved rape and murder in a town not two hours from here. Same cause of death. Similar murder site. The suspect even left her posed.

“From all appearances, the cases seemed to be connected. But there were also differences—”

“Such as?” Denis asked.

“Weave pattern in the ligature. I had DNA evidence. They didn’t.”

“I’m assuming you’re telling me this because these cases ended up not being related?”

Allan nodded. “They caught the man involved in that case last spring. He’d abducted a young woman right from her home. Drove her to a wooded area and tried to rape her. Luckily, she escaped.

“Police tracked him down soon after. They found evidence at his place linking him to the other murder. When I looked into him, I discovered he had lived in Mary Driscow’s neighborhood at one time. That made me excited. It convinced me that I had my man.”

“Obviously, you didn’t,” Denis said.

A distant stare crossed Allan’s eyes. “DNA cleared him.”

Audra watched him for a moment.

“Well,” she said. “For the sake of arguing, let’s say these cases are related. What do we know about the victims?”

“There are no links between them,” Denis said. “One male. Three females.”

Audra nodded. “Their ages vary from twenty-two to thirty-four. They come from various backgrounds.”

“Why does he choose them?” Allan said. “They have no specific physical or personal characteristics.”

The room went quiet for a good minute.

Denis spoke first. “Maybe he initially starts off looking for someone specific. His dream victim, so to speak. But he finds they’re not easy to come by. So he settles for a substitute instead.”

“That’s possible,” Allan said. “What if he’s just picking people at random?”

Denis widened his eyes. “That’s a scary assertion.”

Audra chimed in, “Can we agree he never knew any of them?”

“Yes,” Denis said.

Allan gave her a single nod.

Audra added, “He used a con approach or surprise attack on each victim.”

“No sexual patterns to the crimes,” Allan said.

“Uh.” Denis scratched at his cheek. “I read something in Driscow’s autopsy report. The ME determined sexual interaction.”

“Based on a suction lesion,” Allan said. “Yeah, Coulter and I had this discussion the other day.”

“Did he make a mistake?”

“No. That’s where the DNA came from, after all. It’s just that I felt I’d put too much of my focus on the sexual aspect of the crime.”

“Okay,” Denis said.

Audra flipped her gaze from one man to the other. “The suspect’s targeting area is similar.”

“Parks,” Allan said.

Audra turned to Denis. “The areas where Chen and Pringle were found, are they only accessible by foot?”

“Yes. Yours?”

Audra nodded. “What’s that tell us about the suspect?”

Allan folded his arms. “He’s physically fit. Maybe he’s into jogging. Hiking. Likes the outdoors.”

“Driscow and Saint-Pierre were murdered in Octobers,” Denis said. “Li Chen in a June. Hailey Pringle in September.”

“Three people strangled,” Allan said. “One bludgeoned.”

Denis looked at him. “He chooses a method that brings him into close contact with his victims.”

“Almost intimate,” Audra said. “Maybe you were right, Al.”

Denis leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table. “Right about what?”

“Al thinks this guy might be a thrill killer.”

“Hmm.” Denis looked up to the ceiling and exhaled. “He gets off on the rush. Interesting.”

“I’m leaning toward that theory,” Allan said. “Take out the sexual motivator, and what’re you left with?”

Denis smiled. “Uh-huh.”

“If these cases are related,” Audra said, “he’s killing interprovincially.”

Allan lifted his eyebrows. “Then where’s he from? Here, there, or somewhere else?”

Audra shrugged. “There’s a bigger question—are these his only victims?”

25

Burlington, October 24

8:05 P.M.

The girls don’t know what to make of them.

“They’re moccasins,” I say. “Made by natives out west.”

Jade scrunches up her face. “Mock…a…zins?”

Her effort to pronounce the word melts my heart, lifts a big smile on my face. I feel so proud of her. She still trips over longer-syllable words, but she’s only five. Every once in a while, I catch her saying liver room for living room, or sketty for spaghetti.

“I like them, Daddy,” she says, giving me a hug.

I look at Jaleesa. Clearly, she doesn’t like them. She stands there, her mouth hanging open and staring at the moccasins in her hands.

“What do you think, honey?” I ask.

She turns to me, and I see daggers in her eyes. “Why’d you get these?”

“I thought you girls had enough toys.”

“They’re ugly—”

“Jaleesa.” Heidi appears in the kitchen doorway. “Have some respect. Your father is right, you girls do have enough toys. Besides, Christmas isn’t too far away. Santa will bring you more then.”

“Santa isn’t real, Mommy.”

I swear you can hear that proverbial record scratch, and the kitchen drops into silence. Heidi and I turn our heads to Jade at the same time. With an incredulous stare, Jade looks at Jaleesa, then at me, and finally at Heidi.

“Santa isn’t real?” she says.

Her chins quivers. I can tell the waterworks are close.

“No, he’s not,” Jaleesa tells her. “It’s all a lie.”

“Jaleesa”—Heidi raises her voice—“go to your room. Now.”

Jaleesa throws the moccasins on the floor and leaves in a huff. She stomps down the hallway to her room. Heidi follows her.

Eyes moist, Jade turns to me. “Is Santa real, Daddy?”

“Do you think he’s real?”

“Yes.”

“Then I think he’s real too.”

That puts a hopeful smile on her face. She gives me another hug. Then she runs off with the moccasins.

Clenching my jaw, I close my eyes for a second. I never wanted to push the Santa Claus myth on the girls. Heidi allowed that lie into our home when the girls were very young. She’d bake cookies for them to leave out on Christmas Eve. She’d even take a bite out of the cookie and write a thank-you note from Santa.

Kids of Jade’s age marvel at the world and create their own fantasies regardless of what we do. Why set them up for such a letdown? It’s like the Easter Bunny story. Or the Tooth Fairy.

Soon enough, our kids will realize it’s a dog-eat-dog world out there, that they can’t always get what they want, that their friends will cut their throats, that they’ll struggle through tremendous odds, that their family members will die off around them, and then their own health will break down and they’ll die, too. With any luck, they’ll have some heirs to carry on their memories. Otherwise, they’ll be forgotten like an old song.

Grabbing a beer from the refrigerator, I twist off the cap and down a mouthful. A compulsion burns inside me to walk right back out the door, jump in my car, and drive off somewhere. I don’t know where, just far away from here. Ten minutes home, and I have one daughter throwing a hissy fit and Heidi not speaking a word to me. Jade is the only bright spot.

Heidi marches Jaleesa back into the kitchen. My daughter’s face is red, and her arms are tucked tight into her sides.

“What do you tell your father?” Heidi says to her.

Jaleesa lowers her head, unable to meet my eyes. “Sorry.”

I look at Heidi. “Why shame her into apologizing?”

She glowers at me. “It’s about respect and gratitude.”

I stare at her, realizing our time apart hasn’t improved her mood. I take another drink of beer as Jaleesa picks the moccasins off the floor and carries them to her room.

I call after her, “I’ll try to get you something better next time. Okay, honey?”

“Okay,” she answers.

Heidi turns to leave.

“Hey,” I say.

She looks back over her shoulder.

I try to break the ice between us. “The girls told me last night they liked the Treats In Our Streets.”

She turns fully around, crosses her arms. “Yeah, they had fun. We all did.”

“Good, good. I forgot to ask them what they went as.”

“Jaleesa dressed up as a princess. Jade went as a ladybug.”

“A ladybug.” I smile. “Like her backpack. Cute.”

“Yes. Jaleesa was cute too.”

“How’re things with you?” I ask. “You were in quite a mood when I left Thursday.”

“A mood?” She raises an eyebrow, fixing me with a glassy stare. “Interesting way of putting it.”

I gaze at her, remembering how that mountain biker’s face morphed into hers. I realize it was probably a mind trick. Sometimes my mind does seem to have a mind of its own. It likes to torment me, to take me down the dead-end streets and dark alleys of my past. It tricks me into seeing things, even believing things that aren’t real.

Heidi’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “At least you came home with no cuts and scratches this time.”

“Jesus,” I say. “You’re still on that?”

She continues to stare at me with a look that a lizard would give a cricket or a mealworm.

“I took your advice,” I say, smiling.

She tilts her head. “Oh? And what’s that?”

“I used the electric razor you gave me.”

My joke doesn’t change her expression.

Jade comes back into the room wearing the moccasins. She boasts an ear-to-ear grin and a sparkle in her eye.

“Mommy,” she says. “Look.”

Heidi smiles down at her. “Wow, aren’t those lovely?”

“Yes.” Jade comes over to me. “Look, Daddy.”

“I’m glad you like them, honey.”

“I love them.”

I kneel down and kiss her on the forehead.

“You’re special to me,” I say. “You know that?”

She gives me an earnest expression only a child can. “Yes.”

“I want to make you happy.”

“Jaleesa too?”

I nod. “Jaleesa too.”

“And Mommy?”

I glance across the kitchen to see Heidi has left, and I feel a shadow creep over me.

Jade notices it, because she asks, “Daddy? What’s wrong?”

I flash her a smile. “Nothing, honey. Daddy’s just tired from his flight.”

“And Mommy?” she repeats.

“Of course,” I say. “Mommy too.”

26

Halifax, October 24

8:13 P.M.

“Jesus,” Audra said. “I don’t know if it was testosterone or male stubbornness. But I almost couldn’t stand it in there.”

Allan stood at his office window, absently watching the light traffic on Gottingen Street.

“What do you mean?” he said.

“You, getting a bit standoffish with Gagnon.”

“Oh.”

Audra moved up beside him. “Hey, you okay?”

Expelling a breath, Allan ran a hand through his hair. He had a terrible sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“This case,” he said. “The whole thing is getting to me.”

“I’ve noticed. It’s frustrating me too.”

Allan turned to her. “It’s more than that,” he said. “Ever feel like you’re running against the clock?”

Audra frowned. “In this job, always. The worst sound in our world is the tick of the clock.”

“Not that.”

“Then what?”

Allan tipped his head back, shutting his eyes for a couple of seconds. “I stopped by the Driscow house last Monday.” He grimaced. “I don’t know why. I just wanted to see Mary’s parents. See how they were doing.”

“Guilt?”

Allan nodded. “Yeah.”

“Something happened.”

“I found out Joyce, Mary’s mother, died in August. I didn’t know. And to make matters worse, Bill Driscow has advanced liver cancer. Doctors gave him a few months. By the looks of him, I doubt he even has that long. I wish I had never gone over there. I’ve been thinking about him ever since.”

Audra didn’t say anything. Allan found her waiting him out with a concerned gaze.

He said, “I want to give him closure. Do you think we can do that? Do you think we can catch this guy before Bill Driscow dies?”

“Remember what you told Gagnon. That he’s taking the Pringle case too personally. You’re doing the same with the Driscow case.”

Allan felt the truth of that. “Keep your emotions in check, right? Don’t wear your heart on your sleeve. That’s what they tell us. I managed to do that in the first few years on this job. Young. Full of piss and vinegar. I thrived on the challenges.”

“I remember that man,” Audra said. “I was the same way.”

“You still are.”

Audra smirked. “Not so young anymore. But still full of piss and vinegar.”

“So what are your thoughts on these other cases?”

“Like I said earlier, I’m reserving judgment.”

Allan walked back to his desk, sat. “I’m trying not to get my hopes up. I just want to catch this guy so fucking bad.”

Audra took a seat across from him. “So do I.”

“You must have some theories.”

“A few, yeah.”

“The Pringle case looks random to me,” Allan said. “You get that feeling?”

Audra spread her hands. “We can’t rule out that it’s connected to Li Chen.”

Allan tilted his head to the side. “What are you thinking?”

“Let’s consider the possibility. What if Hailey Pringle was the suspect’s first? It could explain the difference in his behavior.”

“When I look at that case, I see a suspect who seemed spontaneous. Sloppy. Rushed, even.”

“Nerves. He doesn’t have experience in killing. He’s not comfortable with it yet. He hasn’t developed his technique.”

Allan could see her point. “There’s also a space of thirty-four months between the Pringle and Chen murders. Repetition makes you better, more comfortable. That’s quite a lull.”

“You think he might’ve committed other murders in that time frame?”

“We have to consider it,” Allan said. “Cross all the t’s.”

Audra clasped her hands together. “Let’s check into unsolved murders out there. Those specifically committed in parks.”

“How far do we go back? Four years? More?”

“Keep it at four for now,” Audra said. “See how many cases we find.”

“There’s an average of ninety unsolved homicides in Canada every year.”

“I know. Let’s focus on Ontario and the Maritimes. That’ll keep our number down a bit.”

Something new popped into Allan’s head. “The homicides in Huntsville preceded ours.”

“I thought about that,” Audra said. “You think the suspect used to live there and moved this way after Chen’s murder?”

“I wonder.”

Audra shrugged. “Dunno, Al. For all we know, he doesn’t reside in either location.”

“A transient?”

“Another angle to consider.”

Allan groaned. “Shit.”

He picked up the phone and called Denis Gagnon.

“Detective Stanton,” Denis answered. “What are you saying tonight?”

In the background, Allan could hear glasses clinking, people murmuring and laughing.

He said, “Doesn’t sound like you’re at the hotel.”

Denis chuckled. “Henry House. I’m a bit gutfoundered. Never ate all day. The bellhop at the Westin told me to try the steak-and-ale stew. You know the place?”

“Never been there, but I heard good things.”

“Two-minute walk from the hotel,” Denis said. “Did you call it a day? Or still at the department?”

“Still here,” Allan said. “Detective Price and I are racking our brains.”

“Hmm. What conclusions have you come to?”

“No conclusions. Just more questions.”

“Uh-huh. I hear ya.”

“I have a few questions for you,” Allan said.

“Shoot.”

“What airport did you use to fly down here? Pearson?”

“Yes.”

“That’s the closest one for you?”

“Yes.”

“What about Billy Bishop?”

“It’s an extra hour’s drive from Huntsville. Why?”

Allan said, “I’m just wondering—if I were the suspect and lived in the Huntsville area—what airport I’d use to fly down here.”

Denis paused. “Pearson and Billy Bishop are your likely choices. Billy Bishop if you wanted to fly Porter. Pearson for Air Canada and Westjet.”

“Excuse my lack of knowledge about Huntsville, but how far is it from Toronto?”

“Two hundred kilometers.”

“A two-hour drive, then?”

“Thereabouts.”

“If I were the suspect living here, I’d have to line up a car for once I got to Toronto.”

“You could do that,” Denis said. “Or take a bus. Shuttle Ontario has two departures going a day.”

Allan watched Audra leaning forward in the chair, her eyes narrowing.

“I can see the hamster running that wheel in your head,” Denis said.

“See where I’m going?”

“I think so.”

“We need to get passenger lists from the airlines,” Allan said. “See who flew to Halifax from Toronto and vice versa in the days leading up to each murder.”

Denis blew into the receiver. “Cross-reference for matching names.”

“Exactly,” Allan said. “We’ll also check with bus stations and car-rental companies. The whole nine yards.

“Detective Price and I also discussed looking into unsolved homicides through Ontario and the Maritimes. Have a firsthand look at them.”

Denis said, “I’ll handle the Ontario side.”

“Deal.”

“What time do you want to meet in the morning?”

“Just a second.” Allan put his hand over the receiver. He asked Audra, “What time in the morning?”

She said, “Seven?”

Allan nodded. “Seven okay with you?”

“That’s six Ontario time,” Denis said. “But it’s fine.”

“Just don’t have too many beers.”

Denis chuckled again. “One glass of McAuslan…er…maybe two.”

Allan smiled. “See you in the morning.”

As he hung up, Audra checked her watch.

“Quarter to nine,” she said, standing. “Better get home. Try to catch some sleep, Al.”

Allan watched her walk out the door. Then he leaned his head back over the chair, gazing up at the ceiling.

Despite his exhaustion, he couldn’t relax. Shutting his eyes, he tried to empty the doubt and depression from his mind. Found it hard to do.

Tomorrow was a new day, he told himself. Maybe it would bring something good for a change.

The thought made him shake his head.

Who the hell was he fooling?

27

Burlington, October 24

8:35 P.M.

Heidi, Heidi, Heidi.

If you’re going to snoop, don’t make it so obvious. Put my things back in order.

What would I hide in the pages of my books? An address? A phone number? A name of a mistress? A picture of her?

I’m not sure what enrages me more—Heidi’s mistrust or that she left my office a mess. I ask myself if she did it intentionally to piss me off. Most likely. She knows how orderly my things have to be.

I spend a few minutes rearranging my books alphabetically by author and aligning the spines evenly with the shelf. Then I straighten up the mouse and keyboard on my desk. Obviously, Heidi tried to access my computer as well.

The thought of her trying to figure out my password amuses me. I wonder how many names she punched in before she got mad and gave up.

I use the name of my first, a pretty blonde I met ten years ago in the quartzite hills of Killarney Park.

I can still see her standing on the top of Silver Peak, gazing out at the breathtaking view, her hair blowing in the breeze.

She was the catalyst to this enjoyable adventure. Twenty-four now, including the mountain biker on Saturday.

I remember them all equally. Each location. Each face. Each confused, terrified look. Each little noise they made.

I’m missing just one name.

Taking a seat, I fire up my computer and search the web for any information on the mountain biker. Kimberley Daily Bulletin has a piece on him.

Kimberley RCMP are asking for the public’s help in locating a missing man from Marysville.

Twenty-seven-year-old Guillaume Mills is described as 5’ 10”, 165 pounds, with short brown hair and brown eyes. He has a tattoo on his left calf that reads, “Live To Ride, Ride to Live”.

At approximately 10:00 a.m. Saturday, Guillaume left his home on 307 Avenue. He was last seen wearing a blue jacket, black cycling tights, and white cycling shoes. Family members said he was riding his bike for Kimberley Nature Park.

RCMP are concerned for his safety.

Smiling, I sit back in my chair. Guillaume Mills. I put the name to the face already seared into my memory.

I wonder how long it’ll take them to find his body. Kimberley Nature Park has a lot of real estate, twice the size of Stanley Park. It could be days, weeks, even months.

It took five months to find Lionel Gunn in La Mauricie. By then, animals had scattered his bones to different areas of the park. Police couldn’t even determine the cause of death.

I search news out of Nova Scotia.

What I find gives me pause. I pinch the skin of my throat.

A police drawing of a man in a hood covers the front page of The Chronicle Herald. They call him a person of interest.

I can’t say it’s like looking into a mirror. The eyes are all wrong—too expressive and set too far apart. The upper lip is too full. The nose is too large. And the eyebrows don’t have those sharp arches. The jaw and chin are the only things in the ballpark.

The longer I stare at the drawing, the more it reminds me of a male model. Broad cheekbones. Not an ounce of fat on his face. I could call it a flattering recreation.

The details in the write-up worry me. Someone guessed my height, weight, and eye color correctly. Nailed the clothing I wore.

A roll of sweat trickles from my armpit. I sit back from the desk, wondering who saw me. How’d I attract attention to myself? Was I overly friendly? You know, that nice-guy curse. You smile a bit too much, and people think you’re weird or an imbecile.

I dress according to my activity and environment, so I never look like that proverbial fish out of water. I wear sweats and running shoes whenever I jog. When I hiked the trails in Kimberley Nature Park yesterday, I wore my Gore-Tex boots, cargo pants, and shell jacket. I never carry a backpack like some hikers, but I did take a small EDC sling bag to carry my water bottle and a GORP bar. And of course, I had the new trekking poles I bought Thursday.

Who’d I meet on the trails in Halifax? Three—no, four people come to mind.

Shortly after I entered the park, I happened on a guy in a pea coat who was walking a Great Dane. I don’t think he even looked at me. I remember more of his dog than him. The thing was the size of a horse.

Farther on, I met an elderly couple by the container terminal. They were busy talking to each other, but the old guy did give me a curt nod as we passed each other. I doubt he looked at me long enough to retain an accurate memory.

Then came that odd fellow.

He was jogging toward me with a big smile on his face and his eyes glued to mine. As we passed each other, his smile and stare never wavered. He greeted me with a boisterous hello. I flashed him a smile. Can’t remember if I spoke or not.

I come back to what I said about someone who smiles a bit too much. People think you’re weird or an imbecile. That was my first impression of this fellow.

He had to be the one who talked to the cops. But what made him think of me? Did he witness something? Was it my demeanor? Why am I being called a person of interest?

I wonder about Heidi. What are the odds she checks the news out of Nova Scotia? I’ve never known her to. But if she did. Shit. Shit.

I turn off the computer, get up from the desk, and pace the floor.

If Heidi sees this story, would she have a light-bulb moment? Would she consider the scratch I came home with? The fact that I inadvertently called her the name of the actual victim? Would she then see my face in the drawing? And the clothing? Fuck, what about that? If she goes looking through my closet, she’ll find the hoodie and sweatpants I took to Halifax.

My mouth is dry. My throat is constricted. My muscles are tense. I can’t remember the last time these weird sensations hit me all at once.

I hear the girls laughing and splashing around in the bathroom. Heidi will be in there watching them.

Quietly, I dart down the hall to our bedroom. Heidi and I have separate walk-in closets. I go to mine.

Finding the hoodie and sweatpants, I take them off the hangers.

I hear a noise and freeze. It’s the sound of feet thumping on the bathroom floor. The girls are getting out of the tub.

Hurrying from the bedroom, I go to the kitchen and stuff the clothes into an empty garbage bag.

Tomorrow is collection day. Does the garbage go or just the blue boxes and green carts? I shake my head, unable to remember.

Clenching my teeth, I fight through this chaos in my brain. I recall the piles of leaves raked to the curb all up the street. Every fall, the city comes around with a vacuum truck and cleans up the leaves for residents.

Heidi raked ours. But I can’t remember what bins she set out.

The bathroom door creaks open. The girls scamper into the hall.

I rush out to the garage. Through the window in the roll-up door, I see our trash can at the end of the driveway. Perfect. As long as Heidi doesn’t see me.

I take the bag outside and push it down inside the can. When I go back inside, I find Jade waiting for me in the kitchen. She’s wearing her Dora the Explorer pajamas.

She opens her arms. “Night, Daddy.”

I give her a big hug. “Good night, honey. Sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

I always thought that was a stupid nursery rhyme. Bedbugs. I mean, really?

Jade gives me a little laugh and runs off to her bedroom. Jaleesa never comes out to see me.

As I’m returning to my office, I run into Heidi coming out of our bedroom. She’s carrying folded bedclothes. She shoves them into my arms.

“Here,” she says. “I thought you’d want to sleep on the couch again.”

28

Halifax, October 27

11:55 A.M.

Ted Taylor’s face stared up from below the murky water, his features contorted by fear and disbelief, his eyes bulging from their sockets. White froth was still visible around his nose and mouth.

Audra pushed the photograph aside and picked up another. This one showed a long-range shot of the body lying face-up on the bank of a beaver pond, the head submerged in the water.

“Rare,” she said.

“Pardon?”

She tossed her gaze over to Denis. “Murder by drowning. You see it done to children, not adult males.”

“Oh, yes.” He nodded. “This guy isn’t afraid to get physical.”

Audra said, “Hmm, maybe that’s his turn-on.”

“Take a look at this,” Allan said, sliding an autopsy photo across the table to her.

The close-up revealed a light bruise straight across the underside of Taylor’s jaw.

“Ligature,” she said.

Allan shook his head. “The ME’s report says the suspect used an object to push Taylor’s head under the water. Most likely a hiking pole or walking stick.”

“Any other injuries?”

“Contusions to the back of the neck.” Allan found the autopsy photo and gave it to her. “Blunt-force injury.”

Audra studied the picture. More prominent than the other bruise, two linear contusions ran parallel to each other, with normal-looking skin in between.

“He struck him from behind first,” she said. “Probably to stun him.”

Allan said, “Seems like it.”

Audra asked Denis, “How far is Rushing River from Huntsville?”

His eyebrows shot up. “A good seventeen hundred klicks. It’s in Kenora. Northwestern Ontario.”

“Long drive.”

“Oh shit, yeah. Tack on an extra hundred fifty, two hundred klicks if he was coming from Toronto.”

Reading a report, Allan said, “Ident managed to cast some footwear impressions around the body. They identified the undersole as belonging to a Merrell hiking boot. Size ten.”

Audra asked, “Any suspects?”

“One,” Denis said. “A local goon named Gordon McLeod. Was known to frequent Rushing River. But OPP couldn’t find any evidence on him.”

“Wrong shoe size?”

“Not sure.”

“Did he have any priors?”

“Lots.”

“Violent crimes?”

Denis referred to a report in his hands. “Some were. He had a few charges for assault and battery. One at Rushing River.”

Audra chimed in. “Were his crimes limited to the Kenora area?”

“Yes,” Denis said.

With a weighted sigh, Allan sat back in the chair. Audra could see the frustration scrunching up his face, pumping the muscles at the sides of his jaw.

The investigation left little to cheer about. The passenger lists they had gathered from the different airlines turned out to be a waste of time. After cross-referencing hundreds of names, they couldn’t find a recurring one.

They had reviewed thirteen unsolved murder cases since yesterday. Five were added to the “maybe” pile—three from Ontario, two from Quebec.

They had rejected the other eight because all had been sexual murders, with DNA being found in three cases.

The victims, all females, had been either shot or stabbed. Their races varied from Caucasian, to African-Canadian, to Aboriginal. Four of them had been transported from other murder sites and dumped in parks, with no attempt to conceal the bodies. One victim had been eviscerated.

Audra wondered if looking into the unsolved murders had been a mistake. Were the cases they picked out even connected to the Chen and Pringle murders, let alone the two in Halifax? Maybe each case stood alone, unrelated to any of the others. Maybe the similarities they thought they saw were mere coincidences.

“What do you think, guys?” she asked. “Add it to the maybe pile?”

Denis rubbed his jaw. “Well…I don’t know.”

Grimacing, Allan gave a slight shake of his head.

“Me either,” he said. “Same as the other five.”

Audra paused. “Taylor’s murder takes place eight months after Hailey Pringle. Seventeen hundred kilometers away in Rushing River Provincial Park.

“Victim is a twenty-eight-year-old male. Body left as is. No theft. No sex. No defensive wounds. No DNA under the fingernails. And the suspect uses a different method of killing.”

Audra felt Allan nudge her foot under the table. When she looked at him, he mouthed, “Chen.”

She agreed. There were distinct similarities with that case. There were also distinct differences.

Denis said, “Maybe he changes up the way he kills to avoid detection.”

“Let’s consider it is one man,” Allan said. “Look at the real estate he’s been covering. How’s he do it? Is he employed in a job that allows him to travel from province to province?”

Audra had thought about that. “Maybe he’s a long-haul truck driver.”

“I can’t see it,” Denis said. “They’re under tight deadlines. If this guy is traveling to these areas, he’s spending a few days there anyway. Has to be.”

“Maybe he’s a sales rep,” Allan said.

Audra said, “Could be an auditor. Consultant. Photographer.”

“Or like you suggested the other day,” Allan said to her. “A transient.”

Audra shrugged. She wasn’t sure about anything anymore.

Denis said, “He travels to avoid detection and confuse law enforcement.”

Audra exhaled. “Then why return to Halifax?”

“To taunt us,” Allan said.

“You might be right, Al.”

“Let’s add the case to the maybe pile,” he said. “Who’s next?”

As Audra gathered up the contents of Ted Taylor’s file, Denis opened another folder.

“Marian Duffy,” he said. “Twenty-nine years old. Murdered in Pancake Bay Provincial Park on August seventeenth, two thousand nine. Six weeks after Li Chen’s murder.”

“Two months before Mary Driscow’s,” Allan said. “Two months to the date.”

Audra waited as he picked out the autopsy report before she took the crime-scene reports and photos.

She asked Denis, “Where’s Pancake Bay?”

“On Lake Superior. Seventy, eighty klicks north of Sault Sainte Marie. And before you ask, it’s about six hundred klicks from Huntsville.”

Audra smiled. “I gotcha.”

The first photos revealed the body of Marian Duffy lying face-up on mossy ground, surrounded by tall ferns. She was a pretty woman with a heart-shaped face and ringleted hair. She wore an orange tank top and blue running shorts with pink stripes on the sides.

Allan read details off the autopsy report. “Abrasions over the mouth. Contusions on the inner surface of the lips. Contusions over the ribcage. Petechia present. Cyanosis of the fingernail beds.

“The ME attributed death to smothering with traumatic asphyxia.” Allan looked up, incredulous. “The suspect sat on Duffy’s chest and put his hands over her nose and mouth.”

Audra chewed on the inside of her lip. “Burking,” she said.

Allan nodded. “How fucking rare is that?”

“About as rare as homicidal drowning.” Audra referred to the crime-scene report. “Says here there were signs of a scuffle in the dirt of Lookout Trail. No distinct footprints or patterns, though.”

Denis asked, “Any mention of theft?”

“No theft. Wedding ring was still on her finger. Car keys in the pocket of her shorts.”

“Body left as is?”

Audra shook her head. “Concealed. He dragged her into the ferns.”

Allan said, “The ME found no evidence of sexual interaction.”

The boardroom fell quiet. Audra found herself at a loss for words as her mind raced so hard, it felt ready to break into pieces. She saw the stony expression on Allan’s face as he stared downward, his right hand repeatedly clenching into a fist and loosening. Denis had his elbow on the tabletop, his hand curled under his chin. There was a thoughtful cast to his eyes.

Allan spoke first. “One man. That’s the question.”

Audra looked at him.

Denis said, “The more of these cases I look at, the more I believe it is one man.”

“Assumptions,” Audra said. “They can be dangerous.”

“What do you believe?” Denis asked.

“Hmm…I don’t know. I’m quite certain the same man killed Mary Driscow and Kate Saint-Pierre. But these other cases…if one man is responsible, Jesus Christ, what type of psychopath are we dealing with?”

Allan said, “When I look at the Duffy case, I see a suspect who exhibits control. He’s organized. He knows what he’s doing—”

“He’s lethal,” Denis cut in.

“How’d he get so lethal?” Allan asked him. “Practice? Special training?”

Denis spread his hands, said nothing.

“I’m not saying the same man is behind it all,” Allan continued. “We can’t say for sure. But when I look at the other five cases we picked out, I see the same type of organized behavior.”

“Six,” said Denis.

“What?”

“Six cases now that we added Taylor’s.”

“Right,” Allan said. “Six. Marian Duffy will make it seven.”

“What about case linkage?” Audra asked. “We have different victim selections. Different methods of killing. Different locations. Different use of weapons.”

Allan shrugged. “Then why are we here?”

Audra stared at him for a long moment. She flinched when her cell phone rang. The name on the display gave her pause.

“Captain,” she answered. “What can I do for you?”

“Can you come down to my office for a sec?” Thorne asked. “It’s important.”

“Be right down.”

When she hung up, Allan tipped his head to the side.

“Who was that?”

“Thorne. Wants to see me.”

“Uh-oh,” Denis said. “You in trouble now. Called to the principal’s office.”

Audra gave him a smile. “I can handle him.”

Thorne was seated behind his desk when Audra walked into his office.

“What’s this about?” she asked.

“Just got wind of another case.” He handed her a sheet of paper. “It’s a little out of your search parameters right now. But I thought you guys would want to see it.”

As Audra read over the details, she felt the strangest sensation. She lifted a shaky hand to her forehead.

“Jesus,” she said.

Thorne sat back in his chair. “That was my reaction too.”

She went back to the boardroom, trying to process the information.

“What’d Thorne want?” Allan asked her.

Audra drew a breath. “He just got word of another murder case. A body was found in a park a couple of hours ago. Autopsy hasn’t been done yet, so the information’s preliminary. Right now, it looks like the victim was strangled. And his body was dragged into a stand of trees.”

Allan perked up in his seat. “Where?”

Audra slid the paper across the table to him.

“Kimberley, BC,” she said. “Victim’s name is Guillaume Mills.”

29

Bradford, PA, October 27

2:50 P.M.

Allegheny National Forest is beautiful. Even though it’s late October, some parts of the hills and valleys still have their colorful foliage.

I don’t travel south of the border often. I take so many trips on my job, I like to spend my downtime around home. Up until recently, that is. I needed a break from Heidi’s attitude.

There’s no better escape for me than nature. I can attest to studies claiming nature revitalizes your brain the same way food and water revitalizes your body. It settles down your prefrontal cortex. It resets your thoughts and improves your mood.

Ten minutes into my hike, I feel my mind clearing, the weight lifting off my shoulders. Home feels a thousand miles away.

I trek at a comfortable pace. I know other hikers who push for mileage, trying to get to their destinations. Not me. I like to enjoy my surroundings, to absorb all the little details.

I don’t see anyone else on the trail, and the solitude feels good. It’s just the resident songbirds and me.

Golden bands of sunlight filter through the trees, giving the woods an ethereal quality. The gentle quiver of wind stirs the heavy leaf cover all over the forest floor.

Fall is my favorite season for hiking. The heat and humidity of summer are gone. Fewer mosquitoes buzz around your head. Fewer spiders build webs across the trails. Smells in the woods change as well; they become more earthy and pungent with moldering leaves.

One of the first things I do when I enter any nature park is to take a deep breath of the air. Each location has a unique scent, depending on the trees and flora. Some can be sweet, some can be bitter. Hiking through a stand of pines is one of the most pleasant experiences you can find.

This is my second visit to Allegheny. I brought Heidi and the girls here in July, and I knew immediately I would come back again. I just didn’t know it would be this soon.

I rented the same cabin at Woodhaven Acres. It’s maybe twelve feet wide by twenty-four feet long. I can see some people out there using one as a garden shed or maybe even a guesthouse.

There’s a small porch on the front with two chairs. Inside, wood paneling covers the walls. There are two bunk beds and a tiny bathroom with running hot water. The only thing it needs is a shower. But there’s a bathhouse nearby.

Jade and Jaleesa loved it when we came here. They hiked some of the trails with me—short treks, of course.

On the advice of Terry and Cathy at Woodhaven Acres, I took the girls to see Hector Falls. Only a trickle of water flowed that day, but it’s not so much the waterfall you go to see, it’s the unique rock formation it flows over. Twenty-two feet high, it looks like the ninety-degree corner of a rectangular box protruding out of a vertical slab of rock.

The girls were too young to appreciate the geological anomaly. Bored, Jaleesa rolled her neck and stared off into space as we stood there. Jade gave the falls a brief half-lidded look then yawned. The stream above the falls soon gave them a good source of entertainment. Heidi was a bit pissed off when I brought the girls back to the campground wet and muddy.

The next afternoon, I rented a pontoon at Wolf Run Marina, and we spent a few hours exploring the Allegheny River. At nighttime, we’d sit around the fire ring near our cabin. Heidi and I would sip wine and watch the stars; the girls would roast marshmallows. I found it to be a great bonding experience.

Sadly, our trip lasted only three days. Heidi became the fly in the ointment. She started complaining that the walls of our cabin were closing in on her and she wanted to return home to our much-bigger house.

You don’t go camping and stay cooped up in your tent all day. You get out. You explore the area. You enjoy the wilderness around you.

But that’s Heidi. She was never one for nature. She prefers the urban jungle with all of its noise, concrete, and human stink.

At least Allegheny isn’t far from Burlington. It took me a little over three hours to drive here. I was fortunate that I didn’t run into any delays at Peace Bridge.

The footpath I’m on leads me downhill and alongside a swollen creek. The water sounds like people all talking at once, the pitch drowning out the sound of my feet pushing through the leaves.

Downstream, I find a safe crossing over the thick trunk of deadfall. The terrain becomes more rugged, difficult. I soon arrive in an area littered with huge boulders and rock outcrops. There’s a primeval feel to this part of the forest. I stop to have a drink from my water bottle and to spend a few moments looking around.

Some outcrops have trees growing right out of their sides. Others give you that cloud phenomenon where you think their shapes resemble animals or human faces.

I eventually reach the base of the cliffs that make up Rimrock Overlook. I wanted to see this place on my first visit, but Heidi put a kibosh to that.

A rock staircase, built by natives, carves a passage up a narrow crevasse. I grab hold of the steel handrail and make my climb. The fit is so tight in some spots that I have to turn my shoulders to the side to squeeze through. A huge boulder overhead gives it a natural archway.

The view at the top is spectacular. A splash of gold and red paints the mountains and valleys across the blue water of the Allegheny Reservoir.

Just when I think I’m the only soul around, I hear voices carrying on the wind. I look down the sheer cliff face and see a young couple on the trail.

They’re wearing your typical hiking clothes—cargo pants and long-sleeved shirts. The guy sports a sun-tripper cap on his head, the girl a toque with sunglasses pushed up over it. Tent bags and rolled-up sleeping pads are attached to the outside of their backpacks.

Watching them, I wish for them to keep going. Just don’t come up here. Don’t ruin my perfect hike.

My heart feels as if it shrinks as they begin climbing the staircase.

“Knew it,” I mutter under my breath.

I lean my elbows on the railing and lower my head. Behind me, I hear laughter coming up from the crevasse.

“I’m stuck,” I hear the guy say.

I want to call out, “Take off the backpack, stupid.”

After a couple of minutes, they seem to figure it out for themselves. They’re still laughing as they reach the top of the overlook. From the corner of my eye, I watch them walk over to the far corner of the railing. They set their backpacks against the stone parapet.

“Wow,” the girl says. “How beautiful.”

“Yeppers,” the guy answers.

I notice a jagged rock three feet away from me. It’s twice the size of a softball.

The guy takes out an iPhone and begins capturing the view. Then he and the girl lean into each other, and he shoots a photo of them. Such lovebirds. I remember a time Heidi and I were like that.

I drop my gaze to the rock again. My pulse quickens. My mouth dries. A hot flood of adrenaline pushes through my body.

You can’t, I tell myself. You can’t.

“Hey,” the guy says.

I look over at him. He and the girl are facing me. The girl is grinning.

The guy holds up the iPhone.

“Wouldja mind?” he asks.

I hesitate a brief moment before giving him a smile.

“Sure,” I say. “I’d be happy to.”

30

Halifax, October 27

4:50 P.M.

Daphne leaned in the bedroom doorway. “What time’s your flight?”

Audra pulled a white blouse from the closet and gave it a once-over.

“Five twenty-five,” she said. “Bright and early.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“Not sure, honey. Two, three days.” Audra threw her a smile. “Think you and your father can manage things until I get back?”

Daphne smiled a little. “I think so. We do okay when you go off on your courses.”

Audra laid out the blouse on the bed. “Yeah? I suppose you guys will be living off takeout until I get back.”

Daphne laughed. “Well…it’s healthy takeout.”

Audra smirked. “Pizza’s not really considered a health food, is it?”

“It depends on the toppings.”

“All that white flour.”

“There’s that. But we always stay away from the processed meats.”

“I know. I was just teasing you, honey.” Audra placed a sheet of tissue paper on top of the blouse and began folding the blouse over it. “I think there’s still some goulash in the freezer.”

Daphne nodded. “That stir-fry we had the other night is there.”

“There you go. If you guys get sick of pizza, you can always heat up that stuff. You know how to use the stove. Not sure your father does.”

“He tries.”

Audra chuckled. As she packed the blouse in a suitcase, she heard the back door close downstairs.

“Speak of the devil,” she said.

In moments, Daniel called out, “Hello.”

“We’re up here,” Daphne called back.

Audra heard him ascending the stairs. He stepped into the room.

“Hey, kiddo,” he said to Daphne. “How was school?”

“Good,” she said. “How was work?”

“Oh, same old routine.” Daniel looked over at Audra. “Hey, babe. I got your text. What’s this about you going out to BC?”

Audra double-checked the contents of the suitcase. “Work.”

“British Columbia?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Why?”

Audra said to Daphne, “Honey, can you check the casserole? Make sure it’s not burning.”

“Sure.”

After Daphne left, Audra said, “We’re going out to review a case. Look at a crime scene.”

Daniel frowned. “Way out there? Why?”

Audra ran her fingers through her hair. “Remember that girl found in Point Pleasant?”

“Yes.”

“Well, long story short, we made a potential link to another case in Ontario. The detective in that one—Denis Gagnon—flew down here to compare notes with us. He actually thinks two of his cases are related to ours, but that’s another story.

“We ended up reviewing other unsolved cases in Ontario, Quebec, and through the Maritimes. BC wasn’t even on our radar. But then out of the blue this case comes to our attention.”

Daniel took a seat on the edge of the bed. “It’s connected to Point Pleasant somehow?”

Audra shrugged. “That’s the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question.”

“You don’t know?”

“We don’t even know if these other cases we picked as possibilities are related to ours. Or if Gagnon’s case or cases are related to ours.”

Daniel lowered his head, quiet for half a minute. “Any idea when you’ll be back?”

Audra zipped up the suitcase. “Two, three days. I can’t see us being any longer than that. Jesus, it’s taking us over eleven hours just to get there tomorrow.”

“You couldn’t get a direct flight?”

She set the suitcase by the doorway.

“Not for the three of us on the same flight,” she said. “We could if we wanted to fly out later in the day. Then we’re looking at Friday before we can get anything started.”

“Who’s all going?”

“Me, Al, and Denis,” Audra said. “Too bad I couldn’t take you guys. Daphne’s never seen BC.”

“Whereabouts in BC are you going?”

“Kimberley.”

Daniel nodded. “Heard of it.”

“Small place, from what I’ve been told.”

Daphne came into the room. “Casserole’s done. I took it out of the oven.”

“Great.” Audra smacked her hands together. “Let’s eat. I’m starving.”

31

Halifax, October 27

5:18 P.M.

There were fresh flowers on the graves. They bespoke the living presence of loved ones and their irreplaceable loss of a son, a daughter, and a granddaughter and niece.

The cool wind ruffled Allan’s hair as he stood by Seth Connors’s grave. He had never come here before, though he’d always meant to. The last time he stepped foot in Fairview Cemetery was a year ago when he had attended Mary Driscow’s interment.

Seth had been buried next to his wife, Camille. Their daughter, Lily, lay next to them. Her headstone was shaped like a single teardrop with an etching of stairs ascending into heaven. The inscription broke Allan’s heart. “Held for a moment. Loved for a lifetime.”

Life can be so short and tragic, he thought. No matter what your age is or what day it is.

He’d never forget that terrible night in the alley or the image of Seth Connors reaching his fingers up to the sleeve of his coat. Begging, almost, to let him die.

Allan grimaced. In the quiet, a few birds calling, he sensed someone behind him.

Turning, he saw a short woman with a round face and bob haircut. She had her hands tucked into the pockets of her trench coat. Allan had seen her before.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She smiled. “No, no. Take your time. I’m in no hurry.”

“I’m finished.”

She walked forward. “You friends of the family? I don’t think we’ve met.”

“We have,” he said. “Just not officially.”

“Oh?”

“The Halifax Infirmary,” he explained. “I saw you there a couple of times when Mr. Connors was in.”

Eyes narrowing, she searched his face. “I don’t remember. Sorry.”

“Quite all right.” He extended his hand. “Allan Stanton.”

Her hand paused halfway to his. Allan watched her mouth parting, as she seemed to recognize his name.

“You’re a police officer,” she said.

“Yes.”

“Dana Gates.” She gave him a weak handshake. “I’m…um…Seth’s sister.”

Allan saw her cheeks blush as though admitting that embarrassed her.

“You were the one there that night?” she asked.

Allan nodded.

“Were you with him at the end?”

Allan pictured Seth looking up at him.

“Wait,” Seth said. “Please.”

“What?”

“Just wait.”

Allan shook his head. “You need medical attention.”

“Please. For me.”

“I was,” Allan said softly.

“Did he suffer?”

“No. He passed peacefully.”

Dana’s chin trembled, and she turned her face away.

“I should’ve got him help,” she said. “I should’ve called Dr. Somerville.”

Allan frowned. “Help for what?”

Dana looked down at the grass. “He was sick.” She winced. “I called him that night. He was all panicky, out of breath. He’d been running around the house looking for Lily. He thought I had her. I told him to take his pills and I’d call him back to see how he was. That was the last time I spoke to him.”

“I don’t understand,” Allan said. “What medication was he on?”

Eyes wet, Dana faced him. “Diazepam. Risperdal.”

“I know what Diazepam is. Not familiar with Risperdal.”

“It’s an antipsychotic.” Dana inhaled. “Seth never got over Lily, you see. He couldn’t accept her death. He blamed himself for it, and I think that guilt did weird things to him.”

“Like what?”

“Like convincing him that Lily was still alive. Still living in the house with him.”

Allan shook his head. “I never knew any of this.”

Dana nodded. “He called your department in March. Told them someone had abducted Lily. He was in a fit of rage, unable to calm himself down. They brought in a crisis team, and Seth ended up in a psych ward for a month.

“Everything seemed to be going well for him after that. The drugs seemed to be working. Then I visited him about a week before he died, and I saw those bars all over the windows. I knew something was going on. He had a place set at the table for Lily. Even had her teddy bear sitting in a chair.”

Allan felt the story punch a hole straight through his chest.

“Stuff happens to people we can’t control,” he said. “The mind is a fragile thing. Easily broken. Losing a child is the worst nightmare a parent can go through.”

Dana sniffled, blinked at the tears in her eyes.

“Your brother saved my life that night,” Allan added. “I’ll be forever grateful to him for that. Remember who he was, the good times.”

Dana gave him a quivery smile. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” he said and left her alone.

He reached the other side of the cemetery. The late-afternoon light fell gently on Mary Driscow’s headstone.

He had come, Allan supposed, because of his guilt. Much like the night he stopped by the Driscow home after Kate Saint-Pierre had been murdered.

Bill and Joyce Driscow shared a double-heart headstone beside their daughter. An etching on the bottom announced their wedding day as June 20, 1981. Bill’s name and birth date were already inscribed.

Taking a deep, pained breath, Allan closed his eyes. He thought about the flight to BC in the morning. Were they even on the right track or just on some wild goose chase?

He lingered at the gravesite for a few moments more, then he headed home to pack.

32

Cranbrook, October 28

2:18 P.M.

“Guillaume Mills was missing for four days before Search and Rescue found his body in Kimberley Nature Park,” Corporal Logan Scott said. “Dr. Raines had scheduled the autopsy for this morning.”

Allan opened his eyes. “Have you heard from him yet?”

Logan shook his head. “Could be still at it. He only does this work on an as-needed basis.”

From the backseat of the RCMP Suburban, Audra asked, “What’s he do in the meantime?”

“He’s a full-time veterinarian.”

Beside Audra, Denis tittered. “Oh, Jesus.”

“Don’t let that scare you,” Logan said. “Raines is trained in forensic science and crime-scene processing. He’s thorough. Very professional.”

“Oh, no doubt,” Denis said. “It’s just that when you said that I was wondering if he ever mistakenly gave you autopsy results from Fido.”

Logan glanced at Allan with a confused expression, and Allan shrugged.

Logan said, “Um…it hasn’t happened yet.”

“Good,” Denis said. “Good.”

Allan looked at the dash clock: 2:18 p.m. He set his watch back three hours to coincide with the time change.

They drove southeast on 95A. The highway cut through lush green foothills carpeted with spruce trees. Far off in the distance, mountain peaks traced the horizon. They were impressive to see but even more impressive to see from the plane on the way in.

Allan noticed a sign alongside the road displaying eleven kilometers left to reach Cranbrook.

“Where’s Kimberley?” he asked.

Logan jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Back that way about twenty kilometers. You missed the sign at the end of the airport road.” He smiled. “I caught you dozing off. The airport is kind of in between the two communities. Raines is in Cranbrook. That’s why we’re going there first.”

“I see. But you work out of the Kimberley detachment, right?”

“Yeah, five years now. Before that, I spent eight years in Vancouver. That’s a completely different animal, let me tell you. Kimberley is a vacation compared to Vancouver.”

“I bet,” Allan said. “Is this the first homicide at the nature park?”

Logan nodded. “First one, all right. Hopefully the last.”

He took an off-ramp that connected to the 95. Allan could see the first buildings of a community.

“Welcome to Cranbrook,” Logan said.

The road led past malls, car dealerships, and burger joints. Logan turned left at a set of lights onto Victoria Avenue and then promptly swung into the parking lot of a Husky gas station. He took out his cell phone, punching numbers on the keypad.

“Dr. Raines,” he said. “We’re in town… Awesome… See you in a few minutes.”

Hanging up, Logan said to Allan, “Raines will see us.”

He pulled the Suburban into traffic and headed down Victoria Avenue again. Allan saw more malls and dealerships, a few banks. Eventually, the road led into a residential area of houses and apartment buildings.

At another set of lights, Logan turned left and followed the hill up Second Street toward the East Kootenay Regional Hospital.

They found Dr. Raines in his office.

In his early sixties, he had a grandfatherly face with a bald and rough look—shiny bald head and a close-trimmed beard peppered with white.

“You have three with you,” he observed, getting up from his desk. “Three detectives, I presume?”

Logan nodded.

“All out of the same department?”

Logan indicated Allan and Audra. “These two are from Nova Scotia.” He gestured to Denis. “He’s from Ontario.”

Raines slowly moved his gaze to each face. “All interested in this one homicide?”

Allan said, “We’re checking for similarities with other cases we’ve been looking into.”

Raines nodded. “Corporal Scott told me that.”

After formal handshakes and introductions, they got down to business.

“I haven’t finished my report,” Raines said. “It’ll be next week.”

“Have you determined cause of death?” Audra asked.

“He was strangled.”

“Ligature?” Allan asked.

Raines shook his head. “A bar-like object pressed forcibly across his throat. Here, let me show you the contusion.”

He took out his digital camera and scrolled through the photos. Finding what he was looking for, he gave Allan the camera.

“I took those before the post-mortem,” he said.

The photo on the LCD screen showed a close-up of a bruise across the victim’s throat. Allan showed it to Audra and Denis.

“No pressure abrasion,” Raines explained. “No furrow in the skin. When I dissected the neck, I found severe damage to the structures. The larynx and cricoid cartilage were fractured. That tells me considerable force had been applied.”

Denis asked, “What object do you think the suspect used?”

“I’ll hazard a guess that it’s a hiking pole. They’re pretty commonplace at the park.”

“Were there other injuries?” Allan asked.

“Blunt-force trauma to the back of the neck. Fractured nasal bone.” Raines took the camera from Allan and began flipping through the photos again. “Here.”

As Allan looked at the bruise across the back of the neck, he felt a flutter in his gut.

“Look at this,” he said, showing it to Audra.

Her eyes lit up. “Whoa.”

Denis leaned in. “What is it?”

“Bruise,” Audra said. “Where have we seen this before?”

“Ted Taylor,” Denis said. “It’s almost identical.”

Logan asked, “Who’s that?”

“A victim in one of the unsolved cases we reviewed,” Denis told him. “He was murdered in Rushing River Provincial Park.”

“When?”

“Four years ago.”

Allan added, “The ME in that case suggested the weapon used had likely been a hiking pole or walking stick. The suspect had struck Taylor across the back of the neck, probably to stun him first.”

Raines said, “That’s what I figured happened with Guillaume Mills. The suspect clubbed him on the back of the neck and nose before strangling him. How was Ted Taylor murdered?”

“Drowned,” Allan said.

Crossing his arms, Logan winced. “Christ.”

Allan continued to flip through the photos on the camera. He slowed at the ones showing the hands. The fingertips were still there.

Logan asked, “How many of these unsolved cases did you review?”

“Twenty, twenty-one,” Audra said. “We picked out six maybes.”

“Maybes?”

“Cases that could be related to ours.”

“And how many do you have of your own?”

“Two,” Audra said. “Denis has two as well.”

“That’s ten. This would make eleven. One man behind them all.”

Allan glanced up from the camera to see Logan tipping his head side to side, as if weighing the odds.

“Think it’s unlikely?” Audra said.

Logan shrugged. “Don’t know. Anything’s possible.”

“Look at McGray,” Allan said.

Audra nodded. “Michael Wayne McGray.”

“Where do I know that name?” Logan said.

“He’s from Nova Scotia,” Audra said. “Asserts himself as Canada’s worst serial killer. He was convicted of six murders but made claims to have killed a lot more right across the country.”

Logan nodded. “I remember now. He had investigators in Vancouver pulling unsolved homicides after he said he’d murdered two prostitutes there in the nineties.”

“That’s him.”

Allan handed Denis the camera. “A knife was McGray’s weapon of choice,” he said. “Not the guy we’re after. He doesn’t like it messy. He’s also not sexually motivated. Like McGray, the thrill of the murder seems to be his motivation.”

“Didn’t McGray prey on homosexuals, prostitutes?”

“Mostly.”

“Easier targets.”

“That’s where our guy differs,” Allan said. “We think he’s physically active. A jogger. Hiker. He must blend in with everyone else at these parks, because no one has taken notice of him.”

“One,” Audra corrected.

Allan thumbed his ear. “Huh?”

Audra gave him a half smile. “Liam Clattenburg.”

“Oh shit. Yes. Him.”

Logan perked his chin up. “You have an eyewitness?”

Audra said, “We had a guy approach us about a man he saw the morning our second victim was murdered. We don’t know if it’s the suspect or not. We have yet to locate him. But this possible witness agreed to do a composite.”

“Did you bring copies?”

“Yes,” she said. “I’ll give them to you.”

“Awesome.” Logan looked at Allan. “Have you guys reviewed any unsolved cases in BC?”

Allan shook his head. “We didn’t want to overwhelm ourselves, so we limited the search to Ontario and the Maritime provinces. Just to see what was out there. And we looked specifically at unsolved murders that had occurred in parks.”

“You’re thinking that’s his target area?”

“Seems to be. If, of course, we are looking for the same man.”

Audra asked Raines, “Any evidence of sexual interaction?”

“No signs to suggest any,” he said. “I took swabs and scrapings, but it’ll be weeks before I hear back on the results.”

“What about hypostasis?” Allan asked. “Was it consistent with how the body had lain?”

“One hundred percent,” Raines said.

Logan added, “We determined Mr. Mills had been murdered in the lookout area then dragged into a stand of trees, some twenty-five feet away.”

“We have similar suspect behavior in some of our cases.” Allan checked his watch: 3:16 p.m. “What time’s sundown?”

“Around six thirty.” Logan looked at his own watch. “You want to head up to Kimberley Nature Park?”

“We’d like to see the crime scene before dark.” Allan flicked his gaze from Audra to Denis. “Are you guys satisfied with everything here? Any other questions for Dr. Raines?”

Audra frowned, shook her head. “I think we covered everything.”

“I’m good too,” Denis said.

“You can always call if you think of questions later,” Raines said. “Corporal Scott has my number.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Allan said, extending his hand.

Raines gave it a firm shake. “My pleasure.”

After Audra and Denis exchanged good-byes, the four of them walked outside into the bright afternoon sun.

Crossing the parking lot to the Suburban, Logan said, “There’s some rough sections of ground at the park. Did you all bring appropriate footwear?”

Allan nodded. “I brought my sneakers.”

“Me too,” Audra said.

“I only have these Oxfords,” Denis said. “I wasn’t planning on going on a nature hike when I flew down to Nova Scotia.”

Logan appraised Denis’s feet. “What’re you, about size ten?”

“Yes.”

“I have a pair I can lend you,” he said. “We’ll swing by the house before we leave town. I live right here in Cranbrook. Oh, and we’re going to have to pick up some bottled water.”

33

Kimberley, October 28

4:49 P.M.

Logan led the way up a steep hillside, across the top of a field covered in golden grass, and into dense woods where the bushes moved in to hug the trail.

Audra found the walk in the crisp air invigorating. She especially enjoyed the impressive views of the valleys and mountains surrounding them. On the way back, she told herself, she’d take a few photos to show Daniel and Daphne.

“The park is mostly maintained by volunteers,” Logan said. “They’ll replace signs that fell off trees. Clear any deadfall blocking the trails and cut it up into firewood. People collect it to use in their stoves and furnaces. That’s why you don’t see any lying around.”

“The crime scene is quite a ways in,” Audra noted.

“Two and a half, three kilometers.”

At the back of the line, Denis said, “My body disagrees with you. It tells me it’s more like ten.”

Looking over her shoulder at him, Audra raised an eyebrow at his peaked complexion. She’d heard him huffing heavily after thumping up the slope of the first hill, but he’d kept going, not even stopping once to take a sip from his water bottle.

“Hey,” she said, “you okay?”

He waved it off with a shake of his hand. “Pfft, I’m fine. Wait until you get my age. I have a good twenty years on y’all.”

“Were you ever a smoker?” Logan asked.

“Nope. Age, I think. I’m sixty-two. Plus, these extra pounds I’m carrying in the old bread basket don’t help.”

“Maybe you should’ve waited with the vehicle,” Allan said.

“And what, miss all the action?” Denis gave a light chuckle. “Don’t think so.”

“It’s not far now,” Logan assured him. “We’re almost there.”

Denis said, “Wasn’t there an easier route?”

“Easier, yes. Shorter, no. If we came in on Higgins Street, we’d have less of a climb but a longer walk. I’m talking at least two more kilometers.”

“Shit. How’d you get the body out?”

“Airlifted it.”

“Ah, there’s an idea. Why didn’t we bring the chopper up here?”

Logan’s laugh echoed in the trees. “No place to land it.”

“Great.”

“Look on the bright side,” Logan said, tossing him a smile. “The way back is mostly downhill.”

“Ha, good thing.”

The trail intersected with another, and they decided to take a brief water break.

Logan pointed up a path. “Scene’s just through there. Myrtle Mountain Viewpoint.”

Audra noticed a sign on a tree that read, Mountain Mine Road.

She looked around, trying to picture the suspect prowling these trails. Had he encountered Guillaume Mills entirely by chance, or had he known Mills would be here? According to family members, Mills was an avid mountain-bike enthusiast who had come to the nature park hundreds of times. Saturday would be his last ride through this vast wilderness.

As she screwed the cap on her water bottle, she caught Denis’s eyes.

“I’m getting old,” he said.

She noticed the sweat beading on his bald head. “You going to make it?”

“Oh, I think so. There’s no better way to find out just how out of shape you are than to do something like this.”

Logan said, “Hills will do that.”

Denis cleared his throat and spit into the bushes. “The first one was the worst.”

Logan nodded. “Sunflower Hill.”

“Got its name because of sunflowers?” Audra asked.

Another nod. “Come here in April or May, and the hill is covered in them.”

“Nice,” she said.

She looked over at Allan. Shoulder against a tree, he quietly sipped his water. He appeared pensive and troubled. Audra could almost hear the machinery grinding away within his brain.

She noticed how dissociated and irritable he’d become as this investigation trudged along. She knew he blamed himself for imaginary oversights in the Mary Driscow case. Now he was putting additional pressure on himself to find her killer before her father died.

And to intensify his torment, none of them knew if they were getting closer to hearing those metal bracelets click on the suspect’s wrists or further away.

“Shall we continue?” Logan said.

Denis groaned. “We better. If I stop for too long, I might not get started again.”

They headed up Mountain Mine Road.

Audra looked off to both sides of the trail. The slender pines were packed tightly together, almost chokingly so. She caught sliding glimpses of blue sky through the shifting trees. Except for the sounds of their footsteps, the woods were silent.

In minutes, they reached the overlook, and Audra found herself gazing out at the mountains, bright gold under the lowering sun. A crisp breeze whipped up from the valley, and she zipped up her jacket.

Near the edge of the overlook, someone had built a convenient makeshift bench by crisscrossing stacks of firewood for the legs and using skinned poles for the seat. Denis made a beeline for it and sat down. He was breathing heavily. Audra wondered if he’d be able to make it back.

“We just released this area this morning,” Logan said.

“Where’d you find the water bottle?” Allan asked.

Logan led them to a spot in the grass about fifteen feet from the bench. “Right here,” he said. “We never found anything else. No blood. No signs of even a struggle. But it rained here Sunday and overnight Tuesday.”

Audra said, “This spot must get a lot of foot traffic.”

“Oh yeah. People come up here for the view.”

It was easy to see where SAR had found the body; remnants of barrier tape still clung to the trees. Audra spent a few minutes looking inside the grove where the body had lain, picturing it there from the crime-scene photos she’d studied on the drive to the park.

She turned to Allan, who was taking notes. “What do you think?”

“Similar behavior,” he said.

Audra agreed. “Think it’s the same guy?”

He clicked the pen and closed his notebook. “Not a hundred percent. But I’m leaning.”

“Me too,” Audra said. “Too many similarities.”

For a moment, they shared a cautious look, then they walked over to where Denis sat.

“Are you going to live?” Allan asked him.

He chuckled again. “Afraid you might have to piggyback me down?”

Allan smiled. “It has crossed my mind.”

“Don’t worry about me, Detective.” Denis pointed off to a cluster of buildings in the center of the valley. “What’s that town out there?”

“Marysville,” Logan said.

“Looks bigger from up here.”

“It’s not much to drive through. If you blink, you’ll miss it.” Logan leveled a finger toward a large valley off to the east. “That’s the Rocky Mountain Trench over there.”

Denis’s eyes shone. “Beautiful vista.”

Allan said, “It’s the first thing you’re drawn to when you come out here. Makes me wonder if Mr. Mills was looking out at it when the suspect struck him from behind.”

Denis looked up at him. “Seems likely.”

Logan walked to the edge of the overlook and pointed down the embankment. “See those trees?”

Audra and Allan joined him.

“Yeah,” Audra said.

“That’s where we found his bike. We figured the suspect pushed it down there.”

Audra remembered the pictures. “Trying to delay discovery.”

“Two flyovers didn’t even spot it. I’m hoping the lab will be able to recover some latents.”

Denis seemed to have gained a second wind. He got up and walked over to them.

“So you got any theories?” he asked.

Allan said, “Like I told Detective Price, I’m seeing similar suspect behavior. The difference is in the method of murder.”

“Let’s assume our suspect is behind this one,” Audra said. “When we consider the dates and locations of the other murders, it tells us he hasn’t been moving in one direction or the other but zigzagging all over the place.”

Allan breathed in through his nose, exhaled through his mouth. “And we haven’t looked into Manitoba, Saskatchewan, Alberta, or even other unsolved cases here in BC.”

Denis said, “How do you think he’s traveling?”

Audra considered that. “Hitchhiking seems unlikely. So I’d say, one, by car. Or, two, by plane.”

“Either way,” Allan added, “he has disposable income.”

Audra frowned. “Let’s say Liam Clattenburg did see our suspect that morning. What’d he say about Mr. Darling?”

“Clean shaven,” Allan said. “Clean clothes. He looks to be in shape.”

“Not how you’d describe a drifter.”

Allan shook his head. “I say he’s housed somewhere.”

Denis said, “But where?”

Allan spread his hands.

“I’ll have our guys take the composites around to all the hotels in Kimberley,” Logan said. “Maybe someone will recognize him.”

Audra said, “If he flew, he came into the area via the same airport as us. Right?”

“Canadian Rockies. It’s the only one here.”

“Can you get their passenger lists?” Allan asked. “We can check who was on the flights coming into the area in the days leading up to the murder and leaving the area in the days after.”

“Maybe check into car-rental companies too,” Audra said.

Logan pushed his shoulders back. “I’ll get right on that once we get back in town.”

“Speaking of which,” Denis said. “Has anyone noticed the sky over there?”

They all turned. Over the top of the mountains billowed dark clouds, mounting as they watched.

Logan said, “I did hear rain in the forecast.”

“We should head back,” Audra said. “You better lead the way out.”

34

Almonte, October 29

4:45 P.M.

Time hasn’t done much to change the face of Almonte. Fifteen years away, and everything is as I remember. Only it all looks smaller for some strange reason. Maybe it has something to do with living in Burlington for so long.

Almonte used to be a bustling mill town. The woolen industry was its lifeblood, providing lasting jobs for people to raise their families around.

But times change. Cheaper imports from Asia started taking over the markets. The mills in Almonte couldn’t compete. One by one, they began shutting down.

The Rosamond Mill No.1 was the last to close its doors in the 1980s. My grandparents had worked there until they retired. Shortly after its closure, the old mill was transformed into condos. Adaptive reuse to the tune of two, three, four hundred thousand dollars a pop, depending on how many bedrooms you want.

I drive up Mill Street, Almonte’s main drag. I see downtown has kept much of its old-world charm. It resembles a lot of other small towns built during times of prosperity. Brick and limestone buildings. Antique stores. Gift shops. Art galleries and bistros.

I hang a right at the lights. A block farther, I turn left onto High Street. It takes me through a residential area to John Street, where I hang another left. As I cross the railroad tracks, I lift my foot off the gas.

My hands white-knuckle the steering wheel. I feel a quiver in my stomach, a prickling of my scalp.

Wesley Street looms ahead.

I don’t know if my parents still live there, but I feel them nonetheless. The power of nostalgia surprises me.

Turning the corner, I see our old house. It looks the same, right down to the turquoise front door. The place is a boring Georgian. Red brick. Gable roof. If my parents had installed some window shutters, it would at least dress the house up a little, make it more appealing.

No one looks to be home. If my parents do live there, Mom could be inside. Dad could be at work. He’s sixty-two, so I doubt he has retired from Mannion Petroleum. I always pictured him working well into his golden years.

I see that the paved drive and single-car garage are new. The backyard has gone through a major transformation. It’s nicely manicured, with a few ornamental cedars and boxwood. The massive oak tree is gone. So is the picket fence Dad had put up to keep Joshua and me away from the railroad tracks.

As a kid, I used to love the shriek of the whistle as a freight train approached the crossing on John Street. That clickity-clack of the metal wheels rolling over the tracks. You could feel the rush and speed and unstoppable force of the train shake the whole house as it passed.

The tracks are still there, but it doesn’t look as if a train has rolled over them in some time. The track bed is overgrown with weeds.

I turn my car around at Stanley Sanitation and park across the street. Wesley is a short street. Four houses on one side, three on the other.

I sit there for a while. I don’t know why. Curious, I guess.

At 5:15, a red pickup appears on the street. I know right away that it’s Dad. I’m not sure if you call it brand loyalty or blind loyalty, but Dad always drove a Ford. Never mattered if the company put out a lemon, he stuck with them as long as I can remember. It’s probably a matter of tradition—his father always drove a Ford too.

My guts become jittery. My knee bounces, hitting the bottom of the steering wheel.

I watch the pickup turn in to my parents’ driveway. It stops in front of the garage. The driver’s door swings open, and he steps out.

I must say, the fifteen years haven’t been kind. The old man is sporting a chrome dome and a white beard. He’s also packed on some weight.

He reaches into the cab and produces the same metal lunchbox he carried when I was a kid. It makes me smile. The thing looks like a relic.

I wonder if he or Mom ever thinks about me. Ever wonder what I became. Where I ended up.

Dad, maybe. Mom, probably never. I was her pariah. Her demon spawn.

As Dad shuts the driver’s door, I pull my car into the street. He’s walking toward the garage when I pass. On impulse, I toot the horn at him. He half-turns, lifting a hand.

I laugh to myself. The old fool doesn’t even know who the hell he just waved to.

I decide to stay the night in town. The seven-hour drive up from Allegheny did me in. I’m exhausted, and it’s another five hours back to Burlington. Too much for one day.

I plan to grab a room at the Riverside Inn then find a good place to eat. Maybe that bistro I saw on Mill Street.

But there’s somewhere I want to go first. I’ll be remiss if I don’t.

I find a flower shop downtown and buy a ground vase with a bouquet of blue peonies, white lilies, and orchids. The pretty blonde behind the counter gives me directions to Auld Kirk Cemetery. I must’ve been twelve when I was last there, twenty-one years ago.

Lanark County Road is a scenic drive past open fields and scattered farms. The trip is shorter than I remember. The cemetery is only two to three miles from town. I see it up on the right.

There’s an old church just inside the gates. It has the same Gothic Revival architecture as other churches in the area. Box-shaped. Rubble stone masonry. Lancet windows in the front and sides.

Mom and Dad buried Joshua among the family plots my grandparents bought several decades ago. I know the grave is at the back of cemetery, but it takes me a few minutes to find it.

Kneeling down, I brush aside some leaves covering the marker. The inscription is simple. “Joshua James,” it reads. “May 16, 1975—July 29, 1984.”

It’s strange to have forgotten his middle name.

Mom and Dad obviously visit often. The pillow floral arrangement looks new. Purple flowers outline Son, which is spelled out in white flowers.

I set my vase down beside it.

I’m not sure why I came here. Joshua doesn’t know. He’s dead. And the dead don’t see us. They don’t hear us.

The dead are just dead.

I guess coming here seemed like the right thing to do. I may never return to Almonte again.

Tomorrow, I’ll head back to Burlington. I’ve made up my mind about Heidi. I’m not going to be run out of my own home by her.

The girls are going to make this hard. I feel sorry for them.

How will they cope with the loss of their mother?

35

Kimberley, October 30

12:08 P.M.

The small detachment in Kimberley was fashioned in the white-and-blue colors of the RCMP. Allan sat inside with Audra, Denis, and Logan, poring over passenger lists from Canadian Rockies International.

Allan found it frustrating work. They’d been going at it for close to four hours, cross-referencing names on flight arrivals and departures. They focused on males who seemed to have traveled alone, but it was nearly impossible to tell. Seventeen of them made their list.

The men had flown into the airport at various times in the days leading up to the disappearance of Guillaume Mills. Twelve flew back out in the days after the disappearance. The remaining five, they believed, were still in the area.

Logan would punch each name into the database to see if there were any outstanding arrest warrants or criminal histories attached to them. So far, nothing.

To Allan, any one of the men could be the suspect, or none at all. It made him want to throw his hands up in the air and give up.

“I didn’t think there would be so many people,” he said.

“Over a hundred twenty thousand pass through there every year,” Logan told him. “It’s a small airport but a little busier than you might think.”

“Guys,” Audra said. “Here’s another one.”

Allan stood up and walked the length of the table to where she sat. Placing a hand on the back of her chair, he said, “Who this time?”

Audra took a highlighter marker and drew a yellow line through someone’s name.

“Jacob Stark,” she said. “No other Starks on either flight with him. He flew in Thursday, October twenty-first.” She referred to another printout. “Says here he flew out Sunday, October twenty-fourth.”

“Jacob Stark?” Denis frowned. “Doesn’t ring a bell. But then, neither did any of the others.”

Allan said, “It’s not a name we’ve run across during our investigations.” He turned to Logan. “You?”

Logan shook his head. “Don’t know him. I’ll run the name. See if anything comes back.”

As Logan began typing on his computer, Denis asked, “Where’d he depart to?”

“Doesn’t say,” Audra said. “He arrived on flight one-one-three. Departed on flight three-two-one. Both passenger lists belong to Integra Air.”

Allan scratched his chin. “Never heard of them.”

Logan looked over. “The guy went to Calgary. Integra only flies to there from Canadian Rockies.”

“He’s the only one,” Audra said.

Denis said, “The only one what?”

“The only one who used that airline. All the others used Air Canada or Pacific Coastal.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Audra spread her hands. “Nothing. I’m just stating a fact.”

“It does tell us he headed east,” Allan said.

Denis chuckled. “Lots of real estate east of BC. Like the rest of Canada.”

Allan smirked. “Okay, smart ass.”

Audra said, “Was Calgary this guy’s last stop? Or did he continue on to somewhere else?”

“I’ll check with Calgary International,” Logan said. “See if he got on another flight there. By the way, his name isn’t setting off any alarms.”

“That’s zero for eighteen.” Allan took his seat at the table. “The guy we’re looking for might not have any priors.”

Logan nodded. “True.”

They spent the next hour finishing up with the remaining passenger lists; they never found anyone else who piqued their interest. Logan divvied up the phone numbers for all the hotels in the area, and the four of them began calling around to see where the eighteen men had stayed during their visit.

It was time-consuming work to read each name to a receptionist and wait for them to check their hotel bookings.

Allan managed to track down four men. Audra, Logan, and Denis each got three.

“That leaves five missing,” Audra said.

“Maybe they stayed with family or friends,” Allan suggested.

Audra sat back, crossing her arms. “What do you all think? Focus on these thirteen first, worry about the other five later?”

Allan nodded. “We’ll take the composite to these hotels. Maybe we’ll get lucky and it looks like one of these men.”

“Seven of these guys stayed right here in Kimberley,” Logan said. “We’ll talk to those hotels first. Then we’ll head up to Canal Flats and check The Paddlers’ Inn where Mr. Kasper stayed.

“If we don’t get any leads, we’ll head to Cranbrook and talk to the hotels where the other five stayed.”

Denis asked, “Where’s Canal Flats?”

“Seventy kilometers north of here,” Logan told him.

“Shit.”

“Yeah.” Logan tipped his head to the side. “It’s a little out of the way.”

Allan checked his watch: 2:35 p.m.

“Then we better get moving,” he said.

The visits to the different Kimberley hotels proved disappointing. No one could even faintly describe the men who had booked the rooms. Not even their hair, which is a feature people remember about someone more than anything.

When shown the composite sketch, most of the receptionists had all frowned and shaken their heads. One young woman at Trickle Creek Lodge said the sketch looked like Mike Vogel.

“Who?” Allan asked.

“You know,” she said. “Miami Medical. Dr. Deleo.”

Allan looked at Audra, and she shrugged.

They left Kimberley and headed up to Canal Flats.

Highway 93 took them through a flat valley with fields of golden grass on the left. On the right, the rippling surface of a river danced with sunlight. Beyond the river lay an imposing mountain range. Vertical slashes of granite jutted into the sky. Here and there, puffy clouds cast shadows on the ragged peaks.

When Allan saw Audra taking pictures with her cell phone, he decided to do the same. Neither Melissa nor Brian had ever been to British Columbia.

He said, “You and your family travel a lot. Ever been out this way?”

Audra shook her head. “We went on a ski trip to Banff a few years ago. All these mountains remind me a lot of that.”

Logan called back to her, “This highway actually leads you to Banff.”

“Ah,” she said. “Cool.”

Eventually, the road and river broke away from each other, and fields stretched along both sides.

Allan leaned his head back in the seat and let the white noise lull him into a light sleep. He woke up a short time later when he sensed the Suburban slowing down.

He opened his eyes to see them approaching a bridge. A sign read, “Welcome to Canal Flats. Source of the mighty Columbia.”

“So what’s the mighty Columbia?” Denis asked.

“The Columbia River,” Logan said. “It starts here.” He pointed to a large lumberyard on the other side of the bridge. “That’s the Canfor sawmill. The village’s main employer.”

Denis looked around. “There’s a village here? Where’s it hiding?”

Logan laughed. “It’s a small one. Just past the mill.”

Allan asked, “How many people live in the area?”

Logan looked back at him in the rearview mirror. “About seven hundred.”

“Surely you guys don’t service it this far out of Kimberley?”

“No, no. Invermere does. Still, it’s about a forty-kilometer drive for them.”

The visit to The Paddlers’ Inn proved just as disappointing as the ones they’d made in Kimberley. At least the owner remembered the man in question—Eugene Kasper. She described Kasper as a portly man in his early sixties with gray hair and a thick beard. Hardly someone who could jog the paths of Point Pleasant Park, let alone hike the steep hills of Kimberley Nature Park.

On the walk back to the Suburban, Allan rolled his shoulders, trying to release the tension. “I feel like a dog chasing his own tail.”

Audra glanced over at him. “I know what you mean.”

“Eight down, five to go,” he said. “Hopefully something pans out in Cranbrook.”

“Fingers crossed. If not, we’re left with the decision to try and track down those missing five.”

Allan felt the truth of that like a punch to the gut. “And they could be anywhere.”

The drive to Cranbrook took an hour.

With each stop they made, Allan felt his optimism plunge deeper and deeper. He saw himself returning to Halifax empty handed, no further ahead than when he’d come out to BC.

“We’re down to our last name,” he said, climbing into the backseat and slamming the door beside him.

Logan started the engine. “Who’s the guy?”

Audra referred to the sheet of paper in her hand. “Jacob Stark.”

“Where’d he stay?”

“A place called Elizabeth Lake Lodge.”

36

Cranbrook, October 30

6:34 P.M.

George Plischka adjusted his glasses and leaned his elbows on the counter. His crinkled eyes narrowed as he carefully studied the composite sketch in his hands.

“Who’s this supposed to be again?” he asked.

“That’s what we’re asking you,” Allan said. “Does he look familiar? Someone who might’ve booked a room here recently?”

George made a face. “Nobody’s coming to mind.”

“How about Jacob Stark?” Logan asked.

George’s head perked up. “Ah, Mr. Stark. It was one of you who must’ve called earlier and had me check all those names.”

Denis said, “That was me.”

Audra asked, “How well do you remember Mr. Stark?”

“Quite well, actually,” George said. “He’s stayed here a few times. Nice guy.”

“We’re interested in his last stay here.”

George nodded. “Three nights. He checked in Thursday afternoon, the twenty-first. Checked out Sunday morning, the twenty-fourth.”

Allan pointed to the sketch. “Is that him?”

George lifted his eyebrows, puffed his cheeks. “Doesn’t really look like him. He does have a dimpled chin like this guy. Can’t see his ears or hair with that hood in the way.”

“What color is his hair?” Audra asked.

“Brown.”

“Short? Long?”

“Short. Well-groomed.”

“Clean-shaven?”

“Yes.”

“Age?”

“I’d guess he’s in his thirties.”

“What about body type?” Allan said. “Skinny, fat, tall, short, average height?”

George laid the composite on the counter. “A little taller than you. A little broader. I think he’s physically fit.”

“Why do you think that?”

“He likes to jog. At least he does when he’s here.”

Allan lifted his chin. “Where at?”

“Through our bird sanctuary out back.”

“What days?”

George drew a breath. “The Friday morning after his arrival. I came in early to check on our new building—you saw it?”

Allan nodded.

“That’s when I saw him jogging the paths,” George continued. “He did that when he stayed here before.”

“What about Saturday, the twenty-third?”

“I wasn’t in. I was off juicing apples from our orchard.”

“Who manned the office?”

“Mila. But she wouldn’t know Mr. Stark.”

“Back to Friday, then,” Allan said. “Did you see him go anywhere?”

George gave another nod. “He left shortly after his jog. Was gone for the day.”

“Do you know where?”

“Work, I imagine. He wore a suit and tie. Carried a briefcase.”

Audra asked, “Do you know what he does?”

“He’s a business advisor. Tells companies how to tighten their belts. He told me they usually end up choosing layoffs over lean accounting. But he makes good money advising them, whether they take his advice or not.”

Allan said, “He travels a lot, then?”

“The whole country, from what I understand.”

Allan paused, feeling a quiver in his belly. He locked eyes with Audra, and he could see the same thoughts at work in her brain: they might just be on to something here.

He tried to rein in his optimism. “Do you know where he’s from?”

“Ontario.”

Denis stepped closer. “Ontario, you say? Where in Ontario?”

George shrugged. “Don’t think he ever told me. I only remember Ontario.”

Allan asked, “Did he arrive by cab, or did he have his own vehicle?”

George straightened up and folded his arms. “His own.”

“A rental,” Logan said.

Allan looked at him. “I saw some rental-car companies at the airport.”

“There are three there,” George said. “Budget, National, and Enterprise.”

Logan said, “It would make sense to rent one there.”

“What’s Mr. Stark done?” George asked.

Allan turned out his palms. “We’re not sure he’s done anything.”

Logan took out his notebook. “Mr. Plischka, would you have the numbers of those rental companies on hand?”

It took George a moment to find them.

“Thank you.” Logan set his card on the counter. “If anything else comes to mind, please call me.”

As they all walked back to the Suburban, Denis said, “This Stark fella is looking mighty suspicious.”

“We can’t get ahead of ourselves,” Audra warned.

“He fits the profile,” Denis argued. “He jogs. He’s employed in a job that involves travel. We talked about this.”

Allan leaned against the Suburban, his hands on the hood. “I agree with Detective Price. We need to make a few more steps.” He looked over at Logan. “Let’s call these rental companies first. Find out which one he went with. They’ll have a photocopy of his driver’s license on file.”

Audra nodded. “Then we’ll know exactly where he lives.”

“Not only that,” Allan said. “A lot of those companies use telematics in case their vehicles are ever stolen. They’re able to locate them.”

Denis said, “So they might be able to tell us where Mr. Stark went during his stay here. If he went to Kimberley last Saturday.”

“Exactly,” Allan said.

Logan said, “We’re going to need a warrant.”

Audra checked her watch. “Can you get one by morning?”

“I think so.”

“Then let’s do it.”

37

Burlington, October 30

10:35 P.M.

This time it feels different.

There’s no excitement or anticipation. No adrenaline stoking my body. I doubt this kill will awaken the pleasure centers in my brain.

My heart still races, though.

I gently close the kitchen door behind me. The house is dark, quiet. Everyone’s in bed.

Slipping off my shoes, I tiptoe across the floor. I leave the lights off; I don’t want to alert anyone that I’m here.

I reach the hallway and turn to the bedrooms. Through the duskiness, I can see the door to the girls’ room is closed; the one to the master bedroom is open, the inside dark.

With catlike feet, I creep forward. The blood roars in my ears.

I pause at the threshold of the master bedroom. I hear the susurrus of breathing. A sliver of moonlight falls across the bed, highlighting the profile of Heidi fast asleep. She lies on her back with her arms up around the pillow.

I couldn’t have wished for a better position.

Slipping the piece of rope from my coat pocket, I slowly approach the bed. My footsteps make no sound.

Ten feet, then five.

Heidi’s features become clearer.

I stand at the bedside, staring down at her. One swift loop of the rope around the back of her neck, and it’s all over. Eight years of marriage have come to this.

A sudden bump in the house jolts my body. I turn my head, listening. It’s hard to hear anything over the pounding in my chest.

Seconds later, the bump comes again, and it’s accompanied by whispers and giggles. The girls’ room. They’re awake.

I slide a nervous glance to Heidi. She’s still flaked out.

“Mommy,” Jade hollers, shattering the quiet.

Heidi stirs, her breathing pattern changes. When I hear the door to the girls’ room open, I pocket the rope and rush out to the hallway.

Seeing me, Jade stops and jerks her head back. Through the murky darkness, I watch her eyes widening, her mouth falling open.

I say, “Honey, it’s me.”

“Daddy?”

“Yes.”

I hear Heidi getting up. At once, I scoop Jade off the floor.

“When’d you get home?” she asks.

“Just got in.”

“Where were you?”

“Do you remember the park we went to last summer? The one with the little cabin?”

Jade nods.

“I went there for a couple of days.”

“Why?”

Her question gives me pause. How exactly do you tell your daughter you left because of her mother’s attitude, her baseless suspicions? Do Jade and Jaleesa register the conflict going on between us? I have a gut feeling they do. Children are like little Geiger counters, picking up signs we never think they do.

“I needed a vacation,” I say at last.

I don’t bother mentioning Almonte. The girls know nothing of my hometown or their grandparents who live there. There would be too much explaining to do, and I’m not in the mood to answer a million questions.

Carrying Jade into the bedroom, I switch on the light. Jaleesa looks up from her bed, blinking at the sudden brightness.

“Daddy,” she says.

“Hi, honey.”

“Where did you go?”

“Pennsylvania,” I tell her. “To that park we were at last summer. Remember it?”

“Yeah.” She frowns. “Why did you go there?”

“Oh, to see the turning leaves. To have a little vacation.”

I put Jade down on her bed, and she pulls the blankets over herself.

“You never called us,” she says.

“I’m sorry about that. I wanted to, but I had no cell coverage.”

Heidi appears in the doorway.

Jade perks up. “Mommy, Daddy’s home.”

“Hmm, I see that.”

I detect the flat tone in her voice. When I look over my shoulder at her, she avoids eye contact. I imagine she probably thinks I was off with my phantom mistress or something stupid like that.

She asks Jade, “What did you wake me up for?”

“Jaleesa said there was a monster under my bed.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did.”

“Jaleesa,” Heidi says sternly. “Stop scaring your sister.”

“There are no monsters,” I tell Jade.

Heidi finally looks at me. “Jaleesa was teasing her earlier. Probably because Halloween’s tomorrow.”

“Yeah, Daddy,” Jade says, excited. “You can take us trick-or-treating now.”

I pause before giving her a weak smile. “Of course I will.”

I’m not a fan of Halloween, even though I enjoyed it as a kid. I don’t consider myself a helicopter parent; some parents are too overprotective. I just don’t like the girls wolfing down loads of unhealthy sugar.

Then there’s the safety issue.

Two years ago, a woman here in the city found a Tylenol capsule in a box of Smarties her daughter had picked up at someone’s house. Just last Halloween, another parent found a capsule filled with brown powder inside a grab bag.

I never did hear what the substance tested out to be. Maybe it was brown sugar, maybe it was poison. Every year it seems you hear about parents finding tampered candy in their kids’ treat bags.

“Well,” Heidi says, “I’m going back to bed. You girls get to sleep.” She glances at me. “I’ll get your blankets out of the closet.”

“Daddy can sleep in here,” Jade says, moving over in her bed. “He can sleep beside me.”

Heidi looks at her then at me. I can tell by the cold pitch in her eyes she doesn’t approve.

I smile at Jade. “If you want me to.”

She gives a big nod. “Yes, Daddy.”

Heidi tosses her arms up. “Whatever. I’m going to bed.”

“Night, Mom,” the girls call to her.

“Night,” she calls back.

I remove my coat and hang it off the doorknob.

When I reach for the light switch, Jade says, “Stop.”

I turn to her. “What?”

“Check under my bed.”

On the other side of the room, Jaleesa giggles.

“And what am I checking for?”

“Monsters.”

“Right,” I say, kneeling down. “Nope, I don’t see any.”

I shut off the light and climb on top of the blankets next to Jade. She moves close, resting her head on my shoulder.

“Sure, Daddy?”

“I’m sure, honey.” I kiss the top of her head. “There’s no such thing as monsters.”

But as I lie there thinking of Heidi, I realize that’s not entirely true.

There are monsters. The world is full of them. And the scariest ones have friendly faces.

38

Cranbrook, October 31

9:45 A.M.

Audra’s gaze bounced back and forth between the face in the composite sketch and the face in the photocopied driver’s license.

Not even close, she determined. Both men had cleft chins, but that was where the similarities ended. The man in the driver’s license had a softer, rounded face when compared to the strong bone structure the man in the sketch had. Their eyes and noses were different shapes. Their eyebrows differed as well, in both arch and thickness.

“No real likeness, is there?” Allan said, looking over her shoulder.

Audra shook her head. “Might not be Jacob Stark who Liam Clattenburg saw that morning.”

“Never know. It’s hard describing a person’s face to begin with. Let alone someone you met in the span of a few seconds. We have to establish if Mr. Stark was even in Halifax on the dates in question.”

Audra glanced at Logan, who stood on the other side of the office, speaking in muted tones to Huey Nolan—the manager of Enterprise Rent-A-Car.

“Stark lives in Burlington.” Audra turned to Denis. “How far is that from Huntsville?”

“About two hundred seventy-five klicks,” he said. “It’ll take you probably three hours to drive there, depending on which route you take.”

“Is there an airport in Burlington?”

Denis shook his head. “There’s one in Hamilton.”

“Do they have flights to Halifax?”

“Westjet does, as far as I know.”

“Is that airport closer than Toronto?”

“For this guy? A little bit, yeah.”

“We never even considered Hamilton,” Allan said. “We were too focused on Toronto.”

Denis said, “We had the right idea, though.”

Audra nudged Allan’s arm. “I’ll get Thorne on this.”

She stepped out of the office, punching in the captain’s number on her cell phone.

“Detective Price,” Thorne answered. “What can I do for you this early on a Sunday morning?”

“Did I get you up?”

“No.” He laughed. “Been up for a few minutes.”

“We need your help with something.”

“I’m listening.”

“Can you contact the Stanfield airport for us? We’re looking for a passenger named Jacob Stark. He might’ve flown in on Westjet from Hamilton.”

“Just a sec,” Thorne said. “Let me write this down.”

Audra heard the rustle of papers.

“Jacob Stark, did you say?”

“Yes,” Audra said.

Thorne breathed into the phone. “What dates are we looking at?”

“Before October seventeenth. Let’s say October tenth to the sixteenth. I can’t see him arriving earlier than that. If his name comes up on any of the flights, we need to know when he departed.”

“I’m guessing you’re hoping it’s after the seventeenth?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll get right on it.”

“Oh, Captain,” Audra said.

“Go ahead.”

“We need them to check for Stark’s name on flights from last October as well. Same days.”

Thorne paused. “Mary Driscow.”

“Yes.”

“You guys got a lead out there.”

“We’re not sure,” Audra said. “Maybe.”

“K. I’ll get back to you as soon as I find out something.”

“Thanks, Captain.”

As Audra hung up, Allan poked his head out the door.

“Mr. Nolan says he has GPS tracking on all of his vehicles,” he told her. “He’s going to bring up Stark’s route for us.”

Audra went inside. They all huddled around Huey Nolan as he took a seat at his computer and logged into the GPS tracking system.

The digital street map that appeared on the monitor resembled that of any GPS navigator out there. Several pin icons showed the locations of every vehicle Huey had in his fleet. Many were scattered all over the area. A few were grouped together at the airport.

Huey asked, “Would you prefer this map or the satellite view?”

Logan said, “That’s fine right there.”

“Mr. Stark rented the Corolla.” Huey moved the cursor over the icons until he found the one that represented the car. “This is it here. Right now I can tell the Corolla is located at Saint Mary’s Street in Fort Steele. It’s been idle for fifteen hours, thirty-seven minutes.”

Allan said, “We’re interested in the car’s movements on Saturday, the twenty-third of October. Can you pull that up for us, please?”

Huey nodded. “Sure can.”

He opened a menu on the screen and produced a calendar. Selecting the twenty-third, he clicked playback.

The pin icon moved out from a location in Cranbrook that Audra guessed was the Elizabeth Lake Lodge. With a sense of awe, she watched the icon move westward on Highway 95 then north on 95A, creeping toward Kimberley.

Logan leaned closer to the monitor as the icon traveled partway through the town and then hung a left onto St. Mary’s Lake Road.

“He’s driving right beside Kimberley Nature Park,” Logan said.

After a short distance, the icon stopped and then turned back in the same direction from which it came. Where it had stopped, a gray icon showed up.

Logan said, “Pause that for a second.”

Huey did.

Logan tapped his finger on the gray icon. “What’s that?”

Huey said, “It indicates the car had stopped there for a period of time.”

“How long?”

Huey moved the cursor over the icon, and a dialogue bubble popped up. “Idle for one hour, forty-one minutes.”

“Switch it to satellite view.”

As Huey did, Logan nodded. “Just what I thought.”

Audra looked at him. “What?”

Logan indicated a dirt road heading into a treed area. “We couldn’t see this on the map view, but that’s Jimmy Russell Road. We parked there on Friday when we went into the Kimberley Nature Park. Remember?”

Audra chewed on the inside of her lip.

She asked Huey, “What time did he arrive there?”

“Ten thirty-four,” he said. “Left at twelve fifteen.”

“Yup,” Logan said, nodding again. “Yup.”

He motioned for Audra, Allan, and Denis to follow him outside of the office.

Allan asked him, “What time was Guillaume Mills at the park?”

“He left his home at around ten that morning. Family said it might’ve been a little after ten. They weren’t exactly sure.

“Regardless, he lives about five kilometers from the park. Very close. Give him ten, fifteen minutes to ride there on his bike. You’re looking at ten fifteen to ten thirty.”

Audra could see hope come to life in Logan’s eyes.

“No question,” he said. “Mills and Stark were at the park around the same time.”

Allan said, “It means Stark was in the area. Not that he murdered Mills, or even saw him, for that matter. Look at how big that place is. We need to exercise caution here. Take this step by step.”

Audra agreed. “Like I said yesterday, we can’t get ahead of ourselves. You don’t have any evidence linking him to Mills. We need more.”

Lips pressed into a tight line, Logan dropped his head. “Yeah, I know.”

“You must admit,” Denis said. “This has just upgraded Jacob Stark to a person of interest.”

“It has,” Audra admitted. “But we have to find out if he’s been in any of these other areas.”

They walked back into the office.

“Mr. Nolan,” Logan said. “Thank you for your help. We might need to come back and retrieve the memory card from that car’s GPS tracker.”

Huey nodded. “Sure. No problem.”

“In the meantime, make sure nothing happens to it.”

Forty-five minutes later, they were back at the RCMP detachment in Kimberley when Audra’s cell phone rang. It was Thorne.

“It’s all in whom you speak to,” he said.

“What’d you find out, Captain?”

“Are you sitting down?”

Audra looked at the three men seated around the table with her.

“We all are,” she said.

“I’m glad my best detectives are on this case,” Thorne said.

Audra straightened in her chair. “Oh?”

“On October fourteenth, Jacob Stark flew into Halifax from Hamilton via Westjet flight five thirty-two at thirteen ten hours. He flew back to Hamilton on October eighteenth at fourteen forty-five hours our time. He arrived in Hamilton at sixteen hundred hours Eastern time.”

Audra felt a frisson of excitement. She met Allan’s eyes and winked at him. He leaned forward in his chair, gazing at her with attentive focus.

“What about last October?” she asked Thorne.

“This is your dunker,” he said. “He flew into Halifax from Hamilton on October fifteenth. Left again on October nineteenth.”

“Two days after the murder,” Audra said.

“Yes.”

“Thank you, Captain.”

“Keep me informed.”

“Always,” she said and hung up.

As she set her cell phone on the table, Allan asked, “Thorne?”

“Yes.”

“What’d he say?”

Audra looked at him, unable to hold back her smile. “He was there, Al. Jacob Stark was in Halifax during both murders.”

39

Burlington, October 31

6:35 P.M.

The neighborhood is quiet, almost somnolent.

I see only a handful of ghouls, witches, and superheroes out trick or treating. Every year the number seems to get smaller. I wonder if people are just having fewer kids, or if parents are taking their children to the upscale neighborhoods that have gained a reputation for giving out full chocolate bars and cans of pop.

Jaleesa is dressed like that girl from the Toy Story movies. Jade is dressed like a ladybug.

We work the houses on Shadeland Avenue first then make our way down Townsend toward Forest Glen. I enjoy watching the girls go door to door, hearing them say, “trick or treat,” and holding out their pillowcases.

The weather is perfect too. The evening sky is clear and starry. The breeze coming off Hamilton Harbor chills the air as it creeps through the streets.

Despite the few kids around, a lot of people have decorated for Halloween. Jack-o-lanterns adorn steps. Fake spiderwebs are strung up on trees or stretched out over entryways. A few, I see, have even gone a little overboard.

We come along a house on Townsend that has so many fake headstones set up on the front lawn, it looks like a graveyard. A coffin with a skeleton crawling out of it sits near the walkway. Spooky noises, pumping out from speakers, add to the creepiness. Screams. Evil laughs. Chains rattling. Lightning clashes.

Jade freezes and looks back at me with frightened eyes.

“It’s okay,” I tell her. “We can skip this one.”

“Scaredy-cat,” Jaleesa says.

She skips up the walkway to the door and rings the bell. The owner has even dressed up like Dracula. Cape, fangs, white face, shadowed eyes, the whole weird bit.

Jaleesa comes back wearing a big smile. She holds up a miniature chocolate bar in front of Jade.

“I got a Kit Kat,” she taunts and dumps the bar into her pillowcase.

I watch Jaleesa move on ahead of us, more fascinated by her behavior than concerned. I always thought she was her mother’s daughter. But I just witnessed a piece of me reveal itself in her. The way she taunted Jade almost mirrored the way I used to taunt Joshua.

Her behavior incites a smile I can’t contain. Warmth radiates throughout my body. I feel bigger, taller somehow. It must be pride.

Dead leaves crunch under our feet as we finish up on Forest Glen and hit the posh waterfront homes on North Shore Boulevard.

At the second one, Jade turns from the door, excited. “Look, Daddy,” she calls. “Root beer.”

I give her a smile. “Nice. What do you say?”

She turns to the gray-haired woman. “Thank you, nice lady.”

“I got Pepsi,” Jaleesa says as she comes back.

I check my watch, surprised at the time: 7:49 p.m.

The girls have school tomorrow.

We head up the back end of Shadeland Avenue, hitting the remaining houses before home.

“Daddy,” Jade says. “My arms are getting tired. Can you carry my bag?”

I take it from her. The pillowcase, three-quarters full, does have some weight to it. Jaleesa has hers slung over one shoulder like a burglar.

“Jaleesa,” I call to her. “You okay?”

She looks back at me. “Yeah. Fine.”

When we reach home, Jade takes the pillowcase from me, and then she and Jaleesa run up the steps to our front door, ringing the doorbell.

Heidi answers.

“Trick or treat,” the girls say in unison, giggling as they open their pillowcases.

Smiling, Heidi looks at Jaleesa. “And who are you supposed to be?”

“Jessie,” she says.

As a healthy alternative, Heidi prepared special goody bags just for the girls. Inside she had tangerine pumpkins, banana ghosts, and some monster mouths she made using slices of Granny Smiths, peanut butter, and yogurt-covered raisins for teeth.

Heidi drops a goody bag into Jaleesa’s pillowcase, then she turns to Jade.

“Oh look,” she says, “a little ladybug.”

Jade giggles some more. “Yes.”

“Cute.” Heidi gives her a goody bag. “Okay, girls. It’s after eight. C’mon. You’ll have to get ready for bed soon.”

“Can we have some candy?” Jaleesa asks.

Heidi says, “You can both pick out two favorite pieces after I look it over.”

I follow them inside.

Heidi takes the girls’ pillowcases and dumps their loot into separate piles on the living room floor. She does this every year. Before the girls are allowed to eat anything, Heidi will carefully sort and check through their candy. Fruit, baked goods, and bagged candy tied with twist ties get thrown out.

I stand in the doorway, watching them. Jaleesa takes off her cowgirl hat and sets it on the sofa. Then she sits cross-legged on the floor beside her pile. Jade picks up a mini chocolate bar and shows it to Heidi.

“Mommy, is this good?”

Heidi looks it over. “Yes.”

Jade brings the bar over to me. “Here, Daddy.”

I give her a smile. “Thank you, honey.”

“Welcome.”

I stare at Heidi. She hasn’t spoken to me since I got back. She hasn’t even looked at me.

I wonder who would miss her. The girls, obviously. Her mother, her sister. They will be the only ones to come calling on her, raising questions. Neither will believe she abandoned her daughters. She lives and breathes for them.

If Jade hadn’t interrupted me last night, the deed would already be done. Heidi would be at the bottom of Lake Ontario.

As I look at Jade and Jaleesa, my heart breaks. I feel like a thief. Here I am, thinking about stealing their mother away from them.

What if the cops throw me in jail? Who would look after the girls then? Their grandmother? Their aunt? Would they be separated and shipped off to different orphanages?

Heidi looks over at me, finally meeting my eyes for the first time since I came home.

“I put something on your desk for you,” she says.

I tip my head to the side. “Oh?”

“What, Mommy?” Jade asks. “A goody bag?”

Heidi smiles at her. “Something like that.”

As I watch her go back to checking and sorting the candy, I have a sneaking suspicion what she put there. That tightening in my stomach doesn’t lie.

I head into my office and see the envelope on my computer keyboard. Even before I open it, I know what’s inside.

Blood pounds in my ears. I feel myself growing warmer, to the point of sweating.

I pick up the envelope and pull out the letter.

“I had that drawn up on Friday.” Heidi’s voice startles me.

I turn to her. She stands in the doorway with her arms crossed.

“You want a divorce?”

She nods.

“On what grounds?” I say through clenched teeth.

“Read it.”

I see the checkmark beside adultery. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“No.”

“We already went through this.”

She gives me an icy stare. “You disappear. You don’t let anyone know where you’re going. Don’t even call the girls.”

“I left here to get away from you for a few days,” I say. “To get away from your bullshit attitude. Do you know how hard it is to live under the same roof as you when you’re in one of your moods?”

She shrugs.

“What evidence do you have?” I say.

“Those weird cuts and bruises you come home with.”

“I told you already.”

“Hiking injuries, my ass,” she says. “Something’s going on with you. You’re a man with secrets. I can tell.”

I smirk. “Is that a woman’s intuition? A way to overthink and pick stuff apart so you end up forming your own opinions based on what you think the truth is.”

Heidi shakes her head. “Nothing to do with it.”

“Bullshit. It’s that, or you’re paranoid because of how your old man cheated on your mother.”

“I don’t want to get into this in front of the girls,” she says.

I cross the floor and press my face right up to hers.

“I’ll never let you take them away from me,” I say. “Never. You want to go, then go. They stay here.”

She hits me with that condescending smile of hers. “You’ll never be able to look after them properly.”

“Yeah? Why not?”

“You going to quit your job? Stay home with them? See them off to school every morning? Get them ready for bed? Cook their meals?”

“Think I can’t?”

She shakes her head again. “The courts will decide who gets custody. I’m sure you’ll have visitation rights.”

That pushes me over the edge. I grab Heidi by the throat and slam her back against the wall. Squeezing my hand, I feel her pulse pounding against my fingers. I see the same shock and fear form in her eyes as I’ve seen with many others. She grasps my wrist, struggling to free my grip.

“Mommy,” Jaleesa calls out. “Are you going to finish looking over our candy?”

All at once, I let go of Heidi.

“Sorry,” I tell her, raising my hands. “Sorry.”

The shock doesn’t leave her eyes. Holding her throat, she steps back into the hallway with a wild expression on her face.

“Thank you, Jacob,” she says hoarsely. “You just gave me a second reason for divorce.”

40

Cranbrook, October 31

8:30 P.M.

“Hey, little man.”

“Hi, Dad!” Brian’s voice beamed over the line. “When are you coming home?”

“Soon,” Allan said. “Hopefully this week.”

“Did you catch the bad guy?”

“Not yet, but I think we’re closing in on him.”

“Cool.”

Allan smiled into the phone. “Did you get lots of candy tonight?”

“Yeah. I just got home a little while ago.”

“Who’d you go as?”

“Iron Man.”

“I thought so. Did your mother take a picture?”

“Yup.”

“Good. I’ll see it when I get home. Did your friends go with you?”

“Um…Billy and Jamie did.”

“Who’d they dress up as?”

“Billy went as Batman, and Jamie went as Robin.”

“Three little superheroes,” Allan said. “Nice.”

“Billy’s dad went around with us. But it got really foggy out, so we came home early.”

“Aww, that’s too bad.”

“I know. It’s always foggy here.”

“It’s because we live right on the coast.”

“Oh, Dad,” Brian said. “Mom wants to talk to you.”

“Okay, little man. Make sure you don’t eat too much candy before bed.”

“Um…I won’t.”

Allan could hear the smile in Brian’s voice. “Good night, son.”

“Night, Dad.”

Melissa came on the line. “Hi, Al.”

“Hey, sweetheart. How’s everything going?”

“Great,” she said. “You coming home soon?”

“I think so. Just not sure when. We’re flying to Ontario in the morning.”

“Oh?”

“We’re chasing down a lead there.”

“That’s good, right?”

Allan sighed. “Yeah, it is.”

Melissa paused. “You sound troubled. You all right?”

“Just tired, I think. It’s been nonstop since I came out here.”

“When’s your flight leave tomorrow?”

“Ten fifteen. It’s the earliest one we could get. We fly out to Calgary then connect with another flight for Toronto. Once we land there, we’re going to drive over to Burlington.”

“You have a busy day ahead,” Melissa said.

“Oh, yes,” Allan said. “I’ll be hitting the hay early tonight.”

“Then I better let you go, Al. I have to get the munchkin ready for school tomorrow. Get your rest.”

“Okay, sweetheart. Good night.”

“Good night. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

As Allan hung up, he lay back on the hotel bed and shut his eyes. He put a hand over his stomach, feeling the ugly butterflies there again. Without warning, his brain flashed a memory.

Groggy and dazed, Allan crawled to the edge of the alley. He rolled onto his back and half-sat against the brick wall of the warehouse. It hurt to breathe. He was sure some of his ribs were broken.

On the other side of the alley, Lee Higgins jumped in the air, shouting excitedly, “Stanton’s got some fight in him.”

Then he began ducking and weaving and throwing his fists out in front of him like a boxer.

“How’s your jaw, Talon?” Higgins laughed. “Did he break it?”

Talon picked up the pistol and spat. “That motherfucker.”

“You want the honors, man?”

“Gladly.”

Talon walked forward. Helpless, Allan watched the black hole of the muzzle rising to his face. A sudden blast ripped through the alley, and Allan’s entire body jolted. In awe and horror, he saw Talon’s head disappear in a red plume, his feet flying out from under him and his body hitting the ground with a sickening wet thud.

Opening his eyes, Allan blew out a few short breaths. He sat up on the bed, his heart racing.

“Jesus,” he said. “Jesus Christ.”

There was no stopping them. The flashbacks came and went as they pleased, suddenly and unexpectedly.

He got up and crossed the floor to the window. For a time, he watched the steady traffic on the highway outside. His muscles were tense, shaky.

A soft tap on the door startled him.

Pausing a brief moment to compose himself, Allan went to answer.

Denis stood in the doorway.

He said, “Did I disturb you?”

Allan shook his head. “Not at all. C’mon in. What’s up?”

Denis groaned. “I just spent the last hour calling all the hotels in Huntsville.”

Allan sat on the edge of the bed. “And?”

“A Jacob Stark stayed at the Huntsville Inn for three nights last year when Li Chen was murdered. He arrived two days before the murder. Left the day after.”

“What about Hailey Pringle? Was Stark there at that time?”

Denis took a seat on the sofa and slumped forward. “None of the hotels has any record of him.”

For a moment, Allan watched him stare at the floor, wringing his hands.

“Have you prepared yourself?” he asked. “In case Stark had nothing to do with her murder?”

Denis winced. “I have. But it’s hard, you know. Hailey’s mother will be calling me this coming Friday to see if there’s any new information.” His eyes became sad, distant. “I was hoping I’d have something to tell her.”

Allan could see part of himself in Denis. Over a detective’s career there always seemed to be one case that ate away at your brain, one you couldn’t psychologically step away from. Denis had Hailey Pringle; Allan had Mary Driscow.

“You never thought Hailey Pringle’s murder was related to Li Chen’s,” Denis said. “I don’t think Detective Price believed it either.”

Allan shrugged. “The crime-scene characteristics didn’t add up for me.”

Denis looked over at him. “This Jacob Stark certainly seems like the suspect.”

Allan agreed. “He’s looking more and more like it. Detective Price found out he had stayed at the Halifax Marriott during his two visits. That puts him right in the city for both crimes.”

“You have enough grounds to obtain your DNA warrant.”

Allan nodded. “That’ll tell us if Stark is guilty. Or if we’re back to square one.”

“We still haven’t had the professionals compare the weave patterns in the ligature marks.”

“That is true. We got too busy with all of this.”

“Then there are all those other cases we looked into. We have to determine if Stark was in those areas as well.”

“We’ll pass on the information to those jurisdictions,” Allan said. “Let them take care of their end.”

Exhaling a breath, Denis stood up.

“Say,” he said. “How about joining me in the lounge downstairs for a stiff drink?”

Allan gave him a weak smile. “Sure. I could use one right now. Or two.”

41

Burlington, October 31

11:09 P.M.

Life can change in the blink of an eye. One day everything is going great, and then a wrecking ball blindsides you and smashes it all to pieces.

I sit here at my desk, waiting for the vodka to kick in. I don’t drink the hard stuff often. We keep a couple of bottles on hand for guests or special occasions. Tonight just feels like the perfect night to break one open.

Heidi and the girls are in bed. After my outburst earlier, I’m surprised she didn’t pack them up and leave. Maybe she realized she was the one at fault, pushing my buttons like that.

I stare at the application for divorce on the desk. I still can’t believe Heidi took it this far. By reflex, I slip the application into my shredder, watching as the blades cut the paper into ribbons.

There’s your divorce, Heidi. How’s that for you, you contentious bitch? You were right about one thing: I am a man with secrets. Just not the ones you’re accusing me of.

I down another shot, grimacing against the burn. The vodka feels hot in my stomach, and the heat radiates out to the rest of my body.

I tip my head back over the chair, closing my eyes. There’s an ache in my throat, tightness in my chest.

I’m not sure if it’s fear. I’ve been afraid before, but I never felt it like this, the overwhelming despair of it.

Mentally, I feel as if I’ve fallen into a dark place. Terrible images swirl around inside my brain, and I struggle to shut them out.

I drink another hit of vodka, trying to calm my nerves. Then I get up from the desk and tiptoe toward the hallway. I stumble, catch myself on the doorjamb. My head swims a bit.

Through the semidarkness, I see Heidi has closed the bedroom door. There’s no lock, so unless she has a chair wedged on the other side, entry will be easy. Instinctively, I glance down the hallway to the girls’ room. Their door is also closed, but that’s normal for them.

The heat snaps on. A whir of air pushes out of the registers. The sound masks my footsteps as I make my way into the kitchen.

The knife block sits by the sink. I stagger forward, bracing myself on the counter. Slowly, I draw out the chef’s knife. Holding it in my hand, I close my eyes and swallow. My legs feel weak.

I go back to the hallway, turning toward the bedrooms.

I clasp the doorknob of the girls’ room and touch my forehead to the door, pausing. My stomach is queasy, my skin cold.

As I open the door, I don’t feel like myself. Someone else has taken over my body.

In the faint light, I see the girls asleep in their beds. The rise and fall of their breathing fills the room.

I stand there, trembling, ashamed.

Jade’s bed is closest to the doorway. She’s sleeping in a fetal position. When I lie down on the edge of the bed beside her, she starts awake.

“It’s only me,” I say.

“Daddy?” she moans, groggy.

“Yes, honey. Go back to sleep.”

She cuddles into my chest and drops off quickly. I lay my cheek against her head, smelling the cherry shampoo in her hair.

She and Jaleesa are the only two people I ever bonded with, the only two people I ever really cared about. I can’t let Heidi take them away from me. I can’t let her win.

I kiss Jade on top of her head.

“I love you,” I whisper.

Tears spring to my eyes as I place the blade to the side of her neck.

42

Burlington, November 1

5:42 P.M.

They arrived in one car—Audra, Allan, and Denis. Detective Sage Montoya pulled the forensic service van up behind them and parked. Other officers from the Halton Regional Police joined the scene in two separate cruisers. Down the street, out of sight, the tactical rescue unit waited for instructions.

From the backseat, Audra looked over at Jacob Stark’s home. He lived in a cozy bungalow set far back from the curb. The olive-green paint on the trim and double garage doors blended well with the stacked-stone veneer that covered the exterior. Two maple trees, one on each side of the front yard, towered high above the property; their naked branches hung out over the street.

Audra noticed two little bikes leaning against the side of the garage.

“There are children inside,” she said. “We can’t be sending Tactical in first.”

Denis blew out a breath. “Hmm…I guess you’re right. Last thing we need is them bursting in there, scaring the shit out of some little kids.”

“Let’s do this ourselves,” Allan said. “In the chance Stark runs, he won’t get far.”

Denis said, “It’s not his running that I’m afraid of.”

Allan turned to him. “There’s nothing in the database about him owning any firearms.”

“Not legally.” Denis got on the radio. “Unit six-zero-two-eight, you come to the front door with us. Detective Montoya, wait for my signal to come inside. Everyone else stay frosty.”

The radio squawked, and a man’s voice popped through the speaker. “Copy that.”

Denis checked the search warrant then turned over his wrist, looking at his watch.

“Time to go,” he said.

As Audra stepped out with Allan and Denis, two uniformed officers got out of the cruiser parked closest to the driveway. They followed the three detectives to the door. Allan instructed the dark-haired constable to keep an eye on the back door.

“Yes, sir,” he said, leaving to carry out the duty.

Denis pressed the doorbell. Audra recognized the chime inside as Beethoven’s Fifth.

Seconds passed. No one answered.

“Maybe nobody’s home,” Denis said. “I don’t hear anyone in there.”

He poked the doorbell again. They waited.

Crossing her arms, Audra looked over at Allan. He tapped his foot on the step, watching the door with a hard stare. Denis tipped his head back to the sky and let out a heavy groan.

“Once more,” he said, ringing the doorbell a third time. “We might have to get Tactical up here.”

All at once, there came the sound of someone fumbling with the latch. From the corner of her eye, Audra saw Denis reach into his coat and produce his badge case.

The door swung open to reveal a cute little girl who looked no older than five. She had dark, expressive eyes and long hair done up in a half-loop braid.

“Hi,” Denis greeted her. “What’s your name?”

“Jade,” she said. “Who are you?”

“My name is Denis. Are your parents home?”

“Mommy is.”

“Can we speak to her?”

Jade turned from the doorway. “Mommy.”

Somewhere in the house, a woman called back, “Who is it?”

“Denis.”

“Who?”

“Denis,” she said louder.

“Be right there.”

Another little girl appeared behind Jade. A head taller, she shared the same features, right down to the half-loop braid.

Looking at the four strangers in the doorway, she frowned. “Who are you guys?”

Denis told her his name then jerked a thumb at each person accompanying him. “This here is Allan, this is Audra, and that’s Constable Perez behind us. And what’s your name?”

She said, “We’re not supposed to talk to strangers.”

“We’re the police,” Denis said politely.

“Are you going to take us to jail?”

Denis gave a throaty chuckle. “No, darlin’, we’re not going to do that.”

The girl narrowed her eyes. “Then why are you here?”

Denis jerked his head back and slid a glance to Audra. “A little rambunctious, isn’t she?”

Audra smiled.

A slender woman with long, dark hair walked up behind them. It was obvious whom the girls took after. She wore a knit tunic and black pants.

“Girls,” she said. “Go to your room and play.” She stepped up to the doorway. “Sorry, I was busy in the laundry room.”

“That’s okay, ma’am.” Denis flashed his badge case. “What’s your name?”

“Heidi.”

“Heidi Stark?”

Lips parting, she nodded.

“Is Jacob Stark your husband?”

She gave them a guarded look. “He is. What’s this about? Did something happen to him?”

Denis shook his head. “No, no. I take it he’s not home.”

“I don’t know where he is. He was gone when I got up this morning.”

Audra said, “To work, maybe?”

Heidi looked at her. “I don’t think so. He never had any work lined up, from what I know.”

“Does he have a habit of doing that? Just going off without telling you?”

“Well…um…he did take off last week for three days and never told anyone. Never even called the girls. He showed up Saturday night when we were all in bed.”

Allan asked, “Did he say where he was?”

“He told the girls he went down to Pennsylvania.”

“Pennsylvania?”

Heidi nodded. “To the Allegheny National Forest.”

Allan frowned. “He told the girls. But not you?”

A flush crept across Heidi’s cheeks. “We’re…um…not exactly getting along.” She glanced back over her shoulder as if to make sure her daughters weren’t listening. “I gave Jacob divorce papers last night.”

“How’d he take it?” Audra asked.

Heidi licked her lips. “Not well. He grabbed me by the throat. I thought he was going to choke me to death right then and there. He had this look in his eyes I’d never seen before.”

“Did you report it?”

“No.”

“Why?”

Heidi spread her hands. “I didn’t want all that in front of the girls. It would just get them upset.”

Allan asked, “I presume he didn’t grab you in front of your daughters?”

“No.”

“Is he prone to violence?”

“That was the first time I ever saw him like that.”

“Obviously, he let you go,” Audra said. “What happened next?”

“Nothing. I left him in his office and got the girls cleaned up. Then we all went to bed. Jacob stayed in his office. Never showed his face.”

Denis said, “He’s a business analyst, right?”

“Consultant.”

“His job involves a lot of travel?”

“He’s on the road more than he’s home.”

“Province to province?”

Heidi nodded again. “He’s been from Newfoundland to British Columbia.”

Denis asked, “Has he ever been to Huntsville?”

“A couple of times, I believe.”

Denis lifted his chin, quiet.

“How long has he been at that job?” Allan asked.

“Over ten years.”

Audra asked, “Do you ever go with him on his business trips?”

“No.”

“Never?”

Heidi shook her head. “I stay at home with the girls.” She frowned. “Why are you all here? This is quite a police presence. What is it you think Jacob has done?”

Allan said, “We’re not sure he’s done anything yet.”

“But you suspect him of doing something, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”

Denis handed her the search warrant. “This gives us the right to look around your home. It details what we’re looking for. Why we’re here.”

The warrant shook in Heidi’s hands. “You’re looking for hiking gear? Jogging apparel?”

Allan asked, “Does your husband own a pair of Merrell hiking boots?”

“Wow.” Heidi did a double take. “That’s a rather specific question.”

“Does he own any?” Allan asked again.

“I bought him a pair four Christmases ago.”

“As in two thousand six?”

“Yes.”

Denis moved his head forward a bit. “Were they size tens?”

Heidi gave him an incredulous stare. “Yes.”

“Are they here?” Allan asked.

“He threw them out last year, I think. The sole started coming off one. He goes through boots like socks.”

Audra asked, “How about a blue hoodie and black Adidas sweatpants with three white stripes on the legs?”

Heidi blinked at her. “He does.”

“Both?”

“Yes.”

“Are those items here?”

“They should be hung up in his closet. I remember washing them.”

Audra could see all the pieces falling into place. “Sounds like he jogs and hikes often.”

“All the time.”

“Provincial parks?”

“All over,” Heidi said. “He’s hiked in every park in Ontario that I know of.”

Allan asked, “How long has he been doing this?”

“Before we were married. I’m ballparking, but probably ten years or more.”

Audra became still. She saw Allan and Denis share a look.

Heidi went back to reading the warrant. “You want computers too?”

Denis said, “And any documents pertaining to your husband’s job travels. Dates, locations, etcetera.”

“Why?”

“Keep reading. Should be right after the listed items.”

Audra watched Heidi’s eyes widening, her face draining of color.

A tremor carried her words as she read a passage off the warrant, “Relevant to the investigation of the following indictable offence: murder contrary to section two thirty-one of the Criminal Code.” She openly stared at Denis. “What’s the two in parenthesis mean?”

He said, “It means planned and deliberate.”

“Impossible,” Heidi said. “This must be a mistake.”

Allan said, “It very well could be. Right now, your husband is just a person of interest. Let us do our jobs so we can get to the bottom of this.”

“A person of interest in whose murder?”

Audra said, “We can’t disclose that information. It’s imperative that we locate your husband. Does he have a cell phone?”

Eyes scared, Heidi looked at her. “He does.”

“Can you call him? Tell him something to get him to come home. Just don’t tell him we’re here.”

Heidi shut her eyes for a moment then nodded. As she handed the warrant back to Denis, he turned around and motioned for Detective Montoya to join them.

“Who’s that?” Heidi asked.

“Detective Sage Montoya,” Denis told her. “Works in Forensics. She’ll be collecting the items.”

“Do I have to leave?”

Denis shook his head. “We know you have your daughters here. How about you point out where these items are, and we’ll be on our way.”

Heidi grabbed her cell phone off the kitchen counter as she led them to the master bedroom first. There were two closets, one on each side of the wall. She opened the one on the right.

The first thing Audra noticed was the color-coding of the clothes hanging inside. They went from white to black, with each color in between organized from light to dark. The second thing she noticed were the shoes placed in a perfect line with the toes facing out.

Heidi stepped inside. “The hoodie and sweatpants are in here.”

Montoya set her field kit on the bedroom floor. “You just point them out, ma’am. I’ll do the rest.”

Biting a fingernail, Heidi looked down one side of the closet then the next.

“They’re not here,” she said. “Neither one.”

Audra couldn’t spot them, either. “Could they be in the wash?”

Heidi gave a slight shake of her head. “I’m doing the laundry. They weren’t in the hamper.”

Montoya asked, “How ’bout a dresser?”

“I doubt it,” Heidi said. “He only keeps his undergarments in there.”

Denis let out an exasperated sigh. “Let’s look.”

Heidi pointed to the left side of a double dresser. “Those are his drawers.”

Montoya began poking through them.

Heidi placed a call on her cell phone. “Jacob, I found the divorce papers in your shredder this morning. Please come home so we can talk about this.”

As she hung up, Audra asked, “Voice mail?”

“Yes. He’s not answering.”

Montoya reached the last drawer. “Nope. No hoodie or sweatpants here.”

Denis said, “Maybe he has them with him.”

Heidi shrugged. “He must.”

Allan looked over at Audra and raised his eyebrows at her.

“Okay,” Denis said. “Let’s move on.”

“His office is just down the hall,” Heidi said, leading the way.

As she walked out of the bedroom, Audra felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned around to see Allan leaning in close to her ear.

“Do you think Stark saw the media appeal we made to the public?”

“Possible,” Audra whispered. “He could be following the news coverage of his crimes.”

Allan nodded. “We better check the trash. He might’ve ditched those items after he read the clothing description we released.”

Audra scratched her jaw. “He’s married with two little daughters, and he’s off killing in his spare time?”

“I know. How do you manage to live a double life without one bleeding into the other?”

“Are you having doubts it’s him?”

Allan’s face tightened. “Not yet.”

43

Oakville, November 1

6:12 P.M.

I hear a phone ringing somewhere in the haze between waking and sleeping.

Slowly, I crack my eyes open and find the hotel room around me in shadow. I turn my head on the pillow, glancing at the bedside clock. The illuminated dial reads 6:12. The time surprises me. I remember lying down around two in the afternoon. I must’ve been more exhausted than I realized.

I sit up, rubbing at the dry crust that seems to have formed over my eyes. My head still throbs. It feels as if someone is tightening screws into every part of my brain. I swear I’ll never have another drink of vodka for as long as I live.

A voice-mail alert beeps on my cell phone. I drag myself out of bed and cross the floor to a work desk located at the far wall.

It was Heidi who called. I listen to her voice mail.

“Jacob,” she says, “I found the divorce papers in your shredder this morning. Please come home so we can talk about this.”

Grinding my teeth, I delete the message. I feel like throwing the phone against the wall.

Sure, Heidi. Sure. What’s there to talk about? You were pretty damn adamant about divorcing me last night. I gave you a second reason, remember?

Taking a seat at the desk, I scrub a hand over my face. I feel a fire igniting inside me, flushing heat through my body.

I don’t want to go home. I don’t want to see Heidi. Ever, if that’s possible. And the girls? My heart bleeds when I think about them.

I don’t know what came over me last night. It all seems surreal, a bad dream. My daughters are the most precious things in my life. How could I think of doing something so terrible to them?

Even now, as I write this, my hand shakes. The guilt twists my guts into a big knot, makes me want to inflict pain on myself.

Anger is dangerous and unpredictable. It can blind you. Make you lose self-control. Throw in half a liter of vodka, and you end up in a volatile frame of mind.

I blame Heidi. She just couldn’t let it go. She convinced herself that I really was having an affair, despite no evidence to support it. Then she serves me with divorce papers and threatens to take my daughters away.

The bitch. The belligerent bitch.

As I lay beside Jade with that knife in my hand, I realized how far Heidi could push me, right to the edge of madness. I wanted to hurt her, not my daughters.

I gently stroked Jade’s hair. Her breathing was deep and even. I could feel her heart beating against my ribs. In that moment, I couldn’t imagine loving another person as much as her.

I’m not sure how long I held her or how long I cried—silently, so she couldn’t hear me. When I eased myself off the bed, Jade stirred then quickly drifted off again.

In the semidarkness, I watched her sleeping face. I looked over at Jaleesa. She was asleep on her belly with her arms tucked under the pillow and face turned to the side.

Staggering out to the kitchen, I put the knife back in the wooden block. I took the near-empty bottle of vodka from my office and returned it to the cupboard. Then I went into the garage, closing the door quietly behind me. I had just made it to the side of my car when the sobs began wracking my body. I’d never had emotion hit me like that before, the sheer force of it knocking me to my knees.

I wept until I couldn’t weep anymore. Then I crawled onto the backseat of my car and either passed out or fell asleep.

I woke up the next morning with a throbbing headache. My mouth was so dry, my teeth were stuck to my lips. I checked my watch: 5:20 a.m. Heidi and the girls wouldn’t be up until 6:30.

The house was still dark, quiet. I wandered into the kitchen and switched on the light. We store the aspirin in the cupboard over the refrigerator. Finding the bottle, I popped two pills into my mouth and chased them down with a glass of water.

I keep an overnight bag in my car. It contains a change of clothes, a pair of shoes, and of course my journals. I put on those clothes after I cleaned myself up in the bathroom.

Before anyone got up, I left. I didn’t know where I was going, only that I had to get out of the house.

The time was 5:55 a.m.

I stopped at Russell Williams for breakfast and three cups of coffee. I managed to finish everything, even though I felt nauseous. I wasn’t in any shape for a long-distance drive, so I decided to grab a room until I felt better and had a chance to clear my head.

My cell phone rings again. The bedside clock says 7:01 p.m.

I pick up my phone, checking the display. It’s Heidi again. I let it ring. I’m still in no mood to speak to her.

Moments later, the voice-mail alert beeps.

“The girls are asking about you,” she says. “Where are you?”

I shake my head. I’m with my mistress, Heidi. Remember?

I don’t understand why she wants me to go home so badly. She ignored me for nearly two weeks. The most words she said to me during that time came last night when she gave me that application for divorce. I wonder if she really does want to talk or if she has a new set of papers for me to sign.

I shut my eyes and tilt my head from side to side, thinking this over.

To go home, or not to go home—that is the question.

44

Burlington, November 1

6:33 P.M.

When Allan followed Audra into Jacob Stark’s office, Detective Montoya was taking pictures of a Dell desktop.

Arms folded, Denis watched her from the other side of the desk. Heidi Stark leaned against a bookcase on the left wall, eyeballing her cell phone every few seconds. She looked frightened, wary.

“Does your husband own any other computers?” Denis asked. “A laptop, maybe?”

“Just that one,” Heidi said.

“He does all of his business affairs on it?”

“Yes.”

“Does he own any firearms?”

“I won’t allow them in the house,” Heidi said. “Not with the girls.”

Montoya set the camera on her field kit. “Be right back,” she said. “I need to get some boxes out of the van.”

After she left, Allan asked Heidi, “Does your husband keep the boarding passes from his flights?”

“He keeps everything. In case Revenue Canada ever audits him.”

“Where would they be?”

She pointed to a closet door on the opposite wall. “In there.”

Audra asked, “How about airline receipts? He must keep those as well?”

“Oh, yes,” Heidi said. “He claims all traveling expenses. Flights. Hotels. Meals.”

Allan heard the light patter of feet behind him. Turning, he saw Jade standing in the doorway. Her eyes were huge.

“Mommy,” she said. “Why are the police here?”

Heidi hurried across the office to her and began ushering her away.

“They’re just looking around, honey,” she said. “Let’s go back to your room, okay?”

“Where’s Daddy?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is he working?”

“Maybe. I’m sure he’ll call you.”

Moments later, she came back. “Sorry about that.”

Detective Montoya walked in behind her, carrying a few cardboard boxes. She set them on the floor and started disconnecting the cables from the back of the desktop.

Allan watched her pack up the monitor, printer, and desktop in the boxes. She put the mouse and keyboard in paper evidence bags. Then she documented and labeled everything.

Mouth agape, Heidi asked, “Do you need to take it all?”

“All of it,” Montoya said. “Does your husband have any software manuals for the computer?”

“If he does, they’ll be in the closet.”

“How ’bout external hard drives?”

Heidi shook her head. “I don’t think so. I’ve never seen any.”

Denis said, “Detective, there’s some other stuff in the closet to take. Receipts, boarding passes, etcetera.”

As Montoya opened the door, Allan saw storage boxes of various sizes all piled neatly on top of one another. Metal bookplates were adhered to the front of each one, describing what the boxes contained.

“Is your husband a neat freak?” Audra asked.

Heidi flinched her head back. “Huh?”

Audra repeated the question. “I noticed how organized the other closet was,” she added. “Now this one. Or is that you doing it?”

“No, no. That’s Jacob. Everything has to be right.”

Allan frowned. “Has to be right?”

“That’s how he puts it,” Heidi said. “He doesn’t like his things to be out of place.”

“This makes my job easier,” Montoya said. “All the boxes are labeled.”

She picked out the ones she considered to have evidential value and set them aside. Poking through books on the top shelf, she brought down a thin booklet.

“Found the computer manual,” she said.

She placed it in an evidence bag, labeled it, and then stuck it in the box beside the desktop. Allan, Audra, and Denis helped her carry the items out to the van.

Twilight was descending on the city, deadening the colors and deepening the shadows. The air carried a chill.

“I hate this time of year,” Denis said, “You know snow is just around the corner.”

Montoya closed the doors of the vans, and they all began walking back to the house.

Reaching the driveway, Audra said, “So what do you guys think?”

Denis grimaced. “Don’t know. Not what I was expecting.”

“What do you mean?”

“The wife and daughters. I guess I was picturing a different man.”

Allan said, “What, some loner living in his parents’ basement?”

“Maybe, Detective,” Denis said. “Maybe I was.”

They stopped a few feet outside the front door.

In a hushed tone, Denis asked, “Do you think the wife’s hiding anything?”

Allan cleared his throat. “I don’t. Her shock and surprise seemed genuine.”

“But if she tips him off, he might run.”

“Only the guilty run,” Audra said. “Besides, how’re we supposed to stop her?”

“Can’t,” Allan said. “We can only hope she doesn’t.”

Denis scratched a temple. “I wonder why she gave him divorce papers?”

Allan pursed his lips. “Something happened. If he’s not abusive, then what? Fidelity issues?”

“Maybe they just fell out of love,” Audra said. “I’ll see what I can find out.”

When they went back inside, they found Heidi in the hallway, cell phone pressed to her ear.

“Still no answer,” she said, hanging up.

Allan checked his watch: 7:02.

Audra asked Heidi, “Did you leave another message?”

“No.”

Allan took out his pen and notebook. “Give me his cell number, please.”

Heidi told him.

“Your husband drives an oh-nine Camry?” Allan flipped back a page in his notebook. “Plate BFSJ six-nine-zero?”

Heidi glanced skyward for a second. “Um…I’m not sure about the plate number. I can’t even remember what mine is. But he does own a Camry.”

Denis asked, “Where does your husband keep his hiking gear?”

Heidi led them through the kitchen and into the garage. Allan noted the gray Corolla sitting there.

“Your car?”

Heidi nodded.

The back wall of the garage was covered floor to ceiling in slotted wall panels. Lawn tools hung on the right side of the wall. Hiking gear hung on the left: backpacks, trekking poles, different styles of hats, and five shell jackets in various colors.

Allan’s gaze stopped on two little backpacks and two sets of short trekking poles.

“Do the girls hike with your husband?”

Heidi raised her eyebrows. “Huh?”

Allan gestured to the children’s hiking gear.

“Oh. Jacob bought those for the girls to use when we vacationed at the Allegheny National Forest last summer. He took them on some of the trails with him.”

Audra said, “Sounds like he’s good to them.”

Heidi winced. Allan watched her eyes become wet.

“He is,” she said brokenly.

Montoya set her field kit on the floor. “We taking everything?”

Denis pointed to the trekking poles. “All of those, for starters. Leave the children’s.”

As Montoya began taking photos, Allan knelt by four pairs of hiking boots, all positioned against the wall with the toes facing out. The brands varied: Wolverine, North Face, KEEN, and Lowa.

“Not there?” Denis asked.

Allan looked up at him. “No Merrells.”

“Shit.”

“Are we taking those boots?” Montoya asked.

“Photograph the brands,” Denis told her. “Photograph the soles.”

Allan heard Audra call over to him. He saw her standing in front of a shelf against the left wall. She tossed her head in a gesture for him to join her.

“What’s up?” he asked.

She moved out of the way, and Allan noticed the small spool of white rope on the shelf.

“Check out the weave pattern,” Audra said.

Allan felt his breath stall halfway up his throat. “I see it.” He rolled the end of the rope between his fingers. “Nylon.”

Audra said, “Label says it’s a fifty-foot roll.”

“Was,” Allan said. “Maybe half of that is left.”

He watched Heidi on the other side of the garage. She stood next to the Corolla, fingering the neck of her tunic.

“Mrs. Stark,” he called to her. “Can you come here, please?”

He showed her the spool of rope.

“What about it?” she asked.

“What do you use it for?”

“We don’t use it much for anything. The girls and I made knotted headbands out of it one time.”

Audra asked, “Does your husband use it?”

“I’ve never seen him, actually.”

“How long have you had it?”

Heidi blew out a breath. “A few years, I’m guessing. I don’t spend a lot of time out here. One day I saw it there and got the idea to make the headbands.”

Allan glanced at Montoya. She had the trekking poles wrapped in brown paper and was photographing the hiking boots.

“Detective,” Allan said. “We’ll take this rope as well.”

Montoya gave him a curt nod. “Be right there.”

“What are you taking that for?” Heidi asked.

“Potential evidence,” Audra said.

“For what? Why can’t you tell me something instead of giving me this runaround?”

Allan said, “Everything is preliminary, Mrs. Stark. We really need to find your husband.”

Heidi spread her hands. “I called. Twice.”

“Does he frequent any particular places?”

“Not that I know of.”

“What does he do when he’s not on the road?”

“Hangs out in his office doing work. Or he goes off for a jog or hike.”

They all moved out of the way to allow Detective Montoya to take pictures of the rope.

Allan continued questioning Heidi. “Do you think he could be staying with a friend or acquaintance?”

She tipped her head to the side. “Um…no.”

“Why not?”

“He really doesn’t have any friends.”

Allan paused. “He has no buddies from before you were married?”

“I’ve never met any of them,” Heidi said.

“Are you friends with other couples?”

“A few.”

“Think he could be staying with any of them?”

Heidi’s gaze suddenly drifted off and fixed on something that wasn’t in the garage. Allan could see something at work behind her dark eyes.

“Mrs. Stark,” he said.

She blinked. “Sorry.”

“Can you call them for us?”

“He won’t be with any of them,” she said. “Outside of our get-togethers and dinner dates, he doesn’t bother with them.”

Montoya took the spool of rope off the shelf.

“Want me to carry that for you?” Denis asked her.

“No, no. I got it,” Montoya said. “You could be a sweetheart and carry those poles out for me.”

Allan watched them leave the garage.

Audra asked Heidi, “Do you have any idea at all where he could be?”

“With his girlfriend.”

Allan and Audra looked at each other.

“Do you know her name?” Allan asked.

Heidi took a deep breath, let it out. “Kate.”

Audra asked, “Kate what?”

“I don’t know.”

“How’d you find out about her?”

“He called me that one night when we were talking.” Heidi fixed Audra with a sour stare. “Tell me something—if your husband came home after being away for three days and called you by another woman’s name, what would you think?”

Audra frowned. “No doubt I’d be suspicious. A little pissed off.”

Heidi gave her a wry smile. “No, you’d be extremely pissed off. Jacob’s gone off to these different cities all the time, and I have no idea what he’s doing in his spare time. Sure, he calls us before the girls go to bed, but what’s he doing afterward?

“I believe he was with her last week when he disappeared for those three days.”

Allan asked, “After he called you Kate, did he try to explain himself?”

“He blamed it on fatigue. Said he could barely think straight from all the work he’d been doing.”

Audra said, “You said he called you Kate after being away for three days. I’m assuming he’d been off on one of his business trips?”

“Yes.”

“Where was he?”

“Halifax.”

All at once, Allan felt a dark realization pass through him like an electric current, burning away any trace of doubt he had. From the corner of his eye, he saw Audra turn her face to him then back to Heidi.

Audra asked, “He returned home on Monday, the eighteenth of October, right?”

Heidi placed a palm against her cheek. “Wow, how’d you know that?”

“Was that the date?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me something, Mrs. Stark,” Allan said. “Did your husband come home after that trip with any scratches to his hands or forearms?”

She stared at him with a dazed look in her eyes. Slowly, she removed the hand from her cheek and pressed it to her stomach, bending forward a little from the waist.

“Oh my God,” she said. “Oh my God.”

Audra reached out and touched her wrist. “Hey, you okay?”

“I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Do you need a glass of water or something?”

Heidi shook her head. She took several deep breaths before lifting her eyes to Allan.

“Was her name Kate?” she asked.

Allan frowned. “Pardon?”

“The person you think Jacob murdered.”

“What makes you think that?”

“These specific questions of yours.” She straightened up. “The hoodie and sweatpants you were looking for. If he came home from Halifax with scratches.”

Allan said, “He did, didn’t he?”

Heidi closed her eyes, opened them again. “He came home with a Band-Aid on his face.” She touched her left cheek. “Right there.”

“Did he explain it?”

“He told me he cut himself shaving. Got into a rush and wasn’t paying attention. Stupid me, I believed him.”

“You’d have no reason to doubt him,” Audra said.

Allan watched as Heidi opened her mouth as if to say something, then she shut it again.

“Did you see the cut?” he asked.

“He kept it covered until it was almost healed.”

“Has your husband ever come home with any strange cuts or scratches before?”

In a weakened voice, she said, “He came home last summer with a gash by his eye.”

Allan raised his chin. “The summer just past or last year?”

“Last year.”

“Do you remember where he’d come back from?”

Closing her eyes, she dug two fingers into her temple. “Um…was it Huntsville?” She frowned. “Wherever Moose Delaney’s is.”

Allan wrote it down in his notebook. “Did he say how he got the gash?”

“Told me he broke up a scuffle between some guy and his girlfriend.”

“Do you remember what month this happened?”

“No. Sorry, I can’t seem to think straight right now.”

“That’s okay, Mrs. Stark,” Audra said. “We can only imagine how overwhelming you must find this.”

“That’s not the word for it,” Heidi said.

Denis and Montoya came back into the garage.

“We got things almost wrapped up here?”

“Almost,” Allan said. “Just need to check the garbage.”

Denis raised his eyebrows. “For the missing clothing we couldn’t find?”

“Right.”

“See, Detective. I’m on the ball.”

Allan gave him a smirk. “Good thing.”

Heidi directed them to two clear garbage bags in the corner of the garage.

“These the only ones you have?” Montoya asked her.

“Yes.”

Denis asked, “When’s your pickup day for garbage?”

“Every second Monday.”

“So it obviously went last Monday?”

“Yes.”

Montoya never found the blue hoodie or sweatpants in either bag.

As they were preparing to leave, Denis gave his card to Heidi. “If you think of anything, please call me. We’re going to keep an officer in the area.”

“Says here you’re from Huntsville.”

“I am,” Denis said.

Heidi looked at Allan and Audra. “Are you guys with the Halton Police?”

“Halifax,” Audra said.

Heidi’s mouth fell open for a second. “Both of you?”

“Yes.”

“I’m confused.”

Denis chuckled. “We all are, Mrs. Stark.”

As he was walking out with the others, Allan felt a tug on the sleeve of his sport coat. He stopped and turned around. It was Heidi.

“Yes?” he said.

She gave him a pained stare. “Tell me her last name.”

Allan shook his head. “Sorry.”

“Please,” she said.

What the hell did it matter, he wondered. First access to the Internet, and she was going to find out anyway.

Allan let out a heavy sigh. “Saint-Pierre,” he said. “Her name was Kate Saint-Pierre.”

45

Burlington, November 1

8:13 P.M.

“So,” Denis said. “How’d he explain the cut to his wife?”

Allan folded his arms. “Said he did it while shaving.”

“Kate Saint-Pierre scratched him,” Audra said from the backseat. “We figured that’s why he cut off her fingertips. Tell him about Moose Delaney’s, Al.”

Denis frowned. “Moose Delaney’s?”

“You’ve heard of it?” Allan asked.

“Heard of it?” Denis gave a light chuckle. “It’s my favorite watering hole in Huntsville.”

Allan said, “Mrs. Stark told me her husband came home from a trip during the summer of oh-nine with a gash by his eye. He said he got it breaking up a fight at Moose Delaney’s.”

Denis’s face darkened. “Bullshit. Li Chen did it. We already established Stark was in the area during the murder.”

Allan nodded. “I agree.”

Audra propped her forearms on the back of their seats and leaned her face between the two headrests.

“There’s no doubt this guy is behind the murders in Halifax,” she said. “It’s looking more likely he was involved in the Chen murder as well.”

“Don’t forget Ted Taylor,” Denis said. “By his wife’s own admission, Jacob Stark owned a pair of Merrell hiking boots at the time of the murder.”

Allan said, “We better inform the department in that jurisdiction of our findings.”

“I’ll contact the OPP in Kenora first thing in the morning.”

“I wonder how many others there are,” Audra said.

Allan looked at her. “What?”

“Victims,” she said. “We have to consider Stark as a person of interest in those other cases we picked out.”

Denis said, “Did you hear Mrs. Stark? Apparently, her husband has been doing that job for over ten years.”

“I know,” Audra said. “We only went back four years in those unsolved cases.”

Denis cracked his window an inch. “Could there be more victims no one even knows—”

“Jesus,” Allan cut in. “Do you think he’s been at this for over a decade?”

“It’s a possibility.”

Allan felt a crawling sensation over his skin. “I know. And I don’t even want to think about that right now.”

They were still on Shadeland Avenue. Denis had parked the cruiser down the street a short distance away from the Stark house, still close enough to keep an eye on the place. Another crew sat in a cruiser at the opposite end of the street, watching for Jacob Stark’s Camry in case he decided to return home.

Denis’s cell phone rang, and both Denis and Allan flinched at the sudden sound of it.

“Hello,” he answered.

Allan watched him listening to someone on the other end.

“Uh-huh,” Denis said. “Okay, that’s good. Thanks for informing me.”

He hung up and placed his phone on the console.

“That was Sergeant Gannon with the Halton Police,” he said. “A warrant for Stark’s arrest has been granted, as well as your warrant for his DNA.

“Gannon also said Stark never crossed any of the borders. And border officials have been alerted to detain him if he tries.”

Allan said, “Good. At least we know he’s still in the country.”

“Hopefully, he’s still in the area.”

“If he is,” Audra said, “he might just come home.”

“Here’s hoping Mrs. Stark never tipped him off,” Allan said.

At eight thirty, a fine mist fell, like curls of smoke riding the air currents. It mixed with the dirt on the windshield and bled down to the wipers. Denis squirted the washer fluid a few times to clear away the mess.

Minutes later, the mist became a drizzle punctuated by fat drops that plunked on the cruiser’s roof.

A car approached, headlights glancing off the glassy street. Allan leaned forward in his seat as he watched it coming closer. When the car turned into a driveway across the street from the Stark house, he expelled a low sigh.

“Shit,” he said. “I thought that might’ve been him.”

“Me too,” Denis said.

At eight forty-five, the clouds broke and a heavy rain swept down the street in dark sheets. It was a cold rain, too, and the windows of the cruiser quickly steamed up.

Denis turned over the engine and put the heater on high, adjusting the temperature so it wouldn’t roast them out.

Allan used the cuff of his coat to wipe at the condensation on his side of the windshield until the Stark house reappeared, blurry and distorted.

He saw the living-room light turn off, then the kitchen, and the house sat in darkness. Allan checked his watch: 8:55 p.m. He rubbed his chin, mystified. He thought it weird that Heidi Stark would be turning in so early, especially after learning about her husband.

His suspicions were answered a few minutes later when he saw the garage door on the right begin rising. He watched the Corolla back out into the driveway.

“She’s leaving,” he said.

Audra propped herself up between the headrests again. “I bet she’s afraid to stay home.”

“Of course she is.”

Heidi backed into the street and began driving away.

“Hang on,” Denis said, stamping on the gas.

The cruiser shot forward. Denis switched on the grille lights, and the red-and-blue strobe flashed off the surrounding houses.

Heidi pulled the Corolla over. Denis, Allan, and Audra stepped out into the rain. Denis reached the driver’s door first. Heidi lowered the window halfway.

“Mrs. Stark,” Denis said, “where ya going?”

“My mother’s,” she said. “I can’t stay there.”

“Has he called you?”

Heidi shook her head. “Never heard from him.”

“Do you find that odd?”

She lowered the window some more and poked her face out, blinking against the rain.

“I don’t know,” she whispered. “He was pretty mad last night.”

Allan peered through the rear window at the two little girls sitting in the backseat. Jade gave him a smile and waved. Allan smiled and waved back. Jaleesa stuck her tongue out at him and started laughing.

“Where’s your mother live?” Audra asked Heidi.

“London.”

“How far’s that away?”

“Two hours.”

Denis said, “I have your cell number if I need to get in touch.” He slapped a hand on the roof twice. “Careful driving, Mrs. Stark.”

As she drove off, the three of them returned to the cruiser. Shutting the door beside him, Allan wiped the rain from his face and eyes, smoothed out his hair. Denis dabbed his head with a handkerchief.

“I don’t think he’s gonna show,” Audra said.

“Not likely,” Allan said. “We don’t know what’s going on inside his mind right now. And we don’t know if Mrs. Stark mentioned us in her voice mail.”

Denis said, “She didn’t when we were there. Just tried to get him to come home.”

“Yeah, but she called him again when we went outside, remember. We don’t know if she left another voice mail or not. And she might’ve called him a few times since.”

“So do we call it a night?” Audra asked. “Head back to the hotel?”

Denis looked at his watch. “Want to give it another hour?”

“Why not,” she said.

Tilting his seat back, Allan closed his eyes. He felt tired, enervated. It was a feeling he’d been growing accustomed to. Lately, he’d just been tired in general. Tired of the stress. Tired of the nightmares. Tired of the sleepless nights. Tired of all the senseless deaths and all the scumbags who caused them. Tired of the sheer effort it took to crawl out of bed every morning and face another day.

When this case was finally over, Allan knew he would have to get help. Another appointment with Dr. Judy Galloway was in store. He regretted never telling her the truth from the beginning; he could’ve gotten the proper treatment he needed months ago.

The radio suddenly squawked to life. “Copy unit six-zero-six-five.”

Denis perked up in his seat. “Shit. I think that’s our car.” He keyed the mike. “Go ahead.”

“One of our patrol units just spotted your suspect’s vehicle sitting in the parking lot of Starbridge Suites. Gray Toyota Camry. Plate number: Bravo-Foxtrot-Sierra-Juliet-six-nine-zero. Car is registered to a Jacob Miles Stark.”

Allan asked, “Where’s Starbridge Suites?”

Denis pressed the mike again. “Location. Over.”

“Wyecroft Road. Here in Oakville.”

“Is that close to your department?”

“Affirmative. One point five klicks away.”

Denis tapped an index finger against his lips. “Still doesn’t help.”

Allan gave him a smile. “Lost, aren’t you?”

“A bit, yeah. I honestly don’t think I can find my way back to the department in Oakville.”

“Well,” Allan said. “Don’t look at me.”

Audra said, “What about the other crew on site with us?”

Denis got on the radio. “Copy unit six-zero-two-eight.”

The radio squawked. “Go ahead.”

“Do you know where Wyecroft Road is?”

“Affirmative. Drive by it every day.”

“Can you lead us there?”

“Wilco.”

Dispatch radioed back. “Unit six-zero-six-five, do you want Tactical?”

Denis looked over at Allan with his eyebrows raised.

Allan said, “I’d really like it if we were the arrest team.”

Denis nodded. “You and me both.”

He got on the radio. “Negative.”

“Copy that.”

Through the windshield, Allan watched a police cruiser speed down the street toward them. It stopped next to the driver’s door, and the window lowered, revealing the boyish face of a constable. Denis put down his window.

“Ready to go, Detective?” the constable asked.

“You lead the way, son.”

As the cruiser sped off, Denis made a U-turn in the street and stepped on the gas.

“We got him,” he said. “We got the son of a bitch.”

46

Oakville, November 1

9:10 P.M.

After stalling much of the evening, I finally decide I’m not going home. I call instead.

There’s no answer on the home phone. I hang up as my recorded message begins telling me I have stepped away from the office.

Maybe Heidi has the girls in the tub. On a school night, she makes sure they’re in bed by nine thirty.

I dial her cell number. She answers on the fourth ring.

“Jacob,” she says.

I skip the formalities and say, “Let me speak to the girls.”

A long silence hangs over the line between us. In the background, I can hear the sounds of tires slapping through rain and the humming of a car engine.

“They’re both asleep,” Heidi says eventually.

“You in your car?”

She pauses. “Yes.”

“Where’re you going?”

She exhales through the receiver, doesn’t tell me. I already know anyhow. There’s only one place she would be going at this hour—her mother’s.

“The girls have school tomorrow,” I say.

“They can miss a couple days.”

“Why’d you leave?” I ask. “I thought you wanted to talk.”

“Where are you?”

“At a hotel.”

Another moment of silence. “The police are looking for you, Jacob.”

Her words bring me out of the chair. “What?”

“They showed up at our door tonight with a search warrant. They were pretty specific on what they were looking for.”

“What’d they take?”

“Your computer,” she tells me. “Some of your hiking poles. That roll of rope you had in the garage. They were also looking for your blue hoodie and Adidas sweatpants. I couldn’t find those for them. They even asked me if you owned a pair of Merrell hiking boots.”

A chill works up the back of my neck and across my face. I feel the strength flooding out of my legs.

“What did you do, Jacob?”

“So,” I say, “you never wanted to talk things over. You were trying to get me to go home because they were there.”

“They asked me to. What was I supposed to do?”

I close my eyes. “Did they tell you why they wanted that stuff?”

“Evidence.”

“For what?”

“They think you murdered someone.”

“Really? Who?”

“Kate,” she says. “Kate Saint-Pierre.”

Opening my eyes, I lick my lips. My mind is a whirring jumble of thoughts.

“That night you came home from Halifax,” Heidi says, “you called me her. You called me Kate.”

I find myself unable to speak.

“Who was she?” Heidi asks. “What happened?”

I shut off the light in the room and walk to the window. Peeling back the drapes, I look outside.

Heidi is still talking. Her voice sounds small and distant now, as if it’s coming from a mile away.

“Tell me it’s not true. Tell me this is all a big mistake.”

In the parking lot three stories below, I see a police car idling right behind my car. There’s a cop standing by my driver’s door, jabbing the beam of a flashlight through the window. A clear cover encases his cap to keep it dry, and his black raincoat is slick with rain.

“Jacob?”

The cop moves to the passenger window, shining the beam inside. He straightens up then returns to his own car.

“Jacob, are you there?”

“I’m here.”

“Tell me this is a mistake.”

Through the passenger window of the police car, I can see the soft glow from a swivel-mount laptop. The cop’s fingers are typing away on the keyboard.

“Jacob?”

“It’s not a mistake, Heidi.”

“What?”

“I killed her. I strangled her with a piece of that rope the cops took.”

A sharp intake of breath comes across the line.

“Good-bye, Heidi,” I say and hang up.

47

Oakville, November 1

10:18 P.M.

Audra watched Allan jack a round into the chamber of his Beretta before slipping the pistol back into his shoulder holster. There was a cold cast to his eyes, almost fierce.

She nudged his elbow. “Hey, you okay?”

He turned his face slowly toward her and said in a flat tone, “All right. You?”

Audra appraised him for a brief moment. No, he didn’t seem all right. That much she could tell. She had no idea what was going on inside his head, but his look alone concerned her.

“I’m fine,” she said.

He gave her a curt nod. “Good.”

They stood in the parking lot of Starbridge Suites. Denis was inside, gathering information from staff. The two officers who had led them to the hotel stood near their cruiser, talking to one another. Their names were Mark Beckett and Théo Latour.

Beckett was a young kid with a smooth face and worried eyes. Latour was a beefy man with a ruddy complexion and sloping shoulders. His buzz cut looked as if it could prick your fingers.

Two additional police units had arrived and parked by the exits.

The rain had stopped, but murky clouds continued to roil overhead, threatening to open up again. A cold breeze stirred the naked branches of the small maple trees, shaking off a patter of rain. It hit the cruiser’s hood in a plunk of drops.

As Audra tucked her hands into her jacket pockets, she saw Denis coming across the parking lot.

“Stark has room three-oh-five,” he called out. “Third floor.”

Audra said, “Does hotel staff know if he’s in there?”

“No. Only one girl on the front desk tonight. She called up to the room, but no one answered. She said she would unlock the door if we need her to. She’d prefer that to us kicking it in.”

“Stark’s car is here,” Allan said.

Denis raised his eyebrows. “Doesn’t mean he is.”

Audra looked up at the bank of windows running along the third floor of the hotel. About half of them were lighted; the others were dark. She wondered if Jacob Stark could be up there watching them as they spoke.

Allan said, “He won’t answer the phone if he knows we’re after him.”

Denis leaned his head toward him. “You think Mrs. Stark told him about us?”

Allan turned his palms up. “Does it matter?”

“I bet she did,” Audra said. “She didn’t want to believe what we told her. Kept saying there must be a mistake. Put yourself in her shoes. Curiosity would get the better of her. It would me. I’d want to hear his side of the story.”

Denis glanced down at his feet, shuffling them a little, and tugged on his left earlobe.

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” he said.

“Regardless,” Allan said, “we’re not going to know if he’s up there by dillydallying out here.”

Audra threw him a glance. From the tension in his face and rigid posture of his body, he looked ready to burst out of his skin.

No, she thought, he was definitely not all right.

“Let’s do this,” Denis said. He called over to Beckett and Latour. “You boys come with us.”

The five of them went into the hotel lobby. The young woman behind the front desk looked to be in her midtwenties—pretty, with long auburn hair swept over one shoulder. Her name tag read: Megan.

“I have the key,” she said, holding it up.

“Great,” Denis said. “Can I have that and return it when we leave?”

Megan frowned. “Ah…okay. You don’t want me to open up for you?”

Denis shook his head. “It’s safer if we do it, miss. We don’t want you up there in case things get hairy.”

Megan tossed him the key.

“Thank you, miss.”

They rode the elevator to the third floor. The doors chimed open to a long corridor with cream walls and dark carpet. Room 305 was at the end.

Beckett and Latour positioned themselves on the left side of the door. They removed their pistols and held them at the low ready. Audra joined Allan on the right side of the door. By reflex, she pulled out her Sig as Allan took out his Beretta and dropped it down behind his leg.

Denis rapped his knuckles hard on the door four times, and the sound carried down the quiet corridor.

They waited. No one answered.

Denis knocked again.

“Mr. Stark. This is Detective Denis Gagnon with the Ontario Provincial Police. Open up, please.”

Still no answer.

“Hear anything inside?” Audra asked him.

Denis pressed his ear to the door for a moment then shook his head. “Nope. All quiet.”

Inserting the key into the lock, he slowly nudged the door with his foot. It opened about an inch before the swing-bar lock inside caught it.

“He’s home,” Allan said.

“Mr. Stark,” Denis called through the crack. “Police. Open up. We know you’re in there.”

More silence.

All at once, Allan let out a groan, and then he rammed his shoulder into the door. There came a loud crack then the clang of metal as a piece of the lock hit the floor. Raising his pistol out in front of him, he rushed in.

Audra followed close behind.

The inside resembled a one-bedroom apartment—living room, kitchenette, and separate bedroom. They found Jacob Stark in the bedroom sitting at a desk and writing in a journal. He was dressed in a white shirt and black pants. Audra found herself staring at the faint scratch on his left cheek.

“Put the pen down,” Allan ordered, aiming the pistol at Stark’s head.

Stark glanced over at him with an apathetic expression. “Almost done.”

Denis came around the side of the bed, Beckett and Latour beside him.

“Why didn’t you answer the door?” he asked.

“Thought I’d enjoy a few more seconds of freedom.”

Audra said, “So you know why we’re here?”

Stark continued to scribble on the page. “Figured as much.”

“Your wife told you.”

Quiet, he gave a listless shrug.

“We have a warrant for your arrest,” Denis said. “For the murder of Kate Saint-Pierre on October seventeenth. In Halifax, Nova Scotia.”

Audra watched Stark’s reaction, but he never batted an eye at the charge. Just continued to write.

“You need not say anything,” Denis said. “You have nothing to hope from any promise or favor and nothing to fear from any threat whether or not you say anything.

“Anything you do or say may be used as evidence. Do you understand?”

“Just the one charge?” Stark asked.

Denis frowned. “Well, so far. We also have you under suspicion in a whack of other murder cases. Mary Driscow, Guillaume Mills, Li Chen, Hailey Pringle, Ted Taylor, Marian Duffy, Lionel Selman, Dave McNeil, Mollie Corradetti, Karen Leacock, Gilda Melanson.”

Audra noticed Stark had reacted to only one name with a pause and a frown—Hailey Pringle.

“Sounds like we’ve both been busy.” Setting the pen down, he leaned back in the chair. “Was that eleven people?”

“Yes.”

“You sure on that number? On those names?”

Denis put his pistol away. “You were in Huntsville when Li Chen was murdered. You stayed at the Huntsville Inn. Remember?”

Stark lowered his gaze, said nothing.

Pistol still aimed at Stark’s head, Allan said, “You came home with a big gash by your eye. Told your wife you broke up a fight at Moose Delaney’s. Only you didn’t. Li Chen gave you that gash, didn’t he? That’s why you cut off his fingertips. So no one would find your DNA. The same reason you cut off Kate Saint-Pierre’s fingertips. Because she gave you that scratch on your face.”

Stark looked up at him, and a tiny smirk lifted the corners of his mouth. He appeared unnervingly relaxed.

“You fucked up with Mary Driscow, though,” Allan continued. “You left DNA on her. And we have your profile.”

Stark cocked his head to the side. “Sure it’s mine?”

“We will be soon enough.”

“Mary Driscow.”

“Yeah,” Allan said. “Remember her?”

The smirk on Stark’s face widened into a smile. “I remember them all. Each name. Each face. Each little noise they made. Each look of fear and confusion they gave me when they realized it was game over.”

Audra felt her breath catch in her throat. Everyone else stared on in stunned disbelief.

Closing his eyes, Stark inhaled a deep breath through his nose, as if he smelled something pleasant.

“Strawberries,” he said softly. “That’s what I remember most about Mary Driscow. She smelled just like strawberries.”

Audra tensed as she noticed Allan’s index finger leave the frame of the Beretta and curl around the trigger.

“You bastard,” he said through clenched teeth. “Do you realize how many lives you destroyed?”

Stark looked at him again, and whatever human element his eyes held before suddenly disappeared into a swirl of something dark and hateful. His smile tapered off only by a fraction.

“Answer me,” Allan said.

“More than you know, cop.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Stark laughed, the sound sudden and harsh in the small room, and it seemed to light a fire in Allan’s eyes. With slow deliberation, he pressed the muzzle of his Beretta to Stark’s forehead. Stark never so much as flinched.

Raising his hands in the air, Denis took a step back. “Hey, take it easy, Detective.”

Beckett and Latour shifted their stances and traded worried glances.

Audra said, “Al, what are you doing?”

Stark’s gaze slid over to her then back to Allan. The smile remained on his face.

“Do it, Al,” he urged. “You know you want to.”

“Oh, I want to,” Allan said. “Believe me.”

Audra watched a bead of sweat roll down the side of Allan’s face. The muscles in his jaw pulsed like a rapid heartbeat.

“Al,” Audra said. “We got him. Don’t do this.”

“Don’t listen to her, Al,” Stark said. “Go ahead. See how exciting it feels.”

Audra spun on him. “You shut your mouth.”

“What was that you just told me?” Stark said to Denis. “I have nothing to fear from any threat whether or not I say anything? What do you call this?”

Slowly, Allan withdrew the Beretta and holstered it. Turning away, he walked out of the hotel room.

“Al,” Audra called after him, but he kept going.

Denis forced Stark to his feet and slapped the handcuffs on him.

“You don’t know how much this makes me happy,” he said. “Finally hearing these bracelets click on your wrists.”

Stark looked back over his shoulder at him. “Small things for small minds.”

Denis paused. “Mr. Jacob Stark, I am arresting you for the murder of Kate Saint-Pierre. It is my duty to inform you that you have the right to retain and instruct counsel of your choice in private and without delay.

“Before you decide to answer any questions concerning this investigation, you may call a lawyer of your choice or get free advice from Duty Counsel. Do you understand?”

“Understood, Kojak,” Stark said.

Denis shook his head. “You’re not the first to call me that, smart ass.” He turned to Beckett and Latour. “Take him over to headquarters. We’ll be there in a bit.”

As they began ushering Stark away, Denis called out to them. “Officers, wait.”

Beckett and Latour stopped and turned to him.

“Stupid question,” Denis said, “but where is headquarters again?”

Latour smirked then hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Take a right at the traffic lights outside. Keep going until you come to North Service Road. It’ll be at the third set of lights you hit. Headquarters is up there on the left. Can’t miss it.”

After Denis thanked them, he turned to Audra with an incredulous look on his face.

“What was that with Detective Stanton?” he said. “I honestly thought he was going to shoot that guy.”

So had Audra, but she kept the thought to herself.

“He’s had a rough few months,” she said.

Denis lifted his eyebrows. “Oh?”

She nodded and left it at that. Walking over to the desk, she picked up the journal Stark had been writing in. It had a black leather cover and a tie fastener. There were five identical journals piled neatly on the edge of the desk.

She began to read the last entry:

The cop doesn’t leave. He’s obviously watching my car in case I try to make a run for it. And where would I go?

I guess I always knew my luck would run out eventually. It does for everyone. The past ten years have left me with a lot of pleasant memories that I can pull out at random and soak in warm reminiscence. Those will get me through the tough times. Who knows, maybe the next phase of my life will bring me more memories to bask in. I know I won’t be able to tamp my urges for long. They will get the better of me sooner or later.

Two more police cars pull into the parking lot. They stop momentarily on each side of the original car. Then they drive off around the building and disappear from my sight. I don’t see them leave on the streets, so I assume they’re hanging out back, keeping an eye on the fire exits.

I wonder who’s going to come up to my room. Maybe they’re sending in SWAT.

Maybe not.

Two more police cars arrive. These park under the trees at the far side of the parking lot. Two uniformed cops emerge from one. Three plainclothes cops emerge from the other. One is a female with blond hair. The other two are males. One has dark hair; the other is bald. He looks just like Kojak. He crosses the parking lot and goes into the hotel. A few minutes later, the phone in my room rings.

I feel my freedom is growing short. Do I have any regrets? Other than getting caught, I have only one—the girls. I’m going to miss them. I wonder if Heidi will bring them to visit me. Probably not.

She’s going to have a hard time making ends meet. But I’m sure she’ll manage. For the sake of the girls, I hope she does.

Heidi was right about one thing—I couldn’t look after Jade and Jaleesa properly. I couldn’t give up my job to stay home with them. I guess I never appreciated all Heidi did.

The cops are in my room now—five of them—pointing their guns at me. The dark-haired one in a tweed coat is telling me to put the pen down. Kojak is asking me why I never answered the door. Why make it easy for them?

This will be the final log in my journals. I hope to start a new set once I’m settled in my new life.

Until then, arrivederci.

Audra leafed through the journal, skimming over the dates on the pages. They were in chronological order.

One by one, she flipped through the pages of the other five journals. The dates stretched back years.

“What are they?” Denis asked.

“Private journals,” she said. “Looks like he kept a log of everything he did. Hundreds and hundreds of pages’ worth.”

48

Oakville, November 1

10:51 P.M.

Allan paced the corridor outside the hotel room. His pulse pounded in his ears. His body felt amped up from the adrenaline rushing through his bloodstream.

He couldn’t remember ever feeling such crazed fury as he had in front of Jacob Stark. He’d wanted to shoot the man. Right there. Right then. It took every ounce of willpower he possessed just to turn and walk away.

In that moment, he knew he had to leave Major Crimes. He’d lost all control and perspective in that hotel room. He’d allowed his emotions to get the better of him, and in his job, that was a big no-no.

The ravages of PTSD were taking their toll on him. Worst of all, he was letting it happen.

Allan leaned against the wall and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He took several deep breaths, trying to calm himself down.

Beckett and Latour brought Stark out of the room. Allan watched them lead him down the corridor to the elevator. As they disappeared inside, Allan felt the tremors that had been rippling through his hands begin to subside.

After a few minutes, Audra appeared in the corridor, walking toward him.

“Hey,” she said. “What the hell was that in there?”

Allan shrugged, not quite trusting his voice to speak.

“You scared the shit out of me. I thought you were going to shoot him.”

He cleared his throat. “I wanted to.”

“Jesus, Al,” she said, searching his face. “What’s going on with you? And don’t tell me you’re fine. You’re not fine at all.”

Allan saw the concern in her blue eyes. “I’m not cut out for this work anymore.”

Audra touched his arm. “Talk to me. You know I’m worried about you.”

He opened his mouth and just about said, “Don’t be.” Instead, he lowered his head and let out a sigh.

“I haven’t been right for a while,” he said. “Months, actually.”

“Ever since that shootout in the alley?”

He shook his head. “Long before that.”

“Tell me.”

Allan pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut.

“Tell me,” Audra repeated. “Please.”

So he did. He told her everything. Only because she was one of the few people in the department he trusted. Anything he said to her would remain between them.

He told her about how lost and alone he felt after Melissa had left with Brian. About how he began to become emotionally invested with victims’ families—even more so than he had in the past—and it bothered him because he didn’t know if he’d just used them to fill the void Melissa’s leaving had given him.

He told her about the night he got drunk and put his Beretta to his head after he told Brian he’d have to cancel his visit because Allan was leaving Halifax to chase a lead in a case.

He told her about the recurring nightmare after the shooting in Acresville. About how Herb Matteau’s revolver was really loaded and when he brought it up in front of him to shoot Allan, Allan couldn’t shoot back because his own gun had no trigger. The nightmare would always end with Matteau glaring down at him through ribbons of smoke curling up from the end of his revolver as Allan died at his feet.

He told her about the problems he had after the shootout in the alley. About how any sudden bang would send him ducking for cover. Even the slightest sound in the house would send him checking every room, every door, and every window.

He told her about how his mind would race out of control at times, filling him with overwhelming fear and anxiety. About how he kept seeing the faces of the dead. About the intrusive flashbacks that would pop up at any moment.

“Remember when I went out for supper with Melissa and Brian to celebrate her new job?”

Quiet, Audra nodded.

“While I was sitting there at the table with them,” Allan said, “my attention was drawn to the parking lot across the street. I saw Brad Hawkins lying there, dead. I couldn’t get the image out of my mind. I ended up changing seats with Melissa so I wouldn’t have to face the window.”

“Who was he again?”

“The security guard Herb Matteau murdered.”

Audra tipped her head back. “Right.”

“That’s how fast the flashbacks can hit me,” Allan said. “Completely without warning.”

“Why didn’t you tell Dr. Galloway all of this?”

“I don’t know. Wanted to hang on to my job, I guess.”

“This sounds like PTSD.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m convinced it is.”

“You can’t fool around with this any longer, Al. Remember what happened to Henderson?”

Allan remembered him, all right. He was a twenty-one-year veteran who waited until his wife and two sons went out shopping one night, then he walked into the garage and gassed himself in his car.

Henderson had left no note explaining why. It wasn’t until detectives interviewed Henderson’s wife that they learned of his deteriorating mental health. He’d have outbursts of anger over the least little thing. He’d become emotionally detached from his family. He’d hit the bottle the moment he came from work and was drunk more than he was sober. Before his suicide, his wife had considered leaving him. Life with him, she’d said, had become a living hell.

Audra put a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t want to see something happen to you, Al. When we get back to Halifax, you go see Galloway. Tell her everything you just told me. Get the help you need.”

Allan felt an ache in his heart. He looked at her and noticed Denis standing down the corridor just outside the room. He had his arms crossed and shoulder leaned against the jamb. When their eyes met, Denis lowered his gaze to the floor.

Audra turned to him. “Detective, did you call Montoya?”

Denis pushed off the jamb. “She’s on her way,” he said. “Heidi Stark did call her husband.”

“How do you know that?” Allan asked.

“Stark has personal journals in there. Six of them. That’s what he was writing in. I read the entry before his final one. In it, he admitted to his wife that he killed Kate Saint-Pierre.”

Allan lifted his chin. “What’d he say exactly?”

“Said he strangled her with a piece of that rope we took from the garage.”

Audra said, “We get his DNA, and I’m confident we’ll have him for the murder of Mary Driscow as well.”

“Not only her,” Denis said. “I skimmed over the October entries. It seems he has been a busy man. He mentioned a guy named Roger Pratt. He was a hiker from Toronto who went missing in Mount Nemo over in Burlington. When searchers found his body, Halton Police believed his death was an accident.”

Allan felt a weird tingle in his stomach. “Only it wasn’t, I’m guessing.”

Denis made a sad face. “Stark pushed him off a cliff. Or so he wrote.”

Audra’s eyebrows shot up. “Whoa. He murdered someone right in his own backyard.”

“I heard Mount Nemo has some dangerous areas,” Denis said. “There have been accidents there over the years. A few people have even died, falling off the cliffs.”

Allan said, “So Pratt’s death wouldn’t spark any suspicions.”

Denis shook his head.

The elevators doors chimed open, and Detective Montoya emerged, carrying her field kit.

“You guys have some evidence for me to collect?” she asked.

“Six journals,” Denis said. “They’re in the room on the desk.”

Allan asked him, “How many pages in these journals?”

Denis frowned. “Two hundred fifty. Three hundred pages apiece.”

“That would be my guess,” Audra said. “Writing on both sides of the page.”

“There’s a lot of literature to go through.” Denis glanced at his watch. “How do you feel about pulling an all-nighter?”

49

Oakville, November 2

6:39 A.M.

Jacob Stark’s first victim had been Alannah Wallace, a twenty-six-year-old medical secretary from Sudbury, Ontario.

On August 3, 2000, he’d come across her while hiking Killarney Provincial Park.

I see her the moment I reach the top of Silver Peak, he wrote. It’s just her and me up there. We could be the only two people in the world.

She takes a sip from her water bottle as she looks out at the lush hills and valleys. Beyond them, the water of Georgian Bay sparkles under the bright sun. It’s really a gorgeous view.

My boot scuffs the white quartzite cliff top, and she snaps her head around at the sound. I give her a wave and smile to let her know I’m harmless. She ignores me and turns back to the scenery. Squirts some water into her mouth.

She’s pretty—lean and fit. Her long golden hair twirls in the wind. She’s wearing one of those wicking T-shirts, khaki shorts, and low-top boots. She has a small pack on her back.

As I stare at her, dark fantasies begin dancing in my brain. I feel a warm rush of excitement push through my body. My pulse speeds up. My senses heighten.

Coming to the park, the thought of killing someone hadn’t even entered my mind. But this woman, alone up here, triggers a deep compulsion that has sat dormant inside me for years.

There are a few quartzite rocks scattered around the clifftop. More mind than body, I’m drawn to one the size of a brick. Carefully picking it up, I look over at the woman. She continues to stare out at the view.

Slowly, I creep toward her. She doesn’t hear me coming up behind her. I bring the rock down hard on the back of her head. Her body jolts as if from a sudden shock of electricity. The water bottle falls from her hand and rolls off the edge of the cliff.

She drops to her hands and knees, moaning. I smile down at her. The euphoria flooding my brain feels several times stronger than it did with the animals.

With every ounce of strength I have, I hit her again. Shock runs through my forearm. The woman’s eyes pop open, and she collapses to the ground. She shudders and twitches for a good ten seconds then lies still.

At any moment, someone coming might catch me. I throw the rock as far as I can. It lands in the trees below with no sound.

I drag the woman to the edge of the cliff and hurl her over. I watch her body skidding down the cliffside for several yards, then it begins tumbling, picking up speed just before disappearing into the trees.

Stark murdered his second victim the following October while he hiked the Sentiers de l’Estrie in Quebec. The victim’s name was Raymond Simard, a thirty-two-year-old businessman from Sherbrooke.

In his entry, Stark described how he tried to stun his would-be victim by hitting him over the back of the neck with his trekking pole. Only the carbon pole broke in two, and Stark and Simard ended up wrestling on the ground. Stark won out by thrusting a broken piece of the pole through Simard’s eye, killing him. He then dragged the body off the trail and hid it in the trees. He later ditched the broken pole in the Magog River.

Too close for comfort, he wrote. Next time, I’ll try an aluminum pole. See how it holds up. Carbon is obviously too brittle.

In April of 2002, he met Heidi Riggs at the Delta London Armouries. She’d been working the front desk when he checked in at the hotel.

Both of us just stand there grinning at each other like two idiots, he wrote. Is it love at first sight? I don’t know, but my legs are like jelly. When I go up to my room, I can’t stop thinking about her. I have to ask her out.

By that time, Jacob Stark had murdered five people. Three men, two women. All at different parks across Canada.

During his five-month courtship with Heidi, Stark would claim his sixth victim while hiking the Johnston Canyon trail in Banff National Park. The man’s name had been Tyler Crane, a thirty-seven-year-old bartender from Banff.

Stark had pushed him off a catwalk into a rushing mountain creek. He watched as the powerful flow carried the man off and swept him right over a steep waterfall.

Several entries later, Stark learned of Crane’s name through a news article on the Internet. He seemed amused that the RCMP in Banff considered the death an accident.

Case closed, he wrote.

As Allan read over the entries about Tyler Crane, it reminded him of Roger Pratt. Both men had sadly gone to their deaths without raising any suspicions.

Allan leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms over his head. He felt as if he could sleep for a week. His eyes were watery and scratchy; he rubbed them lightly with his knuckles. His mind seemed to be getting lazy. He had to fight to keep his concentration during the last several pages of Stark’s journal.

He picked up a cup of coffee—his third—and took a sip. Audra sat across the table from him. She had the third journal set aside and was well into the fourth one. Denis sat at the end of the table, just opening journal six.

Both detectives looked as tired as Allan felt.

Whenever they’d come across an entry where Stark claimed he had murdered someone, they would record the person’s name and all the pertinent details.

Allan glanced at the sheet of paper beside Audra. She had written several names on it. Denis had a bunch of names on his paper as well.

Allan felt a quiver in his stomach, a prickle up the back of his neck. He wondered just how many people Stark had murdered over the past decade.

Allan had finished the first journal an hour ago. He estimated he had about one hundred fifty pages to go in the second. Halfway there.

He drew a breath and went back to reading.

Jacob Stark had married Heidi in September of 2002.

I didn’t know if I was for marriage, he wrote. I was always a free bird. But I’m twenty-seven now. Maybe it’s time I brought some normality to my life. Whatever the hell that is.

I’m reminded of a quote I saw once, “Normal is for people without any courage.”

But Heidi is talking kids. I must say the idea of being a father, of having little creations of mine running around, leaves me with a warm and fuzzy feeling I never had before.

So why not take the plunge?

Three weeks after their honeymoon, Stark flew to Regina, Saskatchewan, to consult with a potash company. While in the city, he nearly claimed his seventh victim as he jogged Wascana Center Park.

I see her coming toward me, he wrote. Ponytail bobbing. Arms swinging like pendulums. Hips swiveling side to side. I can tell right away she’s one of those race-walkers.

As we draw closer, my excitement reaches a fever pitch. I touch the electrical cord in my jacket pocket.

We’re about ten feet apart when something over her shoulder catches my eye. There are people on the trail, walking in my direction.

Helplessly, I watch the woman race-walk her way right past me. My excitement plummets. I end up doing one more lap around the lake before returning to my hotel room disappointed.

Those are the breaks.

Stark’s daughter, Jaleesa, was born on May 25, 2003. He described the worry, relief, joy, and pride most new fathers experience.

He wrote, The nurse finally lets me hold her. I stare down at this tiny bundle of pink skin and actually tear up. It’s a raw emotion I feel, almost inexpressible. My heart literally feels like it swells inside my chest. I never experienced such a powerful affection toward another human being before. Not even Heidi.

I made this little girl.

Five weeks later, Stark would find his seventh victim.

He had flown to Saint John to consult with a limestone company. He stayed in the area for two days after his meetings were over, so he could visit the Fundy Trail Parkway. It was located forty-five kilometers away in St. Martins. He’d never hiked the trails there before and was excited to experience the park for the first time.

But he also had an ulterior motive: he went there to hunt.

Fundy Foot Path is a tough trail, he wrote. Grueling cable staircases up steep climbs. Narrow paths. Jagged cliffs. Crossings over shallow creeks. But the views of the Bay of Fundy are gorgeous. At some points on my hike, I can hear waves crashing below me.

The trail itself can be over fifty kilometers, depending on which end you start. It takes hikers three to four days to complete, but I plan on doing only a small part of it. I never brought any camping gear. I never do.

I meet a few hikers along the way. Couples. Groups of three and four. No one alone.

It’s not until I head back that I see him. He’s huffing his way up a steep cable staircase. I stand at the top, watching him take the steps one at a time.

He’s not an old fellow, probably midthirties. But he’s carrying a few extra pounds of body weight, and his backpack is enormous. It looks to be a 105-liter bag. Way too big to lug around in summer.

“Careful,” I call out to him. “It’s a long way down.”

When he pauses to look up at me, I notice his hand grab hold of the cable railing to keep from falling back.

“Yeah,” he says. “No shit, eh?”

His face is flushed. Sweat drips off the end of his nose. It’ll be a shame if he has a heart attack before he even reaches me.

Step by step, he draws closer. I wonder if I should use my trekking pole or just my hand.

He makes it to the top step and bends over, sucking in big gulps of air. I wait until he pulls his hand off the cable railing and places it on his knee before I put my palm on his sweaty head and give him a push.

Arms flailing, he cries out as he goes tumbling end over end down the steps. Partway down, his body veers off the staircase and over the jagged rocks of the hillside. He bounces off the trunk of a tree and continues on at a fast pace. Belongings in his backpack spill out and fly all over the place.

I begin down the steps as the man’s body tumbles across the trail and into the bushes on the other side.

When I reach him, I’m not sure if he’s dead or not. He’s facedown, not moving or making a sound.

I turn him over. His eyes are closed.

I sit on his chest and press both hands down over his nose and mouth. His body bucks beneath me for several seconds then lies still. I keep my hands where they are for a full minute just to make sure.

Days later, Stark would learn the man’s name: Morgan Cusak, a group-home worker from Sussex, New Brunswick.

Allan let out a breath and rolled his shoulders. The remaining pages of Stark’s second journal talked about his home life. How his heart melted when his daughter gave him her first beaming smile. How she was staying awake for longer periods in the day and seemed more fascinated by her surroundings.

In the final entry, Stark was about to leave for Victoria, BC. He looked forward to hiking the Galloping Goose Trail for the first time.

Allan closed the journal and shoved it aside. He noticed Audra had finished the two journals she had been reading. She had her arms folded and head lowered in a pose of thought.

“What do you think?” she asked him.

“Disturbing.”

She raised her eyes. “Yeah. Hard to read some parts.”

Allan asked, “Did he find anyone on Galloping Goose Trail?”

“Huh?”

He twitched his head toward the second journal. “Last entry, Stark was getting ready to leave for to Victoria. He must’ve continued the story into the third journal.”

“Oh, right.” Audra rubbed her forehead. “Sorry, Al. My brain is mush right now.”

“Mine too.”

“No, he didn’t,” she said. “I remember reading about it now. Too many people on the trail.”

“This guy’s a real Jekyll and Hyde,” Allan said. “On one hand, he’s this loving husband and father. On the other, he’s off killing people with a casualness that’s absolutely chilling.”

Denis looked up from the journal he’d been reading. “You think he’s a loving husband? I’m reading some stuff here where he’s about to kill his wife.”

Allan frowned. “Why?”

“For ignoring him. She thought he was cheating on her.”

Audra said, “Because he’d called her Kate, remember?”

Denis nodded. “Listen to this. ‘I stand at the bedside, staring down at her. One swift loop of the rope around the back of her neck, and it’s all over. Eight years of marriage have come to this.’”

“When’d this happen?” Audra asked.

“Saturday,” Denis said. “Three days ago.”

Allan asked, “What stopped him?”

Denis read a bit more. “His youngest daughter. She came out of her room and interrupted him before he could go through with it.”

Mouth pinched, Audra shook her head. “Wow. Just wow.”

“How many victims?” Allan asked her.

“Six,” she said. “You?”

“Seven.”

“That’s thirteen.”

“Twenty-four,” Denis said, “when you add the eleven names I wrote down.”

All at once, pinpricks erupted over Allan’s skin. He heard Audra blow out a slow breath.

“Whoa,” she said. “Eleven victims.”

“Three just last month.” Denis sat back in the chair, gripping the edge of the table with both hands. “Roger Pratt. Kate Saint-Pierre. Guillaume Mills.”

“So we were right,” Allan said. “Stark did murder Mr. Mills.”

Audra said, “We’ll have to inform Corporal Scott.”

“What about those other cases we picked out?” Allan said. “Were they mentioned?”

“In great detail,” Denis said, picking up his list of names. “There were five of those people in these two journals.”

“Two of them in mine,” Audra said. “Gilda Melanson and Lionel Selman.”

“That makes the seven maybes,” Denis said.

Allan looked at him. “Li Chen?”

Denis made a grim face and nodded again. “Stark did do it.”

“I already know the answer, but I have to ask. Was Mary Driscow in those pages?”

“Yes.”

“Hailey Pringle?”

Pulling his hands off the table, Denis slumped his shoulders.

“Stark was home on the day of her murder,” he said quietly. “You were right, Detective. The crime-scene characteristics didn’t add up.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I was just hoping I’d have something promising to tell Hailey’s mother.”

Audra yawned into a fist. “So why do you guys think Stark never destroyed these journals? He knew we were closing in on him, yet he just left them there on the desk. It’s like he wanted us to find them.”

“He’s a narcissist,” Denis said. “And a lunatic.”

“He’s also proud of what he’s done,” Allan added. “And what do we do when we’re proud of something?”

“We want to share it with others,” Audra said.

Allan nodded. “Exactly.”

A knock came at the door of the conference room. Sergeant Jeffrey Hansen poked his head in.

“Am I interrupting, Detectives?”

“We’re all finished,” Denis said. “C’mon in, Sergeant.”

Hansen was short and wiry, with a deep tan and heavy creases around his eyes. A pencil-thin moustache ran along his upper lip.

“Stark lawyered up,” he said.

Denis snorted. “Of course he did.”

“We took his DNA. Our lab will do the profile. Should take a few weeks.”

“Good,” Allan said.

“Shall we send the profile to you, Detective Stanton?”

“Send it in care of both Detective Price and myself.”

“Very well,” Hansen said. “What did you guys find out?”

Denis said, “According to his own writings, Stark murdered twenty-four people during the last ten years.”

It was as if someone had flipped a switch to shut Hansen off. He just stood there—mouth hanging open—for a good twenty seconds.

He shook his head. “Twenty—”

“Twenty-four, yes,” Denis said. “You take out our jurisdictions—Halifax, Huntsville, and Burlington—we’re left with twenty jurisdictions to notify.”

Hansen licked his lips. “Holy shit.”

Allan said, “We’re drawing up murder charges as soon as we get back to Halifax.”

Hansen nodded. “We’re charging him today in Roger Pratt’s death. When are you all heading back to your hometowns?”

“Soon,” Audra said. “Our department is pretty short staffed with the two of us gone.”

“That’s understandable. We’ll all correspond with each other as this case progresses.” Hansen looked down the table at Denis. “Detective Gagnon, if you could stay with us for a few days, I would appreciate it.”

“I can do that.”

Hansen turned to Allan. “Detective Stanton. Stark’s lawyer made some serious allegations about you.”

Folding his arms, Allan sagged back in the chair. “Like what?”

“He claims you put your gun to his client’s forehead when you were all at the hotel. Stark said you wanted to kill him.”

“That’s bullshit,” Denis said. “I was right there.”

Audra said, “Stark’s telling his lawyer stories.”

Hansen flipped his gaze around to each detective then fixed it on Allan.

“That’s what I thought,” he said. “I asked Constables Beckett and Latour. They told me they never witnessed anything like that.” A little smile appeared on his face. “But you’re awful quiet about it, Detective Stanton.”

Allan gave him a half-hearted shrug. “Don’t know what to tell you.”

Hansen’s smile dropped away. “Doesn’t matter to me anyway. It’s his word against five.”

He turned to leave.

“Sergeant,” Allan said.

Hansen stopped, looked back over his shoulder at him.

“Can I see him?” Allan asked.

“Stark?”

“Yeah.”

“You’ll have to talk to him through his lawyer.”

“I don’t care. I don’t have any questions for him. I have something I want to tell him.”

Hansen paused a moment. “Okay. I’ll get back to you.”

50

Oakville, November 2

11:00 A.M.

Allan looked into the face of the man who had murdered Mary Driscow and Kate Saint-Pierre, who had probably murdered twenty-two others, and altered the lives of all the families involved. Hundreds of people forever affected by the actions of one man.

“Detective Al,” Stark said. “Come back to finish the job?”

Allan clenched his jaw, trying to control the slow, sick anger pushing through his body.

Stark’s lawyer sat at the table beside him. His name was Donald Bright, a short, heavyset man with a soft face. A bushy thatch of black hair circled the glistening bald patch on the top of his head.

Stark turned to him and said, “This is the cop I told you about.”

Bright looked up at Allan. “Mr. Stark claims you—”

“I know what he told you,” Allan interrupted. “I heard all about it.”

“Your client is telling you lies,” Denis said, walking into the interview room behind Allan.

Stark tipped his head back over the chair and snorted.

“This is how you cops never get charged with your crimes,” he said. “You all lie and cover for one another.”

“We read your journals,” Allan said. “Twenty-four people you murdered.”

Stark brought his head off the chair, one side of his lips pulled up in a smug smile. He gave the impression that he was a man completely at ease with his surroundings.

Bright said, “Nothing’s been proven, Detective. I might remind you of that.”

Allan ignored him. He held Stark in his eyes.

“You’re probably wondering what led us to you. What mistake you made.”

Stark lifted his shackled hands, turning up the palms, as if he didn’t care.

“Kate Saint-Pierre,” Allan said. “You thought you were being smart by cutting off her fingertips. We wouldn’t find your DNA, right? But you couldn’t just leave it at that. You had to pose her like Mary Driscow. You had to let us know it was you. Your narcissism became your undoing.

“Cutting off Kate Saint-Pierre’s fingertips allowed us to link her murder to Li Chen’s. And that made us look into other unsolved murders out there.

“The rest, as they say, is history.

“If you’d left Saint-Pierre’s body be, yes, we would’ve had your DNA. We would’ve compared it to the DNA left on Mary Driscow and known it came from the same man. But you’re not in the DNA Data Bank. You weren’t on any police department’s radar.

“That one mistake cost you everything.

“Remember that while you’re sitting in your prison cell at nights. No more enjoying the great outdoors. No more hiking in nature. No more freedom for you.”

The smug smile melted away. “I have my memories,” he said. “That’s what I’ll be remembering most.”

Denis came around the end of the table. He placed his hands on the top, leaning in close to Stark.

“How do you murder twenty-four people?” he asked. “Don’t you feel any remorse at all?”

“Careful how you answer that,” Bright warned.

Stark cocked his head to the side, and Allan saw a change cross his eyes; they became colder, dead almost.

“We only matter to ourselves,” he said calmly. “And the few people who love us enough to remember us when we’re gone.”

“And who’s going to remember you?” Denis said. “Your wife who you nearly murdered? How about your daughters? When they get old enough to realize what you did to all those people, how will they feel about you? Will they love you then?”

Bright said, “Detectives—”

Denis flashed his palm at him. “Shush, Mr. Bright. I’m talking here.” He kept his eyes fastened to Stark. “I never believed a person could be born evil until I met you.”

A faint smile appeared on Stark’s face again. “Tell me something. Is the Kojak look intentional or did you happen upon it by accident? It must be intentional, right?”

Denis kept his composure. “Your own mother even hated you.”

Stark paused. “She used to call me the devil. A monster. She knew what I was long before I did.”

“She saw it in you, didn’t she? At seven years old, you stood outside her hope chest, smiling, while your twin brother thrashed around inside. Clawing to get out. He nearly suffocated because of you.”

“But good ol’ Mom saved him. Bless her heart.” Stark’s face went slack, and his eyes became distant. “Joshua died two years later. It should’ve been me who fell off the swing that day.”

“Yeah,” Allan said. “It should have.”

Stark shifted his gaze to him. “Such is fate.”

“I’m done here,” Allan said.

Denis nodded, pushing back from the table. “Me too. I’ll tell you something, Mr. Stark. I’m glad Canada doesn’t have the death penalty. It would be too good for you.”

They walked to the door.

“So long, gentlemen,” Stark said. “Oh, wait. Detective Al. There’s something I wanted to ask you.”

Allan held the door open with one hand as he looked back.

“Did she matter to you?”

Allan frowned. “Who?”

“Mary Driscow.”

Allan stared at him and suddenly felt the same crazed fury he’d felt at the hotel. Turning away, he slammed the door behind him.

As he stomped down the hallway, he heard Stark laughing inside the interview room.

Black, mocking laughter.

51

Hamilton, November 3

12:55 P.M.

A pre-boarding announcement for flight 532 to Halifax came over the airport intercom, inviting passengers with small children and people requiring help to begin boarding.

“Regular boarding will begin in ten minutes’ time,” the voice said.

Allan checked his watch. “That’s our flight.”

“So I guess this is good-bye,” Denis said.

Audra gave him a big hug.

“Oh no,” he said, “you’re going to make me all teary eyed.”

“Not a good-bye,” Audra told him. “Just a see-you-later.”

Denis nodded. “Most definitely.” He turned to Allan and stuck out his hand. “Detective Stanton.”

Allan shook it. “Detective Gagnon. It was a pleasure working with you.”

“Pleasure’s all mine. I made two friends out of this.” He wrapped his free arm around Allan’s shoulder, slapping him twice on the back. “Get that help. Please.”

As they pulled away from each other, Allan felt a sudden ache at the back of his throat. He dropped his gaze to his shoes then lifted it back up to Denis.

“I will,” he said softly.

“Think about bringing the family out for a visit next year,” Denis told him. “We can go to our cottage on Lake Muskoka. Enjoy a few cold beers. Have a barbecue. We can even take your son out on the boat. Great walleye fishing there in the summer.”

“I will definitely consider that,” Allan said.

“Don’t consider. Just do it. We’ll have fun.” Denis turned to Audra. “You too, Detective Price. Bring your husband and daughter up for a visit.”

“I’ll run it by them.”

“We got a nice spot on the lake. My wife makes amazing barbecue sauce. You mention cold beers, barbecue, and lake fishing to your husband, and he’ll come out. I bet on it.”

Audra smiled. “I’ll talk him into it. Just don’t ask him to cook anything.”

Denis chuckled. “He’s one of those guys, is he? Last time he cooked, he burned the salad.”

Audra laughed. “That’s him.”

Denis reached over and nudged her arm. “If he’s not good in the kitchen, he must be good somewhere else.”

Audra tossed her head back. “Oh, Jesus.”

Denis threw a wink at Allan.

“I’m right, aren’t I?” he prodded jokingly. “Tell me I’m right.”

Smiling, Audra shook her head. “You really are a character.”

Another announcement came over the intercom, saying flight 532 was ready for boarding.

“We better go,” Allan said.

Denis lifted his hand in a wave. “You two have a safe flight. We’ll talk later.”

“You bet,” Audra said. “See ya.”

Allan nodded him a good-bye then rushed off.

When they boarded the plane, Audra took the aisle seat. Allan took the one by the window.

“I can’t wait to get home,” Audra said. “The first thing I’m doing is taking a hot bath. Then I’ll probably sleep for a week.”

Allan nodded. “You and me both.”

Within minutes, he could hear Audra’s deep, even breathing. He looked over and saw her fast asleep.

Allan leaned his head back, shutting his eyes. As tired as he was, sleep just would not come.

His brain ran rampant about the looming visit he had to make.

52

Halifax, November 3

5:23 P.M.

Allan shut his car off at the curb in front of Bill Driscow’s house.

There were two vehicles in the driveway. He didn’t recognize the white Chevy truck. Maybe Bill had visitors. Maybe VON or palliative care was inside, assisting him.

Allan decided to wait for a little while. He tipped his head back against the headrest, looking out over the trees. Deep furrows of clouds covered the sky, and they reflected the last red-and-orange rays of the dying sun.

Closing his eyes, he could feel the exhaustion creeping into his bones. He yawned and settled back into the seat.

He didn’t realize he’d been drifting off until his foot kicked something under the dash. It awoke him with a start, and he caught himself looking around, confused for a couple of seconds.

He wiped a hand over his face and sat up in the seat, arching his back. The Chevy truck, he saw, was still in the driveway. Someone had turned on the living room lights.

Allan checked his watch: 5:54. Might as well go see if Bill was available. If not, he could return later.

Stepping out of the car, Allan inhaled a lungful of cool November air. The temperature had to be dipping close to the freezing mark. His breath misted when he exhaled.

He walked to the front door and rang the bell. In moments, a light turned on in the foyer.

The door cracked open. A young woman stared at him, mouth parting. She could’ve been Mary Driscow’s older sister, and the sight of her caused Allan to flinch his head back slightly. She had lightly freckled skin and emerald eyes, with curly hair the color of paprika.

“Yes?” she said.

“Um…I’m Detective Stanton with the Halifax Police. Is Bill home?”

“Who is it, Jennie?” a frail voice called out from inside.

“Detective Stanton.”

“Let him in.”

Jennie directed him to the living room right off the foyer. Bill Driscow sat on a lush sofa surrounded by huge cushions.

“Detective Stanton,” he said, reaching a shaking hand across a coffee table covered with pill bottles. “I was hoping I’d see you one last time.”

As Allan shook his hand, he noticed the whites of Bill’s eyes had turned yellow. He’d also lost even more weight, considerably so. His gray sweatshirt hung off his shoulders.

“How’ve you been doing?” Allan asked him.

Leaning back into the cushions, Bill flicked his eyebrows. “Going downhill fast, I’m afraid.” He gestured to a chair by the fireplace. “Please, have a seat.”

Allan did.

“This is my living room and bedroom now,” Bill said. “I can’t go up and down the stairs anymore. Takes too much out of me.”

Allan felt a pang of sadness. “Sorry to hear that.”

“My brother thinks I should be in the hospital. Have you ever been to Victoria General?”

“Once or twice.”

“I don’t think they know what a broom is. Besides, I’m more comfortable here. In my own surroundings.”

“That’s understandable.”

“So what brings you here?” Bill gave him a bright-eyed, hopeful look. “Good news?”

Allan nodded. “We caught him. We caught Mary’s killer.”

Bill bit down on his lower lip, and his eyes misted.

His voice cracked as he asked, “Who was he?”

“His name is Jacob Stark. Thirty-five years old. Married, with two young daughters.”

“Did he know Mary?”

Allan shook his head. “He doesn’t even live around here. He’s from Burlington.”

Bill frowned. “What was he doing in Halifax?”

“He’s a…or was a business consultant. He was in the city to help a company streamline their operations.”

“Did he murder that other girl a few weeks ago?”

“Yes.”

Bill scratched the stubble on his jaw. “How does a man with children murder the child of someone else?”

Allan drew a breath, remembering the entries he’d read in Stark’s journals. “I can’t answer that, Mr. Driscow,” he said. “You meet people in my line of work that you never figure out. You just shake your head at their absurdity.”

“But you’re sure he’s the guy?”

Allan nodded again. “There are no doubts.”

Lifting his chin, Bill closed his eyes and took a deep sniff. “Jennie, could you come here?”

Seconds later, she appeared in the doorway, holding a dishtowel.

“You go home tonight,” he told her. “Be with your family.”

“I don’t want to leave you here alone.”

“I’ll be okay. Really, I will.”

“You sure?”

Bill nodded. “Positive. I’m just going to watch some TV tonight. Then I’ll get my blanket and go to sleep here on my comfy sofa.”

Jennie paused. “I’m going to finish up these dishes first.”

After she left the room, Bill looked at Allan. “That’s my niece. Good kid. She’s been practically staying here round the clock this past week. Her and Mary were first cousins. Best friends. People thought they were sisters.”

Allan said, “I saw the resemblance when she answered the door.”

“She has a husband and a six-year-old boy. I feel guilty that she’s been staying here. She should be with them.”

“Is it safe for you to be alone?” Allan asked.

“Oh yes. I can still get up and putter around. There’s a bathroom down the hall. I just can’t make it upstairs.”

Jennie came back, wearing a blue coat. “I’m leaving,” she said. “Sure you’ll be okay?”

Bill laughed lightly. “I’ll be fine, honey. Don’t worry.”

“I’ll be back first thing in the morning. Seven, seven thirty.”

“Okay, Jennie. See you then.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too.”

Bill watched her walk out, and his chin started quivering. Suddenly, he squeezed his eyes shut and seemed to bite back a pain in his body.

Allan got off the chair. “Hey, you okay?”

Opening his eyes, Bill mustered a half smile. “Cancer sucks, let me tell you.”

“Do you want me to get your niece back?”

“No, no. Definitely not,” he said. “A couple days ago, palliative care put a fentanyl patch on my chest to help with the pain. I think it might need to be changed tomorrow. Must be wearing off.” He gestured to the pill bottles on the coffee table. “I have some hydromorphone among my pharmacy there. But they only want me taking it if the pain gets too great. ’Fraid I might die sooner.”

Allan sat with him for a while, talking about nothing in particular—politics, the weather, the coming winter and whether or not it would be a bad one.

Bill never had another flare-up of pain, so Allan decided to go home. The time was 7:15 p.m.

“Sure you’re going to be all right here by yourself?” Allan asked him.

Bill flashed him a smile. “Don’t worry. I have Jennie on speed dial.”

Allan stuck out his hand. “You take care of yourself, Mr. Driscow.”

Tears welled in Bill’s eyes as he shook Allan’s hand. “Thank you, Detective Stanton. You brought me closure.”

“You’re welcome.”

As Allan stepped outside, he expelled a long sigh. He felt sick at heart over the tragedies that had befallen the Driscow family.

He didn’t remember the drive home. Carrying his bags into the house, he set them on the kitchen floor.

Brian came running in, all excited. “Dad.”

“Hey, little man.” He gave his son a big hug as Brian ran into his arms. “How was your day?”

“Good. Did you catch the bad guy?”

Allan gave him a fond smile. “Yes, we did.”

“Is he in jail?”

“He is in jail. Perfect place for him.”

Melissa appeared in the doorway, and her eyebrows drew together when she looked at him.

“Wow,” she said. “Do you ever look tired.”

Allan removed his coat, draped it over the back of a chair. “I’m pretty exhausted. A lot of traveling and late nights. We pulled an all-nighter on Monday, and I haven’t recovered from it.”

“Did you catch any sleep on the plane?”

He shook his head. “Audra did. She slept the entire flight. Didn’t wake up until we landed.”

“Supper’s in the oven. I thought you’d be home sooner.”

Allan watched Brian run off into the living room. “I wanted to make a stop first. Got hung up there a little longer than I wanted.”

Melissa grabbed a pair of oven mitts from a drawer. “Oh, really? Where?”

“Bill Driscow.”

“Who’s that?”

“Mary Driscow’s father.”

Melissa paused a moment before opening the oven door and bringing out a plate wrapped in tinfoil. Setting it on the table, she pulled off the foil to reveal a jacket potato stuffed with salmon, peas, and cheese.

“That looks delicious, sweetheart.”

She smiled. “It is. Thought I’d try a new recipe. Brian doesn’t like salmon, but he ate it in this. Of course, I didn’t tell him what was in it.”

Allan grabbed a fork and sat down at the table to eat. Melissa took a seat across from him.

“This is good,” he said, chewing a piece of potato.

“I know, right?”

“So how’s work going?”

“Great. I love this job, Al.”

“That’s good. I’m so happy everything’s working out for you.”

“What about you?” she asked. “I still think about that night, a few weeks ago, when you came home and looked like a castaway. You were blaming yourself for things out of your control. I noticed you’ve been bothered with stuff ever since then.”

Allan lowered his head. “It was after my visit with Bill Driscow,” he said quietly. “That’s when I learned about his wife dying. Mary Driscow’s mother.”

“The man you went to see tonight.”

“Yes.”

“You wanted to tell him you arrested his daughter’s killer.”

As he pictured the frail man on that sofa, Allan felt a painful tightness in his throat. He tried to blink away the sudden rise of tears, but one leaked out and rolled down his cheek.

“Oh, Al,” Melissa said, searching his face. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s my job.” He wiped his eyes with the back of a hand. “I need to talk to you about these past six months. About what’s been happening to me.”

“Tell me.”

Composing himself, Allan looked into her hazel eyes and saw the concern swimming there. He was so grateful she was back in his life.

“Tell me, Al,” she repeated.

“Tomorrow night,” he said. “There’s just so much, and I need to get some sleep right now.”

Melissa paused a moment. “Okay. Do you want to try a Unisom?”

“Sure. Why not.”

As she left the kitchen, Allan put the empty plate in the sink and ran a glass of water. Melissa came back with a pill in her hand. She gave it to him.

“You only need one,” she said.

He chased it down with a gulp of water then set the glass in the sink.

“Tomorrow night,” Melissa said. “You’re going to tell me everything.”

“I promise.” Allan gave her a hug. “You might want to pick up a bottle of wine after work.”

“For me?”

“For both of us.”

He kissed her good night and went upstairs. He found Brian in his room, building what looked to be a castle with his Lego blocks. Buddy slept at the foot of his bed.

“Hey, little man. I’m going to bed now.”

Brian looked up at him. “So early?”

Allan smiled. “Daddy’s exhausted.” He gave him a kiss on top of the head. “See you in the morning.”

“K, Dad. Good night.”

“G’night, son.”

Allan went down the hall to his bedroom. He set his pager and cell phone on the dresser. Then he changed out of his clothes and crawled into bed. Within minutes, he felt his body sinking into sleep.

He dreamed he heard Melissa’s voice calling to him.

“Al,” she said. “Al.”

“What is it?”

“Al,” she continued to say. “It’s work.”

“Work?”

In the background, he heard a high-pitched beeping.

“Wake up. Wake up, Al.”

As he swam back to consciousness, he realized someone was pushing on his shoulder. He opened his eyes to find it was morning. Melissa stood at the bedside, dressed in her pajamas.

“You slept like a log last night,” she said. “Never moved once.”

“Hey,” he muttered, still groggy. “Did I hear my pager?”

“Yes. That’s why I woke you up.” She handed it to him. “You got a call.”

He sat up in bed and wiped the crust from his eyes. The bedside clock read: 7:40. He read the code on the pager’s display. When he scrolled to the address of the call, he began shaking his head.

“No, no, no,” he said.

“What is it?” Melissa asked.

Getting out of bed, Allan snatched his cell phone off the dresser and placed a call to Dispatch.

“Yes, Detective?”

“That call you just sent me. Send it to another investigator.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

A pause. “Why?”

“Because I’m not going. Send the call to someone else. I’ll deal with the consequences later.”

Allan hung up the phone. Sitting back against the dresser, he dropped his head and stared at the floor. It felt as if a cold hand had closed around his heart and begun squeezing.

Melissa walked over to him, touching his arm. “What happened?”

Allan closed his eyes and winced.

His voice cracked around the words. “It’s Bill Driscow. He committed suicide.”

Epilogue

Halifax, November 12

2:00 P.M.

Allan flinched when Melissa laid her hand on his forearm.

“You’re doing the right thing,” she said.

He let out a weighted sigh. “I know. It’s best for me. It’s best for us.”

“I keep thinking about what you told me last week. How that gang almost killed you. Imagine what that would’ve done to Brian. To me.”

Allan took her hand and gently squeezed it. “But I’m here, sweetheart. I survived. That’s the main thing.”

They sat in Dr. Galloway’s waiting room. Melissa had taken a couple of hours off work to go with him and lend her moral support. Allan had told her she didn’t have to, but she’d insisted on going. Now that she was there, he found her presence comforting, helpful even.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said. “Christmas is next month. Why don’t we do something different this year?”

“What do you have in mind?”

“Disney World.”

Melissa’s eyes brightened. “Wow. Really?”

“Whaddya say? We spend Christmas Day at home. Fly out Boxing Day. Spend a week down there. Just the three of us.”

“Brian would love that.”

Allan nodded. “I know. But we won’t tell him until after he opens his presents on Christmas Day.”

Melissa smiled. “You have all this planned out in your head, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Audra and her husband took their daughter down a few years ago. They had a great time. I think she said they stayed at the Grand Floridian.”

“Let’s do it.”

“Yeah?”

Melissa’s face beamed. “Yes. I can’t wait to see Brian’s reaction when we tell him.”

“Me too,” Allan said, smiling. “Great. I’ll get everything booked this week.”

Dr. Judy Galloway opened her office door and stepped into the waiting room.

“Detective Stanton,” she said. “C’mon in.”

“Good luck,” Melissa said.

“Thank you.”

As Allan went into Galloway’s office, she closed the door behind him.

“Is that your wife?” she asked.

“Yes. Sorry, I should’ve introduced you.”

“That’s okay. How’s the reconciliation going?”

“Great.”

“That’s good.” Galloway walked over to her desk and sat. “I must say I was a little surprised when you called for an appointment. We weren’t scheduled to talk until next month.”

Allan took a seat by the desk. “This couldn’t wait.”

Galloway tented her fingers in front of her. “I’m sensing something is bothering you.”

“It is,” he said. “I lied to you when we first met. I’ve been lying to you ever since.”

Galloway tilted her head to the side. “What about, exactly?”

“Everything.”

Her mouth formed a small o. “Well now.” She smacked her lips. “So you were having problems when we first talked?”

“Yes.”

Galloway referred to a folder on her desk. “That was after the shooting you were involved in in Acresville.”

“Yes.”

“You claimed you were experiencing no trouble sleeping. No problems concentrating. No exaggerated startle response. No feelings of being on guard. No flashbacks or sense of reliving the shooting.”

“That’s right.”

“Which of these problems were you having?”

Allan began to feel warm. “All of them.”

Raising her eyebrows, Galloway paused a moment. “A month later, you were involved in another shooting right here in Halifax. Four people were killed. You were the only survivor.

“During our critical-incident interview, you told me everything was fine. You still weren’t experiencing any problems.”

Allan shifted in his chair. “I lied about that too. Things got much worse since that incident.”

Galloway leaned back from her desk. “I’m guessing these problems have morphed into some ugly monster that’s been affecting you quite seriously?”

“Yes.”

“Interfering with your personal life?”

“Yes.”

“Your job performance?”

Allan cleared his throat. “That too.”

“It’s hard for men to admit they’re having problems,” Galloway said. “It’s all about pride and feeling weak. I’ve talked to a lot of soldiers, veterans, and police officers over the years. Some were just like you. They denied having any problems. A few of them ended up committing suicide.”

“I know,” Allan said softly. “I knew some of them. I went to their funerals.”

Finger to her lips, Galloway seemed to be appraising him. Allan knew she could easily refuse to help him. It was her right to do that.

“The floor is yours, Detective,” she said at last. “Let’s go back to the very beginning. I want you to tell me everything. Be honest this time.”

And he was. He told her everything he’d told Audra in that hotel in Oakville. He even told her about placing his Beretta to Jacob Stark’s head and how it had taken every ounce of willpower not to pull the trigger.

When he finished, it felt as if a load had been lifted off his shoulders. Galloway stared at him for a time, quiet.

“I’m glad you came to me with this,” she said. “When you described your mind racing out of control, that’s an anxiety attack. I’ll prescribe some medication to help you. I’m also going to refer you to Dr. Steinberg. He’s an excellent therapist for treating PTSD. I’ll ask him to see you as soon as possible.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

“I hope you understand, Detective, it’s going to be harder for you to go back to your job after this. The testing is going to be very stringent for you.”

Allan turned his palms up. “I knew that coming here. And I’m completely fine with it. Truth is, I don’t care if I ever go back there.”

Table of Contents

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Table of Contents

Epilogue

1

2

3

4

5

6

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9

10

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12

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