"That narrows it to what?"

I was pretty sure I knew what had made the cuts, but wasn't ready to share my thoughts.

"There's someone else I want to talk to before I reach a conclusion."

"Anything else?"

I flipped to the first page of my notes, and summarized the observations I'd made.

"The false starts are on the anterior surfaces of the long bones. Where there are breakaway spurs, they're on the posterior aspects. That means the body was probably lying on its back when it was cut up. The arms were detached at the shoulders, and the hands were cut off. The legs were removed at the hips and the knee joints were severed. The head was removed at the level of the fifth cervical vertebrae. The thorax was opened with a vertical slash that penetrated all the way to the vertebral column."

He shook his head. "Guy was a real whiz with a saw."

"It's more complicated than that."

"More complicated?" complicated?"

"He also used a knife."

I adjusted the ulna and refocused. "Take another look."

He bent over the scope, and I couldn't help noticing his nice, tight b.u.t.t. Jesus, Brennan . . .

"You don't have to press quite so hard against the eyepieces."

His shoulders relaxed somewhat, and he shifted his weight.

"See the kerfs we've been talking about?"

"Uh-huh."

"Now, look to the left. See the narrow slash?"

He was silent for a moment as he adjusted the focus. "Looks more like a wedge. Not square. It's not as wide."

"Right. That's made by a knife."

He stood up. Goggles.

"The knife marks have a definite pattern. A lot of them parallel the saw false starts, some even cross them. Also, they're the only kind I see in the hip joint and on the vertebrae."

"Meaning?"

"Some of the knife marks overlie saw marks and some are underneath, so the cutting probably came before and after the sawing. I think he cut the flesh with the knife, separated the joints with the saw, then finished with the knife, maybe disconnecting any muscles or tendons that still held the bones together. Except for the wrists, he went right into the joints. For some reason he just sawed the hands off above the wrists, going right through the lower arm bones."

He nodded.

"He decapitated Isabelle Gagnon and opened her chest using just the knife. There are no saw marks on any of the vertebrae."

We were both silent for a few moments thinking about that. I wanted all this to sink in before I dropped the bombsh.e.l.l.

"I also examined Trottier."

The brilliant blue eyes met mine. His gaunt face looked tense, stretched, as he prepared it to receive what I was about to say.

"It's identical."

He swallowed and took a deep breath. Then he spoke very quietly. "This guy must run Freon through his veins."

Ryan pushed off from the counter just as a janitor poked his head through the door. We both turned to look at him, and, seeing our somber expressions, the man left quickly. Ryan's eyes reengaged mine. His jaw muscles flexed.

"Run this by Claudel. You're getting there."

"I've got a couple of other things I want to check out first. Then I'll approach Capitaine Congenial."

He departed without saying good-bye, and I finished repacking the bones. I left the boxes on the table and locked the lab behind me. As I pa.s.sed through the main reception area, I noted the clock above the elevators: 6:30 P.M P.M. Once again it was me and the cleaning crew. I knew it was too late to accomplish either of the last two things I'd planned to do, but decided to try anyway.

I walked past my own office and down the corridor to the last door on the right. A small plaque said, INFORMATIQUE INFORMATIQUE, with the name LUCIE DUMONT LUCIE DUMONT printed neatly below. printed neatly below.

It had been long in arriving, but the LML and LSJ were finally coming on-line. Complete computerization had been achieved in the fall of '93, and data were continually being fed into the system. Current cases could now be tracked, with reports from all divisions coordinated into master files. Cases from years past were gradually being entered into the database. L'Expertise Judiciaire had roared into the computer age, and Lucie Dumont was leading the charge.

Her door was closed. I knocked, knowing there would be no answer. At 6:30 P.M P.M. even Lucie Dumont was gone.

I trudged back to my office, pulled out my membership directory for the American Academy of Forensic Sciences, and found the name I was looking for. I glanced at my watch, quickly calculating. It would be only four-forty there. Or would it be five-forty? Was Oklahoma on Mountain or Central time?

"Oh h.e.l.l," I said, punching in the area code and number. A voice answered and I asked for Aaron Calvert. I was told, in a friendly, tw.a.n.gy way, that I was speaking with the night service, but that they'd be glad to take a message. I left my name and number and hung up, still not knowing into what time zone I'd been speaking.

This was not going well. I sat a moment, regretful that my burst of resolve hadn't come earlier in the day. Then, undaunted, I reached for the receiver again. I dialed Gabby's number and got no response. Apparently, even the answering machine had dropped out. I tried her office at the university, and listened to the line roll over after four rings. As I was about to hang up, the phone was answered. It was the departmental office. No, they hadn't seen her. No, she hadn't picked up her mail for a few days. No, that wasn't unusual, it was summer. I thanked them and hung up.

"Strike three," I said to the empty air. No Lucy. No Aaron. No Gabby. G.o.d, Gabby, where are you? I wouldn't let myself think about it.

I tapped the blotter with a pen.

"High and outside."

I tapped some more.

"Fourth and long," I added, ignoring the mixed metaphor. Tap. Tap.

"D.Q."

I leaned back and flipped the pen end on end into the air.

"Double fault."

I caught the pen and sent it airborne again.

"Personal foul."

Another launch.

"Time to switch to a new game plan."

Catch. Launch.

"Time to dig in and hold the line."

I caught the pen and held it. Dig in. I looked at the pen. Dig in. That's it.

"Okay," I said, pushing back my chair and reaching for my purse.

"Try batting from the other side of the plate."

I slung the purse over my shoulder and turned out the light.

"In your face, Claudel!"

14.

WHEN I I GOT TO THE GOT TO THE M MAZDA I I TRIED RESUMING MY SPORTS CLICHe TRIED RESUMING MY SPORTS CLICHe soliloquy. It was no good. The genius was gone. Antic.i.p.ation of what I had planned for the evening had me too wired for creative thought. I drove to the apartment, stopping only at Kojax to pick up a souvlaki plate. soliloquy. It was no good. The genius was gone. Antic.i.p.ation of what I had planned for the evening had me too wired for creative thought. I drove to the apartment, stopping only at Kojax to pick up a souvlaki plate.

Arriving home, I ignored Birdie's accusatory greeting, and went directly to the refrigerator for a Diet c.o.ke. I set it on the table next to the grease-stained bag containing my dinner, and glanced at the answering machine. It stared back, silent and unblinking. Gabby hadn't called. A growing sense of anxiety was wrapping itself around me and, like a conductor high on his music, my heart was beating prestissimo.

I went to the bedroom and rifled through the bedside stand. What I wanted was buried in the third drawer. I took it to the dining room, spread it on the table, and opened my drink and carry-out. No go. The sight of greasy rice and overcooked beef made my stomach withdraw like a sand crab. I reached for a slice of pita.

I located my street on the now familiar foot, and traced a route out of Centre-ville and across the river onto the south sh.o.r.e. Finding the neighborhood I wanted, I folded the map with the cities of St. Lambert and Longueuil showing. I tried another bite of souvlaki as I studied the landmarks, but my stomach hadn't altered its negativism. It would accept no input.

Birdie had oozed to within three inches of me. "Knock yourself out," I said, sliding the aluminum container in his direction. He looked astounded, hesitated, then moved toward it. The purring had already begun.

In the hall closet I found a flashlight, a pair of garden gloves, and a can of insect repellent. I threw them into a backpack along with the map, a tablet and a clipboard. I changed into a T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers, and braided my hair back tightly. As an afterthought, I grabbed a long-sleeved denim shirt and stuffed it into the pack. I got the pad from beside the phone and scribbled: "Gone to check out the third X-St. Lambert." I looked at my watch: 7:45 P.M P.M. I added the date and time, and laid the tablet on the dining room table. Probably unnecessary, but in case I got into trouble I had at least left a trail.

Slinging the pack over my shoulder, I punched in the code for the security system, but in my building excitement I got the numbers wrong and had to start over. After messing up a second time, I stopped, closed my eyes, and recited every word of "I Wonder What the King Is Doing Tonight." Clear the mind with an exercise in trivia. It was a trick I'd learned in grad school, and, as usual, it worked. The time-out in Camelot helped me reestablish control. I entered the code without a slip, and left the apartment.

Emerging from the garage, I circled the block, took Ste. Catherine east to De la Montagne, and wound my way south to the Victoria Bridge, one of three linking the island of Montreal with the south sh.o.r.e of the St. Lawrence River. The clouds that had tiptoed across the afternoon sky were now gathering for serious action. They filled the horizon, dark and ominous, turning the river a hostile, inky gray.

I could see ile Notre-Dame and ile Ste. Helene upriver, with the Jacques-Cartier Bridge arching above them. The little islands lay somber in the deepening gloom. They must have throbbed with activity during Expo '67, but were idle now, hushed, dormant, like the site of an ancient civilization.

Downriver lay ile des Soeurs. Nuns' Island. Once the property of the church, it was now a Yuppie ghetto, a small acropolis of condos, golf courses, tennis courts, and swimming pools, the Champlain Bridge its lifeline to the city. The lights of its high-rise towers flickered, as if in compet.i.tion with the distant lightning.

Reaching the south sh.o.r.e, I exited onto Sir Wilfred Laurier Boulevard. In the time it took to cross the river, the evening sky had turned an eerie green. I pulled over to study the map. Using the small emerald shapes that represented a park and the St. Lambert golf course, I fixed my location, then replaced the map on the seat beside me. As I shifted into gear, a snap of lightning electrified the night. The wind had picked up, and the first fat drops began to splatter on the windshield.

I crept along through the spooky, prestorm darkness, slowing at each intersection to crane forward and squint at the street signs. I followed the route I'd plotted in my head, turning left here, right there, then two more lefts . . .

After ten more minutes I pulled over and put the car in park. My heart sounded like a Ping-Pong ball in play. I rubbed my damp palms on my jeans and looked around.

The sky had deepened and the darkness was almost total. I'd come through residential neighborhoods of small bungalows and tree-lined streets, but now found myself on the edge of an abandoned industrial park, marked as a small gray crescent on the map. I was definitely alone.

A row of deserted warehouses lined the right side of the street, their lifeless shapes illuminated by a single functioning streetlamp. The building closest to the lamppost stood out in eerie clarity, like a stage prop under studio lights, while its neighbors receded into ever-deepening murkiness, the farthest disappearing into pitch blackness. Some of the buildings bore realtors' signs offering them for sale or rent. Others had none, as if their owners had given up. Windows were broken, and the parking lots were cracked and strewn with debris. The scene was an old black-and-white of London during the Blitz.

The view to the left was no less desolate. Nothing. Total darkness. This emptiness corresponded to the unmarked green s.p.a.ce on the map where St. Jacques had place his third X. I'd hoped to find a cemetery or a small park.

d.a.m.n.

I put my hands on the wheel and stared into the blackness.

Now what?

I really hadn't thought this through.

Lightning flashed, and for a moment the street was aglow. Something flew out of the night and slapped against the windshield. I jumped and gave a yelp. The creature hung there a moment, beating a spastic tattoo against the gla.s.s, then flew off into the dark, an erratic rider on the mounting wind.

Cool it, Brennan. Deep breath. My anxiety level was in the ionosphere.

I reached for the backpack, put on the denim shirt, shoved the gloves into my back pocket and the flashlight into my waistband, leaving the notepad and pen.

You won't be taking any notes, I told myself.

The night smelled of rain on warm cement. The wind was chasing debris along the street, swirling leaves and paper upward into small cyclones, dropping them into piles, then stirring them up anew. It caught my hair and grabbed at my clothes, snapping my shirttails like laundry on a line. I tucked in the shirt and took the flashlight in my hand. The hand trembled.

Sweeping the beam in front of me, I crossed the street, then stepped up the curb onto a narrow patch of gra.s.s. I'd been right. A rusted iron fence, about six feet high, ran along the edge of the property. On the far side of the fence, trees and bushes formed a thick tangle, a wildwood forest that stopped abruptly, held in check by the iron barrier. I aimed the light straight ahead, trying to peer through the trees, but I couldn't tell how far they extended or what lay beyond them.

As I followed the fence line, overhanging branches dipped and rose in the wind, shadows dancing across the small, yellow circle of my flashlight. Raindrops slapped the leaves above my head, and a few penetrated to strike my face. The downpour was not far off. Either the dropping temperature or the hostile setting was making me shiver. More like both. I cursed myself for bringing the bug spray instead of a jacket.

Three quarters of the way up the block I stepped down hard at a drop in elevation. I swept the light along what seemed to be a driveway or service road leading forward to a break in the trees. At the fence, a set of gates was held shut by a length of chain and a combination padlock.

The entrance didn't look recently used. Weeds grew in the gravel roadbed, and the border of litter that ran the length of the fence was uninterrupted at the gate. I aimed the light through the opening, but it penetrated the darkness only a little. It was like using a Bic to light the Astrodome.

I inched along for another fifty yards or so until I reached the end of the block. It took a decade. At the corner I looked around. The street I'd been following ended at a T-intersection. I peered into the gloom on the far side of the intersecting, equally dark and deserted street.

I could make out a sea of asphalt running the length of the block and surrounded by a chain-link fence. I guessed it had been a parking area for a factory or warehouse. The crumbling compound was lit by a single bulb suspended from a makeshift arch on a telephone pole. The bulb was hooded by a metal shade, and threw light for approximately twenty feet. Debris skittered across the empty pavement, and here and there I could see the silhouette of a small shack or storage shed.

I listened for a moment. A cacophony. Wind. Raindrops. Distant thunder. My pounding heart. The light from across the way compromised the blackness just enough to reveal my unsteady hands.

Okay, Brennan, I chided myself, cut the c.r.a.p. No pain, no gain.

"Hmm. Good one," I said aloud. My voice sounded strange, m.u.f.fled, as if the night were swallowing my words before they could reach my ears.

I turned back to the fence. At the end of the block it rounded the corner and took a hard left, paralleling the street I'd just reached. I turned with it. Within ten feet the iron uprights ended at a stone wall. I stepped back and played the light over it. The wall was grayish, about eight feet high, topped by a border of stones jutting six inches laterally from the face. As best I could see in the darkness, it ran the length of the street, with an opening near midblock. It looked to be the front of the property.

I followed the wall, noting the soggy paper, broken gla.s.s, and aluminum containers that had collected at its base. I stepped on a variety of objects I didn't care to identify.

Within fifty yards the wall gave way, once again, to rusted iron grillwork. More gates, secured like the set at the side entrance. When I held the flashlight close to inspect the chain and padlock, the metal links gleamed. This chain looked new.