"Pitre fell to the SQ. I'll double-check her. The others are more recent, should be pretty complete."

Since I was all too familiar with the five recents, I started with Pitre and Gautier. The files had been open since '88 and '89 respectively.

Constance Pitre's semi-nude, badly decomposed body was found in an abandoned house at Khanawake, an Indian reserve upriver from Montreal. Marie-Claude Gautier was discovered behind the Vendome Metro, a switching point for trains to the western suburbs. Both women had been savagely beaten, their throats slashed. Gautier had been twenty-eight, Pitre thirty-two. Neither had been married. Each lived alone. The usual suspects had been questioned, the usual leads pursued. Dead end in each case.

I spent three hours going over the files, which, compared to those I'd studied for the past six weeks, were relatively spa.r.s.e. Both women had been prost.i.tutes. Was that the reason for the limited investigations? Exploited in life, ignored in death? Good riddance? I refused to allow myself to pursue it.

I looked at family snapshots of each victim. Their faces were different, yet similar in some disturbing way. The yeasty white pallor, the lavish makeup, the cold, flat stare. Their expressions brought to recall my night on the Main, when I'd viewed the street production from a front-row seat. Resignation. Desperation. There I'd seen it live. Here it was in stills.

I spread the crime scene photos, knowing beforehand the story they'd tell. Pitre: the yard, the bedroom, the body. Gautier: the station, the bushes, the body. Pitre's head was almost severed. Gautier's throat had also been slashed, her right eye stabbed into pulpy mush. The extreme savagery of the attacks had prompted their inclusion in our investigation.

I read the autopsy, toxicology, and police reports. I dissected each interview and investigator's summary. I pulled out every detail of the victims' comings and goings, every particular of their lives and deaths. All the minutiae I could suck from each folder went onto a crude spreadsheet. It wasn't much.

I heard the others moving around, sc.r.a.ping chairs, exchanging banter, but I paid no attention. When I finally closed the files, it was past five. Only Ryan remained. I looked up to see him watching me.

"Wanna see the Gypsies?"

"What?"

"Heard you like jazz."

"Yeah, but the festival is over, Ryan." Heard from whom? How? Was this a social invitation?

"True. But the city isn't. Les Gitanes are playing in the Old Port. Great group."

"Ryan, I don't think so." But I did did think. Had thought. That's why I'd refuse. Not now. Not until the investigation was over. Not until the animal was netted. think. Had thought. That's why I'd refuse. Not now. Not until the investigation was over. Not until the animal was netted.

"Good enough." The electric eyes. "But you gotta eat."

That was true. Another frozen dinner, solo, was decidedly unappealing. No. Don't even give Claudel the appearance of impropriety.

"It's probably not a g-"

"We could chew over some of your thoughts on this stuff while we put away a pizza."

"Business meeting."

"Certainement."

Buzz.

Did I want to discuss the cases? Of course. Something about the added two didn't ring true. Even more, I was curious about the task force. Ryan had given us the official version; what were the real dynamics? Were there threads in the web I should know about? Avoid?

Buzz.

Would the others think twice? Of course not.

"Sure, Ryan. Where do you want to go?"

Shrug. "Angela's?"

Close to my condo. I thought of the 4 A.M A.M. call last month, the "friend" he'd been with. You're paranoid, Brennan. The man wants a pizza. He knows you can park at home.

"Is that convenient for you?"

"Right on the way."

To what? I didn't ask.

"Fine. See you there in"-I looked at my watch-"thirty minutes?"

I stopped home, fed Birdie, barred myself from mirrors. No hair combing. No blusher. Business.

At six-fifteen Ryan sipped a cold beer, I a Diet c.o.ke as we waited for a veggie supreme. No goat cheese on his half.

"You're making a mistake."

"I don't like it."

"Rigid."

"In touch with myself."

We exchanged small talk for a while, then I switched lanes. "Tell me about these other cases. Why Pitre and Gautier?"

"Patineau had me pull all unsolved SQ homicides that fit a certain profile. Back to '85. Basically the pattern you've been hammering on. Females, overkill, mutilation. Claudel searched the c.u.m cases. Local PD's were asked to do the same. So far, these two have come up."

"Just the province?"

"Not exactly."

We fell silent as the waitress arrived, sliced, and served the pizza. Ryan ordered another Belle Gueule. I pa.s.sed, mildly resentful. Your own fault, Brennan.

"Don't even think about touching my half."

"Don't like it." He drained his gla.s.s. "Do you know what goes through goats?"

I did, but blocked it.

"What do you mean, not exactly?"

"Initially, Patineau asked for a search of cases in and around Montreal. When the profile arrived from Quantico, he sent a composite description, our stuff and theirs, to the RCMP to see if the Mounties had similar cases in their files."

"And?"

"Negative. Looks like we've got a homeboy."

We ate in silence for a while.

Finally, "What's your take?"

I took my time answering.

"I only spent three hours with the new files, but somehow they don't seem to fit."

"The hooker angle?"

"That. But something else. The killings are violent, no question about that, but they're just too . . ."

I'd been trying to put a word to the feeling all afternoon, but hadn't found one. I dropped a piece of pizza to my plate, watched tomato and artichoke ooze off the soggy dough.

". . . messy."

"Messy?"

"Messy."

"Jesus, Brennan, what do you want? Did you see the Adkins apartment? Or Morisette-Champoux? Looked like Wounded Tree."

"Knee."

"What?"

"Knee. It was Wounded Knee."

"The Indians?"

I nodded.

"I don't mean blood. The Pitre and Gautier scenes looked, what . . . ?" Again, I groped for a word. "Disorganized. Unplanned. With the others, you get the sense this guy knew exactly what he was doing. Got into their homes. Brought his own weapon. Took it away with him. Never found one at the other scenes, right?"

He nodded.

"They recovered the knife with Gautier."

"No prints. That could suggest planning."

"It was winter. The guy probably wore gloves."

I swirled my c.o.ke.

"The bodies look like they were just left. Quickly. Gautier was facedown. Pitre was lying on her side, her clothes were torn, her pants were at her ankles. Take another look at the Morisette-Champoux and Adkins photos. The bodies almost look posed. They were both lying on their backs, their legs were spread, their arms were positioned. Like dolls. Or ballerinas. Christ, Adkins looked like she'd been laid down while doing a pirouette. Their clothing wasn't torn, it was opened, neatly. It's as if he wanted to display what he'd done to them."

Ryan said nothing. The waitress appeared, wanting a.s.surance we'd enjoyed our meal. Anything else? Just a check.

"I just get a different feeling with these other two cases. I could be dead wrong."

"That's what we're supposed to figure out."

Ryan took the check, raising a hand in a "don't argue" gesture. "This one's on me. Next one's yours."

He cut my protest short by reaching out to touch my upper lip. Slowly, he ran his index finger around the corner of my mouth, then held it up for my inspection.

"Goat," he said.

Fire ants would have had less effect on my face.

I arrived home to an empty apartment. No surprise. But I was becoming anxious about Gabby, and hoped she would reappear. Mainly so I could send her packing.

I lay on the couch and turned on the Expos game. Martinez had just beaned one off the batter. The announcer was going crazy. Tough moving back up to starter.

I watched until the announcer's voice faded to a hum and the noise in my head took over. How did Pitre and Gautier fit in? What did Khanawake mean? Pitre was Mohawk. The others had all been white. Four years ago the Indians had barricaded the Mercier Bridge, making life h.e.l.l for commuters. Feelings between the reserve and its neighbors remained less then cordial. Was that significant?

Gautier and Pitre were hookers. Pitre had been busted several times. None of the other victims had police records. Did that mean anything? If victims had been selected at random, what would be the odds that two out of seven would be hookers?

Had the Morisette-Champoux and Adkins scenes really shown premeditation? Was I imagining the staging? Was it accidental?

Was there a religious angle? That was one I hadn't really explored. If so, what did it mean?

Eventually, I drifted into uneasy sleep. I was on the Main. Gabby was beckoning to me from the upstairs window of a run-down hotel. The room behind her was dimly lit, and I could see figures moving about. I tried to cross the street to her, but women outside the hotel threw rocks when I moved. They were angry. A face appeared beside Gabby's, backlit against the room. It was Constance Pitre. She tried to put something over Gabby's head, a dress or gown of some sort. Gabby resisted, her gestures to me becoming more frantic.

A rock hit me in the gut, wrenching me hard into the present. Birdie stood on my stomach, tail in landing position, eyes fixed on my face.

"Thanks."

I dislodged him and swung to a sitting position.

"What the h.e.l.l did that mean, Bird?"

My dreams are not particularly disingenuous. My subconscious takes recent experience and throws it back at me, often in riddle form. Sometimes I feel like Arthur, frustrated with Merlin's cryptic answers. Just tell me! Think, Arthur. Think!

The rock-throwing. Obvious: Martinez's bean ball. Gabby. Obvious: She's on my mind. The Main. The hookers. Pitre. Pitre trying to dress Gabby. Gabby beckoning for help. A tingle of fear began to form.

Hookers. Pitre and Gautier were hookers. Pitre and Gautier are dead. Gabby works with hookers. Gabby was being hara.s.sed. Gabby is gone. Could there be a connection? Could she be in trouble?

No. She used you, Brennan. She does it often. You always fall for it.

The fear would not recede.

What about the guy shadowing her? She seemed genuinely frightened.