Anger became self-recrimination then. “I should have known. Why didn’t I catch on? My poor little girl. Oh, God. All those times I left them alone together. I let him take her camping! Boating! I let him take her out of town! It never occurred to me he would do something like this.”

  “He would have made every effort to make sure you never suspected.”

  “I should have known, though. Now that you tell me and you show me these pictures, I have no trouble believing it. I know that what you’re saying is true, so why didn’t I figure it out for myself? Oh, all those times he wanted to take her places on his own—I’m such an idiot! Oh, poor Melanie.”

  More tears, more tea, and when finally the tears no longer came, Ms. Greene reached for the phone and dialed.

  “Not answering,” she said, and dialed again. She dialed three times before Delorme suggested they just drive over to Melanie’s boarding house.

  “I don’t know why she isn’t answering her phone,” Ms. Greene said for the fifth time as they drove across town. Like most people in the grip of bad news, she was veering between expressions of anguish and hope. “I’m sure she’s all right,” she said next.

  Delorme turned off Sumner onto MacPherson. “What I’m hoping,” she said, “is that Melanie will testify against Mr. Rowley.”

  “Surely the pictures are enough to convict him? That bastard. He needs to be castrated, that’s what he needs.”

  “The pictures will go a long way,” Delorme said. “But Melanie’s testimony would remove any trace of doubt from a jury’s mind. And if she doesn’t testify, they’ll wonder why not. It could be used in his favour.”

  “But it would be so horrible for her. All these years she’s wondered why she’s so unhappy, and here she was traumatized by a man she adored. He uses her like a, like a—oh, I can’t even say it—and then he cuts her out of his life completely. Testifying will bring back all those memories.”

  “Ms. Greene, I’ve worked with a lot of rape victims over the past ten years or so. In almost every case—I can’t say all—but in almost every case, they found that testifying against the person who hurt them was a positive experience. Embarrassing, yes. Painful, yes. But not nearly as painful as staying silent. And if they work toward it with a good therapist, it can ultimately be very healing.”

  “She’s seeing a therapist now. Dr. Bell? He’s supposed to be very good.”

  Delorme made a left onto Redpath and they drove two or three blocks in silence. Then Ms. Greene pointed to a four-square red brick house with an electric garden gnome glowing in a heap of leaves.

  “That’s it. Melanie likes it because it’s just half a block to Algonquin and the bus stops right at the corner. She can get to Northern in ten minutes, which is good because she has a couple of eight o’clock classes. Eight a.m., can you imagine? I hope she’s home. I’m sure she is.

  “It’s just a rooming house,” she went on as they walked up the front path, “but Mrs. Kemper, the lady who runs it, seems very nice. She keeps an eye on the kids—I think all her renters are students—but she doesn’t boss them around.

  “Melanie’s on the second floor to the left. Oh, her lights are on, she must’ve got home as we were driving over.”

  They went into the closet-sized vestibule and Ms. Greene pressed a buzzer. “Those are her boots, with the furry seams. Mrs. Kemper makes them take their boots off at the door.”

  They waited a minute or two and she pressed the buzzer again.

  Footsteps of someone coming down the stairs. Ms. Greene had a rather too-big smile ready, but when the inner door opened, it drooped into polite-greeting mode.

  A young woman wearing a hooded Northern U. sweatshirt and three rings in her left nostril opened the door. She let out a little cry of surprise.

  “Hello,” Ms. Greene said, catching hold of the door and holding it open. “Ashley, isn’t it? I think we’ve met. I’m Melanie’s mom?”

  “Oh, yeah. Hi.”

  “I think Melanie just came in. We were heading up to see her.”

  “Melanie’s been in all night, far as I know,” the girl said. Then, with a “See ya” tossed over her shoulder, she was out the door.

  Delorme followed Ms. Greene up the stairs. The house was a considerable cut above the places she had stayed in her own student days: carpeting on the stairs, nice wallpaper and, most of all, everything clean. Delorme had a sudden memory of a basement room in Ottawa, grit on the stairs and the smell of mould everywhere.

  Ms. Greene tapped on a solid white door with a brass number four on it.

  From inside, an old rock song finished playing, and then Delorme recognized the announcer from EZ Rock, an ad for a local Toyota dealer.

  “She must be home,” Ms. Greene said. “Her boots were downstairs. And it’s not like her to leave lights on and a radio playing.”

  Delorme rapped sharply on the door. “She could be in the shower.”

  “The shower’s right there.” Ms. Greene pointed at an open door. “Shared bathroom. Oh, where is she?”

  “Melanie?” Delorme slammed at the door with the flat of her palm. A door down the hall opened and a young female face beamed hatred at them, then was withdrawn.

  Ms. Greene leaned against the door and spoke through it. “Melanie, if you’re in there, please answer. We don’t have to come in, if you don’t want. If you need privacy, that’s okay, but just let us know you’re all right.”

  “Go downstairs and get the key,” Delorme said.

  A look of panic.

  “Hurry.”

  Delorme continued shouting through the door. From the floor above, a female voice yelled, “Shut the fuck up!”

  A moment later Ms. Greene came up the stairs, stumbling in her rush. She tried to fit the key into the lock, but Delorme had to take it from her and do it herself. When they stepped inside, Ms. Greene let out a cry.

  Melanie was on the floor by her desk.

  Delorme saw at once the empty pill bottle, the glass of water, the note. She knelt beside the girl and felt for a pulse.

  “She’s alive. Take her feet and we’ll get her onto the bed.”

  Ms. Greene obeyed numbly, her eyes hollowed out with dread.

  Delorme turned the girl over onto her stomach and stuck a finger into her throat. A sudden retch, and scalding vomit spewed over her hand. She did it again. Another retch, but nothing came.

  Awkwardly, using her left hand, she took out her cellphone and called for an ambulance.

  50

  FRANK ROWLEY LIFTED HIS guitar case into the trunk of the car and laid it flat. Then he loaded the miniature pink suitcase decorated with Disney creatures for Tara. She was standing in the driveway now in her pink ski jacket, the wind whipping her blond hair across her face. Finally, he wedged his own suitcase in beside the guitar. He had packed it carefully, sliding his laptop between a couple of pairs of jeans, and hiding the new webcam in a pair of balled-up socks. Soon he and Tara would be on the road, alone together, and Rowley’s heart was pounding at the prospect.

  “Pretty big suitcase for two days,” Wendy said. She hadn’t bothered to put on a coat. She stood behind Tara, hugging her daughter’s oversized teddy bear to keep warm.

  “You know me. I always overpack.”

  “It’s so windy,” she said. “Maybe you shouldn’t set out tonight.”

  “Nonsense,” Rowley said. “Best time to go. No traffic, and we’ll get there in plenty of time to have a good long sleep. Then first thing in the morning we’re gonna be banging on WonderWorld’s gate to let us in. Aren’t we, Tara?”

  “Yes! Yes!” Tara shouted. “Wild Mouse!”

  “It’s gonna work out great,” Frank said to Wendy. “We get all day Friday at WonderWorld, and Saturday morning, and then Saturday afternoon I play my wedding. She’ll be fine. They only booked us for two hours, and Terry’ll look after her.”

  Terry was the bass player’s wife who insisted on coming to all the gigs, her husband being a solid musician but a wayward mate.

  “The wind’s blowing your wig all crooked,” Wendy said.

  “I know, I know.” Rowley reached up and adjusted the hairpiece.

  “It looks cool!” Tara said.

  “I don’t know why you’re wearing it. You’re not playing till Saturday.”

  “Because Tara likes it, and I promised I would. Didn’t I, Tara?”

  “Yes, you did.”

  “Okay, hotshot. Hop in.”

  “I want to put Teddy in first.”

  Wendy opened the back door and the bear was solemnly strapped in. Then she buckled her daughter into the front passenger seat.

  “You be good, now, you hear.”

  “I will.”

  Wendy gave her a hug and a kiss on the head. “I’m gonna miss you, sweetums.”

  “Mommy, it’s only for two days!”

  Frank smiled at Wendy with a kids-what-can-you-do sort of smile.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll look after her.”

  A car swung into the driveway followed by a black and white patrol car. Rowley shielded his eyes with his forearm against the headlights. The silence of their approach, the decisiveness of their stopping—he knew the police were not here by mistake. He also knew there was only one thing it could be about, and felt the first prickle of fear on his skin, and sweat breaking out between his shoulder blades.

  “Can we help you?” he said, before he recognized the woman coming toward him. “Oh, hey, I remember you. You’re the detective from the marina.”

  “That’s right,” Detective Delorme said. But she turned immediately to Wendy and introduced herself, holding up her ID. “Ma’am, is that your daughter in the car?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Would you take her inside, please?”

  “Why? What’s going on here?”

  “Take her inside please. I’m here to arrest Mr. Rowley, and I don’t want to do it in front of your daughter.”

  “Arrest him! You can’t arrest him. He hasn’t done anything.”

  “Go ahead and take her inside,” Rowley said. “I’ll sort it all out at the station.”

  “But what’s going on?”

  “Honey, take her inside.”

  Rowley watched Wendy scoop Tara out of the front seat. The howls of protest started before they were halfway to the house.

  “Frank Rowley, you’re under arrest for the production and distribution of child pornography. We’ll be seizing any computers, cameras, hard drives, discs or other storage devices in your possession. Further charges of child abuse and sexual assault will be laid at the discretion of the Crown attorney.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Rowley said. “I never touched that girl.”

  “We’re not talking about this girl,” Delorme said, and snapped the cuffs on him.

  51

  CARDINAL WAITED, LISTENING. Old houses creak; it might have been nothing. Bell could already have fled, taken a cab to the airport.

  A definite footfall.

  He crossed the hall in three silent steps and opened the remaining door. A half flight of stairs led to a landing. Once more keeping to the edges, he moved toward the third floor. He could see nothing beyond the landing. When he reached it, he took a deep breath and turned toward the next flight, Beretta up.

  “I thought it would be you,” Bell said.

  The doctor was seated on the top step, an automatic in his hand—a Luger, if Cardinal was not mistaken—pointed right at Cardinal’s chest.

  Had it happened a few weeks previously, Cardinal knew, the sight of Dr. Bell’s Luger pointed at his chest would have made him tremble. But standing on the steps below the doctor, he realized that, at this moment, he didn’t care.

  “One thing you should know,” he said. “I have a significant advantage over you right now.”

  “Why? Because you don’t care whether you live or die?”

  Once again the doctor had read him perfectly.

  “I assure you,” the doctor continued, “I am quite at the same point. I too have lost a wife.”

  “‘Lost’ isn’t quite the word, is it? I know why you murdered your wife. She took your trophies. You’ve been collecting them for years. Mementoes of your triumphs. Your victories.”

  “If you are referring to my discs, a more intelligent man would realize they are a teaching aid.”

  “You don’t have any students.”

  “Teaching aids for myself. Some of us do try to keep learning, you know, by reviewing sessions with particularly difficult clients.”

  “Easy to gloat, too. To see how you encouraged your patients to kill themselves, all the while pretending to help them.”

  “What I do is clarify. By reflecting a patient’s true feelings back at him or her, I give them the power to act on those feelings. New options can open up. Some may find new ways to ease the pain, if not to find earthly bliss. Others may choose to kill themselves, and that’s entirely their choice and their right.”

  “Those discs clearly show you pick and choose which feelings to reflect. All the negative ones. Their blackest thoughts. You encourage them. ‘Write me out a suicide note. Let’s make it real, here. Let’s put it into words. Let’s take a real step toward actually doing it. Think of all the good things that’ll come out of it. An end to pain, for one. Ease the burden on your family, for another.’”

  “True, in a lot of cases. Those are legitimate concerns.”

  “And you make sure they have a lot of pills handy, in case they’re squeamish about blood, or …”

  “Or what? Disfigurement? Yes, when they jump, it does terrible damage to the facial bones, doesn’t it?”

  Cardinal’s finger tightened on the Beretta.

  “Or you put them on an antidepressant. And then suddenly change it, or take them off it. Excellent way to put people over the edge.”

  “Detective, if I made all my patients feel suicidal, I’d have no practice at all. If I really made people feel worse, no one would come back to me.”

  “They don’t come back to you. They die.”

  “Wonderful. Sherlock Holmes uncovers the truth about depression. Depressed patients kill themselves.”

  “Yours do. They have to, don’t they.”

  Bell raised the Luger so that it was now aimed at Cardinal’s face.

  Cardinal jerked his Beretta up to firing position.

  “I could kill you now,” he said, “and it would be justifiable homicide. I wouldn’t even have to lie about it.”

  “Go ahead, then,” Bell said. His gun hand was wavering.

  Cardinal noticed as from a great distance the fury burning through him, as if he were observing a wildfire from a helicopter.

  “I know you want to kill me,” Bell said.

  “And you want me to. It’s called suicide by cop. That’s what this is all about, isn’t it? I read in your book how both your parents killed themselves—that might be a good reason for studying the treatment of depression. On the other hand, it might be a good reason for hating people who get depressed. And it might be a good reason for wanting to kill yourself.”

  “You read that in my book too. The so-called suicide gene.”

  “You’ve wanted to kill yourself for a long time, but, unlike so many of your patients, you can’t do it. Just like you say in your book: some people need to be around people who are capable of killing themselves. You need them to do it for you. You egg them on, manoeuvre them, manipulate them, all the time pretending to help them. But it’s you you’re trying to help. You’re trying to finish the one suicide you’ve always wanted to commit but never had the guts to follow through on. I wonder if you knew that way back when you first became a psychiatrist.”

  “What have you got, Detective? A grade ten education? Do you really imagine you can analyze me?”

  “I don’t have to. You can do it yourself. Why else would you devote your life to people you clearly hate? It must have been quite a strain keeping up that concerned, caring front all these years.”

  “You don’t know anything about the people I treat. They’re scum. Whiners. Utterly useless. Utterly selfish. They’ve never done anything for anyone else in their entire miserable lives. Human garbage.”

  “How does it make you feel, Doctor? Isn’t that your favourite question? How does it make you feel when they finally kill themselves? These whiners, this human garbage. It must feel—”

  “Wonderful,” Bell said. “There’s no feeling like it. I couldn’t describe it to you. Better than sex. Better than heroin. I love it. So why don’t you kill me?”

  “And when they won’t kill themselves,” Cardinal went on, “if they’re too strong, like Catherine …”

  “It’s not my fault she didn’t get it. She was desperate to kill herself, she just wouldn’t admit it. How many times does she need to be hospitalized before she catches on?”

  “That must be very … upsetting for you. It must be extremely—what’s the right word here—frustrating?”

  Bell’s face was a portrait of contempt.

  “Infuriating?”

  Bell shook his head tightly. “You don’t know anything about me. No one does.”

  “They know in Manchester. Or they will know, when they finally open their investigation.”

  “You think so.”

  “I know it. I also know you killed Catherine. Because, as you say, she just didn’t get it. She didn’t get that her therapist wanted her to commit suicide, and when she just would not take her own life, it was intolerable for you, and you had to kill her yourself.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to think so? If she committed suicide, what does that make you, right? The big detective. The knight in shining armour. What becomes of him if he can’t save his own wife? If she can’t stand living with him anymore? If she hates him so thoroughly she can throw away the rest of her life rather than spend it with him? That’s unbearable, isn’t it, Detective? No wonder you have to believe I killed her.”

  “I didn’t say I believed it,” Cardinal said. “I said I know it.”