THE VIDEO HAD BEEN SHOT WITH A SINGLE HANDHELD CAMERA. There was no sound.

The setting is a room done in roach-motel cheap. The side table is wood-grain plastic. The double bed is plaid-quilted. A shadow hairlines from a nail on the wall above the headboard.

Normally my mind would have played with that. What had been removed? Terrible mass-market art? A print of beer-drinking dogs playing cards? Something fingering the motel’s name or location?

No speculation this time. All my senses were focused on the horror center stage.

A girl lies on the bed. She is pale and has cornsilk hair. Bows double-loop from the ends of her pigtails.

My breath stopped in my throat.

The girl is naked. She can be no more than eight years old.

Rising onto her elbows, the girl turns her face toward something off camera. Her eyes sweep past the lens. The pupils are caverns, the gaze unfocused.

The girl lifts her chin, tracking someone’s approach. A shadow crawls onto her body.

The girl shakes her head no and lowers her lids. A hand comes into frame and presses her chest. The girl drops back and closes her eyes. The shadow moves down her torso.

Opposing reflexes shot through my nerves.

Turn away!

Stay! Help the little girl!

I kept my eyes glued to the monitor.

A man moves into frame. His naked back is to the camera. His hair is black, bound at the nape of his neck. Ugly red zits speckle his buttocks. Around them, the skin is the color of pus.

My fingers sought each other, clenched hard. I felt dizzy, anticipating the nightmare that was about to play out.

The man takes the child’s wrists and raises her frail little arms. Her nipples are dots on the curvy shadows defining her rib cage.

I looked down. My nails had carved crescents into the backs of my hands. Drawing two steadying breaths, I refocused on the monitor.

The girl has been turned. She lies prone, helpless and mute. The man has climbed onto the bed. He is on his knees. He moves to straddle her.

Shooting to my feet, I bolted from the room. No conscious thought. Limbic impulse straight to motor neurons.

Footsteps echoed mine. I didn’t glance back.

In the lobby, I stood by a window, arms wrapping my chest. Needing reality to ground me. Skyline. Sunlight. Concrete. Traffic.

A hand touched my shoulder.

“You OK?” Ryan spoke softly.

I answered without turning to face him. “These bastards. These evil fucking perverted bastards.”

Ryan didn’t reply.

“For what? For their own depraved gratification? To so injure an innocent child to get their jollies? Or is it really for the gratification of the viewing audience? Are there so many sickos out there that there’s a market for videos of such injurious depravity?”

“We’ll get them.”

“These degenerates pollute the world. They don’t deserve to suck air from the planet.”

“We’ll get them.” Ryan’s tone reflected the loathing I was feeling.

A tear broke from my lid. I backhanded it from my cheek.

“Get who, Ryan? The scum who make this garbage? The pedophiles who pay to watch, collect, and swap it? The parents who pimp their children to pocket a few bucks? The predators who cruise Internet chat rooms hoping to make a contact?”

I whirled to face him.

“How many kids will we see on that drive? Alone. Frightened. Powerless. How many childhoods were destroyed?”

“Yes. These guys are moral mutants. But my job is Phoebe Quincy, Kelly Sicard, Claudine Cloquet, and three girls found dead on my patch.”

“It’s Bastarache.” Through clamped teeth. “I can feel it in my gut.”

“Being a flesh peddler doesn’t make him a kiddie porn dealer.”

“This is Cormier’s dirty little collection. Cormier had photos of Évangéline. Évangéline worked for Bastarache.”

“Thirty years ago.”

“Cormier—”

Ryan placed a finger on my lips.

“Bastarache may turn out to be dirty. Cormier may turn out to be a link. Or he may turn out to be just another twisted perv. Either way, everything on that drive goes to NCECC.”

Ryan referred to Canada’s National Child Exploitation Coordination Center.

“Right.” Wanting to lash out. “What will they do?”

“They investigate this type of thing full-time. NCECC maintains a database of images of exploited children and has sophisticated programs for digital enhancement. They’re developing ways to ID the pricks who download this trash from the Net.”

“Annually, there are more investigations into auto theft than into child exploitation.” Scornful.

“You know that’s unfair. There are a whole lot more auto thefts to investigate. The guys at NCECC bust their butts to rescue these kids.” Ryan flicked a hand at the conference room.

I said nothing, knowing he was right.

“My focus is here.” Ryan’s fingers curled. “Quincy. Sicard. Cloquet. The DOA’s.” His fist pumped the air for emphasis. “I won’t quit until I close the file on every last one of them.”

“Watching is pure agony.” My words were almost inaudible. “I can’t do a goddamn thing to help her.”

“It’s gut-wrenching. I know. I can hardly bear to stay with it. But I keep telling myself one thing. Spot something. A street name. A sign on a delivery truck. A logo on a bath towel. Spot something and you’re one step closer to finding one kid. And wherever that one kid is, there will be others. Perhaps some of mine.”

Ryan’s eyes burned with an intensity I’d never seen before.

“OK,” I said, drying my cheeks with my palms. “OK.” I started back toward the conference room. “Let’s spot one.”

And that’s exactly what happened.

The next three hours were some of the worst of my life.

Before leaving, Lesieur explained that Cormier had stored his collection in a series of digital folders. Some were titled. “Teen Dancers.” “Kinders.” “Aux privés d’amour.” “Japonaise.” Others were numbered or coded with letters. Every file bore the same date, probably the day of transfer to the thumb drive.

Hippo, Ryan, and I slogged our way through, folder by folder, video by video.

Not every clip was as horrific as the opener. Some showed overly made-up kids in sex-kitten lingerie. Others featured girls or adolescents awkwardly vamping, or mimicking strippers or pole dancers. A large number portrayed torture and full penetration.

Artistic skill and technical quality varied. Some videos looked old. Others appeared to have been shot recently. Some showed aptitude. Some were amateur.

The collection was formed around one common element. Every video featured one or more young females. A ghastly few involved toddlers.

Periodically, we took breaks. Drank coffee. Battled back revulsion. Refocused on the goal.

Each time, I checked my phone messages. No calls from Harry.

By noon nerves were frayed and the mood was tense.

I was opening a new folder when Hippo spoke.

“What the hell good’s this doing? I say we slide this garbage to NCECC and get our asses back on the street.”

The new folder was untitled. It contained eight files. I double-clicked the first and the video began loading.

“One familiar face.” Ryan’s fingers drummed the table. I could tell he wanted a cigarette. “One background detail.”

“Yeah?” The rusty voice dripped irritation. “What’s that give us?”

Ryan tipped his chair and thrust his feet onto the tabletop. “Right now, it’s our best shot at a lead.”

“Cormier was a perv. He’s dead.” Hippo took his zillionth antacid hit.

“He took photos of Quincy and Sicard.” Ryan wasn’t being goaded by Hippo’s ill temper.

“Hell-o. The guy was a photographer.”

Was Hippo being serious? Or playing devil’s advocate?

“Cormier may lead us to Bastarache,” I said. “Isn’t it your life’s dream to nail that bastard?”

The monitor went black, then a scene opened.

The camera is focused on a door.

“We’ve got nothing.” Hippo shifted and vinyl popped.

“We’ve got the contact sheet.”

“It’s older than Astroturf.”

“The child on that contact sheet was my friend. She worked in Bastarache’s house.”

“At the gray dawn of history.”

“When she was murdered!”

“Let’s concentrate.” Ryan. Sharp.

A girl appears in the doorway, young, maybe fifteen or sixteen. She is in a low-cut halter-top evening gown. Black. Her hair is up. She is wearing too much lipstick.

The camera zooms in. The girl looks straight into the lens.

Beside me, I heard a sharp intake of breath.

The girl’s eyes stare directly at us. She tilts her head, subtly raises one brow. Hints a smile.

“Mary mother of the sweet baby Jesus,” Hippo exhaled.

Ryan yanked his feet from the table. His chair legs smacked the floor.

Reaching behind her neck, the girl unties the halter. The dress falls, but she catches it to her breast.

The room was absolutely still.

Bending at the waist, the girl opens her mouth. Her tongue circles her lips. The camera zooms in and her features fill the screen.

Ryan jabbed a finger. “Stop it there!”

I moved to the keyboard. Hit Pause. The frame froze.

We all stared at the face.

Ryan spoke the name.

“Kelly Sicard.”

“Sicard posed for Cormier as Kitty Stanley,” I said.

“Crétaque.”

“The sonovabitch used his photography business to make contact with young girls.” Ryan was thinking out loud. “Then piped them into the skin trade.”

“Probably got a head fee every time he delivered a warm body.” Hippo.

“Maybe. But pedophiles aren’t like your regular criminals for profit. They don’t play just for money. They play for product. It’s an obsession.”

“You think the little perv hooked up girls to grow his collection?”

I jumped in. “Cormier’s motive doesn’t matter. If we’re going to find out what happened to Sicard, or Quincy, or any of his other victims, it’s the buyer we need. The creep who’s producing this filth.”

Ryan and Hippo exchanged glances.

“Bastarache,” I said. “It’s got to be him.”

Hippo ran a hand across his chin.

“Could be she’s right. Bastarache makes his living in the skin trade. Massage parlors, strip joints, prostitution.”

“It’s a short hop into porn,” I said. “Then kiddie porn.”

“Bastarache is a flesh bandit,” Ryan said. “But we’ve got nothing to tie him to this.”

“The contact sheet,” I said.

“He’ll deny knowing anything about it,” Ryan said.

“Even if he does, it’s still kiddie porn.”

Ryan shook his head. “It’s too old.”

“Évangéline worked for him.”

“You’re like an old record.”

“What will it take?”

“A direct link.”

Frustrated, I slumped into my chair and hit Play.

The camera zooms out. Sicard straightens, turns her back, playfully crooks one finger. Follow me.

The camera trails Sicard’s languid stroll across the room.

Still holding the halter straps, Sicard lowers herself onto the mattress. Curls, catlike.

Watching, I wondered what dreams filled her head. Lighted runways? Glossy magazines and red carpet openings?

Sicard smiles conspiratorially. Allows one strap of the halter to fall. A man enters and moves to the bed. Sucking one finger, Sicard looks up and smiles. Rises to her knees, allowing the dress to slip to her waist.

It took until midafternoon. The folder was titled Vintage. The footage was old. Hairstyles and clothing in some scenes suggested the fifties and sixties.

Video file seven. The script was hardly original.

The girl is in her midteens, tall, with center-parted dark hair. She is wearing a black bustier, garter belt, and fish-net hose. She appears ill at ease.

The girl glances to her left. The camera follows as she crosses a room and sits on a bench below and to the right of a window. Again she looks to her left, as though seeking direction. Sunlight falls on her hair.

My eyes drifted to the window framing the girl. Scanned the drapes. The woodwork. The misty landscape beyond the glass.

It took a few moments to register.

Hitting Pause, I studied the screen. Studied the shape. The hazy contour below it.

Somewhere, a million miles away, voices were talking.

I hit Play. Stop. Play.

Rewound. Did it again. And again.

“I’ve got him.” Calm, though my heart was in my throat.

The voices stopped.

“I’ve got the wife-beating sonovabitch.”