I ARRIVED HOME TO FIND RYAN FUMING ON MY DOORSTEP. HE WASTED no time.

“I just can’t get through to you, can I? No one can. You’re like one of those Ghost Dance Indians. Dress the dress and dance the dance and you’re bulletproof.”

His face was flushed, and I could see a tiny vessel throbbing in his temple. I thought it unwise to comment just yet.

“Whose car was it?”

“Neighbor.”

“Do you find all this amusing, Brennan?”

I said nothing. The headache had spread from the back to encompass my entire cranium, and a dry cough told me my immune system was about to have callers.

“Is there anyone on this planet who can get through to you?”

“Would you like to come in for coffee?”

“What makes you think you can just sail off like that and leave everyone sucking wind? These guys don’t exactly live to be out here protecting your sorry ass, Brennan. Why the hell didn’t you call or page me?”

“I did.”

“You couldn’t wait ten minutes?”

“I didn’t know where you were or how long it would be. I didn’t think I’d be gone long. Hell, I wasn’t.”

“You could have left a message.”

“I’d have left War and Peace if I’d known you were going to overreact like this.” Not quite true. I knew.

“Overreact?” His voice went icy calm. “Let me review for you. Five, maybe seven women have been brutally murdered and mutilated in this town. The most recent was four weeks ago.” He ticked points off on his fingers. “One of these women made a partial appearance in your garden. A nutcase had your picture in his spice collection. He’s gone missing. A loner who collects knives and pornography, frequents hookers, and likes to slice and dice little animals dialed up your apartment. He’d been stalking your best friend. She is now dead. She was buried clutching a picture of you and your daughter. This loner has also gone missing.”

A couple passed on the sidewalk, dropping their eyes and quickening their pace, embarrassed to witness a lovers’ quarrel.

“Ryan, come inside. I’ll make coffee.” My voice sounded raspy and speech was starting to hurt.

He raised a hand in exasperation, fingers splayed, then dropped it to his side. I returned the keys to my neighbor, thanked her for the use of her car, and let Ryan and myself into the apartment.

“Decaf or high test?”

Before he could answer his beeper sounded, causing us both to jump.

“Better go with decaf. You know where the phone is.”

I listened, rattling cups and pretending not to.

“Ryan.” Pause. “Yeah.” Pause. “No shit.” Long pause. “When?” Pause. “Okay. Thanks. I’ll be right there.”

He came to the kitchen door and stood there, his face tense. My temperature, blood pressure, and pulse all began to rise. Stay calm. I poured two cups of coffee, forcing my hand not to tremble. I waited for him to speak.

“They got him.”

My hand froze, the pot suspended in midair.

“Tanguay?”

He nodded. I returned the pot to its warmer. Carefully. I took out milk, poured a dollop in my cup, offered some to Ryan. Carefully. He shook his head. I put the carton back in the refrigerator. Carefully. I took a sip. Okay. Speak.

“Tell me.”

“Let’s sit.”

We moved to the living room.

“They arrested him about two hours ago driving east on the 417. An SQ unit spotted the tag and pulled him.

“It’s Tanguay?”

“It’s Tanguay. Prints match.”

“He was heading toward Montreal?”

“Apparently.”

“What are they charging him with?”

“For now, possession of open alcohol in a moving vehicle. Jerk was thoughtful enough to crack a bottle of Jim Beam and leave it in the backseat. They also confiscated some skin magazines. He thinks that’s the beef. They’re letting him sweat for a while.”

“Where was he?”

“Claims he has a cabin in the Gatineau. Inherited it from Daddy. Get this. He’d been fishing. Crime scene’s sending out a team to take the place apart.”

“Where is he now?”

“Parthenais.”

“You’re heading over there?”

“Yeah.” He took a deep breath, expecting a fight. I had no desire to see Tanguay.

“Okay.” My mouth was dry, and a languor was spreading through my body. Tranquillity? I hadn’t felt that in a long time.

“Katy is coming,” I said with a nervous laugh. “That’s why I... why I went out tonight.”

“Your daughter?”

I nodded.

“Bad timing.”

“I thought I might find something. I... never mind.”

For a few seconds neither of us spoke.

“I’m glad it’s over.” Ryan’s anger was gone. He rose to his feet. “Would you like me to stop by after I’ve talked to him? Could be late.”

Bad as I felt, there was no chance I’d sleep until I knew the outcome. Who was Tanguay? What would they find in his cabin? Had Gabby died there? Had Isabelle Gagnon? Grace Damas? Or had they been taken there, postmortem, merely to be butchered and packaged?

“Please.”

When he’d gone I realized I’d forgotten to tell him about the gloves. I tried Pete again. Though Tanguay was in custody, I was still uneasy. I didn’t want Katy anywhere near Montreal yet. Perhaps I’d go South.

This time I reached him. Katy had left several days earlier. She’d told her father I proposed the trip. True. And approved the plans. Not quite. He wasn’t sure of the itinerary. Typical. She was traveling with friends from the university, driving to D.C. to stay with one set of parents, then to New York to visit the other friend’s home. Then she planned to continue on to Montreal. Sounded okay to him. He was sure she’d call.

I started to tell him about Gabby and what had been going on in my life, but couldn’t. Not yet. No matter. It was over. As usual he had to rush off to prepare for an early morning deposition, regretted he couldn’t talk longer. What’s new?

I felt too ill and weary even to take a bath. For the next few hours I sat wrapped in a quilt, shivering and staring at the empty fireplace, wishing I had someone to feed me soup, stroke my forehead, and say I would be better soon. I dozed and woke, drifting in and out of dream fragments, while microscopic beings multiplied in my bloodstream.

Ryan buzzed at one-fifteen.

“Jesus, you look awful, Brennan.”

“Thanks.” I rewrapped my quilt. “I think I’m getting a cold.”

“Why don’t we do this tomorrow?”

“No way.”

He looked at me strangely then followed me in, threw his jacket on the couch, and sat.

“Name’s Jean Pierre Tanguay. Twenty-eight. Homeboy. Grew up in Shawinigan. Never married. No kids. He has one sister living in Arkansas. His mother died when he was nine. Lot of hostility there. Father was a plasterer, pretty much raised the two kids. The old man died in a car wreck when Tanguay was in college. Apparently it hit him pretty hard. He dropped out of school, stayed with the sister for a while, then wandered around down in the States. You ready for this? While he was in Dixie he got a call from God. Wanted to be a Jesuit or something, but flunked the interview. Apparently they didn’t think his personality was priestly enough. Anyway, he resurfaced in Quebec in ’88 and managed to get back into Bishops. Finished his degree about a year and a half later.”

“So he’s been in the area since ’88?”

“Yep.”

“That would put him back here about the time Pitre and Gautier were murdered.”

Ryan nodded. “And he’s been here ever since.”

I had to swallow before I spoke.

“What’s he say about the animals?”

“Claims he teaches biology. We’ve checked that out. Says he’s building a reference collection for his classes. Boils down the carcasses and mounts the skeletons.”

“That would explain the anatomy books.”

“Might.”

“Where does he get them?”

“Roadkills.”

“Oh, Christ, Bertrand was right.” I could picture him skulking around at night, scraping up corpses and dragging them home in plastic bags.

“He ever work in a butcher shop?”

“He didn’t say. Why?”

“What did Claudel find out from the people he works with?”

“Nothing we didn’t know. Keeps to himself, teaches his classes. Nobody really knows him all that well. And they’re not thrilled at a call late in the evening.”

“Sounds like Grammama’s profile.”

“The sister says he’s always been antisocial. Can’t remember him having friends. But she’s nine years older, doesn’t remember much about him as a kid. She did throw us one interesting tidbit.”

“Yes”

Ryan smiled. “Tanguay’s impotent.”

“The sister volunteered that?”

“She thought it might explain his antisocial tendencies. Sis thinks he’s harmless, just suffers from low self-esteem. She’s big into the self-help literature. Knows all the jargon.”

I didn’t reply. In my mind I was seeing lines from two autopsy reports.

“That makes sense. Adkins and Morisette-Champoux tested negative for sperm.”

“Bingo.”

“How did he become impotent?”

“Combination congenital and trauma. He was born a one-baller, then wrecked it in a soccer accident. Some freak thing where another player was carrying a pen. Tanguay caught it with his one good nut. Bye-bye spermatogenesis.”

“And that’s why he’s a hermit?”

“Hey. Maybe Sis is right.”

“Could explain his lack of sparkle with the girls.” I thought of Jewel’s comments. And Julie.

“And everyone else.”

“Isn’t it odd he’d choose teaching?” Ryan mused. “Why work in a setting where you have to interact with so many people? If you really feel inadequate, why not choose something less threatening, more private? Computers? Or lab work?”

“I’m not a psychologist, but teaching might be perfect. You don’t interact with equals—you know, with adults; you interact with kids. You’re the one in charge. You have the power. Your classroom is your little kingdom and the kids have to do what you say. No way they’re going to ridicule or second-guess you.”

“At least not to your face.”

“Could be the perfect balance for him. Satisfy his need for power and control by day, feed his sexual fantasies at night.”

“And that’s the best-case scenario,” I said. “Think of the opportunities for voyeurism, or even for physical contact that he has with those kids.”

“Yeah.”

We sat in silence for a while, Ryan’s eyes sweeping the room much as they had in Tanguay’s apartment. He looked exhausted.

“Guess the surveillance unit isn’t necessary anymore,” I said.

“Yeah.” He stood.

I walked him to the door.

“What’s your take on him, Ryan?”

He didn’t answer right away. Then he spoke very carefully.

“He claims he’s innocent as little Orphan Annie, but he’s nervous as hell. He’s hiding something. By tomorrow we’ll know what’s in the little country getaway. We’ll use that and hit him with the whole thing. He’ll roll over.”

When he left I took a heavy dose of cold medicine and slept soundly for the first time in weeks. If I dreamed, I couldn’t remember.

The next day I felt better, but not well enough to go to the lab. Maybe it was avoidance, but I stayed home. Birdie was the only one I wanted to see.

I kept busy reading a student thesis and responding to correspondence I’d been ignoring for weeks. Ryan called around one as I was unloading the dryer. I knew from his voice things weren’t going well.

“Crime scene turned the cabin inside out and came up empty. Nothing there to suggest the guy even cheats at solitaire. No knives. No guns. No snuff films. None of Dobzhansky’s victim souvenirs. No jewelry, clothing, skulls, body parts. One dead squirrel in the refrigerator. That’s it. Otherwise, zipp-o.”

“Signs of digging?”

“Nothing.”

“Is there a toolshed or a basement where he might have saws or old blades?”

“Rakes, hoes, wooden crates, an old chain saw, a broken wheelbarrow. Standard garden stuff. And enough spiders to populate a small planet. Apparently Gilbert’s going to need therapy.”

“Is there a crawl space?”

“Brennan, you’re not listening.”

“Luminol?” I asked, depressed.

“Clean.”

“Newspaper clippings?”

“No.”

“Is there anything to tie this place to the room we busted on Berger?”

“No.”

“To St. Jacques?”

“No.”

“To Gabby?”

“No.”

“To any of the victims?”

He didn’t answer.

“What do you think he does out there?”

“Fishes and thinks about his missing nut.”

“What now?”

“Bertrand and I are going up to have a long talk with Monsieur Tanguay. Time to drop some names and start turning up the heat. I still think he’ll give it up.”

“Does it add up to you?”

“Maybe. Maybe Bertrand’s idea isn’t so bad. Maybe Tanguay’s one of these split personalities. One side is the biology teacher who lives clean, fishes, and collects specimens for his students. The other side has uncontrollable rage against women and feels sexually inadequate, so he gets his rocks off stalking them and beating them to death. Maybe he keeps the two personalities apart, even to the extent of having a separate place for the stalker to enjoy his fantasies and admire his souvenirs. Hell, maybe Tanguay doesn’t even know he’s nuts.”

“Not bad. Mr. Peepers and Mr. Creeper.”

“Who?”

“Never mind. Old sitcom.” I told him what I’d found out with Lacroix.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this sooner?”

“You’re a little hard to pin down, Ryan.”

“So Rue Berger is definitely tied in.”

“Why do you think there were no prints there?”

“Shit, Brennan, I don’t know. Maybe Tanguay’s just slick as black ice. If it’s any comfort to you Claudel’s already got this guy convicted.”

“Why?”

“I’ll let him tell you. Look, I’ve got to get up there.”

“Keep in touch.”

I finished my letters and decided to take them to the post office. I checked the refrigerator. My pork chops and ground beef wouldn’t do for Katy. I smiled, remembering the day she announced she’d no longer eat meat. My fourteen-year-old zealot vegetarian. I thought she’d last three months. It had been over five years.

I made a mental list. Humus. Tabouli. Cheese. Fruit juices. No sodas for my Katy. How had I produced this child?

The scratch in my throat was back and I felt hot again, so I decided to stop by the gym. I’ll blast these buggers with exercise and steam, I thought. One of us will come out the victor.

The exercise turned out to be a bad idea. After ten minutes on the StairMaster my legs trembled and perspiration poured down my face. I had to quit.

The steam had mixed results. It soothed my throat and released the bands that squeezed my forehead and facial bones. But as I sat there with the vapor swirling around me, my mind reached for something to play with. Tanguay. I ran through what Ryan had said, Bertrand’s theory, J.C.’s prediction, and what I knew. Something about Tanguay bothered me. As my thoughts gathered speed I could feel myself tensing. The gloves. Why had I blocked their relevance before?

Did Tanguay’s physical handicap really lead him to sexual fantasies that ended in violence? Was he really a man with a desperate need to control? Was killing the ultimate act of control for him? I can just watch you, or I can hurt you or even kill you? Did he also play out the fantasy with animals? With Julie? Then why murder? Did he keep the violence in check, then suddenly succumb to a need to act out? Was Tanguay the product of abandonment by his mother? His deformity? A bad chromosome? Something else?

And why Gabby? She didn’t fit the picture. He knew her. She was one of the few who would talk to him. I felt a wave of anguish.

Yes. Of course she fit the picture. A picture that included me. I found Grace Damas. I identified Isabelle Gagnon. I was interfering, challenging his authority. His manhood. Killing Gabby vented his rage against me and reestablished his sense of control. What next? Did the picture mean he would have gone for my daughter?

A teacher. A killer. A man who likes to fish. A man who likes to mutilate. My mind continued to drift. I closed my eyes and felt heat trapped below the lids. Bright colors swam back and forth, like goldfish in a pond.

A teacher. Biology. Fishing.

Again the nagging. It was there. Come on. Come on. What? A teacher. A teacher. That’s it. A teacher. Since 1991. St. Isidor’s. Yes. Yes. We know that. So what? My head was too heavy to think. Then:

The CD-ROM. I’d forgotten all about it. I grabbed for my towel. Maybe there was something there.