Forty Words for Sorrow by Giles Blunt Page A

likeness, though.” Ned Fellowes handed the fax photo back to Cardinal. “Stayed with us for one night, I think, around Christmastime.”
    “Can you tell me exactly what night that was?”
    Fellowes led him into a small front office in what used to be a living room. A fireplace of painted brick was filled with psychology texts and social-work periodicals. Fellowes consulted a large maroon ledger, running his finger down lists of names. “Todd Curry. Stayed the night of December twentieth, a Friday. Left Saturday. I remember I was surprised, because he had asked to stay till the Monday. But he came in Saturday lunchtime and said he’d found a cool place to stay—an abandoned house on Main West.”
    “Main West. There’s a wreck of a place where St. Claire’s used to be. Is that the one? By the Castle Hotel?”
    “I wouldn’t know. He certainly didn’t leave a forwarding address. Just wolfed down a couple of sandwiches and left.”

    There was only one empty house on Main West. It was not in the downtown area, but a couple of blocks beyond it, where the street turned residential. St. Claire’s convent had been torn down five years ago, exposing a brick wall with the faint outlines of a sign exhorting one to drink Northern Ale—a product of a local brewery out of business for at least three decades. After the convent, other houses had fallen one by one, making way for Country Style’s ever-expanding parking lot. Surrounded by overgrown weeds and stumps of long-dead trees, the house leaned in its corner lot like one last rotten tooth waiting to be pulled.
    It made sense, Cardinal considered as he drove down Macpherson toward the lake: the place was just a block from D’Anunzio’s—a teen hangout—and a stone’s throw from the high school. A young drifter couldn’t ask for a better address. A slight humming sensation started up in Cardinal’s bloodstream.
    The Castle Hotel came up on his right, and then he parked in front of a jagged, tumbledown fence tangled in shrubbery. He went to the front gate and looked through bare overhanging boughs at the place where the house used to be. He could see clear across the block to D’Anunzio’s over on Algonquin Avenue.
    The acrid smell of burnt wood was strong, even though the ruins were covered with snow. They had been bulldozed off to one side in a heap. Cardinal stood with hands on hips like a man assessing the damage. A charred two-by-four pierced the thin coverlet of snow, pointing a black, accusing finger at the clouds.

12
    D ELORME WONDERED IF C ARDINAL was making any headway. It was irritating as hell to go back to this small stuff when there was a killer out there. Wasting half the morning with paperwork on Arthur “Woody” Wood, Delorme came to realize how badly she wanted to nail Katie Pine’s killer. Perhaps only a woman could want to punish a child-killer as badly. Delorme was thirty-three and had spent many hours fantasizing about having a child, even if she had to raise it herself. The idea that someone could snuff out a young life put her in a rage that she could barely control.
    But was she allowed to go out and work on tracking down this sick, this disgusting, this grossly evil thing? No. She got to interview Arthur “Woody” Wood, the poster boy for petty crime. Delorme had been following him along Oak Street in an unmarked car. After he sped up to make the light, she had pulled him over for “burning an amber,” only to see a vintage MacIntosh all-tube amplifier on the seat beside him. She had read the description to him from her notebook there on the street, right down to the serial number.
    “Okay,” Woody said now, as she led him out of the cells. “Suppose by some freak of nature you get me for one little case. I can’t exactly see that putting me away for life, can you, Officer Delorme? You’re French, I guess. They tried to teach me French all the way through grade school, but I don’t know, it never stuck. Miss Bissonette—man,