CHAPTER 1

"Looks like another break-in," Chief Halstead told OfficerPete Jakes.

"That cottage where the old lady died last week. You'd bettertake Poitras and check it out. A neighbour reported seeing a light inthe place last night."

He frowned at Jane's post-it note.

"Look for anything that might indicate they're the same thieveswho hit the Bay Road places last week. Though I doubt they'd getanything of much value from the old lady's place. From what socialservices said, it was hardly a luxury home."

Every winter there was a rash of smash and grabs on the Island.This year it was worse than usual. The weird snowless winter hadthe whole Middle Island population in a flap. The farmers werecomplaining that there wouldn't be enough melt in the spring.(Otheryears they complained that there was too much). The snowmobileclubbers were upset because they'd hardly had their machines out.And the doomsayers were confirmed in their warnings that globalwarming would be the end of life as we know it.

Bored teenagers who would normally vent their energy in wintersports and snowmobiling had taken to pilfering, chiefly at cottagesleft empty for the season. A bottle of booze here, maybe a VCR.Often it seemed that they didn't even want the stuff, the looting wasmore a rite of passage and the police would find the items tossed ina nearby ditch.

Pete drove the cruiser along bare road. Even the winter-fallowfields were only thinly streaked with snow, echoing the brownmarkings of the sparrows that clustered on the dry hawthorne twigs.The old-timers at the Island Grill spoke of the snowstorms of theiryouth, that had left huge drifts piled up to the top of the telephonepoles. Of the blocked causeway to the mainland, of being shut in fordays at the farms on the various Island points, only struggling outthrough the drifts to feed the livestock. Of babies being deliveredby the father because the doctor or midwife couldn't get there. Andtimes when there was no news from the outside world for nearly aweek.

Stories told with great pride and ever-growing embellishment.

But this year, only four inches of snow had fallen in Januaryinstead of eighteen, virtually none of the white stuff in February andhere it was already March. Pete had developed the Island habit ofchecking the sky, today the color of dirty cotton batten. Not winter,not spring, just dreary.

The cottage was on in inland road, on a scruffier part of theisland where the soil was rocky and never had been good farmland.There were no big old houses, and no fancy new ones either. Thearea was now mainly used as rough grazing for a small herd of beefcows. The farmer would leave them to wander, then round themup in the winter. The original farmhouse of the property had beenplaced back on the better, more travelled road on the bay side of theproperty.

Akantha Samos' little house was a rude structure, a storey anda half, its brick exterior now covered in crumbling yellow stucco.The place crouched on the edge of the bare fields that stretchedbehind to a line of spindly lombardy poplars. There were no treesby the house, only a couple of winter bare lilac bushes indicating theentrance from the road.

A lonely spot. This was Jakes' second winter on the Island,and he was appreciative of the beauty of some of its more isolatedspots. Still, it was hard to see any charm here even for thieves, whogenerally preferred to target the homes of the wealthy along the lakefront, where there would be easily lifted booze and electronics.

Officer Nick Poitras echoed his thoughts. "Geez, how dumb doyou have to be to want to rob this place?"

Poitras, this year's rookie cop (as Jakes had been last year)pretty much thought anyone would have to be dumb to live in thecountryside at all. It was a typical attitude of the young newbie copsfrom the city who had been sent on assignment to the tiny four-manMiddle Island police force, under the provincial police trainingprogram. Unlike Pete who with his wife Ali, had succombed to theIsland's rural charm and decided to stay.

Pete parked the cruiser on the road, though he doubted therewould be any useful information to be gleaned from the driveway.In this strange and disturbing winter, there had been no fresh snowyet this month. So, no handy footprints or tire tracks. The twopolicemen ignored the front door of the house, which obviouslyhadn't been cracked open for years, and went straight round to theback. Shards of shattered glass lay on the ground.

"Here's the broken window," Nick said. "But I don't know whythey bothered, look at this door." A flimsy thing, hanging loosely onits hinges. He pushed it open with his foot.

The opening was almost blocked with crowding, heavyfurniture.

"Watch it," Nick warned. "You could break a leg, trying to getthrough this junk."

Pete pushed his way in. "See if you can find a light thatworks."

"Geez!" Poitras yelped, as something yowled and dashed pasthis boots. "What the heck was that?"

"Not the old lady's ghost," Pete said dryly. "Just a cat. She hada bunch of them and the humane society's been trying to catchthem."

The place was cavelike and cold as a freezer inside.

"At least the lawyer had someone turn the water off," Pete said.

They picked their way gingerly past a chrome-legged kitchentable and chairs with split plastic seats. The table was overflowingwith empty cat dishes, the sink enamel streaked with a dirty rainbowof stains.

Pete pictured the old woman lying helplessly on the coldlinoleum flooring. She had died there, not to be discovered till thenext day by the visiting home help. The unfortunate fate of manyan elderly shut-in. He stopped in grim contemplation at the door tothe main room of the cottage.

"Holy crap," Nick said.

The room was crammed with an ancient, patterned couch andchair, several teetering standing lamps and end tables overflowingwith china cat ornaments. Cheap hangings and framed prints fromthe dollar store decorated the walls.

Cats are just small people in fur coats.

A home is not a home without a cat.

The feline smell was stale and cold rather than rank, for whichPete was grateful.

There was a bed in an alcove and a bathroom. The old womanprobably hadn't been upstairs for some time.

"Look at that TV," Nick marvelled. "It must be from theseventies or something. I wonder if it works."

"Probably," Pete said. He'd noticed a rusty aerial on the roof.

Nick looked around. "I don't see the remote."

"Try the dials on the set."

After a couple of false starts, Nick found the power button. "Yepit works," he said. "I bet she didn't get too many channels though."

He started switching the round dial as if he was in a sci-fi movie,discovering an artifact from an ancient civilization. A few blurredpictures appeared, then the familiar backdrop of the Bonville stationnewsroom.

Pete looked at the decrepit furniture. So she'd sat there in thesaggy cushioned black chair, with cats on her lap and watched herTV shows. For how many years? No visitors except the home helplady. A cold, depressing picture of old age. The whole place wasoverpoweringly depressing. Perhaps not though, when the old ladywas alive. She would have had the heat on, would have made tea.He hoped she had been happy with her ornaments and her pets.

Nick stood up, bored with the novelty of the old television set,and looked disgustedly around the room. "Like I said, what's to stealhere? You couldn't even give this...