The Delicate Storm Read Online Free PDF

the two of them head off into the mist.
    “I should be used to him by now,” Delorme said. “But I’m not.”
    Cardinal’s walkie-talkie squawked and a voice said something unintelligible.
    “Cardinal. Could you repeat that?”
    “I said we’ve got a structure down here.” It was Arsenault’s voice. “I think you should take a look.”
    “Where are you?”
    “Downhill from the service centre. Follow the creek west.”
    Delorme looked off into the woods, the webs of pale grey. “West? It would be nice if there was a trail.”

    They found the creek and followed it, and eventually they heard voices. The dim outline of a cabin took shape. Arsenault was on his knees beside a bush, doing something with a penknife and a test tube.
    “What have you got?” Cardinal asked.
    “Paint scrapings. Looks like someone drove in here recently.” He jerked his thumb behind him, where there was a faint outline of tire tracks. “This could be where it went down,” he added. “I mean before the bears got to him.”
    Cardinal took a closer look at the tire tracks. “You think we can get a mould out of these?”
    “Nope,” Arsenault said. “Too many leaves.”
    “That’s what I figured. What is this, an old logging road?”
    “Yeah. Must be from eighty years ago. You can see it’s been used, though. Probably by whoever owned that wreck of a place.”
    Arsenault’s ident partner, Bob Collingwood, was inside the shack.
    “Gah,” Delorme said. “The smell.”
    The cabin was hardly more than twelve feet square, constructed of rough-hewn lumber that did little to keep out the cold and nothing to keep out the damp. There was a fridge, a rusted cot with a stained mattress rolled up at one end, a metal counter with two sinks and an ancient cast-iron wood stove with the door hanging open on a broken hinge. The whole place smelled of decay—mildew, mould and rotting wood.
    “There was no lock on it,” Arsenault said from behind her. “The door was just hanging open.”
    “Hasn’t been used for a long time.” Delorme pointed at the giant cobwebs around the doorway. “Is it a trapper’s shack?”
    “Totally illegal, of course,” Cardinal said. “They build them wherever they damn well want. The question is, whose trapper’s shack? There must be at least a dozen guys make their living out here.”
    Collingwood was young, jug-eared, thorough and silent. Cardinal could count on one hand the number of complete sentences he had uttered in his entire career, because he tended to speak, when he spoke at all, in single words. He was pointing silently to the sinks. They were the kind with a pump handle where the taps should be. Wearing a latex glove, Collingwood stuck his finger in the drain and brought it up again, stained.
    “Is that rust or blood?” Cardinal asked.
    “Blood.”
    “So he could have been killed here. On the other hand, it may just be animal blood.”
    Delorme was kneeling in front of the wood stove. “Looks like somebody tried to burn clothes in this thing. Collingwood, have you got a drop sheet?”
    Collingwood opened a leather case that contained all the tools of his craft and together they spread a thin plastic drop cloth, white so that evidence would be visible against it. They used a pair of tongs to extract the blackened mass from inside the stove. There was a pair of denims, reduced to little more than the waistband, a shirt collar, several buttons, most of a pair of shoe soles and a mass of burned, unidentifiable material.
    Collingwood took an instrument from his case and measured the shoe soles. “Elevens.”
    “All right,” Cardinal said. “We’ll need sizes from the waistband and the shirt collar, too, if there’s enough left to measure.”
    Delorme, ever so gently, was stirring the burned matter with the tongs. “What’s this?” She said it more to herself than to the others.
    She held a small lump of fused metal in the tongs. She turned it over on the drop sheet. The other side was