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moved away.
    She reached up for some sweaters.
    Wilf studied the curve of her lower back where her blouse and her skirt met. And the lift of her taut behind. He could feel cold sweat trickling down his side.
    “Here’s a lovely one,” she said.
    He could see Samuel Cruikshank’s strong knotted arms in the muted light in the bathroom; he could see his long veined torso.
    Adrienne turned back to him. “Does she have a favourite colour?”
    “Pink,” Wilf replied.
    * * *
    Carole was waiting across the street when Wilf left the shop. He could see her dark outline standing in front of a light from a store window, the shadow of her frosted breath rising. He hadn’t expected her to be there.
    He crossed the street and nudged her gently with his shoulder. He was carrying a gift-wrapped package under his good arm. “Here’s a present for you.”
    “I don’t want a present.” She was shivering in the cold, but she didn’t move away.
    “Take it,” Wilf said.
    “I just wanted to tell you. That man who came out of the shop when you went in?”
    “What about him?”
    “That was Mr. Cruikshank’s son.”
    “How do you know?”
    Carole looked upset. “I know. That was Frank Cruikshank. I’ve seen him in court enough times.”
    “I bought you a wool sweater. I thought it was more practical than cashmere.”
    “I don’t want it,” Carole said.

CHAPTER FIVE
    Three nights a week, Clarence McLauchlin had a woman who worked in the high-school cafeteria come in and cook a hot meal. On the other nights, it was his custom to eat out, usually at a favourite restaurant on the edge of town, though on occasion as far afield as the small cities of Brantford or Galt. This was not one of the woman’s nights.
    Wilf ate alone in the large kitchen, aimlessly stirring around the canned stew he’d heated up for supper and thinking about the man in Cruikshank’s backyard. He tried to concentrate on figuring out how he could leave no tracks in the snow, what the trick was, did it have something to do with the rags on his feet, but he couldn’t sustain this train of thought very long. His mind kept going back to what his body had already absorbed, absorbed so well that to think about it at all brought on waves of vertigo. The truth was he’d seen a man who wasn’t there.
    Some of the lads in the hospitals had seen things. Terrible things, apparently, because they’d end up crawling under their beds or shivering in a corner or worst of all just screaming. Screaming at nothing.
    Wilf tried to picture the round window by the stairs, the frost melting away under his breath, the man’s stark face looking up, desperate hungry eyes. At the time it had seemed to Wilf that the man had wanted to tell him something, something no one else could possibly know.
    A loose window rattled in the side door. Someone was knocking. Mr. Gill, Wilf guessed. Alf Gill was the neighbour his father had asked to keep the furnace going while he was away. Wilf had said he could look after it himself.
    “What if you fall down the cellar steps? Who would know?”
    “Jesus Christ,” Wilf had said with an equal measure of dismissiveness and irritation, but his father had been adamant. While Wilf was staying in the house alone, Alf Gill would have to come in to look after the furnace.
    Wilf picked up his cane and opened the door that led to the landing. Andy’s face was peering in through the window.
    “It’s open,” Wilf called out. No one bothered to lock their doors in the town. No one but Samuel Cruikshank, Wilf suddenly thought.
    Andy was dressed in his police uniform although it was only seven o’clock and his shift didn’t start until nine. He untied his boots and came up into the kitchen in his sock feet. “What are you eating?”
    “A can of stew.” Wilf sat back down at the table. “It was always canned this or canned that. I’m trying to relive my life as an Air Force hero. Want some?”
    Andy looked down at Wilf’s plate. “I don’t