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Corbett. No Perfect Circle. No meeting. Once more, the combined forces of the RCMP, the OPP and the Algonquin Bay police department have come up empty. Dumb flatfoots. So stupid. Can’t get anything right.”
    The chief was standing by the fireplace, poker in hand, his face in shadow. It was rare to spend more than ten minutes with R.J. and not hear that preposterous laugh of his, but hearing Musgrave’s horseman’s tale had clearly depressed him. He said in a subdued voice, “It gets worse.”
    It did indeed get worse. Another piece of solid information. Another date and time. The single change: this time, Jerry Commanda was back playing left wing for the OPP. Another raid. Another zero. “This time,” Musgrave added, “Corbett files suit for harassment.”
    “I remember that,” Delorme said. “I thought that was pretty funny.”
    Dyson glared at her.
    Musgrave shifted in his chair. It was like watching a continent change shape. “You’ve got the facts. I’ll let you draw your own conclusions. You have any questions?”
    “Just one,” Delorme said. “What exactly do you mean by ‘solid’?”
    That was the only time the chief had laughed that night. Nobody else cracked a smile.
    Now, two months later, Delorme was feeding the shredder in her Special Investigations office and hoping without much optimism that her new partner would come to trust her. As she carried a wastebasket full of shreds to the incinerator, she saw Cardinal putting on his coat. “You need me to do anything?” she asked him.
    “Nope. We got a positive ID back on the dental records. I’m just going out to tell Dorothy Pine.”
    “You sure you don’t want me to come?”
    “No, thanks. I’ll see you later.”
    Terrific, Delorme muttered to herself as she dumped the trash. He doesn’t even know I’m running a check on him, and still he doesn’t want me for a partner. Great start.

6
    T O REACH THE CHIPPEWA RESERVE, you follow Main Street west past the railroad tracks and make a left just after the St. Joseph’s mother house, formerly a Catholic girls’ school and now a home for retired nuns, at the junction with Highway 17. There are no signs to the Chippewa Reserve, no gates; the Ojibwa have suffered so much at the hand of the white man that to lock the door against him now would be pointless.
    The most remarkable thing about entering the reserve, Cardinal often thought, is that you don’t know you’re on the reserve. One of his very first girlfriends had lived up here, and even then he hadn’t registered its status as a separate enclave. The prefab bungalows, the slightly battered cars parked in the drives, the mutts chasing each other over the snowbanks—these could belong to any lower middle-class neighbourhood in Canada. Of course the jurisdiction changed—law enforcement here was in the hands of the OPP—but you couldn’t see that. The only visible difference from any other part of Algonquin Bay was, well, the place was full of Indians, a people who for the most part moved through Canadian society—or rather, alongside it—as silent and invisible as ghosts.
    A shadow nation, Cardinal thought. We don’t even know they’re there. He had stopped a hundred yards past the turnoff, and now, since the day was sunny and a seasonable minus ten, he was walking with Jerry Commanda along the side of the road toward a perfectly white bungalow.
    When not encased in a down parka, Jerry was extremely thin, almost frail-looking—a deceptive morphology, because he also happened to be a four-time provincial kick-boxing champion. You never saw what Jerry did exactly, but the most recalcitrant villain, in the course of a disagreement with him, would suddenly turn up horizontal and in a highly vocal mood of compliance.
    Cardinal had never been partnered with him, but McLeod had, and McLeod claimed that, had they lived two hundred years earlier, he would have probably turned on his ancestors and happily fought the white man at Jerry’s