While Kas and Hollis planned the funeral, Rhona drove from St. Mark’s to Carleton. Along the way, she smoked and hummed along with the chorus of Madame Butterfly and wondered how many out-of-town runners would be waiting for her. By this time, close to two o’clock, even the slowest runners would have dragged their weary bones across the finish line.

      Constable Featherstone met her at the front door of the Carleton gym and led her to an equipment storeroom temporarily converted into an interview area by the addition of a plywood-topped table and two chipped, metal folding chairs. Seven runners, dressed in regular clothes, waited outside the room. Rhona invited the first man, identified by Featherstone as Carson Macdonald, into the makeshift office.

      Macdonald let himself down onto the chair as if each and every muscle, bone and sinew worked independently. Once his body settled, he said, “I’m an editor at the Independent Academic Press.” Absentmindedly, he cracked his knuckles. “Ours is a business relationship. Probably no one’s told you Paul Robertson has written three books. The IAP published his first two and has a contract for his third.”

      What an unlikely marathoner Macdonald was. About sixty, with a head of receding gray curls topping a spare, six-foot frame, he wore glasses—plain, round and steel rimmed. They would have been classified as National Health spectacles in England. A utilitarian, no-nonsense body belied by the eyes behind his glasses; bright North Atlantic blue eyes with long, thick lashes. His face was spare with a neat nose, neat ears and a tidy mouth. When he spoke, his teeth were precisely aligned and Rhona knew this man cared passionately about the proper deployment of the semicolon and never tolerated the abandoned use of the comma.

      “No, I didn’t realize he was a writer. Tell me about his books.”

      “The first, basically a rewrite of his doctoral thesis, came out ten years ago and did moderately well.” Macdonald paused as if he was running the sales figures through his mind. “We published his second book last year. It was a runaway success. You may have heard of it—Christians in a Cross World?”

      Rhona shook her head.

      “It’s a how-to book on practical Christianity. I suspect Robertson made a cynical analysis of the bestsellers in the field and wrote what he thought the public would buy. It didn’t matter that it didn’t come from the heart; those books, especially if they’re well written—Paul turned a catchy phrase as easily as some use clichés—are always popular, and his certainly were.” He added, “His third book is in process. After we read the first draft, we said it was too long and needed tightening up. We also insisted he have a bona fide professional validate his underlying psychological assumptions. Paul’s wife, she’s written three terrific books and done a good bit of editing, worked on the second draft.” He smiled a tight little smile. “She’d have to be good for Paul to allow her to do that. And he found a psychiatrist at the Royal Ottawa Hospital who agreed to verify the validity of his thesis.”

      “What’s the book about?”

      “It’s topical and controversial. The theme is controversial—keeping homosexuals in the closet has, in the past, and will, in the future, provoke individuals to commit crimes to keep their sexual orientation secret. He took actual criminal cases and sensationalized them. We didn’t like the title, When Push Comes to Shove, and would have insisted on a change.”

      Rhona wondered who had the manuscript and which doctor he’d consulted. She didn’t yet have much information about Paul, but she didn’t think he would have taken criticism well. “How would he have responded?”

      “Respond? If we absolutely insisted, he’d do it, but he hated being questioned or challenged.”

      That fit her impression—a clearer picture of the man was emerging.

      “I wouldn’t think the people whose stories he dredged up would react well. Did he identify them by name?”

      “No, he gave them fanciful handles like ‘the predator’ and ‘batman’; those names made them sound like third-rate wrestlers.”

      “Can you think of anyone who had a reason to kill Robertson?”

      “I wasn’t familiar with his personal life. I don’t suppose anyone would kill him because of his books.”

      Rhona didn’t share Macdonald’s conviction. In her experience, men killed to protect secrets. How hard would it be for investigative journalists to unearth the identities of the characters in Paul’s forthcoming book?

      Macdonald activated his unaligned bones and joints and creaked to his feet. He sounded like he needed oiling as he made his independently articulated way out of the room.

      The next two men had not been acquainted with Robertson in any significant way, and their interviews finished quickly.

      The fourth runner, an unlikely looking middle-aged marathoner, at least six foot four and carrying an extra fifty pounds up front, charged into the room, stuck out his hand and launched into speech. “I’m Stan Eakins. I’m from Ottawa, but since I’m going out-of-town for the next week, I thought I’d better talk to you.” Eakins rushed on. “I’m a member of St. Mark’s and have been acquainted with Paul since he came to Ottawa.” He took a breath. “He preached up a storm. His sermons held together; they stimulated me. He made interesting cross-references and tie-ins to current events and never used tired old clerical jokes.”

      Rhona considered inserting a question but decided to allow the river to flow.

      “Mind you, they didn’t comfort. You watched him perform intellectual arabesques and enjoyed the show. He didn’t rely on homilies and had no soft words for the suffering. He viewed everything in terms of ‘Christianity as challenge’. If he’d been a Catholic, he would have been a Jesuit. You know the kind? The only way was his way. When you think of it, those Jesuits martyred by the Iroquois in the sixteenth century endured their torture because they possessed that certainty.”

      When Eakins stopped to consider their martyrdom, Rhona motioned him to sit down. “Do you have any idea who might have wanted Reverend Robertson dead?”

      Eakins flopped down on a chair that protested as it absorbed his weight. “Many people disliked him. Hard to evaluate the intensity of feeling, but those who oppose the ordination of homosexuals are pretty steamed up. But, fanatical though they are, they must realize that killing one advocate, even an outspoken one, won’t change anything.”

      He leaned forward, lowered his voice and confided, “He attracted women. His arrogance fascinated them. I’d guess if the women who were,” he paused, quirking an eyebrow, “drawn to him, had, what’s the term, ‘significant others’, those guys wouldn’t have named Robertson ‘man of the year’. You’re the expert. Aren’t love, hate and jealousy the big reasons for murder?” He relaxed and resumed