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should be seen anytime but now, preferably in late August when golden fields of wheat bend under the richness of their grain. Waxing and waning like ripples across a smooth burnished sea, the undulating stalks change shade with each puff of wind. The guillotine falls in autumn, beheading every crop, flattening an already flat countryside. The monochrome of winter adds numb monotony, and anything built off the ground seems monumentally tall. The prairies have no obstacles and few landmarks, so the slightest deviation from horizontal whiteness invites inspection. The eye lingers on a barn . . .
    . . . a man . . .
    . . . a scarecrow in a field.

    God is a concept by which we measure pain. Or so said John Lennon.
    Robert DeClercq had not been to church since Genevieve's murder, and even then it was a concession to his mother-in-law. The time before that was the joint funeral of his first wife Kate and their daughter Jane, both killed by terrorists during Quebec's October Crisis of 1970. Pain was the reality by which he measured God, and god—found wanting—rated a small g.
    Hell, however, deserved a capital H. Hell was anarchy in the streets and a crack house on every corner. Hell was child
    abuse and the psychos it spawned: stalkers, sadists, thrill killers, rapists, and nihilist youth gangs. Hell was today's Biblical chaos of urban monsters, social torture, and Satanic demons. Containing Hell was DeClercq's job.
    The Chief Superintendent was in his late fifties: a wiry man, tall and lean, with dark wavy hair graying at the temples, dark thoughtful eyes that had seen it all, an aquiline nose and a finely chiseled jaw. His features hinted at arrogance, belying who he was, but honest humility came through in his voice. In many ways he was a throwback to a bygone age, in that his word was his bond and he kept his friendship in constant repair.
    The latter obligation had brought him here.
    DeClercq was the commander of Special X, the elite Special External Section of the Mounted Police. Every crime in Canada with a foreign link was referred to his unit staffed by those who'd once spied for the now-defunct Security Service. Though Special X was based at HQ in Vancouver, DeClercq had spent the past week at Regina's "Depot" Division overseeing recruitment from the Training Academy. The Chief took care in selecting, then stood behind his cops. This commitment had earned him respect in the ranks. It also meant—before heading home—he had a stop to make.
    The CD playing in the car as he turned off the icy rural road was Mahalia Jackson, Gospels, Spirituals, and Hymns. DeClercq had borrowed the Ford from a cop in Regina, driving west on Highway 1 then north from Swift Current. He'd found the disc in the glove compartment while searching for a map, playing it several times until he reached the farm. Now as he passed the man beside the scarecrow in the field, approaching the pioneer farmhouse at the end of the slippery drive, Jackson's heaven-sent voice wailed "Elijah Rock":

    "Satan is a liar and conjuror, too,
    If you don't mind out, he'll conjure you."

    * * *
    The scarecrow was tattered and falling apart. The stovepipe crowning its straw-filled head had sprung like the top hat in Red Skelton's act. One triangular eye was missing from its hopsack face, creating the impression of a lopsided wink. All but the lowest coat button had popped, baring its rake-handle spine and hay-bale chest. The bird perched on one shoulder obviously thought it a joke.
    The man beside the scarecrow was tattered, too. Five and a half years ago he'd been shot in the head, and his subsequent convalescence had been a bumpy road. The one-inch-square piece of bone cut from his brow had left a shallow indent where surgeons had patched his brain. The scars on his forehead from the operation matched the old knife scar along his jaw. Rugged and sharp-featured, his face was weathered and gaunt, the years of pain subtracting from his former good looks. His natural