I pictured the smirk on Ryan’s face, remembered his finger jabbing my chest.
I squeezed again. Phhht!
Read that, Shakespeare! Phhht!
My hand froze and I stared at the pattern. The squiggles were not random, but formed two perfect sixes.
Read that, Shakespeare. Shakespeare. The sonnets were a passion with Ryan.
I recalled something from a long time ago. High school. Mr. Tomlinson. Senior Honors English.
Was it possible?
I raced to the bedroom bookshelf and pulled out a volume. The Complete Works of William Shakespeare. Hardly breathing, I opened to the sonnets and flipped to number sixty-six.
Come on, Bill, let it be there.
Tears welled when I read the line.
And right perfection wrongly disgraced . . .
Wrongly disgraced.
It was a message. Ryan was saying that all was not as it seemed.
Right perfection.
Ryan was not a point man for the dark side! He had not gone over!
What then?
Undercover?
But why hadn’t he contacted me?
He couldn’t, Brennan. You know that.
It didn’t matter. Suddenly I was certain that whatever Ryan was doing, the man I knew remained beneath. In time I would know the full story.
And I was equally certain I would never report the previous night’s events. I would do nothing to compromise Ryan’s cover.
I closed the book and went back to the laundry. Though I understood that covert operations could last months, or even years, at least now I knew.
A smile spread across my face as I bunched the shirt and tossed it into the washer. I can wait, Andrew Ryan. I can wait.
Feeling happier than I had in weeks, I shook off the vision of Pascal and Tank and went back to the photos I’d abandoned the night before. I’d just booted up the disc when Kit appeared in the doorway.
“I forgot to tell you that Isabelle phoned. She’s going out of town and wanted to return your call before she left.”
“Where is she going?”
“I forget. Something to do with an award.”
“When is she leaving?”
“I forget.”
“Thanks.”
His eyes shifted to the screen.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m trying to clean up some old photographs so I can view the faces.”
“Whose?”
“Savannah Osprey is in one shot. And the man who was killed last week.”
“The guy who was stabbed in jail?”
“No. The person the police think was his victim.”
“Awesome.”
He moved into the room.
“Can I see?”
“Well, I guess there’s nothing in the way of sensitive information here. As long as you promise not to discuss these things with anyone but me, you can pull up a chair.”
I brought up the Myrtle Beach photo and indicated Savannah and Cherokee Desjardins.
“Man. That dude looks like a reject from the W.W.F.”
“World Wrestling Federation?”
“World Wildlife Fund.” He pointed at Savannah. “She’s sure no ole lady.”
“No. But it’s not uncommon for bikers to drug young girls and hold them against their will.”
“And she’s no beach bunny. Man, her skin’s the color of a bed-sheet.”
I had a thought.
“I want you to take a look at something.”
I closed the picnic photo and opened the police-check photo.
Kit leaned in and studied the scene.
“Is that the same dude?” He indicated Cherokee.
“Yes.”
“We still in Dixie?”
“South Carolina.”
“Looks like a road bust.”
His eyes moved across the group, then locked onto the cycle at the periphery.
“Holy shit. Sorry. When was this taken?”
“That’s unclear. Why?”
“That’s the same chopped hog we saw in the funeral picture.”
My pulse stepped up.
“Are you sure?”
“Auntie T, that is the sweetest piece of Milwaukee iron I have ever seen. You could really ride the edge on those wheels.”
“That’s why I was asking about the other picture.”
“Did you find it?”
“No.”
“Doesn’t matter. That’s the same bike.”
“How can you be sure?”
“Can you zoom it up?”
I magnified that part of the photo.
“Jesus. That is five hundred pounds of thunder.”
“Tell me how you know it’s the same bike.”
“Like I said before, it’s an old FLH, a police touring cycle that’s been stripped and customized. That’s no big deal. But it’s the way he did the chop that’s so bitching.”
One by one he again pointed out the bike’s wonders. “This dude wanted a truly raw machine, so he changed the power-to-weight ratio.”
His finger touched the front of the bike.
“He lengthened the wheel base and raised the front end by installing longer front forks. Man, those puppies must be twenty inches over stock. He probably cut out a section of the neck of the frame. You’ve really got to know your shit to pull that off.”
“Why?”
“If you screw it up the bike will split and you’ll find yourself eating cement at high speed.”
He indicated the handlebars.
“He used dog bones, steel struts to raise the handlebars.”
“Mm.”
“The guy that did this was definitely not interested in comfort. He’s riding a springer front end, that’s one with external springs, not hydraulic shock absorbers, and a ‘hard tail’ frame.”
“A hard tail?”
“It’s a rigid frame with no rear shock absorbers. It’s called a ‘hard tail’ because your ass really takes a beating.”
He pointed to a set of pins at the front of the bike.
“Check out the highway pegs.”
I must have looked blank.
“He’s got extra foot pegs up front, and a forward-positioned custom-shift-and-brake assembly so he can stretch out his feet. This guy is into serious puttin’.”
“And you’re sure this is the same bike we saw at Silvestre’s grave?”
“Same righteous hog. But that’s not my only clue.”
I knew I was in over my depth, and said nothing.
“Look at this.” He pointed at the gas tank. “He’s sculpted the tank with some kind of molding material. What does that look like to you?”
I bent close. The front end did look odd, but the shape brought nothing to mind. I peered at it, forcing my brain cells to draw meaning from the tapered form.
Then I saw it.
“Is that unusual?” I asked.
“It’s the only one I’ve ever seen. The guy’s a regular Rodin with bondo.”
He stared at the screen, mesmerized. Then, “Yeah! Jammin’ in the wind sitting on a snake’s head. Hee ha—”
He stopped short and an odd look crossed his face. Then he leaned in, back, then in again, like a bird sighting on a curious insect.
“Can you bring that guy’s face up?”
“The one on the bike?”
“Yeah.”
“It will blur as I enlarge it.”
“Try.”
I did, then went through the same manipulations I’d performed with Claudel. As lines and shadows shifted, congealing pixels into recognizable features, then reordering them into meaningless patterns of color and shape, I gradually realized what my nephew had spotted.
In twenty minutes I’d done what I could do. During that time we had not spoken. I broke the silence.
“What made you recognize him?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe the jaw. Maybe the nose. It grabbed me as I was pointing out the snake’s head. Before t
hat I hadn’t even noticed the rider.”
We stared at the man on the marvelous hog. And he looked into space, intent on a happening long since past.
“Did he ever mention riding with the Angels?”
“He’s not wearing colors.”
“Did he, Kit?”
My nephew sighed.
“No.”
“Does he hang with them now?”
“Oh, please. You’ve seen the guy.”
Yes. I’d seen the guy. On a country road in St-Basile-le-Grand. Across a dinner table. On the late-night news. And in my own home.
The man on the bike was Lyle Crease.
WORDS AND IMAGES FLASHED IN MY BRAIN. PASCAL’S FACE IN neon and shadow. George Dorsey mumbling my name to a paramedic. A glossy eyeball.
“. . . are you going to do?” Kit asked.
“Call Isabelle, then go to bed.” I closed down the program and slid the CD into its holder.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
Sometimes when thoughts are ricocheting inside my head, the best strategy is to lay back and let them find their own patterns.
“Aren’t you curious?”
“Very. And I will find out if Crease has ties to the Hells Angels. But not tonight.”
“I could ask around.”
“That is precisely what you will not do,” I snapped. “He could be a dangerous man with dangerous friends.”
Kit’s face froze. Then his eyes dropped and he turned away.
“Whatever.” He shrugged.
I waited for the click of his bedroom door, then dialed Isabelle’s number. She answered after four rings, sounding slightly out of breath.
“Mon Dieu, I was buried in the back of the closet. I’ve misplaced my Vuitton overnighter and can’t imagine where it is. And, really, nothing else will do.”
“Isabelle, I need some information.”
My tone suggested I was not in the mood for a luggage discussion.
“Oui?”
“I’d like to know about Lyle Crease.”
“Ahhh, Tempe, you little pixie. I knew you would change your mind.”
Like hell. “Tell me about him.”
“He’s cute, eh?”
As a mealworm, I thought, but said nothing.
“And you know he is an investigative reporter with CTV. Very glamorous.”
“How long has he done that?”
“How long?”
“Yes. How long?”
“Mon Dieu, forever.”
“How many years?”
“Well, I’m not sure. But he’s been on the air as long as I can remember.”
“What did he do before that?”
“Before that?”
“Yes. Before CTV.” This was harder than questioning George Dorsey.
“Let me think.” I heard a soft ticking, and pictured lacquered nails tapping the handset. “I know the answer to this, Tempe, because Véronique told me. Véronique hosts a talk show on Radio-Canada now, interviews celebrities, but she started out doing the weather at CTV. Do you know her?”
“No.” My left eye was beginning to throb.
“She dated Lyle briefl—”
“I’m sure I’ve seen her.”
“I think she told me Lyle was hired away from an American newspaper. No. Wait, this is coming back to me.” Tick. Tick. Tick. “It was a paper somewhere out west. Alberta, I think. But originally he comes from the States. Or maybe he went to school down there.”
“Do you know which state?”
“Somewhere in the South, I think. You should like that.”
“When did he come to Canada?”
“Oh my goodness, I have no idea.”
“Where does he live?”
“Off the island, I think. Or maybe downtown.”
“Does he have family here?”
“Sorry.”
“How well do you know Lyle Crease?”
“I am not his confidante, Tempe.” Her tone was becoming defensive.
“But you tried to pair me up with him!” I tried to keep my voice neutral but the irritation curled around the edges.
“You needn’t put it like that. The gentleman asked to meet you, and I saw no reason to refuse. It’s not as though your love life has been bountiful this year.”
“Hold it. Back up. It was Crease’s idea that we meet?”
“Yes.” Guarded.
“When was this?”
“I don’t know, Tempe. I ran into him at L’Express, you know, that bistro on rue St-Denis th—”
“Yes.”
“Lyle saw your picture in the paper and was absolutely smitten. Or so he said, though not in those exact words. Anyway, we were talking, and one thing led to another, and before I could help myself I’d invited him to dinner.”
Tick. Tick.
“And really, he wasn’t so bad. In fact, he was quite charming.”
“Um.” So was Ted Bundy.
For a few moments no one spoke.
“Are you angry with me, Tempe?”
“No, I’m not angry.”
“I’ll see what I can find out. I’ll phone Véronique an—”
“No. Never mind. It’s not important.”
The last thing I needed was an alert to Lyle Crease.
“I was just curious. Have a good trip, Isabelle.”
“Merci. Where do you suppose that overnighter has gone?”
“Try your storage locker.”
“Bonne idée. Bonsoir, Tempe.”
When we disconnected, I realized I hadn’t asked where she was going.
• • •
An hour later the mental commingling began. As I lay in bed, trying to block out Kit’s music, images, facts, and questions floated to the surface then sank into the deep, like tropical fish in a subliminal tank.
Image. Lyle Crease pouring wine.
Fact. Crease had finagled the introduction. He was at St-Basile-le-Grand and knew about the skeletons, and had seen the article in the Gazette, before Isabelle’s dinner party.
Questions. Why did he want to meet me? Was his request linked to the discovery of the burials? Was he simply looking for an inside scoop, or did he have other reasons for wanting information?
Image. A young Lyle Crease on a chopped hog.
Fact. Crease had ties to the Southern states.
Questions. What was Crease doing with the homeboys? Had he stolen the Silvestre funeral photo from me? If so, why? Could his past somehow endanger him now? Whom did he fear?
Image. A hyena redneck lumbering up my block.
Fact. Besides initial fear, the man had triggered something in my psyche.
Questions. Had Kit been lying when I asked about visitors? Why? Who was the goon in the baseball cap? Why did the man provoke such a strong reaction in me?
Image. LaManche on tubes and life support.
Fact. The pathologist was in his sixties and had never taken time for exercise or a proper diet.
Questions. Would he survive? Would he ever return to work?
Image. Ryan slouching on a barroom stool.
Fact. He was undercover, and hadn’t gone over.
Questions. Had his actions on my behalf jeopardized his cover? Was he in danger? Had I contributed to that?
These musings mingled with more mundane considerations. How to relocate Kit to Houston. Birdie’s overdue vaccinations. The cavity. Hair growth.
But underlying all my thoughts was the nagging signal from my subconscious, unrelenting, yet out of reach. The redneck in the baseball cap. I tossed and turned, frustrated that my psyche was beaming a message I could not decipher.
I was sleeping fitfully when the phone shrilled.
“Hello.” Groggy.
“Oh, were you in bed?”
The digits on my clock glowed one-fifteen.
“Mm.”
“It was the University of South Carolina,” Isabelle chirped.
“What?”
“Lyle is from Lond
on, Ontario, but he went to school in South Carolina.” Her voice beamed with satisfaction. “And don’t worry about my source. I was très discreet.”
Oh boy.
“Thank you, Isabelle.” Mumbled.
“Now, go back to sleep. Oh, and I found the suitcase in the bathroom closet. Silly me. Bonsoir.”
Dial tone.
I clicked off and flopped back on the pillow, noticing that the bedroom wall no longer vibrated. Had Kit gone out?
As I began to drift off my id made one more try at sending up images. The hyena took form with his leather vest and grungy long hair. Boots. Cap.
Cap.
My eyes flew open and I shot to a sitting position, searching my stored memories for another image.
Could it be?
• • •
The next morning I was up before the alarm. A peek told me Kit was asleep in his bed. I showered, dressed, and puttered until it was time to go to the lab.
I went directly to Ronald Gilbert’s office and made my request. Without a word he crossed to a shelf, selected a videotape, and handed it to me. I thanked him and hurried to the conference room.
Nervously, I inserted the plastic box into a VCR and clicked on the monitor. Not knowing at what point I’d find the scene, I started at the beginning and hit fast-forward.
Views of the Cherokee Desjardins apartment jerked across the screen. The living room, the kitchen, the faceless corpse. Then the tape focused on bloody walls.
The camera swept across a corner, zooming in, then drawing back. I hit play and the pace slowed to normal.
Two minutes later I spotted the object wedged between the wall and a rusted birdcage supporting a guitar. I hit freeze and read four letters peeking from a wine-colored stain.
“-cock-”
I studied the cap closely. It was red and white, and I could see portions of a familiar logo that hadn’t registered while I was at the scene. My mind completed the letters obliterated by Cherokee’s blood.
G-a-m-e - - - - s.
Yes.
Gamecocks.
The cap hadn’t proclaimed some macho obscenity. It had broadcast the name of an athletic team. The Gamecocks.
The University of South Carolina Gamecocks.
The hyena’s cap had nudged my id. Isabelle’s call had allowed my brain’s summons to assemble and organize to breakthrough.
Just then the door opened and Michel Charbonneau stuck his spiky head into the room. He held up a brown envelope.
“Claudel asked me to give you this. It’s the official game plan for tomorrow, and Roy wanted you to have it.”