Quickwater’s eyes scanned, his body coiled and ready to spring. In the distance I heard sirens and engines, then the sound of an explosion.
Adrenaline pumping, I pressed a hand to the hole in my nephew’s back, and tried to stuff a hankie into the one in his chest. Time lost all meaning.
Then it was silent. Nothing appeared to move.
Beyond Quickwater I saw people crawl from under the canopy, disheveled and sobbing. Bikers emerged from hiding and coalesced into groups, faces furious, fists pistoning as if they were angry hip-hop artists. Others lay motionless on the ground. Ryan was nowhere to be seen.
Far down the mountain sirens wailed. I glanced at Quickwater, and our eyes locked. My lips trembled, but no words came.
Quickwater reached down and wiped blood from my cheek, then gently brushed the hair from my face. His eyes went deep into mine, acknowledging what we had just seen, the secret we shared. My chest heaved and tears burned my lids. I turned away, not wanting a witness to my frailty.
My gaze fell on a tiny portrait, encased in plastic and secured to the angel’s pedestal. A solemn face stared out, separated by death and faded by years of rain and sun.
No, God. Please, no. Not Kit.
I looked down at the blood oozing through my fingers. Openly weeping, I applied more pressure, then closed my eyes and prayed.
“WHAT THE HELL DID YOU PLAN TO DO?” CHARBONNEAU ASKED.
“I didn’t plan. I acted on instinct.”
“You were unarmed.”
“I was armed with righteous fury.”
“Rarely wins against a semiautomatic.”
A week had passed since the shoot-out at Notre-Dame-des-Neiges, and we’d been over it a dozen times. Charbonneau was in my lab, watching me prepare Savannah Osprey’s bones for shipment.
DNA sequencing had come back positive, linking the Myrtle Beach skeleton to the remains from St-Basile-le-Grand. Kate Brophy had established that Savannah’s mother was dead, but had located a maternal aunt. Burial would take place in North Carolina.
I felt melancholy each time I pictured that lonely, little ceremony. My satisfaction at finding and identifying Savannah was tempered by sadness over her life. She was so young and frail, hampered by physical disability, lonely, loathed by her father, abandoned in death by her mother. I wondered if there was anyone left who would care for her grave.
“Do you think Savannah chose to go to Myrtle Beach that day?” I asked, changing the subject.
“According to Crease the kid went willingly.”
“Bad decision.” I pictured the pale little waif and wondered what had led her to it.
“Yeah. A deadly decision.”
I looked at Charbonneau, surprised at how closely his thought echoed mine. There had been so many fatal decisions. Gately and Martineau. Jocelyn Dion. George Dorsey. The Hells Angels responsible for the cemetery attack. And near-fatal decisions. Kit and Crease, both of whom had managed to survive.
A Hells Angels death squad had been sent from the States to blow away Crease because Jocelyn had fingered him as Cherokee Desjardins’ killer. The Angels had intended to send a message that killing one of their own meant certain retribution, and had chosen a very public forum to deliver that message. The gunman assigned to Crease was to have escaped by cycle. The cycle did get away, but the shooter didn’t. Ryan and Quickwater saw to that, though the public version would be different.
Unfamiliar with the local terrain, the shooters in the Jeep went off the mountain while speeding from police. The two in front were killed in the crash, the third hospitalized with multiple injuries. A routine check turned up a New York warrant for murder. The man was providing limited cooperation, preferring the non–death penalty attitude of our northern neighbors to the laws of his home state. His thinking was that a life sentence in Canada was preferable to a lethal injection in New York, even though the state hadn’t executed anyone since 1963.
Six hours of surgery had pulled Crease through, but the reporter was still in intensive care. The story of his involvement was emerging piecemeal as his periods of lucidity lengthened.
Crease and Cherokee traveled with the Angels in the early eighties, the latter aspiring to brotherhood, the former a wanna-be academic charmed by the biker lifestyle. The two were drawn together by their shared Canadian roots.
According to Crease, he and Cherokee encountered Savannah Osprey on the Myrtle Beach run and invited her to ride along. Later, a party turned ugly and Savannah wanted to leave. Things got out of hand, the girl was strangled, and Cherokee hid the body in the woods.
“Has Crease admitted to a part in the murder?”
“He denies that, but admits to the return visit, when Cherokee decided to collect bones to decorate the clubhouse.”
“The bastards.”
I glanced at Savannah’s remains and experienced the same anger and repulsion I’d felt on seeing the photo Jocelyn had taken from Cherokee’s apartment. I’d recognized the cranium instantly by the tiny burr hole in its side. The skull was mounted on a wall, the leg bones crossed below like the symbol on a pirate flag. Crease and Cherokee were posed below the macabre Jolly Roger, hands raised in a one-finger salute.
“Where was that snapshot taken?” Until then, I hadn’t asked.
“At the Vipers’ clubhouse in St-Basile. Crease and Cherokee went back to Myrtle Beach the winter after Savannah was killed. They checked out the body, found the skull and leg bones still under the tin, the rest skeletonized and scattered by animals. Thinking a human skull would be a hit with the brothers, they decided to haul the undamaged parts back to Quebec.”
I was too disgusted to respond.
“Savannah’s bones decorated the bar for several years before the Vipers, worried about heat from the police, buried them in the woods.”
“Why so close to Gately and Martineau?”
“The proximity of the graves was coincidental. Gately and Martineau were strictly business. Back in ’87 the Angels wanted a bar that Gately owned. That was their way of getting it. Martineau was a friend of Gately’s, and had taken a shot at an Angel who was hassling Gately about the bar.”
“Bad move.”
“Indeed.”
“If Crease is innocent of the Osprey murder, why was he so desperate to get that picture?”
“He figured that with the bones becoming front-page news, his past might come out and his career would be over.”
“So he killed Cherokee for it.”
“We haven’t worked that out, but we will. And the blood on the thing is gonna put him away for the rest of his worthless life.”
“He’ll deny any link to that photo, and your sole eyewitness won’t be testifying.”
Jocelyn had arrived at the Montreal General DOA.
“Then the dandruff will nail him.”
“What if the DNA is inconclusive?”
“It won’t matter. He’s dirty and he’ll give it up.”
So we believed, for another nine hours.
• • •
At the hospital the blinds were drawn, the room filled with slatted sunlight. Kit was staring at a talk show, the sound turned completely down, while Harry flipped through a fashion magazine. Though he’d been moved from intensive care four days earlier, his face was still white, and his eyes looked as though they’d been underbrushed with violet paint. His chest was bandaged, and an IV needle ran into a vein in his left arm.
He brightened when he saw me.
“How’s it going?” I rubbed the back of his arm.
“Acey, peachy.”
“I brought more flowers,” I chirped, holding out the selection I’d grabbed at the hospital florist. “The Spring Daisies Bouquet. Guaranteed to freshen the most sagging spirit.”
“Pretty soon we’re going to need some kind of permit with all the photosynthesis going on in here.”
Wriggling to sit higher, he reached for the orange juice on his tray, winced and pulled back.
“Let me help with th
at.”
I handed him the glass, and he settled into his pillows, closing his lips around the straw.
“How’s the breathing?”
“O.K.” He rested the glass on his chest.
The bullet intended for Crease had caught Kit at a high angle. It fractured two ribs, nicked a lung, and exited through muscle. A complete recovery was expected.
“Have they busted these sons of bitches yet?”
I turned to my sister. She sat in a corner chair, her long legs braided like a Chinese contortionist’s.
“The getaway cycle got away. The guy who survived the Jeep crash has been charged with attempted murder, among other things. He’s cooperating with the police.”
“Tempe, if I get my h—”
“Harry, do you think you could ask the nurse for another vase?”
“I get it. Time for an auntie-nephie chat. I’ll scoot for a nicotine hit.” She gathered her purse, kissed her son on the top of the head, and stepped into the corridor, leaving behind a trail of Cristalle.
Perching on the side of the bed, I squeezed Kit’s hand. It felt cool and pliant.
“Acey, peachy?”
“It’s a drag, Aunt Tempe. Every five minutes some nurse sticks me with a needle or shoves a thermometer up my butt. And we’re not talking ‘Hot Lips’ Houlihan here. These women feed on small furry things.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And they’re saying I have to stay another two or three days.”
“The doctors want to be sure that lung won’t collapse again.”
He hesitated, then, “What was the count?”
“In addition to you and Crease, two family members were wounded, and three Heathens and Rock Machine bikers were killed. Of the attackers, one got away, one was killed, two died in a crash, and one was captured. It was a bloodbath the likes of which has seldom been seen in Canada.”
He dropped his eyes and picked at the blanket with his free hand.
“How’s he doing?”
“He’ll make it. But he’s about to be charged with the Cherokee Desjardins murder.”
“I know Lyle didn’t kill that guy. He couldn’t.”
“He tried to sacrifice you to protect himself.”
Kit said nothing.
“And he was using you to get information.”
“He may have done that, but he would never murder anyone.”
I pictured the skull and crossbones, but said nothing to contradict him.
“Why did he bring you to that funeral?”
“He didn’t want to, but I was crazy to see the bikes. I told him I’d go on my own if he didn’t take me. Hell, except for going to that cycle shop, Lyle didn’t even hang around with those guys. When we went there he tried to look cool, but I could tell nobody really knew him.”
I remembered my conversation with Charbonneau, and our initial suspicion that Crease had been a double agent. In retrospect the idea seemed ludicrous. It was ironic, however, that my worry for Kit had been based on fear of his involvement with bikers. I should have worried about Lyle Crease.
Kit worked a thread loose with his finger.
“Look, Aunt Tempe, I’m sorry for all the grief I’ve caused you.”
He swallowed, doubled back on his finger with the thread.
“The Preacher and those other guys are losers who can’t even get it together to buy their own wheels.”
I’d already learned this from Claudel, but let him go on.
“I let you think they were big-ass bikers to make myself look cool. Instead I almost got you killed.”
“Kit, who was the man outside my condo?”
“I really, honestly don’t know. He was probably some goof just passing by.” A grin teased the corners of his mouth. “Maybe he was applying for a job at the place that cut your hair.”
I gently punched his good shoulder. This time I believed him.
“Hey, careful with the rough stuff. I’m an invalid.”
He took a sip of juice and handed me the glass.
“What about that eyeball?”
“The police think the Vipers put it on my car to discourage further interest in their history.”
A pause. On-screen, a man mouthed the news while stock prices ticked by below.
“I think I’m going to look into school when I get back home. Try a few courses. See how it goes.”
“I think that’s a wonderful idea, Kit.”
“You must think I’m about as dumb as a largemouth bass.”
“Maybe a perch.”
“I hope you don’t give up on me.”
“Never.”
Embarrassed, he changed the subject.
“How’s your boss?”
“Much better. He’s starting to give the nurses a hard time.”
“I’m with him there. And Ryan?”
“Don’t push it, fish brain.”
“How long do you think he’ll be moonin’ around here, expecting flowers and caramel clusters?” Harry stood in the doorway, a smile on her lips, a vase in her hand. Both were the same geranium red.
• • •
Leaving the hospital, I drove home, had dinner with Birdie, and began a series of household tasks. A return to normalcy by immersion in the mundane. That was the plan and it was working.
Until the doorbell chirped.
Dumping an armload of dirty sweaters, I glanced at my watch. Eight-fifteen. Too early for Harry.
Curious, I went to check the security screen.
What the hell?
Sergeant-Detective Luc Claudel stood in my vestibule, hands clasped behind his back, weight shifting from the heels to the balls of his feet.
“So much for normalcy,” I muttered as I buzzed him in.
“Bonsoir, Monsieur Claudel.”
“Bonsoir. I apologize for disturbing you at your home, but there has been a development.” His jaw tensed, as though what he had to say was pushing him to the limits of civility. “I thought that you should know.”
Courtesy from Claudel? In English? What now?
Birdie did a figure eight around my ankles, but offered no conjecture.
I stepped back and gestured the detective inside. He entered and waited stiffly as I closed the door, then followed me to the living room sofa. Settling into the armchair opposite, I remembered my conversation with Ryan’s partner, Jean Bertrand, and the thought of Ryan brought the usual stomach clutch.
God, please let him be safe!
I pushed the thought aside and waited for Claudel to speak.
He cleared his throat and looked away from me.
“You were right about George Dorsey. He did not kill Cherokee Desjardins.”
There was a revelation.
“Nor did Lyle Crease.”
I stared at him, too surprised to respond.
“Shortly before her death Jocelyn Dion mailed a letter to her mother giving information about a number of illegal biker activities. Among the subjects discussed were the shooting of Emily Anne Toussaint and Richard ‘Spider’ Marcotte, and the murder of Cherokee Desjardins.”
“Why did she do that?”
“Her motives were complex. First and foremost, she feared for her own life and felt the letter might confer protection. In addition, she was angry over Dorsey’s murder, which, by the way, was ordered by his own gang. Jocelyn Dion was living with George Dorsey at the time of his death.”
I felt heat climb the sides of my neck, but did not let on what Jocelyn had said about Dorsey’s death.
“Was Dorsey killed because he spoke with me?”
Claudel ignored the question.
“Dion also felt remorse for certain of her own actions, including the killing of Cherokee Desjardins.”
“What?” I blurted in astonishment.
“That is correct. Jocelyn Dion killed Desjardins.”
“But Jocelyn told me she heard Crease bludgeon and shoot him.”
“It seems your clerk was somewhat economical with the truth.”
/> He tented his fingers under his chin.
“According to the young lady’s letter, she’d gone to Desjardins for drugs when Crease showed up, wanting the infamous barroom photo. The men argued, Crease knocked Cherokee unconscious with a pipe, then began ransacking the apartment. Hearing noises in the bedroom, he panicked and fled.
“It seems your Jocelyn had a big habit and a short budget. She went over there high on drugs, and saw the situation as an opportunity to stock her medicine chest. When Crease left, she battered Desjardins’ unconscious body, dragged it to a chair, and used a shotgun to remove his face.”
“Why bother to shoot him?”
“She didn’t want Desjardins coming after her. Also, she was stoned, but sober enough to realize that she had to cover her tracks, so she made it look like a biker hit.” Claudel dropped his hands. “On that point you were correct.”
More throat clearing, then he went on.
“Thinking it contained more pharmaceuticals, Dion retrieved a package Crease had dropped. It contained an old photograph of Crease and Desjardins. Later, she cooked up a blackmail scheme, figuring that if Crease wanted the picture badly enough to fight for it, he might be willing to pay.”
“In the meantime, the Heathens heard about my meeting with Dorsey and ordered his death.” Again the tension in my neck.
“Yes. Fearing for her own safety, Dion cooked up and floated the story that Crease had murdered Desjardins. The Vipers got wind and decided payback was due. Desjardins had been an Angel, his killer was an Angel dropout, despised by the brothers, and his killer had to die. Also, they had not settled the Spider Marcotte account, as far as they were concerned. They phoned New York for outside help, persuaded Dion to lure Crease to Dorsey’s funeral, and decided they would settle several Heathen scores at the same time.”
A pause.
“It must have been Jocelyn who left the picture on my desk.”
“To throw suspicion toward Crease.”
I thought of something else.
“That’s why Cherokee’s blood was on that jacket.”
“For once the little lizard was telling the truth. The jacket belonged to Jocelyn, but Dorsey couldn’t admit that if he wanted to protect her.”