• • •
Sirens wailing in the distance. Voices. Pressure on my throat.
I opened my eyes to light and movement. A form loomed over me. A hand pressed something against my neck.
Who? Where? My own living room. Memory. Panic. I struggled to sit up.
“Attention. Attention. Elle se lève.”
Hands pressed me gently down.
Then, a familiar voice. Unexpected. Out of context.
“Don’t move. You’ve lost a lot of blood. There is an ambulance on the way.”
Claudel.
“Where. I …?”
“You’re safe. We’ve got him.”
“What’s left of him.” Charbonneau.
“Katy?”
“Lie back. You’ve got a gash on your throat and right neck and if you move your head, it bleeds. You’ve lost a good amount of blood and we don’t want you to lose any more.”
“My daughter?”
Their faces floated above me. A bolt of lightning flared, turning them white.
“Katy?” My heart pounded. I couldn’t breathe.
“She’s fine. Anxious to see you. Friends are with her.”
“Tabernac.” Claudel moved away from the couch. “Où est cette ambulance?”
He strode into the hall, glanced at something on the kitchen floor, then back at me, an odd expression on his face.
A siren’s wail grew louder, filled my tiny street. Then a second. I saw red and blue pulse outside the French doors.
“Relax now,” said Charbonneau. “They’re here. We’ll see your daughter is looked after. It’s over.”
THERE’S STILL A GAP IN MY OFFICIAL MEMORY FILES. THE NEXT TWO days are there, but they’re fuzzy and out of synch, a disjointed collage of images and feelings that come and go, but have no rational pattern.
A clock with numbers that were never the same. Pain. Hands tugging, probing, lifting my eyelids. Voices. A light window. A dark window.
Faces. Claudel in harsh fluorescence. Jewel Tambeaux silhouetted against a white hot sun. Ryan in yellow lamplight, slowly turning pages. Charbonneau dozing, TV blue flickering across his features.
I had enough pharmaceuticals in me to numb the Iraqi army, so it’s hard to sort drugged sleep from waking reality. The dreams and memories spin and swirl like a cyclone circling its eye. No matter how often I retrace my steps through that time, I cannot sort out the images.
Coherence returned on Friday.
I opened my eyes to bright sunlight, saw a nurse adjusting an IV drip, and knew where I was. Someone to my right was making soft clicking noises. I turned my head and pain shot through it. A dull throbbing in my neck told me further movement was ill advised.
Ryan sat in a vinyl chair, entering something into a pocket organizer.
“Am I going to live?” My words sounded slurred.
“Mon Dieu.” Smiling.
I swallowed and repeated the question. My lips felt stiff and swollen.
The nurse reached for my wrist, placed her fingertips on it, focused on her watch.
“That’s what they say.” Ryan slid the organizer into his shirt pocket, rose, and crossed to the bed. “Concussion, laceration of the right neck and throat region with significant loss of blood. Thirty-seven stitches, each carefully placed by a fine plastic surgeon. Prognosis: she’ll live.”
The nurse gave him a disapproving glance. “Ten minutes,” she said, and left.
A flash of memory shot fear through the layer of drugs.
“Katy?”
“Relax. She’ll be here in a while. She was in earlier, but you were out cold.”
I looked a question mark at him.
“She showed up with a friend just before you left in the ambulance. Some kid she knows at McGill. She’d been dropped at your place sans key that afternoon, but talked her way through the outer door. Seems some of your neighbors aren’t exactly security conscious.” He hooked a thumb inside his belt. “But she couldn’t get into your unit. She called you at the office, but no score. So she left her pack to flag you that she was in town, and reconnected with her friend. Sayonara, Mom.
“She meant to get back by dinnertime, but the storm hit, so the two of them hung tight at Hurley’s and sippped a few. She tried to call, but couldn’t get through. She nearly blew a valve when she arrived, but I was able to calm her down. One of the victim assistance officers is staying in close touch with her, making sure she knows what’s up. Several people here offered to take her in, but she preferred to crash with her friend. She’s been here every day and is going snake wanting to see you.”
Despite my best efforts, tears of relief. A tissue and a kind look from Ryan. My hand looked strange against the green hospital blanket, as though it belonged to someone else. A plastic bracelet circled my wrist. I could see tiny flecks of blood under my nails.
More memory bytes. Lightning. A knife handle.
“Fortier?”
“Later.”
“Now.” The ache in my neck was intensifying. I knew I wouldn’t feel like conversation for long. Also, Florence Nightingale would be back soon.
“He lost a lot of blood, but modern medicine saved the bastard. As I understand it, the blade slashed the orbit but then slid into the ethmoid without penetrating the cranium. He will lose his eye, but his sinuses should be great.”
“You’re a riot, Ryan.”
“He got into your building through the faulty garage door, then picked your lock. No one was home, so he disabled the security system and the power. You didn’t notice since your computer goes to battery when the power fails, and the regular phone isn’t tied in to the electricity, just the portable. He must have cut the phone line right after you made your last call. He was probably in there when Katy tried the door and left her pack.”
Another icicle of fear. A crushing hand. A choke collar.
“Where is he now?
“He’s here.”
I struggled to sit up and my stomach felt as if it were doing the same. Ryan gently pushed me back against the pillow.
“He’s under heavy guard, Tempe. He’s not going anywhere.”
“St. Jacques?” I heard a tremor in my voice.
“Later.”
I had a thousand questions, but it was too late. I was slipping back into the hollow where I’d been curled the past two days.
The nurse returned and shot Ryan a withering look. I didn’t see him leave.
• • •
The next time I woke Ryan and Claudel were talking quietly by the window. It was dark outside. I’d been dreaming of Jewel and Julie.
“Was Jewel Tambeaux here earlier?”
They turned in my direction.
“She came on Thursday.” Ryan.
“Fortier?”
“They’ve taken him off critical.”
“Talking?”
“Yes.”
“Is he St. Jacques?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“Maybe this should wait until you’re stronger.”
“Tell me.”
The two exchanged glances, then approached. Claudel cleared his throat.
“Name’s Leo Fortier. Thirty-two years old. Lives off the island with his wife and two kids. Drifts from job to job. Nothing steady. He and Grace Damas had an affair back in 1991. Met at a butcher shop where they both worked.”
“La Boucherie St. Dominique.”
“Oui.” Claudel gave me an odd look. “Things start going bad. She threatens to blow the whistle to wifey, starts dunning lover boy for money. He’s had it, so he asks her to meet him at the shop after hours, kills her, and cuts her body up.”
“Risky.”
“The owner’s out of town, place is closed up for a couple of weeks. All the equipment is there. Anyway, he cuts her up, hauls her out to St. Lambert, and buries her on the monastery grounds. Seems his uncle is custodian. Either the old man gave him a key or Fortier helped himself.”
“Emile Roy.”
/> “Oui.”
Again the look.
“That isn’t all,” said Ryan. “He used the monastery to do Trottier and Gagnon. Took them there, killed them, dismembered their bodies in the basement. He cleaned up after himself, so Roy wouldn’t suspect, but when Gilbert and the boys gave the cellar a Luminol spray this morning it lit up like halftime at the Orange Bowl.”
“That’s how he also had access to Le Grand Séminaire,” I said.
“Yeah. Says he got that idea when he was following Chantale Trottier. Her father’s condo is right around the corner. Roy keeps a board at the monastery with all kinds of church keys hanging on hooks, neatly marked. Fortier just lifted the one he wanted.”
“Oh. And Gilbert has a chef’s saw for you. Says it glows.” Ryan.
He must have seen something in my face.
“When you’re feeling better.”
“I can hardly wait.” I was trying, but my bruised brain was withdrawing again.
The nurse came in.
“This is police business,” Claudel said.
She folded her arms and shook her head.
“Merde.”
She ushered them out quickly, but returned in a moment. With Katy. My daughter crossed the room without a word and clasped both my hands in hers. Tears filled her eyes.
Softly, “I love you, Mom.”
For a moment I just looked at her, a thousand emotions boiling inside me. Love. Gratitude. Helplessness. I cherished this child as no other being on earth. I desperately wished for her happiness. Her safety. I felt completely unable to assure her of either. I could feel tears of my own.
“And I love you, darling.”
She dragged a chair close and sat alongside my bed, not releasing my hands. The fluorescent light gleamed a halo of blond around her head.
She cleared her throat. “I’m staying at Monica’s. She’s commuting to McGill for summer school and living at home. Her family is taking good care of me.” She paused, unsure what to say, what to hold back. “Birdie is with us.”
She looked toward the window, back at me.
“There’s a policewoman who talks to me twice a day and will bring me here whenever I want.” She leaned forward, resting her forearms on the bed. “You haven’t been awake very much.”
“I plan to do better.”
A nervous smile. “Dad calls every day to make sure I don’t need anything and to ask about you.”
Guilt and loss joined the emotions that were churning in me. “Tell him I’m fine.”
The nurse returned quietly and stood next to Katy, who took her cue. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”
• • •
It was morning when I got the next installment on Fortier.
“He’s been a nuisance sex offender for years. Got a sheet going back to 1979. Kept a girl locked up for a day and a half when he was fifteen, but nothing ever came of it. The grandmother kept it out of court, no arrest record. Mostly, he’d pick out a woman, follow her, keep records of her activities. He finally got busted for assault in 1988—”
“The grandmother.”
Another Claudel look. I noticed his silk tie was the exact mauve of his shirt.
“Oui. An evaluation by a court-appointed psychiatrist at that time described him as paranoid and compulsive.” He turned to Ryan. “What else did that shrink write? Tremendous anger, potential for violence, especially against women.”
“So he got six months and walked. Typical.”
This time Claudel just stared at me. He pinched his eyes at the bridge of his nose and continued.
“Except for the kid and Granny, Fortier up to that point hasn’t really done much beyond nuisance stuff. But he gets a real rush killing Grace Damas, decides to move on to bigger things. It’s right after that he rents his first hidey-hole. The one on Berger was only his latest.”
“Didn’t want to share his hobby with the little woman at home.” Ryan.
“Where did he get the rent money with only a part-time job?”
“Wife works. He probably squeezed it from her, told her some lie. Or maybe he had another hobby we don’t know about. We’re sure going to find out.”
Claudel continued in his detached, case-discussing voice.
“The next year he begins stalking in earnest, going about it systematically. You were right about the Métro. He’s got a thing about the number six. He starts out riding six stops, then follows a woman that fits his profile. His first random hit is Francine Morisette-Champoux. Our boy gets on at Berri-UQAM, gets off at Georges-Vanier and follows her home. He tracks her for several weeks, then makes his move.”
I thought of her words and felt a rush of anger. She wanted to feel safe. Untouchable in her home. The ultimate female fantasy. Claudel’s voice reconnected.
“But the free stalk is too risky, not controlled enough for him. He gets the idea of using real estate signs from the one on the Morisette-Champoux condo. It’s the perfect in.”
“Trottier?” I felt sick.
“Trottier. This time he takes the green line, rides his six stops, and gets off at Atwater. He walks around until he spots a sign. Daddy’s condo. He watches, takes his time, sees Chantale come and go. Says he spotted the Sacré Cœur logo on her uniform, even went to the school some days. Then the ambush.”
“By this time he’d also found a safer killing spot,” added Ryan.
“The monastery. Perfect. How did he get Chantale to go with him?”
“One day he waits until he knows she’s alone, rings the bell, asks to see the condo. He’s a potential buyer, right? But she won’t let him in. A few days later he pulls up next to her as she’s leaving school. What a coincidence. Claims he had an appointment with her father, but no one showed up. Chantale knows how badly the old man wants to sell the place, so she agrees to walk him through. The rest we know.”
The fluorescent tube above my bed buzzed softly. Claudel went on.
“Fortier doesn’t want to risk another body on the monastery grounds, so he drives her all the way up to St. Jerome. But he doesn’t like that either. It’s too long in the car. What if he got stopped? He’s seen the seminary, remembers the key. Next time he’ll do even better.”
“Gagnon.”
“Learning curve.”
“Voilà.”
At that moment the nurse appeared, a younger, gentler version of my weekday keeper. She read my chart, felt my head, took my pulse. For the first time I noticed that the IV was gone from my arm.
“Are you getting tired?”
“I’m fine.”
“You can have another painkiller if you need it.”
“Let’s see how it goes,” I said.
She smiled and left.
“What about Adkins?”
“He gets agitated when he talks about Adkins,” said Ryan. “Closes up. It’s almost as if he’s proud of the others, but feels different about her.”
A medicine cart passed in the corridor, rubber wheels gliding silently over tile.
Why didn’t Adkins fit the pattern?
A robotic voice urged someone to dial 237.
Why so messy?
Elevator doors opened, whooshed shut.
“Think about this,” I said. “He’s got the place on Berger. His system is working. He finds his victims with the Métro and the ‘for sale’ signs, then he tracks them until the right moment. He has a safe place to kill and a safe place to dump the bodies. Maybe it’s working too well. Maybe the rush isn’t there anymore, so he has to up the stakes. He decides to go back into the victim’s home, like he did with Morisette-Champoux.”
I remembered the photos. The disheveled warm-up suit. The dark red pool around the body.
“But he gets sloppy. We found out he called ahead to make an appointment with Margaret Adkins. What he didn’t count on was the husband phoning during his visit. He has to kill her quickly. He has to cut her fast, mutilate her with something close at hand. He pulls it off, gets away, but it’s rushed. He’s not in
control.”
The statue. The severed breast.
Ryan nodded.
“Makes sense. The kill is just the final act in his fantasy of control. I can kill you or let you live. I can hide your body or display it. I can deprive you of your gender by mutilating your breasts or vagina. I can render you powerless by cutting off your hands. But then the husband calls and threatens his whole fantasy satisfaction.”
“Spoiled the rush.” Ryan.
“He never used stolen items before Adkins. Maybe he used her bank card afterward to reassert control.”
“Or maybe he had a cash flow problem, needed to blow something up his nose and had no purchasing power.” Claudel.
“It’s weird. Can’t shut him up on the others, but he turns into a potted palm on Adkins.” Ryan.
For a while no one said anything.
“Pitre and Gautier?” I asked, avoiding what I really had to know.
“Claims they’re not his.”
Ryan and Claudel exchanged words. I didn’t hear them. A chill spread and filled my rib cage, a question taking form. It coalesced, hung there, then slithered up and forced itself into language.
“Gabby?”
Claudel dropped his eyes.
Ryan cleared his throat.
“You’ve had a—”
“Gabby?” I repeated. Tears burned the insides of my eyelids.
Ryan nodded.
“Why?”
No one spoke.
“It’s because of me, isn’t it?” I fought to keep my voice even.
“This fuckhead’s a nutcase,” said Ryan. “He’s crazy for control. He won’t open up much about his childhood, but he’s got so much rage against the grandmother you have to scrape it off your teeth when you leave the room. Blames all of his problems on her. Keeps saying she ruined him. From what we’ve learned, she was a very domineering woman, and fanatically religious. His feelings of powerlessness probably stem from whatever went on between them.”
“Meaning the guy’s a real loser with women and blames it on the old lady,” added Claudel.
“What does this have to do with Gabby?”
Ryan seemed reluctant to continue.
“At first Fortier gets a sense of control through peeping. He can watch his victims, track them, learn all about them, and they aren’t even aware of him. He keeps his notebooks and clippings and runs a fantasy show in his head. An added bonus is that there’s no risk of rejection. But eventually, that’s not enough. He kills Damas, finds he likes it, and decides on a career move. He starts kidnapping and killing his victims. The ultimate control. Life and death. He’s in charge and unstoppable.”