“Real stud,” I snorted. “Cheating on his wife with a bubble-gummer.”
“Let me share a story. Guy named Thibault sold Bastarache a car back in ninety-seven. Bastarache complained the crankshaft was bad. Guy blew him off. Three days later, a body turned up under the Little Tracadie River Bridge No. 15. Had a crankshaft protruding from his rib cage.”
“Was Bastarache charged?”
“There was nothing to link him and no one would roll.”
“Could be coincidence.”
“Could be I’ll get drafted to play fullback for the Alouettes. Look, what I’m saying is, Bastarache is nuts, he’s mean, and he runs a rough crew. That’s a bad combination.”
I couldn’t disagree with that.
But why would Obéline have married such a loser? And why had he chosen her? What had happened to the little girl I’d known on Pawleys Island?
Hippo’s eyes dropped. Scooping up the folded paper, he began rotating it from corner to corner, tapping the tabletop.
“I got another story.”
I started to interrupt.
“Concerns your friend.”
The change in Hippo’s voice chilled me.
“Plot’s not original. Fighting. Husband getting liberal with the fists. Anonymous calls to the cops. Wife refusing to press charges. Finally, him breaking her arm. She’s in a cast, he’s slipping it to a pole dancer.”
“Obéline?”
Hippo nodded. “Unclear how she got him out of the house. May have threatened to prosecute this time if he didn’t leave. Two weeks later there’s a fire.”
I swallowed.
“Third-degree burns over twenty percent of her body. Spent time in rehab. Came away pretty scarred.”
I pictured a peach-skinned toddler with chestnut curls laughing and chasing gulls in the Carolina surf.
On the medial surface of the mammalian brain, right beneath the cortex, there’s a nexus of neurons called the limbic system. This little hunk of gray matter cranks our emotions in and out of gear: wrath, fright, passion, love, hate, joy, sadness.
A limbic switch flipped, and white hotness seared my endocranium. I didn’t let my anger show. That’s not how I am. When that circuit trips, and true fury blasts the inside of my skull, I don’t scream or lash out. Au contraire. I go steely calm.
“Arson?” My voice was a monotone.
“Cops suspected the fire was deliberately set.”
“Bastarache?”
“Everyone thought the turd did it, but there was nothing to nail him and no one would talk. Guy’s goons have everyone scared shitless.”
I held out a palm.
Hippo kept the paper clamped in his hand. “I know you like to do things your own way, doc. But I want you to steer clear of this guy.”
I curled my fingers in a “give it to me” gesture.
Reluctantly, Hippo slid the folded sheet across the tabletop.
Flattening the page, I read the number and address.
The room receded. The humming fluorescents. The skeleton. Hippo’s luau shirt. I was on a porch on a Lowcountry summer night. A transistor radio was playing “Ode to Billie Joe.” Évangéline and I were lying with arms crooked behind our heads, knees up, singing along.
Was it really so simple? Dial these digits and Obéline would answer? Perhaps solve the mystery that had troubled me all these years? Perhaps lead me to Évangéline?
“You OK?”
I nodded, barely aware of Hippo’s question.
“Gotta boogie. Ryan’s waiting downstairs.”
I heard Hippo push to his feet, then the lab door open and close.
My eyes drifted to the bones.
Or would it go the other way? Would I provide answers to Obéline?
Seconds, perhaps epochs later, the door opened again. I looked up.
“Giving up Saturday morning cartoons?”
“Hey.”
“Hippo told me you were up here.”
Hippo must have shared more than the fact of my presence. Ryan’s eyes were crimped with concern.
“A hale fellow.” I managed a weak smile. “He tell you about Obéline Landry being married to this sleaze David Bastarache?”
Ryan nodded.
“He doesn’t want me to contact her.”
“But we both know you will.”
“Do you think Bastarache would shoot me just for phoning his estranged wife?”
“I don’t know. Just—”
Pointing a finger I finished Ryan’s sentence. “Be careful out there.” Hill Street Blues. The sergeant’s daily send-off was an ongoing joke between us.
Ryan hesitated, as though collecting his thoughts. Or choosing an opening.
“Listen, Tempe. There’s something I need to tell you.”
I waited, curious.
“I’ve made—”
Ryan’s cell warbled. Giving a “sorry” face, he turned a shoulder and clicked on.
“Ryan.”
I heard a series of “oui.”
“Lousy timing.” Ryan waggled the phone. “But we may be catching a break on the Quincy kid.”
“I understand.” I kept very still. “Would you like to meet later?”
Ryan’s answer was a long time coming. “Sure.”
“Curry?”
“Ben’s at seven?”
“Sounds like a plan.”
Troubled blue eyes scanned my face. As though memorizing detail.
Something sucked at my heart.
“Come here.” Ryan opened his arms. “Give me a hug.”
Surprised, I rose and pressed my cheek to Ryan’s chest. The embrace broke every rule I’d imposed about intimacy at work. I didn’t care. It had been too long. It was Saturday. The place was deserted.
Ryan’s arms enveloped me. His chin rested on my hair. I felt a flush climb my throat as warmth spread through me.
Breathing in the familiar scent of soap and Acqua di Parma, feeling the familiar muscles and hollows, I wondered if I’d misinterpreted Ryan’s look.
Then I heard the words, whispered, more to himself than to me.
“You’ll probably never do this again.”
14
I REFUSED TO LET MYSELF THINK ABOUT RYAN.
I refused to let myself rush to the phone. Before punching those digits, I wanted to rehearse what to tell Obéline.
Instead, I focused on bone pathology.
Though the metatarsal was slender and unnaturally pointed on the distal end, its outer cortex appeared normal on X-ray. Similar changes occur in advanced cases of rheumatoid arthritis. But with rheumatoid arthritis, the joints are also affected. The girl’s joints were fine.
Lupus can cause changes in the bones of the hands and feet. It can also affect the nasal spine and aperture and cause resorption of the premaxillary alveolar process. But lupus is an immune disease that attacks many internal organs and tissues. The damage to the girl’s skeleton was not that widespread.
Venereal syphilis leads to atrophy of the nasal spine and destruction of the anterior palate. But with syphilis, vault lesions are common. The girl’s vault had none.
Congenital syphilis.
Yaws.
Tuberculosis.
On and on. Nothing fit.
At five, I gave up and headed home.
As I concentrated on traffic, my brain cells roamed free range.
Was Birdie due for a checkup?
You took him in March.
It was July.
Pull his shot record.
Haircut.
Go really short, like Halle Berry.
You’ll look like Demi Moore in G.I. Jane .
Lousy movie.
Not the point.
No guts no glory.
Or Pee-wee Herman.
Ryan.
What the hell, I was tired.
As with the previous topics, cerebral opinions were split.
Breakup, a cadre of pessimist brain cells predicted.
No way, an optim
ist faction countered.
The pessimists floated an image. Annie Hall. Alvie and Annie separating belongings.
We’d never lived together, but I’d spent nights at Ryan’s place, he at mine. Had possessions migrated? Did Ryan want to talk about reclaiming CD’s?
I began a mental list of objects at my condo. The wine opener. A toothbrush. A bottle of Boucheron aftershave.
Charlie?
He’s over the marital status thing.
He’s outta here.
Why the hug?
He’s horny.
“That’s it.” I hit the radio.
Garou was crooning “Seul.” Alone.
I snapped it off.
Birdie greeted me by flopping onto one side, stretching all four limbs, and rotating to his back. Ryan called the maneuver his “drop and roll.”
I scratched the cat’s belly. He must have felt tension in my touch. Popping to his feet, he regarded me, eyes yellow and round.
Partly Ryan. Partly Obéline. And partly being afloat on coffee.
“Sorry, big guy. Got a lot on my mind.”
Hearing my voice, Charlie weighed in. “…love drunk off my hump.”
Black Eyed Peas. Good job with the training disc, Ryan.
But why that line?
When its battery dies, my smoke alarm shrills until a replacement is inserted. This occurred once on a weekend when I’d left Charlie alone. The cockatiel shrilled for the next three months.
It’s the rhythm, I told myself. Not the lyrics.
I popped in the cockatiel training CD, filled seed and water dishes, and fed the cat. Then I wandered from room to room, each time forgetting the point of my going.
I needed exercise.
Lacing on running shoes, I jogged up the hill, then turned west. On the opposite side of Sherbrooke sprawled the grounds of Le Grand Séminaire, recovery site of a dismembered body years ago. One of the first cases I’d worked with Ryan.
Still no rain, but the barometric pressure was at least a billion. Within blocks I was sweating and breathing hard. The physical exertion felt good. I pounded past the Shriner’s Temple, Dawson College, Westmount Park.
A mile and a half out, I looped back.
This time, no greetings from Birdie. In my hurry to be off, I’d left the door to the study ajar.
The cat and bird were eyeball to eyeball. Though feathers and seed casings littered the floor, neither feline nor avian looked particularly excited. But there’d definitely been action while I was out.
Shooing Birdie from the room, I hurried to the shower.
While I was drying my hair, the brain cells piped in again.
Mascara and blush.
Tart yourself up for yesterday’s news?
Smart looks, smart thoughts.
Puh-leeze!
I spritzed Issey Miyake.
Trollop.
Le Maison du Cari is located in a basement on Bishop, across from the Concordia University library. Ben, the owner, remembers the preferences of each of his regulars. No question about mine. Ben’s korma is so rich it prompts a smile from the most jaded diner.
Descending the steps, I saw the top of Ryan’s head through the small front window. Dimly. Curry, brilliant. Tandoori, phenomenal. Windex, forget it.
Ryan was drinking Newcastle ale and munching papadum. I’d barely taken my seat when a Diet Coke hit the table. Lots of ice. Slice of lime. Perfect.
After hearing news of Ben’s daughter in Sweden, we ordered. Chicken vindaloo. Lamb korma. Channa masala. Cucumber raita. Naan.
Conversation launched from the neutral ground of Phoebe Jane Quincy.
“We may have a lead. Kid didn’t have a mobile, but the best friend did. Finally ’fessed up to allowing Phoebe to make calls she couldn’t make at home. Records showed one unfamiliar number. Dialed eight times in the past three months.”
“Boyfriend?”
“Photography studio. Low end, over on the Plateau. Rented to a guy named Stanislas Cormier.” Ryan’s jaw muscles bunched, relaxed. “Cormier was promising to make the kid a supermodel.”
“The friend told you?”
Ryan nodded. “Quincy pictured herself the next Tyra Banks.”
“You picked Cormier up?”
“Spent a lovely afternoon interrogating the dolt. He’s innocent as Bambi.”
“His explanation for the calls?”
“Claims Quincy found him in the Yellow Pages. Wanted a photo shoot. Upstanding citizen asked her age, heard thirteen, told her no go without a parent.”
“She called eight times.”
“Cormier says she was persistent.”
“You believe him?”
“What do you think?”
“Did he take the Marilyn shot?”
“Claims to know nothing about it.”
“Can you hold him?”
“We’ll find a charge.”
“What now?”
“Waiting for a warrant. Once it’s issued, we toss the studio.”
“What about LaManche’s Lac des Deux Montagnes floater? Anything pop with the new info I gave you on age and race?”
“She’s not in CPIC or NCIC.”
The food arrived. Ryan ordered another Newcastle. As we served ourselves, I remembered something from our earlier conversation.
“Didn’t you say Kelly Sicard also wanted to be a model?”
“Yeah.” Ryan forked curry into his mouth. “Fancy that.”
We ate in silence. Beside us, two kids held hands, eyes locked, food cooling on their plates. Love? Lust? Either way, I envied them.
Finally, Ryan got to it.
Wiping his mouth, he carefully folded and laid his napkin on the table. Smoothed it with a palm.
“There’s something I have to tell you. It’s not easy, but you should know.”
A fist grabbed my gut.
“Lily’s problems are worse than I’ve let on.”
The fist eased ever so slightly.
“Three weeks ago she was nailed boosting DVD’s from a Blockbuster outlet. I got a courtesy call because I’m on the job. I managed to talk the owner down, made restitution. Lily didn’t go into the system. This time.”
Ryan’s gaze floated up to the window, went through the glass to the darkness outside on Bishop.
“Lily’s addicted to heroin. She steals to feed her habit.”
I didn’t blink, didn’t look over toward the couple beside us.
“I own a big hunk of blame. I was never there.”
Lutetia kept her existence from you. I didn’t say it.
Ryan’s eyes came back to mine. In them I saw pain and guilt. And something else. The sadness of ending.
The fist retightened.
“My daughter needs medical help. Counseling. She’ll get that. But she also needs stability. A home base. The conviction that someone believes in her.”
Ryan took both my hands in his.
“Lutetia has been in Montreal the past two weeks.”
My chest turned to ice.
“We’ve spent hours wrestling with this.” Ryan halted briefly. “We think we can give Lily the safety net she needs.”
I waited.
“We’ve decided to try to make the relationship work.”
“You’re going back to Lutetia?” Calm, and wildly out of sync with the turmoil inside.
“This is the most painful decision I’ve ever had to make. I’ve barely slept. I’ve thought of nothing else.” Ryan lowered his voice. “I kept remembering you with Pete in Charleston.”
“He’d been shot.” Barely audible.
“I mean earlier. He had his arms around you.”
“I was overtired, overwrought from so much work. Pete was merely calming me down.”
“I know. I admit when I first saw you two together I felt betrayed. Humiliated. ‘How could she?’ I kept asking myself. I wanted to see you burned alive. That first night, I bought a bottle of scotch, took it to my room and got drunk. I was so angry I threw my
room phone through the TV screen.”
My eyebrows floated up.
“The hotel charged me six hundred bucks.” Strained smile. “Look, I’m not criticizing or casting blame. But I’ve come to understand you’re never going to cut Pete loose.” Ryan’s thumbs caressed the backs of my hands. “That realization made me reassess. Maybe the poets and songwriters have gotten it wrong. Maybe we do get a second chance to get things right.”
“Andrew and Lutetia. The way we were.” It was small and mean. I couldn’t help myself.
“This won’t affect us on the job, of course.” Another weak smile. “We’ll still be Mulder and Scully.”
X-Files. X-Lovers.
“I want your help with these MP’s and DOA’s.”
I bit back a retort I would later have regretted.
“You’re sure about this?” I asked.
“I’ve never been less sure about anything in my life. But I’m sure of one thing. I owe it to my daughter to try. I can’t see her destroyed while I just stand by.”
I needed fresh air.
I didn’t offer reassurance. Or another Streisand line. Or a hug.
Molding my face into a smile, I rose and left the restaurant.
I felt leaden, oblivious to the Saturday night revelers with whom I shared the sidewalk. My feet rose, fell, moving me along without sensation. Then they stopped.
I looked up.
Hurley’s.
It wasn’t air that I craved. I’d run toward the old umbilicus. The ruby glow in the long-stemmed glass, the friction on my throat, the heat in my belly. The bullet train to temporary gladness and well-being.
All I had to do was enter and ask.
But I know myself. I am an alkie. The fling wouldn’t be brief. And, inevitably, the euphoria would give way to self-loathing. Hours, perhaps days would be gone from my life.
I reversed my course and went home.
Lying in bed, I felt totally alone in the universe.
My thoughts played like a danse macabre.
Dorothée and Geneviève Doucet, forgotten in an upstairs bedroom.
Kelly Sicard. Claudine Cloquet. Anne Girardin. Phoebe Jane Quincy. Vanished, perhaps molested and murdered.
Three young bodies, two bloated and grotesque.
Laurette, abandoned, dead at thirty-four.
My own mother, widowed, neurotic, dead at fifty-seven.
Baby Kevin, dead at age nine months.