“It’s magic. If you hang it over your bed you’re sure to have good dreams. And—”
“Why are you harassing Cecile?”
Claudine and I both turned at the sound of Obéline’s voice.
“We’re having a chat,” Claudine said.
“There are apples on the counter.” Obéline never shifted her scowl from my face. “If you peel them we can make a pie.”
“OK.”
Twirling her dream catcher, Claudine stepped past Obéline and disappeared. In moments, the sound of singing drifted down the hall. “Fendez le bois, chauffez le four. Dormez la belle, il n’est point jour.”
I translated the child’s tune in my head. Chop the wood, heat the oven. Sleep, pretty one, it’s not daytime yet.
“How dare you,” Obéline hissed.
“No, Obéline. How dare you?”
“She has the mind of an eight-year-old child.”
“Fine. Let’s talk about children.” My tone was polar. “Let’s talk about your sister.”
All color drained from her face.
“Where is she?”
“I’ve told you.”
“You’ve told me lies!”
Slamming both palms on the table, I leapt to my feet. My chair capsized and hit the floor like the crack of a gun.
“Évangéline wasn’t murdered,” I said, tone as hard as my expression. “At least she didn’t die at sixteen.”
“That’s nonsense.” Obéline’s voice wavered like an audiotape that’s been overplayed.
“Harry found Bones to Ashes, Obéline. I know Évangéline wrote those poems. Some of them as recently as 2001.”
Her eyes darted past me to the window.
“I know about O’Connor House. I’m tracking the purchase order. I’ll bet Virginie LeBlanc will turn out to be you or Évangéline.”
“You stole from me.” She spoke without bringing her eyes back to mine.
“I hate to break it to you, but what you and your husband have done is infinitely worse than pinching a book.”
“You misjudge us, and make hurtful accusations that are untrue.”
“What happened to Évangéline?”
“This is none of your business.”
“Was that the reason? Business? What the hell, the kid works for Daddy. It’s not in the job description, but I’ll strip her, tie her with ropes, and take a few shots. She’s young and poor, needs the work. She won’t rat me out.”
“That’s not how it was.”
I slapped the table so hard Obéline flinched. “Then tell me. How was it?”
She spun to face me.
“It was my father-in-law’s business manager.” Tears wet the gnarled flesh. “He forced Évangéline to do it.”
“Mr. Evil No Name.” I wasn’t buying it. If there was such a person, Obéline had to know who he was.
“David fired him the day of his father’s death. I only found out about the pictures later.”
“What happened to Évangéline?” I’d keep hammering the question as long as I had to.
She stared at me, lips trembling.
“What happened to Évangéline?”
“Why can’t you leave well enough alone?”
“Well enough? Who’s well enough? Évangéline?”
“Please.”
“What happened to Évangéline?”
A sob rose from her throat.
“Did your husband kill her?”
“Don’t be crazy. Why do you say this?”
“One of his henchmen?”
“David would never let anyone hurt her! He loves her!”
Obéline’s hand flew to her mouth. Her eyes widened in horror.
As before, I felt a coldness spread through me.
“She’s alive,” I said quietly.
“No.” Desperate. “David loves her memory. Her poetry. My sister was a beautiful person.”
“Where is she?”
“Bourreau! Leave her alone.”
“I’m the bully?”
“You will only cause her pain. You will only hurt her.”
“Is she with this man?”
I remembered Obéline’s words from earlier. How had she put it? David and this man needed each other.
“She won’t want to see you.”
“He’s hiding her, isn’t he?”
“Pour l’amour du bon Dieu!”
“What? Did hubby swap your sister for Claudine? Needed a newer model?”
Obéline’s face tightened into a mask of fury. When she answered her voice had gone harder than mine.
“J’vas t’arracher le gorgoton!” I’ll pull out your windpipe!
We locked glares, but I looked away first. Was I feeling a touch of uncertainty? A motor sound drifted in from outside. Grew louder. Stopped. Shortly, the front door opened. Closed. Footsteps ticked up the hall, then Ryan strode into the dining room.
“Ready to roll?”
“Definitely.”
If my vehemence surprised Ryan, he didn’t let on.
“What about Claudine?” I asked, scooping my notes and phone into my purse.
“Social Services is right behind me.”
“Bastarache?”
“Handed him off to the Trois-Rivières SQ. They’ll stay on him. Looks like he’s heading to Montreal.”
“Hippo?”
“Flying to Tracadie later today. Plans to squeeze Mulally and Babin, check out some things that turned up in Bastarache’s files.”
I turned to Obéline.
“Last chance.”
She offered nothing.
I put all the menace I could into my parting words.
“Mark this, Obéline. I won’t stop until I find your sister. And I’ll do everything I can to see that your husband is prosecuted for kidnapping, child exploitation, child endangerment, and anything else we can think to pin to his sorry ass.”
Obéline spoke softly and with an air of sadness.
“I know you want to do good, Tempe, but you will cause harm instead. You will harm the people you are trying to protect and those who have helped them. Poor Cecile finds happiness here. Social Services will be a nightmare for her. And if you find Évangéline, it will cause her pain. May God bless you and forgive you.”
The quiet force of Obéline’s words pushed away my anger. I was pleading now.
“Please, Obéline, please tell me what I must know to bring the man who hurt Évangéline and Cecile to justice. Please do this.”
“I can say no more,” Obéline murmured, not raising her gaze to mine.
39
A S WE SPED ACROSS ÎLE D’ORLÉANS I RECOUNTED MY CONVERSATIONS with Claudine and Obéline.
“Double-barreled ambush.” Ryan sounded impressed. “Your husband’s a smut bandit. Your sister did bondage.”
“Obéline claims David is innocent of all the things of which I suspect him, and, in fact, helped some of the girls. Remember our conversation with Kelly Sicard.”
“Where does she lay the blame?”
“On a former employee of her father-in-law.”
“Who?”
“She didn’t know, or wouldn’t reveal his name. Says David fired him in 1980. The fact is that someone murdered several girls and the only link we have is Bastarache. I can’t ignore that.”
Ryan veered onto an entrance ramp. There was a short descent, a deceleration, then the Impala lunged forward and we were on the twenty. I fell silent, allowing Ryan to focus on driving.
As we ate up asphalt, my thoughts meandered through the events of the past twenty-four hours. David Bastarache. Kelly Sicard. Claudine Cloquet. The sodden and bloated body that was Claire Brideau.
Harry. It was now Wednesday. I hadn’t seen her since Sunday night. Hadn’t heard from her since she called my mobile on Monday morning.
One image fragment bumper-rode the tail of another. Évangéline in ropes. A girl on a bench. Claudine, a walking tragedy. The mixed-race teenager dragged from Lac des Deux Montagnes.
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Might Évangéline still be working in the porn industry? Might that be the secret Obéline was hiding?
Sound bytes replayed over and over. Sicard discussing the anonymous Pierre: I wore moccasins while a guy in a loincloth fucked me. Bastarache’s troubling comment: I was barely out of high school when this kid was playing Indian princess.
I felt another shoulder-tap from my id.
Bastarache knew the bench-girl video had some years on it. The filming had been done in his house. The guy had to be dirty. Or did he? How old had he been then? What was his role in the Bastarache family business?
The tapping continued, insistent.
The human brain is, well, mind-blowing. Chemicals. Electricity. Fluid. Cytoplasm. Wire it up right and the thing works. No one really knows how.
But the brain’s parts can be like governmental agencies, closing ranks to hoard their special knowledge. Cerebrum. Cerebellum. Frontal lobe. Motor cortex. Sometimes it takes a catalyst to get them to share.
My neurons had ingested, but not fully digested, a larder full of data in the last few days. Suddenly, something shifted. My lower brain contacted my upper. Why? Claudine Cloquet’s dream catcher.
“What if Obéline is telling the truth?” I asked, sitting up straight. “What if our perv is the guy who worked for Bastarache’s father?”
“Right.”
“When Harry and I were in Tracadie, Obéline mentioned a former employee of her father-in-law. Said her husband fired him and the parting wasn’t amicable.”
Ryan didn’t comment.
“This former employee designed the sweat house that was later converted to a gazebo. He was nuts into Native art. Carved benches. Totem poles.” I paused for effect. “Kelly Sicard said Pierre forced her to wear moccasins. What was Bastarache’s remark when you showed him the print of the girl on the bench?”
“The kid was playing Indian princess.” Ryan was with me.
“There was nothing in that picture to suggest a Native American theme. And the videos Sicard listed. Think about the titles.”
“Wamp Um. Wiki Up. Sonovabitch.”
“Claudine had a dream catcher. Said she got it from the man she lived with before Obéline. What if Cormier’s ‘agent’ friend, Pierre, is the same guy Bastarache fired? The same guy who had Claudine?”
Ryan’s knuckles tightened on the wheel. “So how does Bastarache fit in?”
“I’m not sure.” I started tossing things out without really thinking. “Bastarache is a kid. He sees skin flicks being made in his home. He resents it, vows to pull the plug the minute the old man kicks.”
Ryan rolled that around in his mind.
“What did Claudine call this creep?”
“She didn’t know his name. Or wouldn’t say it.” I told him about the word-rounding game. “Claudine perceives adjectives as either flat or crooked. Flat ones she adds an o to, crooked ones she doesn’t. It’s not logical, just some aspect of her unique cognitive mapping. She just said the guy was bad. Mal-o.”
Ryan’s eyes pinched in thought. Then he added another contender to my list of what-if’s.
“What if mal is a crooked adjective? One that can’t be rounded.”
“So you can’t add an o.”
“Exactly.”
I saw where Ryan was going. “What if it’s a name? Malo.” Neurons fired. “Pierre Malo.”
Ryan was already reaching for his cell. I listened as he asked someone to run a check.
We were moving west with a sea of cars. I watched their tailpipes. Sunlight on their trunks and roofs. Chewed a cuticle.
We were an hour out of Quebec City when Ryan’s mobile warbled.
“Ryan.”
Pause.
“Où?” Where?
Pause.
“Shit!”
There was a final, shorter pause, then Ryan snapped the lid and tossed the phone to the dash.
“What?” I asked.
“They lost Bastarache.”
“How?”
“Bastard pulled into a rest stop. Entered a restaurant. Never exited.”
“He abandoned the Mercedes?”
Ryan nodded. “He was either picked up or hitched a ride.”
I repeated Ryan’s sentiment. “Shit.”
Minutes later it was my phone.
I’d had virtually no sleep in the last forty-eight hours. I was running on doses of a cat nap and pure adrenaline. What happened next was my fault.
Checking the caller ID, I felt a rush of relief. Followed by annoyance.
Driven by the latter, I clicked on but said nothing.
“You there, big sister?”
“Yes.” Frosty.
“You’re peeved.” Harry, the master of understatement. “Now, I know what you’re going to say.”
“Where the hell have you been?”
“Yessiree. That’s it. I can explain.”
“You needn’t bother.”
“I wanted to surprise you.”
How often had I heard those words?
Ryan’s cell warbled again. I heard him answer.
“Who’s that?” Harry asked.
“What is it you want?”
“Before you go round the bend getting all pissy, let me tell you what I learned.”
“How about telling me where you’ve been?”
“Toronto. Talked with Flan O’Connor. Scored some interesting info.”
“Got something to write with?” Ryan asked, still holding the phone to his ear.
“Hold on,” I said to Harry.
“Where are you?” she asked as I laid the phone on the dash.
I dug paper and pen from my purse.
“Thirteen Rustique.”
I jotted the address Ryan was repeating.
As I finished, Harry’s voice buzzed from my cell. I ignored her.
“Pierrefonds to Cherrier. Left about a mile after Montée de l’Église.” Ryan looked a question at me. I read the directions aloud.
“Below the golf courses and nature preserve. Got it.” Ryan clicked off.
“Pierre Malo lives outside Montreal?” I asked, scribbling the last bit of information.
Ryan nodded.
“Holy hell, Ryan. That’s probably the house Kelly Sicard described.”
“Good possibility.”
“And remember how vehement Bastarache was when he told us to look in our own backyard?”
“I took it as his way of saying fuck off.”
“Obéline said Malo and her husband had some sort of working arrangement. Said they needed each other. Think Bastarache could be going to hook up with Malo?”
“He was pointed toward Montreal.”
I reread the directions.
“What nature preserve?”
“Bois-de-L’Île-Bizard.”
I felt the wings of my throat constrict.
“The boat ramp!”
“What?” Ryan switched lanes to pass a Mini Cooper.
“Suskind’s diatome analysis tied the Lac des Deux Montagnes body to the Bois-de-L’Île-Bizard boat ramp.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes!”
“That ramp’s practically in Malo’s backyard.” Ryan’s jaw muscles bunched, relaxed.
A terrible thought. “If Malo somehow got Phoebe Quincy through Cormier, the same way he got Kelly Sicard, he could be holding her at that house.”
A sharp whistle came from my cell.
I’d forgotten Harry was still on the line.
“Yo!”
I picked up my phone. “I’ve got to go.”
“You really figured out who snatched that little girl?” Harry sounded as excited as I felt.
“I can’t talk to you now.”
“Look, I know you’re mad. I was thoughtless. Let me do something to make amends.”
“I’m going to hang up now.”
“I want to help. Please. Wait. I know. I can go there and keep an eye on the place—”
“No!” It came
out more of a shriek than I’d planned. Or not.
“I won’t do anything.”
“Absolutely not.”
Ryan was throwing me questioning glances.
“I’m not stupid, Tempe. I won’t go ringing this guy Malo’s bell. I’ll just keep him in my sights until you and Monsieur Marvelous land.”
“Harry, listen to me.” I forced calm into my voice. “Do not go anywhere near that house. This guy is deadly. He is no one to play around with.”
“I’ll make you proud, big sister.”
I was listening to dead air.
“Holy mother of God!” I hit Redial.
“What?” Ryan asked.
“Harry’s going to stake out Malo’s place.”
“Stop her.”
Harry’s phone rang and rang, then went to voice mail.
“She’s not picking up. God, Ryan. If we’re right about Malo, the guy’s a monster. He’ll kill Harry without breaking a sweat.”
“Call her again.”
I did. Voice mail.
“She’ll never find Malo’s place,” Ryan said.
“She has GPS on her phone.”
Ryan’s eyes met mine.
“Reach in back and hand me that LED.”
Unclasping my belt, I swiveled and lifted a portable strobe from the floor.
“Clip it onto your sun visor.”
I secured the light with its Velcro straps.
“Plug the cord into the lighter.”
I did.
Ryan flipped the high beams to alternating flash.
“Lower the visor and flick that switch.”
I did. The LED started pulsating red.
Ryan hit the siren and mashed pedal to metal.
40
A SIREN AND STROBE WILL GET YOU WHERE YOU’RE GOING. Pronto.
Two hours after leaving Île d’Orléans, Ryan and I were closing in on Montreal. The return journey had definitely kept my attention. I rode with palms flat to the dash and side window, lurching and bouncing as Ryan accelerated and braked.
L’Île-Bizard lies northwest of Montreal, at the western tip of the town of Laval. Crossing onto the island, Ryan cut to the forty, diagonaled southwest through the city, then shot north on Boulevard Saint-Jean.
Off Pierrefonds, we winged right and rocketed across the pont Jacques-Bizard. At midbridge, Ryan killed the lights and siren.
Most of L’Île-Bizard is taken up by golf courses and the nature preserve, but a few neighborhoods straggle the periphery, some old, some new and so far upmarket the prices would never be broadcast. Malo’s street was just past a small tangle on the island’s southern edge.