Ryan slowed as we passed Rustique, but didn’t turn. Thirty feet down, he made a U-ey, doubled back, and crept by for a second look.
The street appeared to be strictly residential. Large old homes. Large old trees. I saw no one moving among them.
Again reversing direction on Cherrier, Ryan slid to the curb, positioning the Impala for optimal surveillance. His optimal surveillance. I had to crane around him to see.
Rustique was one block long, with what looked like a small park at the far end. Six houses on the left. Six on the right. Set far back on deep, narrow lots, the frame structures all looked tired, in need of paint and probably plumbing and wiring.
A number of residents had taken a shot at lawn care and gardening. Some were enjoying more success than others. Outside one faded Victorian was a carved wooden plaque saying 4 Chez Lizot.
“It’s like Bastarache’s setup in Tracadie,” I said.
“How so?”
“Dead-end street. Back to the river.”
Ryan didn’t reply. He’d pulled binoculars from the glove compartment and was scanning up one side and down the other, assessing.
I looked past him again. Three cars were snugged to the curb, one near Cherrier, one at midblock, one farther down by the park.
The Lizot’s sign suggested even numbers were on the right. I counted from the corner.
“Number thirteen has to be that double lot last on the left.” I couldn’t actually see much. Malo’s property was surrounded by six-foot chain linking overgrown with vines. Through gaps in the foliage I could make out pine, cedar hedges, and one enormous dead elm.
“Love what he’s done with the landscaping.” My anxiety was fueling imbecilic jokes.
Ryan didn’t laugh. He was punching buttons on his phone.
“Can you read Malo’s sign?” I asked.
“Prenez garde au chien.”
Beware of the dog. No joke there.
“I need you to run three DBQ’s, type one.” Ryan was asking for a trace on auto licenses, speaking, I assumed, with the desk officer at SQ headquarters. He waited, then read the plate number off a beat-to-hell Mercury Grand Marquis parked just down from Cherrier.
“Murchison, Dewey. Trois Rustique. Oui.”
I eyeballed the brick-and-frame bungalow five up from Malo’s. It was obvious Old Dewey wasn’t sitting on a fat portfolio.
“Nine. Four. Seven. Alpha. Charlie. Zulu.” Ryan had moved on to the Porsche 911 halfway down the block.
After the heart-thumping drive, the warmth and stillness in the Impala were dulling. I listened to Ryan’s end of the conversation, suddenly aware of a stunning exhaustion.
“Vincent, Antoine.” Ryan repeated the name. “Any Vincents living on Rustique?” Ryan waited. “OK.”
My arms and legs were starting to feel like pig iron.
“Hang on.” Grabbing the binoculars, Ryan read off the license of the late-model Honda Accord at the far end of the block. After a pause he asked, “Which rental company?”
My exhaustion was gone like the flash of a shutter. Eyes squinting, I focused on the Accord.
“Got a number?” The voice speaking to Ryan said something. “Sure you’re not too busy?” Beat. “Appreciate it.”
Ryan closed but didn’t toss his cell.
“It’s Harry.” My voice was amped. “I know it is.”
“Let’s not jump to conclusions.”
“Right.”
I threw myself into the seat back and folded my arms. Unfolded them and started gnawing the cuticle.
“The Merc and the Porsche belong to locals,” Ryan said, never taking his eyes from number thirteen.
I didn’t bother to comment.
Seconds dragged by. Minutes. Eons.
The Impala seemed suddenly oppressive. I lowered my window. Sickly warm air floated in, bringing the smell of mud and mown grass. The cawing of gulls.
I jumped when Ryan’s cell warbled in his hand.
Ryan listened. Thanked the caller. Disconnected.
“Harry rented the Accord on Monday morning.”
My eyes flew down the block. The car was empty. The park was empty.
“I’ll call her.” I reached for my purse.
Ryan shot a restraining hand to my arm. “No.”
“Why not?”
Ryan just looked at me. Like mine, his eyes were full of fatigue.
My mind did a frightening connect. If Harry was on Malo’s property or in his house, a ringing phone might compromise her safety.
“Jesus, Ryan, you really think she’s gone inside?” Been taken inside? I couldn’t say it.
“I don’t know.”
I knew.
“We need to get her out.”
“Not yet.”
“What?” Sharp. “We just sit here?”
“For a while, yes. If I go in, I will do so with backup. Note the pointed use of the first-person singular.”
The sun was low, bouncing off windows and car hoods, bronzing the river, the park, and the street. Sliding on shades, Ryan draped both arms on the wheel and resumed staring down Rustique.
Planetary movement ground to a stop. Occasionally Ryan glanced at his watch. I checked mine. Each time less than a minute had passed.
I switched from working the cuticle to picking at threads in the armrest. Switched back. Despite the heat my fingers felt icy.
We’d been watching ten minutes when a Camaro came hard up Cherrier and turned onto Rustique, running so fast its tires squealed softly. The driver was a murky silhouette behind tinted glass.
A silhouette I recognized.
“It’s Bastarache!”
We watched Bastarache angle to the curb outside number thirteen, jump out, and throw open the Camaro’s trunk. Extracting a bolt cutter, he strode to the fence, positioned the blades, and snapped the handles. After boot-kicking the gate, he disappeared from sight.
The first shots sounded like firecrackers, the pops coming so fast they seemed connected. In the park, a cyclone of gulls rose and swooped over the river.
“Shit!”
Ryan activated and keyed the radio. A dispatcher came on. Identifying himself, Ryan gave our location and requested backup.
“Listen to me, Tempe.” Ryan was unholstering the Glock as he spoke. “I am deadly serious. You are to get on the floor and stay put.”
Silently, I slid from the seat, keeping my eyes above the dash for a view of the street.
“Do not leave this car.”
Using the houses for cover, Ryan worked his way down Rustique, Glock pointed downward at his side. Back to the chain linking, he crept to Malo’s gate, peered in, then vanished.
I crouched on the floor of the Impala, terrified, palms slick with sweat. It seemed hours. In actuality, it was less than five minutes.
I was trying to stretch my cramped legs, when my cell phone chirped. I groped it from my purse.
“Where are you?” Harry was using her whisper-shout voice.
“Where are you?”
“I’m in a park near Malo’s house. Feeding the seagulls.”
“Jesus Christ, Harry. What were you thinking?” My comment failed to reflect the relief I was feeling.
“I may have heard shots.”
“Listen to me.” I employed the same tone Ryan had just used with me. “I’m at the corner of Cherrier and Rustique. Ryan has gone onto Malo’s property. Backup is en route. I want you to get as far from that house as possible without leaving the park. Can you do that?”
“I see a monument to some dead guy. I can hunker behind that.”
“Do it.”
By hoisting my butt up onto the seat, I was able to see a pink-clad figure scuttle from left to right at the river’s edge.
I was returning to my crouch when two muffled shots rang out.
My heart stopped.
I listened.
Impossible stillness.
Dear God, was Ryan in trouble? Harry? Where was backup?
Maybe it was
fear for my sister. Or Ryan. What I did next was mad. I did it anyway.
Firing from the Impala, I sprinted across Cherrier and diagonaled the first lawn on the left side of Rustique. Keeping to house shadows, I ran to number thirteen, back-skimmed the fence, and paused, straining to detect any sound of movement.
Screaming gulls. The hammering of my own heart.
Barely breathing, I peered through Malo’s gate.
A gravel drive led to a dark brick house with garish pink mortar. To its right stood a similarly constructed three-car garage. To its left stretched a lawn latticed by shadows of the dead elm.
I went stiff, fighting the adrenaline that was stirring me to action. A form was seated at the base of the tree. Had I been spotted?
Five seconds dragged by. Ten.
The form didn’t move.
After waiting a full minute, I rechecked my surroundings, then crept down the drive. Each crunch of gravel sounded like an explosion. Still the form remained lifeless, a life-sized rag doll rippled by spider-thread shadows.
Closer to the tree, I could tell that the form was a man. I’d never seen him before. A long, dark tentacle scrawled the front of his shirt. The man’s eyes were closed but he appeared to be breathing.
Half crouching I scuttled across the lawn.
And stopped cold.
Two dogs strained on chains attached to bolts set in concrete. Each was huge, with a sleek brown and black coat, small ears, and a short tail that suggested Doberman. Each growled viciously.
I raised a cautioning hand. The dogs grew frenzied, snarling and slathering, eyes savage in their desire to attack.
In the distance I heard the faint wail of sirens.
I backstepped cautiously. The dogs continued lunging and snapping, each body thrust threatening to wrench the bolts free from their moorings.
On rubber legs I scrambled back to the front of the house. To the right of the door I could see a partially open window. Crawling through a square-cut cedar hedge, I stretched on tiptoes and peered in. Though a chair back obstructed my view of the room, I could clearly see three men.
One word hammered home.
Endgame.
Ryan was holding a Winchester twelve-gauge while pointing his Glock at Bastarache. Bastarache had a Sig Sauer 9mm pointed at a man I assumed to be Malo.
Malo’s back was to the window. Like Bastarache, he was big and heavily muscled.
The sirens were growing louder. I guessed backup units were now crossing the bridge.
“You miserable sonovabitch,” Bastarache was yelling at Malo. “I knew your demented perversions would screw us all sooner or later.”
“You’re what, Dudley Fucking Do-Right? You went in with eyes wide, Davey-boy.”
“Not kids. I never agreed to kids.”
“They want to be stars. I give them their dream.”
“You promised me you cut that shit out. I believed you. Now I learn you been lying all along.” Sweat dampened Bastarache’s hair. His shirt was plastered to his chest.
“Easy.” Ryan tried to defuse Bastarache’s anger.
Bastarache jerked the Sig Sauer toward Ryan. “From the questions this guy’s asking, I’m guessing you killed some kids.”
“That’s ridiculous.” Malo gave a nervous laugh.
“Look at me, ass wipe.” Bastarache leveled the Sig Sauer on Malo’s face. “You’ve brought a murder investigation down on me. I’ve had cops up my ass for days.”
Raising both palms, Malo reoriented toward Bastarache.
My mouth went dry with shock.
Though older, artificially tanned, and more fit, Malo bore a striking resemblance to Bastarache. A resemblance that could only be explained by genes.
Bastarache continued his harangue.
“You killed those girls. Admit you did it.”
“That’s—”
“No! More! Lies!” Bastarache’s face was raspberry.
“They were sluts. I caught one stealing from me. The other was a junkie.” Malo swallowed. “You’re my brother, Davey. Take this guy out.” Malo made a nervous gesture toward Ryan. “Take him out and we’re home free. We find another place—”
“You draw attention to me. To my business. To people I care about. You’ve lost every bit of your brain. Cops been tailing me since Quebec. Something happens to this one and they’ll know who to look for.”
“She’s fine.”
“Your deviant shit threatens everything. You polluted my father’s house. That’s why I drop-kicked you the first chance I had.”
Bastarache was moving the gun with sharp, jerky motions. “You’re just like your whore mother.”
“Lay your gun on the floor, Dave.” Ryan, the negotiator. “You don’t want to hurt anyone.”
Bastarache ignored him.
“You care about nothing but money and your own sick pecker. But now you threaten my house. People I care about. Because of you they’re gonna find her and lock her away.”
“You’re a head case,” Malo scoffed. “You live in the dark ages.”
“Head case?” The gun was trembling in his hand. “I’ll show you a head case. Your head all over that wall.”
A woman spoke from just below the window. Her voice sounded wheezy and winded.
“If you hurt him, it harms us.”
I strained to see the woman, but the chair back blocked her from view.
The sirens were now screaming down Rustique. Tires screeched, doors opened, feet pounded, radios sputtered. A man’s voice called out, another answered.
Bastarache’s eyes darted to the woman. In that instant, Ryan tossed the Winchester behind him and sprang.
The shotgun skidded across the floor and ricocheted off a baseboard. Malo spun and bolted from the room.
I turned and yelled, “Coming out the front!”
Three cops raced up the driveway. One shouted, “Arrêtez-vous! Freeze!”
Malo cut toward the garage. The cops overtook him, slammed his body to the brick, and cuffed his wrists.
Bounding into the house, I hooked a right through a set of double doors into the parlor. A cop followed close on my heels. I heard Ryan tell him to radio for an ambulance.
Bastarache was down on splayed knees, hands cuffed behind him. The woman crouched by his side. Her arm circled her waist. One hand lay on his shoulder. A hand that possessed only three knobby fingers.
“I’m such a fuckup,” Bastarache mumbled. “Such a fuckup.”
“Shhh,” the woman said. “I know you love me.”
A shaft of fast-dropping sun flamed the dark curls framing the woman’s head. Slowly, she raised her chin.
Agonizing realization curdled my innards.
The woman’s cheeks and forehead were lumpy and hard. Her upper lip stretched to a nose that was asymmetrically concave.
“Évangéline,” I said, overwhelmed with emotion.
The woman looked my way. Something flashed in her eyes.
“I’ve seen the Queen of England,” she rasped, chest heaving, tears snaking serpentine trails through her flesh.
41
A WEEK PASSED. SEVEN DAYS OF RECOVERY, CELEBRATION, PARTING, revelation, confession, and denial.
I slept for twelve hours following the incident at Malo’s house, awoke rejuvenated and harboring no grudge against my sister. Harry had survived her escapade in the park. One Jimmy Choo leopard thong sandal had not. Gull guano.
Harry explained that she’d driven to see Flan O’Connor in Toronto. She wanted to surprise me with a scoop on Obéline and the poetry. Her big discovery was that O’Connor House had only operated from 1998 until 2003. Ironically, the information turned out to be merely cumulative to what we already knew about time frames.
Harry flew home to file for divorce and sell her house in River Oaks. Having enjoyed downtown living, she’d decided to search for a condo that would allow her to live car-free. I suspected her plan was unworkable in a town like Houston. I kept it to myself.
The feas
t of Saint John the Baptist, la fête nationale du Québec, came and went. City crews swept up, the fleur-de-lis flags came down, and Montreal’s citizenry turned its attention to the annual rites of jazz.
Through conversations with Ryan and Hippo, I learned many things.
The man slumped by the tree was a Malo thug named Serge Sardou. When Sardou challenged Bastarache’s charge up the driveway, Bastarache shot him. The wound caused a lot of bleeding but only minor muscle damage. Sardou started bartering as soon as the anesthesia wore off.
Turned out Mulally and Babin had been smitten with the Escalade, not with Harry and me. It was Sardou who’d threatened me by e-mail and phone. And, my personal favorite, thrown me down the stairs. Malo had asked him to recover the contact sheet of Évangéline, and to back me off. Sardou decided to double-task at Cormier’s studio.
Bastarache and Malo both went directly from Rustique to jail. Bastarache claimed self-defense, saying Sardou had threatened him with the Winchester. A lawyer had him out on bail the next day.
Based on statements from Sardou and Kelly Sicard, Malo was charged with three counts of homicide and a zillion counts of offenses involving kids. Unlike Bastarache, Plucky Pierre was going nowhere soon.
Wednesday, June 27, I was in my lab at Wilfrid-Derome. Five boxes lined the side counter, remains packaged for release to next of kin.
Reading my handwritten labels, I felt a bittersweet sense of accomplishment. Geneviève Doucet. Anne Girardin. Claire Brideau. Maude Waters. LSJML-57748.
Cause of death would never be determined for Geneviève Doucet. No matter. Poor Théodore was beyond understanding. Or blaming. Maître Asselin would be collecting her great-niece’s bones.
There would be no justice for little Anne Girardin, Ryan’s MP number three. Daddy had died of a self-inflicted bullet to the brain. But Adelaide had been located and could now bury her daughter.
From age seventeen to nineteen, Claire Brideau had starred in dozens of Peter Bad Productions. Pierre Malo. Peter Bad. Pure poetry.
We’d guessed right about Cormier. The photographer had funneled girls to Malo in exchange for a few bucks and a steady supply of pedophile smut. Kelly Sicard had been one. Claire Brideau had been another. There would be no more. Fearing Cormier might roll to save himself, Malo had killed him.