Bones to Ashes (24 page)

“Jesus. Is he there?”

“Yeah. Hold on.”

I heard rattling, then Ryan came on the line.

“Whole new twist,” I said.

“Yeah.”

“In all the uproar over the Anne Girardin exhumation, I forgot to tell you that I heard from Dr. Suskind.”

“Uh-huh.” I could tell Ryan was hardly listening.

“Suskind is the marine biologist at McGill. Her findings on the Lac des Deux Montagnes case are complicated.”

“Summarize.”

“She recovered diatoms from the outer bone surface, but not from the marrow cavity.”

“Meaning?”

“Either the girl was dead when she hit the river, she drowned elsewhere in treated water, she drowned before April, she hyperventilated and died quickly, or Suskind’s recovery technique was flawed.”

“Terrific.”

“Suskind did learn something useful. The diatom assemblages found on the sock best match a control sample collected at the bottom of a boat ramp in a park not far from where the body was snagged off L’Île-Bizard.”

“Say that again.”

I did.

“Could be where the vic went into the water,” Ryan said.

“Or a spot the body hung up for a while. Anything further on the ID?”

“I floated an interagency query about female white-Indian or white-Asian teenaged MP’s. Nothing yet.”

“Any success locating Adelaide Girardin?”

“I’m running some leads. But right now Cormier’s taking center stage. Hit fell to me because he’s a player in the Phoebe Quincy disappearance.”

“Have you told Phoebe’s parents?”

“No. I’m really looking forward to that conversation. Cormier was all we had. But the good news is his murder gives us the thumb drive. All that subpoena crap is now history.”

I started to speak, halted. Ryan picked up on my hesitation.

“What?”

“Your plate’s already full.”

“Tell me.”

“It may be nothing.”

“Let me decide.”

“I mentioned it to Hippo, but thought maybe you’d want a heads-up, too.”

“You plan to get to it sometime today?” Friendly enough.

I described the anonymous phone call at the lab, and the e-mail containing the photo and Death lyrics.

“Fernand Colbert hit a dead end tracing the call. He’s not optimistic about the e-mail.”

“You’re thinking one of the two slugs who hassled you in Tracadie?”

“Who else could it be?”

“You have a way of irking people.”

“I work on it.”

“You’re good.”

“Thanks.”

“Leave this to me.”

“My hero.”

Humor intended. Neither of us laughed. New topic.

“I’ve resolved the issue of Hippo’s girl,” I said, unconsciously using my nickname for the case.

“Hippo’s girl?”

“The skeleton I ordered confiscated by the coroner in Rimouski. The one that had upset Hippo’s friend Gaston.”

“Yeah?”

“The bones are probably old.”

“Not your lost chum.”

“No. When you have time, I’ll fill you in. Or Hippo can.”

“You two kiss and make up?”

“Hippo’s not one to bear grudges.”

“Unload, move on. Healthy.”

“Yes.”

Again, awkwardness hummed across the line.

“Tell Hippo I’ll help with Cormier’s files tomorrow.”

“I’ll let you know what I dig up on these Tracadie thugs.”

He did. Sooner than I would have imagined possible.

Sunday morning, the long-promised rain finally arrived. I awoke to water streaking my bedroom windows, warping the courtyard and the city beyond. Wind tossed the branches of the tree outside, now and then mashed a leaf into the screening with a soft ticking sound.

While Harry slept, I set off for Cormier’s studio.

As I drove across town, my wipers slapped a rubbery beat on the windshield. My thoughts kept time to the rhythm of the blades.
Cormier’s dead. Cormier’s dead. Cormier’s dead.

I didn’t yet know the reason for the photographer’s murder. Knew it wasn’t good news.

Sliding to the curb on Rachel, I raised the hood on my sweatshirt and sprinted. The building’s outer door was unlocked. The inner door was propped open with a rolled copy of
Le Journal de Montréal
. I assumed Hippo was already at work.

Brushing water from my hair, I crossed the dingy lobby. A sign hung on the door of Dr. Brigault’s dental office.
Fermé.
Closed.

I started climbing toward the second floor. The storm made the stairwell seem darker, more menacing than on my previous visit. The erratic wind filled it with a hollow, ululating whine.

As I continued upward, the narrow passage grew dimmer and dimmer. I stopped, allowed my brain to take this in. What little light was penetrating was doing so from below.

I looked up. One bare bulb jutted from high in the wall. It was dark. Making the turn, I leaned over the railing and checked the bulb on the second floor. It, too, was dark.

Had the storm knocked out the power?

At that moment, I sensed movement above.

“Hippo?”

Nothing.

“That you, Hippo?”

Again, no response.

Senses on high alert, I climbed to the second-floor landing. The door to Cormier’s flat was ajar. Relief. Of course. Hippo was in the rear, out of earshot of my voice.

Opening the door wide, I stepped into the flat. Shadows of wind-jostled things played on the walls. Branches. Phone lines. Against the backdrop of the storm, the air in the studio seemed eerie in its stillness. I started down the hallway.

At the kitchen, I felt the tiny hairs rise on my neck. The digits on the microwave were glowing green. The power was on. I wiped damp palms on my jeans. Why the dark corridor? Had someone unscrewed the bulbs?

Breathing carefully, I listened. Wind. Rain pounding the top of a window AC one floor up. My own pulse. Then another sound separated itself out. Rummaging. Impatient.

Moving as quietly as possible, I crept down the hall until I had a view through the open bathroom door. What I saw made me drop to a crouch, trembling fingers bracing on the wall.

A man stood with his back to me, feet spread. He was looking down, as though examining something in his hands. The man was not Hippo.

Every hair on my body joined those already upright on my neck.

Outside, the wind made a fierce lap of the building, rattling windows and sending a metal object winging the length of Rachel.

Inside, at my feet, a floorboard shrieked.

Cold adrenaline flooded my neurons. Without thinking, I half rose and scuttled backward. Too fast. My heel caught a torn edge of carpet. I went down with a thud.

From the bathroom I heard soles hitting linoleum. Footsteps.

My mind raced through options. Try to outrun him? Lock myself in a bedroom and phone for help?

Did those doors have locks?

Bypassing the higher centers, my legs decided. Get out!

I bolted down the hall. Across the studio. Out the door. For a brief moment I heard nothing. Then feet pounded behind me.

I was at the first riser of the staircase when a truck barreled into my back. I felt my hair twisted. My head jerked backward.

The dead lightbulb whipped past my eyes. I smelled wet nylon. Oily skin.

Muscular arms pinned my elbows to my body. I struggled. The grip crushed me tighter.

I kicked back, made contact with a shin. Flexed my knee to kick again.

One side of the vise loosened. A blow clipped me hard to the temple.

My vision splintered into shards of white light.

Grunting, my assailant lifted. My feet left the carpet. He spun me and shoved.

Arms windmilling, I tumbled backward, head bouncing, vertebrae scraping the edge of step after step. I came to rest on the first-floor landing, cheek flat to the carpet.

I lay there, head pounding, lungs burning. Then, through the din in my ears, I heard a muffled bang. In the lobby below? Inside my head?

Seconds or hours later, I felt more than heard another bang. Footsteps climbed toward me, hitched, accelerated.

Through a fog, a tinny voice spoke.

I pushed myself upright. Leaned my shoulders to the wall. Fought to inhale.

I felt pressure on the back of my neck. Lowered my head. Compliant. A rag doll. My whole being focused on one desperate thought.

Breathe!

The mosquito voice whined again, words lost to the roaring in my ears.

Breathe!

A shape crouched beside me. A hand patted my shoulder.

Breathe!

Slowly, the spasm eased its grip on my lungs. I drew air. The droning in my eardrums began to fade.

“—Doc, you sick?” Hippo. Anxious.

I wagged my head.

“You want I should—”

“I’m OK,” I choked out.

“You fall, or what?”

“Pushed.”

“Someone shoved you?”

I nodded. Felt a tremor under my tongue. Swallowed.

“Where were you?”

“Cormier’s studio.”

“He still in there?”

“I don’t think so. I don’t know.”

“Did you get a look at him?”

I probed my addled brain. The man’s back had been to me. Then the attack had happened too quickly.

“No.”

“I didn’t see no one.” Hippo’s tone was hesitant. I knew he was torn between attending to me and dealing with my attacker.

Why had I been attacked? Was I recognized, targeted specifically? Or had I been incidental, an impediment blocking a getaway? Whose getaway?

I lifted both arms, indicating I wanted to get to my feet.

“Hold on.”

Hippo dialed his cell, described what had happened, answered questions with a few crisp
oui
. When he clicked off our eyes met. We both knew. A patrol unit would come and cruise the street, canvass neighbors. With no witnesses, the odds of catching the guy were a notch north of zero.

I flapped my hands.

“Moses.”
Hippo arm-wrapped my waist and hoisted.

I rose, legs trembling.

“Gotta check upstairs,” I said.

“Maybe you should let a doctor—”

Grasping the rail, I climbed to Cormier’s studio. Hippo followed. Murky light oozed from a gap between the door and the jamb. Motioning me behind him, Hippo drew his weapon.

“Police!”

No response.

“Police!”
Tension curdled Hippo’s speech.
“On défonce
.” We’re coming in.

More silence.

Raising a “stay here” palm, Hippo kicked out. The door slammed inward and ricocheted. Elbowing it back, he moved forward, weapon gripped two-handed at the side of his nose.

I heard footsteps as Hippo moved through the flat. A minute later, he called out.

“Clear.”

I entered.

“Here.” Hippo’s voice came from the bathroom in which I’d spotted the intruder.

I hurried down the hall and peered in. This time I took in details that had escaped my earlier quick glance.

The overhead pipes were concealed by a drop-ceiling arrangement of twelve-inch panels framed in thin metal strips. Several panels had been ripped free and tossed into the sink.

Hippo was standing on the commode, shining his flashlight into the newly created breach.

Anger overpowered the pain in my head. “How could someone just waltz in here?”

Hippo raised up onto his toes.

“The bastard knew exactly what he wanted. And exactly where to look,” I ranted on, despite the fact that Hippo wasn’t listening.

“Sonova—?”

Hippo handed me his light without looking down.

“What? Do you see something?”

Hippo reached forward into the gap. Sensitized to issues of balance and gravity, I positioned myself below him in case of a slip.

Hippo rolled back onto his heels. His hand dropped to me. I relieved it of one crumpled sheet.

A photo. I glanced at the subject.

My heart jacked into high.

I’
D BEEN EXPECTING PORN. SILICONE-BLOATED WOMEN TWISTING IN fake erotic joy. Or kneeling like cats with their bums in the air. I was ready for that.

Not for this.

The picture was a contact sheet. Sepia. Either old or made to look old. The paper was so creased and faded I couldn’t be sure.

The sheet contained twelve frames lined up in four sets of three. Each frame showed a girl. Young. Thin. Naked. Perhaps owing to misuse of the flash, perhaps to an intentional trick of exposure, the girl’s flesh glowed ghostly pale in the darkness around her.

In the first series of shots, the girl was seated, back rounded, shoulders turned slightly from the camera. Ropes bound her ankles and wrists.

In the next series, an additional rope had been added, coiling the girl’s neck, then looping to a hook on the wall above her head. Cracks spiderwebbed the plaster where the hook had been nailed.

The final two series showed the girl on the floor, first supine, then prone. Ropes came and went in varying patterns of torture. Hands bound behind her back. Wrists bound to her ankles. Wrists bound and hoisted to the overhead hook.

In shot after shot the girl averted her gaze. Embarrassed? Frightened? Following orders?

Suddenly, I was rocked by a blow harsher than the one on the staircase. The room receded. I heard the dull pounding of blood in my ears.

The cheeks were more hollowed, the eyes more recessed. But I knew that face. That wild jumble of curls.

I closed my eyes, wanting to disconnect from the girl avoiding the lens. To pretend that the horror I was seeing had not taken place.

“That’s it.” Hippo’s shoes hit the floor behind me. “Musta got missed when this mooncalf made his grab.”

Had she agreed to be exploited in this way? Had she been forced?

“You gotta sit down, doc.” Hippo was at my shoulder. “Bring some color to your cheeks.”

“I know her.” Barely audible.

I felt Hippo slip the sheet from my fingers.

“It’s my friend,” I whispered. “It’s Évangéline.”

“Yeah?” Dubious.

“She was fourteen when I last saw her on Pawleys Island. She’s older in these photos, but not by much.”

I felt a ripple of air as Hippo flipped the sheet. “No date. You’re certain it’s her?”