Bones to Ashes (34 page)

“Read the lines again.” It wasn’t possible. Rob couldn’t have said what I thought I’d heard.

Rob repeated what he’d read.

“I see the terror that comes from hate

Two towers fall while men debate

Oh where is God? Even brave people, chair, blessed by fire,

Jet to death!”

My heart was banging so hard I feared the sound would carry across the line. Rob continued talking, oblivious to the emotions raging inside me.

“‘Chair, blessed by fire’ isn’t very coherent in English, but the medium is poetry, and in poetry the flow of information and the frames of reference elicited are expected to be murky and different than in everyday speech. Except in these lines it is almost everyday speech, at least in French.
Chair
is flesh. And
se jeter,
here the verb ‘jet,’ roughly means ‘to throw yourself.’ And
blesser
means ‘to injure.’ In French this verse means ‘Oh where is God? Even brave people, flesh wounded by fire, throw themselves to their deaths!’”

“You’re certain it’s a reference to nine-eleven and the World Trade Center?” Impossibly calm.

“Has to be.”

“And you have no doubt the poems in
Bones to Ashes
were written by my friend Évangéline.”

“None. Can I finish explaining how I arrived at that conclusion?”

“I have to go now, Rob.”

“There’s more.”

“I’ll call you.”

“You OK?”

I clicked off. I knew it was rude and ungrateful. Knew I would later send flowers or cognac. At that moment I didn’t want more talk.

The poems were all by Évangéline, and some were recent.

Down the hall, a door opened. The argument between Homer and Marge grew louder.

At least one poem was written after September 2001.

The argument concerned a trip to Vermont. Homer wanted to drive. Marge preferred flying.

I sat motionless, paralyzed by the implications of Rob’s findings.

Évangéline was alive in 2001. She had not been murdered decades ago.

Bart and Lisa joined the debate, advocating a motor-home holiday.

Obéline had lied about Évangéline dying in 1972. Why?

Was she truly mistaken? Of course not, she had the poems. She must have known approximately when they were written.

A murmured giggle augered into my musings. I looked up. The room was empty, but a shadow crossed the floor at the doorway.

“Cecile?” I called out softly.

“Can you tell where I am?”

“I think”—I paused, as if unsure—“you’re in the closet.”

“Nope.” She hopped into the doorway.

“Where is Obéline?”

“Cooking something.”

“You’re bilingual, aren’t you, sweetie?”

She looked confused.

“You speak both French and English.”

“What does that mean?”

I took another tack.

“Can we chat, just you and me?”

“Oui.”
She joined me at the table.

“You like word games, don’t you?”

She nodded.

“How does it work?”

“Say a word that describes things and I’ll make it round.”

“
Gros,”
I said, air-puffing my cheeks.

She screwed up her face. “You can’t do that one.”

“Why not?”

“Just can’t.”

“Explain it to me.”

“Words make pictures inside my head.” She stopped, frustrated with her inability to clarify. Or with my inability to understand.

“Go on,” I encouraged.

“Some words look flat, and some words look crookedy.” Scrunching her eyes, she demonstrated “flat” and “crookedy” with her hands. “Flat words you can make round by adding
o
at the end. I like those. You can’t do that with crookedy words.”

Clear as a peat bog.

I thought about my initial exchange with Claudine. The girl spoke a jumbled Franglais, seemingly unaware of the boundaries between French and English. I wondered what conceptual framework divided flat from crookedy words. “Sparkly” and
drôle
were obviously flat.
Gros
was crookedy.

“Fat.” I tried my initial word in English.

The green eyes sparkled. “Fat-o.”

“Happy.”

She shook her head.

“Fort.”

“Nooo. That one’s crookedy, too.”

“Fierce,” I said, baring my teeth and curling my fingers in a mock monster threat.

“Fierce-o.” Giggling, she mimicked my fierceness.

Whatever semantic ordering her mind had created would remain forever a mystery to me. After a few more exchanges, I changed topics.

“Are you happy here, Cecile?”

“I guess.” She tucked her hair behind her ears. Smiled. “But I like the other place, too. It has big birds on poles.”

The house in Tracadie. She’d probably been there when Harry and I dropped in.

“Can you remember where you were before you lived with Obéline?”

The smile collapsed.

“Does thinking about that place make you sad?”

“I don’t think about it.”

“Can you describe it?”

She shook her head.

“Was someone mean to you?”

Claudine’s sneaker made tiny squeaks as her knee jittered up and down.

“Was it a man?” Softly.

“He made me take off my clothes. And.” The jittering intensified. “Do things. He was bad. Bad.”

“Do you remember the man’s name?”

“
Mal-o.
He was bad. It wasn’t my fault.”

“Of course it wasn’t.”

“But he gave me something cool. I kept it. Want to see?”

“Perhaps later—”

Ignoring my reply, Claudine shot from the room. In seconds she was back carrying a woven leather circle decorated with feathers and beads.

“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.

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.

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.