Deadly Decisions (16 page)

“Go on.” Kit reached up and turned on the interior light. “Maybe it’s tickets to the Expos.”

I pulled the tab and reached into the mailer. My fingers closed around a small, glass jar.

When I withdrew the container and held it up to the light I felt bile rise in my throat. The rhythmic contractions under my tongue told me I was about to be sick. I barely heard Kit as I lunged for the door handle.

“Holy shit, Aunt Tempe. Who did you piss off?”

T
HE EYEBALL RESTED ON THE BOTTOM OF THE JAR, PUPIL UP,
tendrils of flesh floating in the cloudy liquid. The organ was blanched and partially collapsed, and one side appeared to have a jagged tear. Though tightly sealed, the container gave off a familiar scent. A folded paper was stuck to its bottom.

Kit reached over and pulled off the note.

“On te surveille.”
The French sounded odd with his Texas drawl. “What does that mean, Aunt Tempe?”

“We’re watching you.”

With shaky hands I returned the jar and note to the mailer and placed it on the floor of the backseat. The smell of formaldehyde seemed overwhelming. I knew the odor was in my mind, but that did little to allay my nausea. Fighting to bring my gag reflex back under control, I wiped damp palms on my pants and put the car in gear.

“Think it’s a joke?” Kit asked as we turned onto boulevard Île-des-Sœurs.

“I don’t know.” My voice sounded high-pitched.

Sensing my mood, he didn’t press the point.

Once home, I wrapped the jar in a series of plastic sacks and sealed it in a Tupperware canister. Then I cleaned out the vegetable drawer and placed it in the refrigerator.

Kit watched in silence, a puzzled expression on his face.

“I’ll take it to the lab on Monday,” I explained.

“It’s a real eye, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Think it’s a joke?” He repeated his earlier question.

“Probably.” I didn’t believe that, but had no desire to alarm him.

“I get the feeling I shouldn’t ask, but, if it’s a joke, why take it to the lab?”

“Maybe it will give the merry pranksters a little scare,” I said, trying to sound casual, then I hugged him. “Now, I’m off to bed. Tomorrow we’ll find something fun to do.”

“That’s cool. Mind if I listen to some music?”

“Be my guest.”

When Kit’s door closed I double-checked the locks on the doors and windows, and made sure the security system was functioning. I resisted the urge to check for lurkers in my closet or under the bed.

Kit’s musical choice was Black Sabbath. He played it until two-fifteen.

I lay in bed for a long time listening to the thud of heavy metal, wondering if it qualified as music, wondering how many calls I’d receive from the neighbors, and wondering who felt strongly enough about sending me a message to underscore it with a human eye.

Though I’d showered for twenty minutes, the smell of formaldehyde remained lodged in my brain. I fell asleep queasy, with goose bumps still prickling my flesh.

•    •    •

I slept late the next morning. When I woke, still tired from having started awake repeatedly throughout the night, my thoughts turned at once to the thing in my produce crisper. Who? Why? Was it work-related? Was there a sicko in the neighborhood? Who was watching me?

I pushed the questions into the deep background, resolving to address them on Monday. In the meantime, I would be extra-vigilant. I checked my Mace, then the direct-dial buttons on the phones and security box to make sure they were set to 911.

The sun shone brightly and the thermometer on my patio said five degrees Celsius. Forty Fahrenheit at 10
A.M.
It was going to be a Canadian scorcher.

Knowing the diurnal rhythm of teenagers I didn’t expect to see Kit before noon, so I threw on my gear and hiked to the gym. I walked with more caution than usual, skin prickling with tension, eyes alert for anyone or anything suspicious.

After working out I picked up bagels and cream cheese, and a few goodies to go on top of the cream cheese. I also made an impulse buy at the flower cart. Birdie had largely abandoned me since Kit’s arrival, so I’d lure back his affection with a catnip plant.

Neither the bagels nor the catnip were very effective. My nephew appeared around one-fifteen, the cat trailing languidly behind.

“Utter no sentence that includes the phrase ‘early bird,’ or ‘dawn,’” said Kit.

“Bagel?”

“Acceptable.”

“Cream cheese, smoked salmon, lemon, onions, capers?”

“Delete capers. Run program.”

Birdie eyed the catnip but said nothing.

As Kit ate, I laid out the options.

“It’s a gorgeous day out there. I suggest outdoor activities.”

“Agreed.”

“We can take in the Jardin Botanique, prowl around up on the mountain, or I can scare up some bicycles and we can hit the old port, or pedal the path along the Lachine Canal.”

“Do they allow skates?”

“Skates?”

“Rollerblades. Can we rent some in-lines and do this bike path?”

“I think so.” Oh boy.

“I’ll bet you’re a popper on Rollerblades. Harry’s pretty good.”

“Um. Huh. Why do you call your mom Harry?”

I’d always been curious. Since he first started speaking, Kit had referred to his mother by name.

“I don’t know. She’s not exactly
Little House on the Prairie.
”

“But you’ve done it since you were two years old.”

“She wasn’t domestic back then. Don’t change the subject. Are you up for in-line skating?”

“Sure.”

“You’re a can o’ corn, Aunt Tempe. Let me grab a shower and we’re on our way.”

•    •    •

It was close to a perfect day. I started out rocky but quickly picked up the rhythm, and was soon gliding along as if born on skates. It brought back memories of roller-skating on city sidewalks as a little girl and the several times I had almost hit pedestrians or skated into the paths of cars. The sunshine brought out swarms of jocks, crowding the path with cyclists, skateboarders, and other in-line skaters. Though shaky on turns, I learned to maneuver well enough to avoid collisions. The only skill I didn’t master was that of the sudden stop. Drag brakes for skates had not been invented when I was a kid.

By the end of the afternoon I was sailing along smooth as
Black Magic I
in the America’s Cup. Or shit through a mallard, as Kit put it. I did insist, however, on wearing enough padding to defend an NHL goal.

It was after five when we turned in the skates and pads and headed to Chez Singapore for an Asian dinner. Then we rented
The Pink Panther
and
A Shot in the Dark
and laughed as Inspector Clouseau demonstrated how one could be both part of the solution and part of the problem. The movies were Kit’s choice. He said the French immersion would acclimatize him to Montreal.

Not until I lay in my bed, tired and achy and full of popcorn, did I even remember the eye. I tossed and turned, trying not to picture the object in my refrigerator and the evil person who put it on my car.

•    •    •

Monday was still warm, but dark clouds had gathered over the city. They hung low, trapping a loose fog close to the ground, and forcing drivers to use headlights.

Arriving at work, I took the jar to the biology section and made a request. I didn’t explain the source of the specimen, and they didn’t ask. We gave the sample an unregistered number, and the technician said she’d call with results.

I had a suspicion about the eye’s origin, which I hoped was wrong. The implications were just too frightening. I held on to the note, pending the analysis.

The morning meeting was relatively brief. The owner of a Volvo
dealership was found hanged in his garage, a suicide note pinned to his chest. A single-engine plane had gone down in St-Hubert. A woman had been pushed from the Vendôme métro platform.

Nothing for me.

Back in my office, I logged on to my terminal. Using
anthropologie, squelette, inconnue, femelle,
and
partiel
as my descriptors, I searched the database for cases consisting of unidentified partial female skeletons. The computer came up with twenty-six LML numbers spanning the past ten years.

Using that list, I asked for all cases lacking a skull. That worked for remains received since I’d been at the LML. Prior to that, complete bone inventories hadn’t been done. Skeletal cases were simply designated partial or complete. I highlighted the cases recorded as partial.

Next, using the list of incomplete skeletons analyzed during my tenure, I requested those lacking femora.

No go. The data had been entered as skull present or absent, postcranial remains present or absent, but specific bones had not been recorded. I would have to request the actual files.

Wasting no time, I walked down the hall to the records department. A slim woman in black jeans and a peasant blouse occupied the front desk. She was almost monochromatic, with bleached hair, pale skin, and eyes the shade of old dishwater. Her only signs of color were cherry red streaks around her temples, and a sprinkling of freckles across her nose. I was unable to count the number of studs and rings displayed in each of her ears. I’d never seen her before.

“Bonjour. Je m’appelle Tempe Brennan.”
I held out my hand, introducing myself.

She nodded, but offered neither a hand nor name.

“Are you new?”

“I’m a temp.”

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think we’ve met.”

“Name’s Jocelyn Dion.” One shoulder shrugged.

O.K. I dropped my hand.

“Jocelyn, this is a list of files I need to review.”

I handed her the printout and indicated the highlighted numbers. When she reached for the paper I could see definition through the gauzy sleeve. Jocelyn spent time at the gym.

“I know there are quite a few, but could you find out where the files are stored and pull them for me as quickly as possible?”

“No problem.”

“I need the full jacket on each one, not just the anthropology report.”

Something crossed her face, just a flicker of change and then it was gone.

“Where would you like them?” she asked, dropping her eyes to the list.

I gave her my office number, then left. Two strides down the corridor I remembered that I hadn’t mentioned pictures. When I turned back I could see Jocelyn’s head bent low over the printout. Her lips moved as a lacquered finger worked its way down each side of the paper. She seemed to be reading every word.

When I mentioned the photos, she started at my voice.

“I’m on it,” she said, sliding from her stool.

Weird one, I thought as I headed back to work on the Gately and Martineau reports.

Jocelyn brought me the dossiers within an hour, and I spent the next three going through them. In all, I’d worked on six headless women. Only two had lacked both thigh bones, and neither was young enough to be the girl in the pit.

From the years before I’d arrived in Montreal, seven female skeletons without crania remained unidentified. Two were young enough, but the descriptions of the remains were vague, and without skeletal inventories there was no way to know what bones had been recovered. Neither folder contained photographs.

I went back to the computer and checked the disposition of the earliest case. The bones had been held five years, rephotographed, then released for burial or destruction.

But the file contained no pictures. That was odd.

I asked for site of recovery. The bones had come in from Salluit, a village around twelve hundred miles north on the tip of the Ungava Peninsula.

I entered the more recent LML number and asked for site of recovery.

Ste-Julie. My pulse quickened. That was not twelve miles from St-Basile-le-Grand.

Back to the folder. Again, no photos.

I checked on the disposition and found nothing to indicate the case had been cleared.

Could I be that lucky?

When I began at the LML, I inherited a collection of skeletal cases. While I’d disposed of some, much of this material remained in my storeroom.

I unlocked the door and dragged a chair to the far end of the small room. Brown cardboard boxes lined both walls, arranged chronologically by LML number. I went to the section containing the oldest codes.

The case was on the top shelf. I climbed onto the chair, lifted it down, and carried it out to my worktable. Brushing off dust, I raised the lid.

To the left lay a mound of vertebrae and ribs, to the right a stack of long bones. Though most joint surfaces had been gnawed by animals, it was clear that both femora were there.

Damn.

I took everything out and checked for inconsistencies, but nothing seemed amiss. Disappointed, I replaced the bones and reshelved the box. After washing my hands I crossed to my office, planning to regroup over a tuna sandwich and carton of Jell-O pudding.

Swiveling my chair, I crossed my feet on the window ledge and peeled the cover from the pudding container. A colleague at UNC-Charlotte had a sticker on her door that read:
Life is uncertain. Eat dessert first.
I’d always considered that good advice.