Deadly Decisions (39 page)

“Suppose he has funeral plans?”

“If he shows his face, we’ll arrest him.”

“And if a nineteen-year-old kid gets nailed along the way?” I was almost yelling.

“All I’m saying is don’t come down here.”

“Then find this bastard!”

I’d hardly disconnected when I heard my cell phone.

Kit!

I raced to the bedroom and pulled it from my purse.

The voice was quavery, like a child after a long cry.

“You need to know what they’re doing.”

At first I felt confusion, then recognition, then apprehension.

“Who, Jocelyn?”

“Someone needs to know what these Heathen scum are doing.” She inhaled sharply through her nose.

“Tell me.”

“This town is turning into a slaughterhouse, and your kid is ambling right down the chute.”

My stomach went tight with fear.

“What do you mean?”

“I know what’s coming down.”

“How does this involve my nephew?”

“I need money and I need cover.” Her voice was stronger now.

“Tell me what you know.”

“Not till we deal.”

“I don’t have that kind of authority.”

“You know who does.”

“I will try to help you,” I said. “But I need to know if my nephew is in danger.”

Silence. Then, “Fuck, I’m dead anyway. Meet me in the Guy métro in twenty minutes. Westbound platform.”

Her voice was leaden with defeat.

“I’ll wait ten minutes. If you’re late, or bring a buddy, I’m gone, and the kid’ll be a footnote when this whole thing is written up.”

Dead air.

I dialed Claudel’s pager and left my number. Then I stared at the phone, ticking through options.

Claudel was unreachable. I couldn’t wait for a return call.

Quickwater.

Ditto.

Claudel hadn’t told me to avoid the underground. I’d meet with Jocelyn, then ring him when I had information.

I punched in the number at Carcajou headquarters, but didn’t hit send. Then I slid the phone into my purse, and bolted for the door.

•    •    •

Jocelyn was seated at the end of the tunnel, a canvas duffel in her lap, another at her feet. She had chosen a corner bench, as if concrete backing conferred protection from whatever menace she feared. Her teeth worked a thumbnail as she scanned the commuters standing to either side of the tracks.

She spotted me and followed my approach. I stayed to the middle of the platform, my pulse louder in my ears than any competing noise. The air was warm and stale, as though breathed and rebreathed by legions of subterranean travelers. I felt an acrid taste and swallowed hard.

Jocelyn watched in silence as I sat on the bench. Her chalky skin looked violet in the artificial light, the whites of her eyes yellow.

I started to speak but she stopped me with a hand movement.

“I’m going to say this once, then I’m taking off. I talk. You listen.”

I said nothing.

“I’m a junkie, we both know that. I’m also a whore and a liar.” Her eyes roved the faces lining the tracks, her movements ragged and jerky.

“Here’s the mind-fuck. I come from a Girl Scout–summer camp–tuna casserole background just like you. Only somewhere along the way I joined a freak show I can’t escape.”

Purple shadow turned her eyes cadaverous.

“Lately I’ve been doing some hard time with hate. I hate everyone and everything on the planet. But mostly I hate myself.”

She backhanded a sheen of liquid from below her nostrils.

“You know it’s closing time when you can’t look in a pond or pass a mirror or storefront because you despise what you see looking back.”

She turned to me, the lobotomy eyes burning with rage and guilt.

“Talking to you may get me killed, but I want out. And I want these guys to pay.”

“What are you offering?”

“Spider Marcotte and the little girl.”

“I’m listening.”

“It was George Dorsey. He’s dead now, so it don’t matter.” She looked away, then focused again on my face.

“Marcotte was Heathen payback for the Vipers blowing up the
Vaillancourts. George and a full-patcher named Sylvain Lecomte took him out. The kid was a mistake.”

She braced a booted foot against the duffel.

“George thought the hit was his ticket to stardom. But the Heathens burned George because they thought he was going to give up Lecomte.” She snorted and tipped her chin. “George was actually waiting for me near the Cherokee hit scene. When he got busted by the Carcajou and then set up a meet with you, the Heathen brothers decided to do George before he could finger Lecomte. Big man, Lecomte. Wasted a little girl. Big turd,” she spat.

“Anything else?”

She shrugged.

“The St-Basile burials. I’ve been on the scene nine years. I’ve got plenty to trade.”

“Are you talking about witness protection?”

“Money and out.”

“Rehab?”

She shrugged.

“What about Cherokee?”

“He brought the girl’s bones up North, but I’ve put his story on paper. I give it up when my ass is safe and a long way from here.”

She sounded like the thought was collapsing even as she voiced it.

“Why now?”

“They wasted Dorsey. He did their work, and they wasted him.”

She shook her head and turned back to her surveillance.

“And I’ve become them.” Her voice dripped with self-loathing. “I set that reporter up.”

“What reporter?”

“Lyle Crease. I figured something was up when you asked about him, so I tuned into the news that night. Sure enough, he was the one I saw at Cherokee’s place. I dropped his name to the Vipers for a bag of flake.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“I’m a goddam junkie, all right?” It was almost a shriek. “When you’re coming down and the world is closing in, you’ll dime your mother for a score. Besides, I had other reasons.”

Her hands began to tremble, and she pressed her fingertips to her temples.

“Later, I phoned Crease to set up a meet at the cemetery.” Again the self-deprecating laugh. “Back on big rock candy mountain.”

“Did they ask you to arrange a meeting?”

“Yeah. They plan to take Crease out, and some Heathens, too.”

“What does this have to do with my nephew?” My mouth was so dry I could hardly speak.

“Crease said not to try anything funny because he would have the kid with him.”

I heard the rumble of a train far up the tunnel.

Again, the head shake. Her face looked hard in profile.

“This funeral’s going to be one big snuff film, and your nephew could have a starring role.”

I felt a change in air pressure as the train grew louder. Passengers on the far side moved toward the platform’s edge.

Jocelyn’s gaze froze on something across the tracks. The hooded eyes grew puzzled a moment, then widened in recognition. Her mouth opened.

“Lecom—!” she screamed, and her hand shot to the duffel’s zipper.

The train thundered in.

Jocelyn’s head flew backward, and a dark cumulus spread around it on the wall. I threw myself to the concrete, and covered my head with both hands.

Brakes shrilled, whooshed.

I tried to scramble behind the bench, under it, anywhere. It was bolted to the wall! There was nowhere to go!

Doors opened. Commuters both boarded and left the train.

On our side, screams. Faces turning. Bewilderment. Horror.

The train barreled off.

Then the sounds changed. Panicked retreat. People running.

After a full minute with no more shots, I cautiously rose to my feet, bone and brain matter on my jacket. My stomach lurched and I tasted bile.

Voices. English. French.

“Attention!”

“Sacrifice!”

“Call the police.”

“Elle est morte?”

“They’re on the way.”

“Mon Dieu!”

Confusion. A rush for the escalators.

Jocelyn’s body twitched, and a thread of saliva trailed from the corner of her mouth. I could smell urine and feces, and see blood pooling on the bench and floor.

I had a vision of Cherokee. Others, fast, like flashbulbs. Gately. Martineau. Savannah Osprey. Emily Anne Toussaint.

I could not have stopped those deaths, nor had I done anything to bring them about. And I could do nothing for Jocelyn. But I would not allow my nephew to be the next casualty. I would not permit that. Death dealt out by bikers would not happen. Not to Kit. Not to Harry. And not to me.

On rubbery legs I staggered to the escalators, rode to ground level, and was carried along by the crush of pedestrians distancing themselves from tragedy. Already two cruisers blocked the entrance, doors open, lights flashing. Sirens foretold the arrival of others.

I should have stayed, given my story, and let the police handle the rest. I felt sick, and repulsed by the carnage we seemed powerless to stop. Fear for Kit twisted in my gut like a physical pain, overriding judgment and sense of duty.

I broke from the crowd and ran.

M
Y HANDS STILL TREMBLED AS
I
LET MYSELF INTO MY SILENT
condo. I called out, not expecting an answer.

From my briefcase, I dug out the envelope Charbonneau had delivered from Roy. I scanned the protocol, checked my watch, and raced to the garage.

Though rush hour was tapering off, Centreville remained clogged. I crawled along, engine idling, heart racing, hands sweaty on the wheel, until I finally broke free, shot up the mountain, and pulled into a car park opposite Lac aux Castors.

The cemeteries sprawled along the uphill side of Chemin Remembrance, cities of the dead flowing toward the horizon. According to Roy’s map, the Dorsey plot was just inside the perimeter fence, twenty yards from the south gate. The cortege would arrive from the east and enter the cemetery opposite where I sat.

I wiped my hands on my jeans and checked the time.

Soon.

Normally, early morning meant few people on the mountain, but today mourners lined the shoulder and stood along the drive leading through the gate. Others wandered among the trees and headstones inside the cemetery grounds. The ritual hypocrisy struck me as surreal. Heathens and Rock Machine, burying with great ceremony the comrade they themselves had killed.

Manned cruisers were parked on both sides of Remembrance,
lights flashing, radios sputtering. I locked the car and ran across the road, slipping on new grass beginning to green the median. Hurrying along the shoulder, I inspected those milling about. Most were male, young, and white. I saw Charbonneau leaning on a squad car, but there was no sign of Crease or Kit.

A uniformed officer stopped me at the gate.

“Whoa, there. Slow down, madam. I’m sorry, but there is a funeral expected shortly, and this entrance is closed. You’ll have to move on.”

He held out both arms, as if physical restraint might be necessary.

“Dr. Temperance Brennan,” I identified myself. “Carcajou.”

His face crimped with suspicion. He was about to speak when a sharp whistle split the air, like someone calling a dog. We both turned.

Claudel stood on a knoll a short distance back from the Dorsey grave site. When he had our attention he gave a crisp come-on signal with one hand. The guard pointed to me, and Claudel nodded. With a disapproving look, he passed me through the gate.

The Mont-Royal cemeteries are strange and beautiful places, acres of elegant landscaping and ornate funerary architecture rising and falling across the curves of the mountain. Mont-Royal. The Jewish. Notre-Dame-des-Neiges.

The latter is for the Catholic dead. Some are buried with elaborate tombs and monuments, others with simple plaques and ten-year leases. Since the mid-nineteenth century, over a million souls have been laid to rest within the cemetery’s wrought-iron fence. The complex contains mausoleums, crematoria, columbaria, and interment sites for the more traditional.

There are sections for the Polish. The Vietnamese. The Greek. The French. The English. Visitors can obtain maps pinpointing the graves of Montreal’s famous. The Dorsey family lay in the Troie section, not far from Marie Travers, the thirties singer known as La Bolduc.

More relevant was the fact that today’s burial would take place less than ten yards from Chemin Remembrance. Roy’s advisers felt that if a hit was planned the cemetery was the most likely location. And the most difficult to secure.

I sprinted up the gravel path and scrambled uphill to join Claudel. His greeting was not warm.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Kit is with Crease and they’re coming here,” I panted.

“You just don’t listen, do you, Ms. Brennan?” His eyes swept the crowd as he spoke. “There’s already been one homicide today.”

My mind flashed to the métro. Jocelyn, searching. Jocelyn, in agonal spasm.

“I was with her.”

“What?” Claudel’s eyes flew to my face, then dropped to the blood and brain matter on my jacket.

I told him.

“And you left the scene?”

“There was nothing I could do.”

“I’m not going to point out the obvious.”

“She was dead!” I snapped. Fear, anger, and guilt churned in my head, and his unfeeling attitude did nothing to calm me. A sob welled in my chest.