Death Du Jour (37 page)

“The Murtry Island and St-Jovite murders.”

I told him about my conversation with Lou West.

“One of the women on Murtry had massive amounts of Rohypnol in her tissue.”

“So did the bodies in the upstairs bedroom at St-Jovite.”

“Yes.”

Another memory had slammed to the surface when Lou spoke the name of the drug.

Boreal forest. Aerial views of a smoldering chalet. A meadow, shrouded bodies arranged in a circle. Uniformed personnel. Stretchers. Ambulances.

“Do you remember the Order of the Solar Temple?”

“The wing nut worshipers that offed themselves en masse?”

“Yes. Sixty-four people died in Europe. Ten in Quebec.”

I fought to steady my voice.

“Some of those chalets were wired to explode and burn.”

“Yeah. I’ve thought of that.”

“Rohypnol was found in both locations. Many of the victims had ingested the drug shortly before they died.”

Pause.

“You think Owens is rezoning for the Temple?”

“I don’t know.”

“Think they’re dealing?”

Dealing what? Human lives?

“I suppose it’s a possibility.”

For several moments neither of us spoke.

“I’ll run this past the guys who worked Morin Heights. Meantime, I’m going to shove a deadbolt up Dom Owens’ ass.”

“There’s more.”

The line hummed softly.

“Are you listening?”

“Yes.”

“West estimates the women died three to four weeks ago.”

My breath sounded loud in the receiver.

“The fire in St-Jovite was on March tenth. Tomorrow’s the first.”

I listened to the hum as Ryan did the math.

“Holy Christ. Three weeks ago.”

“I have a feeling something terrible is going to happen, Ryan.”

“Roger that.”

Dial tone.

*   *   *

In looking back I always have the sense events accelerated after that conversation, gathered speed and grew more frantic, eventually forming a vortex that sucked everything into itself. Including me.

That evening I worked late. So did Hardaway. He called as I was pulling his autopsy report from the envelope.

I gave him the profile for the subsurface body, and my age estimate for the deeper one.

“That squares,” he said. “She was twenty-five.”

“You’ve got an ID?”

“We were able to lift one readable print. Got nothing from the local or state files, so they sent it up to the FBI. Nothing in their AFIS.

“Screwiest thing, though. Don’t know what made me do it, probably ’cause I know you work up there. When the guy at the bureau suggested we try the RCMP I said, what the hell, fire it through. Damned if she doesn’t pop up Canadian.”

“What else did you find out about her?”

“Hang on.”

I heard the creak of springs, then the rustle of paper.

“The sheet came through late today. Name’s Jennifer Cannon. White race. Height five foot five, weight one hundred thirty pounds. Hair brown. Eyes green. Single. Last seen alive . . .” There was a pause while he calculated. “. . . two years, three months ago.”

“Where’s she from?”

“Let’s see.” Pause. “Calgary. Where’s that?”

“Out west. Who reported her missing?”

“Sylvia Cannon. It’s a Calgary address, so it must be the mother.”

I gave Hardaway the pager number and asked him to phone Ryan.

“When you speak to him, please have him call me. If I’m not here I’ll be at home.”

I boxed and locked up the Murtry bones. Then I stuffed my diskette and case forms, Hardaway’s autopsy report and photos, and the CAT scan paper into my briefcase, secured the lab, and left.

*   *   *

The campus was deserted, the night still and moist. Unseasonably warm, the broadcasters would call it. The air was heavy with the smell of grass just cut and rain about to fall. I heard the faint rumble of distant thunder, and pictured the storm rolling down from the Smokies and across the Piedmont.

On the way home I stopped for take-out at the Selwyn Pub. The after-work crowd was dispersing, and the younger set from Queens College had not yet arrived to take over the premises for the evening. Sarge, the rascally Irish co-owner, sat on his usual corner stool dispensing opinions on sports and politics, while Neal the bartender dispensed any one of a dozen draft beers. Sarge wanted to discuss the death penalty, or rather have his say about the death penalty, but I was not in the mood for banter. I took my cheeseburger and left quickly.

The first drops were patting the magnolias as I slipped my key into the Annex lock. Nothing greeted me but a soft, steady ticking.

It was almost ten when I heard from Ryan.

Sylvia Cannon had not lived at the address provided in the missing person report for over two years. Nor was she residing at the one given the post office for forwarding.

Neighbors at the earlier address remembered no husband and only one daughter. They described Sylvia as quiet and reclusive. A loner. No one knew where she had worked, or where she had gone. One woman thought there was a brother in the area. The Calgary PD were trying to locate her.

Later in bed, up under the eaves, I listened to rain tick on the roof and leaves. Thunder rumbled and lightning popped, now and then backlighting the silhouette of Sharon Hall. The ceiling fan brought in a cool mist, and with it the smell of petunias and wet window screen.

I adore storms. I love the raw power of the spectacle: Hydraulics! Voltage! Percussion! Mother Nature has dominion and everyone awaits her whim.

I enjoyed the show as long as I could, then got up and crossed to the dormer. The curtain felt damp and water was already pooling on the sill. I closed and latched the left window, took hold of the right, and breathed deeply. The thundershower cocktail triggered a flood of childhood recollections. Summer nights. Lightning bugs. Sleeping with Harry on Gran’s porch.

Think about that, I told myself. Listen to those memories, not the voices of the dead clamoring in your brain.

Lightning flashed and my breath froze in my throat. Was something moving under the hedge?

Another flicker.

I stared, but the shrubs looked still and empty.

Could I have imagined it?

My eyes searched the dimness. Green lawn and hedges. Colorless walks. Pale petunias against the darkness of pine chips and ivy.

Nothing moved.

Again the world lit up and a loud crack split the night.

A white form burst from the bushes and tore across the lawn. I strained to see, but the image was gone before my eyes could focus.

My heart beat so frantically I could feel it in my skull. I threw back the window and leaned into the screen, searching the darkness where the thing had disappeared. Water soaked my nightgown and goose bumps spread across my body.

I scanned the yard, trembling.

Stillness.

Forgetting the window, I turned and raced down the stairs. I was about to throw open the back door when the phone shrilled, sending my heart pounding into my throat.

Oh, God. What now?

I grabbed the receiver.

“Tempe, I’m sorry.”

I looked at the clock.

One-forty.

Why was my neighbor calling?

“. . . he must have gotten in there on Wednesday when I showed the place. It’s empty, you know. I went over just now to check on things, with the storm and all, and he came tearing out. I called, but he just took off. I thought you’d want to know . . .”

I dropped the receiver, threw open the kitchen door, and rushed outside.

“Here, Bird,” I called. “Come on, boy.”

I stepped off the patio. In seconds my hair was drenched and my nightie clung like wet Kleenex.

“Birdie! Are you there?”

Lightning flared, illuminating walkways, bushes, gardens, and buildings.

“Birdie!” I screamed. “Bird!”

Raindrops pounded brick and slapped at leaves above my head.

I shouted again.

No response.

Over and over I called his name, a madwoman, prowling the grounds of Sharon Hall. Before long I was shaking uncontrollably.

Then I saw him.

He was huddled under a bush, head down, ears forward at an odd angle. His fur was wet and clumped, revealing ribbons of pale skin, like cracks on an old painting.

I walked over to him and squatted. He looked like he’d been dipped then rolled. Pine needles, bark chips, and minced vegetation clung to his head and back.

“Bird?” I said in a soft voice, holding out my arms.

He raised his head and searched my face with round yellow eyes. Lightning flicked. Birdie rose, arched his back, and said, “Mrrrrp.”

I turned my palms up. “Come on, Bird,” I whispered.

He hesitated, then crossed to me, pressed his body sideways against my thigh, and repeated himself. “Mrrrrrp.”

I scooped my cat up, hugged him close, and ran for the kitchen. Birdie draped his front paws over my shoulder and pressed himself to me, like a baby monkey clinging to its mother. I felt his claws through my rain-soaked gown.

Ten minutes later I’d finished rubbing him down. White fur coated several towels and drifted in the air. For once there’d been no protest.

Birdie wolfed down a bowl of Science Diet and a saucer of vanilla ice cream. Then I carried him up to bed. He crawled under the covers and stretched full length against my leg. I felt his body tense then relax as he extended his paws, then settled into the mattress. His fur was still damp but I didn’t care. I had my cat back.

“I love you, Bird,” I said to the night.

I fell asleep to a duet of muffled purring and pelting rain.

T
HE NEXT DAY WAS
S
ATURDAY SO
I
DIDN
’
T GO TO THE
university. I planned to read Hardaway’s findings, then write my reports on the Murtry victims. After that I would purchase flowers at the garden center and transplant them to the large pots I keep on my patio. Instant gardening, one of my many talents. Then a long talk with Katy, quality time with my cat, the CAT scan paper, and an evening with Élisabeth Nicolet.

That’s not how it turned out.

When I woke Birdie was already gone. I called but got no response, so I threw on shorts and a T-shirt and went downstairs to find him. The trail was easy. He’d emptied his dish and fallen asleep in a patch of sunlight on the couch in the living room.

The cat lay on his back, hind legs splayed, front paws dangling over his chest. I watched him a moment, smiling like a kid on Christmas morning. Then I went to the kitchen, made coffee and a bagel, collected the
Observer,
and settled at the kitchen table.

A doctor’s wife was found stabbed to death in Myers Park. A child had been attacked by a pit bull. The parents were demanding the animal be destroyed, and the owner was indignant. The Hornets beat Golden State 101 to 87.

I checked the weather. Sunshine and a high of seventy-four predicted for Charlotte. I scanned world temperatures. On Friday the mercury had climbed to forty-eight degrees in Montreal. There is a reason for Southern smugness.

I read the entire paper. Editorials. Want ads. Pharmacy flyers. It’s a weekend ritual I enjoy, but one I’d had to forgo in the past few weeks. Like a junkie on a binge I absorbed every printed word.

When I’d finished I cleared the table and went to my briefcase. I stacked the autopsy photos to my left and lay Hardaway’s report in front of me. My pen gave out with the first notation. I rose and went to the living room to find another.

When I saw the figure on the front stoop my heart slipped in an extra beat. I had no idea who it was or how long it had been there.

The figure turned, stepped up against the outer wall, and leaned into the window. Our eyes met and I stared in disbelief.

Immediately, I crossed and opened the door.

She stood with hips thrust forward, hands clutching the straps of a backpack. The hem of her skirt billowed around her hiking boots. The morning sun caught her hair, outlining her head in a copper glow.

Sweet Jesus, I thought. Now what?

Kathryn spoke first.

“I need to talk. I—”

“Yes, of course. Please, come in.” I stood back and held out a hand. “Let me take your pack.”

She stepped inside, slipped off the backpack, and dropped it to the floor, her eyes never leaving my face.

“I know this is a terrible imposition, and I—”

“Kathryn, don’t be silly. I’m glad to see you. I was just so surprised my brain locked up for a second.”

Her lips parted but no words came out.

“Would you like something to eat?”

The answer was in her face.

I put my arm around her and took her to the kitchen table. She complied meekly. I stacked the photos and report to the side and sat her down.

As I toasted a bagel, spread it with cream cheese, and poured orange juice, I stole glances at my visitor. Kathryn stared at the tabletop, her hands smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from the mat I’d placed in front of her. Her fingers arranged and rearranged the fringe, straightening each clump and laying it parallel to the next.

My stomach was tied in a granny knot. How had she gotten here? Had she run away? Where was Carlie? I held my questions while she ate.