Death Du Jour (40 page)

I dug a small rawhide bone from a kitchen drawer and sailed it into the living room.

Birdie raced across the room, pounced, then rolled onto his prey. He righted himself, positioned the object between his front paws, and began gnawing on his kill.

I watched, wondering about the appeal of slimy hide.

The cat chewed a corner, then turned the toy and dragged his teeth the length of one edge. The object fell sideways and Bird nudged it back and sank a canine into the leather.

I watched, transfixed.

Was that it?

I went to Birdie, squatted, and pried his quarry from him. The cat placed his front paws on my knee, stood on hind legs, and tried to retrieve his prize.

My pulse quickened as I stared at the mangled leather.

Sweet Jesus.

I thought of the puzzling wounds in Jennifer Cannon’s flesh. Superficial scratches. Jagged tears.

I ran to the living room for my lens, then raced to the kitchen and riffled through Hardaway’s photos. I selected the head views and studied each under magnification.

The balding was not due to decomposition. The strands that remained were firmly rooted. The detached segment of skin and hair was neatly rectangular, its edges torn and ragged.

Jennifer Cannon’s scalp had been ripped from her skull.

I thought of what that meant.

And I thought of something else.

Could I have been so thick? Could a preconceived mind-set have blinded me to the obvious?

I grabbed my keys and purse and flew out the door.

*   *   *

Forty minutes later I was at the university. The bones of the unidentified Murtry victim stared accusingly from my lab table.

How could I have been so careless?

“Never assume a single source of trauma.” My mentor’s words floated back across the decades.

I’d fallen into the trap. When I saw the destruction on the bones I’d thought raccoons and vultures. I hadn’t looked closely. I hadn’t measured.

Now I had.

While there was extensive damage on the skeleton due to postmortem scavenging, other injury had gone before.

The two holes in the occipital bone were the most telling. They measured five millimeters each, with a distance between them of thirty-five. These punctures were not made by a turkey vulture, and the pattern was too large for a raccoon.

The dimensions suggested a large dog. So did parallel scratches on the cranial bones, and similar perforations in the clavicle and sternum.

Jennifer Cannon and her companion had been attacked by animals, probably large dogs. Teeth had torn their flesh and scored their bones. Some bites had been powerful enough to pierce the thickness at the back of the skull.

My mind made a leap.

Carole Comptois, the Montreal victim who had been hung by her wrists and tortured, had also been mauled.

That’s reaching, Brennan.

Yes.

It’s ridiculous.

No, I told myself. It’s not.

Up to now my skepticism had done nothing for these victims. I’d been slack about the animal damage. I’d doubted the link between Heidi Schneider and Dom Owens, and I’d failed to see his connection to Jennifer Cannon. I hadn’t helped Kathryn or Carlie, and I’d done nothing to locate Anna Goyette.

From now on, if necessary, I
would
reach. If there was a remote possibility that Carole Comptois and the women on Murtry Island were linked, I would consider it.

I phoned Hardaway, not expecting him to be working late on Saturday. He wasn’t. Neither was LaManche, the pathologist who had done the Comptois autopsy. I left messages for both.

Frustrated, I took out a tablet and began to list what I knew.

Jennifer Cannon and Carole Comptois were both from Montreal. Each died following an animal attack.

The skeleton buried with Jennifer Cannon also bore the marks of animal teeth. The victim died with levels of Rohypnol indicative of acute intoxication.

Rohypnol was isolated in two of the victims found with Heidi Schneider and her family in St-Jovite.

Rohypnol was found in bodies at the murder/suicide sites of the Order of the Solar Temple.

The Solar Temple operated in Quebec and Europe.

Phone calls were made from the house in St-Jovite to Dom Owens’ commune on Saint Helena. Both properties were owned by Jacques Guillion, who also owned property in Texas.

Jacques Guillion is Belgian.

One of the St-Jovite victims, Patrice Simonnet, was Belgian.

Heidi Schneider and Brian Gilbert joined Dom Owens’ group in Texas and returned there for the birth of their babies. They left Texas and were murdered. In St-Jovite.

The St-Jovite victims died approximately three weeks ago.

Jennifer Cannon and the unidentified victim on Murtry died three to four weeks ago.

Carole Comptois died a little less than three weeks ago.

I stared at the page. Ten. Ten people dead. Again the odd phrase ricocheted through my brain. Death du jour. Death of the day. We’d found them day by day, but they’d all died around the same time. Who would be next? Into what circle of hell had we stumbled?

*   *   *

When I got home I went directly to the computer to revise my report on the Murtry skeleton to include injury due to animal attack. Then I printed and read what I’d written.

As I finished, the clock chimed the full Westminster refrain, then gave six low bongs. My stomach growled a reminder that I’d eaten nothing since the bagel and coffee.

I went to the patio and snipped basil and chives. Then I cut chunks of cheese, took two eggs from the fridge, and scrambled everything together. I toasted another bagel, poured a Diet Coke, and returned to the desk in the living room.

When I reviewed the list I’d made at the university, an unsettling thought popped into my mind.

Anna Goyette had also disappeared a little less than three weeks ago.

My appetite vanished. I left the desk and crossed to the couch. I lay down and allowed my mind to drift, willing associations to rise to the surface.

I went through names. Schneider. Gilbert. Comptois. Simonnet. Owens. Cannon. Goyette.

Nothing.

Ages. Four months. Eighteen. Twenty-five. Four score.

No pattern.

Places. St-Jovite. Saint Helena.

A connection?

Saints. Could that be a link? I made a note. Ask Ryan where the Guillion property is located in Texas.

I chewed my thumbnail. What was taking Ryan so long?

My eyes drifted over the shelves that line six of the eight sunroom walls. Floor-to-ceiling books. It’s the
one thing I can never bring myself to discard. I really needed to sort and eliminate. I had dozens of texts I’d never open again, some dating to my undergraduate days.

University.

Jennifer Cannon. Anna Goyette. Both were students at McGill.

I thought of Daisy Jeannotte, and the odd words she’d spoken about her teaching assistant.

My eyes wandered to the computer. My screen saver sent vertebrae in a sinuous snake dance around the monitor. Long bones replaced the spinal column, then ribs, a pelvis, and the screen went black. The performance began anew with a slowly rotating skull.

E-mail. When Jeannotte and I had exchanged addresses I’d asked her to contact me if Anna returned. I hadn’t checked my messages in days.

I logged on, downloaded my mail, and skimmed the names of the senders. There was nothing from Jeannotte. My nephew, Kit, had sent three messages. Two last week, one this morning.

Kit never sent me e-mail.

I opened the most recent communication.

Aunt Tempe:

I called but you must not be there. I am ferociously worried about Harry.

Please call.

Kit

From age two Kit had called his mother by name. Though his parents disapproved, the boy refused to change. Harry simply sounded better to his ear.

As I worked my way backward through my nephew’s messages, I experienced a mix of emotions. Fear for Harry’s safety. Annoyance at her cavalier attitude. Compassion for Kit. Guilt at my own inconsideration. His must have been the call I ignored while talking with Kathryn.

I went to the hall and hit the button.

Hi, Aunt Tempe. It’s Kit. I’m calling about Harry. When I call your condo in Montreal she doesn’t answer, and I have no idea where she’s gone. I know she was there until a few days ago.
Pause.
Last time we talked she sounded strange, even for Harry.
Nervous laugh.
Is she still in Quebec? If not, do you know where she is? I’m worried. I’ve never heard her sound like this before. Please give me a call. Bye.

I pictured my nephew, with his green eyes and sandy hair. It was hard to believe Howard Howard had made any genetic contribution to Harry’s son. Six foot two and thin as a ladder, Kit was an exact replica of my father.

I replayed the message and considered whether something was amiss.

No, Brennan.

But why was Kit so concerned?

Call him. She’s fine.

I hit the speed dial button. No answer.

I tried my number in Montreal. Ditto. I left a message.

Pete. He hadn’t heard from Harry.

Of course not. He was as fond of my sister as he was of nail fungus. She knew that.

Enough, Brennan. Back to the victims. They need you.

I turned my thoughts from my sister. Harry had gone off before. I had to assume she was all right.

I went back to the sofa and lay down. When I woke I was in my clothes, the portable phone ringing on my chest.

“Thanks for calling, Aunt Tempe. I—Maybe I’m jumping the gun, but my mother sounded very depressed the last time I talked to her. And now she’s disappeared. It’s not like Harry. To sound so down, I mean.”

“Kit, I’m sure she’s fine.”

“You’re probably right, but, well, we’d made these plans. She’s always complaining that we never spend time together anymore, so I promised to take her out on the boat next week. I’ve pretty much finished the renovations, so Harry and I were going to sail around the Gulf for a few days. If she’s changed her mind, she could at least call.”

I experienced the usual anger at my sister’s thoughtlessness.

“She’ll get in touch, Kit. When I left she was pretty caught up in her workshop. You know how your mother is.”

“Yeah.” He paused. “But that’s just it. She sounded so . . .” He searched for a word. “Flat. Not like Harry.”

I remembered my last evening with Harry.

“Maybe it’s part of the new persona. A lovely, exterior calm.” My words even sounded false to me.

“Yeah. I guess. Did she mention she was going someplace else?”

“No. Why?”

“Something she said made me think she might have a trip planned. But, like, it wasn’t her idea, or she didn’t want to? Oh hell, I don’t know.”

He let out a sigh. In my mind’s eye I saw my nephew run a hand backward through his hair, then rub the top of his head. Kit frustration.

“What did she say?” Despite my resolve, I felt the beginnings of anxiety.

“I don’t remember exactly, but get this. It wouldn’t matter what she wore or how she looked. Does that sound like my mother?”

No. It didn’t.

“Aunt Tempe, do you know anything about this outfit she’s hooked up with?”

“Just the name. Inner Life Empowerment, I think. Would you feel better if I made some inquiries?”

“Yeah.”

“And I’ll call my neighbors in Montreal and see if they’ve seen her. O.K.?”

“Yeah.”

“Kit. Remember when she met Striker?”

There was a pause.

“Yeah.”

“What happened?”

“She set off for a balloon rally, went missing for three days, then turned up married.”

“Remember how freaked you were?”

“Yeah. But she didn’t give up her curling iron. Just have her call me. I’ve left messages on the machine up there but, hell, maybe she’s pissed off about something. Who knows?”

I clicked off and looked at the clock. Twelve-fifteen. I tried Montreal. Harry didn’t answer, so I left another message. As I lay in the dark my mind positioned itself for cross-examination.

Why
hadn’t
I checked out ILE?

Because there was no reason to do so. She took the
course through a legitimate institution, and there was no cause for alarm. Besides, to research each of Harry’s schemes would take a full-time investigator.

Tomorrow. I’ll make some calls tomorrow. Not tonight. I shut down the inquisition.

I mounted the stairs, stripped, and slid under the covers. I needed sleep. I needed a respite from the turmoil that dominated my conscious thought.

Overhead, the ceiling fan hummed softly. I thought of Dom Owens’ parlor, and, though I fought them, the names drifted back.

Brian. Heidi. Brian and Heidi were students.

Jennifer Cannon was a student.

Anna Goyette.

My stomach turned over.

Harry.

Harry had registered for her first seminar at the North Harris County Community College. Harry was a student.

The others had been killed or had disappeared while in Quebec.

My sister was in Quebec.

Or was she?

Where the hell was Ryan?

When he finally called my trepidation escalated to real fear.