Bones to Ashes (35 page)

My neurons had ingested, but not fully digested, a larder full of data in the last few days. Suddenly, something shifted. My lower brain contacted my upper. Why? Claudine Cloquet’s dream catcher.

“What if Obéline is telling the truth?” I asked, sitting up straight. “What if our perv
is
the guy who worked for Bastarache’s father?”

“Right.”

“When Harry and I were in Tracadie, Obéline mentioned a former employee of her father-in-law. Said her husband fired him and the parting wasn’t amicable.”

Ryan didn’t comment.

“This former employee designed the sweat house that was later converted to a gazebo. He was nuts into Native art. Carved benches. Totem poles.” I paused for effect. “Kelly Sicard said Pierre forced her to wear moccasins. What was Bastarache’s remark when you showed him the print of the girl on the bench?”

“The kid was playing Indian princess.” Ryan was with me.

“There was nothing in that picture to suggest a Native American theme. And the videos Sicard listed. Think about the titles.”

“
Wamp Um. Wiki Up.
Sonovabitch.”

“Claudine had a dream catcher. Said she got it from the man she lived with before Obéline. What if Cormier’s ‘agent’ friend, Pierre, is the same guy Bastarache fired? The same guy who had Claudine?”

Ryan’s knuckles tightened on the wheel. “So how does Bastarache fit in?”

“I’m not sure.” I started tossing things out without really thinking. “Bastarache is a kid. He sees skin flicks being made in his home. He resents it, vows to pull the plug the minute the old man kicks.”

Ryan rolled that around in his mind.

“What did Claudine call this creep?”

“She didn’t know his name. Or wouldn’t say it.” I told him about the word-rounding game. “Claudine perceives adjectives as either flat or crooked. Flat ones she adds an
o
to, crooked ones she doesn’t. It’s not logical, just some aspect of her unique cognitive mapping. She just said the guy was bad.
Mal-o.
”

Ryan’s eyes pinched in thought. Then he added another contender to my list of what-if’s.

“What if
mal
is a crooked adjective? One that can’t be rounded.”

“So you can’t add an
o
.”

“Exactly.”

I saw where Ryan was going. “What if it’s a name? Malo.” Neurons fired. “Pierre Malo.”

Ryan was already reaching for his cell. I listened as he asked someone to run a check.

We were moving west with a sea of cars. I watched their tailpipes. Sunlight on their trunks and roofs. Chewed a cuticle.

We were an hour out of Quebec City when Ryan’s mobile warbled.

“Ryan.”

Pause.

“Où?”
Where?

Pause.

“Shit!”

There was a final, shorter pause, then Ryan snapped the lid and tossed the phone to the dash.

“What?” I asked.

“They lost Bastarache.”

“How?”

“Bastard pulled into a rest stop. Entered a restaurant. Never exited.”

“He abandoned the Mercedes?”

Ryan nodded. “He was either picked up or hitched a ride.”

I repeated Ryan’s sentiment. “Shit.”

Minutes later it was my phone.

I’d had virtually no sleep in the last forty-eight hours. I was running on doses of a cat nap and pure adrenaline. What happened next was my fault.

Checking the caller ID, I felt a rush of relief. Followed by annoyance.

Driven by the latter, I clicked on but said nothing.

“You there, big sister?”

“Yes.” Frosty.

“You’re peeved.” Harry, the master of understatement. “Now, I know what you’re going to say.”

“Where the hell have you been?”

“Yessiree. That’s it. I can explain.”

“You needn’t bother.”

“I wanted to surprise you.”

How often had I heard those words?

Ryan’s cell warbled again. I heard him answer.

“Who’s that?” Harry asked.

“What is it you want?”

“Before you go round the bend getting all pissy, let me tell you what I learned.”

“How about telling me where you’ve been?”

“Toronto. Talked with Flan O’Connor. Scored some interesting info.”

“Got something to write with?” Ryan asked, still holding the phone to his ear.

“Hold on,” I said to Harry.

“Where are you?” she asked as I laid the phone on the dash.

I dug paper and pen from my purse.

“Thirteen Rustique.”

I jotted the address Ryan was repeating.

As I finished, Harry’s voice buzzed from my cell. I ignored her.

“Pierrefonds to Cherrier. Left about a mile after Montée de l’Église.” Ryan looked a question at me. I read the directions aloud.

“Below the golf courses and nature preserve. Got it.” Ryan clicked off.

“Pierre Malo lives outside Montreal?” I asked, scribbling the last bit of information.

Ryan nodded.

“Holy hell, Ryan. That’s probably the house Kelly Sicard described.”

“Good possibility.”

“And remember how vehement Bastarache was when he told us to look in our own backyard?”

“I took it as his way of saying fuck off.”

“Obéline said Malo and her husband had some sort of working arrangement. Said they needed each other. Think Bastarache could be going to hook up with Malo?”

“He was pointed toward Montreal.”

I reread the directions.

“What nature preserve?”

“Bois-de-L’Île-Bizard.”

I felt the wings of my throat constrict.

“The boat ramp!”

“What?” Ryan switched lanes to pass a Mini Cooper.

“Suskind’s diatome analysis tied the Lac des Deux Montagnes body to the Bois-de-L’Île-Bizard boat ramp.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes!”

“That ramp’s practically in Malo’s backyard.” Ryan’s jaw muscles bunched, relaxed.

A terrible thought. “If Malo somehow got Phoebe Quincy through Cormier, the same way he got Kelly Sicard, he could be holding her at that house.”

A sharp whistle came from my cell.

I’d forgotten Harry was still on the line.

“Yo!”

I picked up my phone. “I’ve got to go.”

“You really figured out who snatched that little girl?” Harry sounded as excited as I felt.

“I can’t talk to you now.”

“Look, I know you’re mad. I was thoughtless. Let me do something to make amends.”

“I’m going to hang up now.”

“I want to help. Please. Wait. I know. I can go there and keep an eye on the place—”

“No!” It came out more of a shriek than I’d planned. Or not.

“I won’t
do
anything.”

“Absolutely not.”

Ryan was throwing me questioning glances.

“I’m not stupid, Tempe. I won’t go ringing this guy Malo’s bell. I’ll just keep him in my sights until you and Monsieur Marvelous land.”

“Harry, listen to me.” I forced calm into my voice. “Do not go anywhere near that house. This guy is deadly. He is no one to play around with.”

“I’ll make you proud, big sister.”

I was listening to dead air.

“Holy mother of God!” I hit
Redial
.

“What?” Ryan asked.

“Harry’s going to stake out Malo’s place.”

“Stop her.”

Harry’s phone rang and rang, then went to voice mail.

“She’s not picking up. God, Ryan. If we’re right about Malo, the guy’s a monster. He’ll kill Harry without breaking a sweat.”

“Call her again.”

I did. Voice mail.

“She’ll never find Malo’s place,” Ryan said.

“She has GPS on her phone.”

Ryan’s eyes met mine.

“Reach in back and hand me that LED.”

Unclasping my belt, I swiveled and lifted a portable strobe from the floor.

“Clip it onto your sun visor.”

I secured the light with its Velcro straps.

“Plug the cord into the lighter.”

I did.

Ryan flipped the high beams to alternating flash.

“Lower the visor and flick that switch.”

I did. The LED started pulsating red.

Ryan hit the siren and mashed pedal to metal.

A
SIREN AND STROBE WILL GET YOU WHERE YOU’RE GOING. Pronto.

Two hours after leaving Île d’Orléans, Ryan and I were closing in on Montreal. The return journey had definitely kept my attention. I rode with palms flat to the dash and side window, lurching and bouncing as Ryan accelerated and braked.

L’Île-Bizard lies northwest of Montreal, at the western tip of the town of Laval. Crossing onto the island, Ryan cut to the forty, diagonaled southwest through the city, then shot north on Boulevard Saint-Jean.

Off Pierrefonds, we winged right and rocketed across the
pont
Jacques-Bizard. At midbridge, Ryan killed the lights and siren.

Most of L’Île-Bizard is taken up by golf courses and the nature preserve, but a few neighborhoods straggle the periphery, some old, some new and so far upmarket the prices would never be broadcast. Malo’s street was just past a small tangle on the island’s southern edge.

Ryan slowed as we passed Rustique, but didn’t turn. Thirty feet down, he made a U-ey, doubled back, and crept by for a second look.

The street appeared to be strictly residential. Large old homes. Large old trees. I saw no one moving among them.

Again reversing direction on Cherrier, Ryan slid to the curb, positioning the Impala for optimal surveillance.
His
optimal surveillance. I had to crane around him to see.

Rustique was one block long, with what looked like a small park at the far end. Six houses on the left. Six on the right. Set far back on deep, narrow lots, the frame structures all looked tired, in need of paint and probably plumbing and wiring.

A number of residents had taken a shot at lawn care and gardening. Some were enjoying more success than others. Outside one faded Victorian was a carved wooden plaque saying 4 Chez Lizot.

“It’s like Bastarache’s setup in Tracadie,” I said.

“How so?”

“Dead-end street. Back to the river.”

Ryan didn’t reply. He’d pulled binoculars from the glove compartment and was scanning up one side and down the other, assessing.

I looked past him again. Three cars were snugged to the curb, one near Cherrier, one at midblock, one farther down by the park.

The Lizot’s sign suggested even numbers were on the right. I counted from the corner.

“Number thirteen has to be that double lot last on the left.” I couldn’t actually see much. Malo’s property was surrounded by six-foot chain linking overgrown with vines. Through gaps in the foliage I could make out pine, cedar hedges, and one enormous dead elm.

“Love what he’s done with the landscaping.” My anxiety was fueling imbecilic jokes.

Ryan didn’t laugh. He was punching buttons on his phone.

“Can you read Malo’s sign?” I asked.

“Prenez garde au chien.”

Beware of the dog. No joke there.

“I need you to run three DBQ’s, type one.” Ryan was asking for a trace on auto licenses, speaking, I assumed, with the desk officer at SQ headquarters. He waited, then read the plate number off a beat-to-hell Mercury Grand Marquis parked just down from Cherrier.

“Murchison, Dewey.
Trois Rustique. Oui.
”

I eyeballed the brick-and-frame bungalow five up from Malo’s. It was obvious Old Dewey wasn’t sitting on a fat portfolio.

“Nine. Four. Seven. Alpha. Charlie. Zulu.” Ryan had moved on to the Porsche 911 halfway down the block.

After the heart-thumping drive, the warmth and stillness in the Impala were dulling. I listened to Ryan’s end of the conversation, suddenly aware of a stunning exhaustion.

“Vincent, Antoine.” Ryan repeated the name. “Any Vincents living on Rustique?” Ryan waited. “OK.”

My arms and legs were starting to feel like pig iron.

“Hang on.” Grabbing the binoculars, Ryan read off the license of the late-model Honda Accord at the far end of the block. After a pause he asked, “Which rental company?”

My exhaustion was gone like the flash of a shutter. Eyes squinting, I focused on the Accord.

“Got a number?” The voice speaking to Ryan said something. “Sure you’re not too busy?” Beat. “Appreciate it.”

Ryan closed but didn’t toss his cell.

“It’s Harry.” My voice was amped. “I know it is.”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions.”

“Right.”

I threw myself into the seat back and folded my arms. Unfolded them and started gnawing the cuticle.

“The Merc and the Porsche belong to locals,” Ryan said, never taking his eyes from number thirteen.

I didn’t bother to comment.

Seconds dragged by. Minutes. Eons.

The Impala seemed suddenly oppressive. I lowered my window. Sickly warm air floated in, bringing the smell of mud and mown grass. The cawing of gulls.

I jumped when Ryan’s cell warbled in his hand.

Ryan listened. Thanked the caller. Disconnected.

“Harry rented the Accord on Monday morning.”

My eyes flew down the block. The car was empty. The park was empty.

“I’ll call her.” I reached for my purse.

Ryan shot a restraining hand to my arm. “No.”

“Why not?”

Ryan just looked at me. Like mine, his eyes were full of fatigue.

My mind did a frightening connect. If Harry was on Malo’s property or in his house, a ringing phone might compromise her safety.

“Jesus, Ryan, you really think she’s gone inside?” Been taken inside? I couldn’t say it.

“I don’t know.”

I knew.

“We need to get her out.”

“Not yet.”

“What?” Sharp. “We just sit here?”

“For a while, yes. If
I
go in,
I
will do so with backup. Note the pointed use of the first-person singular.”

The sun was low, bouncing off windows and car hoods, bronzing the river, the park, and the street. Sliding on shades, Ryan draped both arms on the wheel and resumed staring down Rustique.

Planetary movement ground to a stop. Occasionally Ryan glanced at his watch. I checked mine. Each time less than a minute had passed.

I switched from working the cuticle to picking at threads in the armrest. Switched back. Despite the heat my fingers felt icy.