KATHY REICHS - 206 BONES

“Nail her, Tempe.” Santangelo’s tone was soft, but her words were edged with emotion.

“Why me?”

“Why not? You’ve never been afraid to take a good bite of charlatan.”

Back home, the dragging fatigue again threatened to flatten me. Nevertheless, I did a Google search on Sebastien Raines. It turned up zilch.

Next I called Jean Tye, a colleague at the Université de Montréal. Tye knew little beyond the fact that Briel’s husband had applied for a position at the U of M in 2007. Since Raines had done zero research, published nothing, and completed only a master’s degree, he’d not been considered a serious candidate. He’d heard that Raines had also submitted an application to the Université du Québec à Montréal. UQAM had also declined to hire him.

Tye was aware that Raines was involved in contract archaeology. He remembered that Raines had done some fieldwork in France, and that his MA had been granted by an institution with which Tye was unfamiliar. His specialty was urban archaeology, digging up garbage dumps, abandoned cemeteries, and building ruins.

And one other thing. Sebastien Raines was active in a number of radical fringe separatist groups. According to Tye, Raines’s desire for an independent French-speaking North American nation was so extremist that the guy offended most members of the Bloc Québécois.

Ryan called shortly after eight. He planned to meet Claudel and Otto Keiser at the Édouard-Montpetit apartment at ten the next morning.

Saturday. What the hell. I agreed to ride along.

By nine I was back in bed. New sheets. New nightie. Same old cat.

I was unconscious in minutes.

In sleep, I sifted. Organized. Played with patterns.

I saw Rose Jurmain’s skeleton, gnawed and scattered in piney woods. As I watched, it rose, bones ghostly in the moonlight. Tendrils grew around its perimeter, rippling like seaweed under water. Written on each tendril was a name and identifier.

Edward Allen, the father. Perry Schechter, the attorney. Janice Spitz, the lover. Andre and Bertrand Dubreuil, the discoverers. Red O’Keefe-Bud Keith, the auberge kitchen worker. Chris Corcoran, the Chicago pathologist. ML, the Chicago anthropologist.

No. That’s wrong. ML analyzed Laszlo Tot’s bones.

The ML tendril went dark and drifted to the ground.

The scene morphed to Christelle Villejoin, buried in bra and panties in a shallow grave. Slowly, the old woman sat up. The undies looked zombie white against her earth-stained bones.

Christelle’s tendrils were fewer in number than Rose’s.

Anne-Isabelle, the sister. Yves Renaud, the discoverer of Anne-Isabelle. Sylvain Rayner, the retired physician. Florian Grellier, the tipster. Red O’Keefe-Bud Keith, Grellier’s bar buddy. M. Keith, the handyman.

Bud Keith-Red O’Keefe. A Rose tendril gently overlapped with a Christelle tendril.

A figure appeared, face veiled, hand outstretched. In the palm lay four phalanges. A corner of the veil lifted, revealing features. Marie-Andréa Briel.

Briel’s face darkened, then changed to that of Marilyn Keiser. Keiser’s body was mottled black and purple. Though less luminous, her tendrils were the most numerous of all.

Uri Keiser, Myron Pinsker Sr., Sam Adamski, the husbands. Otto and Mona, the son and daughter. Myron Pinsker Jr., the stepson. Lu and Eddie Castiglioni, the janitors. Natalie Ayers, the pathologist.

The dream toggled to a new scene.

Ryan stood at a lectern, projector shooting a white beam of light into darkness behind him. Three students occupied chairs before him. Ryan fired question after question. The students answered.

If O’Keefe/Keith was guilty, why did he do it?

Money?

The Villejoins had little. Jurmain kept only a few dollars in her room at the auberge.

O’Keefe/Keith was small-time. Maybe a little was enough.

How did O’Keefe/Keith cross paths with Marilyn Keiser?

Might Myron Pinsker be the killer?

Rage? Jealousy? Fear of losing his inheritance?

Are there assets we don’t know about?

Did Pinsker’s life intersect those of the other vics?

Were Jurmain and Villejoin random, selected because of their age and gender?

What about the Villejoins’ neighbor, Yves Renaud?

The janitor twins, Lu and Eddie Castiglioni?

Shotgun questions and answers, back and forth.

I kicked at the blankets.

Now Hubert was speaking from the lectern.

Cause of death was unknown for Jurmain. Villejoin was bludgeoned. Keiser was burned.

That’s wrong.

Keiser was shot. Student three was now Chris Corcoran.

Ayers did the autopsy but missed it. Student two had become Marie-Andréa Briel.

Briel found the bullet track, Hubert said. Briel found the phalanges. All hail Briel.

A moth fluttered into the projector beam, wings frenzied in the stark illumination.

I saw its velvety antennae. The layers of silken hair covering its abdomen.

The moth flew directly toward me.

Its jaws opened.

RYAN WAS PROMPT. AS USUAL.

By nine fifty we were pulling to the curb in front of a U-shaped red-brick building in a neighborhood bordering the U of M campus. Crossing the front courtyard, I noted details.

Grounds litter free. Walks shoveled with square-edged precision. Bushes wrapped with burlap and tied.

Lu Castiglioni was at the door, looking like he’d rather be elsewhere. I suspected he’d just been grilled by Claudel.

As we followed Castiglioni inside, I continued my survey.

Twelve mailboxes, each with a button and speaker plate to announce arrivals. No camera. The security system relied on voice alone.

Claudel had assumed an Armani pose in the lobby. Leather gloves. Tan cashmere coat. Impatient frown. Beside him was a moose of a man bundled like a hunter just in from the Yukon.

Claudel introduced his companion as Otto Keiser. Ryan and I offered condolences to Otto on the loss of his mother.

Otto shook our hands, studied our faces.

Castiglioni led us to an elevator and pushed a lighted brass button. We rode to the third floor in silence.

Keiser’s unit was at the far end of a newly carpeted hallway that smelled of fresh paint. We passed only one other door.

Castiglioni used a master key.

Abandoned homes develop a certain smell. Old food. Dirty laundry. Dead plants. Stale air. The shades were drawn and the heat was lowered, but Keiser’s apartment was wearing that perfume.

We entered directly into the living room. Down a hall shooting right I could see two bedrooms joined by a bath, all entered through doors on the left. Past the bedrooms, straight ahead, the hall ended at a dining room. Beyond that was a kitchen. Through a back-door window, I could see wooden stairs joining a porch.

Ryan and I went left, Claudel and Otto right. Castiglioni stayed in the corridor.

The living room had a bay of wraparound windows at one end. Strung beads covered the glass, annihilating what must have been the architect’s intent.

The room was trimmed with crown moldings, chair rails, and baseboards painted a lime green that couldn’t even have looked good in the can. The floors were wood, covered with rugs that were escapees from an LSD trip. Amateur landscapes and still lifes shared wall space with opera posters and low-quality prints. I recognized Picasso. Modigliani. Chagall. Pollock.

Figurines, vases, photos, snow domes, music boxes, and carved nudes crammed the mantel and shelves to either side of a fireplace whose brick had been painted the same unfortunate green as the trim. All paintings and bric-a-brac were evenly spaced in perfectly straight rows.

I glanced at the framed photos. Otto was recognizable in some older ones, as a toddler, then in scenes reflecting a typical childhood age progression. In many he was with a girl a few years younger, arm draped protectively around her shoulders. I assumed this was the sister, Mona.