Кэти Райх - Death Du Jour

When I got inside, the message light was flashing. Ryan. I phoned him back with shaky hands.

“Jeannotte’s involved,” I said, wasting no time. “She was just here telling me to back off. Seems your call to Anna really irked her. Listen, when we went back to Saint Helena, do you remember the man with the white streak?”

“Yeah. Skinny guy, scarecrow-thin, tall. He came in to talk to Owens.” Ryan sounded exhausted.

“Jeannotte has the same pattern of depigmentation, same eye. It’s not obvious because she hides it with makeup.”

“Same hair streak?”

“I couldn’t tell, but she probably uses dye. Look, these two must be related. The trait’s just too unusual to be a coincidence.”

“Siblings?”

“I didn’t pay much attention at the time, but I think the guy on Saint Helena was too young to be her father and too old to be her son.”

“If she’s from the Tennessee mountains there are limited genetic possibilities.”

“Funny.” I was not in the mood for redneck jokes.

“Could be whole clans that share the gene.”

“This is serious, Ryan.”

“You know, different stripes in different hollers.” He imitated Jeff Foxworthy. “If your stripe is the same as your sister’s, then you may be–”

Stripes. Something about stripes pulled at me.

“What did you say?”

“Hollers, it’s what you folk–”

“Will you stop it! I just thought of something else. Do you remember what Heidi Schneider’s father said about their visitor?”

The line was quiet.

“He said the guy looked like a skunk. A goddam skunk.”

“Shit. So maybe Daddy wasn’t being poetic.”

In the background a phone rang and rang. No one answered it.

“You think Owens sent Streak to Texas?” Ryan asked.

“No, not Owens. Kathryn and the old man both talked about a woman. I think it’s Jeannotte. She probably directs the show from here and has lieutenants at her other camps. I also think she recruits on campus through some sort of seminar network.”

“What else can you tell me about Jeannotte?”

I related everything I knew, including her behavior toward her assistant, and asked what he’d learned in his conversation with Anna.

“Not much. I think there’s a shitload she’s keeping bottled up. This kid makes Zelda look stable.”

“She could be on drugs.”

The ringing started up again.

“Are you alone there?” Save for the phones, the squad room sounded unnaturally quiet.

“Everyone’s been pulled out for this friggin’ storm. Are you having problems?”

“Like what?”

“Don’t you listen to the news? The ice is really screwing things up. They’ve closed the airport, and a lot of the minor roads are impassable. Power lines are cracking like dry spaghetti, and stretches of the south shore are cold and dark. The city fathers are starting to worry about old folks. And looters.”

“I’m fine so far. Did Baker’s men find anything to tie Saint Helena to the group in Texas?”

“Not really. The old guy with the dog talked a lot about meeting his guardian angel. Seems Owens and his disciples had the same idea. It’s all through their journals.”

“Journals?”

“Yeah. Apparently some of the faithful had the creative urge.”

“And?”

I heard him inhale, then exhale slowly.

“Tell me, goddamit!”

“According to some expert down there, it’s definitely apocalyptic and it’s now. They’re heading for the big one. Sheriff Baker’s taking no chances. He’s called in the feds.”

“And they found no clue as to destination? The earthly destination, I mean.”

“To meet their guardian angel and make the crossing to a better place. That’s the kind of crap we’re dealing with. But they’re well organized. Apparently the trip has been planned for a long time.”

“Jeannotte! You’ve got to find Jeannotte! It’s her! She’s the guardian angel!”

I knew I sounded frantic, but I couldn’t help myself.

“O.K. I agree. It’s time to drive Miss Daisy hard. When did she leave your place?”

“Fifteen minutes ago.”

“Where was she going?”

“I don’t know. She said she was meeting someone.”

“O.K., I’ll find her. Brennan, if you’re right about this, the little professor is a very dangerous woman. Do not , I repeat, do not do anything on your own. I know you’re worried about Harry, but if she’s been sucked into this thing it may take professionals to get her out. Do you understand?”

“May I brush my teeth? Or is that considered risky?” I snapped. His paternalism did not bring out the best in me.

“You know what I mean. Find yourself some candles. I’ll get back to you as soon as I learn anything.”

I hung up and walked to the French doors. I wanted more space around me and slid the curtain aside. The courtyard looked like a mythological garden, the trees and shrubs fashioned of spun glass. Filmy nets covered the upstairs balconies and clung to the brick chimneys and walls.

I located candles, matches, and a flashlight, then dug my radio and headphones from my gym bag and placed everything on the kitchen counter. Back in the living room, I settled on the couch and clicked to the CTV news.

Ryan was right. The storm was big news. Lines were down throughout the province and Hydro-Québec could not say when power would be restored. Temperatures were dropping and more precipitation was on the way.

I threw on a jacket and made three trips for logs. If the electricity failed, I would have heat. Next, I got extra blankets and placed them on the bed. When I returned to the living room a grim-looking newscaster was listing events that would not take place.

It was a familiar ritual, and oddly comforting. When snow threatens in the South, schools close, public activities cease, and frenzied homeowners strip store shelves. Usually the blizzards never come, or if snow falls, it disappears the following day. In Montreal storm preparations are methodical, not frantic, dominated by an air of “we will cope.”

My preparations occupied me for fifteen minutes. The TV held my attention for another ten. A brief respite. When I clicked off, my agitation returned full force. I felt stuck, a bug on a pin. Ryan was right. There was nothing I could do, and my powerlessness made me all the more restless.

I went through my nighttime routine, hoping to keep bad thoughts at bay a little longer. No go. When I crawled into bed, the neural floodgates overflowed.

Harry. Why hadn’t I listened to her? How could I have been so self-absorbed? Where had she gone? Why hadn’t she called her son? Why hadn’t she called me?

Daisy Jeannotte. Who had she been going to meet? What crazed course was she mapping? How many innocent souls did she intend to take with her?

Heidi Schneider. Who had felt so threatened by Heidi’s babies as to resort to brutal infanticide? Were these deaths the herald of more bloodshed?

Jennifer Cannon. Amalie Provencher. Carole Comptois. Were their murders part of the madness? What demonic mores had they violated? Had their deaths been the choreography of some hellish ritual? Had my sister suffered the same fate?

When the phone rang I jumped and knocked the flashlight to the floor.

Ryan, I prayed. It’s Ryan and he’s got Jeannotte.

My nephew’s voice came across the line.

“Oh hell, Aunt Tempe. I think I’ve really screwed up. She called. I found it on the other cassette.”

“What other cassette?”

“I’ve got one of these old answering machines with the tiny tapes. The one I had wasn’t rewinding right so I put in a new one. I didn’t think about it until a friend came by just now. I was pretty hacked off at her because we were supposed to go out last week, but when I went to get her she wasn’t home. When she dropped by tonight I told her to kiss off, and she insisted she’d left a message. We got into a hassle so I got out the old tape and played it. She was on there, all right, but so was Harry. Right at the end.”