Кэти Райх: Death Du Jour

The characters and events in this book are fictional and created out of the imagination of the author. The setting is in Montreal, Canada; Charlotte, North Carolina; and other locations. Certain real locations and institutions are mentioned, but the characters and events depicted are entirely fictional.

Grateful thanks are extended to Dr. Ronald Coulombe, specialiste en incendies; to Ms. Carole Péclet, specialiste en chimie; and to Dr. Robert Dorion, Responsable d’Odontologie, Laboratoire de Sciences Judiciaires et de Médecine Légale; and to Mr. Louis Metivier, Bureau du Coroner de la Province de Québec, for sharing their knowledge with me.

Dr. Walter Birkby, forensic anthropologist for the Office of the Medical Examiner of Pima County, Arizona, provided information on the recovery of burned remains. Dr. Robert Brouillette, Head of the Divisions of Newborn Medicine and of Respiratory Medicine at the Montreal Children’s Hospital helped with data on infant growth.

Mr. Curt Copeland, the Beaufort County coroner; Mr. Carl McCleod, the Beaufort County sheriff; and Detective Neal Player of the Beaufort County sheriff’s department were most helpful. Detective Mike Mannix of the Illinois State Police also answered many questions pertaining to the investigation of a homicide. Dr. James Tabor, Professor of Religious Studies at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte, supplied information on cults and religious movements.

Mr. Leon Simon and Mr. Paul Reichs provided information on Charlotte and its history. I am also indebted to the latter for his comments on the manuscript. Dr. James Woodward, chancellor at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte, supported me unquestioningly throughout the writing of this book.

Special thanks must go to three individuals. Dr. David Taub, mayor of Beaufort and primatologist extraordinaire, was steadfastly helpful despite the barrage of questions I sent his way. Dr. Lee Goff, Professor of Entomology at the University of Hawaii at Manoa, did not abandon me as I pestered him endlessly for advice on bugs. Dr. Michael Bisson, Professor of Anthropology at McGill University, was a resource on McGill University, on Montreal, and on basically anything I needed to know.

Two books were particularly useful in the writing of this story. Plague: A Story of Smallpox in Montreal (1991), by Michael Bliss, Harper Collins, Toronto; and Cults in Our Midst: The Hidden Menace in Our Everyday Lives (1995), by Margaret Thaler Singer with Janja Lalich, Jossey-Bass Publishers, San Francisco.

I am grateful for the loving care of my agent, Jennifer Rudolph Walsh, and my editors Susanne Kirk and Maria Rejt. Without them Tempe could not tell the stories that she does.

IF THE BODIES WERE THERE, I COULDN’T FIND THEM.

Outside, the wind howled. Inside the old church, just the scrape of my trowel and the hum of a portable generator and heater echoed eerily in the huge space. High above, branches scratched against boarded windows, gnarled fingers on plywood blackboards.

The group stood behind me, huddled but not touching, fingers curled tightly in pockets. I could hear the shifting from side to side, the lifting of one foot, then the other. Boots made a crunching sound on the frozen ground. No one spoke. The cold had numbed us into silence.

I watched a cone of earth disappear through quarter-inch mesh as I spread it gently with my trowel. The granular subsoil had been a pleasant surprise. Given the surface, I had expected permafrost the entire depth of the excavation. The last two weeks had been unseasonably warm in Quebec, however, allowing snow to melt and ground to thaw. Typical Tempe luck. Though the tickle of spring had been blown away by another arctic blast, the mild spell had left the dirt soft and easy to dig. Good. Last night the temperature had dropped to seven degrees Fahrenheit. Not good. While the ground had not refrozen, the air was frigid. My fingers were so cold I could hardly bend them.

We were digging our second trench. Still nothing but pebbles and rock fragments in the screen. I didn’t anticipate much at this depth, but you could never tell. I’d yet to do an exhumation that had gone as planned.

I turned to a man in a black parka and a tuque on his head. He wore leather boots laced to the knee, two pairs of socks rolled over the tops. His face was the color of tomato soup.

“Just a few more inches.” I gave a palm-down gesture, like stroking a cat. Slowly. Go slowly.

The man nodded, then thrust his long-handled spade into the shallow trench, grunting like Monica Seles on a first serve.

“ Par pouces! ” I yelped, grabbing the shovel. By inches! I repeated the slicing motion I’d been showing him all morning. “We want to take it down in thin layers.” I said it again, in slow, careful French.

The man clearly did not share my sentiment. Maybe it was the tediousness of the task, maybe the thought of unearthing the dead. Tomato soup just wanted to be done and gone.

“Please, Guy, try again?” said a male voice behind me.

“Yes, Father.” Mumbled.

Guy resumed, shaking his head, but skimming the soil as I’d shown him, then tossing it into the screen. I shifted my gaze from the black dirt to the pit itself, watching for signs that we were nearing a burial.

We’d been at it for hours, and I could sense tension behind me. The nuns’ rocking had increased in tempo. I turned to give the group what I hoped was a reassuring look. My lips were so stiff it was hard to tell.

Six faces looked back at me, pinched from cold and anxiousness. A small cloud of vapor appeared and dissolved in front of each. Six smiles in my direction. I could sense a lot of praying going on.

Ninety minutes later we were five feet down. Like the first, this pit had produced only soil. I was certain I had frostbite in every toe, and Guy was ready to bring in a backhoe. Time to regroup.

“Father, I think we need to check the burial records again.”

He hesitated a moment. Then, “Yes. Of course. Of course. And we could all use coffee and a sandwich.”

The priest started toward a set of wooden doors at the far end of the abandoned church and the nuns followed, heads down, gingerly navigating the lumpy ground. Their white veils spread in identical arcs across the backs of their black wool coats. Penguins. Who’d said that? The Blues Brothers.

I turned off the mobile spotlights and fell in step, eyes to the ground, amazed at the fragments of bone embedded in the dirt floor. Great. We’d dug in the one spot in the entire church that didn’t contain burials.

Father Ménard pushed open one of the doors and, single file, we exited to daylight. Our eyes needed little adjustment. The sky was leaden and seemed to hug the spires and towers of all the buildings in the convent’s compound. A raw wind blew off the Laurentians, flapping collars and veils.

Our little group bent against the wind and crossed to an adjacent building, gray stone like the church, but smaller. We climbed steps to an ornately carved wooden porch and entered through a side door.

Inside, the air was warm and dry, pleasant after the bitter cold. I smelled tea and mothballs and years of fried food.

Wordlessly, the women removed their boots, smiled at me one by one, and disappeared through a doorway to the right just as a tiny nun in an enormous ski sweater shuffled into the foyer. Fuzzy brown reindeer leaped across her chest and disappeared beneath her veil. She blinked at me through thick lenses and reached for my parka. I hesitated, afraid its weight would tip her off balance and send her crashing to the tile. She nodded sharply and urged me with upturned fingertips, so I slipped the jacket off, laid it across her arms, and added cap and gloves. She was the oldest woman that I had ever seen still breathing.