Kathy Reichs - Bones to Ashes

Shooing Birdie from the room, I hurried to the shower.

While I was drying my hair, the brain cells piped in again.

Mascara and blush.

Tart yourself up for yesterday’s news?

Smart looks, smart thoughts.

Puh-leeze!

I spritzed Issey Miyake.

Trollop.

Le Maison du Cari is located in a basement on Bishop, across from the Concordia University library. Ben, the owner, remembers the preferences of each of his regulars. No question about mine. Ben’s korma is so rich it prompts a smile from the most jaded diner.

Descending the steps, I saw the top of Ryan’s head through the small front window. Dimly. Curry, brilliant. Tandoori, phenomenal. Windex, forget it.

Ryan was drinking Newcastle ale and munching papadum. I’d barely taken my seat when a Diet Coke hit the table. Lots of ice. Slice of lime. Perfect.

After hearing news of Ben’s daughter in Sweden, we ordered. Chicken vindaloo. Lamb korma. Channa masala. Cucumber raita. Naan.

Conversation launched from the neutral ground of Phoebe Jane Quincy.

“We may have a lead. Kid didn’t have a mobile, but the best friend did. Finally ’fessed up to allowing Phoebe to make calls she couldn’t make at home. Records showed one unfamiliar number. Dialed eight times in the past three months.”

“Boyfriend?”

“Photography studio. Low end, over on the Plateau. Rented to a guy named Stanislas Cormier.” Ryan’s jaw muscles bunched, relaxed. “Cormier was promising to make the kid a supermodel.”

“The friend told you?”

Ryan nodded. “Quincy pictured herself the next Tyra Banks.”

“You picked Cormier up?”

“Spent a lovely afternoon interrogating the dolt. He’s innocent as Bambi.”

“His explanation for the calls?”

“Claims Quincy found him in the Yellow Pages. Wanted a photo shoot. Upstanding citizen asked her age, heard thirteen, told her no go without a parent.”

“She called eight times.”

“Cormier says she was persistent.”

“You believe him?”

“What do you think?”

“Did he take the Marilyn shot?”

“Claims to know nothing about it.”

“Can you hold him?”

“We’ll find a charge.”

“What now?”

“Waiting for a warrant. Once it’s issued, we toss the studio.”

“What about LaManche’s Lac des Deux Montagnes floater? Anything pop with the new info I gave you on age and race?”

“She’s not in CPIC or NCIC.”

The food arrived. Ryan ordered another Newcastle. As we served ourselves, I remembered something from our earlier conversation.

“Didn’t you say Kelly Sicard also wanted to be a model?”

“Yeah.” Ryan forked curry into his mouth. “Fancy that.”

We ate in silence. Beside us, two kids held hands, eyes locked, food cooling on their plates. Love? Lust? Either way, I envied them.

Finally, Ryan got to it.

Wiping his mouth, he carefully folded and laid his napkin on the table. Smoothed it with a palm.

“There’s something I have to tell you. It’s not easy, but you should know.”

A fist grabbed my gut.

“Lily’s problems are worse than I’ve let on.”

The fist eased ever so slightly.

“Three weeks ago she was nailed boosting DVD’s from a Blockbuster outlet. I got a courtesy call because I’m on the job. I managed to talk the owner down, made restitution. Lily didn’t go into the system. This time.”

Ryan’s gaze floated up to the window, went through the glass to the darkness outside on Bishop.

“Lily’s addicted to heroin. She steals to feed her habit.”

I didn’t blink, didn’t look over toward the couple beside us.

“I own a big hunk of blame. I was never there.”

Lutetia kept her existence from you. I didn’t say it.

Ryan’s eyes came back to mine. In them I saw pain and guilt. And something else. The sadness of ending.

The fist retightened.

“My daughter needs medical help. Counseling. She’ll get that. But she also needs stability. A home base. The conviction that someone believes in her.”

Ryan took both my hands in his.

“Lutetia has been in Montreal the past two weeks.”

My chest turned to ice.

“We’ve spent hours wrestling with this.” Ryan halted briefly. “We think we can give Lily the safety net she needs.”

I waited.

“We’ve decided to try to make the relationship work.”

“You’re going back to Lutetia?” Calm, and wildly out of sync with the turmoil inside.

“This is the most painful decision I’ve ever had to make. I’ve barely slept. I’ve thought of nothing else.” Ryan lowered his voice. “I kept remembering you with Pete in Charleston.”

“He’d been shot.” Barely audible.

“I mean earlier. He had his arms around you.”

“I was overtired, overwrought from so much work. Pete was merely calming me down.”

“I know. I admit when I first saw you two together I felt betrayed. Humiliated. ‘How could she?’ I kept asking myself. I wanted to see you burned alive. That first night, I bought a bottle of scotch, took it to my room and got drunk. I was so angry I threw my room phone through the TV screen.”

My eyebrows floated up.

“The hotel charged me six hundred bucks.” Strained smile. “Look, I’m not criticizing or casting blame. But I’ve come to understand you’re never going to cut Pete loose.” Ryan’s thumbs caressed the backs of my hands. “That realization made me reassess. Maybe the poets and songwriters have gotten it wrong. Maybe we do get a second chance to get things right.”

“Andrew and Lutetia. The way we were.” It was small and mean. I couldn’t help myself.

“This won’t affect us on the job, of course.” Another weak smile. “We’ll still be Mulder and Scully.”

X-Files. X-Lovers.

“I want your help with these MP’s and DOA’s.”

I bit back a retort I would later have regretted.

“You’re sure about this?” I asked.

“I’ve never been less sure about anything in my life. But I’m sure of one thing. I owe it to my daughter to try. I can’t see her destroyed while I just stand by.”

I needed fresh air.

I didn’t offer reassurance. Or another Streisand line. Or a hug.

Molding my face into a smile, I rose and left the restaurant.

I felt leaden, oblivious to the Saturday night revelers with whom I shared the sidewalk. My feet rose, fell, moving me along without sensation. Then they stopped.

I looked up.

Hurley’s.

It wasn’t air that I craved. I’d run toward the old umbilicus. The ruby glow in the long-stemmed glass, the friction on my throat, the heat in my belly. The bullet train to temporary gladness and well-being.

All I had to do was enter and ask.

But I know myself. I am an alkie. The fling wouldn’t be brief. And, inevitably, the euphoria would give way to self-loathing. Hours, perhaps days would be gone from my life.

I reversed my course and went home.

Lying in bed, I felt totally alone in the universe.

My thoughts played like a danse macabre.

Dorothée and Geneviève Doucet, forgotten in an upstairs bedroom.

Kelly Sicard. Claudine Cloquet. Anne Girardin. Phoebe Jane Quincy. Vanished, perhaps molested and murdered.

Three young bodies, two bloated and grotesque.

Laurette, abandoned, dead at thirty-four.

My own mother, widowed, neurotic, dead at fifty-seven.

Baby Kevin, dead at age nine months.

A young girl’s skeleton, wrenched from its grave.

Obéline, battered and disfigured.

Évangéline, gone.

Ryan, gone.

At that moment, I hated my job. I hated my life.

The world was wretched.