Kathy Reichs - Bones to Ashes

“A mondo thumb drive stashed in a flour bin. Double-layered encryption. This guy’s hiding something he sincerely doesn’t want found.”

“Now what?” Ryan asked.

“If your warrant allows, confiscate the hardware. We’ll get whatever it is he’s snaked away.”

At one, Ryan and I left Chenevier and Pasteur to finish and lock up. I drove straight to Cormier’s studio. It was like moving from the cool of the arctic to the heat and grime of the tropics.

Hippo was wearing another aloha shirt. Red turtles and blue parrots, all damp and wilted. He’d finished two more cabinets.

I told him about the thumb drive. His response was immediate.

“The guy’s into porn.”

“Maybe.”

“What? You think he’s storing church music?”

Since images and videos require a lot of disk space, I, too, suspected porn. But I bristle at knee-jerk reactions.

“We shouldn’t jump to judgment,” I said.

Hippo blew air through his lips.

To avoid an argument, I changed the subject.

“Ever hear of an island called Île-aux-Becs-Scies?”

“Where?”

“Near Miramichi.”

Hippo thought a moment, then shook his head.

“What does the name mean?”

“I think a bec scie is some kind of duck.”

Something rolled over in my hindbrain.

Duck Island? What?

I chose a cabinet and began pulling file after file.

Kids. Pets. Couples.

I found it hard to concentrate. Was I really championing judicious thinking? Or was I in denial? Cormier a pornographer. Cormier a photographer of women and children. Were the implications simply too awful?

And why the heads-up from my subconscious? Duck Island?

Partly heat. Partly hunger. A headache began organizing on the right side of my skull.

Ryan was to have bought lunch and come directly from Cormier’s apartment to his studio. Where the hell was he? Cranky, I continued plowing through folders.

It was two-thirty before Ryan made his appearance. In lieu of the salad and Diet Coke I’d requested, he’d gotten hot dogs and fries from Lafleur’s.

As we ate, Ryan and Hippo discussed the thumb drive. Ryan agreed that Cormier was probably hiding smut. Hot, irritable, and stuffed with greasy wieners, I played devil’s advocate.

“Maybe Cormier got sick of dealing with this disorganized mess.” I waved an arm at the cabinets. “Maybe he was scanning all his old images and files.”

“To a thumb drive stashed in his flour bin.”

Ryan had a point. It irked me.

“OK, so it’s porn. Maybe Cormier’s just a perv trying to hide his dirty little secret.”

Both men looked at me as though I’d suggested anthrax was harmless.

“Think what you want.” I bunched my wrappers and shoved them into the greasy brown bag. “I’ll wait for proof.”

Cabinet twelve. I was looking at a photo of an exceedingly unattractive baby when my cell phone chirped.

Two-eight-one area code. Harry.

I clicked on.

“You certainly were up early this morning.”

“I’m up early most mornings.”

“How’s that French buckaroo?”

“If you mean Ryan, he’s a jerk.”

“I just spoke to Flannery O’Connor.” Harry’s voice was jittery with excitement.

“I’m listening.”

There was a pause.

“Are we having another cranky pants day?”

“It’s hot.” I placed the ugly baby on the stack of finished files, and opened another.

“This isn’t even close to hot.”

“What did you learn?”

“You want hot, you try Houston in August.”

“O’Connor House?”

“The business folded when Flan and her husband went splitsville. She goes by Flan. I didn’t ask if she’d changed it official or not. Anyway, Flan cut bait after catching hubby au flagrant with a guy named Maurice.”

“Uh-huh.” The new file was labeled Krenshaw . The subject was a cocker spaniel. I closed it, and selected another.

“She’s a hoot, Tempe. We talked for over an hour.”

I could only imagine that conversation.

“What did you learn about Obéline’s book?” I opened another file. Tremblay. A very fat lady posed with a very fat child. The Tremblays went onto the stack.

“Following the divorce, Flan kept all the O’Connor House records. Client names, book titles, number of pages, number of copies, what type of binding. ’Course we’re not talking Simon and Schuster here.”

“Obéline’s book?” Keeping Harry on track was like herding sheep on uppers.

“During its existence, O’Connor House printed twenty-two poetry collections. Six of the orders were placed by women.” I heard paper rustle. “ La Pénitence, by Félice Beaufils.”

What Harry did to the French language was truly remarkable.

“ Lie Down Among the Lilies, by Geraldine Haege. Peppermint Springtime, by Sandra Lacanu. Un besoin de chaleur humaine, by Charlene Pierpont. That title means something about needing human warmth.”

I opened another folder. Briggs. Blushing bride. Done.

“The other four had no authors. You know, the poet preferred to remain anonymous. Ghostly Mornings . Flan thought that was a literary club project. A woman named Caroline Beecher handled the transaction.”

The headache was banging at the back of my eyeball. Using a thumb, I rubbed circles on my temple.

“ Parfum was paid for by Marie-Joséphine Devereaux. Fringe was paid for by Mary Anne Coffey. Each of those books was about fifty pages in length. Each print run was a hundred. Beecher and Devereaux had Moncton addresses. Coffey lived in St. John—”

“Obéline?” It came out sharper than I intended.

Harry allowed me several moments of dead air.

“I’m sorry. I know you’re working hard on this. It’s just a little too much information for now.”

“Mm-hm.”

“What did you learn about Bones to Ashes ?”

I opened a new file. Zucker. Three kids wearing plaid.

“Virginie LeBlanc.” Curt.

“LeBlanc placed the order?”

“Yes.”

“Did O’Connor have LeBlanc’s address?”

“Post office box.”

“Where?”

“Bathurst.”

“Any other contact information?”

“No.”

“Did you try tracing LeBlanc?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

Sulky silence.

I rolled my eyes. It hurt.

“Look, Harry. I’m sorry. I do appreciate what you’re doing.”

From across the room, I heard a phone, then Hippo’s voice.

“Gallant.”

“Can I buy you dinner tonight?” I asked Harry.

“Quand? Où?” Staccato questions in the background. Where? When?

“I’ll be here,” Harry said.

“Bon Dieu!”

“You pick the restaurant,” I said.

I heard a soft grunt, then footsteps clumping my way.

“You can give me a full report on everything you’ve learned.”

Harry agreed. Coolly.

I clicked off.

Hippo was standing over me.

I looked up.

Something was dreadfully wrong.

23

HIPPO’S JAW WAS CLAMPED LIKE A SCREW PRESS.

“What?” I closed the Zucker file.

Hippo glowered silently.

“Tell me.”

“Just got a courtesy call from the RCMP in Tracadie. Obéline Bastarache is missing and presumed dead.”

I shot to my feet. The Zucker file flew across the floor. “Dead? How?”

Flicking a shirttail, Hippo pocket-jammed the phone and turned away.

“How?” I repeated, too shrill.

“Neighbor downriver from the Bastarache place found a shawl wrapping one of the pilings under his pier. Recognized it. Checked. Got suspicious that Obéline wasn’t home. Says the lady never goes out.”