Kathy Reichs - Bones to Ashes

“Please go.”

“Who broke your arm? Who torched your house?”

Her eyes darkened. “Why this obsession with me? You show up at my home. You reawaken pain best left dormant. Now you want to destroy my marriage. Why can’t you just leave me in peace?”

I tried a Ryan quick-switch. “I know about Laurette.”

“What?”

“The lazaretto. The leprosy.”

Obéline looked as if I’d struck her. “Who told you this?”

“Who killed Évangéline?”

“I don’t know.” Almost desperate.

“Was it your husband?”

“No!” Her eyes darted like those of a hunted dove.

“He probably killed two little girls.”

“Please. Please. Everything you think is wrong.”

Relentless, I kept my glare aimed at her. Kept hammering. “Claudine Cloquet? Phoebe Quincy? Have you heard those names?”

Reaching into my purse, I grabbed the envelope, yanked out the photos of Quincy and Cloquet, and thrust them at her.

“Look,” I said. “Look at these faces. Their parents are in pain that never goes dormant.”

She turned her head, but I forced the photos through the crack, keeping them in her field of vision.

Her eyes closed, then her shoulders seemed to turtle in on themselves. When she spoke again, her voice carried a tone of defeat.

“Wait.” The door closed, a chain rattled, then the door reopened. “Come in.”

Ryan and I entered a hallway lined on both sides with pictures of saints. Jude. Rose of Lima. Francis of Assisi. A guy with a staff and a dog.

Obéline led us past a dining room and library to a parlor with a wide-plank floor, heavy oak tables, a scuffed leather sofa, and overstuffed armchairs. One wall was floor-to-ceiling glass. A stone fireplace rose among the windows, partially blocking a spectacular view of the river.

“Please.” Obéline gestured at the sofa.

Ryan and I sat.

Obéline remained standing, eyes on us, one gnarled hand to her mouth. I couldn’t read her expression. Seconds passed. A solitary drop of sweat slid down her temple. The tactile input seemed to nudge her to action.

“Wait here.” Whirling, she strode through the same archway we’d entered.

Ryan and I exchanged glances. I could tell he was wired.

Morning sun beat down on the glass. Though it was barely eleven, the room was cloyingly warm. I felt my shirt start to wilt.

A door opened, then footsteps clicked up the hall. Obéline reappeared leading a girl of about seventeen.

The pair crossed the room and stood before us.

I felt something balloon in my chest.

The girl stood less than five feet tall. She had pale skin, blue eyes, and thick black hair bobbed at her jawline. It was her smile that snagged and held my gaze. A smile flawed by a single imperfection.

Beside me, I felt Ryan go rigid.

The day had taken a radical turn.

37

IWAS STILL HOLDING THE PHOTO OF CLAUDINE CLOQUET. RYAN’S MP number two. The twelve-year-old who had disappeared in 2002 while riding her bicycle in Saint-Lazare-Sud.

I looked from the girl to the image. Winter white skin. Black hair. Blue eyes. Narrow, pointed chin.

A row of white teeth marred by one rotated canine.

“This is Cecile,” Obéline said, placing a hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Cecile, say hello to our guests.”

Ryan and I rose.

Cecile regarded me with open curiosity. “Are those earrings authentiques ?”

“Real glass,” I said, smiling.

“They’re very sparkly. Sparkly-o.”

“Would you like them?”

“No way!”

I removed the earrings and handed them to her. She turned them in her palm, as awed as if they were the crown jewels.

“Cecile has been living with us for almost three years.” Obéline’s eyes were steady on mine.

“Je fais la lessive,” Cecile said. “ Et le ménage .”

“You do laundry and cleaning. That must be a tremendous help.”

She nodded too vigorously. “And I’m really good with plants. Good. Good-o.”

“Are you?” I asked.

Cecile beamed a blinding smile. “My Christmas cactus got a thousand blooms.” Her hands carved a large circle in the air.

“That’s amazing,” I said.

“Oui.” She giggled a little girl giggle. “Obéline’s got none. Can I really keep the earrings?”

“Of course,” I said.

“Please excuse us now,” Obéline said.

Cecile shrugged one shoulder. “OK. I’m watching The Simpsons, but it keeps going fuzzy. Can you fix it?” She turned to me. “Homer is so funny.” She gave the “so” several o ’s. “ Drôle. Drôle-o.”

Obéline held up a finger to say her absence would be brief. Then she and Cecile hurried from the room.

“Claudine Cloquet,” I said, keeping my voice low and steady. Ryan only nodded. His attention was focused on punching his cell.

“How the hell do you suppo—”

Ryan raised a silencing hand.

“Ryan here.” He spoke into the phone. “Bastarache has Cloquet at a residence on Île d’Orléans.” There was a brief pause. “The kid’s fine for now. But Bastarache is on the move.”

Ryan provided a color, model, year, and plate number for the Mercedes. Then he gave the address and location of Obéline’s house. His jaw muscles bunched as he listened to the party on the other end. “Let me know when he’s netted. If he shows here, his ass is mine.”

Ryan clicked off and began pacing the room.

“You think he’ll come back?” I asked.

“She’s expecting—”

Ryan froze. Our eyes met as, simultaneously, we became aware of a low droning, more a vibration of air than a sound. The droning built. Became the hum of a motor.

Ryan darted down the hall and into the dining room. I followed. Together, we stood to one side and peeked out a window.

A mirage car was cresting the blacktop running from Chemin Royal.

“Is it him?” I asked, whispering pointlessly.

Ryan pulled the fanny pack’s zip string. Together we watched the hazy shape congeal into a black Mercedes.

Sudden realization.

“We parked at the curb,” I hissed.

“Tabarnac!”

Ten football fields out, the Mercedes stopped, then abruptly reversed in a ragged U-turn.

Ryan sprinted into the hall, through the door, and down the drive. In seconds the Impala shot forward, back tires grinding up ground. I watched until it disappeared over the horizon.

“What is happening? Where has he gone?”

I swallowed and turned. Obéline was in the doorway.

“That girl’s name isn’t Cecile,” I said. “It’s Claudine. Claudine Cloquet.”

She stared at me, fingers twisting her scarf as they had at the Tracadie gazebo.

“Your husband stole Claudine from her family. Probably forced her to get naked for his sordid little films. She was twelve, Obéline. Twelve years old.”

“That’s not how it was.”

“I’m tired of hearing that,” I snapped.

“Cecile is happy with us.”

“Her name is Claudine.”

“She’s safe here.”

“She was safe with her family.”

“No. She wasn’t.”

“How could you know that?”

“Her father was a monster.”

“Your husband is a monster.”

“Please.” Her voice was trembling. “Come in and sit down.”

“So you can tell me that things aren’t what they appear?” I was angry now, no longer trying to be nice.

“Claudine’s father sold her into child pornography for five thousand dollars.”

That brought me up short.

“To whom?”

“An evil man.”

“What’s his name?”

“I don’t know.” Her eyes dropped, came back. I suspected she was lying.