Kathy Reichs: Bones to Ashes

“Social Services is right behind me.”

“Bastarache?”

“Handed him off to the Trois-Rivières SQ. They’ll stay on him. Looks like he’s heading to Montreal.”

“Hippo?”

“Flying to Tracadie later today. Plans to squeeze Mulally and Babin, check out some things that turned up in Bastarache’s files.”

I turned to Obéline.

“Last chance.”

She offered nothing.

I put all the menace I could into my parting words.

“Mark this, Obéline. I won’t stop until I find your sister. And I’ll do everything I can to see that your husband is prosecuted for kidnapping, child exploitation, child endangerment, and anything else we can think to pin to his sorry ass.”

Obéline spoke softly and with an air of sadness.

“I know you want to do good, Tempe, but you will cause harm instead. You will harm the people you are trying to protect and those who have helped them. Poor Cecile finds happiness here. Social Services will be a nightmare for her. And if you find Évangéline, it will cause her pain. May God bless you and forgive you.”

The quiet force of Obéline’s words pushed away my anger. I was pleading now.

“Please, Obéline, please tell me what I must know to bring the man who hurt Évangéline and Cecile to justice. Please do this.”

“I can say no more,” Obéline murmured, not raising her gaze to mine.

39

AS WE SPED ACROSS ÎLE D’ORLÉANS I RECOUNTED MY CONVERSATIONS with Claudine and Obéline.

“Double-barreled ambush.” Ryan sounded impressed. “Your husband’s a smut bandit. Your sister did bondage.”

“Obéline claims David is innocent of all the things of which I suspect him, and, in fact, helped some of the girls. Remember our conversation with Kelly Sicard.”

“Where does she lay the blame?”

“On a former employee of her father-in-law.”

“Who?”

“She didn’t know, or wouldn’t reveal his name. Says David fired him in 1980. The fact is that someone murdered several girls and the only link we have is Bastarache. I can’t ignore that.”

Ryan veered onto an entrance ramp. There was a short descent, a deceleration, then the Impala lunged forward and we were on the twenty. I fell silent, allowing Ryan to focus on driving.

As we ate up asphalt, my thoughts meandered through the events of the past twenty-four hours. David Bastarache. Kelly Sicard. Claudine Cloquet. The sodden and bloated body that was Claire Brideau.

Harry. It was now Wednesday. I hadn’t seen her since Sunday night. Hadn’t heard from her since she called my mobile on Monday morning.

One image fragment bumper-rode the tail of another. Évangéline in ropes. A girl on a bench. Claudine, a walking tragedy. The mixed-race teenager dragged from Lac des Deux Montagnes.

Might Évangéline still be working in the porn industry? Might that be the secret Obéline was hiding?

Sound bytes replayed over and over. Sicard discussing the anonymous Pierre: I wore moccasins while a guy in a loincloth fucked me. Bastarache’s troubling comment: I was barely out of high school when this kid was playing Indian princess .

I felt another shoulder-tap from my id.

Bastarache knew the bench-girl video had some years on it. The filming had been done in his house. The guy had to be dirty. Or did he? How old had he been then? What was his role in the Bastarache family business?

The tapping continued, insistent.

The human brain is, well, mind-blowing. Chemicals. Electricity. Fluid. Cytoplasm. Wire it up right and the thing works. No one really knows how.

But the brain’s parts can be like governmental agencies, closing ranks to hoard their special knowledge. Cerebrum. Cerebellum. Frontal lobe. Motor cortex. Sometimes it takes a catalyst to get them to share.

My neurons had ingested, but not fully digested, a larder full of data in the last few days. Suddenly, something shifted. My lower brain contacted my upper. Why? Claudine Cloquet’s dream catcher.

“What if Obéline is telling the truth?” I asked, sitting up straight. “What if our perv is the guy who worked for Bastarache’s father?”

“Right.”

“When Harry and I were in Tracadie, Obéline mentioned a former employee of her father-in-law. Said her husband fired him and the parting wasn’t amicable.”

Ryan didn’t comment.

“This former employee designed the sweat house that was later converted to a gazebo. He was nuts into Native art. Carved benches. Totem poles.” I paused for effect. “Kelly Sicard said Pierre forced her to wear moccasins. What was Bastarache’s remark when you showed him the print of the girl on the bench?”

“The kid was playing Indian princess.” Ryan was with me.

“There was nothing in that picture to suggest a Native American theme. And the videos Sicard listed. Think about the titles.”

“ Wamp Um. Wiki Up. Sonovabitch.”

“Claudine had a dream catcher. Said she got it from the man she lived with before Obéline. What if Cormier’s ‘agent’ friend, Pierre, is the same guy Bastarache fired? The same guy who had Claudine?”

Ryan’s knuckles tightened on the wheel. “So how does Bastarache fit in?”

“I’m not sure.” I started tossing things out without really thinking. “Bastarache is a kid. He sees skin flicks being made in his home. He resents it, vows to pull the plug the minute the old man kicks.”

Ryan rolled that around in his mind.

“What did Claudine call this creep?”

“She didn’t know his name. Or wouldn’t say it.” I told him about the word-rounding game. “Claudine perceives adjectives as either flat or crooked. Flat ones she adds an o to, crooked ones she doesn’t. It’s not logical, just some aspect of her unique cognitive mapping. She just said the guy was bad. Mal-o. ”

Ryan’s eyes pinched in thought. Then he added another contender to my list of what-if’s.

“What if mal is a crooked adjective? One that can’t be rounded.”

“So you can’t add an o .”

“Exactly.”

I saw where Ryan was going. “What if it’s a name? Malo.” Neurons fired. “Pierre Malo.”

Ryan was already reaching for his cell. I listened as he asked someone to run a check.

We were moving west with a sea of cars. I watched their tailpipes. Sunlight on their trunks and roofs. Chewed a cuticle.

We were an hour out of Quebec City when Ryan’s mobile warbled.

“Ryan.”

Pause.

“Où?” Where?

Pause.

“Shit!”

There was a final, shorter pause, then Ryan snapped the lid and tossed the phone to the dash.

“What?” I asked.

“They lost Bastarache.”

“How?”

“Bastard pulled into a rest stop. Entered a restaurant. Never exited.”

“He abandoned the Mercedes?”

Ryan nodded. “He was either picked up or hitched a ride.”

I repeated Ryan’s sentiment. “Shit.”

Minutes later it was my phone.

I’d had virtually no sleep in the last forty-eight hours. I was running on doses of a cat nap and pure adrenaline. What happened next was my fault.

Checking the caller ID, I felt a rush of relief. Followed by annoyance.

Driven by the latter, I clicked on but said nothing.

“You there, big sister?”

“Yes.” Frosty.

“You’re peeved.” Harry, the master of understatement. “Now, I know what you’re going to say.”

“Where the hell have you been?”

“Yessiree. That’s it. I can explain.”

“You needn’t bother.”

“I wanted to surprise you.”

How often had I heard those words?

Ryan’s cell warbled again. I heard him answer.