Kathy Reichs - Monday Mourning

Ryan stayed. Perhaps to inspire diligence on the part of the CUM. Perhaps to buoy my flagging spirits.

When the cops had gone, Ryan offered his place as refuge. I looked at Anne. She shook her head no. Her eyes told me the adrenaline was yielding to the alcohol.

Anne and I did some rough cleanup while Ryan went in search of duct tape, cardboard, and plastic. When he returned, we watched him construct a temporary patch on the French door. Then Anne excused herself and disappeared into the bathroom.

Watching Ryan drop the extra tape into a paper bag, I realized I hadn’t a clue why he’d come.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” I began.

“No thanks required.”

“I’ve been so caught up in this”—I waved an arm at the mess behind me—“circus, I haven’t even asked why you stopped by.”

Ryan laid the bag on the coffee table, straightened, and placed a hand on each of my shoulders. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then his face softened, he brushed hair from my cheek, and his hand went back to my shoulder.

When I thought I could bear his silence no longer, he spoke.

“I’m going to be scarce for a while.”

Stomach clutch. Here it comes. The end of the end.

“I can’t go into details, but it’s big—CUM, SQ, RCMP, even the Americans are involved. Op’s been under way for several months.”

A moment went by before I got it.

“You’re talking about a police sting?”

“Claudel’s in, so’s Charbonneau. I’m not compromising anything by telling you that.”

My mind was just not forming the links.

“Why are you telling me that?”

“Claudel’s lack of interest in your pizza bones. I know it’s been grinding at you.”

“You’ll be away?”

“It’s not what I want.” The hint of a smile. “Comes with the glamour and the big bucks.”

I looked down at my hands.

“I hate to leave you alone with this.”

“I didn’t call for backup, Ryan. You dropped in.”

“I don’t like the look of this, Tempe.” Ryan’s voice was gentle.

“It’s not a big deal.”

I could feel cobalt eyes roving my features.

“I’m requesting stepped-up surveillance.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Ryan raised my chin with one finger.

“I’m not sure what went down here, but I intend to find out.”

“It’s a pissant B and E.”

The finger went to my lips.

“Think about it. What was taken? What was left behind? Why the slick entry, then all the smashed glass?”

Ryan squeezed my hands in his, a gesture intended to calm. Instead, it increased my agitation.

“I really would like to stay, Tempe.”

I searched his face, hoping for words that would comfort. Instead Ryan released me and slipped into his jacket. Grabbing the tape, he reached out, touched my cheek, and was gone.

I stood a moment, pondering his comment.

Stay what, Andrew Ryan? The course? The night? Cool? Free?

Not a sound from the bathroom. Not a sound from the study. Anne’s light was off.

After cranking up the heat, I checked the lock on every door and window, set the alarm, and tested the phone. Then I headed toward my room.

I hadn’t noticed earlier. As I crossed the threshold, it drew my attention like some malignant phantom.

My legs gridlocked in shock at the macabre outrage above my bed.

11

“NO!”

Rushing forward, I jumped onto the bed, yanked a long, jagged shard from the painting above the headboard, and hurled it to the far side of the room.

Glass shattered. Fragments bounced from the wall and dropped onto others swept to the baseboard during our hasty cleanup.

“You low-life son of a bitch!”

My heart hammered. Tears burned the backs of my lids.

Stripping off my clothes, I flung them one by one after the shard. Then I threw myself under the covers, naked and trembling.

As an entering freshman at UVA, Katy chose a studio arts major. Her interest was short-lived, but during that brief blossoming, my daughter was as passionate about les beaux arts as any Montmartre aspirant. In one semester she produced four prints, fourteen drawings, and six oils, her style a lyrical blend of fauvist gaudiness and Barbizon realism.

On my fortieth, my only-born presented me with a Katy Petersons oil original, a raucous Matisse-meets-Rousseau interpretation of a Charlottesville hillside. I treasure that canvas. It is one of the few possessions I have transported from Carolina to Quebec to make a home out of my condo. Katy’s landscape is my last sight as I pull back the covers each night, and regularly catches my eye whenever I move through the room.

Why couldn’t you just take whatever it was you wanted? Why ruin Katy’s painting? Why ruin my daughter’s beautiful goddamned painting?

I squeezed my eyelids, too angry to cry, too angry not to. My fingers bunched and rebunched the blanket.

Minutes clicked by.

One.

Two.

Tears trickled to my temples.

Three.

Four.

Eventually, my breathing steadied and my death grip on the blanket relaxed.

I opened my eyes to blackness, and the soft orange glow of the clock radio. I stared at the digits, willing back rational thought.

Eventually, the anger abated. I began picking apart the mosaic of the last three hours.

What had gone on here? Had Anne and I merely interrupted a burglary in progress, or had we climbed into something more sinister? B and E didn’t figure.

Again, my fingers grip-locked. A stranger had violated my personal space.

Who? A very selective thief looking for particular items of value? A junkie looking for anything that could be fenced to fund a buy? Thrill-seeking kids?

Why? Most important, why the gratuitous violence?

I remembered Ryan’s words.

What was stolen?

Anne’s laptop and camera.

What was wrong there?

The jewelry case had been in full view. It contained items of value and was portable. Why not take that? The TV? The DVD player? Less portable. My laptop? In the excitement of Anne’s arrival, I’d left it in the trunk of my car.

Had the intruder been spooked before scoring the good stuff? Not likely. He had taken the time to break things. Assuming it was a he. Gratuitous damage is more characteristic of the male of the species.

The main door was open when we arrived. The courtyard doors were locked from the inside. Escape through the French doors would have necessitated scaling the backyard fence.

So? That’s how he’d come in. Had the front door been opened simply for the effect when I returned? Had Bird been thrown out or had he bolted through the French door when things were being smashed?

I rolled over. Punched the pillow. Rolled back.

Why so much damage? Where were my neighbors? Had no one heard the noise?

Was Ryan right? Was the episode more than a simple B and E? Burglars work in silence.

Why cut cleanly through the French door then smash mirrors and pictures?

Why mutilate the painting?

Another blast of anger.

Was the act a threat? A warning?

If so, to whom? Me? Anne?

From whom? One of my schizoid crazies? A random schizoid crazy? Anne’s buddy from the plane?

Thoughts winged and collided in my head.

I heard soft crunching, like whispered footsteps in sand. A weight hit the bed, then Birdie curled by my knee.

I reached down and stroked him.

“I love you, Bird boy.”

Birdie stretched full length against my leg.

“As for you, you loathsome son of a bitch. Yes, you’ve gotten to me, but one day we may have a reckoning.”

I was talking aloud over the gentle purring.

I awoke with a sense that something was wrong. Not full memory, just a nagging from the lower centers.