Kathy Reichs - Grave Secrets

“Leon, I’m going to say this just once. Go home.” Ryan held up a hand. “No, I won’t be that specific.” He pointed one finger at Hochmeister’s nose. “Go away. Go now, and you and your friends can spend the night watching Archie Bunker reruns. Stay, and you’ll spend it without your shoelaces and belts.”

Iverson and Gaudreau shot from their stools like they were spring-loaded. Hochmeister hesitated a beat, then brought up the rear, an alpha male in a baboon retreat. When they’d gone, Ryan turned to Chantale.

“What did Nordstern want?”

“Is that the prick’s name?”

Chantale picked up her beer. Ryan took it from her and set it back down.

“Ollie Nordstern,” I said. “He’s a reporter with the Chicago Tribune. ”

“Really?”

Good question, I thought. I’d accepted Mateo’s explanation, never questioned Nordstern’s legitimacy.

“What was he asking about?”

“My plans for Sundance.”

“Chantale, I don’t think you realize how serious your situation is. You’re in contempt. The judge can slap you right back in jail.”

Chantale kept her eyes on her lap. Black wisps fell around the dead, pale face, hiding all but the tip of her nose.

“I don’t hear you, Chantale.”

“He wanted to know about those dead girls.”

“The ones I mentioned at the jail?”

She nodded and the lace butterfly bobbed.

I remembered Nordstern’s odd question at FAFG headquarters.

“During our interview, Nordstern asked about the septic tank case,” I said to Ryan.

“How did he know about it?”

“Beats me.”

Again, the same thought in both our minds: Did Nordstern suspect a Specter–Paraíso link?

I turned back to Chantale.

“How did Nordstern find you?”

“How the hell should I know? Probably hung around outside my house.”

“And followed you to Tim Hortons.”

“Isn’t that how you found me?”

“Had you seen him before tonight?”

“We’ve been meeting secretly under the bleachers.”

“Chantale?”

“No.”

“What else did he ask about?”

She didn’t answer.

“Chantale?”

The ambassador’s daughter looked up, anger crimping her features into a cold, hard version of the little-girl face in the embassy photo.

“My father,” she said in a tremulous voice. “My famous, brainfucking, goddamn father. It’s not about me. It’s never about me.”

Chantale reached into an embroidered bag slung diagonally across her chest, removed dark glasses, and slid them on. A distorted version of my face jumped onto each lens, two fun-house Tempes, each wearing the same confused look.

Ryan tossed two looneys on the bar.

“Your mother is worried. We can talk tomorrow.”

Chantale allowed herself to be escorted out of the restaurant, down the escalator, and through the lobby. As we were approaching the glass doors leading to Ste-Catherine, Ryan caught my eye and gestured at the SAQ wineshop. Ollie Nordstern stood near the entrance, ostensibly studying a selection of French Chardonnays.

“What do you think?” I asked.

“A job with the CIA is definitely not in this guy’s future. Let’s see if he follows us.”

Ryan and I hurried Chantale out the door and around the corner. She did one of her eye rolls, but said nothing.

Nordstern stepped onto the sidewalk twenty seconds behind us, looked around, and began hurrying west. At Atwater he reversed direction and doubled back.

I watched him stop at Lambert-Closse, look left toward the mountain, right toward Cabot Square. My eyes moved with his, then went past him across the intersection. It was then I saw the man in the baseball cap. He was walking toward Nordstern, a Luger nine-millimeter angling from his waistband.

What followed were ninety kaleidoscoping seconds that felt like a triple eternity.

“Ryan!” I indicated the gunman.

Ryan drew his gun. I pushed Chantale to her knees, crouched beside her.

“Police!” Ryan bellowed. “Everybody down! Par terre!”

The gunman drew to within five feet, extended his arm, and leveled his nine-millimeter at Nordstern’s chest.

A woman screamed

“Gun! Arme à feu! ” The words rolled down Ste-Catherine like a balloon being bandied at a football game.

Another scream.

Two explosions ripped the air. Nordstern flew backward, a pair of red blossoms darkening his shirt.

There were maybe fifteen people on the street. Most dropped to their knees. Others scrambled to get into the Forum. A man grabbed a child, wrapped himself around her like an armadillo. Her muffled crying added to the pandemonium.

Cars pulled to the curb. Others sped up. The intersection emptied.

The shooter stood with legs spread, knees slightly bent, sweeping his Luger in wide arcs in front of him. Left to right. Right to left. He was about fifteen feet from me, but I could hear his breath, see his eyes under the navy-blue brim.

Ryan was crouched behind a taxi parked on Lambert-Closse, gun aimed at the shooter with a two-handed grip. I hadn’t seen him move from my side.

“Arrêtez! Freeze!”

A dark barrel swung around and sighted on Ryan’s head. The shooter’s finger twitched against the trigger. I held my breath. Ryan hadn’t shot for fear of wounding an innocent bystander. The shooter might have no such compunction.

“Drop your weapon! Mettez votre arme par terre! ” Ryan shouted.

The shooter’s face registered nothing.

One block over, a car horn sounded. Above me, the traffic signal clicked from green to yellow.

Ryan repeated his command.

Yellow to red.

In the distance, a siren. A second. A third.

The shooter tensed. Taking two steps backward, he bent toward a woman huddled on the sidewalk, never shifting the gun from Ryan’s face. The woman put her head to the pavement and flung both arms over it.

“Don’t kill me. I have a baby.” The woman’s voice was frantic with terror.

The shooter grabbed her by the jacket and dragged her across the cement.

Ryan fired.

The shooter’s body jerked. He dropped the woman and grabbed his right shoulder. Blood mushroomed across his shirt.

Straightening, the shooter raised his Luger and squeezed off four rounds. Bullets pinged the wall above us. Fragments of brick rained down on our heads.

“Oh God. Oh no.” Chantale’s voice was high and quavery.

Ryan fired again.

The woman shrieked as the shooter fell across her. I heard a skull crack pavement, the Luger skitter then drop from the curb, the woman scrabble up the sidewalk.

The woman sobbed. The child cried. Otherwise, silence. No one spoke. No one moved.

The sirens grew louder, built into a screaming chorus. Cruisers converged from every direction, tires screeching, lights flashing, radios crackling.

Ryan rose, gun pointed at the sky. I watched him reach for his badge.

Beside me, I heard Chantale draw a series of unsteady breaths. I looked over. Her chin quivered and both cheeks glistened. I reached out and stroked her hair.

“It’s over.” My voice didn’t sound like my own. “You’re fine.”

Chantale looked up. Only two tattoo tears remained on her face.

“Am I?”

I put my arm around her. She collapsed into me and wept silently.

22

AS ON THE MORNING AFTER THE ATTACK IN SOLOLÁ, I AWOKEwith an ill-formed feeling of dread. In an instant the scene flooded back to me. I relived the explosion of Nordstern’s chest. Heard the crack of Ryan’s gun. Saw the shooter’s inert body, his blood oozing across the pavement. Though I’d been given no official word, I was certain both men were dead.