Reichs, Kathy - Death Du Jour

I threw on a jacket and made three trips for logs. If the electricity failed, I would have heat. Next, I got extra blankets and placed them on the bed. When I returned to the living room a grim-looking newscaster was listing events that would not take place.

It was a familiar ritual, and oddly comforting. When snow threatens in the South, schools close, public activities cease, and frenzied homeowners strip store shelves. Usually the blizzards never come, or if snow falls, it disappears the following day. In Montreal storm preparations are methodical, not frantic, dominated by an air of “we will cope.”

My preparations occupied me for fifteen minutes. The TV held my attention for another ten. A brief respite. When I clicked off, my agitation returned full force. I felt stuck, a bug on a pin. Ryan was right. There was nothing I could do, and my powerlessness made me all the more restless.

I went through my nighttime routine, hoping to keep bad thoughts at bay a little longer. No go. When I crawled into bed, the neural floodgates overflowed.

Harry. Why hadn’t I listened to her? How could I have been so self-absorbed? Where had she gone? Why hadn’t she called her son? Why hadn’t she called me?

Daisy Jeannotte. Who had she been going to meet? What crazed course was she mapping? How many innocent souls did she intend to take with her?

Heidi Schneider. Who had felt so threatened by Heidi’s babies as to resort to brutal infanticide? Were these deaths the herald of more bloodshed?

Jennifer Cannon. Amalie Provencher. Carole Comptois. Were their murders part of the madness? What demonic mores had they violated? Had their deaths been the choreography of some hellish ritual? Had my sister suffered the same fate?

When the phone rang I jumped and knocked the flashlight to the floor.

Ryan, I prayed. It’s Ryan and he’s got Jeannotte.

My nephew’s voice came across the line.

“Oh hell, Aunt Tempe. I think I’ve really screwed up. She called. I found it on the other cassette.”

“What other cassette?”

“I’ve got one of these old answering machines with the tiny tapes. The one I had wasn’t rewinding right so I put in a new one. I didn’t think about it until a friend came by just now. I was pretty hacked off at her because we were supposed to go out last week, but when I went to get her she wasn’t home. When she dropped by tonight I told her to kiss off, and she insisted she’d left a message. We got into a hassle so I got out the old tape and played it. She was on there, all right, but so was Harry. Right at the end.”

“What did your mother say?”

“She sounded pissed off. You know how Harry is. But she sounded scared at the same time. She was at some farm or something and wanted to split but no one would drive her back to Montreal. So I guess she’s still in Canada.”

“What else did she say?” My heart was pounding so hard I thought my nephew would hear it.

“She said things were getting creepy and she wanted out. Then the tape quit or she was cut off or something. I’m not sure. The message just ended.”

“When did she call?”

“Pam phoned Monday. Harry’s message was after that.”

“There’s no date indicator?”

“This thing was made during the Truman years.”

“When did you change the tape?”

“I think maybe Wednesday or Thursday. I’m not sure. But before the weekend, I know that.”

“Think, Kit!”

The line buzzed.

“Thursday. When I got home from the boat I was tired and the tape wouldn’t rewind, so I popped the cassette and pitched it. That’s when I put in the new one. Shit, that means she phoned at least four days ago, maybe even six. God, I hope she’s all right. She sounded pretty panicky, even for Harry.”

“I think I know who she’s with. She’ll be fine.” I didn’t believe my own words.

“Let me know as soon as you talk to her. Tell her I feel bad about this. I just didn’t think.”

I went to the window and pressed my face to the glass. The coating of ice turned the streetlights into tiny suns, and my neighbors’ windows into glimmering rectangles. Tears ran down my cheeks as I thought of my sister, somewhere in that storm.

I dragged myself back to bed, turned on the lamp, and settled in to await Ryan’s call.

Now and then the lights dimmed, flickered, then returned to normal. A millennium passed. The phone sat mute.

I drifted off.

It was the dream that provided the final epiphany.

32

I STAND GAZING AT THE OLD CHURCH. IT IS WINTER AND THE trees are bare. Though the sky is leaden, the branches send spiderwebs of shadow crawling across the weathered gray stone. The air smells of snow, and the prestorm silence is thick around me. In the distance I see a frozen lake.

A door opens and a figure is silhouetted against the soft yellow of lamplight. It hesitates, then walks in my direction, head lowered against the wind. The figure draws near, and I see she is female. Her head is veiled and she wears a long black gown.

As the woman comes closer the first powdery flakes appear. She carries a candle, and I realize her crouching is to protect the flame. I wonder how it survives.

The woman stops and beckons with her head. Already the veil is flecked with snow. I strain to recognize her face, but it moves in and out of focus, like pebbles at the bottom of a deep pool.

She turns and I follow.

The woman pulls farther and farther ahead. I feel alarm and try to catch up, but my body does not respond. My legs are weighted and I cannot hurry. I see her disappear through the door. I call out, but there is no sound.

Then I am inside the church and everything is dim. The walls are stone, the floor dirt. Huge carved windows disappear into darkness overhead. Through them I see tiny flakes wafting like smoke.

I can’t remember why I’ve come to the church. I feel guilty, because I know it is important. Someone has sent me, but I can’t recall who.

As I walk through the dusklike gloom I look down and see that my feet are bare. I am ashamed because I don’t know where I’ve left my shoes. I want to leave, but don’t know the way. I feel if I abandon my task I won’t be able to leave.

I hear muffled voices and turn in that direction. There is something on the ground but it is obscure, a mirage I can’t identify. I move toward it and the shadows congeal into separate objects.

A circle of wrapped cocoons. I stare down at them. They are too small to be bodies, but are shaped like bodies.

I go to one and loosen a corner. There is a muffled buzzing. I pull back the cloth and flies billow out and float to the window. The glass is frosted with vapor and I watch the insects swarm across it, knowing they are wrong in the cold.

My eyes drop back to the bundle. I don’t hurry because I know it isn’t a corpse. The dead are not packaged and arrayed in this manner.

Only it is. And I recognize the face. Amalie Provencher stares at me, her features a cartoon portrait in shades of gray.

Still, I cannot hurry. I move from bundle to bundle, unbinding fabric and sending flies rising into the shadows. The faces are white, the eyes fixed, but I do not recognize them. Except for one.

The size tells me before I open the shroud. It is so much smaller than the others. I don’t want to see, but it is impossible to stop.

No! I try denial, but it doesn’t work.

Carlie lies on his stomach, hands curled into upturned fists.

Then I see two others, tiny, side by side in the circle.

I cry out, but again there is no sound.

A hand closes around my arm. I look up and see my guide. She is changed, or just more clearly visible.

It is a nun, her habit frayed and covered with mold. When she moves I hear the click of beads and smell wet earth and decay.