Reichs, Kathy: Death Du Jour

“The letter’s dated about two months ago, but there’s nothing to indicate where it came from. The wording’s vague, but it sounds like there was some sort of quota to be met, and this Daniel is promising he’ll deliver.”

“How?” I could hardly speak.

“He doesn’t say. There’s nothing else that makes reference to ILE. Just that one letter.”

The dream slammed back in vivid detail and I felt ice slide through my veins.

“They’ve got Harry!” I said with trembling lips. “I have to find her!”

“We will.”

I told him about Kit’s call.

“Shit.”

“How can these people remain invisible for years, then we turn over their rock and they slither away and vanish?” My voice was quavery.

Ryan set down his mug and turned me around with both hands. I was squeezing the sponge so hard it made small hissing sounds.

“There’s no trail because these people have a tremendous source of clandestine income. They deal exclusively in cash but don’t seem to be involved in anything illegal.”

“Except murder!” I wanted to pace but Ryan held me firmly.

“What I’m saying is these assholes can’t be tied to drugs or theft or credit card scams. There’s no money trail and no evidence of crime, and that’s usually where the break comes.” His eyes were hard. “But they’ve fucked up badly by coming into my backyard and I’m going to nail the rabid little pricks.”

I ripped free of his grasp and threw the sponge across the kitchen.

“What did Jeannotte say?”

“I tried her office, then staked her pad. No-show at either place. Don’t forget I’m working this alone, Brennan. This storm has shut down the province.”

“What did you find out about Jennifer Cannon and Amalie Provencher?”

“The university is pulling the usual student-privacy crap. They won’t release a thing without a court order.”

That did it. I pushed past him and went to the bedroom. I was pulling on wool socks when he appeared in the doorway.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m going to get some answers from Anna Goyette, then I’m going to find my sister.”

“Whoa, scout. There’s a blanket of polar ice out there.”

“I’ll manage.”

“In a five-year-old Mazda?”

I was shaking so badly I couldn’t lace my boots. I stopped, untangled the knot, and crisscrossed the cord carefully through the prongs. Then I did the other foot, stood, and turned to Ryan.

“I am not going to sit here and allow these fanatics to murder my sister. They may be consumed with suicidal obsession, but they are not taking Harry with them. With or without you I’m going to find her, Ryan. And I’m going to do it now !”

For a full minute he simply stared. Then he breathed deeply, exhaled through his nose, and opened his mouth to speak.

It was then the lights flared, dimmed, and died.

33

THE FLOOR OF RYAN’S JEEP WAS WET WITH MELTED SLUSH. THE wipers slapped back and forth, now and then skipping on a patch of ice. In the fans of cleared windshield I could see millions of silvery slivers slicing through the beams from our headlights.

Centre-Ville was dark and deserted. No street or building lights, no neon signs, no traffic signals. The only cars I saw were police cruisers. Yellow tape cordoned off sidewalks adjacent to high-rises to prevent injuries from falling ice. I wondered how many people would really try to go to work today. Now and then I heard a crack, then a frozen sheet exploded on the pavement. The landscape brought to mind news clips of Sarajevo, and I pictured my neighbors hunkered in cold, dark rooms.

Ryan was blizzard driving, shoulders tense, fingers tightly clutching the wheel. He kept the speed low and even, accelerating gradually and easing off the gas well in advance of intersections. Even so we fishtailed often. Ryan was right to drive his Jeep. The cruisers we saw were sliding more than rolling.

We crawled up rue Guy and turned east onto Docteur-Penfield. Above us I could see Montréal General glowing under the power of its own generator. My fingers strangled the armrest on the right, and my left hand was in a fist.

“It’s colder than crap. Why isn’t this snow?” I snapped. Tension and fear were showing.

Ryan’s eyes never left the road.

“According to the radio there’s some sort of inversion working, so it’s warmer in the clouds than on the ground. The stuff is forming as rain, but freezing when it gets down here. The weight of the ice is taking out whole power stations.”

“When is it going to let up?”

“The weather guy says the system is stuck and going nowhere.”

I closed my eyes and focused on sound. Defroster. Wipers. Whistling wind. My pounding heart.

The car swerved and my lids flew open. I unclenched a hand and punched the radio.

The voice was solemn but reassuring. Much of the province was without electricity, and Hydro-Québec had three thousand employees on the job. Crews would work around the clock, but no one could say when the lines would be repaired.

The transformer serving Centre-Ville had blown because of overload, but was being given top priority. The filtration plant was down and residents were advised to boil their water.

Tough without power, I thought.

Shelters had been set up, and police would start going door to door at dawn to locate stranded seniors. Many roads were closed and motorists were advised to stay home.

I clicked the radio off, desperately wishing I were at home. With my sister. The thought of Harry set something pounding behind my left eye.

Ignore the headache and think, Brennan. You’ll be of no use if you become distracted.

The Goyettes lived in an area known as the Plateau, so we cut north, then east on avenue des Pins. Uphill, I could see lights at Royal Victoria Hospital. Below us McGill was a black swatch, beyond that the city and waterfront, where the only thing visible was Place Ville-Marie.

Ryan turned north on St-Denis. Normally teaming with shoppers and tourists, the street was abandoned to the ice and wind. A translucence blanketed everything, obliterating the names of boutiques and bistros.

At Mont-Royal we headed east again, turned south on Christophe Colomb, and a decade later pulled up at the address Anna had given me. The building was a typical Montreal three-flat, bayed in front, with narrow metal stairs sweeping to the second floor. Ryan nosed the Jeep toward the curb and left it in the street.

When we got out the ice stung my cheeks like tiny cinders and brought tears to my eyes. Head down, we climbed to the Goyette flat, slipping and sliding on the frozen steps. The bell was encased in solid gray, so I pounded on the door. In a moment the curtain moved and Anna’s face appeared. Through the frosted pane I could see her head wag from side to side.

“Open the door, Anna!” I shouted.

The head shaking intensified, but I was not in a mood to negotiate.

“Open the goddam door!”

She went still, and a hand flew to her ear. She stepped back and I expected her to disappear. Instead, I heard the sound of a key, then the door opened a crack.

I didn’t wait. I pushed hard and Ryan and I were inside before she could react.

Anna backed away and stood with arms crossed, hands clutching the sleeves of her jacket. An oil lamp sputtered on a small wooden table, sending shadows twitching high up the walls of the narrow hallway.

“Why can’t you all just leave me alone?” Her eyes looked huge in the flickering light.

“I need your help, Anna.”

“I can’t do it.”

“Yes, you can.”

“I told her the same thing. I can’t do it. They’ll find me.” Her voice trembled and I saw real fear on her face. The look sent a shaft straight to my heart. I’d seen it before. A friend, terrified by a stalker. I’d convinced her the danger wasn’t real and she died because of it.