Reichs, Kathy - Death Du Jour

“Told who?” I wondered where her mother was.

“Dr. Jeannotte.”

“She was here?”

A nod.

“When?”

“Several hours ago. I was sleeping.”

“What did she want?”

Her eyes flicked to Ryan, then dropped to the floor.

“She asked odd questions. She wanted to know if I’d been seeing anyone from Amalie’s group. I think she was going to the country, to the place I did the workshop. I—she hit me. I never had someone hit me like that. She was like a crazy person. I’d never seen her that way.”

I heard anguish and shame in her voice, as if the attack were somehow her fault. She looked so small standing in the dark that I went to her and wrapped my arms around her.

“Don’t blame yourself, Anna.”

Her shoulders began to heave and I stroked her hair. It shimmered in the flickering lamplight.

“I would have helped her, but I honestly don’t remember. I—it was one of my bad times.”

“I know, but I want you to go back to that time and think hard. Think of everything you remember about where you were.”

“I’ve tried. It just isn’t there.”

I wanted to shake her, to jar loose the information that would save my sister. I remembered a course in child psychology. No abstracts, ask specific questions. Gently, I pushed her to arm’s length and raised her chin with my hand.

“When you went to the workshop did you leave from school?”

“No. They picked me up here.”

“Which way did you turn off from your street?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you remember how you left town?”

“No.”

Abstract, Brennan.

“Did you cross a bridge?”

Her eyes narrowed, then she nodded.

“Which one?”

“I don’t know. Wait, I remember an island with lots of tall buildings.”

“Île des Sœurs,” said Ryan.

“Yes.” Her eyes opened wide. “Someone made a joke about nuns living in the condos. You know, sœurs . Sisters.”

“The Champlain Bridge,” said Ryan.

“How far was the farm?”

“I—”

“How long were you in the van?”

“About forty-five minutes. Yeah. When we got there the driver bragged that he’d made it in less then an hour.”

“What did you see when you got out of the van?”

Again I saw doubt in her eyes. Then, slowly, as if she were describing a Rorschach spatter,

“Right before we got there I remember a big tower with lots of wires and antennae and disks. And then a tiny little house. Someone probably built it for their kids to wait for the school bus. I remember thinking it was made of gingerbread and decorated with frosting.”

At that moment a face materialized behind Anna. It wore no makeup and looked shiny and pale in the flickering light.

“Who are you? Why do you come in the middle of the night?” The English was heavily accented.

Without waiting for an answer the woman grabbed Anna’s wrist and pulled the girl behind her.

“You leave my daughter alone.”

“Mrs. Goyette, I believe people are going to die. Anna may be able to help save them.”

“She is not well. Now go.” She pointed at the door. “I order you or I will call the police.”

The ghostly face. The dim light. The tunnel-like hall. I was back in the dream, and suddenly I remembered. I knew, and I had to get there!

Ryan started to speak but I cut him off.

“Thank you. Your daughter has been very helpful,” I managed.

Ryan glared as I pushed past him and out the door. I nearly fell in my plunge down the stairs. I no longer felt the cold as I stood at the Jeep, impatient for Ryan to speak to Mrs. Goyette, snug his tuque, then pick his way to ground level.

“What the hell—”

“Get me a map, Ryan.”

“That little loony may be—”

“Do you have a goddam map of this province?” I hissed.

Without a word Ryan circled the Jeep and we both got in. He took a map from a holder on the driver’s-side door, and I dug a flashlight from my pack. As I unfolded the province he started the engine, then got out to scrape the windshield.

I located Montreal, then followed the Champlain Bridge across the St. Lawrence and on to 10 East. With a numb finger I traced the route I had taken to Lac Memphrémagog. In my mind’s eye I saw the old church. I saw the grave. I saw the signpost, half covered in snow.

I moved my finger along the highway, estimating driving time. The names wavered in the flashlight beam.

Marieville. St-Grégoire. Ste-Angèle-de-Monnoir.

My heart stopped when I saw it.

Please, God, let us be in time.

I lowered the window and screamed into the wind.

The grating stopped and the door opened. Ryan threw the scraper into the back and slid behind the wheel. He pulled off his gloves and I handed him the map and flashlight. Wordlessly, I pointed to a small dot on the square I’d folded upward. He studied it, his breath like fog in the yellow beam.

“Holy shit.” An ice crystal melted and ran from his lash. He swiped at the eye.

“It makes sense. Ange Gardien. It’s not a person, it’s a place. They’re going to meet at Ange Gardien. It should be about forty-five minutes from here.”

“How did you think of it?” he asked.

I didn’t want to go into the dream. “I remembered the sign from my drive to Lac Memphrémagog. Let’s go.”

“Brennan—”

“Ryan, I’ll say this one more time. I am going to get my sister.” I fought to keep my voice steady. “I am going with or without you. You can take me home or you can take me to Ange Gardien.”

He hesitated, then,

“Fuck!” He got out, flipped his seat forward, and dug around in back. As he slammed the door I saw him drop something into his pocket and yank the zipper. Then he resumed scraping.

In a minute he was back. Without a word he clicked his seat belt, put the Jeep in gear, and accelerated. The wheels spun but we went nowhere. He changed to reverse, then quickly back to first. The car rocked as Ryan shifted from first gear to reverse and back again. The Jeep broke free and we moved slowly up the block.

I said nothing as we crept south on Christophe Colomb, then west on Rachel. At St-Denis Ryan turned south, reversing the route we’d just driven.

Damn! He was taking me home. My blood went cold as I thought of the drive to Ange Gardien.

I closed my eyes and leaned back to prepare myself. You have chains, Brennan. You will put them on and drive as Ryan is doing. Dickhead Ryan.

Silence intruded on my lecture. I opened my eyes to pitch-black. Ice no longer pelted the windshield.

“Where are we?”

“Ville-Marie Tunnel.”

I said nothing. Ryan raced through the tunnel like a starship threading a wormhole in space. When he took the exit for the Champlain Bridge I felt both relief and apprehension.

Yes! Ange Gardien.

Ten light-years later we were crossing the St. Lawrence. The river looked unnaturally dense, the buildings of Île des S?urs black against the predawn sky. Though their scoreboards were out I knew the players. Nortel. Kodak. Honeywell. So normal. So familiar in my world at the end of the second millennium. I wished I were approaching their well-ordered offices instead of the madness that lay ahead.

The atmosphere in the Jeep was tense. Ryan focused on the road and I worked the thumbnail. I stared out the window, avoiding thoughts of what might await us.

We crawled through a cold and forbidding landscape, a vista beamed from a frozen planet. As we moved east the ice increased visibly, robbing the world of texture and hue. Edges were blurred and objects seemed to blend together like parts of a giant plaster sculpture.

Guideposts, signs, and billboards were obliterated, erasing messages and boundaries. Here and there through the darkness wisps of smoke could be seen curling from chimneys, otherwise everything seemed frozen in place. Just over the Richelieu River the road curved, and I saw a beached car, belly-up like a loggerhead turtle. Stalactites hung from the bumpers and tires.