Deadly Descisions Page 7

  I reopened each grave and began where I'd left off, starting with the double burial. I excavated to a depth of six feet, but found only a few hand bones and another pair of boots.

  I did the same with Quickwater's site, growing more baffled with each scoop of dirt. Aside from the skull and leg bones the pit was completely sterile. No jewelry or clothing remnants. No keys or plastic ID cards. Not a trace of hair or soft tissue. Additional GPR scans produced no evidence of other disturbances in the cleared area.

  Another thing was eerie. Though the grave with the two skeletons had been rich with insect remnants, the one at 3 North 9 East produced not a single fossilized larva or pupa casing. I could see no explanation for the difference.

  By five we'd refilled the holes and loaded my equipment into the crime scene van. I was tired, dirty, and confused, and the smell of death clung to my hair and clothes. All I wanted to do was go home and spend an hour with soap and water.

  As Quickwater exited the gates, a TV crew surrounded the Jeep, refusing to allow us to pass. We slowed to a stop and a middle-aged man with lacquered hair and perfect teeth circled to my side and tapped on the glass. Behind him a cameraman trained his lens on my face.

  Not in the mood for diplomacy, I lowered the window leaned out, and told them in graphic terms to clear the way. The camera light went on and the reporter began to pepper me with shotgun questions. I made suggestions as to places for storage of their liveeye equipment, and destinations they might enjoy. Then, rolling my eyes, I retracted my head and hit the button. Quickwater gunned the engine and we shot away. I turned to see the reporter standing in the road, microphone still clutched in his hand, his flawless features wide with surprise.

  I settled back and closed my eyes, knowing there would be no conversation from Quickwater. It was just as well. Questions swirled in my brain, twisting and eddying like the waters of a swollen creek.

  Who was this third victim? How had he dicd? Those answers I hoped to find in the lab.

  When had the death occurred? How had part of his cadaver ended up in a clandestine grave at the Vipers' clubhouse? Those queries I figured the Vipers should field.

  Most perplexing was the question of the absent body parts. Where was the rest of the skeleton? As I'd removed and packaged the bones for transport I'd watched closely for signs of animal damage. Bears, wolves, coyotes, and other predators will cheerfully dine on human corpses if given the opportunity. Ditto for the family dog or cat.

  I saw nothing to indicate scavengers had absconded with the missing parts. There were no gnawed joints or shafts, no tooth scratches or puncture wounds. Nor had I seen any saw or knife marks to suggest the body had been dismembered.

  So where was the rest of the deceased?

  I planned Wednesday night as a modified replay of Tuesday. Bath. Microwave. Pat Conroy. Bed. Except for stage one, that's not how it went.

  I'd just toweled off and slipped into a green flannel nightshirt when the phone rang. Birdie trailed me to the living room.

  "Mon Dieu, your face is becoming better known than mine," It was definitely not what I needed to hear. Having done theater and television for more than twenty years, Isabelle was one of the best-loved performers in Quebec. Wherever she went she was recognized.

  "I made the six o'clock news," I guessed.

  "An Oscar-winning performance, charged with raw anger and burning with the passion of-"

  "How bad was it?"

  "Your hair looked good."

  "Did they identify me?"

  "Mais oui, Docteur Brennan."

  Damn. When I dropped to the couch Birdie settled into my lap, anticipating a long conversation.

  "Was the tape edited?"

  "Not a thing. Tempe, I'm pretty good at reading lips. Where did you learn those words?"

  I groaned, recalling some of my more colorful suggestions about placement of the cameras and mikes.

  "But that's not why I called. I want you to come to supper on Saturday I'm having a few friends over and I think you need some social therapy time away from these dreadful bikers and that Ryan thing."

  That Ryan thing.

  "Isabelle, I don't think I'd be very good company right now I-"

  "Tempe, I am not taking no for an answer. And I want you to wear pearls and perfume and get all dressed up. It will improve your whole outlook."

  "Isabelle. Tell me you're not trying another fix up."

  For a moment I listened to silence. Then, "This type of work you do, Tempe, it makes you too suspicious. I told you. It will just be some of my friends. Besides, I have a surprise for you."

  Oh no.

  "What?"

  "If I tell you it won't be a surprise."

  "Tell me anyway".

  "Bon. There's someone I want you to meet. And I know he would love to meet you. Well, actually you've met, but not formally. This man is not the least bit interested in a romantic relationship. Trust me."

  Over the past two years I'd met many of Isabelle's friends, most of whom were involved in the arts. Some were boring, others captivating. Many were gay All were unique in one way or another. She was right. A night of frivolity would do me good.

  "O.K. What can I bring?"

  "Nothing. Just wear your pumps and be here at seven.

  After unturbaning and combing my hair, I placed a seafood dinner in the microwave. I was programming the time when my doorbell sounded.

  Ryan, I hoped suddenly, walking to the hall. It was all a mistake. But if it wasn't, did I really want to see him? Did I want to know where he'd been, what he'd say?

  Yes. Desperately

  The self-examination proved unnecessary since the security monitor showed Jean Bertrand, not his partner, standing in the outer vestibule. I buzzed him into the building, then went to the bedroom for socks and a robe. When he stepped inside the condo, he hesitated, as if trying to compose himself. After an awkward moment he extended his hand. It felt cold when I shook it.

  "Hello, Tempe. Sorry to surprise you like this."

  Apparently surprising me was a hot thing these days. I nodded.

  His face was drawn, and a dark crescent underscored each eye. Normally an impeccable dresser, he wore faded jeans tonight and a rumpled suede jacket. He started to speak again but I cut him off with a suggestion we move to the living room. He chose the sofa, and I curled into the chair opposite.

  Bertrand studied me, his face tense with emotions I couldn't read. In the kitchen the microwave hummed warmth into my whitefish, carrots, and curried rice.

  This is your party I thought, refusing to break the silence. Finally

  "About Ryan."

  "Yes.

  "I got your calls, but I just couldn't talk about it then."

  "What exactly is 'it'?"

  "He's out on bail, but he's been charged wi-"

  "I know the charges."

  "Don't be angry at me. I had no idea where you stood in all this."

  "For God's sake, Bertrand, how manyyears have you known me?"

  "I knew Ryan a hell of a lot longer!" he snapped. "Evidently I'm a lousy judge of character."

  "Neither of us seems to excel in that area."

  I hated myself for being so cold, but Bertrand's failure to call had hurt. When I had needed information important to me he'd blown me off like I was a drunk on the street with his hand out.

  "Look, I don't know what to tell you. This thing's wrapped tighter than a deb with new tits. I hear that when they're finished with Ryan he won't qualify for a paper route.

  "It's that bad?" I watched my fingers work the fringe on a throw pillow

  "They've got enough to nail him into tomorrow"

  "What is it they've got?"

  "When they tossed his apartment they found enough methamphetamine to fry a third world nation and over ten thousand dollars' worth of stolen parkas."

  "Parkas?"

  "Yeah. Those Kanuk things everyone's pissing their pants to own.

  "And?" I'd twisted the fringe so tightl
y it sent pain up my hand and into my wrist.

  "And witnesses, videos, marked bills, and a trail of stink leading right straight to the center of the dung heap."

  Bertrand's voice betrayed his emotion. He took a deep breath.

  "There's more. A shitload more. But I can't talk about it. Please understand, Tempe. Look, I'm sorry I left you hanging. It took me a while to work through this myself. I just didn't believe it, but-"

  He broke off, afraid to trust his own voice.

  "I guess the guy never quite left his past behind."

  As a college student Ryan had gotten into booze and pills, eventually dropping the academic life for life on the edge. A knifewielding cokehead had nearly killed him, and the wild child reversed course, became a cop, and rose to the rank of lieutenant-detective. I knew all that. But still…

  "I learned that someone ratted Ryan out, and for all I knew it could have been you. But it's not important now. The sonovabitch is dirty and he deserves what's coming down."

  For a very long time neither of us spoke. I could feel Bertrand's stare, but refused to meet it or say a word. The microwave beeped, then shut oft Silence. Finally I asked.

  "Do you really think he did it?" My cheeks felt hot and my chest burned below my sternum.

  "For the past few days I've done nothing but chase down leads to show that he didn't do it. Anything. Anyone. All I wanted was one tiny hint of doubt."

  When he gestured with thumb and index finger, I could see a tiny tremor in his hand.

  "It wasn't there, Tempe." He ran a hand over his face. "But it doesn't matter anymore.

  "It does matter. It's the only thing that matters."

  "At first I thought, no way Not Andrew Ryan. Then I learned the case against him."

  He took another deep breath.

  "Look, Tempe, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for this whole goddam mess I'm not sure who I am anymore or where the world's going. And I'm not sure if it's worth the price of a ticket to ride."

  When I looked up Bertrand's face was filled with pain, and I knew exactly what he was feeling. He was trying not to despise his partner for succumbing to the greed, all the while hating him for the deep, cold emptiness his betrayal had created.

  Bertrand promised to let me know if he learned anything. When he left I trashed the fish and cried myself to sleep.

  Chapter 10

  Thursday I put on a dark blue suit and drove to out Lady of the Angels. The morning was blustery, the sun appearing only infrequently among the heavy clouds scudding across the sky.

  I parked and threaded through the usual collection of gawkers, journalists, and cops. No sign of Charbonneau, Claudel, or Quickwater.

  Of the trickle of mourners solemnly climbing the steps, most were black. Whites arrived in couples or groups, each with at least one child in tow. Probably Emily Anne's classmates and their families.

  Near the entrance, a wind gust tore the hat from the head of an old woman to my right. One gnarled hand flew to her head while the other fought the skirt whipping round her legs.

  I darted forward, trapped the hat against the church wall, and handed it to the woman. She clutched it to her bony chest and gave a small smile. Her wrinkled brown face reminded me of the crabapple dolls crafted by ladies in the Smoky Mountains.

  "You be a frien' of Emily Anne?" the old woman asked in a crackly voice.

  "Yes, ma'am." I didn't want to explain my involvement.

  "She my gran'chile."

  "I am so sorry for your loss."

  "I got twenty-two gran children, but that Emily Anne be somet'ing special. That chile do everyt'ing. She writes her letters, she does dance ballet, she does swim, she does skate on ice. I t'inking that girl be even smarter than her mama.

  "She was a beautiful little girl."

  "Maybe that be why God take her up.

  I watched Emily Anne's grandmother totter on, remembering those same words from a long time ago. A slumbering ache stirred in my chest, and I steeled myself for what was to come.

  Inside, the church was cool and smelled of incense and wax and wood polish. Light filtered through stained glass, casting a pastel softness over everything.

  The pews were packed in front, with a scattering of attendees in the middle. I slipped into a back row, folded my hands, and tried to concentrate on the present. Already my skin itched and my palms felt sweaty As I looked around, the organist finished one requiem and began another.

  A miniature white casket sat below the altar, heaped with flowers and flanked by candles at either end. Balloons bobbed on strings attached to the coffin's handles. The brightly colored spheres looked jarringly out of sync with the scene.

  In the front pew I could see two small heads, a larger figure between them. Mrs. Toussaint was bent forward, a handkerchief clutched to her mouth. As I watched, her shoulders began to heave, and a tiny hand rose and gently rubbed her upper arm.

  The dormant ache within me awoke fully, and I was back at St. Barnabas parish. Father Morrison was at the pulpit and my little brother lay in his own tiny coffin.

  My mother's sobs were terrible, and I reached up to comfort her. She did not acknowledge my touch, just held little Harriet to her chest and cried onto her head. Feeling utterly helpless, I watched my sister's corn-silk hair grow damp with my mother's tears.

  If I had been given a box of crayons and asked to draw my world at six, I would have chosen a single color. Black.

  I'd been powerless to save Kevin, to stop the leukemia devastating his tiny body. He was my most treasured gift, my Christmas brother, and I adored him. I had prayed and prayed, but I could do nothing to prevent his death. Or to make my mother smile. I had begun to wonder if I were evil, because my prayers were of no effect.

  Almost four decades, and the pain of Kevin's death still lingered.

  The sights and sounds and smells of a funeral Mass never failed to reopen that wound, allowing the buried grief to ooze into my conscious thought.

  I moved my eyes from the Toussaint family and scanned the crowd. Charbonneau had concealed himself in the shadow of a confessional booth, but I recognized no one else.

  At that moment the priest entered and crossed himself. He looked young, athletic, and nervous. More like a tennis player approaching a match than a priest approaching a funeral service. We all stood.

  As I went through the familiar motions, my skin felt flushed, my heart beat faster than it should have. I tried to concentrate, but my mind resisted. Images bled into my brain, taking me back to that time in my childhood.

  An enormous woman took the pulpit to the right of the altar. Her skin was the color of mahogany, her hair braided atop her head. The woman's cheeks glistened as she sang "Amazing Grace." I remembered her from the newspaper photo.

  Then, the priest spoke of childhood innocence. Relatives praised Emily Anne's sunny disposition, her love of family. An uncle mentioned her passion for waffles. Her teacher described an enthusiastic student, and read the essay that had won a prize. A classmate recited an original poem.

  More hymns. Communion. The faithful filed up, returned to their seats. Stifled sobs. Incense. The blessing of the coffin. Soft wailing from Mrs. Toussaint.

  Finally, the priest turned and asked Emily Anne's sisters and classmates to join him, then seated himself on the altar steps. There was a moment of absolute stillness, followed by whispered commands and parental nudging. One by one children emerged from the pews and walked timidly toward the altar.

  What the priest said was not original. Emily Anne is in heaven with God. She has been reunited with her father. One day her mother and sisters will join her, as will everyone present.

  What the young priest did next was original. He told the children that Emily Anne was happy, and that we should celebrate with her He signaled his servers, who disappeared into the vestry, and returned with huge bunches of balloons.

  "These balloons are filled with helium," explained the priest. "That makes them fly. I want you each to take one, and we will
all walk out with Emily Anne, We will say a good-bye prayer, then release our balloons to rise to heaven. Emily Anne will see them and know that we love hen"

  He looked at the solemn little faces.

  "Is that a good idea?"

  Every head nodded.

  The priest rose, disentangled strings, placed a balloon in each small hand, and led the children down the steps. The organist began Schubert's 'Ave Maria."

  The pallbearers came forward, lifted the casket, and the procession moved toward the door, the pews emptying in its wake. As the line passed, I slipped in at the end.

  The mourners followed the coffin outside then circled around, children on the inside, adults forming an outer ring. Mrs. Toussaint stood behind her daughters, supported by the singer.

  I held back on the steps. The overcast had broken, leaving a sky filled with tumbling white clouds. As I watched balloons rise toward them, I felt a grief as sharp as anything I'd felt in my life.

  I lingered a moment, then descended slowly, wiping tears from my cheeks, and reaffirming the vow I'd made on the day of Emily Anne's death.

  I would find these indiscriminate butchers and put them where they could never kill another child. I could not restore the daughter but I would provide this small comfort for the mother

  Leaving Emily Anne to those who loved her, I drove toward Parthenais, in a mood to lose myself in work.

  At the lab, the Carcajou investigators already had names for the skeletons from St-Basile. Felix Martineau, age twenty-seven, and Robert Gately, age thirty-nine, rode with the Tarantulas, a now defunct OMC, but active in Montreal in the seventies and eighties. Gately was a full patch member, Martineau a prospect.

  On the evening of August 24, 1987, the two had left Gately's apartment on rue Hochelaga heading for a party. Gately's ole lady did not know the name or address of the host. Neither man was seen again.

  I spent the day with the bones from the double burial, sorting them into individuals and determining age, sex, race, and height. Cranial and pelvic shape confirmed both victims were male. The differences in age and height made the task of individuation considerably easier than with the Vaillancourt brothers.