Death Du Jour

by Kathy Reichs

  “Where’s she from?”

  “Let’s see.” Pause. “Calgary. Where’s that?”

  “Out west. Who reported her missing?”

  “Sylvia Cannon. It’s a Calgary address, so it must be the mother.”

  I gave Hardaway the pager number and asked him to phone Ryan.

  “When you speak to him, please have him call me. If I’m not here I’ll be at home.”

  I boxed and locked up the Murtry bones. Then I stuffed my diskette and case forms, Hardaway’s autopsy report and photos, and the CAT scan paper into my briefcase, secured the lab, and left.

  * * *

  The campus was deserted, the night still and moist. Unseasonably warm, the broadcasters would call it. The air was heavy with the smell of grass just cut and rain about to fall. I heard the faint rumble of distant thunder, and pictured the storm rolling down from the Smokies and across the Piedmont.

  On the way home I stopped for take-out at the Selwyn Pub. The after-work crowd was dispersing, and the younger set from Queens College had not yet arrived to take over the premises for the evening. Sarge, the rascally Irish co-owner, sat on his usual corner stool dispensing opinions on sports and politics, while Neal the bartender dispensed any one of a dozen draft beers. Sarge wanted to discuss the death penalty, or rather have his say about the death penalty, but I was not in the mood for banter. I took my cheeseburger and left quickly.

  The first drops were patting the magnolias as I slipped my key into the Annex lock. Nothing greeted me but a soft, steady ticking.

  It was almost ten when I heard from Ryan.

  Sylvia Cannon had not lived at the address provided in the missing person report for over two years. Nor was she residing at the one given the post office for forwarding.

  Neighbors at the earlier address remembered no husband and only one daughter. They described Sylvia as quiet and reclusive. A loner. No one knew where she had worked, or where she had gone. One woman thought there was a brother in the area. The Calgary PD were trying to locate her.

  Later in bed, up under the eaves, I listened to rain tick on the roof and leaves. Thunder rumbled and lightning popped, now and then backlighting the silhouette of Sharon Hall. The ceiling fan brought in a cool mist, and with it the smell of petunias and wet window screen.

  I adore storms. I love the raw power of the spectacle: Hydraulics! Voltage! Percussion! Mother Nature has dominion and everyone awaits her whim.

  I enjoyed the show as long as I could, then got up and crossed to the dormer. The curtain felt damp and water was already pooling on the sill. I closed and latched the left window, took hold of the right, and breathed deeply. The thundershower cocktail triggered a flood of childhood recollections. Summer nights. Lightning bugs. Sleeping with Harry on Gran’s porch.

  Think about that, I told myself. Listen to those memories, not the voices of the dead clamoring in your brain.

  Lightning flashed and my breath froze in my throat. Was something moving under the hedge?

  Another flicker.

  I stared, but the shrubs looked still and empty.

  Could I have imagined it?

  My eyes searched the dimness. Green lawn and hedges. Colorless walks. Pale petunias against the darkness of pine chips and ivy.

  Nothing moved.

  Again the world lit up and a loud crack split the night.

  A white form burst from the bushes and tore across the lawn. I strained to see, but the image was gone before my eyes could focus.

  My heart beat so frantically I could feel it in my skull. I threw back the window and leaned into the screen, searching the darkness where the thing had disappeared. Water soaked my nightgown and goose bumps spread across my body.

  I scanned the yard, trembling.

  Stillness.

  Forgetting the window, I turned and raced down the stairs. I was about to throw open the back door when the phone shrilled, sending my heart pounding into my throat.

  Oh, God. What now?

  I grabbed the receiver.

  “Tempe, I’m sorry.”

  I looked at the clock.

  One-forty.

  Why was my neighbor calling?

  “. . . he must have gotten in there on Wednesday when I showed the place. It’s empty, you know. I went over just now to check on things, with the storm and all, and he came tearing out. I called, but he just took off. I thought you’d want to know . . .”

  I dropped the receiver, threw open the kitchen door, and rushed outside.

  “Here, Bird,” I called. “Come on, boy.”

  I stepped off the patio. In seconds my hair was drenched and my nightie clung like wet Kleenex.

  “Birdie! Are you there?”

  Lightning flared, illuminating walkways, bushes, gardens, and buildings.

  “Birdie!” I screamed. “Bird!”

  Raindrops pounded brick and slapped at leaves above my head.

  I shouted again.

  No response.

  Over and over I called his name, a madwoman, prowling the grounds of Sharon Hall. Before long I was shaking uncontrollably.

  Then I saw him.

  He was huddled under a bush, head down, ears forward at an odd angle. His fur was wet and clumped, revealing ribbons of pale skin, like cracks on an old painting.

  I walked over to him and squatted. He looked like he’d been dipped then rolled. Pine needles, bark chips, and minced vegetation clung to his head and back.

  “Bird?” I said in a soft voice, holding out my arms.

  He raised his head and searched my face with round yellow eyes. Lightning flicked. Birdie rose, arched his back, and said, “Mrrrrp.”

  I turned my palms up. “Come on, Bird,” I whispered.

  He hesitated, then crossed to me, pressed his body sideways against my thigh, and repeated himself. “Mrrrrrp.”

  I scooped my cat up, hugged him close, and ran for the kitchen. Birdie draped his front paws over my shoulder and pressed himself to me, like a baby monkey clinging to its mother. I felt his claws through my rain-soaked gown.

  Ten minutes later I’d finished rubbing him down. White fur coated several towels and drifted in the air. For once there’d been no protest.

  Birdie wolfed down a bowl of Science Diet and a saucer of vanilla ice cream. Then I carried him up to bed. He crawled under the covers and stretched full length against my leg. I felt his body tense then relax as he extended his paws, then settled into the mattress. His fur was still damp but I didn’t care. I had my cat back.

  “I love you, Bird,” I said to the night.

  I fell asleep to a duet of muffled purring and pelting rain.

  THE NEXT DAY WAS SATURDAY SO I DIDN’T GO TO THE university. I planned to read Hardaway’s findings, then write my reports on the Murtry victims. After that I would purchase flowers at the garden center and transplant them to the large pots I keep on my patio. Instant gardening, one of my many talents. Then a long talk with Katy, quality time with my cat, the CAT scan paper, and an evening with Élisabeth Nicolet.

  That’s not how it turned out.

  When I woke Birdie was already gone. I called but got no response, so I threw on shorts and a T-shirt and went downstairs to find him. The trail was easy. He’d emptied his dish and fallen asleep in a patch of sunlight on the couch in the living room.

  The cat lay on his back, hind legs splayed, front paws dangling over his chest. I watched him a moment, smiling like a kid on Christmas morning. Then I went to the kitchen, made coffee and a bagel, collected the Observer, and settled at the kitchen table.

  A doctor’s wife was found stabbed to death in Myers Park. A child had been attacked by a pit bull. The parents were demanding the animal be destroyed, and the owner was indignant. The Hornets beat Golden State 101 to 87.

  I checked the weather. Sunshine and a high of seventy-four predicted for Charlotte. I scanned world temperatures. On Friday the mercury had climbed to forty-eight degrees in Montreal. There is a reason for Southern smugness.

/>   I read the entire paper. Editorials. Want ads. Pharmacy flyers. It’s a weekend ritual I enjoy, but one I’d had to forgo in the past few weeks. Like a junkie on a binge I absorbed every printed word.

  When I’d finished I cleared the table and went to my briefcase. I stacked the autopsy photos to my left and lay Hardaway’s report in front of me. My pen gave out with the first notation. I rose and went to the living room to find another.

  When I saw the figure on the front stoop my heart slipped in an extra beat. I had no idea who it was or how long it had been there.

  The figure turned, stepped up against the outer wall, and leaned into the window. Our eyes met and I stared in disbelief.

  Immediately, I crossed and opened the door.

  She stood with hips thrust forward, hands clutching the straps of a backpack. The hem of her skirt billowed around her hiking boots. The morning sun caught her hair, outlining her head in a copper glow.

  Sweet Jesus, I thought. Now what?

  Kathryn spoke first.

  “I need to talk. I—”

  “Yes, of course. Please, come in.” I stood back and held out a hand. “Let me take your pack.”

  She stepped inside, slipped off the backpack, and dropped it to the floor, her eyes never leaving my face.

  “I know this is a terrible imposition, and I—”

  “Kathryn, don’t be silly. I’m glad to see you. I was just so surprised my brain locked up for a second.”

  Her lips parted but no words came out.

  “Would you like something to eat?”

  The answer was in her face.

  I put my arm around her and took her to the kitchen table. She complied meekly. I stacked the photos and report to the side and sat her down.

  As I toasted a bagel, spread it with cream cheese, and poured orange juice, I stole glances at my visitor. Kathryn stared at the tabletop, her hands smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from the mat I’d placed in front of her. Her fingers arranged and rearranged the fringe, straightening each clump and laying it parallel to the next.

  My stomach was tied in a granny knot. How had she gotten here? Had she run away? Where was Carlie? I held my questions while she ate.

  When Kathryn had finished and declined seconds, I cleared the dishes and rejoined her at the table.

  “So. How did you find me?” I patted her hand and smiled encouragingly.

  “You gave me your card.” She dug it from her pocket and laid it on the table. Then her fingers went back to the place mat. “I called the number in Beaufort a couple of times, but you were never there. Finally some guy answered and said you’d gone back to Charlotte.”

  “That was Sam Rayburn. I was staying on his boat.”

  “Anyway, I decided to leave Beaufort.” She raised her eyes to mine, then quickly dropped them. “I hitched up here and went to the university, but it took longer than I’d figured. When I got to campus you were gone. I crashed with someone, then this morning she dropped me here on her way to work.”

  “How did you know where I live?”

  “She looked you up in some kind of book.”

  “I see.” I was sure my home address was not listed in the faculty directory. “Well, I’m glad you’re here.”

  Kathryn nodded. She looked exhausted. Her eyes were red and a dark crescent underscored each lower lid.

  “I would have returned your calls but you left no number. When Detective Ryan and I visited the compound on Tuesday we didn’t see you.”

  “I was there, but . . .” Her voice faded out.

  I waited.

  Birdie appeared in the doorway then withdrew, deflected by the tension. The clock chimed the half-hour. Kathryn’s fingers worked the fringe.

  Finally, I could take it no longer.

  “Kathryn, where’s Carlie?” I placed my hand on hers.

  She raised her eyes to mine. They looked flat and empty.

  “They’re taking care of him.” Her voice was small, like a child answering an accusation.

  “Who is?”

  She pulled her hand free, rested her elbows on the table, and rubbed small circles on each of her temples. Her eyes were back on the place mat.

  “Is Carlie on Saint Helena?”

  Another nod.

  “Did you want to leave him there?”

  She shook her head and her hands slid upward so the palms pressed against her temples.

  “Is the baby all right?”

  “He’s my baby! Mine!”

  The vehemence took me by surprise.

  “I can take care of him.” When she raised her head a tear glistened on each cheek. Her eyes bored into mine.

  “Who says you can’t?”

  “I’m his mother.” Her voice trembled. With what? Exhaustion? Fear? Resentment?

  “Who is taking care of Carlie?”

  “But what if I’m wrong? What if it’s all true?” Her gaze went back to the tabletop.

  “What if what is true?”

  “I love my baby. I want the best for him.”

  Kathryn’s answers were unrelated to my questions. She was probing her own dark places, reworking a familiar discourse with herself. Only this time it was in my kitchen.

  “Of course you do.”

  “I don’t want my baby to die.” Her fingers trembled as they caressed the tassels on the mat. It was the same movement I’d seen her use to stroke Carlie’s head.

  “Is Carlie sick?” I asked, alarmed.

  “No. He’s perfect.” The words were almost inaudible. A tear dropped to the mat.

  I looked at the small, dark spot, feeling completely inept.

  “Kathryn, I don’t know how to help you. You have to tell me what’s going on.”

  The phone rang, but I ignored it. From the other room I heard a click, my message, then a beep followed by a tinny voice. More clicks, then silence.

  Kathryn didn’t move. She seemed paralyzed by the thoughts that tortured her. Across the silence I felt her pain, and waited.

  Seven spots darkened the blue linen. Ten. Thirteen.

  After what seemed an eternity Kathryn raised her head. She wiped each cheek and brushed back her hair, then intertwined her fingers and placed her hands carefully in the center of the mat. She cleared her throat twice.

  “I don’t know what it’s like to live a normal life.” She gave a self-deprecating smile. “Until this year I didn’t know that I wasn’t.”

  She dropped her eyes.

  “I guess it had to do with having Carlie. I never doubted anything before he was born. It never occurred to me to ask questions. I was home-schooled so what I knew—” Again the smile. “What I know of the world is limited.” She thought for a moment. “What I know of the world is what they want me to know.”

  “They?”

  She clutched her hands so tightly the knuckles grew white.

  “We’re never supposed to talk about group matters.” She swallowed. “They’re my family. They’ve been my world since I was eight years old. He’s been my father and counselor and teacher and—”

  “Dom Owens?”

  Her eyes flew to mine. “He’s a brilliant man. He knows all about health and reproduction and evolution and pollution and how to keep the spiritual and biological and cosmic forces in balance. He sees and understands things the rest of us don’t have a clue about. It’s not Dom. I trust Dom. He would never hurt Carlie. He does what he does to protect us. He’s watching out for us. I’m just not sure—”

  She closed her eyes and tipped her face upward. A small vessel throbbed in the side of her neck. Her larynx rose and fell, then she took a deep breath, lowered her chin, and looked directly into my eyes.

  “That girl. The one you were looking for. She was there.”

  I had to strain to hear her.

  “Heidi Schneider?”

  “I never knew her last name.”

  “Tell me what you remember about her.”

  “Heidi joined somewhere else. Texas, I think. She lived on S
aint Helena for about two years. She was older than me, but I liked her. She was always willing to talk or to help me out. She was funny.” She paused. “Heidi was supposed to procreate with Jason—”

  “What?” I thought I’d heard incorrectly.

  “Her procreation partner was Jason. But she was in love with Brian, the guy she was with when she joined. He’s the one in your snapshot.”

  “Brian Gilbert.” My mouth felt dry.

  “Anyway, she and Brian used to sneak off to be together.” Her eyes went to a point somewhere in the distance. “When Heidi got pregnant she was terrified because the baby wouldn’t be sanctified. She tried to hide it, but eventually they found out.”

  “Owens?”

  Her eyes refocused on mine and I could see real fear.

  “It doesn’t matter. It affects everyone.”

  “What does?”

  “The order.” She rubbed her palms on the mat then reclasped her hands. “Some things I can’t talk about. Do you want to hear this?” She looked at me and I could see that her eyes were starting to water again.

  “Go on.”

  “One day Heidi and Brian didn’t show up for morning meeting. They were gone.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Do you think Owens sent someone to find them?”

  Her eyes slid to the window, and she bit down on her lower lip.

  “There’s more. One night last fall Carlie woke up fussy, so I went downstairs to get him milk. I heard movement in the office, then a woman speaking, real quiet like she didn’t want anyone to hear. She must have been on the phone.”

  “Did you recognize her voice?”

  “Yes. It was one of the women who worked in the office.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She was telling someone that someone else was O.K. I didn’t hang around to hear more.”

  “Go on.”

  “About three weeks ago the same thing happened, only this time I overheard people arguing. They were really angry, but the door was closed, so I couldn’t make out their words. It was Dom and this same woman.”

  She wiped a tear from her cheek with the back of her hand. She still did not look at me.