by Kathy Reichs
“There’s nothing I can tell you. John could, but I really don’t know where he’s gone.”
“Do you remember where this seminar took place?”
“Some kind of farm. I rode in a van and didn’t pay much attention because they had us playing games. Coming back, I just slept. They kept us up a lot and I was exhausted. Except for John and Amalie, I never saw any of them again. And now you say she’s—”
Downstairs a door opened, then a voice rolled up the stairs.
“Who’s there?”
“Great. Now I’ll lose the key,” Anna whispered.
“Are we not supposed to be here?”
“Not exactly. When I stopped working in the museum I just sort of kept the key.”
Terrific.
“Go along with me,” I said, rising from the bench.
“Is someone there?” I called out. “We’re here.”
Footfalls on the stairs, then a security guard appeared in the doorway. His knitted cap stopped just above his eyes, and a water-soaked parka barely covered his paunch. He was breathing hard, and his teeth looked yellow in the violet light.
“Oh, God, are we glad to see you.” I overacted. “We were sketching Odocoileus virginianus and lost track of time. Everyone left early because of the ice, and I guess they forgot about us. We got locked in.” I gave a silly-me smile. “I was about to call security.”
“You can’t be in here now. The museum’s closed,” he rasped.
Obviously my performance had been wasted.
“Of course. We really need to be on our way. Her husband will be crazy wondering where she is.” I gestured at Anna, who was nodding like a box turtle.
The guard shifted watery eyes from Anna to me, then tipped his head toward the stairs.
“Let’s go, then.”
We wasted no time.
Outside, rain was still falling. The drops were thicker now, like the Slushies my sister and I had bought from summer vendors. Her face rose from a niche in my mind. Where are you, Harry?
At Birks Hall Anna gave me a funny look.
“Odocoileus virginianus?”
“It popped into my head.”
“There is no white-tailed deer in the museum.”
Did the corners of her mouth pucker, or was it merely the cold? I shrugged.
Reluctantly, Anna gave me her home number and address. We parted, and I assured her that Ryan would call soon. As I hurried down rue Université something made me turn back. Anna stood in the archway of the Gothic old building, motionless, like her Cenozoic comrades.
* * *
When I got home I dialed Ryan’s pager. Minutes later the phone rang. I told him that Anna had surfaced and outlined our conversation. He promised to inform the coroner so a search could begin for Amalie Provencher’s medical and dental records. He rang off quickly, intending to contact Anna before she left Jeannotte’s office. He would phone later to fill me in on what he’d learned during the day.
I ate a supper of salad niçoise and croissants, took a long bath, and slipped into an old sweat suit. I still felt chilled, and decided to light a fire. I’d used the last of my starter logs so I wadded newspaper into balls and overlaid them with kindling. Ice was ticking against the windows as I lit the pile and watched it catch.
Eight-forty. I got the Bélanger journals and turned on “Seinfeld,” hoping the rhythm of the dialogue and laughter would have a soothing effect. Left on their own I knew my thoughts would run like cats in the night, rooting and snarling, and raising my anxiety to a level where sleep would be impossible.
No go. Jerry and Kramer did their best, but I couldn’t concentrate.
My eyes drifted to the fire. The flames had dwindled to a few sparse tongues curving around the bottom log. I went to the hearth, separated a section of paper, tore and balled up several pages, and stuffed them into the embers.
I was poking the logs when recall kicked in.
Newspapers!
I’d forgotten about the microfilm!
I went to the bedroom, pulled out the pages I’d copied at McGill, and took them back to the sofa. It took only a moment to locate the article in La Presse.
The story was as brief as I remembered it. April 20, 1845. Eugénie Nicolet was sailing for France. She would sing in Paris and Brussels, summer in the south of France, and return to Montreal in July. The members of her entourage were listed, as were her upcoming concert dates. There was also a brief summary of her career, and comments as to how she would be missed.
My coins had taken me through April 26. I skimmed everything I’d printed, but Eugénie’s name did not reappear. Then I went back through, strip-searching every story and announcement.
The article appeared on April 22.
Someone else would appear in Paris. This gentleman’s talent lay not in music, but in oratory. He was on a speaking tour, denouncing the selling of human beings and encouraging commerce with West Africa. Born in the Gold Coast, he’d been educated in Germany and held a professorship in philosophy at the University of Halle. He’d just completed a series of lectures at the McGill School of Divinity.
I backpedaled through history. Eighteen forty-five. Slavery was in full swing in the United States, but had been banned in France and England. Canada was still a British colony. Church and missionary groups were begging Africans to stop exporting their brothers and sisters, and encouraging Europeans to engage in legal commerce with West Africa as an alternative. What did they call it? The “legitimate trade.”
I read the passenger’s name with growing excitement.
And the name of the vessel.
Eugénie Nicolet and Abo Gabassa had made the crossing on the same ship.
I got up to poke the fire.
Was that it? Had I stumbled on the secret hidden for a century and a half? Eugénie Nicolet and Abo Gabassa? An affair?
I slipped on shoes, went to the French doors, flipped the handle, and pushed. The door was frozen shut. I leaned hard with my hip and the seal cracked.
My woodpile was frozen, and it took me some time to hack a log free with a garden trowel. When I finally got back inside I was shivering and covered with tiny pellets. A sound stopped me dead as I crossed to the hearth.
My doorbell doesn’t ring, it twitters. It did so now, then stopped abruptly, as if someone had given up.
I dropped the log, raced to the security box, and hit the video button. On the screen I saw a familiar figure disappearing through the front door.
I grabbed my keys, ran to the lobby, and opened the door to the vestibule. The outer door was settling into place. I depressed the tongue and pulled it wide.
Daisy Jeannotte lay sprawled across my steps.
BEFORE I COULD REACH HER, SHE MOVED. SLOWLY, SHE drew in her hands, rolled, and pushed to a sitting position, her back to me.
“Are you hurt?” My throat was so dry my words came out high and stretched.
She flinched at the sound of my voice, then turned.
“The ice is treacherous. I slipped, but I’m quite fine.”
I reached out and she allowed me to help her up. She was trembling, and didn’t look fine at all.
“Please, come inside and I’ll make some tea.”
“No. I can’t stay. There’s someone waiting for me. I shouldn’t be out on such a dreadful night but I had to speak to you.”
“Please come in where it’s warmer.”
“No. Thank you.” Her tone was as cold as the air.
She retied her scarf, then looked directly into my eyes. Behind her, bullets of ice sliced through a cone of streetlight. The tree limbs looked shiny black through the sodium vapor.
“Dr. Brennan, you must leave my students alone. I’ve tried to be helpful to you, but I do believe you are abusing my kindness. You cannot pursue these young people in this manner. And to give my number to the police for the purpose of harassing my assistant is simply unthinkable.”
A gloved hand wiped her eye, leaving a dark smear trailing across her
cheek.
Anger flared like a kitchen match. My arms were wrapped around my midriff, and through the flannel I felt my nails dig into my flesh.
“What the hell are you talking about? I’m not pursuing Anna.” I spat the word back at her. “This isn’t some goddam research project! People are dead! Ten for certain, God knows how many others.”
Pellets bounced off my forehead and arms. I didn’t feel them. Her words enraged me, and I vented all the anguish and frustration that had built in me over the past few weeks.
“Jennifer Cannon and Amalie Provencher were McGill students. They were murdered, Dr. Jeannotte. But not just murdered. No. That wasn’t enough for these people. These maniacs threw them to animals, then watched their flesh torn and their skulls pierced right into their brains.”
I ranted on, no longer in control of my voice. I noticed a passing couple quicken their pace, despite the glassy sidewalk.
“A family was slashed and mutilated and an old woman shot in the head not two hundred kilometers from here. Babies! They slaughtered two little babies! An eighteen-year-old girl was torn apart, stuffed in a trunk, and dumped right in this city. They’re dead, Dr. Jeannotte, murdered by a group of loonies who think they’re the posse for all morality.”
I felt flushed, despite the freezing cold.
“Well, let me tell you something.” I jabbed a trembling finger. “I’m going to find these self-righteous, malevolent bastards and put them out of business, no matter how many altar boys, or guidance counselors, or Bible-toting swamis I have to harass! And that includes your students! And that may include you!”
Jeannotte’s face looked ghostly in the darkness, the smeared mascara transforming it into a macabre mask. A lump had formed above her left eye, throwing it into shadow and causing the right to look strangely light.
I dropped my finger and rewrapped the arm around my body. I had said too much. My outburst spent, the cold was causing me to shiver.
The street was deserted and utterly silent. I could hear the rasping of my breath.
I don’t know what I expected to hear, but it was not the question that came from her lips. “Why do you use such imagery?”
“What?” Was she questioning my prose?
“Bibles and swamis and altar boys. Why do you make these references?”
“Because I believe these murders were committed by religious fanatics.”
Jeannotte held herself completely still. When she spoke her voice was icier than the night, and her words chilled me more than the weather.
“You are out of your depth, Dr. Brennan. I’m warning you to leave this alone.” The colorless eyes bored into mine. “If you persist, I will be forced to take action.”
A car crept down the alley opposite my building and stopped. As it turned onto the street, the headlights made a wide arc, sweeping the block and momentarily illuminating Jeannotte’s face.
I tensed, and my nails dug deeper into my sides.
Oh, God.
It was not an illusion created by shadow. Jeannotte’s right eye was eerily pale. Stripped of makeup, the brow and lashes flared white in the passing beams.
She may have seen something in my face, for she pulled her scarf forward, turned, and picked her way down the steps. She did not look back.
* * *
When I got inside, the message light was flashing. Ryan. I phoned him back with shaky hands.
“Jeannotte’s involved,” I said, wasting no time. “She was just here telling me to back off. Seems your call to Anna really irked her. Listen, when we went back to Saint Helena, do you remember the man with the white streak?”
“Yeah. Skinny guy, scarecrow-thin, tall. He came in to talk to Owens.” Ryan sounded exhausted.
“Jeannotte has the same pattern of depigmentation, same eye. It’s not obvious because she hides it with makeup.”
“Same hair streak?”
“I couldn’t tell, but she probably uses dye. Look, these two must be related. The trait’s just too unusual to be a coincidence.”
“Siblings?”
“I didn’t pay much attention at the time, but I think the guy on Saint Helena was too young to be her father and too old to be her son.”
“If she’s from the Tennessee mountains there are limited genetic possibilities.”
“Funny.” I was not in the mood for redneck jokes.
“Could be whole clans that share the gene.”
“This is serious, Ryan.”
“You know, different stripes in different hollers.” He imitated Jeff Foxworthy. “If your stripe is the same as your sister’s, then you may be—”
Stripes. Something about stripes pulled at me.
“What did you say?”
“Hollers, it’s what you folk—”
“Will you stop it! I just thought of something else. Do you remember what Heidi Schneider’s father said about their visitor?”
The line was quiet.
“He said the guy looked like a skunk. A goddam skunk.”
“Shit. So maybe Daddy wasn’t being poetic.”
In the background a phone rang and rang. No one answered it.
“You think Owens sent Streak to Texas?” Ryan asked.
“No, not Owens. Kathryn and the old man both talked about a woman. I think it’s Jeannotte. She probably directs the show from here and has lieutenants at her other camps. I also think she recruits on campus through some sort of seminar network.”
“What else can you tell me about Jeannotte?”
I related everything I knew, including her behavior toward her assistant, and asked what he’d learned in his conversation with Anna.
“Not much. I think there’s a shitload she’s keeping bottled up. This kid makes Zelda look stable.”
“She could be on drugs.”
The ringing started up again.
“Are you alone there?” Save for the phones, the squad room sounded unnaturally quiet.
“Everyone’s been pulled out for this friggin’ storm. Are you having problems?”
“Like what?”
“Don’t you listen to the news? The ice is really screwing things up. They’ve closed the airport, and a lot of the minor roads are impassable. Power lines are cracking like dry spaghetti, and stretches of the south shore are cold and dark. The city fathers are starting to worry about old folks. And looters.”
“I’m fine so far. Did Baker’s men find anything to tie Saint Helena to the group in Texas?”
“Not really. The old guy with the dog talked a lot about meeting his guardian angel. Seems Owens and his disciples had the same idea. It’s all through their journals.”
“Journals?”
“Yeah. Apparently some of the faithful had the creative urge.”
“And?”
I heard him inhale, then exhale slowly.
“Tell me, goddammit!”
“According to some expert down there, it’s definitely apocalyptic and it’s now. They’re heading for the big one. Sheriff Baker’s taking no chances. He’s called in the feds.”
“And they found no clue as to destination? The earthly destination, I mean.”
“To meet their guardian angel and make the crossing to a better place. That’s the kind of crap we’re dealing with. But they’re well organized. Apparently the trip has been planned for a long time.”
“Jeannotte! You’ve got to find Jeannotte! It’s her! She’s the guardian angel!”
I knew I sounded frantic, but I couldn’t help myself.
“O.K. I agree. It’s time to drive Miss Daisy hard. When did she leave your place?”
“Fifteen minutes ago.”
“Where was she going?”
“I don’t know. She said she was meeting someone.”
“O.K., I’ll find her. Brennan, if you’re right about this, the little professor is a very dangerous woman. Do not, I repeat, do not do anything on your own. I know you’re worried about Harry, but if she’s been sucked into this thing it may take pr
ofessionals to get her out. Do you understand?”
“May I brush my teeth? Or is that considered risky?” I snapped. His paternalism did not bring out the best in me.
“You know what I mean. Find yourself some candles. I’ll get back to you as soon as I learn anything.”
I hung up and walked to the French doors. I wanted more space around me and slid the curtain aside. The courtyard looked like a mythological garden, the trees and shrubs fashioned of spun glass. Filmy nets covered the upstairs balconies and clung to the brick chimneys and walls.
I located candles, matches, and a flashlight, then dug my radio and headphones from my gym bag and placed everything on the kitchen counter. Back in the living room, I settled on the couch and clicked to the CTV news.
Ryan was right. The storm was big news. Lines were down throughout the province and Hydro-Québec could not say when power would be restored. Temperatures were dropping and more precipitation was on the way.
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?
