Death Du Jour

by Kathy Reichs

  We crawled up rue Guy and turned east onto Docteur-Penfield. Above us I could see the Montreal 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 the 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 teeming 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.

  “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 than 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 Sœurs 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.

  We’d been driving almost two hours when I spotted the sign. It was dawn, and the sky was changing from black to murky gray. Through the ice I could see an arrow and the letters nge Gardi.

  “There.”

  Ryan released the gas and eased onto the exit. When it ended at a T-intersection he pumped the brake and the Jeep crunched to a stop.

  “Which way?”

  I grabbed the scraper, got out, and struggled to the sign, slipping once and cracking my knee. As I hacked away, the wind stood my hair on end and drove icy granules into my eyes. Overhead it hissed through branches and rattled power lines with an odd clacking sound.

  I chopped at the ice as though demented. Eventually the blade snapped, but I jabbed on until the plastic was completely shattered. Using the wooden handle I scraped and clawed until finally, I could see letters and an arrow.

  As I scrambled back to the Jeep something in my left knee felt terribly wrong.

  “That way.” I pointed. I didn’t apologize for the scraper.

  When Ryan turned, the rear spun out and we swerved wildly. My feet flew forward and I grabbed the armrests.

  Ryan regained control and my teeth unclenched.

  “There’s no brake on your side.”

  “Thanks.”

  “This is the Rouville district. There’s an SQ post not far from here. We’ll go there first.”

  Though I begrudged the lost time, I didn’t argue. If we walked into a hornet’s nest I knew we might need backup. And, while Ryan’s Jeep was good on ice, it had no radio.

  Five minutes later I saw the tower. Or what was left of it. The metal had cracked under the weight of the ice, and beams and girders lay twisted and scattered like parts of a giant Erector set.

  Just beyond the collapsed tower, a road took off to the left. Ten yards down I could see Anna’s gingerbread hut.

  “It’s here, Ryan! Turn here!”

  “We’re doing this my way or not at all.” He continued without slowing.

  I was frantic. Any argument.

  “It’s getting light. What if they’ve decided to act at dawn?” I thought of Harry, drugged and helpless while zealots lit fires and prayed to their god. Or loosed wild dogs onto sacrificial lambs.

  “We’re going to check in first.”

  “We could be too late!” My hands trembled. I couldn’t bear it. My sister could be ten yards away. I felt my chest begin to heave and turned my back to him.

  A tree decided it.

  We hadn’t gone a quarter mile when an enormous pine blocked our way. It had fallen, bringing up a twelve-foot root wad and dragging power lines across the road. We would not be continuing in that direction.

  Ryan struck the wheel with the heel of his hand.

  “Jesus Christ in a peach tree!”

  “It’s pine.” My heart hammered.

  He stared at me, unamused. Outside, the wind moaned and threw ice against the windows. I saw Ryan’s jaw muscles bunch, relax, bunch again. Then,

  “We do this my way, Brennan. If I say wait in the Jeep, that’s where your ass will be. Is that clear?”

  I nodded. I would have agreed to anything.

  We did an about-face and hung a right at the toppled tower. The road was narrow and littered with trees, some uprooted, others snapped where their trunks had failed. Ryan wove in and out among them. To either side poplars, ashes, and birches formed inverted U’s, their crowns bent toward earth by the burden of ice.

  A split-log fence began just beyond the gingerbread shelter. Ryan slowed and crept along it. At several places toppled trees had crushed the rails. Then I spotted the first living thing since Montreal.

  The car was nose-down in a gully, wheels spi
nning, enveloped in a cloud of exhaust. The driver’s door was open and I could see one booted leg planted on the ground.

  Ryan braked and shifted to park.

  “Stay here.”

  I started to object, thought better of it.

  He got out and walked to the car. From where I sat the occupant could have been male or female. As Ryan and the driver exchanged words I lowered the window, but I couldn’t make out what was said. Ryan’s breath spurted like jets of mist. In less than a minute he was back in the Jeep.

  “Not the most helpful character.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Oui and non. He lives just up the road, but the cretin wouldn’t notice if Genghis Khan moved in next door.”

  We moved on to where the fence ended at a gravel drive. Ryan pulled in and switched off the engine.

  Two vans and a half dozen cars were scattered in front of a ramshackle lodge. They looked like rounded humps, frozen hippos in a river of gray. Ice dripped from the eaves and sills of the building and turned the windows milky, eliminating any view of the inside.

  Ryan turned to me.

  “Now listen. If this is the right place we’re going to be about as welcome as a cottonmouth.” He touched my cheek. “Promise me you’ll stay here.”

  “I—”

  His fingers slid to my lips.

  “Stay here.” His eyes were blindingly blue in the dreary dawn light.

  “This is bullshit,” I said into his fingertips.

  He withdrew the hand and pointed at me.

  “Wait in the car.”

  He pulled on gloves and stepped into the storm. When he slammed the door I reached for my mittens. I would wait two minutes.

  What happened next comes back as disjointed images, shards of memory fragmented in time. I saw, but my mind did not accept the whole. It collected the memory and stored it away as separate frames.

  Ryan had taken a half dozen steps when I heard a pop and his body jerked. His hands flew up and he started to turn. Another pop and another spasm, then he dropped to the ground and lay still.

  “Ryan!” I yelled as I threw open the door. When I jumped out pain shot up my leg and my knee buckled. “Andy!” I screamed at his inert form.