Death Du Jour tb-2

by Reichs, Kathy

“It’s not good at your age.”

  “It’s not good at any age. How do you know about Anna Goyette?”

  The waitress brought the drinks and showed Ryan as many teeth as my sister at her friendliest. He paid and winked at her. Spare me.

  “You’re not exactly poetry to be with,” he said after placing one of the beers on the ledge above Harry’s jacket.

  “I’ll work on it. How do you know about Anna Goyette?”

  “I ran into Claudel on this biker thing, and we talked about it.”

  “Why in the world would you do that?”

  “He asked me.”

  I could never figure out Claudel. He blows me off, then discusses my phone call with Ryan.

  “So who is she?”

  “Anna is a McGill student. Her aunt asked me to locate her. It’s not the Hoffa case.”

  “Claudel says she’s a very interesting young lady.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  Harry chose that moment to rejoin us.

  “Whoa, little buckaroos. If you have to pee you’d better plan ahead.”

  She took in the altered seating arrangement and slid onto the stool to Ryan’s left. As if on cue the band began singing about whiskey in a jug. Harry swayed and clapped along until a geezer in a checkered cap and green suspenders jigged over and took her by the hand. She jumped up and followed him to the back room, where two young men were once again doing egret imitations. Harry’s partner had a substantial belly and a soft, round face. I hoped she wouldn’t kill the guy.

  I looked at my watch. Eleven-forty. My eyes burned from smoke and my throat was scratchy from shouting.

  And I was enjoying myself.

  And I wanted a drink.

  Seriously.

  “Look, I’ve got a headache. As soon as Ginger Rogers gets off the dance floor I’m going to cut out.”

  “Suit yourself, bucko. You’ve done very well for your first session.”

  “Jesus, Ryan. I’ve been here before.”

  “For the storyteller?”

  “No!” I had thought about that. I love Irish folklore.

  I watched Harry hop and twist, her long blond hair flying. Everyone watched her. After a while I shouted in Ryan’s ear.

  “Does Claudel know where Anna is?”

  He shook his head.

  I gave up. The potential for conversation was zero.

  Harry and the geezer danced on. His face was red and covered with sweat, and his clip-on tie hung at an odd angle. When Harry’s jig brought her round to face me I pantomimed a finger across the throat. Cut. Wrap.

  She waved gaily.

  I jabbed my thumb toward the exit, but she’d already rotated out of eye contact.

  Oh, God.

  Ryan watched me, an amused smile on his face.

  I gave him a look that could freeze El Niño, and he slouched back and held both hands in a palms-out gesture.

  The next time Harry circled toward me I gestured again, but she was staring at something over my shoulder, an odd look on her face.

  At twelve-fifteen my prayers were answered as the band took a break. Harry returned, flushed but beaming. Her partner looked like he needed a resuscitator.

  “Whew! I feel rode hard and put away wet.”

  She ran a finger around her collar, hopped onto her stool, and chugged the beer Ryan had ordered. When the geezer made a move to settle next to her, she patted him on his cap.

  “Thanks, big guy. I’ll see y’all later.”

  He tipped his head and gave her a puppy look.

  “Bye-bye.”

  Harry wriggled her fingers, and the geezer shrugged and blended back into the crowd.

  Harry leaned across Ryan. “Tempe, who’s that over there?” She tipped her head toward the bar behind us.

  I started to turn.

  “Don’t look now!”

  “What?”

  “The tall skinny dude with the glasses.”

  I rolled my eyes, which didn’t help my headache. Harry would use this routine in junior high when I wanted to leave and she wanted to stay.

  “I know. He’s cute and he’s really interested in me. Only he’s shy. Been there, done that, Harry.”

  The band started another reel. I stood and put on my jacket.

  “Bedtime.”

  “No. Really. This guy was scoping you the whole time I was dancing. I could see him through the window.”

  I looked in the direction she’d indicated. No one fit her description.

  “Where?”

  She scanned the faces around the bar, then looked over her shoulder in the other direction.

  “Really, Tempe.” She shrugged. “I can’t spot him now.”

  “He’s probably one of my students. They’re always amazed to see me out without a walker.”

  “Yeah, I guess. The guy looked pretty young for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  Ryan watched like Gramps observing the young ’uns.

  “Are you ready?” I buttoned my jacket and pulled on my mittens.

  Harry looked at her Rolex, then said exactly what I expected.

  “It’s just past midnight. Couldn’t we—”

  “I’m heading out, Harry. The condo’s only four blocks from here and you’ve got a key. You can stay if you want.”

  For a moment she looked undecided, then she turned to Ryan.

  “Are you going to be here awhile?”

  “No problema, kiddo.”

  She gave me the same puppy look the geezer had used.

  “You’re sure you don’t mind?”

  “Of course not.” Like hell.

  I explained the keys and she gave me a hug.

  “Let me walk you back,” said Ryan, reaching for his jacket. My protector.

  “No, thanks. I’m a big girl.”

  “Then let me call a taxi for you.”

  “Ryan, I am allowed to travel unaccompanied.”

  “Suit yourself.” He settled back, shaking his head.

  The cold air felt good after the heat and smoke of the pub. For about a millisecond. The temperature had dropped and the wind had picked up, plunging the chill factor to a billion degrees below zero.

  Within steps my eyes were tearing and I could feel ice forming around the edges of my nostrils. I drew my muffler across my mouth and nose, and tied it in a big knot at the back of my head. I looked like a geek, but at least my orifices wouldn’t freeze over.

  I stuffed my hands deep into my pockets, lowered my head, and trudged on. Warmer, but barely able to see, I angled across Crescent and up to Ste-Catherine. There wasn’t a soul in sight.

  I’d just crossed MacKay when I felt my scarf tighten, and my feet go out from under me. At first I thought I’d slipped on ice but then I realized I was being pulled backward. I had passed the old York Theater and I was being dragged toward the side of the building. Hands spun me and shoved me face first against the wall. My own were still trapped in my pockets. As my face struck the brick I slid downward. When my knees hit the ground, I was shoved facedown into the snow. A heavy blow struck my back, as though a large person had dropped knees first onto my thoracic spine. Pain shot down my back and my breath exploded outward through my muffler. I was pinned to the ground in a prone position. I couldn’t see, I couldn’t move, and I couldn’t breathe! I felt panic and air hunger. Blood pounded in my ears.

  I closed my eyes and concentrated on turning my mouth to the side. I pulled a shallow breath. Then another. And another. The burning subsided and I began to exchange air.

  I felt pain in my jaw and face. My head was locked at an awkward angle, my right eye pressed against the frozen snow. I felt a bulkiness below me and knew it was my purse. It had helped knock the wind out of me.

  Give him the purse!

  I wriggled to free myself, but my jacket and scarf still bound me like a straitjacket. I felt his body move. He seemed to stretch out on top of me. Then his breathing in my ear. Though muffled by the scarf, it sounded hea
vy and rapid, desperate, animal-like in its intensity.

  Don’t lose consciousness. Unconscious means dead in this weather. Move! Do something!

  Under my heavy clothing I was covered in sweat. I inched my hand around inside my pocket, searching. My fingers felt slick inside the wool mitten.

  There!

  I gripped my keys. The instant he let up I’d be ready. Helpless, I waited for an opening.

  “Leave it alone,” a voice hissed in my ear.

  He’d spotted the movement!

  I froze.

  “You don’t know what you’re doing. Back off!”

  Back off what? Who did he think I was?

  “Leave it alone,” he repeated, his voice trembling with emotion.

  I couldn’t speak, and he didn’t seem to expect an answer. Was it a madman and not a mugger?

  We lay there for what seemed eternity. Cars whooshed past. I’d lost all feeling in my face, and my neck vertebrae felt as if they would crack. I breathed with my mouth open, saliva freezing on my muffler.

  Stay calm. Think!

  My mind raced through possibilities. Was he drunk? Stoned? Undecided? Was he savoring some sick fantasy that would trigger him to action? My heart pounded so loud I feared it would be the catalyst.

  Then I heard footsteps. He must have heard them, too, for he tightened his grip on my scarf and placed a gloved hand over my face.

  Scream! Do something!

  I couldn’t see him and it made me crazy.

  “Get off me you goddamn dirtbag!” I yelled through my muffler.

  But my voice came from a million miles away, smothered by the thick layer of wool.

  I held the keys in a death grip, my hand slippery inside the mitten and tensed to drive them into his eye if I got an opening. Suddenly, I felt the scarf tighten and his body shift. He rose to his knees again, concentrating all of his weight in the center of my back. His weight and my purse compressed my lungs, making me gasp for air.

  Using the scarf he lifted my head, then drove it down with his hand. My ear slammed into ice and gravel, and a cloud of sparks burst behind my eyes. He lifted and slammed down again and the sparks began to coalesce. I could feel blood on my face and taste it in my mouth. I thought I felt something snap in my neck. My heart thundered inside my rib cage.

  Get off me you demented piece of shit!

  I felt light-headed. My tortured brain foresaw the autopsy report. My autopsy. Nothing under her nails. No defense wounds.

  Don’t pass out!

  I squirmed and tried to scream, but again my voice was barely audible.

  Suddenly, the pounding stopped and my attacker leaned close again. He spoke, but I caught only garbled sounds through the ringing in my ears.

  Then I felt his hands press against my back and his weight lifted. Boots crunched on gravel, and he was gone.

  Dazed, I pulled my hands free, pushed myself to all fours, and rolled to a seated position. A wave of dizziness washed over me, and I raised my knees and lowered my head between them. My nose was running and either blood or saliva was oozing from my mouth. My hands trembled as I wiped my face with the end of my muffler, and I knew I was a hair away from tears.

  Wind rattled the broken windows in the abandoned theater. What was the name? Yale? York? It seemed terribly important. I knew it before, so why couldn’t I remember it now? I felt disoriented, and began shivering uncontrollably, from cold, from fear, and perhaps from relief.

  When the dizziness passed I rose, inched my way along the building, and peeked around the corner. There was no one in sight.

  I stumbled home on rubbery legs, looking over my shoulder every other step. The few pedestrians I passed looked away and gave me a wide berth. Just another drunk.

  Ten minutes later I sat on the edge of my bed, checking myself for injuries. My pupils were even and coordinated. No numbness. No nausea.

  The scarf had been a mixed blessing. While it provided my attacker a convenient handle, it had also cushioned the blows. I had a few cuts and abrasions on the right side of my head, but I believed I had not sustained a concussion.

  Not bad for a mugging survivor, I thought as I slipped between the sheets. But had it been a mugging? The guy hadn’t stolen anything. Why did he run? Did he panic and give up? Was he just a drunk? Did he figure out I wasn’t who he thought I was? Subzero cold rarely inspires sexual assaults. What was his motive?

  I tried to sleep but my mind was still on an adrenaline high. Or was it post-traumatic stress syndrome? My hands still shook and I jumped at every sound.

  Should I call the cops? What for? I wasn’t hurt much and nothing was stolen. And I never got a look at the guy. Should I tell Ryan? Not a chance in hell after my cocky departure. Harry? No way.

  Oh, God. What if Harry walks home alone? Could he still be out there?

  I rolled over and looked at the clock. Two thirty-seven. Where the hell was Harry?

  I touched my broken lip. Would she notice? Probably. Harry had instincts like a wildcat. She missed nothing. I thought of cover stories. Doors are always good, or face-first falls on the ice while your hands are deep in your pockets.

  My eyes drifted shut, then flew open as I felt the knee on my back and heard the rasping breath.

  I checked the clock again. Three-fifteen. Did Hurley’s stay open this late? Had Harry gone home with Ryan?

  “Where are you, Harry?” I said to the glowing green digits.

  I lay there, wishing she’d come home, not wanting to be alone.

  12

  I WOKE TO BRIGHT SUNLIGHT AND TOTAL SILENCE, HAVING SLEPT fitfully. My brain cells had called an all-night meeting to organize input from the past few days. Missing students. Muggers. Saints. Murdered babies and grandmas. Harry. Ryan. Harry and Ryan. They broke around dawn, having accomplished little.

  I rolled over on my back and a burst of pain in my neck reminded me of last night’s adventure. I flexed and extended my neck and each arm and leg. Pretty good. In the morning light the attack seemed illogical and imaginary. But the memory of fear was very real.

  I lay still for a while, exploring for damage to my face and listening for signs of my sister. Tender areas on the face. No noise from the sister.

  At seven-forty I hauled myself out of bed and grabbed my ratty old robe and slippers. The guest room door was open, the bed made. Had Harry been home last night?

  I found a Post-it on the refrigerator explaining the absence of two cartons of yogurt and saying she’d be back after seven. O.K. She’d come in, but had she slept here?

  “Who cares,” I said, reaching for the coffee beans.

  Just then the phone rang.

  I slammed down the canister and padded to the living room phone.

  “Yeah.”

  “Hey, Mom. Rough night?”

  “Sorry, honey. What’s up?”

  “Are you going to be in Charlotte the week after next?”

  “I get in Monday and I’ll be there until early April, when I go to the Physical Anthropology meetings in Oakland. Why?”

  “Well, I thought I’d come home for a few days. This beach trip isn’t working out.”

  “Great. I mean, great that we can spend some time together. Sorry your trip went bust.” I didn’t ask why. “Will you be staying with me or with Dad?”

  “Yes.”

  “O.K. O.K. Classes going all right?”

  “Yeah. I’m really enjoying the abnormal psych. The prof is so cool. And criminology’s pretty good, too. We never have to turn anything in on time.”

  “Hm. How’s Aubrey?”

  “Who?”

  “Guess that answers my question. How’s the zit?”

  “Gone.”

  “Why are you up so early on a Saturday?”

  “I’ve got to write a paper for my crim class. I’m going to do something on profiling, maybe bring in stuff from abnormal psych.”

  “I thought you never had to hand anything in on time.”

  “It was due two weeks ag
o.”

  “Oh.”

  “Can you help me think of a project for my anthro class?”

  “Sure.”

  “Nothing too elaborate. It’s supposed to be something I can do in one day.”

  I heard a beep.

  “I’ve got another call, Katy. I’ll think about the project. Let me know when you’re arriving in Charlotte.”

  “Will do.”

  I clicked over and was amazed to hear Claudel’s voice.

  “Claudel ici.”

  As usual there was no greeting, and he did not apologize for phoning me on Saturday morning. He dove straight to the point.

  “Has Anna Goyette returned home?”

  My chest went hollow. Claudel had never called me at home. Anna must be dead.

  I swallowed and answered. “I don’t think so.”

  “She is nineteen.”

  “Yes.”

  I saw Sister Julienne’s face. I couldn’t bear to think of telling her.

  “. . . caractéristiques physiques?”

  “I’m sorry. What was that?”

  Claudel repeated the question. I had no idea if Anna had any unusual physical features.

  “I don’t know. I’d have to ask the family.”

  “When was she last seen?”

  “Thursday. Monsieur Claudel, why are you asking me these questions?”

  I waited out a Claudel pause. I could hear commotion in the background and guessed he was calling from the homicide squad room.

  “A white female was found early this morning, naked, with no identification.”

  “Where?” The hollow feeling pushed against my sternum.

  “Île des Sœurs. At the back of the island there is a wooded area and a pond. The body was found”—he hesitated—“on the water’s edge.”

  “Found how?” He was holding back.

  Claudel considered my question for a moment. I could picture his beak nose, his close-set eyes narrowed in thought.

  “The victim was murdered. The circumstances are . . .” Again the hesitation. “. . . unusual.”

  “Tell me.” I shifted the phone to my other hand and wiped my palm on my robe.

  “The body was found in an old steamer trunk. There were multiple injuries. LaManche is doing the autopsy today.”

  “What kinds of injuries?” I stared at a pattern of spots on my robe.

  He took a deep breath. “There are multiple stab wounds and ligature marks around the wrists. LaManche suspects there has also been an animal attack.”