Death Du Jour tb-2

by Reichs, Kathy

  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 bore 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, goddamit!”

  “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 could
n’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 professionals 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?

  Heidi Schneider. Who had felt so threatened by Heidi’s babies as to resort to brutal infanticide? Were these deaths the herald of more bloodshed?

  Jennifer Cannon. Amalie Provencher. Carole Comptois. Were their murders part of the madness? What demonic mores had they violated? Had their deaths been the choreography of some hellish ritual? Had my sister suffered the same fate?

  When the phone rang I jumped and knocked the flashlight to the floor.

  Ryan, I prayed. It’s Ryan and he’s got Jeannotte.

  My nephew’s voice came across the line.

  “Oh hell, Aunt Tempe. I think I’ve really screwed up. She called. I found it on the other cassette.”

  “What other cassette?”

  “I’ve got one of these old answering machines with the tiny tapes. The one I had wasn’t rewinding right so I put in a new one. I didn’t think about it until a friend came by just now. I was pretty hacked off at her because we were supposed to go out last week, but when I went to get her she wasn’t home. When she dropped by tonight I told her to kiss off, and she insisted she’d left a message. We got into a hassle so I got out the old tape and played it. She was on there, all right, but so was Harry. Right at the end.”

  “What did your mother say?”

  “She sounded pissed off. You know how Harry is. But she sounded scared at the same time. She was at some farm or something and wanted to split but no one would drive her back to Montreal. So I guess she’s still in Canada.”

  “What else did she say?” My heart was pounding so hard I thought my nephew would hear it.

  “She said things were getting creepy and she wanted out. Then the tape quit or she was cut off or something. I’m not sure. The message just ended.”

  “When did she call?”

  “Pam phoned Monday. Harry’s message was after that.”

  “There’s no date indicator?”

  “This thing was made during the Truman years.”

  “When did you change the tape?”

  “I think maybe Wednesday or Thursday. I’m not sure. But before the weekend, I know that.”

  “Think, Kit!”

  The line buzzed.

  “Thursday. When I got home from the boat I was tired and the tape wouldn’t rewind, so I popped the cassette and pitched it. That’s when I put in the new one. Shit, that means she phoned at least four days ago, maybe even six. God, I hope she’s all right. She sounded pretty panicky, even for Harry.”

  “I think I know who she’s with. She’ll be fine.” I didn’t believe my own words.

  “Let me know as soon as you talk to her. Tell her I feel bad about this. I just didn’t think.”

  I went to the window and pressed my face to the glass. The coating of ice turned the streetlights into tiny suns, and my neighbors’ windows into glimmering rectangles. Tears ran down my cheeks as I thought of my sister, somewhere in that storm.

  I dragged myself back to bed, turned on the lamp, and settled in to await Ryan’s call.

  Now and then the lights dimmed, flickered, then returned to normal. A millennium passed. The phone sat mute.

  I drifted off.

  It was the dream that provided the final epiphany.

  32

  I STAND GAZING AT THE OLD CHURCH. IT IS WINTER AND THE trees are bare. Though the sky is leaden, the branches send spiderwebs of shadow crawling across the weathered gray stone. The air smells of snow, and the prestorm silence is thick around me. In the distance I see a frozen lake.

  A door opens and a figure is silhouetted against the soft yellow of lamplight. It hesitates, then walks in my direction, head lowered against the wind. The figure draws near, and I see she is female. Her head is veiled and she wears a long black gown.

  As the woman comes closer the first powdery flakes appear. She carries a candle, and I realize her crouching is to protect the flame. I wonder how it survives.

  The woman stops and beckons with her head. Already the veil is flecked with snow. I strain to recognize her face, but it moves in and out of focus, like pebbles at the bottom of a deep pool.

  She turns and I follow.

  The woman pulls farther and farther ahead. I feel alarm and try to catch up, but my body does not respond. My legs are weighted and I cannot hurry. I see her disappear through the door. I call out, but there is no sound.

  Then I am inside the church and everything is dim. The walls are stone, the floor dirt. Huge carved windows disappear into darkness overhead. Through them I see tiny flakes wafting like smoke.

  I can’t remember why I’ve come to the church. I feel guilty, because I know it is important. Someone has sent me, but I can’t recall who.

  As I walk through the dusklike gloom I look down and see that my feet are bare. I am ashamed because I don’t know where I’ve left my shoes. I want to leave, but don’t know the way. I feel if I abandon my task I won’t be able to leave.

  I hear muffled voices and turn in that direction. There is something on the ground but it is obscure, a mirage I can’t identify. I move toward it and the shadows congeal into separate objects.

  A circle of wrapped cocoons. I stare down at them. They are too small to be bodies, but are shaped like bodies.

  I
go to one and loosen a corner. There is a muffled buzzing. I pull back the cloth and flies billow out and float to the window. The glass is frosted with vapor and I watch the insects swarm across it, knowing they are wrong in the cold.

  My eyes drop back to the bundle. I don’t hurry because I know it isn’t a corpse. The dead are not packaged and arrayed in this manner.

  Only it is. And I recognize the face. Amalie Provencher stares at me, her features a cartoon portrait in shades of gray.

  Still, I cannot hurry. I move from bundle to bundle, unbinding fabric and sending flies rising into the shadows. The faces are white, the eyes fixed, but I do not recognize them. Except for one.

  The size tells me before I open the shroud. It is so much smaller than the others. I don’t want to see, but it is impossible to stop.

  No! I try denial, but it doesn’t work.

  Carlie lies on his stomach, hands curled into upturned fists.

  Then I see two others, tiny, side by side in the circle.

  I cry out, but again there is no sound.

  A hand closes around my arm. I look up and see my guide. She is changed, or just more clearly visible.

  It is a nun, her habit frayed and covered with mold. When she moves I hear the click of beads and smell wet earth and decay.

  I rise and see cocoa skin covered with oozing, red sores. I know it is Élisabeth Nicolet.

  “Who are you?” I think the question, but she answers.

  “All in robe of darkest grain.”

  I don’t understand.

  “Why are you here?”

  “I come a reluctant bride of Christ.”

  Then I see another figure. She stands in a recess, the dim snowfall light obscuring her features and turning her hair a lackluster gray. Her eyes meet mine and she speaks, but the words are lost.

  “Harry!” I scream, but my voice is thin and weak.

  Harry doesn’t hear. She extends both arms and her mouth moves, a black oval in the specter that is her face.

  Again I shout, but no sound emerges.

  She speaks again and I hear her, though her words are distant, like voices drifting across water.

  “Help me. I am dying.”

  “No!” I try to run, but my legs won’t move.