Bones to Ashes

by Kathy Reichs

  A young girl’s skeleton, wrenched from its grave.

  Obéline, battered and disfigured.

  Évangéline, gone.

  Ryan, gone.

  At that moment, I hated my job. I hated my life.

  The world was wretched.

  There were no tears. Only an overwhelming numbness.

  15

  I AWOKE TO THE SOUND OF THE PHONE. I FELT SLUGGISH AND FLAT and didn’t know why. Then I remembered.

  Ryan.

  Last night’s numbness reasserted itself. That was good. It got me through the call.

  “Good morning, sugar britches.”

  Pete never phoned me in Montreal.

  Katy! I shot upright.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong.”

  “Katy’s all right?”

  “Of course she’s all right.”

  “You spoke to her? When?”

  “Yesterday.”

  “What did she say?”

  “Buenos días. Chile’s the bomb. Transfer money. Adios.”

  Leaning back, I pulled the quilt to my chin.

  “How are you?”

  “Hunky-dory.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Charlotte. There’s something I want to tell you.”

  “You’re engaged to Paris Hilton.” I was so relieved Katy was safe, I laughed at my own joke. It felt good.

  Pete didn’t answer.

  “Hello?”

  “I’m here.” Devoid of humor.

  Apprehension rocketed through my war-torn nerves.

  “Pete?”

  “Not Paris. Summer.”

  Summer?

  “You want to get married?” I couldn’t keep the shock from my voice.

  “You’ll like her, sugar britches.”

  I’ll hate her.

  “Where did you meet?” I tried to sound bright.

  “At the Selwyn Pub. She looked sad. I bought her a beer. Turned out a puppy had been euthanized that day. She’s a veterinary assistant.”

  “How long have you and Summer been dating?”

  “Since March.”

  “Jesus, Pete.”

  “She’s very bright, Tempe. Wants to go to vet school.”

  Of course she does.

  “How old is Summer?”

  “Twenty-nine.”

  Pete would soon be waving hello to fifty.

  “Three months is pretty quick.”

  “Summer wants to tie the knot.” Pete laughed. “What the hell? I’m an old bachelor, kicking around on my own. Don’t forget. You turned me out, babe.”

  I swallowed. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Nothing. I’ll handle the filing. Irreconcilable differences. All we need is an agreement on the spoils of empire. We can do the actual dividing later.”

  “Not many spoils.”

  “North Carolina is a no-fault state, no need for accusations of anything.”

  “How soon?” I gave up all pretense at brightness.

  “You and I haven’t cohabited for years, so there won’t be any mandatory separation period. Assuming we agree on finances, the divorce should be granted quickly.”

  “What’s your time line?” Lifeless.

  “We’re thinking about spring. Maybe next May. Summer wants a mountain wedding.”

  I pictured Summer. Barefoot, tan, head garlanded with daisies.

  “Have you told Katy?”

  “Not a topic for the phone. We’ll have a heart-to-heart when she returns from Chile.”

  “Has Katy met Summer?”

  A slight hitch. “Yes.”

  “Not good?”

  “Katy finds fault with any woman I date.”

  That was untrue. On occasion my daughter talked of her father’s exploits. For some, she felt the attraction was boobs. For others, it was garbonzas. Melons. Jugs. Hooters. A few of the ladies she liked very much.

  “It could be awkward,” Pete said. “Summer wants kids. Katy may find that difficult.”

  Merciful God.

  “I’d like your blessing, sugar britches.”

  “Whatever.” The numbness was dissolving like fog in a hot morning sun. I had to hang up.

  “You’ll like Summer. Really.”

  “Yeah.”

  I sat motionless, the dial tone buzz in my ear.

  My estranged husband loves women in the way moths love a back-porch bulb. He likes to flirt and hover, drawn, but never willing to settle. I’d learned the hard way. And been burned. Marriage, any marriage, seemed out of character for him. When we’d been in Charleston, before the shooting, he’d seemed to want to explore reconciliation. But now Pete wanted to divorce me, marry Summer, and have babies.

  Sad Summer. Very bright Summer. Twenty-something Summer.

  Slowly, carefully, I placed the handset on the base unit.

  Slid down the pillow. Rolled to my side. Tucked my knees to my chest.

  And lost it.

  I don’t know how long the tears flowed or when I drifted off.

  Again, a phone jolted me awake. This time it was my cell. I glanced at the clock. Nine forty-three.

  I checked the screen.

  Harry.

  I couldn’t handle melodrama at that moment. I let it keep ringing.

  Seconds later, the land line shrilled.

  Cursing, I grabbed the handset and clicked on.

  “What?” I snapped.

  “Well now, aren’t we wearing our cranky pants.”

  “It’s goddamn Sunday morning.”

  “Just found a great recipe for kitten. Thought you might like to rustle some up.”

  “You’re a scream, Harry.”

  “Does our happy face need a little silicone injection?”

  “This better not be round six on Arnoldo.” Tossing the covers, I headed for the kitchen. I needed caffeine.

  “Ancient history.”

  “Out with the old, in with the new, right?” Harsh, but I wasn’t in the mood for tales of marriage gone bad.

  “Pete called.”

  That threw me. “My Pete? When?”

  “Just now. Doesn’t sound like he’s yours anymore.”

  “Why call you?” I pulled beans from the cupboard, filled the grinder.

  “Thought you might need cheering up.”

  “Well, isn’t that ever so considerate. I’m fine.”

  “You don’t sound fine.”

  I said nothing.

  “You want to talk, I want to listen.”

  I hit the button. Blades whirred. A warm, coffee smell filled the kitchen.

  “Tempe?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s me. Baby sister.”

  I dumped grounds into the Mr. Coffee. Added water.

  “Yo, Tempe?”

  Did I want to talk?

  “Let me call you back.”

  Ninety minutes later I’d unloaded everything.

  Ryan. Lily. Lutetia. The cold case investigation of the dead and missing girls. Phoebe Jane Quincy. The Lac des Deux Montagnes floater. The Doucets.

  My sister is flighty, volatile, and prone to hysterics. But she’s also a world-class listener. She didn’t interrupt.

  Finally, I told Harry about Hippo and the skeleton I’d demanded from the coroner in Rimouski. Hippo’s girl.

  “I’ve got no words of wisdom on Pete or Ryan, so let’s talk about this skeleton. Let me see if I have this straight. Hippo’s the cold case guy. He learned about the skeleton from his pal, Gaston, who’s also SQ. Gaston had spotted the thing in the company of a cop in the boondocks named Luc Tiquet. Tiquet had confiscated it from two spray-paint punks, Trick and Archie Whalen. They’d bought it from Jerry O’Driscoll’s pawnshop. O’Driscoll had fenced it off an old coot named Tom Jouns. Jouns had unearthed it from an Indian burial ground. That track about right?”

  “If everyone’s telling the truth.”

  “Life’s full of ifs.”

  “Indeed, it is.”


  “What kind of Indian burial ground?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe Micmac.”

  “So the girl was Indian.”

  “I think she’s white.”

  “Why?”

  “Facial architecture.”

  “You estimate she died at thirteen or fourteen.”

  “Yes.”

  “Of some kind of disease.”

  “She was sick, but I don’t know that the illness killed her.”

  “What did?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What kind of illness?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, there’s something we can put in the paper. How long’s she been dead?”

  “I don’t know that either.”

  “A long time?”

  “Yes.”

  Harry made a clicking sound.

  I drew a deep breath.

  “Do you remember Évangéline and Obéline Landry?”

  “Think I’m ready for the Texas State Hospital? ’Course I remember. I was nine, you were twelve. They disappeared from Pawleys Island and clean off the face of planet Earth. We spent three years trying to get a bead on them. Burned a busload of coins calling Canada.”

  “This sounds a little far-fetched, but there’s a remote possibility Hippo’s girl could actually be Évangéline.”

  “Hippo’s girl?”

  “The Jouns-O’Driscoll-Whalen-Tiquet-Gaston-Hippo skeleton.”

  “How remote?”

  “Very.”

  I told Harry about Laurette and Obéline. And David Bastarache.

  “Miserable sonovabitch. Give me a clear shot at his pecker, and that asshole won’t be setting any more fires.”

  Harry could mix metaphors like no one I knew. I didn’t point out that this one redefined human anatomy.

  Silence hummed across the continent. Then Harry said what I knew Harry would say.

  “I’m coming up there.”

  “What about selling your house?”

  “You think I’m going to stay here diddlin’ with real estate? You’re a smart woman, Tempe, but sometimes I wonder how you pull your undies up in the morning.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “You’ve got Obéline’s address and telephone number?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you need a giant finger pointing down at burning shrubbery?”

  I let her go on.

  “I’ll get my heinie on a plane to la Belle Province. You book us tickets to New Brunswick.”

  “You’re suggesting we visit Obéline?”

  “Why not?”

  “For one thing, Hippo will be pissed.”

  “Don’t tell him.”

  “That would be unprofessional, and potentially dangerous. I’m not a cop, you know. I rely on them.”

  “We’ll text him from the forest primeval.”

  16

  H ARRY’S PLANE WAS DUE IN AT TEN. I’D BOOKED A NOON FLIGHT to Moncton. Our plan was to meet at the departure gate.

  Montreal’s main airport is situated in the west island suburb of Dorval. For years it was simply called Dorval. Made sense to me. Nope. Effective January 1, 2004, YUL was rechristened Pierre Elliott Trudeau International. Locals still call it Dorval.

  By ten, I was parked, checked in, and through security. Harry wasn’t yet at gate 12-C. I wasn’t concerned. Dorval’s “welcome to Canada” immigration line usually makes Disney World’s snake-back-and-forth-through-the-ribbon-maze queue look short.

  Ten forty-five. Still no Harry. I checked the board. Her flight had landed at 10:07.

  At eleven I began to get antsy. I tried reading, but my eyes kept drifting to the tide of faces passing by.

  At eleven-fifteen, I started running possibilities.

  No passport. Maybe Harry didn’t know that a government-issued photo ID was no longer sufficient to enter Canada by plane.

  Missing luggage. Maybe Harry was filling out forms in triplicate and quintuplicate. From previous visits I knew she didn’t travel light.

  Smuggling. Maybe Harry was batting her lashes at some steely faced customs agent. Right. That works.

  I went back to reading my Jasper Fforde novel.

  The man to my right was beefy, wiry-haired, and overflowed a polyester sports jacket several sizes too small. He kept bouncing one knee up and down while tapping his boarding pass on the armrest between us.

  Montreal is not Toronto. Unlike its stodgy Anglo neighbor to the west, the island city celebrates gender and sex. Nightly, bars and bistros host the pheromone ball into the wee, small hours. Billboards proclaim upcoming events with risqué double entendre. Along the highways, half-naked models hawk beer, face cream, watches, and jeans. The town pulses with hot blood and sweat.

  But the Big Easy North is never prepared for my sister.

  When wire-hair went motionless, I knew Harry had arrived.

  She did so with her usual flamboyance, standing in the cart, arms spread like Kate Winslet on the Titanic bow. The driver was laughing, tugging her waistband to reconnect her rump with the seat.

  The cart slowed, and Harry hopped out. In jeans tight enough to be mistaken for skin, rose and turquoise boots, and a pink Stetson. Spotting me, she whipped off and waved the hat. Blond hair cascaded to her waist.

  I stood.

  Behind me, wire-hair remained frozen. I knew others were sharing his sight line. Others with a Y in each of their cells.

  Harry bore down. The driver followed, a Sherpa pack-muling Neiman Marcus and Louis Vuitton.

  “Tem-pee-roo-nee!”

  “I was starting to wonder if you’d gotten lost.” Spoken from the con-fines of a spine-crushing hug.

  Releasing me, Harry arm-draped the Sherpa. “We were parlay-vooing, weren’t we, An-dray?”

  André smiled, clearly at a loss.

  As though choreographed, a microphone voice announced the boarding of our flight.

  The Sherpa combined two of Harry’s carry-ons and handed them to her, along with a saddlebag shoulder purse. The Neiman Marcus bag was offered to me. I took it.

  Harry gave the Sherpa a twenty, a high-beam smile, and a big “mer-cee.”

  André zoomed off, a man with a story.

  The rental car I’d booked at the Moncton airport was somehow unavailable. An upgrade was offered at the same price.

  What type of vehicle?

  Spacious. You’ll like it.

  Do I have a choice?

  No.

  While I signed the rental agreement, Harry learned the following.

  The agent’s name was George. He was forty-three, divorced, with a ten-year-old son who still wet the bed. Tracadie was a straight shot up Highway 11. Gas was cheap at the Irving station just past Kouchibouguac. Le Coin du pêcheur in Escuminac served a mean lobster roll. The trip would take about two hours.

  The spacious upgrade turned out to be a shiny new Cadillac Escalade EXT. Black. Harry was pumped.

  “Would you look at this bad buggy. Kickass engine, four-wheel drive, and a trailer hitch. We can boogie this iron pony uphill, downhill, and off the road.”

  “I’ll stay on the pavement, thanks. Don’t want to get lost.”

  “We won’t.” Harry patted her purse. “I’ve got GPS on my phone.”

  We climbed in. The iron pony had that new car smell and an odometer showing forty-five miles. I felt like I was driving a troop carrier.

  Though dead on about the sandwich, George had been wildly optimistic on the drive time north.

  When we pulled into Tracadie my watch said seven-twenty. Eight-twenty local. Why so long? You guessed it. Harry.

  The upside? We’d made friends with an RCMP constable named Kevin Martel, and with most of the residents of Escuminac. We also had snaps of ourselves arm in arm before Le plus gros homard du monde. Shediac was a detour, but how often can one pose in front of the world’s biggest lobster?

  At check-in, the nice motel lady told Harry of a restaurant with traditional Acadian food and
an outdoor deck. I waited while Harry blow-dried her bangs, then we headed to the waterfront.

  Plastic tables. Plastic chairs. Plastic menus.

  Nice atmosphere, though. We shared it with men in ball caps hauling on long-necked beers.

  The air was cool and smelled of fish and salty mud. The water was dark and restless, flecked by white from a rising moon. Now and then an insomniac gull cried out, stopped, as though surprised by its own voice.

  Harry ordered spaghetti. I went for the cod and potatoes. When the waitress left, Harry pointed to a newspaper abandoned on the adjacent table. L’Acadie Nouvelle.

  “OK, chief. Background. Starting with where the hell we are.”

  “Tracadie-Sheila.” I pronounced it Shy-la, like the locals.

  “That much I know.”

  “In the belly of L’Acadie, homeland to the distinctive, four-century-old Acadian culture.”

  “You sound like one of those travel brochures in the motel lobby.”

  “I read four while you were doing touch-up on your bangs.”

  “They were greasy.”

  “Except for the little jog into Shediac, we traveled north today, paralleling the Northumberland Strait. We’re now on the Acadian Peninsula. Remember driving past signs for Neguac?”

  “Sort of.”

  “The Acadian Peninsula stretches approximately two hundred kilometers up from Neguac, along New Brunswick’s northeastern coast, out to Miscou Island at the tip, then around Chaleurs Bay to Bathurst. There are about two hundred and forty-two thousand French speakers living in the province; about sixty thousand of those are right here on the peninsula.”

  Our food arrived. We spent a few moments adding Parmesan and shaking salt and pepper.

  “People here trace their unique brand of French, their music, even their cooking style back to Poitou and Brittany.”

  “In France.” Harry was a master of the obvious.

  “Ancestors of today’s Acadians started arriving in the New World as early as the late seventeenth century, bringing those traditions with them.”

  “Didn’t they all move to New Orleans? Évangéline used to talk about that.”

  “Not exactly. In 1755, the English ordered the expulsion of some ten thousand French speakers from Nova Scotia. Acadians call the deportation le Grand Dérangement. Lands were confiscated and people were hunted down and shipped off, mainly to France and the United States. Today, maybe a million Americans claim Acadian ancestry, most of those in Louisiana. We call them Cajuns.”