by Kathy Reichs
“Bastarache.”
Karine looked up, surprised. “No. Pierre.”
“Last name?”
“He never said and I never asked.” She swallowed. “Pierre said I had talent. Said if I gave him an exclusive he’d kick-start my acting career.”
“You believed this Pierre would make you a star?” I tried to keep the incredulity from my voice.
“Cormier insisted Pierre was a high-powered agent. What did I know? He spoke the lingo. Claimed to know all the right people. I trusted him.”
Behind us, Johanne clattered china.
“Go on,” Ryan said.
“After a few weeks, Pierre said I had to move out of my house. One night I told my parents I was going to study with friends. I went to a bar instead. When I left, Pierre picked me up and we drove to this big old house in the boonies. The place was a little run down, but better than what I was used to in Rosemère. A couple other girls were living there so it seemed OK. Pierre helped me cut and dye my hair. Said it made me look older. Image, you know.”
I kept my hands and eyes very still.
“Took me six, maybe seven months to realize I’d been duped. When I tried to quit, the dickhead threatened me. Said if I talked to anyone or attempted to leave he’d see that I was seriously hurt and my face disfigured.”
“How’d you finally break away?”
“Pierre’s films all had goofy themes. Nasty Nunnery. Sorority Slut-house. Wiki Up. He thought having a narrative gave his stuff class. That’s what he called it, a narrative. His flicks were shit.
“We were in Moncton making a piece of crap called Inside Acadians. This other girl and I started hanging out in a bar on Highway 106 after the shoots. Le Chat Rouge. Mr. Bastarache was the owner, and he’d chat us up now and then. One night I had a lot to drink, started whining how unhappy I was. Next morning, Pierre tells me I’m off his payroll and working for Bastarache. Surprised the hell out of me.”
“You didn’t ask why you’d been fired?” Ryan.
“That was Pierre’s style. One day a girl was his darling, the next she was gone. I didn’t care. I was glad to be out of the porn.”
“Did you know the police were searching for you in Montreal?”
“Not at first. By the time I found out, I thought it was too late. Pierre convinced me I’d be fined, then jailed when I couldn’t pay. Pretty soon the media moved on to something else. I didn’t see any point in putting myself out there.”
“Here’s the point.”
Ryan curled his fingers in my direction. I gave him the envelope. He laid down photographs of Claudine Cloquet and the girl from the Dorval shoreline.
Karine glanced at the faces. “I don’t know them.”
Phoebe Jane Quincy joined the lineup.
“Dear God, she’s only a few years older than my daughter.”
Ryan added the facial reconstruction of the girl from the Rivière des Mille Îles.
Karine’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh no. No.”
I didn’t breathe. Didn’t move a muscle.
“It’s Claire Brideau.”
“You knew her?”
“Claire was one of the kids living in Pierre’s house. She was the one I hung with at Le Chat Rouge.” Karine’s nose had gone red and her chin was trembling. “She was with me that last night before I got sacked.”
“Claire knew Bastarache?”
“It was usually Claire that he hit on. For some reason, that night he was talking to me.” Her voice faltered. “Is she dead?”
“She was found floating facedown in 1999.”
“Suffering Jesus!” Karine’s chest heaved as she fought back tears. “Why the funny sketch? Was she messed up?”
I found the question odd. If Ryan shared my reaction, he didn’t let on.
“She’d been floating awhile.”
Karine’s hands fumbled the latch on her purse.
“Where was Claire from?” Ryan asked.
“She never said.” Pulling out a tissue, she dabbed her eyes.
“Claire made skin flicks for Pierre?”
Karine nodded, bunching the tissue in a fist below her nose.
“Do you know where Pierre is now?”
“I haven’t seen or heard from him since 1999.”
“Could you find his house if you had to?”
She shook her head. “It was too long ago. And I never drove. Never paid attention.”
Dropping her forehead to the fist, she drew a long, ragged breath. I laid my hand gently on hers. Her shoulders trembled as tears slid down her cheeks.
Ryan caught my eye and tipped his head toward the door. I nodded. We’d gotten all we were going to get for now, and we knew where Karine Pitre could be found.
Ryan got up and crossed to the register.
“I never meant to make trouble.” Gulped, as a sob rose up her throat. “I just wanted out. I believed no one would miss me.”
“Your parents?” I asked.
Raising her head, she dabbed the wadded tissue from eye to eye. “We never got along.”
“Perhaps they would like the chance to get along with their grandchildren.” I made a move to slide from the booth.
Karine reached out and grabbed my wrist. “My husband doesn’t know about the skin flicks.”
I looked at her, unable to imagine what her life had been. What it was now.
“Maybe you should tell him,” I said quietly.
Light flashed in her eyes. Fear? Defiance. Her grip tightened.
“Do you know who killed Claire?” she asked.
“You think someone killed her?”
Karine nodded, fingers clenched so tightly the tissue was a tiny white ball.
35
“W HAT NOW?”
We were in Hippo’s car, slipstreaming toward Le Passage Noir. It was past midnight; I was running on less than five hours sleep, but I was pumped.
“I track Claire Brideau,” Ryan said. “And a sleaze named Pierre.”
“Cormier pimped Sicard to Pierre for his smut films. Pierre turned her over to Bastarache to strip in his bar. That ought to be enough to charge Bastarache.”
“Sicard wasn’t a minor when she worked for Bastarache.”
“She went from Cormier to Bastarache via this Pierre. Phoebe Quincy phoned Cormier. He’s probably the one who took the Marilyn photo of her. That links Bastarache to Quincy, at least indirectly.”
“Guilt by association.” Ryan’s terse answers were suggesting a marked disinterest in conversation.
Silence filled the small space around us. To occupy my mind I replayed the interview with Bastarache. What was it he’d said that bothered me?
Then it clicked.
“Ryan, do you remember Bastarache’s comment when you showed him the picture of the girl on the bench?”
“He said he was barely out of high school when that kid was playing Indian princess.”
“What’s wrong about that?”
“It shows Bastarache for the coldhearted bastard he is.”
“I printed that frame off the video. Today. Modern printer, modern paper. There isn’t a single thing in that shot to indicate time frame.”
Ryan glanced at me. “So what made Bastarache think the thing was decades old?”
“He knows what’s going on. He knows who that girl is.”
I noticed Ryan’s knuckles tighten on the wheel.
“If charges aren’t filed, Bastarache walks tomorrow.”
“It takes evidence to file charges.”
I slumped into my seat back, frustrated, knowing Ryan was right. The investigation had produced very little linking Bastarache to any of the missing or dead girls. Sure, Kelly Sicard had danced for him. And Claire Brideau had visited his bar years earlier. But a crown prosecutor would demand physical or much stronger circumstantial evidence. Nevertheless, Ryan’s seeming depression surprised me.
“You should feel good, Ryan. Sicard’s alive and we found her.”
“Yeah. She’
s a peach.”
“You plan to call her parents?”
“Not now.”
“I have a feeling Kelly will make contact herself.”
“Karine.”
“Kelly. Kitty. Karine. You think she told us everything she knows?”
Ryan made a noise I couldn’t interpret in the dark.
“My take is she opened up when asked, but volunteered little.”
Ryan said nothing.
“She made an interesting comment as you were paying the bill.”
“Thanks for the cocoa?”
“She thinks Brideau was murdered.”
“By?”
“She didn’t say.”
“My money’s on Plucky Pierre.”
“He threatened her. But Bastarache used to hit on her.”
I looked at Ryan, a silhouette, then a face slowly illuminated by oncoming lights. The face was steel-jawed.
“You’ve cleared two cases, Ryan. Cases that were stone-pony cold. Anne Girardin and Kelly Sicard. If Sicard is right, the Rivière des Mille Îles body will be ID’d as Claire Brideau. You’re making progress.”
“One alive, four dead, two still missing. Break out the sparklers.”
A truck whooshed by. Trapped in its wash, the Impala rocked, settled.
Turning from Ryan, I pulled out my mobile and checked for messages.
Still nothing from Harry.
Rob Potter had called at 10:42. He’d analyzed the poetry and come to a conclusion. Though curious, I decided it was too late to phone him.
Leaning into the headrest, I closed my eyes. Thoughts ping-ponged in my brain as we barreled through the night.
Why didn’t Harry phone? Sudden jolting images. The goon in Cormier’s studio. The Death e-mail and the anonymous call. The pair snooping at my condo.
Cheech and Chong. Mulally and Babin.
What if Harry hadn’t taken off on her own?
Don’t go there, Brennan. Not yet. If Harry doesn’t check in by tomorrow, ask Hippo or Ryan to get a bead on Mulally and Babin.
Was Obéline alive and in regular contact with Bastarache? Why? The man had broken her arm and set her on fire. If so, why the faked suicide?
What conclusion had Rob reached? Had all of the poetry been written by the same person? Was the author Évangéline? If so, had Obéline paid to have the collection published by O’Connor House? Why anonymously? Had Bastarache bullied her so relentlessly she’d felt the need for secrecy in all things?
Had Obéline actually witnessed Évangéline’s murder? If so, who’d killed her? Bastarache was a young man at the time. Was he involved? How?
What had happened to Évangéline’s body? Had she ended up in an unmarked grave like Hippo’s girl, the skeleton from Sheldrake Island? Who was Hippo’s girl? Would we ever know?
Had Bastarache killed Cormier? Had Pierre? Had one of them killed Claire Brideau? If so, why? Had one of them killed Claudine Cloquet? Phoebe Quincy? The girl who washed up on the Dorval shoreline? The girl found floating in Lac des Deux Montagnes?
Had those girls been murdered? Were Cloquet and Quincy dead? If not, where were they?
Too many if’s and why’s.
And where the hell was Harry?
Hippo was smoking a Player’s on the sidewalk when we pulled up at Le Passage Noir. Ryan bummed a match and lit up as I relayed our conversation with Kelly Sicard/Karine Pitre.
Hippo listened, chin rising and falling like a bobble-head doll.
“Went another round with the staff,” Hippo said when I’d finished. “Cut ’em loose about an hour ago. Told ’em not to be planning any trips.”
“Orsainville call?” Ryan asked.
Hippo nodded. “Bastarache’s lawyer’s been screaming bloody hell. Unless we find something that lets us charge this prick, they kick him at dawn.”
Ryan dropped and heel-crushed his cigarette. “Then let’s find something.” Yanking the door, he strode into the bar.
While Ryan and Hippo plowed through Bastarache’s files, I went to the Impala, got my laptop, and booted. The dial-up connection was excruciatingly slow. Launching my browser, I crawled through “porn producers,” “porn makers,” “porn companies,” “sex film industry,” etc., etc.
I discovered the Religious Alliance Against Pornography. Read articles about city attorneys and federal prosecutors pursuing court cases. Saw virtual lap dances, overdone orgasms, and boatloads of silicone. Learned the names of producers, performers, Web sites, and production companies.
I found no one calling himself Pierre.
By four-thirty I felt like I needed a shower. And antibiotics.
Closing the PC, I moved to the lounger, thinking I’d rest my eyes for five minutes. Across the room, I could hear Ryan and Hippo banging drawers, shuffling receipts and invoices.
Then I was arguing with Harry. She was insisting I put on moccasins. I was objecting.
“We’ll be Pocahantas,” she said.
“Dressing up is for kids,” I said.
“We have to do it before we get sick.”
“No one’s getting sick.”
“I’ll have to leave.”
“You can stay as long as you want.”
“That’s what you always say. But I’ve got the book.”
I noticed Harry was clutching her scrapbook.
“You didn’t see the part about Évangéline.”
“I did,” I said.
As I reached for the book, Harry swiveled. Over her shoulder I could see a child with long blond hair. Harry spoke to the child, but I couldn’t make out her words.
Still holding the book, Harry walked toward the child. I tried to follow, but the moccasins kept sliding from my feet, tripping me.
Then I was peering into sunlight through an iron-barred window. All around me was darkness. Harry and the child were staring in at me. Only it wasn’t a child. It was an old woman. Her cheeks were sunken, and her hair was a silver-white nimbus surrounding her head.
As I watched, rents appeared in the wrinkled skin around the woman’s lips and under her eyes. Her nose opened into a ragged black hole.
A face began to materialize beneath the woman’s face. Slowly, it took form. It was my mother’s face. Her lips were trembling and tears glistened on her cheeks.
I reached out through the bars. My mother held up a hand. In it was a bunched wad of tissue.
“Come out of the hospital,” my mother said.
“I don’t know how,” I said.
“You have to go to school.”
“Bastarache didn’t go to school,” I said.
My mother tossed the tissue. It hit my shoulder. She threw another. And another.
I opened my eyes. Ryan was tapping my sleeve.
I went vertical so fast the recliner shot into full upright and locked.
“Bastarache will be out in an hour,” Ryan said. “I’m going to tail him, see where he goes.”
I looked at my watch. It was almost seven.
“You could stay here with Hippo. Or I could drop you at a motel, pick you—”
“Not a chance.” I got to my feet. “Let’s go.”
As we drove, I dissected what I could recall of the dream. The content was standard fare, my brain doing a Fellini with recent events. I often wondered what critics might write of my nocturnal meanderings. Surreal imagery with no clear demarcation between fantasy and reality.
Tonight’s offering was a typical retrospective from my subconscious. Harry and her scrapbook. Kelly Sicard’s reference to moccasins. Her wadded tissue. Bastarache. The window bar imagery was undoubtedly thrown in by my id to portray frustration.
But my mother’s appearance puzzled me. And why the reference to a hospital? And sickness? And who was the old woman?
I watched other cars pass, wondering how so many could be on the road so early. Were the drivers going to jobs? Delivering kids to early morning swim practice? Returning home after a long night serving burgers and fries?
Rya
n pulled into a lot outside the prison’s main entrance, parked, and leaned sideways against the door. He clearly wanted quiet, so I dropped back into my thoughts.
Minutes dragged by. Ten. Fifteen.
We’d been there a half hour when a dream-inspired synapse fired.
Mother. Hospital. Illness. Nineteen sixty-five.
The whisper I’d heard upon reading about the Tracadie lazaretto geysered into my forebrain. Connected with other disparate images and recollections.
I sat bolt upright. Sweet mother of God. Could that really be it?
In my gut, I knew I’d stumbled on the answer. Thirty-five years and I finally understood.
Instead of triumph, I felt only sadness.
“I know why Évangéline and Obéline disappeared,” I said, excitement laying a buzz on my voice.
“Really?” Ryan sounded exhausted.
“Laurette Landry started bringing her daughters to Pawleys Island when she lost her hospital job and had to work double-time at a cannery and a motel. Évangéline and Obéline were yanked back to Tracadie when Laurette got sick.”
“You’ve always known that.”
“The girls started coming to the island in 1966, the first summer after the Tracadie lazaretto closed.”
“Could be there was another hospital in Tracadie.”
“I don’t think so. I’ll check old employment records, of course, but I’ll bet Laurette Landry worked at the lazaretto.”
Ryan glanced sideways at me, quickly back at the prison entrance.
“Évangéline told me her mother was a hospital employee for many years. If Laurette worked at the lazaretto, she’d have been in close contact with lepers. It’s a fact she became ill with something that required daily nursing by Évangéline.”
“Even if Laurette did contract leprosy, you’re talking the sixties. Treatment has been available since the forties.”
“Think of the stigma, Ryan. Whole families were shunned. People were forbidden to hire lepers or other members of their families if the person diagnosed was living at home. And it wasn’t just personal lives that were ruined. The presence of the lazaretto had a devastating impact on the Tracadie economy. For years, no product would include the town name in its labeling. Public association with Tracadie often meant a business was ruined.”
