When the sun rose, Poincaré knew he had walked half a road with James Fenster over a very long night; but there would be no going the full distance just now. He collected his materials, closed the curtain in his hotel room, and slept all day—waking for dinner at five and an evening flight to Minneapolis. He showered and dressed with care, which refreshed him on the inside, at least. On the outside, he did not cut much of a figure. Mirrors do not lie, and neither had Quito or Ludovici. Still, his heart was behaving. He had eaten an actual meal, and he had slept.
OUTSIDE THE fuselage window, Poincaré watched the Aurora twisting in broad, green sheets. He had seen other such displays. Once he had tracked a child pornographer to the upper reaches of Norway where, in a village lost to the sun several months each year, a desk clerk amassed the most execrable digitized photo library of abuse to minors—some as young as a year—as could be imagined and then distributed it for profit across the Internet. The wonders of technology. As this thin, mousy father of three walked to a police car—the only one in a cluster of a tiny villages that far north, agents carried computers and filing cabinets to a waiting van. Poincaré leaned against a post and stared at a sky much like the one outside the airplane. If at that moment someone had tapped his shoulder and said: "It's dinosaurs fighting—this is what causes the Northern Lights," he might have answered Why not? With a book knowledge that explained nothing, he watched particles streaming from the sun and exploding high in the atmosphere while down below, with as much astonishment, he watched a pornographer's wife struck dumb as authorities led away a stranger she had called husband. How did one understand either?
And how he had lived fifty-seven years, altogether missing the beauty of what Fenster saw and what Chloe observed that day in Fonroque: symmetries upon symmetries invisible to him and yet as near as his next heartbeat? In his electrocardiogram lived a patterning common to lightning strikes, trees, and the incremental growth of cities. He did not dare ask where or with what it all ended because to ask was to invite inquiries he was not willing to make. But of this much he was sure: to Fenster, the very world—above and below— shimmered like the Aurora, and in that shimmering lay the key to his murder.
Poincaré turned away from the window.
The Minnesota Department of Health building on Robert Street was a long, low-slung structure of stone and tall glass panels that wore part of its steel skeleton, insect-like, on the outside. Poincaré was greeted by an office manager who, with the barest of preliminaries, steered him to a room piled high with storage boxes. One cigarette, he thought, and 15,000 people would cease to exist on paper. "They're only health advisories and internal memos," the woman said, reading his concern. "Vital records are digitized and backed up both on our mainframe and on computers out of state. Follow me. I believe I have what you're looking for."
He was old enough to remember sorting through vital records in shoe boxes. "I won't take much of your time, Mrs. Reynolds."
"Good," she said. "Because I don't have much time."
They reached a solitary, windowless office that had been used for janitorial supplies in an earlier life. Along one wall was a sanitary sink filled with discarded paper. Pamphlets, neatly stacked in boxes, lined shelves; on the door, oddly enough, was her nameplate. She worked in a storage room inside a storage room.
They sat at a desk, and Poincaré produced his copy of Madeleine Rainier's birth certificate, which he had requested. "November 8,1980. Hennepin County Medical Center. May I see an original—or your digitized copy?"
She examined Poincaré's version of the certificate. "Two things," she began. "First, the paper originals are kept in a vault somewhere up in the Iron Range. The best we offer here is a digital facsimile. Second, you have a certified copy—do you see this mark here? It's legitimate but may be missing some information. Give me a moment." She entered Rainier's name into a database; when the screen refreshed, she reached for glasses that hung on a chain around her neck.
"Parents—the same; the addresses match. Same file. You're working with an authentic record," she said, looking up. Reynolds swung the monitor to Poincaré's side of the desk, and he began comparing the paper in his hand against the information on the screen. "What's this mark on the original?" he asked. "It's not on my copy."
The woman swung the monitor back. "As I said, certified copies omit information that's not pertinent to establishing proof of citizenship or date of birth. This mark indicates that Madeleine Rainier had a twin." She clicked on a link and a second record appeared. "A brother, Marcus . . . three pounds, seven ounces. Born eight minutes after." She checked Madeleine Rainier's record. "And runt of the litter. The sister was six pounds, three ounces."
Poincaré backed his chair away from her. "Curious."
"Inspector, this is the difference between certified and uncertified. Weren't you listening? Some people don't care if others know they're a twin, which is their right. But we assume most people want their privacy, so all certified birth certificates mailed from this office list a single name only."
She reminded him of a teacher he had been saddled with for a year in primary school. She fixed him with a stare. "Do you understand?"
"I understand," he said. He asked for copies of Rainier's full certificate and her brother's, then pointed to the address common to each. "They lived in Minneapolis. Is this street nearby?"
She turned off the monitor. "You say you're visiting from France?"
"That's right."
"Then it's nearby. Forty minutes in traffic."
POINCARÉ HAD tracked serial killers from large, extended families at whose trials siblings and parents wrung their hands and said: We never saw it coming! Banović had brothers. France's own Jack the Ripper, Joseph Vacher, had a sister. Still, Poincaré never quite expected that anyone damaged enough to land on his case list could be other than a lone, unhappy child.
So Rainier had a brother. Poincaré doubted the news would materially affect the case, and he doubted that after nearly three decades he would find anything useful at her childhood home. Still, he handed his driver an address and sat back, reviewing what information he had on Madeleine Rainier. Forty-four minutes later—he expected no less from Mrs. Reynolds—he approached the neighborhood on a street not much wider than a bike path that followed the shoreline of several connected lakes. The homes were stucco and brick, stately with well-tended lawns and picture windows through which he could see thick curtains and chandeliers. The driver stopped before one of the larger homes, and Poincaré followed a terraced walkway to a portico supported by four large columns. He knocked and admired the view across the lake, to the towers of Minneapolis.
The man who answered the door was so stooped at the shoulders that he had to strain his neck to receive his visitor. "May I help you?" The strong voice surprised Poincaré. He showed his badge, which the man studied as if it were a relic. He looked from the badge to Poincaré, and back again. "I was a federal judge in a former life," he said. "Is one of my cases coming back to bite me?"
From down the hallway, someone called: "Who is it, Nate?"
"One moment, dear . . . What's this about?"
"Mr. Rainier?"
The man looked perplexed. "No. Nathan Jorgenson."
Poincaré showed him the birth certificates, pointing out the address on each. Then the names. "Have I come to the wrong place, Monsieur?"
The man studied the certificates and, after a moment, craned his neck once more. "I haven't seen this name or thought of these people in a long time. Please come in, Inspector. My wife should hear this."
Poincaré followed him down a hallway off of which he saw a parlor, a music room, a staircase, a dining room, and a kitchen. At the back of the house he turned right into the smallest of the rooms, with a window that looked over an herb garden. Mrs. Jorgenson, seated in a wheelchair beside a space heater, set aside her needlepoint and smiled as her husband introduced their visitor. Poincaré noted examples of framed lace on the walls and said: "You did these? I n
ever saw finer work in Bruges. Where do you find the patience?"
Mrs. Jorgenson laughed and patted her legs. "Right here. It's my specialty, sitting. And even if the rest of me is falling apart, my hands and my eyes are still good enough to sew. What can we do for you, Inspector?"
"He came asking about the Rainier children, Anna."
Her husband sat beside her.
Poincaré stated his business and, in the moment it took Anna and Nathan Jorgenson to work through difficult emotions, he wondered if Claire and he would have the chance to grow old together. Did he even want to live long enough to see her in a wheelchair?
"It's a terribly sad story," Mrs. Jorgenson began. "We never met the children. There were three of them."
"Three? I understood Madeleine had a fraternal twin."
"She did. And also an older brother. She was two and the older one was four, I believe, at the time of the accident. We bought the house about a year after. . . . From what we learned, the Rainiers were a young, professional family. I believe the father was an attorney and the mother taught at the university. The children were home one Friday evening with a sitter. The parents had gone to the theater, and on their way back a drunk ran a stop sign and killed them. They had no relations. And remarkably, there was no will. I never understood that—except, possibly, I heard the family had moved to the Twin Cities after some failed business venture back east. I believe the twins were born here. The older child was born in Massachusetts, I think. Or Connecticut. That was it. They came from New Haven. The mother taught at Yale."
"But this house," said Poincaré. "How could they have afforded it?"
"Apparently the woman was a brilliant chemist, and to lure her the university bought the house and paid the mortgage. The Rainiers didn't own it. They had tied up everything in that business, and they were starting over."
"They had even cashed out their life insurance policies," said the husband, "to pay off debts. It was an honorable thing to do. They avoided bankruptcy, but it ruined them. A sad affair. The children were left penniless."
"And with no family to take them in!" said the wife. "They stayed with neighbors until arrangements could be made. There was plenty of talk about what should be done, but in the end, no one in the neighborhood was willing to take on three orphans without a nickel to their name. The state put them up for adoption. I know they were separated, but I don't know what became of them after."
Anna Jorgenson's white hair was thinner than her husband's. A plaid, wool blanket hid her legs. "Nate," she said. "I know this business was settled before we ever moved into the house. But I wish we had taken them. We came from out of state," she said to Poincaré. "We hadn't heard about the accident. But I wonder sometimes what if the timing had been different. We could have taken them and they would at least have had each other and this house and their neighborhood." She put a handkerchief to her nose. "We had five, Inspector. What's three more? . . . You know, the heart breaks. It does."
CHAPTER 29
Poincaré woke to news of a suicide bombing in Piccadilly Circus, near the Shaftesbury Memorial. The morning broadcasts showed nothing but demolished shops and sobbing witnesses describing how a man shouted Jesus is the Lord! moments before detonating himself. And then the flash and body parts mingling with sundresses and tank tops. The toll: twelve dead, including a pregnant mother of three.
This particular bombing for Christ was the first of its kind on British soil. Six other countries in the EU had been hit, as had the United States at Rockefeller Center and Fisherman's Wharf. Previous bombers had worn vests stuffed with explosives, ball bearings, and nails beneath loose-fitting white robes—a signature obvious enough for Soldiers of Rapture everywhere to come under increased scrutiny. The London bomber avoided detection by placing his vest beneath a turquoise Hawaiian shirt accented with palm trees and pineapples. In a video mailed to the Times, he spoke of the Tribulation in a calm, well-schooled British accent that was notable mainly because early suspicion had centered on American evangelicals. "The Troubles are upon us," he declared, standing before his Webcam in robes. "And I am compelled to contribute. I sincerely hope my martyrdom will hurry the Second Coming and bring blessings to all." He stated his sincere belief that, upon killing himself, he would rise to Paradise. He also offered thanks for the privilege of escorting those who died with him to the Master's right hand. Poincaré could only think how ordinary he looked, like any neighbor anywhere setting out for a stroll with his family to a park. If this man could blow himself up, everyone was suspect.
Swiftly and predictably, in the harshest language, spokesmen for the Roman Catholic and Greek Orthodox churches, the Anglicans, and mainline Protestants condemned all violence in the name of Christ. But their outrage had done nothing to stop previous Christianinspired bombings, so no one listened now. Nor were many consoled by public figures who advised against creating monsters from unlikely threats. According to statisticians, the risk of dying at the hand of a Rapturian bomber was roughly that of dying from a direct asteroid hit. Nonetheless, a new class of Bogeyman was born: the Caucasian Christian fundamentalist male bent on destruction for the greater good. Jihadist suicide bombers in Kabul now had cousins: self-detonating Joneses and Bellinghams in Piccadilly Circus. A teenager who survived the London bombing summed up the mood this way: "If I can't run to the store for a pair of socks without risking my life, what's the bloody point?"
In the lobby of the Elmer L. Andersen Human Services Building in downtown St. Paul, Poincaré consulted a directory listing and soon found the State of Minnesota Adoption Office, where a courteous clerk told him, in effect, to go away. "Sir, I can't release personal information without a court order." The man held his ground, politely, no matter how many ways Poincaré angled to see Rainier's file. Finally the clerk explained that if Poincaré was determined he could go to the state police, who would establish his bona fides and point him to an administrative judge for an order to release the file. "Look," said the man. "I don't know your business, but I've seen all kinds of unhappiness caused by mishandling confidential records. I've seen information released that the adoptees don't know themselves—about birth parents, for instance, and financial records. I'm sure you have your reasons, but we've got ours. If you want to see anything, you'll need a judge's order."
Poincaré devoted the rest of the morning to meeting with the state police. It was just early enough in St. Paul that the Interpol offices in Lyon were still open and could verify his credentials. The police, who were also able to view and download the Red Notice on Rainier, were helpful—but not helpful enough to spare Poincaré several hours filling out forms. Eventually, an aide walked him to a nearby courthouse and, spotting the judge they were seeking, dashed ahead to make an introduction. Before Poincaré could say a word, he was given to understand that whatever his business, the judge's was more important. In recess from a trial, she looked at her watch and said: "I understand the request, Inspector. What's the compelling interest in releasing information on Marcus and Theodore Rainier when it's the sister you're after? You've got ninety seconds."
"She might be seeking refuge with either, your Honor."
The judge arched her eyebrows. "The file indicates they last saw each other twenty-six years ago. You'll have to do better than that. What, I repeat, is the compelling interest? . . . You've now got sixty seconds."
"They may know her whereabouts."
"That assumes she's located them. In any event, I'm not moved by may. Denied. I'll sign for Madeleine Rainier's file—no one else's." She stepped inside her chambers and closed the door in his face before he could say thank you.
He lost no time returning to the adoption office, where the clerk was waiting with Rainier's file already called up on a microfiche reader. "The state police gave me a heads-up, and I located the file. Here we are." He pulled a second chair to the reader, and the first thing that struck Poincaré was the photograph of Rainier, age two years, four months: straight blonde hair, oval face, dimpled chi
n, the same gray eyes—unmistakably the person who a quarter century later would appear too fragile to place in custody. He read the file closely, taking notes, and asked the clerk for a hard copy. "How would I find out if she attempted to contact her brothers?" he asked. "Wouldn't you expect a child who learns she's adopted and has siblings to want to find them? You must keep those records."
"We do," the clerk answered, checking the administrative order. "But you have no access." The man shrugged. "It's frustrating, I know. But imagine you're Marcus or Theodore Rainier—or whatever their names are now. You're twenty-eight and," he checked the file, "thirty years old. And out of the blue an Interpol agent knocks on your door with questions about a sister you never knew about. You have no problem with this?"
"I'm investigating a murder," said Poincaré.
"And both of these men have the right to lives that don't get turned upside down. But we could debate this until the cows come home. The judge said no." The clerk reached behind his desk for a phone directory and found the name listed on Rainier's adoption record. He circled it, then turned the directory around for Poincaré to see. "Same address. They're still here, as of a year ago when this directory was printed. Good luck."
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