by Kathy Reichs
Melting snowdrifts, blackened by oil and car exhaust, oozed murky runoff into the gutters and onto the sidewalks. Our heels clicked wet tattoos as we hurried along the pavement.
The small restaurant was packed, but we were seated quickly. I ordered the arugula and fennel salad to start. Ryan chose the butternut squash soup. We both went with the moules et frites for our mains. Mussels and fries.
While waiting to be served, I made a point to ask Ryan about Agnes and Rupert. The noise level was such that we had to lean close to converse.
“How was Idle Acres?”
“Met a rottweiler named Jose.”
“A rottweiler under twenty-five pounds?”
“I didn’t query Jose’s weight. He didn’t query the purpose of my call.”
“Fair enough.”
“Turns out the park has a new owner. Arnie Kim. Kim said the place had changed hands several times. He bought it two years back and didn’t know Rupert or Agnes.
“Did Kim have any old records?”
“It’s a trailer park.”
“Did he know the former owner’s name?”
“He did. Jimmie Gardner.”
“Did he know Gardner’s whereabouts?”
“He did not.”
Our starters arrived. Ryan and I spent time with salt and pepper. I ordered another Perrier with lime. He ordered another Moosehead, then picked up the thread.
“Undaunted, I phoned every Jimmie and James Gardner in every phone directory in Vermont.”
“Sounds daunting.”
“I always get my man.”
“Seriously?”
“Would I kid about something like that?” Ryan’s eyes sparked like sapphires in the flickering candlelight. “Gardner remembered Rupert, vaguely recalled Agnes and their son, Zeke, from the few times the two had stopped by. Their last name is Schultz, by the way. He didn’t care for Zeke.”
“Why not?”
“Jimmie’s reasoning was unclear.” Ryan finished his soup and laid his spoon on the table. “Weekdays, Rupert stayed at Idle Acres because it was closer to the plant where he worked. Weekends, he drove home to a spit-on-the-map town called Ferdinand.”
Downing a slug of beer, Ryan leaned back in his chair.
“And?” I prompted.
“I did some detecting in Ferdinand.”
Ryan’s account was terminated by the arrival of our food.
My selection was all I’d hoped it would be. The dessert, a tall concoction involving chocolate mousse, cherries, and whipped cream, was even better. By the time we finished and Ryan paid the bill, over my protests, it was half past ten.
Ornery after a day of restraint, the storm was finally letting loose. Ryan offered to go for the car, but I insisted we both make a run for it. A brief argument, in two languages, he agreed.
Hand in hand, we jogged up Laurier, largely deserted except for cars forced to both curbs. The deluge pounded their windshields, hoods, and roofs. The wind, gusting now, spun dead leaves in circles around our feet. Buildings, trees, and utility poles appeared as peachy blurs in the muffled radiance of the sodium lights.
We were sprinting, hunched, water streaking our hair and faces, when the street was illuminated from behind. I saw Ryan glance over his shoulder, followed his sight line to a set of headlights half a block back.
I could see little through the veil of rain. But two things registered. The paired orbs were enlarging. A fog light, glowing amber on the left, was dark on the right.
A few seconds, then the headlights winged left and disappeared onto avenue Durocher. Ryan quickened our pace. Uneasy?
Moments later, a vehicle turned onto Laurier from avenue Querbes, ahead and coming our way. As before, I couldn’t make out the model, the plate, the driver, or the number of passengers. But a single detail was clear. One fog light was dead.
“That’s the same car!” I shouted to be heard.
Not needed. Ryan’s grip on my hand had tightened, and his body had tensed.
Before he or I could react, an engine growled, and the headlights swelled in a rush.
The car was barreling straight at us.
16
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 29–SATURDAY, OCTOBER 30
The next sequence of events seemed to last a lifetime. In reality, it played out in seconds.
The headlights drilled through the downpour, expanding and separating with terrifying speed.
Ryan’s years of training kicked in. Grabbing my shoulders, he spun me and shoved with both hands.
I flew sideways. One foot caught the curb, and I crashed to my knees.
Raising myself up on my palms, I twisted for a view of the street.
Ryan was a black silhouette in the blinding glare of the double beams.
Words flashed in my mind. From some long-ago passage on threat assessment. A vehicle’s first pass is to confirm. Its second pass is to kill.
No! A voice screamed.
Mine?
Unbidden, my mind logged data. The vehicle was low and sleek and sounded like the Millennium Falcon. The driver was a blur behind the wheel. When he floored it, the rear tires spun on the wet pavement. The car fishtailed and arrowed straight for Ryan.
And closed in fast.
Ten feet.
Five.
Then sounds that will forever haunt my dreams.
The dull boom as the grille slammed Ryan’s flesh. The sharp crack as his skull struck sheet metal. The shss-thud as his body slid downward and hit the ground.
The car roared off. I squinted to read the plate. Saw only taillights shrinking to red dots, then vanishing into the night.
Heart thundering, I scrambled to my feet and, ignoring the pain in my knee, hobble-scurried to Ryan’s still body.
After he was thrown high by the impact, Ryan’s forward motion had been stopped by one corner of a bus shelter. He lay at its base, motionless, limbs twisted all wrong. Blood smeared the shelter’s street-facing wall in a streak that ended at his head.
Chest heaving, I fumbled my phone from my pocket. Blinded by a mix of rain and tears, it took me two tries to punch 911.
That done, I dropped beside Ryan. Ever so gently, fearful of causing further damage, I tested his carotid for a pulse.
Felt a timorous trembling?
In the distance, a siren wailed.
Around me, dead leaves swirled in a vortex.
“I love you, Andrew Ryan,” I sobbed to the rain-scented air.
Then I waited.
Watching Ryan’s blood washing from the dingy glass.
* * *
Seven hours later, I sat slumped in a chair drawn close to Ryan’s bed, a frenzy of emotions battling inside me. Anger. Fear. Regret. Ryan had taken the hit trying to protect me.
Fear dominated. An icy burning in my chest.
Muted sounds drifted through the open door. An elevator chiming. A cart rattling. A robotic voice paging a code.
My mind kept flashing back to the ambulance ride. To Ryan’s bloody face pulsing red, then going dark. To the brace on his neck. The mask on his mouth.
To the mantra throbbing in my brain. He is breathing. His heart is beating.
At the hospital, while Ryan was rushed away for X-rays, or a CT scan, or an MRI, maybe surgery, I’d been examined, under protest, in the ER. I’d wrenched one knee and scraped one elbow. Otherwise, I’d escaped unhurt.
Once released from the ER, I’d waited in the lobby. The chair was molded plastic. One edge was chipped, the gap shaped like a unicorn’s head.
Funny, the things you remember.
As word spread, law enforcement descended on the hospital, both SPVM and SQ. Leaving their cruisers and unmarked Impalas and Crown Vics jammed at odd angles outside the main entrance, they’d swarmed the atrium. Furious, powerless, showing support by their presence.
The case fell to the SPVM, the city cops. Two detectives questioned me, one apologetic, the other with his usual bully approach, each determined to nail the bastard who’d injured o
ne of their own. Luc Claudel and Michel Charbonneau. I’d worked with both.
Still high on adrenaline and crazy with worry for Ryan, I’d tried to provide as detailed an account as possible. It wasn’t very detailed. Charbonneau was sympathetic. Claudel was peeved.
I’d described our path up Laurier. Shared my impression of the vehicle. Told them I’d been unable to see the driver or the plate. Looked blank when Claudel asked if the assault was intentional or a hit-and-run.
Eventually, they’d all gone.
Now we were in this room with its overcomplicated bed and beeping machines. Gauze protected the right side of Ryan’s head. A sheet covered his body from the neck down, leaving only his arms exposed. A pronged tube sent oxygen into his nose. A needle infused liquids into a vein in his wrist. The IV arm lay tucked to his torso. The other lay loosely flexed across his chest.
For hours, I’d watched the lines on the screens trace their erratic mountains and valleys. For hours, I’d listened to the rhythmic pinging of the sensors.
Though exhausted, I’d refused to allow myself sleep. Irrational, I know. But I needed to stay awake to will the tracing and pinging to continue. I’d been told that the films hadn’t shown any cranial fracture. Probably because the plexiglass bus shelter had kept him from slamming directly against the concrete.
I got up and crossed to the window. Overnight, the rain and clouds had departed. The sun was sending its first tentative feelers above the horizon, lighting the multicolored buildings of Montreal General. Beyond the complex, the hills of Westmount shimmered hazy blue-gray, like the colors and textures of a Monet painting.
I recalled the surgeon’s words. Good news and bad. Though there was no fracture, a CT scan had picked up an epidural hematoma. Immediate surgery was needed.
An eon later, she’d returned, eyes caring, voice calm through the fatigue. She’d made a tiny burr hole in Ryan’s skull to drain the pooled blood and relieve the pressure. All had gone well. Now we must be patient.
So, I was waiting.
I thought of the many years Ryan and I had spent together. The joys and sorrows. The shared challenges. The shared sense of accomplishment when we’d solved a case. The mutual frustration and disappointment when we hadn’t.
Ryan and I had seen much death together. Lives ended in every imaginable way. Male, female, old, young. Throughout our careers, we’d often been the bearers of life-changing news. Informed anxious next of kin that their loved ones were dead. Given comfort by reporting that a killer had been found.
Death was a constant in our work. We’d had our ups and downs, and Ryan hadn’t always been there. But when we were together, he’d listen as I unburdened myself, and he’d offer comfort and support.
I felt a tremor in my chest. Was fighting it down when a nurse appeared, rubber soles noiseless on the immaculate tile. She was silver-haired and hefty, probably looking at retirement in the next few years. A badge on her scrubs said S. Beauvais.
“Bonjour.” S. Beauvais gave a quick dip of her chin.
“Bonjour,” I said.
S. Beauvais began checking fluid levels and dials and tracings, hair gleaming aqua-green in the monitor’s reflected light. “My night-shift colleagues tell me you have been here throughout.”
“Yes,” I said.
“You must be exhausted.”
“I’m good.” I watched S. Beauvais, impressed with the fluidity and efficiency of her movements. And with her perceptive abilities. I was, indeed, épuisée.
“He will sleep a while. This is normal. You might use this opportunity to do the same?”
“I don’t wan—”
“We will call if there is any change in his condition.”
I said nothing,
“To be of value, a caregiver must be fit and alert.”
I stared at Nurse S. Beauvais’s broad back as it disappeared through the door. She was right. Which annoyed the hell out of me.
Agitated, I pulled my phone from my pocket to check for messages. No signal. I knew that. I’d repeated the ritual a thousand times.
I resumed my vigil.
In the eerie cast-off light from the monitor, Ryan’s face looked gaunt, his eyes more deeply set than normal. Each showed the beginning of a spectacular shiner.
I watched Ryan’s sheet-clad chest rise and fall. Rise and fall. Rise and fall.
The sensors pinged.
My lids drew together. My chin dropped.
My head snapped up. I was losing the battle.
I rose from my chair.
I’d worn a silk dress for our “date” at Leméac. The fabric was as wrinkled as the face of a mountain apple doll, the bright red mottled by raindrops and smeared with blood.
I brushed both hands over the skirt and tugged the sleeves down to my wrists. Pointless. No one I saw would care how I looked. I dug Ryan’s keys from the plastic bag holding his belongings, grabbed my coat, and left.
Out on the street, my mobile offered five full bars. I flipped screens and clicked on an icon.
It was rush hour. The Uber would take twenty minutes.
To pass the time, I checked my messages. No texts, one voice mail. A number in Charleston, South Carolina.
I clicked on. Listened.
“Vislosky here. Thought you’d want to know. Jessica Jeben is alive and shacking with her man Sling in Myrtle Beach. So we’re back to base zero. You have questions, you know where to reach me.”
It was too early to return Vislosky’s call. And I was too shattered.
Behind me, dawn was lighting the empty spaces between the hospital’s many buildings and gleaming off the meltwater-crusted snow. Above me, the branches of a maple shifted stiffly in a breeze.
The Uber arrived after thirty minutes, a green Dodge Dart with a driver named Farid. Farid drove me to Ryan’s Jeep. I drove the Jeep to the condo.
After feeding Birdie, I stripped off and tossed the devastated dress. Then I showered for a very long time. Before dropping into bed, I lowered the window shades and set the alarm for noon.
Birdie joined me, nonjudgmental over his night spent solo. Perhaps sensing my distress, he pressed close and set to purring in earnest.
Though comforting, the cat wasn’t enough. At that moment, I needed human solace.
I dialed Anne. Her voice mail answered.
Of course, it did. The clock said 7:22 a.m. I left a message. Call me.
Mama was incommunicado on one of her spiritual retreats.
Katy was in Afghanistan.
Pete? Nope. My ex had problems of his own.
The bed was so big. So empty.
I felt utterly alone.
And for the first time in my life, I felt true hatred and rage.
Lying there, I was overcome with a loathing so intense I could taste it in my mouth. I burned with a primal yearning to hunt down the person who’d injured Ryan.
But who was that person? A man, I assumed.
Why?
Was Ryan the target? Was I? Were we both?
I knew what I had to do.
17
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 30
Clanging church bells jarred me awake.
It took several seconds to orient.
Leméac. The incident on Laurier. Ryan.
I grabbed my phone. It showed no missed calls.
I threw on slacks and a sweater, then did a half-hearted job with my morning toilette. After feeding Birdie, who eyed me with disbelief, I gathered items I thought Ryan might want. Then, avoiding eye contact with the cat, I grabbed my jacket and purse and bolted.
Saturday afternoon. Traffic was light. Even with a stop for coffee and a croissant, I was at the hospital by one forty-five.
The nicely permed lady at reception was named Veronique. I told Veronique I was there for Andrew Ryan. Her red-lacquered nails clacked on a keyboard. Lots of keys, lots of clacks. Then she looked up and informed me that the patient was in room 1807.
I crossed to the elevators, pleased that Ryan had progres
sed from the ICU. Irked that I hadn’t been called as promised.
Everyone around me had flowers, balloons, or stuffed creatures. I was debating a trip to the gift shop when the elevator doors whooshed open. I boarded and ascended with the gaggle of gift bearers.
The room was a single with a standard-issue bed, swivel-arm table, chair, and narrow wardrobe. Bad floral curtains were open, allowing a pretty good view of the complex.
The patient was propped on pillows eating Jell-O from a small plastic cup.
Big Ryan smile as I came through the door. “Bonjour, ma chère.”
“Nice digs,” I said.
“Exquisite,” he said.
“You look like someone beat the snot out of you.” Low-keying it, feeling tears threatening at the sight of his face.
“You should see the other guy.”
I crossed to Ryan. He put the Jell-O on hold to receive my kiss.
“I brought you some things.” Holding up the overnighter. “PJs, dopp kit, phone, the Stephen King you were reading. I wasn’t sure what you’d want.”
“You’re the best.”
“That’s why they pay me the mediocre bucks.” I placed the bag on a shelf in the wardrobe.
“How’s the Birdcat?” Ryan asked.
“Annoyed at being left alone so much.”
“He’ll get over it.”
“He will.”
As Ryan finished the Jell-O, with far more enthusiasm than the green goop warranted, I dragged the chair to his bedside.
“You’re really rocking the new look.” Ryan’s hair was spiking in clumps around the bandage taped to his head.
“Below this dressing is manly bare bone.” Pointing with the spoon to his right parietal.
“You could tattoo it.”
“There’s also a wee hole.”
“Work it into the design.”
“I’ll give it some thought.”
“You seem extraordinarily chipper,” I said.
“Could be some pharmaceuticals involved.” Now the spoon indicated the drip line running into his arm.
“Better living through chemistry,” I said.
“How’s the weather?”
“Winter is back and appears to be planning an extended stay.” I relieved him of the empty Jell-O cup and spoon. “How long have you been awake?”
