by Kathy Reichs
"Pretty soon we're going to need some kind of permit with all the photosynthesis going on in here."
Wriggling to sit higher, he reached for the orange juice on his tray, winced and pulled back.
"Let me help with that."
I handed him the glass, and he settled into his pillows, closing his lips around the straw
"How's the breathing?"
"O.K." He rested the glass on his chest.
The bullet intended for Crease had caught Kit at a high angle. It fractured two ribs, nicked a lung, and exited through muscle. A complete recovery was expected.
"Have they busted these sons of bitches yet?"
I turned to my sister. She sat in a corner chair, her long legs braided like a Chinese contortionist s.
"The getaway cycle got away. The guy who survived the Jeep crash has been charged with attempted murder, among other things. He's cooperating with the police."
"Tempe, if I get my
"Harm do you think you could ask the nurse for another vase?"
"I get it. Time for an auntie-nephie chat. I'll scoot for a nicotine hit." She gathered her purse, kissed her son on the top of the head, and stepped into the corridor, leaving behind a trail of Cristalle.
Perching on the side of the bed, I squeezed Kit's hand. It felt cool and pliant.
"Acey, peachy?"
"It's a drag, Aunt Tempe. Every five minutes some nurse sticks me with a needle or shoves a thermometer up my butt. And we're not talking 'Hot Lips' Houlihan here. These women feed on small furry things."
"Uh-huh."
"And they're saying I have to stay another two or three days." "The doctors want to be sure that lung won't collapse again." He hesitated, then, "What was the count?"
"In addition to you and Crease, two family members were wounded, and three Heathens and Rock Machine bikers were killed. Of the attackers, one got away, one was killed, two died in a crash, and one was captured. It was a bloodbath the likes of which has seldom been seen in Canada."
He dropped his eyes and picked at the blanket with his free hand.
"How's he doing.
"He'll make it. But he's about to be charged with the Cherokee Desiardins murder"
"I know Lyle didn't kill that guy. He couldn't." "He tried to sacrifice you to protect himself." Kit said nothing.
"And he was using you to get information.~~
"He may have done that, but he would never murder anyone.
I pictured the skull and crossbones, but said nothing to contradict him.
"Why did he bring you to that funeral?"
"He didn't want to, but I was crazy to see the bikes. I told him I'd go on my own if he didn't take me. Hell, except for going to that cycle shop, Lyle didn't even hang around with those guys. When we went there he tried to look cool, but I could tell nobody really knew him."
I remembered my conversation with Charbonneau, and our initial suspicion that Crease had been a double agent. In retrospect the idea seemed ludicrous. It was ironic, however, that my worry for Kit had been based on fear of his involvement with bikers. I should have worried about Lyle Crease.
Kit worked a thread loose with his finger
"Look, Aunt Tempe, I'm sorry for all the grief I've caused you."
He swallowed, doubled back on his finger with the thread.
"The Preacher and those other guys are losers who can't even get it together to buy their own wheels."
I'd already learned this from Claudel, but let him go on.
"I let you think they were big-ass bikers to make myself look cool. Instead I almost got you killed."
"Kit, who was the man outside my condo?"
"I really, honestly don't know He was probably some goof just passing by." A grin teased the corners of his mouth. "Maybe he was applying for a job at the place that cut your hair."
I gently punched his good shoulder. This time I believed him.
"Hey, careful with the rough stuff. I'm an invalid."
He took a sip of juice and handed me the glass.
"What about that eyeball?"
"The police think the Vipers put it on my car to discourage further interest in their history."
A pause. On-screen, a man mouthed the news while stock prices ticked by below
"I think I'm going to look into school when I get back home. Try a few courses. See how it goes."
"I think that's a wonderful idea, Kit."
"You must think I'm about as dumb as a largemouth bass."
"Maybe a perch."
"I hope you don't give up on me.
"Never"
Embarrassed, he changed the subject.
"How's your boss?"
"Much better. He's starting to give the nurses a hard time.
"I'm with him there. And Ryan?"
"Don't push it, fish brain."
"How long do you think he'll be moonin' around here, expecting flowers and caramel clusters?" Harry stood in the doorway, a smile on her lips, a vase in her hand. Both were the same geranium red.
Leaving the hospital, I drove home, had dinner with Birdie, and began a series of household tasks. A return to normalcy by immersion in the mundane. That was the plan and it was working.
Until the doorbell chirped.
Dumping an armload of dirty sweaters, I glanced at my watch. Eight-fifteen. Too early for Harry.
Curious, I went to check the security screen.
What the hell?
Sergeant-Detective Luc Claudel stood in my vestibule, hands clasped behind his back, weight shifting from the heels to the balls of his feet.
"So much for normalcy," I muttered as I buzzed him in.
"Bonsoir, Monsieur Claudel."
"Bonsoir. I apologize for disturbing you at your home, but there has been a development." His jaw tensed, as though what he had to say was pushing him to the limits of civility. "I thought that you should know"
Courtesy from Claudel? In English? What now?
Birdie did a figure eight around my ankles, but offered no conjecture.
I stepped back and gestured the detective inside. He entered and waited stiffly as I closed the door, then followed me to the living room sofa. Settling into the armchair opposite, I remembered my conversation with Ryan's partner, Jean Bertrand, and the thought of Ryan brought the usual stomach clutch.
God, please let him be safe!
I pushed the thought aside and waited for Claudel to speak.
He cleared his throat and looked away from me.
"You were right about George Dorsey. He did not kill Cherokee Desjardins."
There was a revelation.
"Nor did Lyle Crease."
I stared at him, too surprised to respond.
"Shortly before her death Jocelyn Dion mailed a letter to her mother giving information about a number of illegal biker activities. Among the subjects discussed were the shooting of Emily Anne Toussaint and Richard 'Spider' Marcotte, and the murder of Cherokee Desjardins."
"Why did she do that?"
"Her motives were complex. First and foremost, she feared for her own life and felt the letter might confer protection. In addition, she was angry over Dorsey's murder, which, by the way, was ordered by his own gang. Jocelyn Dion was living with George Dorsey at the time of his death."
I felt heat climb the sides of my neck, but did not let on what Jocelyn had said about Dorsey's death.
"Was Dorsey killed because he spoke with me?" Claudel ignored the question.
"Dion also felt remorse for certain of her own actions, including the killing of Cherokee Desjardins."
"What?" I blurted in astonishment.
"That is correct. Jocelyn Dion killed Desjardins."
"But Jocelyn told me she heard Crease bludgeon and shoot him." "It seems your clerk was somewhat economical with the truth." He tented his fingers under his chin.
"According to the young lady's letter, she'd gone to Deslardins for drugs when Crease showed up, wanting the infamous barroom photo. The men argued, Crease
knocked Cherokee unconscious with a pipe, then began ransacking the apartment. Hearing noises in the bedroom, he panicked and fled.
"It seems your Jocelyn had a big habit and a short budget. She went over there high on drugs, and saw the situation as an opportunity to stock her medicine chest. When Crease left, she battered Desjardins' unconscious body, dragged it to a chair, and used a shotgun to remove his face."
"Why bother to shoot him?"
"She didn't want Desjardins coming after her. Also, she was stoned, but sober enough to realize that she had to cover her tracks, so she made it look like a biker hit." Claudel dropped his hands. "On that point you were correct.
More throat clearing, then he went on.
"Thinking it contained more pharmaceuticals, Dion retrieved a package Crease had dropped. It contained an old photograph of Crease and Desjardins. Later, she cooked up a blackmail scheme, figuring that if Crease wanted the picture badly enough to fight for it, he might be willing to pay."
"In the meantime, the Heathens heard about my meeting with Dorsey and ordered his death." Again the tension in my neck.
"Yes. Fearing for her own safety, Dion cooked up and floated the story that Crease had murdered Desjardins. The Vipers got wind and decided payback was due. Desjardins had been an Angel, his killer was an Angel dropout, despised by the brothers, and his killer had to die. Also, they had not settled the Spider Marcotte account, as far as they were concerned. They phoned New York for outside help, persuaded Dion to lure Crease to Dorsey's funeral, and decided they would settle several Heathen scores at the same time.
A pause.
"It must have been Jocelyn who left the picture on my desk."
"To throw suspicion toward Crease." I thought of something else.
"That's why Cherokee's blood was on that jacket."
"For once the little lizard was telling the truth. The jacket belonged to Jocelyn, but Dorsey couldn't admit that if he wanted to protect hen"
"And meeting with me got him killed." I bit down on my lip.
"Dorsey was killed because his brothers feared he was about to turn on them. Had it not been you, he'd have contacted someone else."
I felt myself swallow.
"Do you believe Dion's letter?"
"Largely, yes. We'd already had reason to suspect Lecomte in the Marcotte-Toussaint murders. We are keeping him under close surveillance. The prosecutor feels that what you heard Dion scream as she was shot is not enough to arrest him now, but in time, we will know"
"Undoubtedly Jocelyn was the leak at our lab."
"She got the position there to spy for the Heathens, but wasn't averse to an occasional chat with the press.
"When approved by the home office."
"Yes."
Claudel drew air through his nose, exhaled.
"These biker gangs are the mafia of the new millennium, and have tremendous power over those attracted to them. Jocelyn Dion was among those who feed at the bottom of the chain, the hookers, the pimps, the strippers, the petty street dealers. She probably needed clearance to take her mother to Sunday Mass.
"One rung up are the more successful entrepreneurs, the chop shop operators, the fences, the bar owners, those who are allowed to hang around because they wash dirty money or perform some service useful to the club. Climb higher and one finds the fullpatchers who run their own drug cells. At the very top are men with links to cartels in Mexico and Colombia, and to their counterparts in gangs worldwide."
I'd never seen Claudel so animated.
"And who are these degenerates who make their living off the weak? Most have neither the moral nor intellectual ability to complete a traditional educational process or function in an open market. They use women because, deep down, they fear them. They are uneducated, self-deluded, and, in many cases, physically inadequate, so they have themselves tattooed, create nicknames, and band together to reinforce their shared nihilism."
He took a deep breath and slowly shook his head.
"Sonny Barger is in retirement, probably writing his autobiography. Millions will buy the book, and Hollywood will make a film. The Wdd Ones will be romanticized anew, and the myth will deceive another generation."
Claudel rubbed his face in his hands.
"And the flow of drugs will continue to our school yards, and to the ghettos of the hopeless."
He shot his sleeves, straightened each gold cuff link, and stood. When he spoke again, his voice was hard as tempered steel.
"It is ironic. As the Angels carried out their slaughter at the cemetery their opponents were sending forth assassins of their own. I do not know which of these subhumans killed George Dorsey, and I do not have the evidence to prove that Lecomte shot Jocelyn Dion, Spider Marcotte, and Emily Anne Toussaint, but I will. One day I will."
He looked me dead in the eyes.
"And I wilJ not rest until this evil is driven from my city." "Do you believe that can be done?"
He nodded, hesitated, then, "We will be a team?" Without hesitation, I nodded back.
"Oui."
Chapter 40
The next morning I slept late, went to the gym, then brought coffee and doughnuts home and shared them with my sister When Harry left for the hospital, I phoned the lab. There were no anthropology cases, so I was free to reactivate the plan interrupted by Claudel's visit.
I soaked the sweaters, then launched myself full speed at the refrigerator. Items older than one month, I threw away. Ditto for anything that could not be identified.
My mood was better than it had been in weeks. Claudel had come around once again to admitting my value as a colleague. I was confident that he, Charbonneau, and Quickwater would pursue the investigation until the Dorsey and Dion killers were behind bars.
I had apologized to Martin Quickwater, and the man seemed to hold no grudge. He'd even smiled in my direction.
LaManche was recovering.
Savannah Osprey's murder had been resolved, and her bones were heading to her family.
Katy would be home in two weeks. My nephew was going to be fine, in every sense of the word.
And my hair was showing signs of growth.
The only shadow in my life was cast by worry over Ryan's safety. He had broken cover to save my life, and I prayed that action would not cost him his. I hoped fervently it had not been another deadly decision.
Right perfection wrongly disgraced.
The line still brought tears to my eyes.
I knew Ryan couldn't contact me, and had no idea when I would see him again.
It didn't matter. I could wait.
I tossed a lump of old Cheddar into the garbage bag.
But it might take time.
Two jars of congealed jelly. Out.
I would definitely need that theme song.
I've got sunshine on a cloudy day…
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Kathy Reichs is forensic anthropologist for the Office of the Chief Medical Examiner, State of North Carolina, and for the Laboratoire de Sciences Judiciaires et de Médecine Legale for the province of Quebec. She is one of only fifty forensic anthropologists certifled by the American Board of Forensic Anthropology and is on the Board of Directors of the American Academy of Forensic Sciences. A professor of anthropology at the University of North Carolina at Charlotte, Dr. Reichs is a native of Chicago, where she received her Ph.D. at Northwestern. She now divides her time between Charlotte and Montreal and is a frequent expert witness in criminal trials. Her first novel, Deja Dead, catapulted Dr. Reichs to fame when it became a New York Times bestseller and won the 1997 Ellis Award for Best First Novel. Deadly Decisions is her third novel featuring Temperance Brennan.
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