by Kathy Reichs
Were they ever in?
I left a verbal message with the receptionist, then a numeric one on Charbonneau’s pager.
Back to my lab.
Anticipating what I might find, I carried the Dr. Energy girl’s skull and jaw to the scope.
There they were. Five tiny grooves, two above and three posterior to the auditory canal on the right temporal bone. Magnified, the cuts looked like those on 38427.
I could see nothing on the jaw or on any of the other cranial bones.
Sweet Jesus. What had been done to these girls?
* * *
Anne phoned at one-fifteen, her voice sounding listless and flat. After apologizing for being lousy company all week, she told me she was thinking of leaving. Said she didn’t want to impose on my hospitality any longer.
I assured her that she was not imposing. I also assured her that I was enjoying her company tremendously. Given her current mood, the latter was a stretch, but I encouraged her to think in terms of staying until she decided on a better place to go.
Charbonneau phoned at one-forty.
“Cibole! It’s colder than a witch’s tit out there.”
Not all of Charbonneau’s expressions were Texan in origin.
“You ran the CPIC search?”
“I did.”
I heard cellophane.
“Since we don’t know if the two without dental sealant died before or after the one with the sealant, I ran those cases two ways. First I searched disappearances reported in the nineties.”
“Makes sense, given the Carbon 14.”
“Some came close, but no cigars.”
Charbonneau sounded like he was eating something involving caramel or taffy.
“Then I left the date of disappearance open. Got what I expected, given no dentals, no details, and no dates.”
“Lots of hits?”
“List from here to East Bumfuck.”
“What about 38428?”
“Pulled up everything back to 1980. Broken wrist cut the numbers down. Again, a few came close, but no matches. Sure would help to know where the kid lived.”
“How about north-central California?”
“Yeah. Like that.”
“I’m serious.”
All crinkling and chewing stopped.
“You’re kiddin’.”
Simplifying the biochemistry and geophysics, I told Charbonneau what I’d learned from Art Holliday.
“Luc’s gonna shit his Fruit of the Looms.”
“You’ve got to send her descriptors south of the border.”
“NCIC. Done. I’ll also roll them by the Vermont and California State Police.”
“It’s a long shot.”
“Can’t hurt anything.”
“Except your partner’s shorts.”
Charbonneau laughed. “I’ll tell him you said that.”
“There’s something else.”
“Make my day.”
I described the nicks and grooves.
“And you think the marks were made by a scalpel?”
“Or an extremely sharp, fine-edged blade.”
“You’re talking all three skeletons?”
“Yes. Though the marks on the shrouded burial differ from those on the other two.”
“Differ how?”
“They’re cruder. And there’s more chipping along the edges.”
“Meaning they were made by a different tool?”
“Maybe. Or maybe they were made after the bone had dried out. Or maybe they’re not the result of cutting at all. Maybe they’re postmortem artifacts mimicking cut marks.”
“Scratches caused by dragging or rolling or something?”
“Maybe.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“There seems to be a pattern.” I stopped, picturing the skulls and jaws in my mind. “The marks circle the right ear opening.”
“On which skeleton?”
“On all three.”
“And nothing anywhere else?”
“No.”
“Holy crap. You think someone was slicing off ears?”
The thought had occurred to me.
“I don’t know.”
* * *
After telling LaManche what I’d learned from Art Holliday, I spent the rest of the afternoon with my pizza basement girls. That’s how I’d come to think of them. My girls. My lost girls.
I reexamined every bone, bone fragment, and tooth. I studied the dental and skeletal X-rays. I rescreened the soil. I pored over the buttons.
When at last I sat back, the windows were dark and the halls were quiet. The clock said five-twenty.
I’d learned not one damn additional thing.
I closed my eyes.
I felt sadness over my failure to give names to these girls. Anger over my failure to satisfy Claudel. Frustration over my failure to understand the buttons. Guilt over my failure to spot the cut marks before Bergeron pointed them out.
How could I have missed those marks? Yes, I’d been interrupted many times. Yes, I’d been working on different aspects of the case. Yes, the marks were almost invisible. Yes, at least one skull was fragmented. But how could something that important have escaped my attention?
Failure, failure everywhere and not a drop to drink.
Failure with Anne.
Failure with Ryan.
“Ryan,” I snorted.
“Yes?”
My eyes flew open.
Ryan was standing in the doorway, coat finger-hooked over one shoulder. He was regarding me with an expression I couldn’t interpret.
Ryan raised his free hand, palm out.
“I know. What are you doing here? Right?”
I started to speak. Ryan cut me off.
“I work downstairs.” Ryan grinned. “I’m a cop.”
I sat forward and tucked my hair behind my ears.
“Do you have news on Louise Parent?”
“No.”
“Have you found Rose Fisher?”
The grin evaporated. “No. It doesn’t look good.”
“You think she’s dead?”
“She’s sixty-four. She’s been missing almost a week.”
“What kind of mutant murders elderly women?”
Ryan took my question as rhetorical. “Is the extra surveillance still on your place?”
“Yes.” If you came to visit you’d know. “Are you suggesting I’m elderly?”
“I want you to keep your eyes open, Tempe.”
“They’re rarely closed these days, Andy.”
Ryan ignored that.
“I’m going to swing by Fisher’s house. Thought you might like to ride along.”
I did.
I waved a hand in the direction of the skeletons. “I’m pretty busy.”
“They’re not going anywhere.” Another boyish grin.
Again the debate. Confrontation? Avoidance?
I decided on vague. Give Ryan the opening. Let him tackle or dodge.
“Do you ever ask yourself questions, Ryan?”
“Sure. What ever happened to Alice Cooper?”
“Important questions?”
“What was Alice Cooper?”
“I’m serious.”
“I’m serious, too.” Ryan’s voice was calm and quiet. “Do you want to ride along?”
The hell with relationships. The hell with Ryan. Cauterize the pain. Do your job.
Stripping off my lab coat, I jammed my keys into my purse and jerked my coat from its hook.
“Let’s go.”
Ryan and I crawled through rush-hour traffic, the atmosphere in the car as relaxed as a coiled snake. Conversation was nonexistent.
Familiar images galloped through my brain. Ryan at the beach. Ryan and me in Guatemala. Ryan in my bed.
Ryan and his prom queen.
At one point Ryan’s hand brushed my knee. A missile rocketed straight to my libido.
Closing my eyes, I made a conscious effort to take con
trol. Deep breathing.
By the time we arrived in Candiac, my neck muscles were taut as guitar strings.
Blinds were drawn across every window in Rose Fisher’s house. Soft yellow light oozed through one set.
“Hm.” Ryan slid to the curb and killed the engine.
“What?”
“I don’t remember leaving a light on.”
“Is the place still sealed?”
“No point. Crime scene finished processing days ago. Took the tape down.” Ryan opened the driver’s-side door. “Stay here.”
I gave Ryan a few seconds, then followed him up the front walk and onto the porch. The wreath still wished everyone Joyeuses fêtes!
Ryan rang the bell.
Inside, chimes sounded faintly.
Wind flapped my scarf.
Ryan rang again.
Seconds ticked by. Another gust. One tear cut loose. I pulled my hat lower.
Ryan was sorting through keys when a light went on in the living room. Locks rattled, then the knob turned. The door opened a crack, and a face peered out.
It was the last face I expected to see.
23
“WHO ARE YOU?” THE WORDS SOUNDED WET AND slushy, like someone speaking with a mouth full of peas.
Ryan held out his badge.
“Polishe?” Fearful.
“May we come in, Mrs. Fisher?”
“Where’sh Louishe? Where’sh my shishter?”
Dear God. She didn’t know.
“We’d like to talk to you about that.” Ryan’s voice was calm and reassuring.
The crack widened. I saw a pumpkin face, oddly concave around the mouth.
“Wait.”
The door closed.
The raw wind whipped my collar and scarf. I lowered my head, stomped my feet.
I felt leaden. Ryan and I would be the bearers of bad news. Our words would change Rose Fisher’s life forever. I hated what I was about to see. It was not ordinarily part of my job, and I was thankful for that, but when involved, I hated it.
Minutes later the door reopened, and Ryan and I stepped into the house. The warmth made the skin on my face feel soft and loose.
Rose Fisher was not plump. She was enormous. A bad dye job and perm gave her swollen face a clownish look. An overabundance of cosmetics didn’t help.
“Where is my sister?” The fear lingered, but the slush was gone. Though wrinkled and coated with lipstick, Fisher’s mouth now looked normal.
The leaden feeling intensified. Sweet Jesus. The woman had inserted dentures and applied makeup. For strangers.
Ryan laid a hand on Fisher’s shoulder. “May we sit down?”
A pudgy hand flew to the fire engine mouth. “Oh my God. Something’s happened to Louise.” Mascaraed eyes darted from Ryan to me. “You’ve come to tell me something’s happened to Louise. Where is she?”
Ryan guided Fisher to the living room sofa and sat beside her. From the corner, a gray and yellow cockatiel with bright orange cheeks chirped, then whistled six notes of “Edelweiss.”
Positioning myself to Fisher’s left, I took one chubby hand in mine.
Ryan tipped his chin, indicating I should take the lead.
The cockatiel said, “Bonjour.” Repeated itself. Chirped.
“Mrs. Fisher, we do have bad news.”
Fisher’s eyes closed. Her fingers tightened into a death grip.
“I’m so sorry, but your sister has died.”
Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.
Fisher began throwing her head back and forth, eyes squeezed so tightly they disappeared into the fat surrounding the orbits. With each oscillation a high, thin note rose from her throat, then choked off behind the carefully placed dentures.
I placed an arm around the woman’s shoulders.
“I’m so sorry,” I repeated.
Fisher continued her keening, mascara and eye shadow flowing to mix with the orange-rose blusher.
The cockatiel went silent.
Ryan patted Fisher’s right shoulder. His eyes met mine. They mirrored the sadness I was feeling.
The cockatiel regarded its mistress, crown raised, head frozen at a forty-degree angle.
Seconds ticked by on a sideboard clock. The cockatiel tried a few notes of “Alouette,” gave up.
Fisher wailed and bobbed.
One minute. Two.
Ryan slipped from the room, returned with a box of tissues.
Three.
Gradually, the terrible sobbing diminished.
“I love you.” Chirp. “Je t’aime.”
The porcine eyes opened and Fisher’s head swiveled toward the bird.
“I love you, too, ’Tit Ange.”
Little Angel cocked his head, but said nothing.
“My sister adores that silly bird.” Almost inaudible. “Adored.”
Ryan offered tissues. Fisher took several, and turned to me, her face a rainbow Popsicle left to melt in the mud.
“Who are you?”
“Dr. Temperance Brennan. I work with the coroner.”
Beneath the clown makeup, Fisher’s face went white.
“It was some kind of allergic reaction, right?”
“Cause of death isn’t totally clear at this point.”
Fisher wiped at the chaos on her face.
“I should never have left Louise alone when she was feeling poorly.”
Fisher slumped back.
“Your sister was unwell?” Ryan asked gently.
“Allergies. Wheezy, itchy eyes, runny nose.” The massive body collapsed into itself. “I never dreamed—”
Fisher’s chest heaved with another involuntary spasm. I plucked tissues and handed them to her.
“I know this is terribly difficult,” I said in the most soothing voice I could muster. “And I’m so sorry to have to ask you these questions. But a great many people have been trying to find you this week. Would you mind telling Detective Ryan and me where you’ve been?”
“Louise and I signed up for a ceramics workshop in Pointe-aux-Pics. We thought it would be fun to learn how to make pottery—”
Heave. Heave.
“—stay in a B and B, do our Christmas shopping in the Charlevoix region.”
“Your sister didn’t feel up to going?”
When Fisher nodded, an upper chin plunged into the fat of its lower counterpart.
“Louise insisted she’d be fine. Said if she needed anything, she’d call Claudia. That’s my daughter.” Fisher’s throat seemed to clench. “Oh God. Does Claudia know?”
“Yes, ma’am. Claudia’s been very worried about you.”
“We should have told her. I should have told her. When Louise decided to stay behind, it didn’t seem necessary. Claudia’s always fussing at me about driving during the winter. Treats me like I’m a doddering old fool. Wants me to stay home all the time.”
“When did you get back from Charlevoix?” Ryan asked.
“Not long before you arrived. I thought Louise was over to the church. They do bingo on Thursday nights. I was tired from the drive, so I was about to leave her a note and turn in.”
Fisher was wadding and unwadding the saturated tissue.
“Louise’s bed is unmade. That’s not like her.”
The corpulent bosom heaved again.
“Let me get you some water.”
As I filled a glass from the kitchen tap, Ryan and Fisher talked on in the living room. Now and then the cockatiel chirped or sang a fragment of song.
Before returning, I made a quick pass by Louise Parent’s room. The scene differed little from the SIJ photos. The bed was now stripped, exposing a stain on the mattress where Parent’s bladder had voided at death. A single pillow lay by the headboard.
I returned to the living room and handed Fisher the water.
Ryan caught my eye and gave a subtle head shake, indicating Fisher was too distraught for meaningful questioning.
“I’m going to call your daughter now,” Ryan said.
Fisher
made disjointed slurping sounds as she drank.
“We’ll talk tomorrow, when you’re feeling better.”
“When can I see Louise?”
Ryan looked at me.
“A viewing can be arranged, if that’s what you’d like.”
“What a terrible Christmas.” Fisher’s lips trembled. Tears glistened on each of her cheeks.
I squeezed the woman’s hand. “It’s so very hard when we lose someone we love.”
“I’ll have to plan the funeral.”
“I’m sure Claudia will be a great help.”
“I know just what Louise would want.”
“That’s good,” I said.
“We told each other everything.”
That’s good, I thought.
Claudia arrived within minutes.
Before leaving, I had one last question.
“Mrs. Fisher, did your sister sleep on a feather pillow?”
“Never. Louise was allergic.”
“Do you use a feather pillow?”
“Goose down.” Fisher’s face clouded. “Why? Was my pillow on Louise’s bed?”
My eyes met Ryan’s.
* * *
“Seems like a nice lady,” I said, as Ryan shifted into drive.
“More important, a living lady.”
“No wonder no one spotted her car.”
“Not likely, parked behind some pissant B and B in Pointe-aux-Pics.”
We drove in silence, bare branches cutting odd patterns in the streetlight bouncing off the windshield. Within minutes Ryan pulled onto the Pont Victoria. The wheels made the sound of a thumb rubbing the rim of a very large glass. Below us, the St. Lawrence looked black and still.
“Parent was murdered,” I said grimly.
“It’s looking that way.”
“With Fisher’s pillow.”
“Fiber guys should be able to match the feathers.”
“Some coldhearted bastard slipped into the house, took a pillow from Fisher’s bed, and used it to smother Parent.”
“While she was dead to the world on Ambien.”
“How could someone break in without leaving a trace of evidence?”
“I intend to discuss that with Fisher.”
“And Bastillo.”
“And Bastillo.”
“Do you suppose Fisher knew about Parent’s phone calls to me?”
“Another topic for discussion.”
That was it for conversation.
Fine.
I didn’t want to think about Rose Fisher. Louise Parent. Ryan. Anne. My lost girls.
