by Kathy Reichs
An SIJ label identified the shot as a crime scene photo. The central object was a felt-covered board. The board displayed three human ears, two complete, one partial. The ears had been stretched and mounted like insects on pins.
My stomach soured.
“The sick little twist was keeping body parts from his victims.” Charbonneau.
I recalled the cut marks on the skulls in my lab.
“Souvenir taking may have been Pomerleau’s idea.”
“Yeah?”
I pointed to the partial ear. “Angie Robinson’s ear was removed long after she died, when the bone had had time to dry, so Catts initially had not done that. The others were taken while the bone was fresh.”
“You can tell that from the cut marks?”
I nodded, swallowed.
“Nine years passed between the abductions of Pomerleau and McGee. During that time I believe the balance of power shifted between captor and captive.”
“Reverse Stockholm.” Charbonneau shot his hair with one hand.
“Patty Hearst was locked in a closet for eight weeks,” I said. “Colleen Stan was locked in a box for seven years. Anique Pomerleau was taken in 1990. She was only fifteen.”
We fell silent, contemplating the unspeakable damage possible in that amount of time.
Claudel spoke first.
“Pomerleau was tortured, tried to please Catts, maybe suggested another victim.”
“Or maybe new meat was Catts’s idea. Maybe he got greedy and decided to expand his collection,” Charbonneau picked up. “Pomerleau saw the newcomer as a step up the food chain: by abusing McGee she pleased Catts. Eventually she started getting her own rocks off.”
“The controlled became the controller,” I said. “Or Pomerleau and Catts just melded.”
Like Homolka and Bernardo, I thought.
“Catts took at least two more captives between Pomerleau and McGee,” I reminded. “Local girls, according to strontium isotope analysis.”
“We will find out who these girls were.” Claudel’s jaw muscles bunched, relaxed. “You can take that to the bank.”
“I’ve got a question, Doc.” Charbonneau again leaned onto the table. “Angie Robinson was Catts’s earliest capture. Why were hers the only bones with that grave wax stuff?”
I’d posed that question to myself.
“The tannic acid in leather acts as a preservative, altering the rate of decomposition. And Angie may have been buried elsewhere initially, in a place with more moisture than the pizza basement cellar.”
“That’s our thinking.” Charbonneau cocked his chin at Claudel. “We figure the kid died in Vermont, Catts buried her there, later went back for her corpse. But we’ve been busting our brains trying to figure out why he’d bother. Your ear thing may be the missing piece.”
“Catts went back for the ear, but ended up bringing the whole body to Montreal? Why?”
“Maybe he felt safer having her right underfoot.”
“But Cyr gave Catts the boot in ninety-eight. If he’d already dug up and moved Angie Robinson once, why leave her and two others behind in that building?”
Charbonneau shrugged. “Catts had been skating since he grabbed Robinson in eighty-five. Maybe he’d come to feel invincible. Besides, where else could he bury bodies? He couldn’t dig graves in the Corneaus’ front yard.”
“And the cellar was otherwise committed,” I said bitterly.
There was a moment of silence as we thought about that. I broke it.
“Who do you suppose Louise Parent saw?”
“Perhaps Pomerleau. Perhaps one of the others. Catts may have kept girls under the pawnshop while preparing his little welcome wagon over in the Point,” Charbonneau said.
“Pomerleau admitted that she’d killed Parent,” I said.
“No doubt she was in it up to her eyeballs. SIJ found Rose Fisher’s address in the de Sébastopol basement. But the Parent murder may have gone down at Catts’s instigation. He probably told Pomerleau that the old lady had spotted him with captives at the pawnshop. They must have been keeping track of Parent, and when the bodies were discovered they figured they needed to move before she did.” Charbonneau shook his head. “Ironic, isn’t it? They tried to hide everything in the de Sébastopol basement, and that’s the only thing that survived the fire.”
“That may be why your friend wasn’t down there,” Claudel said. “Pomerleau probably planned to drag Madame Turnip to the cellar, then changed her mind, fearing the fire wouldn’t penetrate that far.”
“Or maybe she just grew tired and dumped her.” I felt my hands curl into fists.
“You were correct about the buttons.” Claudel looked me dead in the eye. “Undoubtedly Catts dropped them while in the pizza parlor basement. They were unrelated to the bodies.”
I felt no satisfaction at being right, just a deep aching sorrow.
And weariness. My strength was unraveling like the top of an old sock.
I relaxed my hands and laced my fingers. There was one last answer I needed.
“When did you learn I’d gone to de Sébastopol?”
“I retrieved your message on the drive back from Vermont,” Charbonneau said. “We’d learned from the photo that Menard was dead and that Catts had killed him. We knew that Pomerleau and McGee were in the wind. We knew Catts was dead. Luc and I went directly to headquarters and found a report stating that Pomerleau’s prints were on the gun Catts used to blow out his lights.”
“And no prints from Catts,” I guessed.
“Nada. And Doc LaManche said Catts’s hands were residue-free. We remembered what you’d told us about brainwashing, put two and two together, and hauled ass for de Sébastopol, gambling that we’d get there before you found Pomerleau and came to grief.”
“Thank you.”
“The line of duty, ma’am.” Charbonneau grinned.
I turned to Claudel.
“Thank you, Detective. And I truly am sorry about your coat.”
Claudel nodded. “You showed great resourcefulness and courage.”
“Thanks again. To both of you.” We all rose and I started for the door.
“Dr. Brennan.”
I turned back to Claudel.
“I have never been an admirer.” The corners of Claudel’s mouth quivered toward something verging on a grin. “But you have given me a new appreciation for leopard skin.”
39
I BARELY WOKE WHEN RYAN PHONED WEDNESDAY night. Mumbling a number of “Mm’s,” and “Uh-huh’s,” I dropped back into oblivion.
The next thing I knew sun was streaming through my window, the clock said ten-thirty, and Birdie’s face was inches from mine.
And my doorbell was chirping.
Grabbing my bathrobe, I stumbled to the security panel. The monitor showed Ryan wearing a Santa hat with Le Père Noël embroidered on the fur.
I did a two-handed hair-tuck, smiling like Claudel’s happy-face Skivvies.
Onscreen, the outer door opened and a young woman entered the foyer. Black corkscrew curls. Tall. Earrings the size of croquet hoops.
Ryan hugged the woman to his side. She tugged off his Santa hat.
My hand froze halfway to the buzzer. My smile crumbled.
The prom queen.
An iceberg congealed in my chest.
The prom queen turned. Café-au-lait skin. An expression that suggested she’d rather be elsewhere. Tikrit. Kabul. Anywhere but that foyer.
Ryan smiled and squeezed her again. The woman wriggled free and handed him his hat.
Lord God in heaven! Was the egotistical sonovabitch planning to make introductions?
I caught a glimpse of myself in the hall mirror. Ratty pink terry cloth. Parboiled face. Hair looking like something that fed on plankton.
“OK, buster.” I jabbed the button. “Bring her on.”
Ryan was alone when I opened the door. The hall behind him was empty.
He’d hidden his teenybopper. Fine. Better.
“Yes?” Glacial.
Grinning, Ryan looked me up and down.
“Entertaining DiCaprio?”
I didn’t smile.
Ryan studied my face.
“It’s funny about eyebrows. You never really notice them until they go awry.”
Ryan reached out to touch my forehead. I pulled back.
“Or go away.”
“You’re here to critique my brows?”
“What brows?”
Not even the hint of a smile.
Ryan crossed his arms. “I’d like to talk.”
“It’s not a good time.”
“You look beautiful.”
I bit back a retort that included the word “bimbo.”
“Sultry.”
My AWOL brows crimped.
“Smoldering.”
The crimp dived into a full-blown frown.
“If I promise no more fire jokes, can I come back in ten? More than enough time to get yourself beautiful.”
I started to refuse.
“Please?” Lapis-lazuli sincerity.
My libido sat up. I sent it flying into tomorrow.
“Sure, Ryan. Why not?”
Coffee. Jeans and sweater. Teeth. Fresh bandages.
Hair? Makeup?
Screw it.
Fifteen minutes later the bell chirped again.
When I opened the door, she was with him.
I stiffened.
Ryan’s eyes locked onto mine. “I’d like you to meet Lily.”
“Ryan,” I said. “Don’t.”
“My daughter.”
My lips parted as my mind processed the meaning of those words.
“Lily, this is Tempe.”
Lily shifted her feet.
“Hi.” Mumbled.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lily.”
Daughter? Ohmygod.
I looked a question at Ryan.
“Lily lives in Halifax.”
I turned back to Lily.
“Nova Scotia?” Moron! Of course, Nova Scotia.
“Yes.” Lily took in my frizzled hair and blisters, but said nothing.
“Lily’s been in Montreal since the third,” Ryan said.
The day I testified at the Pétit trial.
“Lily and I have been getting to know each other over the past few months.”
Lily shrugged one shoulder, adjusted the strap of her purse.
“I feel the women in my life should also get to know each other.”
The women in his life?
“I’m delighted, Lily.” Jesus! I sounded like a cliché thesaurus.
Lily’s eyes slid to Ryan. He nodded almost imperceptibly.
“Sorry about that phone call. I—I shouldn’t have said you were dumb.”
The woman at Ryan’s place last Thursday had been Lily.
“I understand.” I smiled. “Sharing your father must be very hard.”
Another shoulder shrug, then Lily turned to Ryan. “Can I go now?”
Ryan nodded. “Got your key?”
Lily patted her purse, turned, and walked down the hall.
“Come in.” I stepped back and opened the door wide. “Dad.”
Ryan followed me to the living room, shrugged off his jacket, and dropped onto the couch.
“This is awkward,” I said, curling into an armchair.
“Yes, it is,” Ryan said.
“I didn’t know you had a daughter.”
“Nor did I. Until August.”
The unscheduled trip from Charlotte to Halifax.
“The problem wasn’t your niece.”
“It started out with my niece. After the overdose, I flew to Nova Scotia to help my sister get Danielle into a drug rehab program. One of the nurse’s aides turned out to be a woman I’d known as an undergrad.”
“A student at St. Francis Xavier?”
Ryan shook his head no. “I was. She wasn’t. I was on a wild ride my first two years at St. F-X. Lutetia was a regular at some of my haunts, hung with a rowdy group of young ladies. Called themselves the Holy Sisters of Negotiable Love.”
I tucked my feet under my bum.
“You know the story. My wild ride ended with a severed artery, a bump in the hospital, and a fresh perspective on the college experience. Lutetia and I went our separate ways. I saw her once, maybe five years after graduation, when I returned to Nova Scotia to visit my folks. Lutetia and I ended up”—Ryan hesitated—“sharing one last religious experience. I returned to Montreal, Lutetia went home to the Bahamas, and we lost track of each other.”
“Lily is Lutetia’s daughter,” I guessed.
Nod.
“Lutetia never told you she was pregnant?”
“She was afraid somehow I’d force her to remain in Canada.”
“Did she marry?”
“In the Abacos. Marriage broke up when Lily was twelve. Lutetia moved them both to Halifax.”
Birdie wandered in and rubbed my leg. I reached down and absently scratched his head.
“Why tell you now?”
“Lily had started asking about her biological father. She’d also started pulling some of the same stunts as Danielle. When I showed up . . .” Ryan spread his hands.
“You weren’t expecting Lily in Montreal?”
“I opened my door and there she was. The little idiot had hitchhiked.”
Birdie nudged me again. I stroked him, feeling, what? Relieved that the prom queen wasn’t a love interest? Disappointed that Ryan hadn’t confided in me?
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Things have been pretty strained between us, Tempe.” Ryan grinned. “Probably my fault. I’ve been under some pressure lately. Lily. The meth operation.”
Ryan patted his shirt pocket, remembered my no-smoking ban, dropped his hands to his lap.
“But mostly, I was holding off until I was sure.”
“You asked for proof of paternity?”
Ryan nodded.
“How did Lily respond to that?”
“The kid went ballistic, really started acting out.”
The relapse into smoking. The haggard look. Ryan had been under more stress lately than I had.
“I got the DNA report last week.”
I waited.
“Lily is my daughter.”
“That’s wonderful, Ryan.”
“It is. But the kid’s a pistol, and I’m clueless concerning fatherhood.”
“What have you worked out so far?”
“Lutetia’s largely gotten Lily’s head straight. Lily loves her mother and will continue to live with her. If she decides she wants another parent in her life, I’ll be there for her, whatever it takes.”
I crossed to the couch and sat beside Ryan. He looked at me, eyes boylike. I took his hand.
“You’ll be a wonderful father.”
“I’ll need a lot of help.”
“You’ve got it, cowboy.”
I put my face to Ryan’s, felt his rough stubble on my cheek.
Ryan held me a moment, then set me at arm’s length, and got up.
“Stay here.”
I waited, unsure what was happening. The front door opened, seconds passed. The door closed. I heard rattling. A tinkling bell.
Ryan reappeared wearing the Santa hat and carrying a cage the size of a gym. Inside, a cockatiel clung to an undulating swing.
Ryan placed the cage on my coffee table, dropped next to me on the couch, and wrapped an arm around my shoulders. The cockatiel regarded us as it swung back and forth in decreasing arcs.
“Merry Christmas,” Ryan said. “Charlie, meet Tempe.”
The swing settled. Charlie checked me out, first with his left eye, then with his right.
“I can’t have a bird. I’m away far too much.”
Charlie hopped from the swing to his seed dish.
Across the room, Birdie rose, tail puffed, eyes fixed on the cockatiel.
“Birdie, meet Charlie,” Ryan said to my cat.
Birdie oozed across the carpet, a miniature white leopard on a predawn stalk. Placing forepaws on the coffee table, Bird craned toward the cage, tail flicking only at its tip.
Charlie raised his crown, tipped his head at Birdie, then refocused on his seed.
“He’s beautiful, Ryan.” He really was. Soft yellow head, pearl gray body.
Jumping to the tabletop, Birdie placed his paws in a square, sat, and stared at the cockatiel.
“It’s a lovely idea, Ryan, but it won’t work.”
Bright orange cheek patches.
Birdie settled into his sphinx position, paws curled inward, eyes locked on the bird.
Soft white stripes on his wings.
Birdie began to purr. I looked at him, astounded.
“Bird likes him,” Ryan said.
“I can’t commute by air with a cat and a bird.”
“I have a plan.”
I looked at Ryan.
“Live with me.”
“What?”
“Move in with me.”
I was in shock. The idea of cohabitation had never crossed my mind.
Did I want to live with Ryan?
Yes. No. I had no idea.
I tried to think of a suitable reply. “Maybe” lacked a certain style, while “No” seemed rather final.
Ryan didn’t push.
“Plan B. Joint custody. When you’re down South, Charlie bunks with me.”
I looked at the cockatiel.
He really was beautiful.
And Bird liked him.
I stuck out a hand. “Agreed.”
Ryan and I shook.
“In the meantime, plan A remains on the table.”
Live with Ryan?
Maybe, I thought.
Just maybe.
* * *
That afternoon I decided to visit my office. I’d been there about an hour when my phone rang.
“Dr. Brennan?”
“Yes.”
“This is Pamela Lindahl. I’m the social services psychiatrist assigned to assure that Tawny McGee receives appropriate assessment and care. Will you be in your office another forty-five minutes?”
“Yes.”
“I’d like to come by for a brief visit. Would you ask security to pass me through?”
“Certainly.”
As soon as the call concluded I wished I hadn’t agreed. Though I recognized the importance of supplying all available information to the caregivers, I didn’t feel up to recalling or recounting the depravity, the evil of what I had seen. I thought about phoning Dr. Lindahl back and telling her not to come, then gave in to a sense of duty, contacted security, and began a mental checklist of what I could tell the doctor.
