by Kathy Reichs
And Lyle was a good listener. He kept his eyes on Marie-Claire, nodding intermittently, as though the aesthetics of fabric and cabinet design were the only thing that presently mattered.
When Marie-Claire paused for breath Isabelle stepped in, redirecting the conversation like an air-traffic controller with several flights on her screen. Though I had to admire her skill, I didn’t appreciate the direction she chose.
“Tempe has been working on these dreadful gang murders. Can you tell us something about them?”
“The bikers?” asked Claude-Henri.
“Yes.” I wanted to glare at Isabelle, but decided it would be rude. I also wanted to strangle her, which would be still ruder.
“Were you involved in the discovery I read about in today’s paper?”
“Yes. But as Isabelle knows”—I smiled icicles in her direction—“I can’t—”
“What are you doing with bikers, Aunt Tempe?”
Kit’s interest had wandered during the furniture design lesson, but he perked up at the new topic.
“You know that I work for the provincial medico-legal lab.”
He nodded.
“Last week the director asked me to look at some murder cases.” I mentioned nothing about my role with Opération Carcajou.
“How many?”
“Quite a few.”
“More than the Bee Gees?” he persisted.
“Five.”
“Five people iced in one week?” Kit’s eyes were huge. Everyone else at the table had gone quiet.
“Two of them were killed in 1987. We recovered their bodies this week.”
“That’s what I read about,” said Claude-Henri, pointing a fork in my direction. “C’est ça. That was you in the photograph.”
“Who were the others?” Kit pressed on.
Now I wanted to strangle my nephew.
“Two were bomb victims. One was a little girl accidentally killed during a drive-by shooting.”
“Mon Dieu,” said Marie-Claire, abandoning the commitment to English.
I reached for my Perrier, desperately wishing I’d paid attention to her so I could dodge with a question about Renaissance veneers.
“Are you counting the young woman whose bones were found in St-Basile-le-Grand?”
I turned at Crease’s question. Though his voice sounded casual, his eyes had a glint I hadn’t noticed before. If he had hopes of a story, he wouldn’t get it from me.
“No.”
“Have you identified her?” He reached for his wine.
“No.”
“Who are you talking about?” Kit asked.
“Near the grave of two of the bikers we also found some other bones. It’s a young woman, but we don’t know who she is, or if she’s connected with the Vipers. Her burial could predate their ownership of the property.”
“Is that what you think?” Crease.
“I don’t know.”
“Who are the Vipers?”
I was fast restructuring my opinion of my nephew’s social skills.
“They’re a puppet club for the Hells Angels.”
“No way!”
“Yes, way. And they and their brothers in arms are responsible for almost one hundred and twenty deaths in this province over the past five years. God knows how many others have disappeared.”
“The bikers are killing each other?”
“Yes. It’s a power struggle for control of the drug trade.”
“Why not just let them?” asked the actor. “View it as a form of sociopath self-regulation.”
“Because innocents like Emily Anne Toussaint, who was nine years old, get caught in the cross fire.”
“And maybe this other girl?”
“Maybe, Kit.”
“Do you think you’ll be able to prove that?” Crease.
“I don’t know. Claude-Henri, please tell us about your film.”
As the producer spoke, Crease picked up the Chardonnay and reached for my empty glass. I shook my head, but he continued. When I placed my hand over the rim, he laughed, lifted it off, and filled the goblet.
Seething, I pulled my hand free from his and leaned back in my chair. I cannot tolerate people pressing liquor on those who don’t want it.
My nephew’s voice brought me back to the conversation. Isabelle had turned her spotlight on Kit.
“Yeah, I went with my daddy. He’s in the oil business. We drove up from Texas in a big old Winnebago. Pop’s idea. He wanted to do this bonding thing.
“We swung by here to drop off Auntie’s cat, then east and into Vermont at Derby Line. Pop had this trip planned better than the invasion of Normandy. That’s why I remember all the names.
“Anyway, we camped near this town called Westmore and fished the Willoughby River for salmon. The salmon are landlocked, and when they run in the spring it’s a big deal. I guess real fishermen view it like some kind of holy place.
“Then we gunned south to Manchester and fished the Battenkill, and my daddy bought all kinds of crap at the Orvis factory. Casting rods, fly rods, and other stuff. Then he motored on to Texas in the ’Bago, and I dropped in on my aunt the biker buster.” He raised his glass to me, and everyone followed suit.
“It’s kind of weird,” Kit continued. “Because my daddy bought me a motorcycle about a year ago.”
I was dismayed but not surprised. Howard was my sister’s second husband, a West Texas oilman with more money than sense, and a defect on the double helix that made him incapable of monogamy. They’d divorced when Kit was six. Howard’s approach to fatherhood was to lavish toys and money on his son. At three it was ponies and motorized toy cars. By eighteen it had changed to sailboats and then a Porsche.
“What kind of motorcycle?” asked Isabelle.
“It’s a Harley-Davidson. Pop’s really into Harleys. My bike is a Road King Classic and he’s got an Ultra Classic Electra Glide. Those are both Evos. But Pop’s real love is his old knucklehead. They only made those from 1936 to 1947.”
“What do those terms mean?” asked Isabelle.
“They’re nicknames that refer to the design of the engine head. The Evolution V2 motor was first produced in the early eighties. Originally it was called a blockhead, but that tag never really stuck. Most folks refer to it as the Evo. A lot of the bikes you see today are shovelheads, made from 1966 to 1984. From 1948 to 1965 it was panheads, before that flatheads, which came out in ’29. It’s easy to identify the era of production by the design of the engine head.”
Kit’s interest in bikers was nothing compared with his ardor for bikes.
“Did you know that all modern Harleys descend from the Silent Gray Fellow, the first bike to roll off the line in Milwaukee back at the turn of the century? The Silent Gray Fellow had a one-cylinder twenty-five-cubic-inch motor capable of three horsepower. No hydraulic tappets, no electric starters, no V-twin engine.” Kit shook his head in disbelief.
“A modern Twin Cam engine displaces upwards of eighty-eight cubic inches. Even an old ’71 FLH, at seventy-four cubic inches, has an engine compression ratio of eighty point five to one. And today they’re pushing nine to one. Yeah, we’ve come a long way, but every hog on the road today can trace its bloodline back to that old Silent Gray Fellow.”
“Aren’t there other motorcycle manufacturers?” asked the actor.
“Yessir,” Kit agreed, his face and voice showing disdain. “There are Yamahas, Suzukis, Kawasakis, and Hondas out there. But they’re just transportation. The British made some good bikes, Norton, Triumph, BSA, but they’ve all gone out of business. The German BMWs were impressive machines, but for my pesos Harley is the only show in town.”
“Are they expensive?” Claude-Henri.
Kit shrugged. “Harley doesn’t make low-end cycles. It’s not cheap equipment.”
I listened as my nephew talked. He had the same reverence for and knowledge of motorcycles that Marie-Claire had for furniture. Perhaps the timing of his visit was fortunate. He could help me unde
rstand this strange world I was entering.
• • •
It was almost midnight when we said good-bye and pressed for the elevator. I felt ready for bed, but Kit was still wired, yammering on about engines and critiquing the evening’s guests and events. Maybe it was wine, maybe youth. I envied him his stamina.
The rain had stopped, but a strong wind blew off the river, bouncing branches and shrubs, and swirling wet leaves across the ground. When Kit offered to get the car I carefully appraised his condition, then turned over the keys and waited inside the lobby.
In less than a minute he pulled up, then got out and circled to the passenger side. When I’d settled behind the wheel he tossed a brown envelope into my lap.
“What’s this?”
“Envelope.”
“I can see that. Where did it come from?”
“It was on the windshield, stuck under a wiper. You must have an admirer.”
I looked at the envelope. It was a padded mailer, stapled at one end, with a pull-tab on the back for easy opening. My name appeared in red Magic Marker.
I stared at the letters, an alarm sounding deep in my brain. Who knew I would be on the island tonight? Who could have recognized my car? Had we been followed? Watched?
Gingerly, I prodded the contents. I could feel the bulge of something hard.
“Well!”
I jumped at the sound of Kit’s voice. When I turned his face looked eerily pale, his features dark and distorted in the faint yellow light seeping from the lobby doors.
“Goddammit, Kit, this could be . . .” I stopped, unsure where the thought was going.
“Could be what?” Kit leaned sideways and draped his arm over the back of the seat. “Go on. Open it,” he needled. “I’ll bet it’s a prank. One of your cop friends probably spotted the car and left something stupid to creep you out.”
That was possible. Anyone on the job could have run the plate. And I had been the butt of jokes in the past.
“Go on.” Kit reached up and turned on the interior light. “Maybe it’s tickets to the Expos.”
I pulled the tab and reached into the mailer. My fingers closed around a small, glass jar.
When I withdrew the container and held it up to the light I felt bile rise in my throat. The rhythmic contractions under my tongue told me I was about to be sick. I barely heard Kit as I lunged for the door handle.
“Holy shit, Aunt Tempe. Who did you piss off?”
THE EYEBALL RESTED ON THE BOTTOM OF THE JAR, PUPIL UP, tendrils of flesh floating in the cloudy liquid. The organ was blanched and partially collapsed, and one side appeared to have a jagged tear. Though tightly sealed, the container gave off a familiar scent. A folded paper was stuck to its bottom.
Kit reached over and pulled off the note.
“On te surveille.” The French sounded odd with his Texas drawl. “What does that mean, Aunt Tempe?”
“We’re watching you.”
With shaky hands I returned the jar and note to the mailer and placed it on the floor of the backseat. The smell of formaldehyde seemed overwhelming. I knew the odor was in my mind, but that did little to allay my nausea. Fighting to bring my gag reflex back under control, I wiped damp palms on my pants and put the car in gear.
“Think it’s a joke?” Kit asked as we turned onto boulevard Île-des-Sœurs.
“I don’t know.” My voice sounded high-pitched.
Sensing my mood, he didn’t press the point.
Once home, I wrapped the jar in a series of plastic sacks and sealed it in a Tupperware canister. Then I cleaned out the vegetable drawer and placed it in the refrigerator.
Kit watched in silence, a puzzled expression on his face.
“I’ll take it to the lab on Monday,” I explained.
“It’s a real eye, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Think it’s a joke?” He repeated his earlier question.
“Probably.” I didn’t believe that, but had no desire to alarm him.
“I get the feeling I shouldn’t ask, but, if it’s a joke, why take it to the lab?”
“Maybe it will give the merry pranksters a little scare,” I said, trying to sound casual, then I hugged him. “Now, I’m off to bed. Tomorrow we’ll find something fun to do.”
“That’s cool. Mind if I listen to some music?”
“Be my guest.”
When Kit’s door closed I double-checked the locks on the doors and windows, and made sure the security system was functioning. I resisted the urge to check for lurkers in my closet or under the bed.
Kit’s musical choice was Black Sabbath. He played it until two-fifteen.
I lay in bed for a long time listening to the thud of heavy metal, wondering if it qualified as music, wondering how many calls I’d receive from the neighbors, and wondering who felt strongly enough about sending me a message to underscore it with a human eye.
Though I’d showered for twenty minutes, the smell of formaldehyde remained lodged in my brain. I fell asleep queasy, with goose bumps still prickling my flesh.
• • •
I slept late the next morning. When I woke, still tired from having started awake repeatedly throughout the night, my thoughts turned at once to the thing in my produce crisper. Who? Why? Was it work-related? Was there a sicko in the neighborhood? Who was watching me?
I pushed the questions into the deep background, resolving to address them on Monday. In the meantime, I would be extra-vigilant. I checked my Mace, then the direct-dial buttons on the phones and security box to make sure they were set to 911.
The sun shone brightly and the thermometer on my patio said five degrees Celsius. Forty Fahrenheit at 10 A.M. It was going to be a Canadian scorcher.
Knowing the diurnal rhythm of teenagers I didn’t expect to see Kit before noon, so I threw on my gear and hiked to the gym. I walked with more caution than usual, skin prickling with tension, eyes alert for anyone or anything suspicious.
After working out I picked up bagels and cream cheese, and a few goodies to go on top of the cream cheese. I also made an impulse buy at the flower cart. Birdie had largely abandoned me since Kit’s arrival, so I’d lure back his affection with a catnip plant.
Neither the bagels nor the catnip were very effective. My nephew appeared around one-fifteen, the cat trailing languidly behind.
“Utter no sentence that includes the phrase ‘early bird,’ or ‘dawn,’” said Kit.
“Bagel?”
“Acceptable.”
“Cream cheese, smoked salmon, lemon, onions, capers?”
“Delete capers. Run program.”
Birdie eyed the catnip but said nothing.
As Kit ate, I laid out the options.
“It’s a gorgeous day out there. I suggest outdoor activities.”
“Agreed.”
“We can take in the Jardin Botanique, prowl around up on the mountain, or I can scare up some bicycles and we can hit the old port, or pedal the path along the Lachine Canal.”
“Do they allow skates?”
“Skates?”
“Rollerblades. Can we rent some in-lines and do this bike path?”
“I think so.” Oh boy.
“I’ll bet you’re a popper on Rollerblades. Harry’s pretty good.”
“Um. Huh. Why do you call your mom Harry?”
I’d always been curious. Since he first started speaking, Kit had referred to his mother by name.
“I don’t know. She’s not exactly Little House on the Prairie.”
“But you’ve done it since you were two years old.”
“She wasn’t domestic back then. Don’t change the subject. Are you up for in-line skating?”
“Sure.”
“You’re a can o’ corn, Aunt Tempe. Let me grab a shower and we’re on our way.”
• • •
It was close to a perfect day. I started out rocky but quickly picked up the rhythm, and was soon gliding along as if born on skates. It brought back m
emories of roller-skating on city sidewalks as a little girl and the several times I had almost hit pedestrians or skated into the paths of cars. The sunshine brought out swarms of jocks, crowding the path with cyclists, skateboarders, and other in-line skaters. Though shaky on turns, I learned to maneuver well enough to avoid collisions. The only skill I didn’t master was that of the sudden stop. Drag brakes for skates had not been invented when I was a kid.
By the end of the afternoon I was sailing along smooth as Black Magic I in the America’s Cup. Or shit through a mallard, as Kit put it. I did insist, however, on wearing enough padding to defend an NHL goal.
It was after five when we turned in the skates and pads and headed to Chez Singapore for an Asian dinner. Then we rented The Pink Panther and A Shot in the Dark and laughed as Inspector Clouseau demonstrated how one could be both part of the solution and part of the problem. The movies were Kit’s choice. He said the French immersion would acclimatize him to Montreal.
Not until I lay in my bed, tired and achy and full of popcorn, did I even remember the eye. I tossed and turned, trying not to picture the object in my refrigerator and the evil person who put it on my car.
• • •
Monday was still warm, but dark clouds had gathered over the city. They hung low, trapping a loose fog close to the ground, and forcing drivers to use headlights.
Arriving at work, I took the jar to the biology section and made a request. I didn’t explain the source of the specimen, and they didn’t ask. We gave the sample an unregistered number, and the technician said she’d call with results.
I had a suspicion about the eye’s origin, which I hoped was wrong. The implications were just too frightening. I held on to the note, pending the analysis.
The morning meeting was relatively brief. The owner of a Volvo dealership was found hanged in his garage, a suicide note pinned to his chest. A single-engine plane had gone down in St-Hubert. A woman had been pushed from the Vendôme métro platform.
Nothing for me.
Back in my office, I logged on to my terminal. Using anthropologie, squelette, inconnue, femelle, and partiel as my descriptors, I searched the database for cases consisting of unidentified partial female skeletons. The computer came up with twenty-six LML numbers spanning the past ten years.
