Deadly Decisions

by Kathy Reichs

  He had a point. When Kit had shown interest, I’d been evasive and distant, avoiding disclosure of any meaningful information. I live alone and don’t discuss casework with anyone not part of the lab. I automatically deflect questions that may arise in a social setting. Then this morning, out of the blue, I’d asked for an accounting of his activities.

  “What you say is both fair and unfair. I have put off answers I could have given, but I also am obligated not to discuss open cases or ongoing investigations. That is a requirement of my job and not a matter of personal discretion. Do you really want to know what I’ve been doing?”

  Shrug. “Whatever.”

  I looked at my watch.

  “Why don’t you shower while I clean up here. Then we’ll take a walk on the mountain and I’ll lay some things out. All right?”

  “All right.” Barely audible.

  But my decision was far from all right.

  LOCALS CALL IT “THE MOUNTAIN,” BUT THE SMALL ELEVATION IS A far cry from the craggy spires of the Rockies, or the lush peaks of my Carolina Smokies. Mont-Royal is the vestige of an ancient volcano, smoothed by aeons to gentle curves. It lies at the heart of the city like the body of a giant slumbering bear.

  Though lacking in height and geologic drama, the mountain gives more than its name to Montreal. It is the spinal cord on which the city is strung. McGill University lies on its eastern slope, with the predominantly English-speaking suburb of Westmount directly opposite. L’Université de Montréal and the largely French neighborhood of Outremont claim the northern flanks. Directly below lies Centreville, a polyglot fusion of the industrial, financial, residential, and frivolous.

  The mountain is promontories, parks, and cemeteries. It is wooded trails and old mossy rocks. It is tourists, lovers, joggers, and picnickers during the precious summer months; snowshoers, skaters, and tobogganers in winter. For me, as for every Montrealer, the mountain is sanctuary from the urban tumult at its feet.

  By early afternoon the temperature was windbreaker warm, the sky immaculate. Kit and I walked across de Maisonneuve, and turned uphill on Drummond. To the right of a tall round building with a sweeping curvilinear base that looks like the prow on a cement frigate, we ascended a wooden staircase to avenue des Pins. Pine Avenue.

  “What is that building?” asked Kit.

  “McIntyre Medical. It’s part of McGill.”

  “Looks like the Capitol Records Building in L.A.”

  “Hmm.”

  Halfway up the stairs, the air grew thick with the sharp, musky smell of skunk.

  “Une mouffette,” I explained.

  “Sounds good in French, but it stinks like plain old Texas varmint,” said Kit, wrinkling his nose. “How ’bout we pick up the pace.”

  “Right.” I was already panting from the steep climb.

  At the top we crossed Pine, followed a serpentine dirt road to a cement staircase, climbed, took a hard right, more road, then another set of wooden stairs that shot straight up the escarpment.

  By the time we arrived at the summit I was seriously thinking about defibrillation. While I paused to catch my breath Kit charged to the overlook. I waited for my heartbeat to descend from the troposphere, then I joined him at the balustrade.

  “This is awesome,” said Kit, squinting down a pair of brass pointers lined up on the McTavish Reservoir.

  He was right. The view from the top is pure spectacle, a theater-in-the-round of a city in progress. In the foreground rise the skyscrapers and flats and smokestacks and church spires of downtown, beyond that the docks of the port and the city’s main artery, the St. Lawrence River. In the far distance loom the peaks of St-Bruno and St-Hilaire, with the Eastern Townships at their feet.

  Kit sighted down each indicator, and I pointed out landmarks I thought would interest him. Place Ville-Marie. The McGill football field. The Royal Victoria Hospital. The Montreal Neurological Institute and Hospital.

  The complex reminded me of Carolyn Russell and our conversation concerning the shunt. Thinking of Savannah Osprey brought the familiar twinge of sadness.

  “Come on, Kit. I’ll tell you what I’ve been up to.”

  We strolled up broad stone steps, wending between bicycles lying on their sides, and settled on one of the wooden benches flanking the entrance to the chalet. Above us pigeons cooed softly in the heavy wooden beams.

  “Where should I start?”

  “At the beginning.”

  “O.K., wise one.”

  What was the beginning?

  “Quebec Province has the dubious distinction of hosting the only active biker war in the world right now.”

  “That Hells Angels thing you talked about at Isabelle’s dinner.”

  “Exactly. These gangs are fighting over control of the drug trade.”

  “What drugs?”

  “Mostly cocaine, some pot and hash.”

  A busload of Japanese tourists appeared from the parking lot, worked its way toward the railing, then began photographing itself in varying combinations.

  “I became involved about two weeks ago. Two members of the Heathens, that’s a puppet club to the Rock Machine, were blown up while trying to bomb a Vipers clubhouse on the southwest side of the city.”

  “Who were the bombed-out bombers?”

  “Twin brothers, Le Clic and Le Clac Vaillancourt.”

  “The Vipers are with the Hells Angels?”

  “Yes. The sniper who took them out was arrested—”

  “A Viper sniper. I like that.”

  “The sniper investigation led to the recovery of two of the bodies we discussed at dinner.”

  “The guys buried near the Vipers’ clubhouse?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where is this clubhouse?”

  “St-Basile-le-Grand.” An odd look crossed his face, but he said nothing.

  “The two skeletons were later identified as members of an OMC called the Tarantulas, defunct now, but active in the seventies and eighties.”

  “What about the girl’s bones you found out there?”

  “She has since been identified as Savannah Claire Osprey, from Shallotte, North Carolina. That’s why I went to Raleigh. Savannah was sixteen when she disappeared in 1984.”

  “Who killed her?”

  “I wish I knew.”

  “How did she end up here?”

  “Same answer. Let me backtrack a minute. Before the discoveries at St-Basile-le-Grand, there was another murder. The sergeant at arms for the Vipers, a gentleman named Richard ‘Spider’ Marcotte, was shot in a drive-by outside his home. It may have been a Heathens hit in retaliation for Clic and Clac.”

  “That saved the taxpayers some money.”

  “Yes, but remember there was a toll exacted on the public. A child got caught in the cross fire.”

  “That’s right. She was nine years old.” His eyes were focused on my face. “She died, didn’t she?”

  I nodded.

  “Emily Anne Toussaint was killed the day you and Howard dropped off Bird.”

  “Holy crap.”

  “Since that time I have been pursuing forensic evidence pertaining to these biker crimes. So you can understand my lack of enthusiasm for your newly acquired friends.”

  “And tattoo. You’ve seen some rough shit.”

  “There’s more.”

  I glanced at his face. Though shadowed by the eaves, his eyes were bright as a songbird’s.

  “This past week another biker was killed. Yves ‘Cherokee’ Desjardins.”

  “Which side?”

  “He was a Predator. That’s the Angels.”

  “So the Heathens were still evening the score for the twins?”

  “Maybe. The problem is Cherokee was an older guy who hadn’t been active for a while. Also, it seems he was running his own coke concession.”

  “So he might have been snuffed by his own side?”

  “It’s possible. We don’t have all the evidence. We just don’t know. Right now our investiga
tion has slowed.”

  I told him about LaManche.

  “Holy shit. Maybe they got to him, too.”

  “Who?”

  “The Angels. Maybe he was going to find something in that body they didn’t want found.”

  “I don’t think so, Kit.”

  “Maybe they slipped him something. You know, one of those poisons that leave no trace.”

  “He was in the autopsy room. That’s a secure area.”

  “There could be a mole at your lab. They do that, you know. Position their people on the inside.”

  “Whoa.” I laughed. “Let’s not get carried away.”

  He turned and looked past the Japanese tourists to the misty peaks in the far distance. Someone opened a door behind us and pigeons startled from the steps.

  “Jesus, Aunt Tempe, I feel like a real lowlife. Your boss is sick, and you’re trying to juggle a zillion separate murders all at once. And what do I do? I show up, dump a dead fish on your counter, then run around town having fun.”

  The Japanese were moving our way.

  “And I was too distracted to follow what you were doing. Anyway, ready to hike?”

  “I live to ramble.”

  We circled the chalet and set off on one of the many dirt trails that honeycomb the mountain. We walked in silence for a while, watching squirrels scuttle among last year’s leaves, excited by the arrival of spring. The trees overhead were loud with chirps and trills and warbles and shrieks. At one point we stopped to listen to an old man perform a recorder adaptation of “Ode to Joy.” Wearing a long overcoat and ear-flapped beret, he played with all the concentration of a symphonic virtuoso.

  As we strolled west, the dome of l’Oratoire St-Joseph appeared on the horizon. I told Kit the story of Frère André’s heart. Stolen from its altar crypt, the organ became the focus of a massive manhunt. Eventually it showed up at our lab, and was now ensconced in safer quarters deep within the church.

  To the south rose the pale yellow tower of l’École Polytechnique at l’Université de Montréal, site of the 1990 slaughter of thirteen women. The day was too lovely to share that story.

  We were heading downhill when Kit broached an equally unpleasant topic.

  “So who’s this guy Ryan?”

  “Just a friend,” I hedged.

  “Harry talked about him. He’s a detective, right?”

  “Yes. With the provincial police.”

  I’d introduced my sister to Ryan during her stay in Montreal. Sparks had flown, but I’d left town almost immediately and didn’t learn if there was liftoff. I’d avoided Ryan for a long time after that, but I’d never asked.

  “So what’s the deal?”

  “He’s gotten into some trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  A calèche passed on the road above, moving in the direction from which we’d come. I heard the driver cluck, then the slap of reins on the horse’s neck.

  “He may have gotten involved in drugs.”

  “Using?”

  “Selling.” Though I was trying hard, my voice sounded wavery.

  “Oh.”

  The clop of hooves receded, grew quiet.

  “You care about this guy, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “More than Uncle Pete?”

  “That’s not a fair question, Kit.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Whatever happened to that fish?” I said, changing the subject.

  “It’s in the freezer.”

  “Here’s a plan. We zap Mr. Trout, then peruse les motards while he finishes defrosting. Tonight we throw him on the grill, then slide over to Hurley’s for a few beers.”

  “It’s a salmon. Otherwise the plan is sound.”

  We descended the rest of the way, cut through the Montreal General, and continued downhill on Côte-des-Neiges. At the bottom I turned and looked back up at the peak.

  “Did you ever notice the cross at night?”

  “Sure. It’s pretty.”

  “From down here, yes. From nearby it’s just a pile of steel mesh and bare bulbs. I think Andrew Ryan’s like that. Nice at a distance, but up close he’s a tangled mess.”

  THE BERAWAN ARE A HORTICULTURAL PEOPLE LIVING IN LONG house villages on the island of Borneo. When I taught introductory anthropology, I used them as an illustration of the absurdity of Western funerary practices.

  According to Berawan beliefs, the souls of the dead are released to the afterlife only when the flesh has decomposed. Until that point, the deceased hover in limbo, no longer part of the living, but unable to join the dead. And there’s a hitch. Their bodies can be reanimated by malevolent spirits roaming the world in search of housing. Once revived, these living-dead cannot be killed. Needless to say, the villagers are not wild about having them around.

  The Berawan were repulsed and horrified when their ethnographer responded to questions about American customs. In their view, embalming, treatment with cosmetics and waxes, and burial in watertight coffins and vaults are actions of pure folly. Not only are we prolonging the transition of our loved ones, but our cemeteries provide vast storehouses for potential zombies.

  I wondered how the Berawan would react to Bernard Silvestre, centerpiece of the photo in my hand. The fish was taking forever to defrost, and in the interim Kit and I were working our way through Kate’s collection.

  Silvestre lay in his coffin, mustache and sideburns spread symmetrically on each cheek, hands folded piously on his black leather jacket. Ten men crouched in a semicircle below, denimed and booted, while four stood flanking the open casket. Except for the dress and mangy appearance, they looked like a fraternity at a Paddy Murphy party.

  Elaborate bouquets stretched from one side of the photo to the other, a mini Rose Bowl of floral condolences. One said “Slick” in blue on yellow, another “Good-bye BS,” in shades of red and pink. Carnations forming the number “13” rose directly behind the coffin, flaunting “Slick’s” connection to pot or meth.

  But best of show was the rectangle on the upper right, a petal mosaic of cycle and rider, complete with whiskers, shades, and angel’s wings. I tried, but was unable to read the banners above the helmet and below the front tire.

  “Know anything about Slick?” asked Kit.

  “He doesn’t look like the pick of the litter.”

  “Yeah, even from that motley litter.” He flipped the picture. “Heck, this guy croaked when I was three years old.”

  There were two more photos of Slick’s funeral, both taken from a distance, one at the cemetery, the other on the church steps. Many of the mourners wore caps riding their eyebrows, and bandannas stretched to cover their mouths.

  “The one you’ve got must be from a private collection.” I handed Kit the other pictures. “I think these two are police surveillance photos. Seems the bereaved weren’t anxious to show their faces.”

  “Man, this chopper is one statement in chrome and steel. No wonder the dude rode it right up to the grave.”

  I walked around the table and peered over his shoulder.

  “It looks pretty stark to me.”

  “That’s the point. Raw power. The guy probably started with a garbage wagon and—”

  “Garbage wagon?”

  “An old police cycle, probably an FLH touring model. He stripped away all the nonessential crap like the windshield, roll bars, and fiberglass luggage bags, and replaced the stock items with streamlined custom parts.”

  “Such as?” It looked like a cycle without any of the good stuff.

  Kit pointed out items on the graveside bike.

  “A thin front wheel, coffin-shaped gas tank, bobbed rear fender, and tapered soda seat. Those are the coolest. Makes it look like you’re straddling the motor.”

  He pointed at the front wheel.

  “And he extended the front end and added ape hangers.”

  I assumed those were the long, backward-projecting handlebars.

  “And check out the molding and
custom paint job! Man, I wish I could see that up close. This machine is a work of art. All it needs to achieve perfection is a sissy bar.”

  “From which to serve beer and mixed drinks?”

  “It’s a backrest.”

  The bike was bizarre, but no more so than its owner. He had leather wristbands, a denim vest with assorted Harley-Davidson pins and patches, riding chaps, and more hair than a Wookie. He looked like a walking threat display.

  “I’m going to poke Mr. Salmon again. If he’s still cryogenic, we’ll nuke him.”

  He was and we did, then laid him on the grill for a charcoal finish. Then I buttered green beans and tossed a salad while Kit carved and served the fish.

  We’d just opened our napkins when the phone rang. I answered, and a rough male voice asked for my nephew. Wordlessly, I handed him the phone.

  “Hey, man, what’s up?”

  Kit stared at a spot on the glass tabletop.

  “No go. Can’t do.”

  Pause.

  “No way.” He shifted position, and worked at the spot with his thumbnail.

  “Not this time.”

  Though muted by my nephew’s ear, I could hear the voice on the other end. It sounded harsh, like an angry dog locked in a cellar. The nerves in my stomach tightened.

  “Well, that’s how it is.”

  The muffled response rose and fell in agitation.

  Keeping his eyes averted, my nephew left the table and moved down the hall out of earshot.

  I speared a green bean, chewed, swallowed. Mechanically, I repeated the action, but my appetite had evaporated. After five forkfuls he was back.

  The look on his face brought a feeling like physical pain to my chest. I wanted to put my arms around him, to brush back his hair and comfort him the way I had when he was a little boy. But whatever had happened was not a skinned knee, and I couldn’t do that now. Even if he allowed it, I knew the gesture would only discomfort him. I sensed his distress, but was helpless to ease it.

  He gave me a big smile, shrugged palms and shoulders, then sat and dived into his fish.

  I stared at the top of his head. Finally, he looked up.