Deadly Decisions

by Kathy Reichs

  “How do you know?”

  She frowned, deciding if the question was a trap.

  “Anyone with the IQ of celery would know that.”

  “That’s not terribly convincing.”

  “A real mechanic would have done it right.”

  “What does that mea—”

  She cut me off. “Do you want to hear this or not?”

  I waited.

  “I was there that night.”

  She swallowed.

  “I was hardly in the door when some guy showed up, so I went into the bedroom. He and Cherokee started talking, friendly at first, but pretty soon I heard shouting, then slamming and banging. I knew something was coming down, so I hid in the closet.”

  “Why were you there, Jocelyn?”

  “Cherokee was gonna sponsor me in the Kiwanis,” she sneered.

  “Go on.”

  “I hunkered in until things quieted down, then when I thought the guy was gone, I started to split. That’s when I heard the gunshot. Jesus.”

  Her eyes slipped past me to a spot somewhere over my shoulder. I tried to imagine what for her was memory.

  “Then I heard the guy banging drawers and flinging crap around. I figured he was a smackhead looking for Cherokee’s rock, and I nearly shit my shorts, ’cause I knew the stuff was in the bedroom with me.

  “When I smelled smoke it was time to haul ass, junkie or no junkie. I smashed the window, dropped to the alley, and ran to the corner. Now here’s the weird part. When I cut around the building and looked up the block, the little roach was still outside Cherokee’s pad, scratching at something in the mud. Then a car turned onto the street and he took off.”

  “What was he looking for?”

  “How the hell should I know?”

  “Then what?”

  “When I was sure he wasn’t coming back I walked over and poked around.”

  There was a long silence. Then she dropped a purse strap from her shoulder, dug inside, and withdrew a small, flat object.

  “I found this where the guy was squatting.” She thrust it at me.

  I unfolded a pharmacy sack and removed a photograph framed in cheap plastic. Two men smiled through a mist of spattered blood, inner arms entwined, outer arms raised, middle fingers pointing skyward. The one on the right was Cherokee Desjardins, robust and full of life.

  When I recognized the man on the left my throat tightened and my breath came in short, quick spurts. Jocelyn went on speaking but I didn’t hear her.

  “. . . torn bag beside it. When the headlights hit him he bolted like a jackrabbit.”

  My thoughts raced. Images flashed.

  “. . . why the fuck he wanted it. But go figure what burns in a junked-out head.”

  I saw a face.

  “. . . wish I’d gotten a look at him.”

  I saw a baseball cap.

  “. . . this son of a bitch get away with it.”

  I saw flecks of gold circling in a watery vortex.

  “. . . didn’t deserve a shiv up his ass.”

  I pulled myself back to the present and willed my face neutral.

  “Jocelyn, do you know a newscaster named Lyle Crease?”

  “English?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t watch English TV. Why are you asking me that? Look, I’m trying to tell you Dorsey didn’t whack Cherokee.”

  “No,” I agreed. “He didn’t.”

  But I had a pretty good idea who did.

  • • •

  When Jocelyn left I phoned Claudel. He was not in, but this time I hung up and dialed his pager.

  Urgent enough, I thought, as I entered my number.

  When Claudel called back I relayed Jocelyn’s story.

  “Can she identify the man?”

  “Never saw his face.”

  “Fantastique.”

  “It’s Crease.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “The cap found in Desjardins’ apartment had a USC logo. Crease went to school there.”

  “We’ve alread—”

  “Did Charbonneau tell you about the dandruff?”

  “Yes.”

  “I had the pleasure of dining with Crease not too long ago. He has enough dandruff to open a ski hill.”

  “Motive?”

  I described what I’d seen in the photo.

  “Holy Mother of Christ.”

  Rarely had I heard Claudel blaspheme.

  “What’s this woman’s relationship to Dorsey?”

  “She was not receptive to personal inquiries.”

  “Can she be trusted?” His breath sounded moist against the mouthpiece.

  “She obviously has a habit, but I believe her.”

  “If she was terrified, why hang around?”

  “She probably thought the intruder dropped drugs and she had a shot at a free score.”

  “Michel Charbonneau told me of your conversation.” More breathing. “I think it’s time to net this Mr. Crease.”

  When we disconnected I phoned for air reservations. Willing or not, Kit was on his way to Texas. Until then, I wasn’t going to let him out of my sight.

  • • •

  I arrived home to find Kit in the shower.

  “Have you eaten?” I shouted through the door when I heard the sound of the water stop.

  “Not much.”

  O.K, podna. I, too, can cook pasta.

  I made a run to Le Faubourg for scallops and greens. Back home I sautéed the seafood with onions and mushrooms, then mixed and added a yogurt-mustard-lemon-dill sauce. I ladled the mollusk concoction over angel-hair pasta, and served it with a baguette and tossed salad.

  Even Kit was impressed.

  We talked as we ate, but said little.

  “How was your day?” I asked.

  “Pretty good.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Not much.”

  “Did you stay here?”

  “I rode the subway to some island and cruised around the parks.”

  “Île-Ste-Hélène.”

  “Yeah. There’s a beach out there and lots of trails. It’s pretty slick.”

  That explained the skateboard in the entrance hall.

  “How ’bout your day?” he asked, picking a crouton from the salad remains.

  “Pretty good.”

  A cokehead security risk in our own lab accused me of indifference to bikers, and I discovered one of your Easy Rider playmates may be a killer.

  “Cool,” he said.

  I took a deep breath.

  “I made airline reservations today.”

  “Off on another trip?”

  “The flight is for you.”

  “Uh-oh. The bum’s rush.” He kept his eyes on the salad bowl.

  “Kit, you know I love you, and I love having you here, but I think it’s time you went home.”

  “What is it they say about houseguests and old fish? Or is it relatives?”

  “You know that isn’t it. But you have been here almost two weeks. Aren’t you bored? Don’t you want to see your friends and check on the boat?”

  He shrugged. “They’re not going anywhere.”

  “I’m sure Harry and your father both miss you.”

  “Oh, yeah. They’ve been burning up the phone wires.”

  “Your mother’s in Mexico. It’s not eas—”

  “She arrived in Houston yesterday.”

  “What?”

  “I didn’t want to tell you.”

  “Oh?”

  “I knew you’d hustle me off when she got back.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  His hand dropped, fingers curling over the bowl’s edge. Outside, a siren wailed, soft, loud, soft. When he answered he didn’t look at me.

  “When I was a little kid, you always stayed just out of reach, afraid Harry might feel jealous. Or angry. Or resentful. Or inadequate. Or, or—”

  He picked a crouton, threw it back. Drops of oil jumped onto the t
able.

  “Kit!”

  “And, you know what? She ought to feel inadequate. The only thing I should thank Harry for is not burying me in a goddam shoe box when I was born.” He got to his feet. “I’ll pack my stuff.”

  I stood and grabbed his arm. When I looked up his face was tight with anger.

  “Harry has nothing to do with this. I’m sending you home because I’m frightened for you. I’m frightened over the people you’ve been seeing and what they may be doing, and I’m afraid you’re involved with things that could place you in jeopardy.”

  “That’s bullshit. I’m not a baby anymore. I make my own decisions.”

  I flashed on Frog Rinaldi, his shadow rippling across a grave. Gately and Martineau had made a decision. A deadly decision. So had Savannah Osprey. And George Dorsey. I would not permit Kit to do the same.

  “If something happened to you I’d never forgive myself.”

  “I’m not going to get hurt.”

  “I can’t take that chance. I think you’ve been putting yourself in dangerous circumstances.”

  “I’m not six years old, Aunt Tempe. You can kick me out of here, but you can’t tell me what to do anymore.” His jaw muscles bunched, then his Adam’s apple rose and dropped.

  We both fell silent, realizing our proximity to words that, once spoken, would wound. I released my grip, and Kit disappeared down the hall, bare feet swishing softly on the carpet.

  I slept fitfully, then woke and lay in the dark, thinking about my nephew. The window shade changed from black to charcoal. I gave up on sleep, brewed tea, and took it to the patio.

  Bundled in Gran’s quilt, I watched stars fade overhead, and remembered evenings in Charlotte. When Katy and Kit were small we would identify constellations and christen patterns of our own. Katy would see a mouse, a puppy, a pair of skates. Kit would see a mother and child.

  I tucked my feet and sipped the hot liquid.

  How could I make Kit understand my reasons for sending him away? He was young, and vulnerable, and desperate for recognition and approval.

  But recognition and approval from whom? Why does he want to stay with me? Do I provide a base from which he can pursue activities he won’t disclose to me?

  From the day of Kit’s arrival his apathy had puzzled me. While Katy would have craved constant peer contact, my nephew seemed satisfied with limited sight-seeing, video games, and the company of an aging aunt and her aging cat. The current Kit was jarringly at odds with the youngster I remembered. Skinned knees. Stitches. Broken bones. Kit’s perpetual motion had kept Harry on a first-name basis with her local paramedics for the duration of his childhood.

  Had Kit been staying in, or had he been out and about with Lyle Crease? Or the Preacher? Or the hyena? Was he lethargic around me because he was tired?

  More tea. Tepid now.

  I pictured two men behind blood-spattered plastic, and even the tea couldn’t warm my chill.

  Was I making a mistake? If Kit was going through a rough patch could I have some positive influence? If he was involved in something precarious would it be safer to keep him with me?

  No. The overall situation made it too risky. I would stick to my plan. My nephew would be in Texas before George Dorsey’s body was underground.

  As dawn crawled up from the horizon, a gentle wash spread across my yard, tinting trees, hedges, and the old brownstones across the street. Edges softened, until the city resembled a Winslow Homer landscape. A gentle watercolor, a perfect backdrop for a gangland funeral.

  I poured the last of my tea onto the lawn, and went to wake my nephew.

  His room was empty.

  A NOTE WAS STUCK TO THE REFRIGERATOR. I READ IT IN PLACE, afraid to trust my unsteady hands.

  Thanks for everything. Don’t worry. I’m with friends.

  Friends?

  My heart felt dead in my chest.

  I looked at the clock. The Dorsey funeral would start in a little more than an hour.

  I dialed Claudel’s pager, then made coffee, dressed, and made the bed.

  Seven-fifteen.

  I sipped and picked at a cuticle.

  The earth rotated. Tectonic plates shifted. Twelve acres of rain forest disappeared from the globe forever.

  I went to the bathroom, combed my hair, dabbed on makeup, added blush, returned to the kitchen for a second cup.

  Seven-thirty. Where the hell was Claudel?

  Back to the bathroom, where I wet and recombed my hair. I was reaching for dental floss when the phone rang.

  “I wouldn’t have thought you an early riser.” Claudel.

  “Kit’s gone.”

  “Cibole!”

  I could hear traffic in the background.

  “Where are you?”

  “Outside the church.”

  “How does it look?”

  “Like a theme park of deadly sins. Sloth and gluttony are well represented.”

  “I don’t suppose you’ve seen him.”

  “No, but I might not spot Fidel Castro in this crowd. Looks like every biker on the continent is here.”

  “Crease?”

  “No sign.”

  I heard a hitch in his breathing.

  “What?”

  “Charbonneau and I did some more checking. From ’83 to ’89 Lyle Crease was playing foreign correspondent, not secret agent. But the only reports he was filing were with the guard on his cell block.”

  “He did time?” I asked, unnerved.

  “Six years, south of the border.”

  “Mexico?”

  “Juárez.”

  My heart came back to life and thumped inside my chest.

  “Crease is a killer and Kit may be with him. I’ve got to do something.”

  Claudel’s voice went cop cold.

  “Don’t even think about freelancing, Ms. Brennan. These bikers look like sharks smelling the water for blood, and it could get rough down here.”

  “And Kit could get sucked into the feeding frenzy!” I heard my voice catch, and stopped to steady myself.

  “I’ll send a patrol car to pick Crease up.”

  “Suppose he has funeral plans?”

  “If he shows his face, we’ll arrest him.”

  “And if a nineteen-year-old kid gets nailed along the way?” I was almost yelling.

  “All I’m saying is don’t come down here.”

  “Then find this bastard!”

  I’d hardly disconnected when I heard my cell phone.

  Kit!

  I raced to the bedroom and pulled it from my purse.

  The voice was quavery, like a child after a long cry.

  “You need to know what they’re doing.”

  At first I felt confusion, then recognition, then apprehension.

  “Who, Jocelyn?”

  “Someone needs to know what these Heathen scum are doing.” She inhaled sharply through her nose.

  “Tell me.”

  “This town is turning into a slaughterhouse, and your kid is ambling right down the chute.”

  My stomach went tight with fear.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I know what’s coming down.”

  “How does this involve my nephew?”

  “I need money and I need cover.” Her voice was stronger now.

  “Tell me what you know.”

  “Not till we deal.”

  “I don’t have that kind of authority.”

  “You know who does.”

  “I will try to help you,” I said. “But I need to know if my nephew is in danger.”

  Silence. Then, “Fuck, I’m dead anyway. Meet me in the Guy métro in twenty minutes. Westbound platform.”

  Her voice was leaden with defeat.

  “I’ll wait ten minutes. If you’re late, or bring a buddy, I’m gone, and the kid’ll be a footnote when this whole thing is written up.”

  Dead air.

  I dialed Claudel’s pager and left my number. Then I stared at the phone, ticking throug
h options.

  Claudel was unreachable. I couldn’t wait for a return call.

  Quickwater.

  Ditto.

  Claudel hadn’t told me to avoid the underground. I’d meet with Jocelyn, then ring him when I had information.

  I punched in the number at Carcajou headquarters, but didn’t hit send. Then I slid the phone into my purse, and bolted for the door.

  • • •

  Jocelyn was seated at the end of the tunnel, a canvas duffel in her lap, another at her feet. She had chosen a corner bench, as if concrete backing conferred protection from whatever menace she feared. Her teeth worked a thumbnail as she scanned the commuters standing to either side of the tracks.

  She spotted me and followed my approach. I stayed to the middle of the platform, my pulse louder in my ears than any competing noise. The air was warm and stale, as though breathed and rebreathed by legions of subterranean travelers. I felt an acrid taste and swallowed hard.

  Jocelyn watched in silence as I sat on the bench. Her chalky skin looked violet in the artificial light, the whites of her eyes yellow.

  I started to speak but she stopped me with a hand movement.

  “I’m going to say this once, then I’m taking off. I talk. You listen.”

  I said nothing.

  “I’m a junkie, we both know that. I’m also a whore and a liar.” Her eyes roved the faces lining the tracks, her movements ragged and jerky.

  “Here’s the mind-fuck. I come from a Girl Scout–summer camp–tuna casserole background just like you. Only somewhere along the way I joined a freak show I can’t escape.”

  Purple shadow turned her eyes cadaverous.

  “Lately I’ve been doing some hard time with hate. I hate everyone and everything on the planet. But mostly I hate myself.”

  She backhanded a sheen of liquid from below her nostrils.

  “You know it’s closing time when you can’t look in a pond or pass a mirror or storefront because you despise what you see looking back.”

  She turned to me, the lobotomy eyes burning with rage and guilt.

  “Talking to you may get me killed, but I want out. And I want these guys to pay.”

  “What are you offering?”

  “Spider Marcotte and the little girl.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “It was George Dorsey. He’s dead now, so it don’t matter.” She looked away, then focused again on my face.