Bones to Ashes (13 page)

“Didn’t you say Kelly Sicard also wanted to be a model?”

“Yeah.” Ryan forked curry into his mouth. “Fancy that.”

We ate in silence. Beside us, two kids held hands, eyes locked, food cooling on their plates. Love? Lust? Either way, I envied them.

Finally, Ryan got to it.

Wiping his mouth, he carefully folded and laid his napkin on the table. Smoothed it with a palm.

“There’s something I have to tell you. It’s not easy, but you should know.”

A fist grabbed my gut.

“Lily’s problems are worse than I’ve let on.”

The fist eased ever so slightly.

“Three weeks ago she was nailed boosting DVD’s from a Blockbuster outlet. I got a courtesy call because I’m on the job. I managed to talk the owner down, made restitution. Lily didn’t go into the system. This time.”

Ryan’s gaze floated up to the window, went through the glass to the darkness outside on Bishop.

“Lily’s addicted to heroin. She steals to feed her habit.”

I didn’t blink, didn’t look over toward the couple beside us.

“I own a big hunk of blame. I was never there.”

Lutetia kept her existence from you. I didn’t say it.

Ryan’s eyes came back to mine. In them I saw pain and guilt. And something else. The sadness of ending.

The fist retightened.

“My daughter needs medical help. Counseling. She’ll get that. But she also needs stability. A home base. The conviction that someone believes in her.”

Ryan took both my hands in his.

“Lutetia has been in Montreal the past two weeks.”

My chest turned to ice.

“We’ve spent hours wrestling with this.” Ryan halted briefly. “We think we can give Lily the safety net she needs.”

I waited.

“We’ve decided to try to make the relationship work.”

“You’re going back to Lutetia?” Calm, and wildly out of sync with the turmoil inside.

“This is the most painful decision I’ve ever had to make. I’ve barely slept. I’ve thought of nothing else.” Ryan lowered his voice. “I kept remembering you with Pete in Charleston.”

“He’d been shot.” Barely audible.

“I mean earlier. He had his arms around you.”

“I was overtired, overwrought from so much work. Pete was merely calming me down.”

“I know. I admit when I first saw you two together I felt betrayed. Humiliated. ‘How could she?’ I kept asking myself. I wanted to see you burned alive. That first night, I bought a bottle of scotch, took it to my room and got drunk. I was so angry I threw my room phone through the TV screen.”

My eyebrows floated up.

“The hotel charged me six hundred bucks.” Strained smile. “Look, I’m not criticizing or casting blame. But I’ve come to understand you’re never going to cut Pete loose.” Ryan’s thumbs caressed the backs of my hands. “That realization made me reassess. Maybe the poets and songwriters have gotten it wrong. Maybe we do get a second chance to get things right.”

“Andrew and Lutetia. The way we were.” It was small and mean. I couldn’t help myself.

“This won’t affect us on the job, of course.” Another weak smile. “We’ll still be Mulder and Scully.”

X-Files.
X-Lovers.

“I want your help with these MP’s and DOA’s.”

I bit back a retort I would later have regretted.

“You’re sure about this?” I asked.

“I’ve never been less sure about anything in my life. But I’m sure of one thing. I owe it to my daughter to try. I can’t see her destroyed while I just stand by.”

I needed fresh air.

I didn’t offer reassurance. Or another Streisand line. Or a hug.

Molding my face into a smile, I rose and left the restaurant.

I felt leaden, oblivious to the Saturday night revelers with whom I shared the sidewalk. My feet rose, fell, moving me along without sensation. Then they stopped.

I looked up.

Hurley’s.

It wasn’t air that I craved. I’d run toward the old umbilicus. The ruby glow in the long-stemmed glass, the friction on my throat, the heat in my belly. The bullet train to temporary gladness and well-being.

All I had to do was enter and ask.

But I know myself. I am an alkie. The fling wouldn’t be brief. And, inevitably, the euphoria would give way to self-loathing. Hours, perhaps days would be gone from my life.

I reversed my course and went home.

Lying in bed, I felt totally alone in the universe.

My thoughts played like a
danse macabre.

Dorothée and Geneviève Doucet, forgotten in an upstairs bedroom.

Kelly Sicard. Claudine Cloquet. Anne Girardin. Phoebe Jane Quincy. Vanished, perhaps molested and murdered.

Three young bodies, two bloated and grotesque.

Laurette, abandoned, dead at thirty-four.

My own mother, widowed, neurotic, dead at fifty-seven.

Baby Kevin, dead at age nine months.

A young girl’s skeleton, wrenched from its grave.

Obéline, battered and disfigured.

Évangéline, gone.

Ryan, gone.

At that moment, I hated my job. I hated my life.

The world was wretched.

There were no tears. Only an overwhelming numbness.

I
AWOKE TO THE SOUND OF THE PHONE. I FELT SLUGGISH AND FLAT and didn’t know why. Then I remembered.

Ryan.

Last night’s numbness reasserted itself. That was good. It got me through the call.

“Good morning, sugar britches.”

Pete never phoned me in Montreal.

Katy! I shot upright.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Katy’s all right?”

“Of course she’s all right.”

“You spoke to her? When?”

“Yesterday.”

“What did she say?”

“Buenos días. Chile’s the bomb. Transfer money. Adios.”

Leaning back, I pulled the quilt to my chin.

“How are you?”

“Hunky-dory.”

“Where are you?”

“Charlotte. There’s something I want to tell you.”

“You’re engaged to Paris Hilton.” I was so relieved Katy was safe, I laughed at my own joke. It felt good.

Pete didn’t answer.

“Hello?”

“I’m here.” Devoid of humor.

Apprehension rocketed through my war-torn nerves.

“Pete?”

“Not Paris. Summer.”

Summer?

“You want to get married?” I couldn’t keep the shock from my voice.

“You’ll like her, sugar britches.”

I’ll hate her.

“Where did you meet?” I tried to sound bright.

“At the Selwyn Pub. She looked sad. I bought her a beer. Turned out a puppy had been euthanized that day. She’s a veterinary assistant.”

“How long have you and Summer been dating?”

“Since March.”

“Jesus, Pete.”

“She’s very bright, Tempe. Wants to go to vet school.”

Of course she does.

“How old is Summer?”

“Twenty-nine.”

Pete would soon be waving hello to fifty.

“Three months is pretty quick.”

“Summer wants to tie the knot.” Pete laughed. “What the hell? I’m an old bachelor, kicking around on my own. Don’t forget. You turned me out, babe.”

I swallowed. “What do you want me to do?”

“Nothing. I’ll handle the filing. Irreconcilable differences. All we need is an agreement on the spoils of empire. We can do the actual dividing later.”

“Not many spoils.”

“North Carolina is a no-fault state, no need for accusations of anything.”

“How soon?” I gave up all pretense at brightness.

“You and I haven’t cohabited for years, so there won’t be any mandatory separation period. Assuming we agree on finances, the divorce should be granted quickly.”

“What’s your time line?” Lifeless.

“We’re thinking about spring. Maybe next May. Summer wants a mountain wedding.”

I pictured Summer. Barefoot, tan, head garlanded with daisies.

“Have you told Katy?”

“Not a topic for the phone. We’ll have a heart-to-heart when she returns from Chile.”

“Has Katy met Summer?”

A slight hitch. “Yes.”

“Not good?”

“Katy finds fault with any woman I date.”

That was untrue. On occasion my daughter talked of her father’s exploits. For some, she felt the attraction was boobs. For others, it was garbonzas. Melons. Jugs. Hooters. A few of the ladies she liked very much.

“It could be awkward,” Pete said. “Summer wants kids. Katy may find that difficult.”

Merciful God.

“I’d like your blessing, sugar britches.”

“Whatever.” The numbness was dissolving like fog in a hot morning sun. I had to hang up.

“You’ll like Summer. Really.”

“Yeah.”

I sat motionless, the dial tone buzz in my ear.

My estranged husband loves women in the way moths love a back-porch bulb. He likes to flirt and hover, drawn, but never willing to settle. I’d learned the hard way. And been burned. Marriage, any marriage, seemed out of character for him. When we’d been in Charleston, before the shooting, he’d seemed to want to explore reconciliation. But now Pete wanted to divorce me, marry Summer, and have babies.

Sad Summer. Very bright Summer. Twenty-something Summer.

Slowly, carefully, I placed the handset on the base unit.

Slid down the pillow. Rolled to my side. Tucked my knees to my chest.

And lost it.

I don’t know how long the tears flowed or when I drifted off.

Again, a phone jolted me awake. This time it was my cell. I glanced at the clock. Nine forty-three.

I checked the screen.

Harry.

I couldn’t handle melodrama at that moment. I let it keep ringing.

Seconds later, the land line shrilled.

Cursing, I grabbed the handset and clicked on.

“What?” I snapped.

“Well now, aren’t we wearing our cranky pants.”

“It’s goddamn Sunday morning.”

“Just found a great recipe for kitten. Thought you might like to rustle some up.”

“You’re a scream, Harry.”

“Does our happy face need a little silicone injection?”

“This better not be round six on Arnoldo.” Tossing the covers, I headed for the kitchen. I needed caffeine.

“Ancient history.”

“Out with the old, in with the new, right?” Harsh, but I wasn’t in the mood for tales of marriage gone bad.

“Pete called.”

That threw me. “My Pete? When?”

“Just now. Doesn’t sound like he’s yours anymore.”

“Why call you?” I pulled beans from the cupboard, filled the grinder.

“Thought you might need cheering up.”

“Well, isn’t that ever so considerate. I’m fine.”

“You don’t sound fine.”

I said nothing.

“You want to talk, I want to listen.”

I hit the button. Blades whirred. A warm, coffee smell filled the kitchen.

“Tempe?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s me. Baby sister.”

I dumped grounds into the Mr. Coffee. Added water.

“Yo, Tempe?”

Did I want to talk?

“Let me call you back.”

Ninety minutes later I’d unloaded everything.

Ryan. Lily. Lutetia. The cold case investigation of the dead and missing girls. Phoebe Jane Quincy. The Lac des Deux Montagnes floater. The Doucets.

My sister is flighty, volatile, and prone to hysterics. But she’s also a world-class listener. She didn’t interrupt.

Finally, I told Harry about Hippo and the skeleton I’d demanded from the coroner in Rimouski. Hippo’s girl.

“I’ve got no words of wisdom on Pete or Ryan, so let’s talk about this skeleton. Let me see if I have this straight. Hippo’s the cold case guy. He learned about the skeleton from his pal, Gaston, who’s also SQ. Gaston had spotted the thing in the company of a cop in the boondocks named Luc Tiquet. Tiquet had confiscated it from two spray-paint punks, Trick and Archie Whalen. They’d bought it from Jerry O’Driscoll’s pawnshop. O’Driscoll had fenced it off an old coot named Tom Jouns. Jouns had unearthed it from an Indian burial ground. That track about right?”

“If everyone’s telling the truth.”

“Life’s full of ifs.”

“Indeed, it is.”

“What kind of Indian burial ground?”

“I don’t know. Maybe Micmac.”

“So the girl was Indian.”

“I think she’s white.”

“Why?”

“Facial architecture.”

“You estimate she died at thirteen or fourteen.”

“Yes.”

“Of some kind of disease.”

“She was sick, but I don’t know that the illness killed her.”

“What did?”

“I don’t know.”

“What kind of illness?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well,
there’s
something we can put in the paper. How long’s she been dead?”

“I don’t know that either.”

“A long time?”

“Yes.”

Harry made a clicking sound.

I drew a deep breath.

“Do you remember Évangéline and Obéline Landry?”

“Think I’m ready for the Texas State Hospital? ’Course I remember. I was nine, you were twelve. They disappeared from Pawleys Island and clean off the face of planet Earth. We spent three years trying to get a bead on them. Burned a busload of coins calling Canada.”

“This sounds a little far-fetched, but there’s a remote possibility Hippo’s girl could actually be Évangéline.”

“Hippo’s girl?”

“The Jouns-O’Driscoll-Whalen-Tiquet-Gaston-Hippo skeleton.”

“How remote?”

“Very.”

I told Harry about Laurette and Obéline. And David Bastarache.

“Miserable sonovabitch. Give me a clear shot at his pecker, and that asshole won’t be setting any more fires.”

Harry could mix metaphors like no one I knew. I didn’t point out that this one redefined human anatomy.

Silence hummed across the continent. Then Harry said what I knew Harry would say.

“I’m coming up there.”

“What about selling your house?”

“You think I’m going to stay here diddlin’ with real estate? You’re a smart woman, Tempe, but sometimes I wonder how you pull your undies up in the morning.”

“What are you saying?”

“You’ve got Obéline’s address and telephone number?”

“Yes.”

“Do you need a giant finger pointing down at burning shrubbery?”