by Kathy Reichs
My brain flashed another snapshot image. The Dewees bones. Tiny nicks. When the woman’s flesh was removed I’d also take a hard look at her vertebrae and ribs.
Miller changed the subject. “Kyle found a vet who can scan your capsule.”
“Where?”
“Block and a half from here. Dr. Dinh.” Miller stuck a yellow Post-it to one of the glass-fronted cabinets above the counter. “Says he’ll be in his office until five thirty. Then he’s off for the long weekend.”
I’d totally forgotten. Monday was Memorial Day. The clock said four thirty. I had to hurry.
Crossing to the counter, I removed the pubic bones from the bowl in which Miller had placed them to soak. The cartilage detached easily, allowing me to see that both symphyseal faces were smooth, with some depression relative to their rims.
Miller watched expectantly.
“Yep. Just north or south of forty.” I pulled off my gloves and lowered my mask. “Gotta catch Dinh before he heads out. When will the skeleton be fully cleaned?”
“Monday morning.”
“I hate to ask you to work on a holiday weekend,” I said.
Miller laughed. “Sweetie, I’ve got nothing planned but a Home Depot jaunt.”
“You’re a saint.”
“Patron of spackle and Spic and Span. In the meantime, what do I tell Gullet?”
“Tell him she’s a middle-aged white woman who was strangled and stuffed in a barrel with her cat.”
* * *
Dr. Dinh shared a pink stucco strip mall with an electronics shop, a cell phone vendor, an insurance office, a dollar store, and a video rental outlet. Yellow lettering on the window identified the Animals Love Care Veterinary Clinic.
My exhausted mind started playing games. Animals love care? Loving care for animals? Love and care? Priced separately? Package deals upon request?
I really needed a bubble bath and dinner.
Luck was with me. On my second drive-through an SUV backed out of one of the dozen slots. I pulled in.
As I entered the clinic, a woman brushed past with a rat-size Chihuahua cradled in one arm. The rat kicked into, what? Yapping? Even yapping doesn’t adequately capture the shrillness.
Dinh’s waiting room was an extravagant eight by ten. Straight ahead was a faux-bamboo-fronted counter with a circa ’83 PC on top. No one was working it.
Beyond the counter were two closed doors, each with a Lucite holder appropriate for depositing charts. Muffled voices floated from behind one door. A waiting file suggested a presence behind the other.
Painted wooden chairs lined the wall to one side of the counter. An old man occupied the farthest on the right. An old beagle slouched against his leg.
A woman occupied the farthest chair on the left, a turquoise pet carrier on the linoleum by her feet. Through the carrier’s door I could see something with beady black eyes and whiskers. A ferret?
My watch said five fifteen. Things were looking bad for Dinh’s five thirty exit.
Gramps and the beagle visually tracked me to a middle chair. The woman continued thumbing her BlackBerry. The ferret-thing retreated into shadow.
Taking up a cat magazine, I settled back.
I was two pages into an article on thwarting feline blanket sucking when a woman exited room one accompanied by twins and a golden retriever. Moments later a small man with a shiny brown head emerged through the same door. He wore silver-rimmed glasses and a blue lab coat labeled Dinh.
Dinh invited ferret woman to enter the space vacated by Mom and the boys.
I stood.
Dinh approached and asked if I was the one with the chip. I began to explain. Hand-flapping me quiet, he held out a palm. I gave him the ziplock, and he disappeared into examining room two.
I sat, wondering how long I’d be cooling my heels.
It went like this.
Five fifty-six. Woman and poodle exit room two.
Six oh four. Gramps and beagle enter room two.
Six twenty-two. Ferret woman exits room one.
Six forty-five. Gramps exits room two, sans beagle.
At 7:05, Dinh reappears and hands me a piece of paper. On it were written two names: “Cleopatra” and “Isabella Cameron Halsey.” I assumed the former was the late feline, the latter its late owner. Below the names was a King Street address.
I thanked Dinh. Coolly. I’d long since passed the threshold for niceness. My request had probably taken the man five minutes. He could have done it first and sent me on my way. Instead he’d made me wait two hours.
Minutes later I was jammed up in traffic near the Old City Market. I’d been so irritated with Dinh I’d cut down the Peninsula, not up toward the bridge.
I made a turn. Another. The streets were narrow and clogged with tourists. I wanted to be home, not creeping along behind a horse-drawn carriage. I was annoyed with my own stupidity. I was tired, grubby, and wanted to cry.
I passed a gray stone church with a towering steeple. St. Philip’s. OK. I was on Church Street. I had my bearings. Despite Old Dobbin, I was making progress.
The buggy slowed. Over the hum of my AC I heard the driver’s muffled voice, presumably concocting stories about landmarks. My stomach growled. I added hungry to my list of complaints.
Finger-drumming the wheel, I looked out the passenger-side window. Tommy Condon’s Irish Pub. Patrons dining on the porch. They looked happy. Clean.
My gaze drifted to Tommy’s lot. Fell on a Jeep.
My fingers froze.
I checked the plate. My heart kicked in extra beats. I had to get out of the car.
My eyes darted from curb to curb. Not a chance of finding a spot on Church. Where was the entrance to Tommy’s lot?
Dobbin was clopping along at the speed of mud. There was nothing I could do but follow.
Finally, I rounded the corner. One street up, I found a gap and jammed the car in.
Slamming the door, I broke into a run.
21
RYAN WAS AT A PORCH TABLE, SMOKING. IN front of him were the remains of a cheeseburger basket and an empty beer mug. A small metal disc held multiple butts, suggesting he’d been at the pub for some time.
Not good. Ryan relapsed to cigarettes only when anxious. Or angry.
Keep it light.
“You from around here, handsome?” Light, bubbly, and strained as hell.
Ryan’s face swiveled toward me. Something flicked in his eyes, then disappeared before I could read it.
I gestured at a chair.
Ryan shrugged.
I sat.
Ryan ground his cigarette into the disc.
“Snowbird migrating south for some sun and sand?” I persisted.
Ryan didn’t smile.
“Why didn’t you come inside at Anne’s house Wednesday night?”
“I’d booked for the ghost dungeon walking tour.”
I ignored that. “You’re avoiding my calls?”
“Reception problems.”
“Where are you staying?”
“Charleston Place.”
“Nice.”
“Thick towels.”
“I’d prefer you bunk at Anne’s.”
“Pretty crowded.”
“It’s not what you think, Ryan.”
“What do I think?”
Before I could answer a waitress appeared at our table.
“Hungry?” Ryan’s offer was delivered with all the warmth of a supermarket cashier.
I ordered a Diet Coke and Ryan asked for a Palmetto Pale Ale.
OK. He wasn’t jumping up to hug me, but he wasn’t leaving. Fair enough. I knew my reaction had I driven fourteen hundred miles to find him cuddling his ex.
But I hadn’t been cuddling Pete. Ryan was exhibiting all the self-assurance of a pimply eighth grader.
We sat in silence. The night was humid and windless. Though I’d changed to clean scrubs before leaving the hospital, these, too, were beginning to feel damp and clingy. Irritation started to surface
.
Reason raised a restraining hand. When the waitress brought our drinks, I decided to approach from another angle.
“I had no idea Pete would be coming down or that we’d be here at the same time. Anne invited him. It’s her house and I was scheduled to leave the day he arrived. That’s probably why she didn’t mention it. The place has five bedrooms. What could I say?”
“Keep your pants on?”
“That’s not how it is.”
Ryan raised a palm, indicating he didn’t want to hear.
That gesture launched a resurgence of the irritation impulse.
“I’ve had a rough week, Ryan. You could cut me some slack.”
“You and hubby devise some sort of calamity scorecard? One point for sunburn. Two for a bad Pinot. Three for ants during the picnic on the beach.”
Occasionally, I give myself good advice. Example: Don’t get irritated. Often I ignore that advice. I did so now.
“Haven’t you just spent a week in Nova Scotia with your former lover?” I blurted.
“Pretend I just slapped my forehead in surprised realization of your concern.”
Hot. Hungry. Tired. Lousy at diplomacy in the best of moods. I really lost it.
“I’ve just learned a friend is sick, probably dying,” I snapped. “A reporter is hounding me and a developer is threatening me. I’ve been sucked into three homicides. I’ve spent the last seven days either in an ER, at a morgue, or slogging through muck in search of putrefied bodies.” A bit of an exaggeration, but I was on a roll. “Wednesday night I suffered an emotional implosion. Pete was concerned and offered comfort, which I badly needed. Sorry for my timing. And sorry to bloody hell I bruised your fragile male ego.”
Out of breath, I sat back and crossed my arms. In my peripheral vision I could see the couple to our right staring. I glared at them. They turned away.
Ryan lit up again, drew deeply, exhaled. I watched the smoke spiral up toward an overhead fan.
“Lily told me to piss off.”
“What? What do you mean? When?” Stupid, but Ryan’s segue to his daughter had caught me off guard.
“We got into an argument sometime after you and I talked on Sunday. Started over some dolt with studs sticking out of his face. Hell, I don’t even remember. Lily stormed out of the restaurant, said I was ruining her life, hoped I’d leave and never come back.”
“What does Lutetia think?”
“I should back off and give Lily space for a while.” Ryan’s face was a stone mask. “I spent all day Monday and most of Tuesday trying to talk to the kid. She wouldn’t see me or take my calls.”
I leaned forward and placed my hand on his. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”
“Yeah.” Ryan’s jaw muscles bunched, relaxed.
“Lily needs time to get used to the idea of you as her father.”
“Yeah.”
“It’s been less than a year.”
Ryan did not reply.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
“I’m glad you decided to come here.”
“Oh, yeah.” Ryan gave me a mirthless smile. “There was a great idea.”
“I was a head case Wednesday night. Self-pity, pity for others, tears, the whole bit. When you arrived, Pete was trying to settle me down. That’s it. Nothing more. I’m sorry about my lousy timing.”
Ryan didn’t respond. But he didn’t pull back.
“I wouldn’t lie to you. You know me.”
Still, Ryan remained silent.
“It was nothing, Ryan.”
Ryan toyed with his cigarette ash, rolling it on the edge of the metal disc. A full beat passed. Another. Ryan broke the silence.
“After Lily’s rejection, I was filled with guilt. I felt like a failure. The only person I wanted to be with was you. The decision was simple. I hopped in the Jeep and headed south. Then, after driving twenty hours, to see you there in the yard. . .”
Ryan left the thought unfinished. I started to speak. He cut me off.
“Maybe I overreacted Wednesday night, let anger rule the moment. But I’ve realized something, Tempe. I don’t know my daughter. OK. I buy the blame for that. But I don’t know you, either.”
“Of course you do.”
“Not really.” Ryan took a drag, released the smoke. “I know about you. I can quote your résumé. Brilliant anthropologist, one of a handful in your field. Undergrad at Illinois, Ph.D. from Northwestern. DMORT experience, U.S. military consults, genocide expert for the UN. Impressive bio, but none of that gives any hint of how you think or what you feel. My daughter’s a blank canvas. You’re a blank canvas.”
Ryan slid his hand from under mine and picked up his mug.
“I’ve shared a great deal more than my résumé,” I said.
“You’re right.” Ryan drained half his beer. To calm his anger? To collect his thoughts? “You married Pete the barrister at age nineteen. He was a cheat. You were a boozer. Your marriage went bust. Your daughter’s a university groupie. Your best friend’s a realtor. You have a cat. Like Cheetos. Hate goat cheese. Won’t wear ruffles or stilettos. You can be caustic, hilarious, and a tiger in bed.”
“Stop.” My cheeks were on fire.
“I’ve pretty much run the list.”
“You’re not being fair.” I was too exhausted mentally and physically to protest with much vehemence. “And it’s deliberate.”
Placing his forearms on the table, Ryan leaned close. In the still air I could smell male sweat, aftershave, and a hint of the cigarettes he’d smoked.
“We’ve been friends for a decade, Tempe. I know you feel passionate about your work. Otherwise, most of the time, I’m clueless about what you feel. I have no idea what makes you happy, sad, angry, hopeful.”
“I follow the Cubs.”
“See what I mean?” Slumping back, Ryan stubbed out his cigarette and chugged his beer.
Tight bands squeezed my chest. Anger? Resentment?
Fear of closeness?
I sipped my Coke. Silence roared between us.
The waitress looked our way but knew better than to interrupt. The couple beside us paid their check and left. Another horse clopped by on Church. Or maybe it was the same horse I’d followed in my car. My mind slid sideways.
Did the horse mind walking the same brainless loop? Did it dutifully obey day after day out of fear of the whip? Did it pass the time dreaming equine dreams, or did it know only the world between blinders?
Was Ryan right? Did I wall myself off? Had I put on emotional blinders? Barricaded myself against troubling memories and troubling issues of the present?
A sudden pang struck deep in my chest. Was Pete one of those issues? Was I being fully honest with Ryan? With myself?
“What is it you want?” My mouth felt dry, my throat constricted.
“Lutetia was very curious about you. I didn’t have answers for most of her questions. That surprised her. I said the things she was asking about weren’t important. She told me that might be true, but, nevertheless, I should know them.
“Motoring solo allows for a lot of introspection. On that long drive I came to understand that Lutetia is right. There are areas of noncommunication, Tempe. Our relationship has borders.”
Relationship? Borders? I couldn’t believe I was hearing this from Andrew Ryan. The bad boy. The player of the field. The Don Juan of Montreal homicide.
“I don’t intentionally keep things from you,” I mumbled.
“It’s not what a person shares, but that a person shares. Intentional or not, you often close me out.”
“I don’t.”
“Why do you call me Ryan?”
“What?” The question threw me. “It’s your name.”
“My last name. My family name. Other cops call me Ryan. The guys in my hockey league. You and I have been as intimate as two people can be.”
“You call me Brennan.”
“When we’re working as professionals.”
> My eyes remained fixed on my hands. Ryan was right. I didn’t know why I did that. A distancing measure?
“What is it you want?” I asked.
“We could start with conversation, Tempe. I don’t need a busload. Just tell me things. Begin with family, your friends, your first love, your hopes and fears . . .” Ryan threw up a hand. “. . . your views on mind and anomalous monism.”
I ignored the attempt at a lighter touch.
“You’ve met Katy. Anne. My nephew Kit.”
Harry.
In the early years, when Ryan was inviting and I was declining personal involvement, my sister, Harriet, came to Montreal in search of Nirvana. She ended up sandbagged by a cult, and Ryan and I saved her ass. One night the two went missing, and, I suspect, did the biblical deed. I’ve never inquired. Neither Ryan nor Harry has ever explained.
“And Harry.”
“How is Harry?” Ryan’s voice sounded a fraction less taut.
“Living in Houston with a harpsichord maker.”
“Is she happy?”
“She’s Harry.”
“Introduce me to your parents.” Dr. Phil prompting a talk show guest.
“Michael Terrence Brennan, litigator, connoisseur, and good-time drunk. Katherine Daessee Lee, known to one and all as Daisy.”
“Thus your unpronounceable middle name.”
“Like Daisy, with a soft s.”
“Daisy. I kind of like—”
“Don’t even think of saddling me with that moniker.”
Ryan flourished two scout’s-honor fingers.
I swallowed and began.
“Michael’s Chicago Irish, Daisy’s old-line Charlotte. College sweethearts, they marry in the fifties. Michael signs on with a big Chicago law firm and the happy couple settle in Beverly, an Irish neighborhood on Chicago’s south side. Daisy joins the Junior League, the Ladies’ Auxiliary, the Rosary Society, and the Friends of the Zoo. Temperance Daessee, their firstborn, puts an end to Mrs. Brennan’s social ambitions. Harriet Lee follows in three years. Three more, and it’s Kevin Michael.”
Almost four decades and the pain still sliced me in two. I was aware I was speaking in third-person present tense, but couldn’t help myself. Somehow the ploy helped. Ask Freud.
“Nine months later, baby Kevin succumbs to leukemia. Devastated, Daddy sets a land speed record for the single-malt sprint into unemployment, cirrhosis, and an overpriced coffin. Mama retreats into debilitating neurosis, eventually slinks back to Charlotte with young Temperance and Harriet. The trio take up residence with Grandma Lee.”