by Kathy Reichs
Then the sobs receded and I heard the sound of tissues pulled from a box, then a nose being blown.
“I . . . I . . . Please forgive me.” Her voice was trembling.
Counseling has never been my strong point. Even with those close to me, I feel awkward and inadequate in the face of emotion. I focus on the practical.
“Has Anna taken off before?” Solve the problem.
“I don’t think so. But my sister and I don’t always . . . communicate well.” She had calmed somewhat and was back to word sifting.
“Has she been having problems at school?”
“I don’t think so.”
“With friends? A boyfriend, perhaps?”
“I don’t know.”
“Have you noticed any changes in her behavior lately?”
“What do you mean?”
“Has she changed her eating habits? Is she sleeping more or less than usual? Has she become less communicative?”
“I . . . I’m sorry. Since she’s been in university I haven’t seen as much of Anna as I used to.”
“Is she attending her classes?”
“I’m not sure.” Her voice faded on the last word. She sounded completely drained.
“Does Anna get along with her mother?”
There was a very long pause.
“There is the usual tension, but I know Anna loves her mother.”
Bingo.
“Sister, your niece might have needed some time to herself. I’m sure if you wait a day or two she’ll either show up or call.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right, but I feel so helpless for Virginie. She is totally distraught. I can’t reason with her, and I thought if I could tell her the police were checking, she might be . . . reassured.”
I heard another tissue pull and feared a second round of tears.
“Let me make a call. I’m not sure it will do any good, but I’ll give it a try.”
She thanked me and we hung up. For a moment I sat there, running through my options. I thought of Ryan, but McGill is located on the island of Montreal. Communauté Urbaine de Montréal Police. CUM. I took a deep breath and dialed. When the receptionist answered, I made my request.
“Monsieur Charbonneau, s’il vous plaît.”
“Un instant, s’il vous plaît.”
She came back shortly and said Charbonneau was out for the afternoon.
“Do you want Monsieur Claudel?”
“Yes.” Like I wanted anthrax. Damn.
“Claudel,” said the next voice.
“Monsieur Claudel. It’s Tempe Brennan.”
As I listened to empty air, I pictured Claudel’s beak nose and parrot face, usually set with disapproval of me. I enjoyed talking to this detective as much as I enjoyed boils. But since I didn’t deal with juvenile runaways, I wasn’t sure whom else to ask. Claudel and I had worked CUM cases before, and he had come to tolerate me, so I hoped he would at least tell me where to turn.
“Oui?”
“Monsieur Claudel, I have a rather odd request. I realize this isn’t exactly you—”
“What is it, Dr. Brennan?” Abrupt. Claudel was one of the few who could make the French language sound cold. Just the facts, ma’am.
“I’ve just had a call from a woman who is concerned about her niece. The girl is a student at McGill and she didn’t return home last night. I was wond—”
“They should fill out a missing person report.”
“The mother was told that nothing could be done for forty-eight to seventy-two hours.”
“Age?”
“Nineteen.”
“Name.”
“Anna Goyette.”
“Does she live on campus?”
“I don’t know. It didn’t sound like it. I think she lives with the mother.”
“Did she attend her classes yesterday?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where was she last seen?”
“I don’t know.”
Another pause. Then,
“There is a great deal you do not know, it appears. This may not be a CUM case, and, at this point, it is definitely not a homicide matter.” I could picture him tapping something against something, his face pinched with impatience.
“Yes. I would simply like to know who I could contact,” I spat. He was making me feel unprepared, which was making me irritable. And screwing up my grammar. As usual, Claudel did not bring out the best in me, particularly when his criticism of my methodology was in part legitimate.
“Try missing persons.”
I listened to a dial tone.
I was still fuming when the phone rang again.
“Dr. Brennan,” I barked.
“Is this a bad time?” The soft, Southern English was a sharp contrast to Claudel’s clipped, nasal French.
“Dr. Jeannotte?”
“Yes. Please call me Daisy.”
“Please excuse me, Daisy. I—it’s been a rough couple of days. What can I do for you?”
“Well, I have found some interesting Nicolet materials for you. I hate to send them by courier, since some items are quite old and probably valuable. Would you like to drop by and pick them up?”
I looked at my watch. It was after eleven. Hell, why not. Maybe while on campus I might ask about Anna. At least I’d have something to tell Sister Julienne.
“I could come by about noon. Would that be convenient?”
“That would be just fine.”
* * *
Again, I arrived early. Again, the door was open and the office empty except for a young woman shelving journals. I wondered if it was the same stack Jeannotte’s assistant had been clearing on Wednesday.
“Hi. I’m looking for Dr. Jeannotte.”
The woman turned and her large loop earrings swung and caught the light. She was tall, perhaps six feet, with dark hair shaved close to her head.
“She’s gone downstairs for a minute. Do you have an appointment?”
“I’m a bit early. No problem.”
The office was just as warm and just as cluttered as on my first visit. I took off my jacket and stuffed my mittens into the pocket. The woman indicated a wooden hall tree, and I hung the jacket there. She watched me wordlessly.
“She does have a lot of journals,” I said, indicating the stack on the desk.
“I think I spend my life sorting these things.” She reached up and slid a journal onto a shelf above her head.
“Helps to be tall, I guess.”
“Helps with some things.”
“I met Dr. Jeannotte’s TA on Wednesday. She was reshelving, too.”
“Um-hum.” The young woman picked up another journal and examined its spine.
“I’m Dr. Brennan,” I offered.
She slipped the journal into a row at eye level.
“And you are . . . ?” I coaxed.
“Sandy O’Reilly,” she said without turning. I wondered if my height remark had offended her.
“Nice to meet you, Sandy. After I left on Wednesday I realized I’d never asked the other assistant her name.”
She shrugged. “I’m sure Anna didn’t care.”
The name hit me like a spitball. I couldn’t be that lucky.
“Anna?” I asked. “Anna Goyette?”
“Yeah.” Finally she turned to face me. “Know her?”
“No, not really. A student by that name is related to an acquaintance of mine, and I wondered if it might be the same person. Is she here today?”
“No. I think she’s sick. That’s why I’m working. I’m not scheduled on Fridays, but Anna couldn’t, so Dr. Jeannotte asked me to fill in today.”
“She’s sick?”
“Yeah, I guess. Actually, I don’t know. All I know is she’s out again. It’s O.K. I can use the money.”
“Again?”
“Well, yeah. She misses quite a bit. I usually fill in. The extra money’s nice, but it isn’t helping my thesis get written.” She gave a short laugh, but I could detect annoyance
in her voice.
“Does Anna have health problems?”
Sandy tilted her head and looked at me. “Why are you so interested in Anna?”
“I’m not really. I’m here to pick up some research that Dr. Jeannotte has for me. But I am a friend of Anna’s aunt, and I know that her family is worried because they haven’t seen her since yesterday morning.”
She shook her head and reached for another journal. “They ought to worry about Anna. She is one weird cookie.”
“Weird?”
She shelved the journal then turned to face me. Her eyes rested on mine for a long time, assessing.
“You’re a friend of the family?”
“Yes.” Sort of.
“You’re not an investigator or reporter or something?”
“I’m an anthropologist.” True, though not fully accurate. But an image of Margaret Mead or Jane Goodall might be more reassuring. “I’m only asking because Anna’s aunt called me this morning. Then when it developed that we were talking about the same person . . .”
Sandy crossed the office and checked the corridor, then leaned against the wall just inside the door. It was obvious that her height did not embarrass her. She held her head high and moved with long, languid strides.
“I don’t want to say anything that will cost Anna her job. Or me mine. Please don’t tell anyone where this came from, particularly Dr. Jeannotte. She would not like me talking about one of her students.”
“You have my word.”
She took a deep breath. “I think Anna’s really messed up and needs help. And it’s not just because I have to cover for her. Anna and I were friends, or at least we hung out a lot last year. Then she changed. Zoned out. I’ve been thinking of calling her mother for a while now. Someone should know.”
She swallowed and shifted weight.
“Anna spends half her time over at the counseling center because she’s so unhappy. She goes missing for days on end, and when she is around she doesn’t seem to have any life, just hangs here all the time. And she always looks edgy, like she’s ready to jump off a bridge.”
She stopped, her eyes riveted on mine, deciding. Then,
“A friend told me Anna is involved in something.”
“Yes?”
“I have absolutely no idea if this is true, or if I should even say it. It’s not my style to pass on gossip, but if Anna is in trouble, I’d never forgive myself for keeping quiet.”
I waited.
“And if it is true she could be at risk.”
“What is it you think Anna is involved in?”
“This sounds so bizarre.” She shook her head and the earrings tapped her jaw. “I mean, you hear about these things, but it’s never someone you know.”
She swallowed again and glanced over her shoulder out the door.
“My friend told me that Anna joined a cult. A group of Satan worshipers. I don’t know if . . .”
On hearing the creak of floorboards, Sandy crossed to the far end of the office and picked up several journals. She was busy shelving when Daisy Jeannotte appeared in the doorway.
“I AM SO SORRY,” DAISY SAID, SMILING WARMLY. “I SEEM to always be keeping you waiting. Have you and Sandy introduced yourselves?” Her hair was in the same impeccable bun.
“Yes, we have. We’ve been talking about the joys of shelving.”
“I do ask them to do a lot of that. Copying and shelving. Very tedious, I know. But a great deal of real research is just plain tedious. My students and helpers are very patient with me.”
She turned her smile on Sandy, who gave her own brief version and returned to the journals. I was struck by how differently Jeannotte interacted with this student compared with what I’d seen with Anna.
“Now, then, let me show you what I’ve found. I think you’ll like it.” She gestured toward the sofa.
When we’d settled she lifted a stack of materials from a small brass table to her right, and looked down at a two-page printout. Her part was a stark white line bisecting the crown of her head.
“These are titles of books about Quebec during the nineteenth century. I’m sure you’ll find mention of the Nicolet family in many of them.”
She gave it to me and I glanced down the list, but my mind was not on Élisabeth Nicolet.
“And this book is about the smallpox epidemic of 1885. It may contain some mention of Élisabeth or her work. If nothing else, it will give you a sense of the times and the enormity of suffering in Montreal in those days.”
The volume was new and in perfect condition, as though no one had ever read it. I flipped a few pages, seeing nothing. What had Sandy been about to say?
“But I think you’re especially going to like these.” She handed me what looked like three old ledgers, then leaned back, the smile still on her lips, but watching me intently.
The covers were gray, with deep burgundy binding and trim. Gingerly, I opened the top one and turned several pages. It smelled musty, like something kept for years in a basement or attic. It was not a ledger, but a diary, handwritten in a bold, clear script. I glanced at the first entry: January 1, 1844. I flipped to the last: December 23, 1846.
“They are written by Louis-Philippe Bélanger, Élisabeth’s uncle. It is known that he was a prodigious journal keeper, so, on a hunch, I checked with our rare documents section. Sure enough, McGill owns part of the collection. I don’t know where the rest of the journals are, or if they’ve even survived, but I could try to find out. I had to pledge my soul to get these.” She laughed. “I borrowed the ones that date to the period of Élisabeth’s birth and early infancy.”
“This is too good to be true,” I said, momentarily forgetting Anna Goyette. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Say you will take exceedingly good care of them.”
“May I actually take them with me?”
“Yes. I trust you. I’m sure you appreciate their value and will treat them accordingly.”
“Daisy, I’m overwhelmed. This is more than I’d hoped for.”
She raised a hand in a gesture of dismissal, then refolded it quietly in her lap. For a moment neither of us spoke. I couldn’t wait to get out of there and into the journals. Then I remembered Sister Julienne’s niece. And Sandy’s words.
“Daisy, I wonder if I could ask you something about Anna Goyette.”
“Yes.” She was still smiling, but her eyes grew wary.
“As you know I’ve been working with Sister Julienne, who is Anna’s aunt.”
“I didn’t know they were kin.”
“Yes. Sister Julienne called to tell me that Anna hasn’t been home since yesterday morning, and her mother is very worried.”
Throughout our conversation I’d been aware of Sandy’s movements as she sorted journals and placed them on shelves. The far end of the office now grew very still. Jeannotte noticed, too.
“Sandy, you must be quite tired. You go on now and take a little break.”
“I’m fi—”
“Now, please.”
Sandy’s eyes met mine as she slipped past us and out the office door. Her expression was unreadable.
“Anna is a very bright young woman,” Jeannotte continued. “A bit skittish, but a good intellect. I’m sure she’s fine.” Very firm.
“Her aunt says it isn’t typical for Anna to take off like this.”
“Anna probably needed some time to reflect. I know she’s had some disagreements with her mama. She’s probably gone off for a few days.”
Sandy had hinted that Jeannotte was protective of her students. Was that what I was seeing? Did the professor know something she wasn’t telling?
“I suppose I’m more of an alarmist than most. In my work I see so many young women who aren’t just fine.”
Jeannotte looked down at her hands. For a moment she was absolutely still. Then, with the same smile, “Anna Goyette is trying to extract herself from the influence of an impossible home situation. That’s all I can say, but I assure you
she is well and happy.”
Why so certain? Should I? What the hell. I threw it out to see her reaction.
“Daisy, I know this sounds bizarre, but I’ve heard that Anna is involved in some kind of satanic cult.”
The smile disappeared. “I won’t even ask where you picked up that information. It doesn’t surprise me.” She shook her head. “Child molesters. Psychopathic murderers. Depraved messiahs. Doomsday prophets. Satanists. The sinister neighbor who feeds arsenic to trick-or-treaters.”
“But those threats do exist.” I raised my eyebrows in question.
“Do they? Or are they just urban legends? Memorates for modern times?”
“Memorates?” I wondered how this concerned Anna.
“A term folklorists use to describe how people integrate their fears with popular legends. It’s a way to explain bewildering experiences.”
My face told her I was still confused.
“Every culture has stories, folk legends that express commonly held anxieties. The fear of bogeymen, outsiders, aliens. The loss of children. When something happens we can’t understand, we update old tales. The witch got Hansel and Gretel. The man in the mall got the child who wandered off. It’s a way to make confusing experiences seem credible. So people tell stories of abductions by UFO’s, Elvis sightings, Halloween poisonings. It always happened to a friend of a friend, a cousin, the boss’s son.”
“Aren’t the Halloween candy poisonings real?”
“A sociologist reviewed newspaper accounts from the 1970s and 1980s and found that during that time only two deaths could be shown to have occurred due to candy tampering, both by family members. Very few other incidents could be documented. But the legend grew because it expresses deep-seated fears: loss of children, fear of the night, fear of strangers.”
I let her go on, waiting for the link to Anna.
“You’ve heard of subversion myths? Anthropologists love to discuss these.”
I dug back to a grad school seminar on mythology. “Blame giving. Stories that find scapegoats for complicated problems.”
“Exactly. Usually the scapegoats are outsiders—racial, ethnic, or religious groups that make others uneasy. Romans accused early Christians of incest and child sacrifice. Later Christian sects accused one another, then Christians pointed the same finger at Jews. Thousands died because of such beliefs. Think of the witch trials. Or the Holocaust. And it’s not just old news. After the student uprising in France in the late sixties, Jewish shopkeepers were accused of kidnapping teenage girls from boutique dressing rooms.”