by Kathy Reichs
When the dizziness passed I rose, inched my way along the building, and peeked around the corner. There was no one in sight.
I stumbled home on rubbery legs, looking over my shoulder every other step. The few pedestrians I passed looked away and gave me a wide berth. Just another drunk.
Ten minutes later I sat on the edge of my bed, checking myself for injuries. My pupils were even and coordinated. No numbness. No nausea.
The scarf had been a mixed blessing. While it provided my attacker a convenient handle, it had also cushioned the blows. I had a few cuts and abrasions on the right side of my head, but I believed I had not sustained a concussion.
Not bad for a mugging survivor, I thought as I slipped between the sheets. But had it been a mugging? The guy hadn’t stolen anything. Why did he run? Did he panic and give up? Was he just a drunk? Did he figure out I wasn’t who he thought I was? Subzero cold rarely inspires sexual assaults. What was his motive?
I tried to sleep but my mind was still on an adrenaline high. Or was it post-traumatic stress syndrome? My hands still shook and I jumped at every sound.
Should I call the cops? What for? I wasn’t hurt much and nothing was stolen. And I never got a look at the guy. Should I tell Ryan? Not a chance in hell after my cocky departure. Harry? No way.
Oh, God. What if Harry walks home alone? Could he still be out there?
I rolled over and looked at the clock. Two thirty-seven. Where the hell was Harry?
I touched my broken lip. Would she notice? Probably. Harry had instincts like a wildcat. She missed nothing. I thought of cover stories. Doors are always good, or face-first falls on the ice while your hands are deep in your pockets.
My eyes drifted shut, then flew open as I felt the knee on my back and heard the rasping breath.
I checked the clock again. Three-fifteen. Did Hurley’s stay open this late? Had Harry gone home with Ryan?
“Where are you, Harry?” I said to the glowing green digits.
I lay there, wishing she’d come home, not wanting to be alone.
I WOKE TO BRIGHT SUNLIGHT AND TOTAL SILENCE, having slept fitfully. My brain cells had called an all-night meeting to organize input from the past few days. Missing students. Muggers. Saints. Murdered babies and grandmas. Harry. Ryan. Harry and Ryan. They broke around dawn, having accomplished little.
I rolled over on my back and a burst of pain in my neck reminded me of last night’s adventure. I flexed and extended my neck and each arm and leg. Pretty good. In the morning light the attack seemed illogical and imaginary. But the memory of fear was very real.
I lay still for a while, exploring for damage to my face and listening for signs of my sister. Tender areas on the face. No noise from the sister.
At seven-forty I hauled myself out of bed and grabbed my ratty old robe and slippers. The guest room door was open, the bed made. Had Harry been home last night?
I found a Post-it on the refrigerator explaining the absence of two cartons of yogurt and saying she’d be back after seven. O.K. She’d come in, but had she slept here?
“Who cares,” I said, reaching for the coffee beans.
Just then the phone rang.
I slammed down the canister and padded to the living room phone.
“Yeah.”
“Hey, Mom. Rough night?”
“Sorry, honey. What’s up?”
“Are you going to be in Charlotte the week after next?”
“I get in Monday and I’ll be there until early April, when I go to the Physical Anthropology meetings in Oakland. Why?”
“Well, I thought I’d come home for a few days. This beach trip isn’t working out.”
“Great. I mean, great that we can spend some time together. Sorry your trip went bust.” I didn’t ask why. “Will you be staying with me or with Dad?”
“Yes.”
“O.K. O.K. Classes going all right?”
“Yeah. I’m really enjoying the abnormal psych. The prof is so cool. And criminology’s pretty good, too. We never have to turn anything in on time.”
“Hm. How’s Aubrey?”
“Who?”
“Guess that answers my question. How’s the zit?”
“Gone.”
“Why are you up so early on a Saturday?”
“I’ve got to write a paper for my crim class. I’m going to do something on profiling, maybe bring in stuff from abnormal psych.”
“I thought you never had to hand anything in on time.”
“It was due two weeks ago.”
“Oh.”
“Can you help me think of a project for my anthro class?”
“Sure.”
“Nothing too elaborate. It’s supposed to be something I can do in one day.”
I heard a beep.
“I’ve got another call, Katy. I’ll think about the project. Let me know when you’re arriving in Charlotte.”
“Will do.”
I clicked over and was amazed to hear Claudel’s voice.
“Claudel ici.”
As usual there was no greeting, and he did not apologize for phoning me on Saturday morning. He dove straight to the point.
“Has Anna Goyette returned home?”
My chest went hollow. Claudel had never called me at home. Anna must be dead.
I swallowed and answered. “I don’t think so.”
“She is nineteen.”
“Yes.”
I saw Sister Julienne’s face. I couldn’t bear to think of telling her.
“. . . caractéristiques physiques?”
“I’m sorry. What was that?”
Claudel repeated the question. I had no idea if Anna had any unusual physical features.
“I don’t know. I’d have to ask the family.”
“When was she last seen?”
“Thursday. Monsieur Claudel, why are you asking me these questions?”
I waited out a Claudel pause. I could hear commotion in the background and guessed he was calling from the homicide squad room.
“A white female was found early this morning, naked, with no identification.”
“Where?” The hollow feeling pushed against my sternum.
“Île des Sœurs. At the back of the island there is a wooded area and a pond. The body was found”—he hesitated—“on the water’s edge.”
“Found how?” He was holding back.
Claudel considered my question for a moment. I could picture his beak nose, his close-set eyes narrowed in thought.
“The victim was murdered. The circumstances are . . .” Again the hesitation. “. . . unusual.”
“Tell me.” I shifted the phone to my other hand and wiped my palm on my robe.
“The body was found in an old steamer trunk. There were multiple injuries. LaManche is doing the autopsy today.”
“What kinds of injuries?” I stared at a pattern of spots on my robe.
He took a deep breath. “There are multiple stab wounds and ligature marks around the wrists. LaManche suspects there has also been an animal attack.”
I found Claudel’s habit of depersonalizing annoying. A white female. The victim. The body. The wrists. Not even a personal pronoun.
“And the victim may have been burned,” he continued.
“Burned?”
“LaManche will know more later. He is going to do the post today.”
“Jesus.” Though one pathologist from the lab is on call at all times, rarely is an autopsy carried out on a weekend. I knew the murder had to be extraordinary. “How long has she been dead?”
“The body wasn’t fully frozen, so it was probably outside less than twelve hours. LaManche will try to narrow the time of death.”
I didn’t want to ask the next question.
“Why do you think it could be Anna Goyette?”
“The age and description fit.”
I felt a little weak.
“What physical characteristic were you referring to?”
“The victim has no l
ower molars.”
“Were they extracted?” I felt stupid as soon as the question was out.
“Dr. Brennan, I am not a dentist. There is also a small tattoo on the right hip. Two figures holding a heart between them.”
“I’ll call Anna’s aunt and get back to you.”
“I can—”
“No. I’ll do it. I have something else to discuss with her.”
He gave me his beeper number and hung up.
My hand trembled as I punched the digits for the convent. I saw frightened eyes gazing from below blond bangs.
Before I could think of how to frame my questions, Sister Julienne was on the line. I spent several minutes thanking her for sending me to Daisy Jeannotte, and telling her about the journals. I was evading what I had to do, and she saw right through me.
“I know something bad has happened.” Her voice was soft, but I could hear tension just below the surface.
I asked if Anna had turned up. She had not.
“Sister, a young woman has been found—”
I heard the swish of fabric and knew she was crossing herself.
“I need to ask a few personal questions about your niece.”
“Yes.” Barely audible.
I asked about the molars and tattoo.
The line was quiet only a second, then I was surprised to hear her laugh.
“Oh my, no, no, that isn’t Anna. Oh heavens, no, she’d never allow herself to be tattooed. And I’m certain Anna has all of her teeth. In fact she often mentions her teeth. That’s how I know. She has a lot of trouble with them, complains about pain when she eats something cold. Or hot.”
The words flew in such a torrent I could almost feel her relief rush across the line.
“But, Sister, it’s possible—”
“No. I know my niece. She has all of her teeth. She isn’t happy with them, but she has them.” Again the nervous laugh. “And no tattoos, thank the Lord.”
“I’m glad to hear that. This young woman is probably not Anna, but perhaps it would be best to have your niece’s dental records sent over, just to be sure.”
“I am sure.”
“Yes. Well, perhaps to assure Detective Claudel. It can’t hurt.”
“I suppose. And I will pray for that poor girl’s family.”
She gave me the name of Anna’s dentist and I called Claudel back.
“She’s sure Anna didn’t have a tattoo.”
“Hi, Auntie nun! Guess what? I had my ass tattooed last week!”
“I agree. Not likely.”
He snorted.
“But she’s absolutely certain Anna has all of her teeth. She remembers her niece complaining about toothaches.”
“Who has extractions?”
My thought precisely.
“It’s usually not people with happy teeth.”
“Yes.”
“And this aunt also believes Anna never went off without telling her mother, right?”
“That’s what she said.”
“Anna Goyette has a better act than David Copperfield. She disappeared seven times in the last eighteen months. At least that’s how many reports the mother filed.”
“Oh.” The hollowness spread from my breastbone to the pit of my stomach.
I asked Claudel to keep me informed, and hung up. I doubted he would.
* * *
I was showered, dressed, and in my office by nine-thirty. I finished my report on Élisabeth Nicolet, describing and explaining my observations, just as I would with any forensic case. I wished I could have included information from the Bélanger journals, but there just hadn’t been time to go through them.
After printing the report, I spent three hours photographing. I was tense and clumsy, and had trouble positioning the bones. At two I grabbed a sandwich from the cafeteria, and ate it as I proofed my findings on Mathias and Malachy. But my mind was focused on the phone and wouldn’t concentrate on the work at hand.
I was at the copy machine with the Bélanger journals when I looked up to see Claudel.
“It is not your young lady.”
I stared into his eyes. “Really?”
He nodded.
“Who is she?” I asked.
“Her name was Carole Comptois. When the dentals excluded Goyette we ran the prints and got a hit. There were a couple of arrests for soliciting.”
“Age?”
“Eighteen.”
“How did she die?”
“LaManche is finishing the post now.”
“Any suspects?”
“Many.” He stared at my face a moment, said nothing, and left.
I continued photocopying, a robot with emotions swirling inside. The relief I’d felt at learning it wasn’t Anna had immediately turned to guilt. There was still a girl on a table downstairs. A family to be told.
Lift the cover. Turn the page. Lower the cover. Push the button.
Eighteen.
I had no desire to see the autopsy.
* * *
At four-thirty I finished with the journals and returned to my office. I dropped the babies’ reports in the secretarial office then left a note on LaManche’s desk explaining about the photocopies. When I reentered the corridor LaManche and Bergeron stood talking outside the dentist’s office. Both men looked tired and grim. As I approached they took in my face, but didn’t inquire.
“Bad one?” I asked.
LaManche nodded.
“What happened to her?”
“What didn’t,” said Bergeron.
I shifted my gaze from one to the other. Even stooped the dentist was over six feet tall, and I had to look up to meet his eyes. His white frizz was backlit by a fluorescent ceiling light. I remembered Claudel’s comment about an animal attack and suspected why Bergeron’s Saturday had also been spoiled.
“It looks like she was hung by her wrists and beaten, then attacked by dogs,” said LaManche. “Marc thinks there were at least two.”
Bergeron nodded. “One of the larger breeds. Maybe shepherds or Dobermans. There are over sixty bite wounds.”
“Jesus.”
“A boiling liquid, probably water, was poured on her while she was naked. Her skin is badly scalded, but I couldn’t find traces of anything identifiable,” LaManche continued.
“She was still alive?” My gut recoiled at the thought of her pain.
“Yes. She finally died as a result of multiple stab wounds to the chest and abdomen. Do you want to see the Polaroids?”
I shook my head.
“Were there defense wounds?” I recalled my own ordeal with the mugger.
“No.”
“When did she die?”
“Probably late yesterday.”
I didn’t want to know the details.
“One other thing.” LaManche’s eyes were full of sadness. “She was four months pregnant.”
I moved past them quickly and slipped into my office. I don’t know how long I sat there, my eyes moving over the familiar objects of my trade, not seeing them. Though I had some emotional immunity, inoculated by years of exposure to cruelty and violence, some deaths still broke through. The recent onslaught of horrors seemed uglier than most I could remember. Or were my circuits simply overloaded to the point that I could not absorb more heinousness?
Carole Comptois was not my case, and I’d never laid eyes on her, but I couldn’t control the visions surfacing from the darkest depths of my mind. I saw her in her last moments, her face contorted in pain and terror. Did she beg for her life? For her unborn baby? What kind of monsters were afoot in the world?
“Damn it to hell!” I said to the empty office.
I shoved my papers into my briefcase, grabbed my gear, and slammed the door behind me. Bergeron said something as I passed his office, but I didn’t stop.
The six o’clock news began as I drove under the Jacques Cartier Bridge, the Comptois murder the lead story. I jammed the button, repeating my last thought.
“Damn it to hell!”<
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* * *
By the time I got home my anger had cooled. Some emotions are too intense to persist without ebbing. I phoned Sister Julienne and assured her about Anna. Claudel had already called, but I wanted to make personal contact. She will turn up, I said. Yes, she agreed. Neither of us fully believed it anymore.
I told her Élisabeth’s skeleton was packed and ready, and that the report was being typed. She said the bones would be picked up first thing Monday morning.
“Thank you so much, Dr. Brennan. We await your report with great anticipation.”
I did not avail myself of the opening. I had no idea how they’d react to what I’d written.
I changed to jeans, then prepared dinner, refusing to allow myself to think about what had been done to Carole Comptois. Harry arrived at half past seven and we ate, commenting on little but the pasta and zucchini. She seemed tired and distracted, and willing to accept my explanation of having fallen face forward on the ice. I was completely drained by the day’s events. I didn’t ask about the night before, or about the seminar, and she didn’t offer. I think we both were glad to neither listen nor respond.
After dinner Harry read her workshop material and I started with the diaries again. My report to the sisters was complete, but I wanted to know more. The photocopying had not improved the technical quality, and I found it just as discouraging as I had on Friday. Besides, Louis-Philippe was not the most exciting chronicler. A young medical doctor, he wrote long accounts of his days at the Hôtel Dieu Hospital. In forty pages I came across only a few references to his sister. It seemed he was concerned about Eugénie continuing to sing in public after her marriage to Alain Nicolet. He also disliked her hairdresser. Louis-Philippe sounded like a real prig.
Sunday Harry was gone again before I got up. I did laundry, worked out at the gym, and updated a lecture I planned to give in my human evolution class on Tuesday. By late afternoon I felt reasonably caught up. I lit a fire, made myself a cup of Earl Grey, and curled up on the couch with my books and papers.
I started where I’d left off in the Bélanger diary, but after about twenty pages I shifted to the smallpox book. It was as fascinating as Louis-Philippe was dull.
I read about the streets I walk every day. Montreal and its surrounding villages had over two hundred thousand inhabitants in the eighteen-eighties. The city stretched from Sherbrooke Street on the north to the port along the river on the south. To the east it was bounded by the industrial town of Hochelaga, and to the west by the working-class villages of SteCunégonde and St-Henri, which lay just above the Lachine Canal. Last summer I’d pedaled the length of the canal bike path.