by Kathy Reichs
“Things were different then.”
The statement hung in the air.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
I was too dejected to push.
No matter. Obéline continued without prodding.
“When we were separated, at first I wanted to die.”
“Separated?”
“My mother and sister moved in with Grand-père. I was sent to live with a Landry cousin. But Évangéline and I talked. Not often. But I knew what was happening.
“In the mornings and evenings, Évangéline nursed Mama. The rest of the day she worked as a maid. A portion of her pay was sent for my support.”
“What was wrong with your mother?”
“I don’t know. I was much too young.”
Again, too rapid?
“Where was your father?”
“If we ever meet, I’ll make certain to ask. That will be in another life, of course.”
“He’s dead?”
She nodded. “It was hard on Évangéline. I wanted to help, but I was so little. What could I do?”
“Neither of you attended school?”
“I went for a few years. Évangéline already knew how to read and do math.”
My friend, who loved books and stories, and wanted to be a poet. I didn’t trust myself to comment.
“Mama died,” Obéline continued. “Four months later it was Grand-père.”
Obéline stopped. Composing herself? Organizing recollections? Triaging what to share and what to hold back?
“Two days after Grand-père’s funeral, I was taken to his house. Someone had brought empty boxes. I was told to pack everything. I was in an upstairs bedroom when I heard yelling. I crept downstairs and listened outside the kitchen door.
“Évangéline was arguing with a man. I couldn’t hear their words, but their voices frightened me. I ran back upstairs. Hours later, as we were leaving, I saw into the kitchen.” She swallowed. “Blood. On the wall. More on the table. Bloody rags in the sink.”
Sweet Jesus.
“What did you do?”
“Nothing. What could I do? I was terrified. I kept it to myself.”
“Who was the man?”
“I don’t know.”
“What happened to Évangéline?”
“I never saw her again.”
“What did they tell you?”
“She ran away. I didn’t ask about the blood or whether she was hurt. She wasn’t there and I had to go back to the Landrys.”
Tick. Tick. Tick.
“I was eight years old.” Obéline’s voice was trembling now. “There were no safe zones or child abuse counselors back then. Kids had no one to talk to.”
“I understand.”
“Do you? Do you know what it’s like to live with such a secret?” Tears broke from her eyes. Pulling a tissue from her pocket, she wiped them away, blew her nose, and tossed the wad onto the table. “Do you know how it feels to lose everyone you love at such a young age?”
Images competed for my attention. Évangéline reading by the light of my Girl Scout flashlight. Évangéline spreading peanut butter on graham crackers. Évangéline caped in a beach towel, off to rescue her lover. Kevin. Daddy. Hippo’s girl, long dead, lying in my lab.
Crossing to Obéline, I squatted, and placed my hands on her knees. I felt trembling in her legs, caught the soft scent of muguet. Lily of the Valley.
“I do,” I whispered. “Really, I do.”
She wouldn’t look at me. I dropped my eyes, unwilling to intrude on the ravaged face.
We sat a moment, heads bowed, a frozen tableau of grief. Watching tears darken her skirt in small, perfect circles, I wondered how much to reveal.
Should I tell her about the young girl’s bones? Could I have been off in my estimate of Hippo’s girl’s age? Could she have been as old as sixteen?
This woman had lost her mother, sister, and grandfather almost at once. Her father had abandoned her. Her husband had beaten, then left her, then tried to burn her to death. Mentioning the skeleton might raise hopes that would later be dashed.
No. I wouldn’t compound her pain. I would wait until I was certain.
And now that was possible.
“I’m very tired.” Obéline pulled another tissue, dabbed her lower lids.
“Let me help you to bed.”
“No. Please. The gazebo.”
“Of course.”
Harry stood. “May I use the ladies’?”
I translated.
Obéline answered without raising her head. “Through the kitchen. Through the bedroom.”
I translated again, then cocked my chin at Obéline’s soft drink. Harry nodded, understanding my silent direction.
Arm-wrapping Obéline’s waist, I eased her to her feet. She allowed herself to be supported through the kitchen, over the deck, and across the yard. At the gazebo, she stepped away and said good-bye.
I was turning to go, when a sudden thought stopped me.
“May I ask one more question?”
Obéline gave a half nod, wary.
“Évangéline worked as a maid. Do you know where?”
Her response stunned me.
18
“D ROIT ICI .” RIGHT HERE.
“In Tracadie?”
“In this house.”
“In this house?” I was too shocked to do other than ape her words.
Obéline nodded.
“I don’t understand.”
“Évangéline worked for my husband’s father.”
“Hilaire Bastarache.”
Something flicked in her eyes. Surprise at the extent of my knowledge?
“The Landry and Bastarache families have been linked for generations. My father’s father and his brothers helped my husband’s grandfather, Siméon, build this house. When Mama got sick, my husband’s father offered Évangéline a job. Hilaire was a widower and knew nothing about laundry or cleaning. She needed work.”
“Ten years later you married his son.”
“David was generous, paid my support after Évangéline was gone. Visited me. His father died in 1980. He proposed. I accepted.”
“You were sixteen. He was thirty.”
“It was my only option.”
I found the answer peculiar but let it go.
“You’ve lived in this house ever since?”
“Yes.”
“Are you all right here?”
Beat. “This is where I want to be.”
I started to ask how she was supporting herself. Then didn’t. I felt tight bands compressing my chest. I swallowed. Took her hand.
“I promise you, Obéline. I will do everything to discover what happened to Évangéline.”
Her face remained impassive.
I gave her my card, hugged her.
“I’ll speak with you again.”
She didn’t say good-bye as I walked away. Rounding the house, I glanced back. She was entering the gazebo, scarf tails dancing in the breeze.
Harry was waiting in the Escalade. When I got in, she smiled and patted her purse.
“You didn’t touch the rim, right?”
“Any moron with a TV knows better than that.” Harry grinned a grin that hoisted warning flags in my brain.
“What?”
“You’ll be proud of your baby sister.”
Oh no. “Tell me.”
“I also bagged the tissues.”
Pleased, and relieved, I held up a palm. Harry high-fived it. We both grinned, the Brennan sisters sleuthing again.
“What now?” she asked.
“Once back in Montreal, I’ll ship the can and tissues and a skeletal sample to an independent lab. If they can extract DNA from the bone, and compare it to Obéline’s DNA, we’ll know if the skeleton is Évangéline.”
“Why send it out?”
“Our lab doesn’t do mitochondrial DNA.”
“And I’m sure that’s important.”
“With old bone, you’re much more lik
ely to get mitochondrial than nuclear DNA. There are more copies in each cell.”
“It’s Évangéline,” Harry said.
“The chance is one in a billion.”
“Where do you get your odds?”
“OK. I made that up. But it’s highly improbable that Évangéline’s skeleton has just, out of the blue, landed in my lab.”
“Think what you want. That little voice in my heart is telling me it’s her.”
When Harry makes one of her extraordinary leaps of imagination, it’s pointless to argue. I started to do so anyway, stopped, remembering. Sometimes, illogically, my sister is right.
I looked at my watch. Eleven-ten. Our flight was leaving at six-something.
“Head toward Moncton?” I asked.
“How ’bout lunch?”
“We just ate five pounds of pancakes each.”
“I’m hungry.”
“I thought you were worried about your spreading derriere.”
“A girl gumshoe’s gotta keep up her strength.”
“You lifted two tissues and a soda can.”
“Mental exertion.”
“Fine. Then straight to the airport.”
Driving into town, my head reeled with images. Obéline’s dead eyes and disfigured face. Laurette on her deathbed. A blood-smeared wall and table. Bloody rags. Appalling visions of Évangéline’s last moments.
I was anxious to get to the lab to reassess the skeletal age of Hippo’s girl. To package and FedEx the DNA samples. I began formulating arguments to get my case bumped to the head of the line. I could think of only one that might work. Money.
Harry chose a brasserie on the Rue Principale. She liked the awning. The menu was uninspired. We both ordered burgers.
The conversation wavered between past and present. Obéline now. The four of us decades earlier on Pawleys Island. As we talked I saw flashes of Harry and myself, pillow fighting, cookie baking, school bus waiting, backpacks filled with our young lives and dreams.
Despite my sadness over Obéline, Ryan, and the dead and missing girls, I couldn’t help smiling. Harry’s enthusiasm for finding Évangéline surpassed even mine. Sitting in that booth, listening to her animated planning, I realized how very much I love my little sister. I was glad she had come.
Emerging from the restaurant, we saw two men lounging on the Escalade.
“Well, if it isn’t Cheech and Chong.”
“Sshh.”
“You gotta admit, those guys aren’t auditioning for the cover of GQ.”
Harry was right. The men were in total-body denim, boots, and black tees. Personal hygiene didn’t appear to be a priority. Though the day was overcast, both wore shades.
“Pretty buff, though.”
“Let me handle this.” I didn’t need Harry riling or seducing the indigenous folk.
“Bonjour.” I smiled and waggled the car keys.
Cheech and Chong remained butt-leaning on the Escalade.
“Sorry, but we need to motor.” Light, friendly.
“Nice wheels.”
“Thanks.” As I moved toward the driver’s side, Chong extended an arm, catching me at chest level.
“No fly zone, buddy.” Harry’s tone was a million light-years from friendly.
Stepping back, I frowned at Chong, then repeated what I’d said, this time in French. Still, the men didn’t budge.
“What the hell’s wrong with you boys?” Harry was glaring from Cheech to Chong, hands on her hips.
Chong smiled from behind his dark lenses. “Eh, mon chouchou. Big truck for little girls.” Chiac-accented English.
Neither Harry or I answered.
“You pals with Obéline Landry?”
“I don’t believe that’s any of your business.” Harry was in war mode.
“We were childhood friends,” I said, trying to defuse the situation.
“Shame what happened to her.” Chong’s shades were now pointing at me.
I didn’t reply.
“You two are going to hoist your bony arses from that vehicle right now so my sister and I can be on our way.”
I crimped my eyes in a “cool it” warning. Shooting a hip, Harry pursed her lips and folded her arms.
“Mrs. Landry in good health?”
“Yes.” Chilly.
“She claiming Bastarache is one sick bastard?”
I didn’t reply.
Cheech pushed from the hood. Chong followed.
“You ladies have a good trip back to Montreal.” Unlike his partner, Cheech was Anglophone.
Harry opened her mouth. I hushed her with a hand.
Stepping onto the curb, Cheech made a gun of his thumb and forefinger and aimed it in our direction. “And be careful with those fine wheels.”
Driving off, I glanced into the rearview mirror. The men were still standing on the sidewalk, watching our departure.
On the plane, Harry and I again discussed Obéline, and speculated about our encounter with Cheech and Chong.
“Testosterone weenies trying to impress.”
“I’m not so sure,” I said.
“Probably amuse themselves making fart noises under their armpits.”
I wasn’t convinced that it was that casual.
The men knew we’d visited Obéline. Knew we’d come from Montreal. How? Had they been following us? Was Cheech’s parting comment a threat or merely a macho adieu? Not wishing to alarm, I kept these concerns to myself.
Back at the condo, Birdie remained hidden, cheesed off at having been left alone. I was dumping my overnighter on my bed when Harry called out.
“Your bird’s a Korn fan?”
“What did he say?”
“You don’t want to know.”
Though Charlie’s quips weren’t always approved for all audiences, I couldn’t help but admire the breadth of his material. I was transporting him to the dining room when my cell phone chirped.
Depositing the cage, I checked the screen. No caller ID.
I clicked on.
“How’s it going?” Ryan sounded tired.
“Good.” Neutral.
“Got a minute?”
“Hang on.”
“Do you have everything you need?” I asked Harry.
She mouthed “Ryan?”
I nodded.
She arm-pumped “Yes!”
Shaking my head, I walked to my bedroom and closed the door.
“Do you listen to Korn?” I asked.
“Who?”
“Black Eyed Peas?”
“No. Why?”
“Never mind.”
“Someone there at your place?”
Ryan was good. Two queries in one casual question. Am I home? Am I alone?
“Harry’s here.”
“Unplanned trip?” Query three.
“She’s split with her husband.”
I heard a deep inhalation followed by a slow exhalation. Ryan was smoking. That meant he was anxious. Or angry. I braced for a rant about my trip to Tracadie. It didn’t come.
“I need your help.”
I waited.
“Warrant came through, so we tossed Cormier’s studio. Took all friggin’ day to get through maybe an eighth of the file cabinets. Guy’s got crap going back decades.”
“He doesn’t store his images digitally?”
“Dickhead thinks he’s Ansel Adams. Claims digital can’t capture the same ethereal quality as film. Uses a Hasselblad that went out of production sometime in the eighties. The guy’s probably too thick to keep up with technology.”
“There are other photographers who agree with him.”
“Cormier does mostly portraits. Couples. Pets. Lots of women. Glamour shots. You know, heavy makeup, big hair.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You should try that. Maybe with a boa.”
“Is that what you called to tell me?”
“Cormier also did kids. Hundreds of them.”
“Phoebe Jane Quincy?”
“
Nothing yet.”
“Kelly Sicard?”
“No.”
I didn’t ask about Claudine Cloquet or Anne Girardin.
Ryan dragged smoke into his lungs, released it. I waited for him to get to the point.
“I want you to browse through the kiddie shots. See if you spot any of my MP’s. Or the kid recovered from the Dorval riverbank.”
“Her photo was circulated in 2001 when the body was found.”
“It was an autopsy pic. People tune out.”
Ryan was right. And I’d seen it go both ways. Next of kin giving a positive on a body that wasn’t a relative, or failing to recognize one that was.
“You know bones.” Ryan was still talking. “Facial architecture. You see someone resembling one of my MP’s or DOA’s, maybe at a younger age, maybe all vamped up, you could do that thing you do with surveillance tapes.”
Ryan was referring to a technique in which images are compared metrically, one of a known suspect, another of a perpetrator caught on camera. Measurements are taken between anatomical landmarks, ratios are calculated, and statistical probabilities are computed as to whether the suspect under arrest and the perp caught on tape are the same individual.
“Anthropometric comparison.”
“Yeah.”
“I suppose it’s worth a shot. I could also dig out the facial approximation we did on the girl recovered from the Rivière des Mille Îles.”
“I’ll pick you up at eight.”
“You really think Cormier is dirty?”
“The guy’s a sleaze.”
“What about his home?”
“Judge says get something from that studio linked to one of these kids. Then he’ll cut paper.”
I opened my bedroom door. Coincidentally, Harry just happened to be passing by.
“Your evidence.” She held up her purse. Quickly.
“Lame.”
“Are you suggesting I was eavesdropping?”
“I’ll get some ziplocks.”
When I returned from the kitchen, Harry was sitting cross-legged on my bed. Reversing each baggie over my hand, I removed the can, then the tissues from Harry’s purse.
“You’ve done some doggie-poop scooping,” Harry observed.
“I’m multitalented.”
“I’ve got something else.”
Reclaiming her purse, Harry pulled an object from the side pocket and laid it on the bed.
The significance didn’t register at first. I picked the thing up.