by Kathy Reichs
"What is it they say about houseguests and old fish? Or is it relatives?"
"You know that isn't it. But you have been here almost two weeks. Aren't you bored? Don't you want to see your friends and check on the boat?"
He shrugged. "They're not going anywhere." "I'm sure Harry and your father both miss you. "Oh, yeah. They've been burning up the phone wires.
"Your mother's in Mexico. It's not eas- "She arrived in Houston yesterday." "What?~'
"I didn't want to tell you." "Oh?"
"I knew you'd hustle me off when she got back."
"Why would you think that?"
His hand dropped, fingers curling over the bowl's edge. Outside, a siren wailed, soft, loud, soft. When he answered he didn't look at me.
"When I was a little kid, you always stayed just out of reach, afraid Harry might feel jealous. Or angry. Or resentful. Or madequate. Or, or- He picked a crouton, threw it back. Drops of oil jumped onto the table.
"Kit!"
"And, you know what? She ought to feel inadequate. The only thing I should thank Harry for is not burying me in a goddam shoe box when I was born." He got to his feet. "I'll pack my stuff."
I stood and grabbed his arm. When I looked up his face was tight with anger.
"Harry has nothing to do with this. I'm sending you home because I'm frightened for you. I'm frightened over the people you've been seeing and what they may be doing, and I'm afraid you're involved with things that could place you in jeopardy."
"That's bullshit. I'm not a baby anymore. I make my own decisions."
I flashed on Frog Rinaldi, his shadow rippling across a grave. Gately and Martineau had made a decision. A deadly decision. So had Savannah Osprey. And George Dorsey. I would not permit Kit to do the same.
"If something happened to you I'd never forgive myself."
"I'm not going to get hurt."
"I can't take that chance. I think you've been putting yourself in dangerous circumstances."
"I'm not six years old, Aunt Tempe. You can kick me out of here, but you can't tell me what to do anymore." His jaw muscles bunched, then his Adam's apple rose and dropped.
We both fell silent, realizing our proximity to words that, once spoken, would wound. I released my grip, and Kit disappeared down the hall, bare feet swishing softly on the carpet.
I slept fitfully, then woke and lay in the dark, thinking about my nephew. The window shade changed from black to charcoal. I gave up on sleep, brewed tea, and took it to the patio.
Bundled in Gran's quilt, I watched stars fade overhead, and remembered evenings in Charlotte. When Katy and Kit were small we would identify constellations and christen patterns of our own. Katy would see a mouse, a puppy, a pair of skates. Kit would see a mother and child.
I tucked my feet and sipped the hot liquid.
How could I make Kit understand my reasons for sending him away? He was young, and vulnerable, and desperate for recognition and approval.
But recognition and approval from whom? Why does he want to stay with me? Do I provide a base from which he can pursue activities he won't disclose to me?
From the day of Kit's arrival his apathy had puzzled me. While Katy would have craved constant peer contact, my nephew seemed satisfied with limited sight-seeing, video games, and the company of an aging aunt and her aging cat. The current Kit was jarringly at odds with the youngster I remembered. Skinned knees. Stitches. Broken bones. Kit's perpetual motion had kept Harry on a first-name basis with her local paramedics for the duration of his childhood.
Had Kit been staying in, or had he been out and about with Lyle Crease? Or the Preacher? Or the hyena? Was he lethargic around me because he was tired?
More tea. Tepid now
I pictured two men behind biood-spattered plastic, and even the tea couldn't warm my chill.
Was I making a mistake? If Kit was going through a rough patch could I have some positive influence? If he was involved in something precarious would it be safer to keep him with me?
No. The overall situation made it too risky. I would stick to my plan. My nephew would be in Texas before George Dorsey's body was underground.
As dawn crawled up from the horizon, a gentle wash spread across my yard, tinting trees, hedges, and the old brownstones across the street. Edges softened, until the city resembled a Winslow Homer landscape. A gentle watercolor, a perfect backdrop for a gangland funeral.
I poured the last of my tea onto the lawn, and went to wake my nephew
His room was empty.
Chapter 37
A note was stuck to the refrigerator. I read it in place, afraid to trust my unsteady hands.
Thanks for everything. Don't worry. I'm with friends.
Friends?
My heart felt dead in my chest.
I looked at the clock. The Dorsey funeral would start in a little more than an hour.
I dialed Claudel's pager, then made coffee, dressed, and made the bed.
Seven-fifteen.
I sipped and picked at a cuticle.
The earth rotated. Tectonic plates shifted. Twelve acres of rain forest disappeared from the globe forever.
I went to the bathroom, combed my hair, dabbed on makeup, added blush, returned to the kitchen for a second cup.
Seven-thirty. Where the hell was Claude!?
Back to the bathroom, where I wet and recombed my hair I was reaching for dental floss when the phone rang.
"I wouldn't have thought you an early riser." Claudel.
"Kit's gone.
"Cibole!"
I could hear traffic in the background.
"Where are you?"
"Outside the church."
"How does it look?"
"Like a theme park of deadly sins. Sloth and gluttony are well represented."
"I don't suppose you've seen him."
"No, but I might not spot Fidel Castro in this crowd. Looks like every biker on the continent is here."
"Crease?"
"No sign."
I heard a hitch in his breathing.
"What?"
"Charbonneau and I did some more checking. From '83 to '89 Lyle Crease was playing foreign correspondent, not secret agent. But the only reports he was filing were with the guard on his cell block."
"He did time?" I asked, unnerved.
"Six years, south of the border."
"Mexico?"
"Juãrez."
My heart came back to life and thumped inside my chest.
"Crease is a killer and Kit may be with him. I've got to do something."
Claudel's voice went cop cold.
"Don't even think about freelancing, Ms. Brennan. These bikers look like sharks smelling the water for blood, and it could get rough down here."
"And Kit could get sucked into the feeding frenzy!" I heard my voice catch, and stopped to steady myself.
"I'll send a patrol car to pick Crease up.
"Suppose he has funeral plans?"
"If he shows his face, we'll arrest him."
"And if a nineteen-year-old kid gets nailed along the way?" I was almost yelling.
"All I'm saying is don't come down here."
"Then find this bastard!"
I'd hardly disconnected when I heard my cell phone.
Kit!
I raced to the bedroom and pulled it from my purse. The voice was quavery, like a child after a long cry. "You need to know what they're doing."
At first I felt confusion, then recognition, then apprehension. "Who, Jocelyn?"
"Someone needs to know what these Heathen scum are doing." She inhaled sharply through her nose.
"Tell me."
"This town is turning into a slaughterhouse, and your kid is ambling right down the chute."
My stomach went tight with fear.
"What do you mean?"
"I know what's coming down."
"How does this involve my nephew?"
"I need money and I need cover." Her voice was stronger now.
"Tell me what you know."
"Not till we deal."
"I don't have that kind of authority"
"You know who does."
"I wiJl try to help you," I said. "But I need to know if my nephew is in danger."
Silence. Then, "Fuck, I'm dead anyway Meet me in the Guy metro in twenty minutes. Westbound platform."
Her voice was leaden with defeat.
"I'll wait ten minutes. If you're!ate, or bring a buddy, I'm gone, and the kid'll be a footnote when this whole thing is written up."
Dead air
I dialed Claudel's pager and left my number. Then I stared at the phone, ticking through options.
Claudel was unreaehable. I couldn't wait for a return call.
Quickwater.
Ditto.
Claudel hadn't told me to avoid the underground. I'd meet with Jocelyn, then ring him when I had information.
I punched in the number at Carcajou headquarters, but didn't hit send. Then I slid the phone into my purse, and boited for the door.
Jocelyn was seated at the end of the tunnel, a canvas duffel in her lap, another at her feet. She had chosen a corner bench, as if concrete backing conferred protection from whatever menace she feared. Her teeth worked a thumbnail as she scanned the commuters standing to either side of the tracks.
She spotted me and followed my approach. I stayed to the middle of the platform, my pulse louder in my ears than any competing noise. The air was warm and stale, as though breathed and rebreathed by legions of subterranean travelers. I felt an acrid taste and swallowed hard.
Jocelyn watched in silence as I sat on the bench. Her chalky skin looked violet in the artificial light, the whites of her eyes yellow.
I started to speak but she stopped me with a hand movement.
"I'm going to say this once, then I'm taking off. I talk. You listen."
I said nothing.
"I'm a junkie, we both know that. I'm also a whore and a liar." Her eyes roved the faces lining the tracks, her movements ragged and jerky.
"Here's the mind-fuck. I come from a Girl Scout-summer camp-tuna casserole background just like you. Only somewhere along the way I joined a freak show I can't escape.
Purple shadow turned her eyes cadaverous.
"Lately I've been doing some hard time with hate. I hate everyone and everything on the planet. But mostly I hate myself."
She backhanded a sheen of liquid from below her nostrils.
"You know it's closing time when you can't look in a pond or pass a mirror or storefront because you despise what you see looking back."
She turned to me, the lobotomy eyes burning with rage and guilt.
"Talking to you may get me killed, but I want out. And I want these guys to pay
"What are you offering?"
"Spider Marcotte and the little girl."
"I'm listening."
"It was George Dorsey He's dead now, so it don't matter." She looked away then focused again on my face.
"Marcotte was Heathen payback for the Vipers blowing up the
Vaillancourts. George and a full-patcher named Sylvain Lecomte took him out. The kid was a mistake."
She braced a booted foot against the duffel.
"George thought the hit was his ticket to stardom. But the Heathens burned George because they thought he was going to give up Lecomte." She snorted and tipped her chin. "George was actually waiting for me near the Cherokee hit scene. When he got busted by the Carcajou and then set up a meet with you, the Heathen brothers decided to do George before he could finger Lecomte. Big man, Lecomte. Wasted a little girl. Big turd," she spat.
"Anything else?" She shrugged.
"The St-Basile burials. I've been on the scene nine years. I've got plenty to trade."
"Are you talking about witness protection?"
"Money and out."
"Rehab?"
She shrugged.
"What about Cherokee?"
"He brought the girl's bones up North, but I've put his story on paper. I give it up when my ass is safe and a long way from here."
She sounded like the thought was coilapsing even as she voiced it. "Why now?"
"They wasted Dorsey He did their work, and they wasted him." She shook her head and turned back to her surveillance.
"And I've become them." Her voice dripped with self-loathing. "I set that reporter up.
"What reporter?"
"Lyle Crease. I figured something was up when you asked about him, so I tuned into the news that night. Sure enough, he was the one I saw at Cherokee's place. I dropped his name to the Vipers for a bag of flake."
"Jesus Christ."
"I'm a goddam junkie, all right?" It was almost a shriek. "When you're coming down and the world is closing in, you'll dime your mother for a score. Besides, I had other reasons.
Her hands began to tremble, and she pressed her fingertips to her temples.
"Later, I phoned Crease to set up a meet at the cemetery" Again the self-deprecating laugh. "Back on big rock candy mountain.
"Did they ask you to arrange a meeting?"
"Yeah. They plan to take Crease out, and some Heathens, too.
"What does this have to do with my nephew?" My mouth was so dry I could hardly speak.
"Crease said not to try anything funny because he would have the kid with him."
I heard the rumble of a train far up the tunnel.
Again, the head shake. Her face looked hard in profile.
"This funeral's going to be one big snuff film, and your nephew could have a starring role."
I felt a change in air pressure as the train grew louder. Passengers on the far side moved toward the platform's edge.
Jocelyn's gaze froze on something across the tracks. The hooded eyes grew puzzled a moment, then widened in recognition. Her mouth opened.
"Lecom-!" she screamed, and her hand shot to the duffel's zipper.
The train thundered in.
Jocelyn's head flew backward, and a dark cumulus spread around it on the wall. I threw myself to the concrete, and covered my head with both hands.
Brakes shrilled, whooshed.
I tried to scramble behind the bench, under it, anywhere. It was bolted to the wall! There was nowhere to go!
Doors opened. Commuters both boarded and left the train.
On our side, screams. Faces turning. Bewilderment. Horror
The train barreled off.
Then the sounds changed. Panicked retreat. People running.
After a full minute with no more shots, I cautiously rose to my feet, bone and brain matter on my jacket. My stomach lurched and I tasted bile.
Voices. English. French. "Attention!"
"Sacrifice!"
"Call the police." "Elle est morte?"
"They're on the way "Mon Dieu."'
Confusion. A rush for the escalators.
Jocelyn's body twitched, and a thread of saliva trailed from the corner of her mouth. I could smell urine and feces, and see blood pooling on the bench and floor.
I had a vision of Cherokee. Others, fast, like flashbulbs. Gately Martineau. Savannah Osprey Emily Anne Toussaint.
I could not have stopped those deaths, nor had I done anything to bring them about. And I could do nothing for Jocelyn. But I would not allow my nephew to be the next casualty I would not permit that. Death dealt out by bikers would not happen. Not to Kit. Not to Harry. And not to me.
On rubbery legs I staggered to the escalators, rode to ground level, and was carried along by the crush of pedestrians distancing themselves from tragedy Already two cruisers blocked the entrance, doors open, lights flashing. Sirens foretold the arrival of others.
I should have stayed, given my story, and let the police handle the rest. I felt sick, and repulsed by the carnage we seemed powerless to stop. Fear for Kit twisted in my gut like a physical pain, overriding judgment and sense of duty
I broke from the crowd and ran.
Chapter 38
My hands still trem
bled as I let myself into my silent condo. I called out, not expecting an answer.
From my briefcase, I dug out the envelope Charbonneau had delivered from Roy. I scanned the protocol, checked my watch, and raced to the garage.
Though rush hour was tapering off, Centre-ville remained clogged. I crawled aiong, engine idling, heart racing, hands sweaty on the wheel, until I finally broke free, shot up the mountain, and pulled into a car park opposite Lac aux Castors.
The cemeteries sprawled along the uphill side of Chemin Remembrance, cities of the dead flowing toward the horizon. According to Roy's map, the Dorsey plot was just inside the perimeter fence, twenty yards from the south gate. The cortege would arrive from the east and enter the cemetery opposite where I sat.
I wiped my hands on my jeans and checked the time.
Soon.
Normally, early morning meant few people on the mountain, but today mourners lined the shoulder and stood along the drive leading through the gate. Others wandered among the trees and headstones inside the cemetery grounds. The ritual hypocrisy struck me as surreal. Heathens and Rock Machine, burying with great ceremony the comrade they themselves had killed.
Manned cruisers were parked on both sides of Remembrance, lights flashing, radios sputtering. I locked the car and ran across the road,slipping on new grass beginning to green the median. Hurrying along the shoulder, I inspected those milling about. Most were male, young, and white. I saw Charbonneau leaning on a squad car, but there was no sign of Crease or Kit.
A uniformed officer stopped me at the gate.
"Whoa, there. Slow down, madam. I'm sorry but there is a funeral expected shortly, and this entrance is closed. You'll have to move on.
He held out both arms, as if physical restraint might be necessary
"Dr. Temperance Brennan," I identified myself. "Carcajou."
His face crimped with suspicion. He was about to speak when a sharp whistle split the air, like someone calling a dog. We both turned.
Claudel stood on a knoll a short distance back from the Dorsey grave site. When he had our attention he gave a crisp come-on signal with one hand. The guard pointed to me, and Claudel nodded. With a disapproving look, he passed me through the gate.
The Mont-Royal cemeteries are strange and beautiful places, acres of elegant landscaping and ornate funerary architecture rising and falling across the curves of the mountain. Mont-Royal. The Jewish. Notre-Dame-des-Neiges.