I vaguely remembered that.
“And most recently it’s been Turkish and North African immigrants. Several years ago hundreds of French parents claimed children were being abducted, killed, and eviscerated by them, even though virtually no children had been reported missing in France.
“And that myth continues, even here in Montreal, only now there’s a new bogeyman practicing ritual child killing.” She leaned forward, widening her eyes, and almost hissing the last word. “Satanists.”
It was the most animated I’d seen her. Her words caused an image to take shape in my mind. Malachy lying on stainless steel.
“Not surprising, really,” she continued. “Preoccupation with demonology always intensifies during periods of social change. And toward the end of millennia. But now the threat is from Satan.”
“Hasn’t Hollywood created a lot of that?”
“Not intentionally, of course, but it has certainly contributed. Hollywood just wants to make commercially successful films. But that’s an age-old question: Does art shape the times or merely reflect them? Rosemary’s Baby, The Omen, The Exorcist. What do these movies do? They explain social anxieties through the use of demonic imagery. And the public watches and listens.”
“But isn’t that just part of the increasing interest in mysticism in American culture over the past three decades?”
“Of course. And what’s the other trend that has taken place during the last generation?”
I felt as if I was being quizzed. What did all this have to do with Anna? I shook my head.
“The rise in popularity of fundamentalist Christianity. The economy had a lot to do with it, of course. Layoffs. Plant closings. Downsizing. Poverty and economic insecurity are very stressful. But that isn’t the only source of worry. People at every economic level are feeling anxiety due to shifting social norms. Relations have changed between men and women, within families, between generations.”
She ticked the points off on her fingers.
“The old explanations are breaking down and new ones haven’t been established yet. The fundamentalist churches provide solace by presenting simple answers to complex questions.”
“Satan.”
“Satan. All the world’s evil is due to Satan. Teenagers are being recruited to devil worship. Children are being abducted and killed in demonic rituals. Satanic livestock killing is spreading across the country. The Procter and Gamble logo contains a secret satanic symbol. Grass roots frustration locks on to these rumors and feeds them so they grow.”
“So, are you suggesting that satanic cults don’t exist?”
“I’m not saying that. There are a few, what shall we say, high-profile, organized Satanist groups, like that of Anton LaVey.”
“The Church of Satan, out in San Francisco.”
“Yes. But they’re a small, small group. Most ‘Satanists’”—she hooked both index fingers in the air, placing the term in quotation marks—“are probably just white, middle-class kids playing at devil worship. Occasionally these kids get out of line, of course, vandalize churches or cemeteries, or torture animals, but mostly they perform a lot of rituals, and go off on legend trips.”
“Legend trips?”
“I believe that term came from the sociologists. Visits to spooky sites, like cemeteries or haunted houses. They light bonfires, tell ghost stories, cast spells, maybe do some vandalism. That’s about it. Later, when police find graffiti, an overturned gravestone, a campfire site, maybe a dead cat, they assume the local youth are all in a satanic cult. The press picks it up, the preachers sound the alarm, and another legend takes flight.”
She was, as usual, totally composed, but her nostrils dilated and contracted as she spoke, betraying a tension I hadn’t seen before. I said nothing.
“I am suggesting that the threat of Satanism is vastly overblown. Another subversion myth, as your colleagues would say.”
Without warning her voice rose and sharpened, causing me to jump.
“David! Is that you?”
I hadn’t heard a sound.
“Yes, ma’am.” Muffled.
A tall figure appeared in the doorway, his face concealed by the hood of his parka and an enormous muffler wrapped around his neck. The hunched form looked vaguely familiar.
“Excuse me a moment.”
Jeannotte rose and disappeared through the doorway. I caught little of their conversation, but the man sounded agitated, his voice rising and falling like a whining child’s. Jeannotte interrupted him frequently. She spoke in short bursts, her tone as steady as his was volatile. I could make out only one word. “No.” She repeated it several times.
Then there was silence. In a moment, Jeannotte returned, but did not sit.
“Students,” she said, laughing and shaking her head.
“Let me guess. He needs more time to finish his paper.”
“Nothing ever changes.” She looked at her watch. “So, Tempe, I hope your visit has been helpful. You will take care of the diaries? They are very dear.” I was being dismissed.
“Of course. I’ll return them by Monday at the latest.” I rose, slid Jeannotte’s materials into my briefcase, and collected my jacket and purse.
She smiled me out of the room.
* * *
In winter, the Montreal sky displays mainly gray tones, shifting from dove, to iron, to lead, to zinc. When I stepped out of Birks Hall moist clouds had turned the day a dull pewter.
I slung my purse and briefcase over my shoulder, stuffed my fists into my pockets, and turned downhill into a raw, damp wind. Before I’d taken twenty steps tears filled my eyes, making it hard to see. As I walked, an image of Fripp Island flashed across my mind. Palmetto palms. Sea oats. Sunlight glinting on the marsh.
Knock it off, Brennan. March is windy and cold in many parts of the planet. Stop using the Carolinas as a baseline against which to measure the weather of the world. It could be worse. It could be snowing. With that, the first fat flake struck my cheek.
As I opened the car door, I looked up to see a tall young man staring at me from the far side of the street. I recognized the parka and muffler. The hunched form was that of David, Jeannotte’s unhappy visitor.
Our gazes locked for a moment, and the raw anger in his eyes startled me. Then, without a word, the student turned and hurried off down the block. Unnerved, I climbed into the car and locked the doors, thankful he was Jeannotte’s problem and not mine.
On the drive back to the lab my mind went through its usual paces, rehashing the immediate, and worrying about things undone. Where was Anna? Should Sandy’s concerns about a cult be seriously considered? Was Jeannotte right? Were satanic cults little more than youth clubs? Why had I not asked Jeannotte to elaborate on her remark that Anna was safe? Our conversation had gotten so fascinating I’d been sidetracked from asking further about Anna. Was that deliberate? Was Jeannotte purposefully concealing something? If so, what and why? Was the professor merely shielding her student from outsiders prying into a personal matter? What was Anna’s “impossible home situation”? Why did David’s behavior seem so sinister?
How would I ever get through the ledgers by Monday? My flight was at 5 P.M. Could I finish the Nicolet report today, do those for the babies tomorrow, and work through the ledgers on Sunday? No wonder I had no social life.
By the time I got to rue Parthenais, steadily falling snow was sticking to the street. I found a parking spot just outside the door, and said a prayer that the car wouldn’t be plowed in when I came back.
The air in the lobby felt steamy and smelled of wet wool. I stomped my boots, contributing to the slick, shallow pool of melted snow spreading across the floor, and punched for an elevator. On the ride up I tried to clean streaked mascara from my lower lids.
There were two pink message slips on my desk. Sister Julienne had called. No doubt she wanted reports on Anna and Élisabeth. I wasn’t ready on either. Next. Ryan.
I dialed and he answered.
“Long lu
nch.”
I checked my watch. One forty-five.
“I’m paid by the hour. What’s up?”
“We’ve finally tracked down the owner of the house in St-Jovite. Guy’s name is Jacques Guillion. He’s from Quebec City, but moved to Belgium years ago. His whereabouts remain unknown, but a Belgian neighbor says Guillion has been renting the St-Jovite place to an old lady named Patrice Simonnet. She thinks the tenant is Belgian, but isn’t sure. She says Guillion also provides the tenant with cars. We’re running a check.”
“Pretty well-informed neighbor.”
“Apparently they were close.”
“The burned body from the basement could be Simonnet.”
“Could be.”
“We got good dental X-rays during the post. Bergeron has them.”
“We’ve given the name to the RCMP. They’re working with Interpol. If she’s Belgian, they’ll track her.”
“What about the other two bodies in the main house and the two adults with the babies?”
“We’re working on it.”
We both thought for a moment.
“Pretty big place for one old lady.”
“Looks like she wasn’t all that alone.”
* * *
I spent the next two hours in the histology lab teasing the last of the tissue from the babies’ ribs and examining them under the microscope. As I’d feared, there were no unique nicks or patterns in the bone. There was nothing I could say except that the killer had used a very sharp knife with a blade which was not serrated. Bad for the investigation. Good for me. The report would be brief.
I’d just returned to my office when Ryan called back.
“How about a beer?” he asked.
“I don’t keep beer in my office, Ryan. If I did, I’d drink it.”
“You don’t drink.”
“Then why are you asking me for beer?”
“I’m asking if you’d like one. Could be green.”
“What?”
“Aren’t you Irish, Brennan?”
I glanced at my wall calendar. March 17. The anniversary of some of my best performances. I didn’t want to remember.
“Can’t do it anymore, Ryan.”
“It’s a generic way of saying ‘Let’s take a break.’”
“Are you asking me for a date?”
“Yes.”
“With you?”
“No, with my parish priest.”
“Wow. Does he cheat on his vows?”
“Brennan, do you want to meet me for a beverage this evening? Alcohol-free?”
“Ryan, I—”
“It’s St. Paddy’s Day. It’s Friday night and snowing like a sonofabitch. Got a better offer?”
I didn’t. In fact, I had no other offers. But Ryan and I often investigated the same cases, and I’d always had a policy of keeping work and home separate.
Always. Right. I’d been separated and living on my own less than two years of my adult life. And they hadn’t been banner ones for male companionship.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea.”
There was a pause. Then,
“We got a break on Simonnet. She popped right up on the Interpol search. Born in Brussels, lived there until two years ago. Still pays taxes on a piece of property in the countryside. Loyal old gal, went to the same dentist her whole life. The guy’s been in practice since the Stone Age, keeps everything. They’re faxing the records. If it looks like a match, we’ll get the originals.”
“When was she born?”
I heard a paper flip.
“Nineteen-eighteen.”
“That fits. Family?”
“We’re checking.”
“Why did she leave Belgium?”
“Maybe she needed a change of scenery. Look, champ, if you decide you do, I’ll be at Hurley’s after nine. If there’s a line, use my name.”
I sat awhile, thinking about why I’d said no. Pete and I had reached an accord. We still loved each other, but couldn’t live together. Separated, we were once again able to be friends. Our relationship hadn’t been as good in years. Pete was dating, I was free to do the same. Oh, God. Dating. The word raised images of acne and braces.
To be honest, I found Andrew Ryan extremely attractive. No zits or orthodontics. A definite plus. And technically we didn’t work together. But I also found him extremely annoying. And unpredictable. No. Ryan is trouble.
I was finishing my report on Malachy and Mathias when the phone rang again. I smiled. O.K., Ryan. You win.
The voice of a security guard told me I had a visitor in the downstairs lobby. I looked at my watch. Four-twenty. Who would be coming this late? I didn’t remember making any appointments.
I asked for the name. When he told me, my heart sank.
“Oh no.” I couldn’t help myself.
“Est-ce qu’il y a un problème?”
“Non. Pas de problème.” I told him I’d be right down.
No problem? Who was I kidding?
I said it again in the elevator.
Oh no.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?”
“Well, you could look glad to see me, big sister.”
“I—of course I’m glad to see you, Harry. I’m just surprised.” I couldn’t have been more astounded if the guard had announced Teddy Roosevelt.
She snorted. “That’s about as heartfelt as grits.”
My sister sat in the lobby of the SQ building surrounded by shopping bags from Neiman Marcus and canvas packs of varying shapes and sizes. She wore red cowboy boots engraved with black and white loops and swirls and a matching leather jacket with fringe. When she stood I could see jeans tight enough to cut off blood flow. We all could.
Harry hugged me, fully aware of but completely unselfconscious about her effect on others. Especially the others with Y chromosomes.
“Whew, it is bad-ass cold out there! I’m iced enough to freeze tequila.” She hunched her shoulders and wrapped her arms around her rib cage.
“Yes.” I didn’t get the analogy.
“My flight was supposed to touch down at noon, but the pissant snow held us up. Oh well, here I am, big sister.”
She dropped her shoulders and held out her arms, causing the jacket fringe to shimmy. Harry looked so out of place it was surreal. Amarillo comes to the tundra.
“O.K. Great. What a surprise. Well. I—What brings you to Montreal?”
“I’ll tell you all about it. It’s awesome. When I heard about it I just couldn’t believe my ears. I mean, right here in Montreal and all.”
“What is ‘it,’ Harry?”
“The seminar I’d done. I told you about it, Tempe, when I called last weekend. I did it. I signed up for that training course in Houston and now I’m mainlinin’ this stuff. I have never been so pumped. I cruised the first level. I mean cruised it. Some people take years to realize their own reality and I just whupped that puppy in a few weeks. I mean I am learning some powerful therapeutic strategies, and I am taking hold of my life. So when they invited me to this level-two workshop, and right here where my big sister lives, well, I packed my bags and pointed my nose north.”
Harry beamed at me with clear, blue eyes surrounded by gobs of mascara.
“You’re here for a workshop?”
“Exactamundo. All expenses paid. Well, almost all.”
“I want to hear all about it,” I said, hoping the course was short. I was unsure if Quebec Province and Harry could survive each other.
“This shit is awesome,” she said, rephrasing her initial assessment, but adding little additional information.
“Let’s go upstairs and I’ll wrap up. Or would you rather wait here?”
“Hell, no. I want to see where the great cadaver doctor works. Lead on.”
“You’ll have to submit a photo ID to get a visitor’s pass,” I said, indicating the guard at the security desk.
He was observing the scene, a half smile on his face, and spoke before either of us could make a move
.
“Vôtre sœur?” he bellowed across the lobby, exchanging looks with the other guards.
I nodded. Obviously everyone now knew that Harry was my sister, and found it terribly amusing.
The guard gave a sweeping gesture toward the elevators.
“Merci,” I mumbled, and shot him a withering glance.
“Mercy,” Harry drawled, giving each guard a radiant smile.
We gathered her bundles and rode to the fifth floor, where I stacked everything in the hall outside my office. No way to fit it inside. The quantity of her gear raised apprehension as to the likely length of her stay.
“Hell, this office looks like a twister just traveled through here.” Though she was only five feet nine and thin as a fashion model, Harry seemed to fill the small space.
“It’s a little messy right now. Let me shut down the computer and collect a few things. Then we’ll head out.”
“Take your time, I’m in no hurry. I’ll just chat with your friends.” She was looking up at a row of skulls, her head tipped back so that the ends of her hair brushed the bottom fringe on her jacket. It looked blonder than I remembered it.
“Howdy,” she said to the first, “decided to quit while you’re a head, did you?”
I couldn’t help but smile. Her cranial friend did not. While Harry worked her way along the shelf, I logged off and gathered the ledgers and books from Daisy Jeannotte. I planned to be back first thing in the morning, so I didn’t pack my unfinished reports.
“So, what’s new with you?” Harry spoke to the fourth skull. “Not talking? Oh, you’re so sexy when you’re moody.”
“She’s always moody.” Andrew Ryan stood in the doorway.
Harry turned and looked the detective up and down. Slowly. Then blue eyes met blue eyes.
“What the hey?”
My sister’s smile for the security guards was nothing compared with the one she now beamed at Ryan. In that moment I knew calamity was predestined.
“We were just leaving, ” I said, zipping my computer case.