?I?m not the one in danger,? I snapped. ?This bastard?s got Gabby! He?s probably killed her already!?
My mask was crumbling. I fought to control the trembling in my hands.
?Brennan, I feel sick about your friend. I would help her in any way I could. Believe that. But you have to use your head. If this psychopath only got her purse but not her, she?s probably okay, wherever she is. If he has her and has shown us where to find her, he will have left her in whatever state he wants her found. We can?t change that. Meanwhile, someone put a note on your door, Brennan. The sonofabitch was in your building. He knows your car. If this guy is the killer, he won?t hesitate to add you to his list. Respect for life is not among his personality traits, and he seems to have focused on yours right now.?
He had a point.
?And I?ll get somebody on the guy you followed.?
I spoke slowly and softly. ?I want ident to call me as soon as they pull up the location.?
?Bren-?
?Is that a problem?? Not so softly.
It was irrational and I knew it, but Ryan was sensitive to my growing hysteria, or was it rage? Maybe he just didn?t want to deal with me.
?No.?
Ryan got the envelope around midnight, and the ident unit called an hour later. They lifted one print from the card. Mine. The X marked an abandoned lot in St. Lambert. An hour later I got a second call from Ryan. A patrol unit had checked the lot and all surrounding buildings. Nothing. Ryan had arranged for recovery in the morning. Including dogs. We were going back to the south shore.
?What time tomorrow?? I said, my voice shaking, my grief for Gabby already too dreadful to bear.
?I?ll set it up for seven.?
?Six.?
?Six. Want a ride??
?Thanks.?
He hesitated. ?She may be fine.?
?Yeah.?
I went through the normal bedtime motions, though I knew I wouldn?t sleep. Teeth. Face. Hand lotion. Nightshirt. Then I wandered from room to room, trying not to think about the women on the bulletin boards. Murder scene photos. Autopsy descriptions. Gabby.
I adjusted a picture, repositioned a vase, picked fluff from the carpet. I felt cold, made myself a cup of tea, and turned down the air-conditioning. Minutes later, I shot it back up. Birdie withdrew to the bedroom, fed up with the pointless movement, but I couldn?t stop myself. The feeling of helplessness in the face of impending horror was unbearable.
Around two, I stretched out on the couch, closed my eyes, and tried to will myself to relax. Concentrate on night sounds. AC compressor. Ambulance. Trickle of taps on the floor above. Water flowing through a pipe. Wood creaking. Walls settling.
My mind drifted to a visual mode. Images floated past, spinning and tumbling like parts of a Hollywood dream sequence. I saw Chantale Trottier?s plaid jumper. Morisette-Champoux?s gutted belly. The putrefied head that was Isabelle Gagnon. A severed hand. A mangled breast cupped in bone-white lips. A lifeless monkey. A statue. A plunger. A knife.
I couldn?t help myself. I produced a cinema of death, tortured by the thought that Gabby had joined the cast. Darkness was fading into light when I got up to dress.
34
THE SUN HAD BARELY CLIMBED ABOVE THE HORIZON WHEN WE uncovered Gabby?s body. Margot had gone directly to it, scarcely hesitating when released inside the plywood fence surrounding the property. She?d scented for a moment, then raced across the wooded lot, the saffron dawn tinging her fur and illuminating the dust around her feet.
The grave was hidden inside a crumbling house foundation. It was shallow, dug quickly, filled with haste. Standard. But then the killer had added a personal touch, outlining the burial with a carefully placed oval of bricks.
Her corpse lay on the ground now, zippered in its body bag. We?d sealed the scene with sawhorses and yellow tape, but it hadn?t been necessary. The early hour and the plywood barrier had been protection enough. No one had come to gawk as we unearthed the body and went through our macabre routines.
I sat in a patrol unit, sipping cold coffee from a Styrofoam cup. The radio cackled and the usual motion swirled around me. I?d come to do my job, to be a professional, but found I couldn?t do it. The others would have to manage. Perhaps later my brain would accept the messages it was currently rejecting. For now, I was numb and my brain was numb. I didn?t want to see her in the trench, to replay the scene of the marbled and bloated body emerging as the layers of dirt were lifted off. I?d recognized the silver earrings instantly. Ganesh. I recalled an image of Gabby explaining about the little elephant. A friendly god. A happy god. Not a god of pain and death. Where were you, Ganesh? Why didn?t you protect your friend? Why didn?t any of her friends protect her? Agony. Push it away.
I?d done a visual ID on the body, then Ryan had taken charge of the scene. I watched as he conferred with Pierre Gilbert. They spoke a moment, then Ryan turned and walked in my direction.
He hitched his pant legs and squatted next to the open car door, one hand on the armrest. Though it was only midmorning, the temperature was already twenty-seven Celsius, and perspiration soaked his hair and armpits.
?I?m so sorry,? he said.
I nodded.
?I know how hard this is.?
No. You don?t. ?The body isn?t too bad. I?m surprised, considering this heat.?
?We don?t know how long she?s been here.?
?Yes.?
He reached over and took my hand. His palm left a small saddle of perspiration on the vinyl armrest. ?There was noth-?
?Have you found anything??
?Not much.?
?No footprints, no tire tracks, nothing in this whole bloody field??
He shook his head.
?Latents on the bricks?? I knew that was stupid even as I said it.
His eyes held mine.
?Nothing down in the pit??
?There was one thing, Tempe. Lying on her chest.? He hesitated a moment. ?A surgical glove.?
?A little sloppy for this guy. He never left anything before. Might be prints inside.? I was fighting for control. ? Anything else??
?I don?t think she was killed here, Tempe. She was probably transported from somewhere else.?
?What is this place??
?A tavern that closed down years ago. The property was sold, the building was knocked down, then the buyer went belly-up. The lot?s been boarded up for six years.?
?Who owns it??
?You want a name??
?Yes, a name,? I snarled.
He checked his notebook. ?Guy named Bailey.?
Behind him I could see two attendants lift Gabby?s remains onto a stretcher, then wheel it toward the coroner?s van.
