?If he reads this stuff, his interests are incredibly broad,? I said. ?And he?s bilingual.? I glanced over the collection again. ?And he?s compulsive as hell.?
?What are you now, Dr. Ruth?? asked Bertrand.
?Look at this.?
They joined me.
?Everything?s arranged by topic, alphabetically.? I pointed to several shelves. ?Then by author within each category, again alphabetically. Then by year of publication for each author.?
?Doesn?t everyone do that??
Ryan and I looked at him. Bertrand was not a reader.
?Look how every book is aligned with the edge of the shelf.?
?He does the same with his shorts and socks. Must use a square edge to stack them,? said Ryan.
Ryan voiced my thoughts.
?Fits the profile.?
?Maybe he just keeps the books for show. Wants his friends to think he?s an intellectual,? said Bertrand.
?I don?t think so,? I said. ?They?re not dusty. Also, look at the little yellow slips. He not only reads this stuff, he marks certain things to go back to. Let?s point that out to Gilbert and his commandos so they don?t lose the markers. Could be useful.?
?I?ll have them seal the books before they dust.?
?Something else about Monsieur Tanguay.?
They stared at the shelves.
?He reads some weird shit,? said Bertrand.
?Besides the crime stories, what interests him most?? I asked. ?Look at the very top shelf.?
They looked again.
?Shit,? said Ryan. ?
?Yeah, and not just the software. This squirrel?s into the hardware.?
Ryan reached for his radio. ?Let?s get Gilbert and his raiders up here. I?ll tell the teams out back to go to ground and watch for Dr. Prick. We don?t want to spook him when he shows up. Christ, Claudel?s probably got his nuts in a half hitch by now.?
Ryan spoke into his handset. Bertrand continued to skim the titles behind me.
Bzt. Bzzzzzzt. Bzzt. Bzt.
?Hey, this is your kind of stuff.? He used a hanky to withdraw something. ?Looks like there?s just this one.?
He laid a single volume of the
Gabby?s article. The sight of the AA hit me like a snapped cable. I wanted out of there. I wanted to be gone to a sunny Saturday where I was safe, and no one was dead, and my best friend would be calling with plans for dinner.
Water. Cold water on your face, Brennan.
I lurched toward the double doors and flipped one open with my foot, looking for the kitchen.
BZZZZZT. BZZZZZT. BZT. BZZZZZZT. BZT.
The room had no window. A digital clock to my right gave off a luminous orange glow. I could make out two white shapes and another pale stretch at waist level. Refrigerator, stove, sink, I assumed. I felt for a switch. The hell with procedure. They could sort out my prints.
The back of my hand pressed to my mouth, I stumbled to the sink and splashed cold water on my face. When I straightened and turned, Ryan was standing in the doorway.
?I?m fine.?
Flies shot around the room, startled at the sudden intrusion.
BZZT. BZT. BZZZZT.
?Mint?? He offered a roll of Life Savers.
?Thanks.? I took one. ?The heat.?
?It?s a cooker.?
A fly careened off his cheek. ?What the fu-? He swatted at the air. ?What?s this guy do in here??
Ryan and I saw them at the same time. Two brown objects lay on the counter, halos of grease staining the paper towels on which they dried. Flies danced around them, landing and taking off in nervous agitation. A surgical glove lay to their left, a twin to the one we?d just unearthed. We went closer, fomenting the flies to excited flight.
I looked at each shriveled mass and thought of the roaches and spiders in the barber pole, their legs dried and constricted in rigor. These objects had nothing to do with arachnids, however. I knew instantly what they were, though I?d only seen the others in photos.
?They?re paws.?
?What??
?Paws from some kind of animal.?
?Are you sure??
?Flip one over.?
He did. With his pen.
?You can see the ends of the lower limb bones.?
?What?s he doing with them??
?How the hell should I know, Ryan?? I thought of Alsa.
?Christ.?
?Check the refrigerator.?
?Oh, Christ.?
The tiny corpse was there, skinned and wrapped in clear plastic. Along with several others.
?What are they??
?Small mammals of some sort. Without the skin I can?t tell. They?re not horses.?
?Thanks, Brennan.?
Bertrand joined us. ?What?ve you got??
?Dead animals.? Ryan?s voice betrayed his aggravation. ?And another glove.?
?Maybe the guy eats roadkill,? said Bertrand.
?Maybe. And maybe he makes lampshades out of people. That?s it. I want this place sealed. I want every friggin? thing confiscated. Bag his cutlery, bag that blender, bag everything in the goddamn refrigerator. I want that disposal scraped and every inch of this place hosed with Luminol. Where the hell?s Gilbert??
Ryan moved toward a wall phone to the left of the door.
?Hold it. That phone got a redial button??
Ryan nodded.
?Hit it.?
?Probably get his priest. Or Grammama.?
Ryan pushed the button. We listened to a seven-note melody followed by four rings. Then a voice answered, and the bubble of fear I?d been carrying all day rose to my head and I felt faint.
?
36
