“You’re still behind her, though,” Quinn said.
“Yes, I’ve still got… wait. Did you say
“Her name is Marion Dupuis. She’s the missing daughter.”
“You’re sure?”
“I saw her as she drove off, and I’ve got a picture right here. Same person.”
Quinn was sitting in the passenger seat of a Lincoln Continental he and Orlando had stolen a block away from the house. In his lap was Marion’s box. The contents seemed to be consistent with someone on the run, who wanted to take a few personal mementos along. Two items were of most interest. The first was a book. A French version of
The other curious item didn’t fit with anything else in the box. A motel key for someplace called Motel Monique.
“Hold on,” Nate said. A moment later, “Shit.”
“What?”
“Nothing. It’s just a pain in the ass to follow someone who knows a city that I don’t.”
“You lost her?”
“Of course not,” he said.
“Give us some street names. We’ll see if we can find you.”
“I’m on … eh … Rue Drummond. It’s one-way, but we just turned off a big street. Renee something.”
Quinn had found a map of Montreal in the glove compartment. It was old and worn, and had been buried deep under a stack of other papers. He looked down the street index for Drummond, got the coordinates, then found it on the map.
“Do you mean Boulevard Rene-Levesque?” he asked.
“That sounds right.”
“Okay, I got you, then. Tell me when you change streets.”
“That’d be right now,” Nate said. “Turning onto another big street. Dammit, where’s the sign? I don’t know the name.”
“Probably Rue Sherbrooke.”
“If you say so.”
“We’re heading your way.” Quinn moved the phone from his ear and looked over at Orlando. “Back the other way, then west. They’re on the other side of the island.”
She nodded as she moved the car over to the left lane. At the next intersection she hung a U-turn.
Quinn switched his phone to speaker, then said, “Still on Sherbrooke?”
“Yes,” Nate confirmed.
“Okay. You’re basically heading north-northeast. For the moment it doesn’t look like she is heading for any bridges, so she’s still contained on the island.”
“Got it,” Nate said. “She’s behaving a little odd. She keeps looking back, but I don’t think she’s looking at me.”
“She knows you’re following her?” Quinn said.
“Yes. Definitely.”
“Then maybe she
“It just doesn’t seem like it.”
Something nagged at Quinn’s mind. A memory. A flash of when Marion Dupuis drove past him in the street. Movement elsewhere in the car. Maybe it was something moving around in the back. A bag, perhaps, or another box she had taken from the house. Whatever it was, Quinn couldn’t see it clearly in his mind.
“Turning again,” Nate said. “Right. Onto … Avenue Union.”
Quinn found the spot on the map. “Got it.”
A moment later. “Still on Avenue Union. Passing a big church on my right.” Then, “Turning again. Rue Ste. Catherine. Left… dammit, here we go again. Left. Onto … I didn’t get the name.”
Quinn guessed it must be Rue Aylmer, but he said nothing.
“She’s really trying to lose me now,” Nate said. “Left again.”
Over the speaker, Quinn could hear the tires of his apprentice’s car screeching as Nate made a quick turn.
“She’s a block ahead of me now, turning left again.” More screeching. “We were on this road before, it’s the one with the church.” Several seconds passed, then, “Same turn as before. Onto Saint somebody. Can’t remember the name.”
Quinn followed the action on the map, picturing the two cars racing down the streets.
“She’s going to turn … no, wait… she’s staying on this road for now. We didn’t make the same turn again …
