“So did the bodies in the upstairs bedroom at St-Jovite.”
“Yes.”
Another memory had slammed to the surface when Lou spoke the name of the drug.
Boreal forest. Aerial views of a smoldering chalet. A meadow, shrouded bodies arranged in a circle. Uniformed personnel. Stretchers. Ambulances.
“Do you remember the Order of the Solar Temple?”
“The wing nut worshipers that offed themselves en masse?”
“Yes. Sixty-four people died in Europe. Ten in Quebec.”
I fought to steady my voice.
“Some of those chalets were wired to explode and burn.”
“Yeah. I’ve thought of that.”
“Rohypnol was found in both locations. Many of the victims had ingested the drug shortly before they died.”
Pause.
“You think Owens is rezoning for the Temple?”
“I don’t know.”
“Think they’re dealing?”
Dealing what? Human lives?
“I suppose it’s a possibility.”
For several moments neither of us spoke.
“I’ll run this past the guys who worked Morin Heights. Meantime, I’m going to shove a deadbolt up Dom Owens’ ass.”
“There’s more.”
The line hummed softly.
“Are you listening?”
“Yes.”
“West estimates the women died three to four weeks ago.”
My breath sounded loud in the receiver.
“The fire in St-Jovite was on March tenth. Tomorrow’s the first.”
I listened to the hum as Ryan did the math.
“Holy Christ. Three weeks ago.”
“I have a feeling something terrible is going to happen, Ryan.”
“Roger that.”
Dial tone.
In looking back I always have the sense events accelerated after that conversation, gathered speed and grew more frantic, eventually forming a vortex that sucked everything into itself. Including me.
That evening I worked late. So did Hardaway. He called as I was pulling his autopsy report from the envelope.
I gave him the profile for the subsurface body, and my age estimate for the deeper one.
“That squares,” he said. “She was twenty-five.”
“You’ve got an ID?”
“We were able to lift one readable print. Got nothing from the local or state files, so they sent it up to the FBI. Nothing in their AFIS.
“Screwiest thing, though. Don’t know what made me do it, probably ‘cause I know you work up there. When the guy at the bureau suggested we try the RCMP I said, what the hell, fire it through. Damned if she doesn’t pop up Canadian.”
“What else did you find out about her?”
“Hang on.”
I heard the creak of springs, then the rustle of paper.
“The sheet came through late today. Name’s Jennifer Cannon. White race. Height five foot five, weight one hundred thirty pounds. Hair brown. Eyes green. Single. Last seen alive . . .” There was a pause while he calculated. “. . . two years, three months ago.”
“Where’s she from?”
“Let’s see.” Pause. “Calgary. Where’s that?”
