“Shit. So maybe Daddy wasn’t being poetic.”
In the background a phone rang and rang. No one answered it.
“You think Owens sent Streak to Texas?” Ryan asked.
“No, not Owens. Kathryn and the old man both talked about a woman. I think it’s Jeannotte. She probably directs the show from here and has lieutenants at her other camps. I also think she recruits on campus through some sort of seminar network.”
“What else can you tell me about Jeannotte?”
I related everything I knew, including her behavior toward her assistant, and asked what he’d learned in his conversation with Anna.
“Not much. I think there’s a shitload she’s keeping bottled up. This kid makes Zelda look stable.”
“She could be on drugs.”
The ringing started up again.
“Are you alone there?” Save for the phones, the squad room sounded unnaturally quiet.
“Everyone’s been pulled out for this friggin’ storm. Are you having problems?”
“Like what?”
“Don’t you listen to the news? The ice is really screwing things up. They’ve closed the airport, and a lot of the minor roads are impassable. Power lines are cracking like dry spaghetti, and stretches of the south shore are cold and dark. The city fathers are starting to worry about old folks. And looters.”
“I’m fine so far. Did Baker’s men find anything to tie Saint Helena to the group in Texas?”
“Not really. The old guy with the dog talked a lot about meeting his guardian angel. Seems Owens and his disciples had the same idea. It’s all through their journals.”
“Journals?”
“Yeah. Apparently some of the faithful had the creative urge.”
“And?”
I heard him inhale, then exhale slowly.
“Tell me, goddamit!”
“According to some expert down there, it’s definitely apocalyptic and it’s now. They’re heading for the big one. Sheriff Baker’s taking no chances. He’s called in the feds.”
“And they found no clue as to destination? The earthly destination, I mean.”
“To meet their guardian angel and make the crossing to a better place. That’s the kind of crap we’re dealing with. But they’re well organized. Apparently the trip has been planned for a long time.”
“Jeannotte! You’ve got to find Jeannotte! It’s her! She’s the guardian angel!”
I knew I sounded frantic, but I couldn’t help myself.
“O.K. I agree. It’s time to drive Miss Daisy hard. When did she leave your place?”
“Fifteen minutes ago.”
“Where was she going?”
“I don’t know. She said she was meeting someone.”
“O.K., I’ll find her. Brennan, if you’re right about this, the little professor is a very dangerous woman. Do
“May I brush my teeth? Or is that considered risky?” I snapped. His paternalism did not bring out the best in me.
“You know what I mean. Find yourself some candles. I’ll get back to you as soon as I learn anything.”
I hung up and walked to the French doors. I wanted more space around me and slid the curtain aside. The courtyard looked like a mythological garden, the trees and shrubs fashioned of spun glass. Filmy nets covered the upstairs balconies and clung to the brick chimneys and walls.
I located candles, matches, and a flashlight, then dug my radio and headphones from my gym bag and placed everything on the kitchen counter. Back in the living room, I settled on the couch and clicked to the CTV news.
Ryan was right. The storm was big news. Lines were down throughout the province and Hydro-Quebec could not say when power would be restored. Temperatures were dropping and more precipitation was on the way.
I threw on a jacket and made three trips for logs. If the electricity failed, I would have heat. Next, I got extra blankets and placed them on the bed. When I returned to the living room a grim-looking newscaster was listing events that would not take place.
It was a familiar ritual, and oddly comforting. When snow threatens in the South, schools close, public activities cease, and frenzied homeowners strip store shelves. Usually the blizzards never come, or if snow falls, it disappears the following day. In Montreal storm preparations are methodical, not frantic, dominated by an air of “we will cope.”
My preparations occupied me for fifteen minutes. The TV held my attention for another ten. A brief respite. When I clicked off, my agitation returned full force. I felt stuck, a bug on a pin. Ryan was right. There was nothing I could do, and my powerlessness made me all the more restless.
