fingers.
The traffic signal at Woodlawn and the Billy Graham Parkway took a lifetime.
This was your idea, Brennan.
Right. But does that make it a good one?
I arrived at the airport and went directly to baggage claim.
Ryan was draping a garment bag over his left shoulder. His right arm was in a sling and he moved with an uncharacteristic stiffness. But he looked good. Very good.
He’s here to recover. That’s all.
I waved and called to him. He smiled and pointed to an athletic bag circling toward him on the carousel.
I nodded and began sorting my keys, deciding which should go to another chain.
I gave him a minimal-contact hug, the kind people use when picking up in-laws. He stepped back, and the too-damn-blue eyes looked me up and down.
“Nice outfit.”
I was wearing jeans and a shirt that didn’t bunch too high with the crutches.
“How was your trip?”
“The flight attendant took pity and moved me up front.”
I’ll bet she did.
On the ride home I asked about the state of his injuries.
“Three fractured ribs and one perforated a lung. The other bullet preferred muscle. It was no big deal, except for some blood loss.”
The no big deal had taken four hours of surgery.
“Are you in pain?”
“Only when I breathe.”
When we got to the Annex, I showed Ryan the guest room and went to the kitchen to pour iced tea.
Minutes later he joined me on the patio. Sunlight was slanting through the magnolia, and a troupe of song sparrows had replaced the mockingbird.
“Nice outfit,” I said, handing him a glass.
Ryan had changed to shorts and a T-shirt. His legs were the color of uncooked cod, and athletic socks bagged around his ankles.
“Been wintering in Newfoundland?”
“Tanning causes melanoma.”
“I’ll need shades for the glare.”
Ryan and I had already reviewed the events in Ange Gardien. We’d discussed it at the hospital, then later by phone as more information came to light.
Ryan had used his cell phone to call the Rouville district SQ post while I was outside scraping the road sign. When we didn’t appear there the dispatcher sent a truck to clear the road so a unit could investigate. The officers found Ryan unconscious and called in backup and ambulances.
“So your sister is through with cosmic healing?”
“Yeah.” I smiled and shook my head. “She came down here for a few days, then headed back to Texas. It won’t be long before she becomes enthused by some other alternative agenda.”
We sipped our tea.
“Have you read the psychiatric stuff?”
“Delusional misidentification with significant components of grandiosity and paranoia. What the frig does that mean?”
That same question had already sent me to the psychiatric literature.
“The Antichrist delusion. People see themselves or others as demonic. In Elle’s case, she projected the delusion onto Heidi’s babies. She’d read about matter and antimatter, and believed everything has to be in balance. She said one of the babies was the Antichrist, the other some type of cosmic backup. Is she still talking?”
“Like a DJ on uppers. She admits to sending the hit team to St-Jovite to kill the kids. Simonnet tried to intervene, so they shot her. Then the killers downed the drugs and started the fire.”
I thought of the old lady whose bones I’d examined.
“Simonnet must have tried to protect Heidi and Brian. All those calls to Saint Helena, then the rescue mission to Texas after Daniel Jeannotte showed up at the Schneider home.” My fingers made oval prints in the condensation on my tea glass. “Why do you suppose Simonnet kept phoning after Heidi and Brian left Saint Helena?”
“Heidi kept in contact with Jennifer Cannon, and Simonnet phoned for reports. When Elle found out, she had Cannon killed.”
