incised injuries, but the body was too badly decomposed to determine their exact nature.
The burial had been shallow enough that insects had gained access, probably using the body above as a conduit. The open wounds had also encouraged colonization. The skull and chest contained the largest maggot masses he’d ever seen. The face was not recognizable and he was unable to estimate an age. He thought he might have some usable prints.
In the background Ryan and Baker discussed Dom Owens.
Hardaway went on. The upper body was largely skeletonized, though some connective tissue remained. He could do little with it, and asked me to do a full analysis.
I told him to send me the skull, the hip blades, the clavicles, and the chest ends of the third through fifth ribs from the bottom body. I would need the entire skeleton from the upper burial. I also asked for a series of X-rays on each victim, a copy of his report, and a full set of autopsy photos.
Last, I explained how I preferred to have the bones processed.
Hardaway was familiar with the routine and said both sets of remains and all documents would arrive in my lab in Charlotte on Friday.
I hung up and looked at my watch. If I had any hope of getting everything done before my conference trip to Oakland, I had to get moving.
Ryan and I crossed to the lot, where I had left my car that morning. The sun was hot and the shade felt good. I opened the door and leaned my arm on the upper edge.
“Let’s have dinner,” said Ryan.
“Sure. Then I’ll put on pasties and we’ll take pics for the
“Brennan, for two days now you’ve been treating me like I’m gum on the sidewalk. Actually, now that I think about it, you’ve had some kind of burr up your ass for a couple of weeks. Fine. I can live with that.”
He took my chin in his hands and looked straight into my eyes.
“But I want you to know one thing. That was not just a chemical event last night. I care about you and I was enjoying the hell out of being close. I’m not sorry it happened. And I can’t say I won’t try again. Remember, I might be the wind, but you control the kite. Drive safely.”
With that he released my chin and walked to his car. Unlocking the door, he threw his jacket on the passenger seat and turned back to me.
“By the way, you never told me why you doubt the Murtry victims are dealers.”
For a moment I could only stare. I wanted to stay, but I also wanted to be continents away from him. Then my mind snapped back.
“What?”
“The bodies from the island. Why do you question the drug burn theory?”
“Because they’re both girls.”
21
DURING THE DRIVE I PLAYED SOME TAPES, BUT THE NEWS FROM Lake Wobegon didn’t hold my attention. I had a million questions and very few answers. Had Anna Goyette returned home? Who were the women buried on Murtry Island? What would their bones tell me? Who killed Heidi and her babies? Was there a connection between St-Jovite and the commune on Saint Helena? Who was Dom Owens? Where had Kathryn gone? Where the hell had Harry gone?
My mind spun off thoughts of all I had to do. And wanted to do. I hadn’t read a word about Elisabeth Nicolet since leaving Montreal.
By eight-thirty I was back in Charlotte. In my absence the grounds at Sharon Hall had put on their finest springtime attire. Azaleas and dogwoods were in full bloom, and a few Bradford pears and flowering crabapples still retained blossoms. The air smelled of pine needles and bark chips. Inside, my arrival at the Annex was a replay of the week before. The clock was ticking. The message light was flashing. The refrigerator was empty.
Birdie’s bowls were in their usual place under the bay window. Odd that Pete hadn’t emptied them. Disorderly with everything else, my estranged husband was fastidious about foodstuffs. I did a quick patrol to see if the cat was skulking under a chair or in a closet. No Bird.
I called Pete, but, as before, he wasn’t in. Neither was Harry at the condo in Montreal. Thinking perhaps she’d gone home, I tried her number in Texas. No answer.
After unpacking, I fixed a tuna sandwich and ate it with dill pickles and chips while I watched the end of a Hornets’ game. At ten I turned off the TV and tried Pete again. Still no answer. I considered driving over to collect Birdie, but decided to let it go until morning.
I showered, then propped myself in bed with the Belanger photocopies and escaped into the world of nineteenth-century Montreal. The hiatus had not improved Louis-Philippe, and within an hour my lids were drooping. I turned off the light and curled into a tuck position, hoping a good long rest would bring order to my mind.
Two hours later I was sitting bolt upright, my heart hammering, my brain struggling to know why. I clutched the blanket to my chest, barely breathing, straining to identify the threat that had sent me into full alert.
Silence. The only light in the room came from my bedside clock.
Then the sound of shattering glass sent the hairs straight up on my arms and neck. My adrenals went to high tide. I had a flashback to another break-in, reptilian eyes, a knife flashing in moonlight. A single thought crackled in my brain.
