Monday Mourning

The dog stopped barking, rose with forepaws on the fence, and watched our progress.

“What’s the number?”

Ryan told me.

“Must be farther down.”

As Ryan crept forward, I read off the addresses. The numbers on the row houses didn’t go high enough, but that on the first cement structure indicated we’d gone too far.

“Maybe it’s farther off the pavement, back in that vacant area,” I suggested.

Ryan reversed up the block and parked opposite the last of the row houses. A silhouette was faintly visible through bare trees and heavy pines.

“Ready?” Ryan scooped his gloves from the backseat.

“Ready.”

I pulled on my mittens and got out. At the thunk-thunk of our doors, the dog reengaged.

Ryan proceeded up an ice-crusted walkway six feet beyond the outer wall of the last row house. Needled boughs and bare branches blocked the sky, creating a gloomy tunnel effect.

The air smelled of pine, coal smoke, and something organic.

“What’s that odor?” I hissed.

“Horse manure.” Ryan was also whispering. “Old Yeller is guarding a caleche horse stable.”

“The horses that pull the carriages in Old Montreal?”

“The very ones.”

I took another whiff.

Maybe. But there was something else there.

Ryan and I picked our way carefully along the uneven walk, breaths billowing, collars up to ward off the cold.

Ten yards off de Sebastopol the path took a sharp left, and Ryan and I found ourselves facing a weathered brick building. We both stopped and read the rusted numbers above the door.

“Bingo,” Ryan said.

The building’s entrance was recessed, the door rough and aged, but ornately carved. The windows were opaque, some black, others white with frost and windblown snow.

Dead vines spiderwebbed across the roof and walls, and one wooden sill angled down from its frame. The pines were thicker here, keeping the house and its small yard in even deeper shadow.

Irrationally, small hairs rose on the back of my neck.

Drawing a deep breath, I worked myself just calm enough.

Ryan stepped up to the door. I followed.

The bell was dull brass, the old-fashioned kind that sounded when the knob was turned clockwise. Ryan reached out and gave it a twist.

Deep in the house, a bell shrilled.

Ryan waited a full minute, then rang again.

Seconds later, locks rattled, then the door creaked open four inches.

Ryan extended his badge to the crack.

“Mr. Menard?” he asked in English.

The crack didn’t widen. The person peering through it was hidden from me.

“Stephen Menard?” Ryan repeated.

“Qu’est-ce que voulez-vous?” What do you want? Heavily accented. American.

“Police, Mr. Menard. We’d like to talk to you,” Ryan persisted in English.

“Laissez-moi tranquille.” Leave me alone.

The door moved toward its frame. Ryan palmed it back with jackrabbit quickness.

“Are you Stephen Menard?”

“Je m’appelle Stephane Menard.” Menard pronounced the name in the French manner. “Qui etes-vous?” Who are you?

“Detective Andrew Ryan.” Ryan flicked a hand in my direction. “Dr. Temperance Brennan. We need to speak with you.”

“Allez-vous en.” The voice sounded dry and almost frail. I still couldn’t make out its owner.

“We’re not going to go away, Mr. Menard. Cooperate and our questions should take only a few minutes of your time.”