Bones to Ashes

“A double-digit, multiletter, double-digit pattern,” I guessed.

“Exactly.”

Ryan was right. The coffee was undrinkable. Sleep-deprived as I was, I gave up trying.

“Working on the assumption that the password was created this year, I checked music charts, created letter sequences from the opening lines of the top fifteen songs for each of the fifty-two weeks, then ran combinations of all month-day number pairs with all-letter strings. Hit with the program’s four hundred and seventy-fourth alphanumeric chain.”

“Only four seventy-four?” Hippo’s distaste for technology was evident in his sarcasm.

“I had to try both French and English.”

“Lemme guess. Cormier was hot for Walter Ostanek.”

Three blank looks.

“The polka king?”

The looks held.

“The Canadian Frank Yankovic?”

“You’re into polka?” Ryan.

“Ostanek’s good.” Defensive.

No one disputed that.

“You should know him. He’s your homeboy. Duparquet, Quebec.”

“Cormier used Richard Seguin,” Lesieur said.

Hippo shrugged. “Seguin’s good, too.”

“The week of October twenty-ninth, Seguin’s “Lettres ouvertes” charted at number thirteen in Montreal. He used the opening line of a song from that album.”

“I’m impressed,” I said. I was.

“A fourteen-character alphanumeric code will keep the average hacker out.” Lesieur hit Enter. “But I’m not your average hacker.”

The screen changed to black. On the upper right was a graphic showing old-fashioned spool film, below it a playlist offering a dozen untitled selections. Digits indicated the duration of each. Most ran between five and ten minutes.

“The thumb drive contains video files, some brief, some with running times of up to an hour. I’ve opened nothing, figuring you’d want the first look. I also figured you’d want to start with the shorter clips.”

“Go.” Ryan’s tone was devoid of humor now.

“This is virgin territory, people.” Lesieur double-clicked the first listing.

The quality was poor, the duration six minutes.

The scene showed things I never imagined possible.

31

T HE VIDEO HAD BEEN SHOT WITH A SINGLE HANDHELD CAMERA. There was no sound.

The setting is a room done in roach-motel cheap. The side table is wood-grain plastic. The double bed is plaid-quilted. A shadow hairlines from a nail on the wall above the headboard.

Normally my mind would have played with that. What had been removed? Terrible mass-market art? A print of beer-drinking dogs playing cards? Something fingering the motel’s name or location?

No speculation this time. All my senses were focused on the horror center stage.

A girl lies on the bed. She is pale and has cornsilk hair. Bows double-loop from the ends of her pigtails.

My breath stopped in my throat.

The girl is naked. She can be no more than eight years old.

Rising onto her elbows, the girl turns her face toward something off camera. Her eyes sweep past the lens. The pupils are caverns, the gaze unfocused.

The girl lifts her chin, tracking someone’s approach. A shadow crawls onto her body.

The girl shakes her head no and lowers her lids. A hand comes into frame and presses her chest. The girl drops back and closes her eyes. The shadow moves down her torso.

Opposing reflexes shot through my nerves.

Turn away!

Stay! Help the little girl!