Bones to Ashes

bucks.”

“Bastarache.”

Karine looked up, surprised. “No. Pierre.”

“Last name?”

“He never said and I never asked.” She swallowed. “Pierre said I had talent. Said if I gave him an exclusive he’d kick-start my acting career.”

“You believed this Pierre would make you a star?” I tried to keep the incredulity from my voice.

“Cormier insisted Pierre was a high-powered agent. What did I know? He spoke the lingo. Claimed to know all the right people. I trusted him.”

Behind us, Johanne clattered china.

“Go on,” Ryan said.

“After a few weeks, Pierre said I had to move out of my house. One night I told my parents I was going to study with friends. I went to a bar instead. When I left, Pierre picked me up and we drove to this big old house in the boonies. The place was a little run down, but better than what I was used to in Rosemere. A couple other girls were living there so it seemed OK. Pierre helped me cut and dye my hair. Said it made me look older. Image, you know.”

I kept my hands and eyes very still.

“Took me six, maybe seven months to realize I’d been duped. When I tried to quit, the dickhead threatened me. Said if I talked to anyone or attempted to leave he’d see that I was seriously hurt and my face disfigured.”

“How’d you finally break away?”

“Pierre’s films all had goofy themes. Nasty Nunnery. Sorority Slut-house. Wiki Up. He thought having a narrative gave his stuff class. That’s what he called it, a narrative. His flicks were shit.

“We were in Moncton making a piece of crap called Inside Acadians. This other girl and I started hanging out in a bar on Highway 106 after the shoots. Le Chat Rouge. Mr. Bastarache was the owner, and he’d chat us up now and then. One night I had a lot to drink, started whining how unhappy I was. Next morning, Pierre tells me I’m off his payroll and working for Bastarache. Surprised the hell out of me.”

“You didn’t ask why you’d been fired?” Ryan.

“That was Pierre’s style. One day a girl was his darling, the next she was gone. I didn’t care. I was glad to be out of the porn.”

“Did you know the police were searching for you in Montreal?”

“Not at first. By the time I found out, I thought it was too late. Pierre convinced me I’d be fined, then jailed when I couldn’t pay. Pretty soon the media moved on to something else. I didn’t see any point in putting myself out there.”

“Here’s the point.”

Ryan curled his fingers in my direction. I gave him the envelope. He laid down photographs of Claudine Cloquet and the girl from the Dorval shoreline.

Karine glanced at the faces. “I don’t know them.”

Phoebe Jane Quincy joined the lineup.

“Dear God, she’s only a few years older than my daughter.”

Ryan added the facial reconstruction of the girl from the Riviere des Mille Iles.

Karine’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh no. No.”

I didn’t breathe. Didn’t move a muscle.

“It’s Claire Brideau.”

“You knew her?”

“Claire was one of the kids living in Pierre’s house. She was the one I hung with at Le Chat Rouge.” Karine’s nose had gone red and her chin was trembling. “She was with me that last night before I got sacked.”

“Claire knew Bastarache?”

“It was usually Claire that he hit on. For some reason, that night he was talking to me.” Her voice faltered. “Is she dead?”

“She was found floating facedown in 1999.”

“Suffering Jesus!” Karine’s chest heaved as she fought back tears. “Why the funny sketch? Was she messed up?”

I found the question odd. If Ryan shared my reaction, he didn’t let on.

“She’d been floating awhile.”

Karine’s hands fumbled the latch on her purse.

“Where was Claire from?” Ryan asked.

“She never said.” Pulling out a tissue, she dabbed her eyes.

“Claire made skin flicks for Pierre?”