Mother. Hospital. Illness. Nineteen sixty-five.
The whisper I’d heard upon reading about the Tracadie lazaretto geysered into my forebrain. Connected with other disparate images and recollections.
I sat bolt upright. Sweet mother of God. Could that really be it?
In my gut, I knew I’d stumbled on the answer. Thirty-five years and I finally understood.
Instead of triumph, I felt only sadness.
“I know why Evangeline and Obeline disappeared,” I said, excitement laying a buzz on my voice.
“Really?” Ryan sounded exhausted.
“Laurette Landry started bringing her daughters to Pawleys Island when she lost her hospital job and had to work double-time at a cannery and a motel. Evangeline and Obeline were yanked back to Tracadie when Laurette got sick.”
“You’ve always known that.”
“The girls started coming to the island in 1966, the first summer after the Tracadie lazaretto closed.”
“Could be there was another hospital in Tracadie.”
“I don’t think so. I’ll check old employment records, of course, but I’ll bet Laurette Landry worked at the lazaretto.”
Ryan glanced sideways at me, quickly back at the prison entrance.
“Evangeline told me her mother was a hospital employee for many years. If Laurette worked at the lazaretto, she’d have been in close contact with lepers. It’s a fact she became ill with something that required daily nursing by Evangeline.”
“Even if Laurette did contract leprosy, you’re talking the sixties. Treatment has been available since the forties.”
“Think of the stigma, Ryan. Whole families were shunned. People were forbidden to hire lepers or other members of their families if the person diagnosed was living at home. And it wasn’t just personal lives that were ruined. The presence of the lazaretto had a devastating impact on the Tracadie economy. For years, no product would include the town name in its labeling. Public association with Tracadie often meant a business was ruined.”
“That was decades ago.”
“As Hippo says, the Acadian memory goes long and deep. The Landrys weren’t educated people. Maybe they chose to hide her away. Maybe they distrusted government. Like Bastarache.”
Ryan made one of his noncommittal sounds.
“Maybe Laurette was frightened of being quarantined in some lazaretto. Maybe she was determined to die at home and begged her family to keep her condition secret.”
At that moment Ryan’s cell phone sounded.
“Ryan.”
My thoughts jumped from Laurette to Hippo’s girl. Had the two actually died of the same disease?
“Got him.”
Ryan’s voice snapped me back to the present. I followed his sight line to the prison entrance.
Bastarache was walking in our direction. Beside him was a dark-haired woman in a dumpy gray suit. The woman carried a briefcase and gestured with one hand as she spoke. I assumed I was looking at local counsel Isabelle Francoeur.
Crossing the lot, Francoeur and Bastarache climbed into a black Mercedes. Still talking, Francoeur shifted into gear and drove off.
Ryan waited until the Mercedes had merged into traffic, then followed.
36
R YAN AND I DROVE IN SILENCE. RUSH HOUR WAS PUMPING AND I feared that taking my eyes from the Mercedes might allow our quarry to become lost in the sea of bumpers and taillights flowing south toward the city.
Ryan sensed my nervousness.
“Relax,” he said. “I won’t lose them.”
“Maybe we should follow closer.”
“They might spot us.”
“We’re in an unmarked car.”
Ryan almost grinned. “This crate screams cop louder than a light and sound show.”
“She’s heading into town.”
“Yes.”
“Think she’ll take him to Le Passage Noir?”
