Bones to Ashes

Glancing neither left nor right, Bastarache blasted backward down the drive, tires grinding up gravel. Ryan and I watched him gun up the blacktop toward Chemin Royal, leaving behind a ripple of dust.

Reaching into the glove compartment, Ryan withdrew a fanny pack. I knew its contents. Cuffs, extra clips, badge, and a Glock 9mm. Ryan used the thing when not wearing a jacket.

Yanking free his shirttails, Ryan strapped the pack on his belly and checked the string that would undo the zipper. Then he cranked the engine and we rolled.

At the bungalow, we got out of the Impala and scanned our surroundings. The only thing moving was a mangy brown spaniel sniffing roadkill twenty yards up the shoulder.

I looked at Ryan. He nodded. We beelined to the front door.

Ryan rang the bell with the index finger of his left hand. His right was subtly crooked, positioned over the Glock tucked in the pack.

Within seconds, a female voice spoke through the door.

“As-tu oublie quelque chose?” Have you forgotten something? Familiar “you.”

“Police,” Ryan called out.

There was a moment of silence, then, “You must wait until later.”

A burst of adrenaline coursed through me. Though muffled, the voice was familiar.

“ We want to ask you some questions.”

The woman didn’t reply.

Ryan hit the bell. Again. Again.

“Go away!”

Ryan opened his mouth to reply. I grabbed his arm. The muscles were taut as tree roots.

“Wait,” I whispered.

Ryan’s lips clamped shut, but his elbow stayed cocked.

“Obeline?” I said. “C’est moi, Tempe. Please let us come in.”

The woman said something I couldn’t hear. Seconds later, I caught a flicker of movement in my peripheral vision.

I turned. A pulled window shade was fluttering gently. Had it been raised when we approached the house? I couldn’t remember.

“Obeline?”

Silence.

“Please, Obeline?”

Locks turned, the door opened, and Obeline’s face appeared in the crack. As before, a scarf covered her head.

She surprised me by speaking English. “My husband will return soon. He will be angry if he finds you here.”

“We thought you were dead. I was heartbroken. So was Harry.”

“Please leave. I’m fine.”

“Tell me what happened.”

Her lips drew tightly together.

“Who staged a suicide?”

“All I want is to be left alone.”

“I’m not going to do that, Obeline.”

Her eyes jumped over my shoulder, toward the road leading to Chemin Royal.

“Detective Ryan and I will help you. We won’t let him hurt you.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Help me to understand.”

Color rose in the unscarred skin, grotesquely marbling the right side of her face.

“I don’t need to be rescued.”

“I think you do.”

“My husband is not a bad man.”

“He may have killed people, Obeline. Young girls.”

“It’s not what you think.”

“That’s exactly what he said.”

“Please go.”