Bones to Ashes

“No way!”

I removed the earrings and handed them to her. She turned them in her palm, as awed as if they were the crown jewels.

“Cecile has been living with us for almost three years.” Obeline’s eyes were steady on mine.

“Je fais la lessive,” Cecile said. “Et le menage.”

“You do laundry and cleaning. That must be a tremendous help.”

She nodded too vigorously. “And I’m really good with plants. Good. Good-o.”

“Are you?” I asked.

Cecile beamed a blinding smile. “My Christmas cactus got a thousand blooms.” Her hands carved a large circle in the air.

“That’s amazing,” I said.

“Oui.” She giggled a little girl giggle. “Obeline’s got none. Can I really keep the earrings?”

“Of course,” I said.

“Please excuse us now,” Obeline said.

Cecile shrugged one shoulder. “OK. I’m watching The Simpsons, but it keeps going fuzzy. Can you fix it?” She turned to me. “Homer is so funny.” She gave the “so” several o’s. “Drole. Drole-o.”

Obeline held up a finger to say her absence would be brief. Then she and Cecile hurried from the room.

“Claudine Cloquet,” I said, keeping my voice low and steady. Ryan only nodded. His attention was focused on punching his cell.

“How the hell do you suppo—”

Ryan raised a silencing hand.

“Ryan here.” He spoke into the phone. “Bastarache has Cloquet at a residence on Ile d’Orleans.” There was a brief pause. “The kid’s fine for now. But Bastarache is on the move.”

Ryan provided a color, model, year, and plate number for the Mercedes. Then he gave the address and location of Obeline’s house. His jaw muscles bunched as he listened to the party on the other end. “Let me know when he’s netted. If he shows here, his ass is mine.”

Ryan clicked off and began pacing the room.

“You think he’ll come back?” I asked.

“She’s expecting—”

Ryan froze. Our eyes met as, simultaneously, we became aware of a low droning, more a vibration of air than a sound. The droning built. Became the hum of a motor.

Ryan darted down the hall and into the dining room. I followed. Together, we stood to one side and peeked out a window.

A mirage car was cresting the blacktop running from Chemin Royal.

“Is it him?” I asked, whispering pointlessly.

Ryan pulled the fanny pack’s zip string. Together we watched the hazy shape congeal into a black Mercedes.

Sudden realization.

“We parked at the curb,” I hissed.

“Tabarnac!”

Ten football fields out, the Mercedes stopped, then abruptly reversed in a ragged U-turn.

Ryan sprinted into the hall, through the door, and down the drive. In seconds the Impala shot forward, back tires grinding up ground. I watched until it disappeared over the horizon.

“What is happening? Where has he gone?”

I swallowed and turned. Obeline was in the doorway.

“That girl’s name isn’t Cecile,” I said. “It’s Claudine. Claudine Cloquet.”

She stared at me, fingers twisting her scarf as they had at the Tracadie gazebo.

“Your husband stole Claudine from her family. Probably forced her to get naked for his sordid little films. She was twelve, Obeline. Twelve years old.”

“That’s not how it was.”

“I’m tired of hearing that,” I snapped.

“Cecile is happy with us.”

“Her name is Claudine.”

“She’s safe here.”

“She was safe with her family.”