Bones to Ashes

Ryan rolled that around in his mind.

“What did Claudine call this creep?”

“She didn’t know his name. Or wouldn’t say it.” I told him about the word-rounding game. “Claudine perceives adjectives as either flat or crooked. Flat ones she adds an o to, crooked ones she doesn’t. It’s not logical, just some aspect of her unique cognitive mapping. She just said the guy was bad. Mal-o.”

Ryan’s eyes pinched in thought. Then he added another contender to my list of what-if’s.

“What if mal is a crooked adjective? One that can’t be rounded.”

“So you can’t add an o.”

“Exactly.”

I saw where Ryan was going. “What if it’s a name? Malo.” Neurons fired. “Pierre Malo.”

Ryan was already reaching for his cell. I listened as he asked someone to run a check.

We were moving west with a sea of cars. I watched their tailpipes. Sunlight on their trunks and roofs. Chewed a cuticle.

We were an hour out of Quebec City when Ryan’s mobile warbled.

“Ryan.”

Pause.

“Ou?” Where?

Pause.

“Shit!”

There was a final, shorter pause, then Ryan snapped the lid and tossed the phone to the dash.

“What?” I asked.

“They lost Bastarache.”

“How?”

“Bastard pulled into a rest stop. Entered a restaurant. Never exited.”

“He abandoned the Mercedes?”

Ryan nodded. “He was either picked up or hitched a ride.”

I repeated Ryan’s sentiment. “Shit.”

Minutes later it was my phone.

I’d had virtually no sleep in the last forty-eight hours. I was running on doses of a cat nap and pure adrenaline. What happened next was my fault.

Checking the caller ID, I felt a rush of relief. Followed by annoyance.

Driven by the latter, I clicked on but said nothing.

“You there, big sister?”

“Yes.” Frosty.

“You’re peeved.” Harry, the master of understatement. “Now, I know what you’re going to say.”

“Where the hell have you been?”

“Yessiree. That’s it. I can explain.”

“You needn’t bother.”

“I wanted to surprise you.”

How often had I heard those words?

Ryan’s cell warbled again. I heard him answer.

“Who’s that?” Harry asked.

“What is it you want?”

“Before you go round the bend getting all pissy, let me tell you what I learned.”

“How about telling me where you’ve been?”

“Toronto. Talked with Flan O’Connor. Scored some interesting info.”

“Got something to write with?” Ryan asked, still holding the phone to his ear.

“Hold on,” I said to Harry.

“Where are you?” she asked as I laid the phone on the dash.

I dug paper and pen from my purse.

“Thirteen Rustique.”