Bones to Ashes

“Last night the CFCF six o’clock aired a story on Phoebe Quincy. Included footage on Kelly Sicard and Anne Girardin.”

“Only those two?”

Ryan raised palms in a “who knows why?” gesture. “Beaumont caught the report, requested a sit-down with the warden. Claims he knows where Sicard is buried.”

“Is he credible?”

“Beaumont could just be a con looking to better his life. But the guy can’t be discounted.”

“What’s he saying?”

“Let’s make a deal.”

“And?”

“We’re negotiating. Wanted to give you a heads-up. If the tip’s legit, a team will go out immediately. We’ll want to move before the press scents blood.”

“I’ll be ready.”

I was checking my field kit when Ryan phoned.

“We’re on.”

“When?”

“CSU truck’s already on the move.”

“Meet you in the lobby in five.”

Ryan took Autoroute 15 northwest out of the city, cut east, then north toward Saint-Louis-de-Terrebonne. Midday traffic was light. He briefed me as he drove.

“Beaumont settled for getting his mail privileges reinstated. Three months back the dolt received a copy of Catch-22 with LSD mixed into the binding glue.”

“Creative pals. What’s his story?”

“Six years ago, Beaumont shared a cell with a guy named Harky Grissom. Claims Grissom told him about a kid he’d waxed back in ninety-seven. Said he picked her up at a bus stop in the middle of the night, took her home, abused her, then smashed her skull with a socket wrench.”

“Beaumont could have read about or listened to reports of Sicard’s disappearance.”

“Grissom told Beaumont the kid he killed was crazy for NASCAR. Claims he lured her with promises she’d meet Mario Gosselin.”

I watched the yellow center line click up Ryan’s shades.

“The bit about Sicard liking stock car racing was dead-on.” Ryan glanced at me and the yellow dashes slid sideways. “And never made public.”

“Where’s Grissom now?”

“Paroled in ninety-nine. Killed in a car wreck the same year.”

“He won’t be of any help.”

“Not without a seance, but he wouldn’t have helped in any case. We have to rely on Beaumont’s memory.”

Ryan hung a right. To both sides lay woods. In moments, I saw what I’d been expecting. Pulled to the side of the asphalt were the LSJML crime scene truck, a black coroner’s van, an SQ patrol unit, an unmarked Chevrolet Impala, and an SUV. Apparently the speed and stealth had worked. No cameras or microphones were present. Not a single poised pen. For now.

Hippo was talking to a pair of uniformed cops. Two morgue technicians smoked by their van. A guy in civvies was filling a bowl from a canteen for a border collie.

Ryan and I got out. The air hit me like caramel syrup. That morning’s Gazette had called for rain and a high in the nineties. June in Quebec. Go figure.

Walking toward Hippo, Ryan explained the lay of the land.

“According to Beaumont, Grissom described an abandoned barn off Route 335, in woods backing up to a horse farm.”

I followed the compass of Ryan’s hand.

“The highway’s behind us. The Parc equestre de Blainville is off through those trees. Saint-Lin-Jonction and Blainville lie to the south.”

I felt a heaviness in my chest. “Anne Girardin disappeared in Blainville.”

“Yeah.” Ryan kept his eyes straight ahead.

We reached the group. Hands were shaken, greetings exchanged. Maybe it was the sticky heat. Maybe unease over what we might soon unearth. The usual humor and banter were absent.

“Barn’s about ten yards in.” Hippo’s face was slick, his pits dark. “Good wind will bring her down.”

“What’s been done?” Ryan asked.

“Ran the dog through,” Hippo said.

“Mia,” the dog handler cut in.