“It’s a possibility.”
“Realize that these analyses can take a long time.”
“Whenever you can. But there’s a catch.”
“As am I.”
“This isn’t an official request.”
“Meaning no money. Or am I to forget the analysis after I give it to you?”
“Well, both.”
“So. A favor. And an unofficial one. And secret. And no pay.”
“I’ll—”
“Oh, you’ll pay, all right. Maybe your next trip through New York?”
“Lunch. We’re on.”
“Tell me about this gig.”
“Some of the poems appear in a self-published volume. Others are handwritten.”
“Give me some background.”
I did. Pawleys Island. Evangeline’s sudden disappearance. The recent trip to Tracadie. Harry’s liberation of
“I’ll send the materials today,” I said.
“You start with a theme.”
“What?”
“A conference theme. A conceptual framework.”
“Organizing an AAFS program is massive, Rob.”
“It’s a piece of cake.”
“Like landscaping the Mojave is a piece of cake.”
“I’ll provide fertilizer.”
“You always do.”
I called Harry, gave her Rob’s address, and suggested a shop on de Maisonneuve for FedEx shipping. She was thrilled to have another mission.
I turned back to my computer. As though on cue, Hippo appeared. His frown did not say forgive and forget. I braced for more disapproval.
“Might be we got us one less MP.”
That caught me off guard. “What do you mean?”
Hippo was chewing gum, carefully not looking at me. “Girardin’s old man took himself out last night.”
“Anne Girardin? The little girl from Blainville?”
Tight nod.
“What happened?”
“Girardin was a boozer. Wednesday he got wasted, told a drinking buddy he offed his kid and buried her in the woods. Wanted sympathy because her ghost’s now haunting his sleep. Upstanding citizen thought it over, moral dilemma, you know, loyalty versus civic duty. This morning he went to see Girardin. Found him in the bathtub, pump-action Remington between his toes, brains on the ceiling.”
“Sweet mother of God.”
Hippo spit his gum into his palm, popped two antacids, reengaged the wad. “Dog insists there’s something out behind the trailer.”
“Were you able to reach Ryan?”
Hippo nodded. “He’s rolling.”
I stood.
“Let’s go.”
“Girardin hated crowds, distrusted strangers. Lived in a single-wide miles from anywhere.”
“Lonely life for a ten-year-old girl.”
“Yeah.” Hippo’s eyes stayed on the road.
Again, I was on my way toward Blainville. Again, I was being briefed on a child whose corpse I might soon dig up.
“Kid disappeared in ’04. Adelaide, that’s Mommy, split six months later. Girardin stayed put.”
“What’d he do for a living?”
“Construction. Pickup jobs, mostly.”
