Bones to Ashes

Harry’s passport lay among my old bills and receipts.

“She’s gone somewhere in Canada,” I said. “Oh God. She’s probably cooking up another of her surprises.”

“Or maybe she figured the little side trip wasn’t worth mentioning.”

Worth mentioning. The phrase triggered a worrisome thought.

“Yesterday, I told Harry about the phone call, the e-mail, and the guy on the stairs. She was incensed. Immediately fingered the pair in Tracadie.”

“Mulally and Babin.”

“Harry didn’t know their names. You don’t suppose she’s gone to Tracadie?”

“That would be nuts.”

We looked at each other. We both knew Harry.

“Harry’s not convinced Obeline killed herself.” My brain was starting to spin possibilities. “Actually, though I’ve never said so, neither am I. Obeline seemed content when we visited her. Maybe Harry’s suspicions drove her to do some snooping on her own.”

“While there, ferret out Mulally and Babin. Ream them. Kill two birds with one stone.”

Even Harry wouldn’t do something that stupid. Or would she? I searched my mind for alternative explanations.

“Last night we also discussed Bones to Ashes.”

Ryan gave me a questioning look.

I told him about the book Harry had filched from Obeline Bastarache’s bedside table. And about Flan and Michael O’Connor’s vanity press, O’Connor House.

“Harry thinks Evangeline wrote the poems. Maybe she’s gone to Toronto to talk to Flan O’Connor.”

Another thought.

“Harry found out that the print order for Bones to Ashes was placed by a woman named Virginie LeBlanc. LeBlanc used a post office box in Bathurst. Maybe Harry’s gone to Bathurst.”

“Not the easiest place to get to.”

“Jesus, Ryan. What if she has gone to Tracadie?” Even to myself I was starting to sound a bit loony.

“Call her.”

“What if—”

Ryan placed a hand on my arm. “Call your sister’s cell phone.”

“Of course. I’m an idiot.”

I picked up the portable, punched Harry’s number, and listened to clicks as the call was routed. In my right ear, a phone rang. In my left, Buddy Holly and the Crickets chirped “That’ll Be the Day.”

Ryan and I both looked at the chair.

Grabbing Harry’s new red leather jeans, I dug through the pockets. And almost flinched when my fingers touched metal.

“She changed pants and forgot,” I said, extracting Harry’s sparkly pink cell.

“She’s fine, Tempe.”

“The last time Harry did this she wasn’t so fine.” My voice cracked. “The last time she almost got herself killed.”

“Harry’s a big girl. She’ll be OK.” Ryan opened his arms. “Come here.”

I didn’t move.

Taking my hands, Ryan reeled me in. As though by reflex, my arms went around him.

Frightening images played in my head, memories of my sister’s long-ago brush with crazies. An ice-pelted windshield. The crack of bullets.

Ryan made comforting noises. Patted my back. My cheek nestled into his chest.

Harry drugged and helpless.

Ryan stroked my hair.

A puppet dance of bodies in a darkened house.

I closed my eyes. Tried to calm my overwrought nerves.

I don’t know how long we stood there. How long it took for the pats to elongate into strokes. Grow more languid. Morph into caresses.

Other memories slowly took over. Ryan in a tiny Guatemalan posada. Ryan in my Charlotte bedroom. Ryan in the bedroom just beyond the wall.

I felt Ryan bury his nose in my hair. Inhale. Mumble words.