Deadly Decisions (27 page)

“They’re not that bad.”

“Bikers are moral cretins, and they not only are that bad, they’re worse.”

“Some of what they say makes sense. Anyway, I know what I’m doing.”

“No, you don’t. I’ve learned more about these guys in the past
two weeks than I ever wanted to know, and none of it is good. Sure, they give toys to tots once a year, but bikers are hoodlums with a contempt for the law and a predisposition for violence.”

“What do they do that’s so bad?”

“They’re reckless and treacherous and they prey on the weak.”

“What do they do? Abort babies with coat hangers? Rape nuns? Machine-gun seniors in fast-food joints?”

“For one thing, they sell drugs.”

“So does Eli Lilly.”

“They set bombs that butcher women and children. They lock men into trunks, drive them to remote areas, and blow their brains out. They chainsaw rivals, pack what’s left into garbage bags, and toss them off ferry docks.”

“Jesus. We had a few beers.”

“You don’t belong in that world.”

“I went to a bloody boxing match!”

The deep, green eyes bore into mine. Then a lower lid twitched and he squeezed them shut, dropped his chin, and rotated two fingers on each temple. I figured the blood was doing double-time behind his sockets.

“I love you as much as my own child, Kit. You know that.”

Though he refused to meet my gaze I could sense discomfort in the curve of his spine.

“I trust you. You know that, too,” I went on. “But I want you to be aware of who these people are. They will feed your interest in Harleys, get you to trust them, then ask for some small favor that will be part of some illegal transaction, only you won’t even know it.”

For a very long time neither of us spoke. Outside, sparrows battled over a seed bell I’d hung in the courtyard. Finally, without looking up, “And what are you walking into, Aunt Tempe?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You’re on some kind of ride these days.”

I had no idea where he was going.

“Hello from the cesspool. Welcome on in.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You play me like the old shell game. Allow me to see this. Hide that.”

“What am I hiding?”

He was staring straight at me now, the whites of his eyes like bloody water.

“I followed that conversation at dinner last week. I saw the eyeball. I saw your mysterious little package, watched you slip off on your secret trip. You said it yourself. You’ve seen more of this shit in the past few weeks than most people see in a lifetime.”

He turned away, went back to twirling the Diet Coke can.

“You want to know all about me, but when I ask what you’re doing you shut me down.”

“Kit, I—”

“And it’s more than that. Something’s going on with this guy Ryan that’s got you jumpier than an evangelist at tax time.”

I felt my lips part, but nothing came out.

“You put
me
in the crosshairs ’cause you think I’m shooting chemicals into my veins, but you don’t let me ask
you
jack shit.”

I was too stunned to speak. Kit dropped his eyes and clamped his upper teeth on his lower lip, embarrassed by the emotion he’d allowed to surface. The sun shone through the muslin behind him, silhouetting his head against the brightness.

“I’m not complaining, but when I was growing up, you were the only one who listened. Harry was”—he turned his palms up and curled his fingers, as if groping for the proper words—“well, Harry was Harry. But you listened. And you talked to me. You were the only one who did. Now you’re treating me like some kind of dimwit.”

He had a point. When Kit had shown interest, I’d been evasive and distant, avoiding disclosure of any meaningful information. I live alone and don’t discuss casework with anyone not part of the lab. I automatically deflect questions that may arise in a social setting. Then this morning, out of the blue, I’d asked for an accounting of his activities.

“What you say is both fair and unfair. I have put off answers I could have given, but I also am obligated not to discuss open cases or ongoing investigations. That is a requirement of my job and not a matter of personal discretion. Do you really want to know what I’ve been doing?”

Shrug. “Whatever.”

I looked at my watch.

“Why don’t you shower while I clean up here. Then we’ll take a walk on the mountain and I’ll lay some things out. All right?”

“All right.” Barely audible.

But my decision was far from all right.

L
OCALS CALL IT
“
THE MOUNTAIN,
”
BUT THE SMALL ELEVATION IS A
far cry from the craggy spires of the Rockies, or the lush peaks of my Carolina Smokies. Mont-Royal is the vestige of an ancient volcano, smoothed by aeons to gentle curves. It lies at the heart of the city like the body of a giant slumbering bear.

Though lacking in height and geologic drama, the mountain gives more than its name to Montreal. It is the spinal cord on which the city is strung. McGill University lies on its eastern slope, with the predominantly English-speaking suburb of Westmount directly opposite. L’Université de Montréal and the largely French neighborhood of Outremont claim the northern flanks. Directly below lies Centreville, a polyglot fusion of the industrial, financial, residential, and frivolous.

The mountain is promontories, parks, and cemeteries. It is wooded trails and old mossy rocks. It is tourists, lovers, joggers, and picnickers during the precious summer months; snowshoers, skaters, and tobogganers in winter. For me, as for every Montrealer, the mountain is sanctuary from the urban tumult at its feet.

By early afternoon the temperature was windbreaker warm, the sky immaculate. Kit and I walked across de Maisonneuve, and turned uphill on Drummond. To the right of a tall round building
with a sweeping curvilinear base that looks like the prow on a cement frigate, we ascended a wooden staircase to avenue des Pins. Pine Avenue.

“What is that building?” asked Kit.

“McIntyre Medical. It’s part of McGill.”

“Looks like the Capitol Records Building in L.A.”

“Hmm.”

Halfway up the stairs, the air grew thick with the sharp, musky smell of skunk.

“Une mouffette,”
I explained.

“Sounds good in French, but it stinks like plain old Texas varmint,” said Kit, wrinkling his nose. “How ’bout we pick up the pace.”

“Right.” I was already panting from the steep climb.

At the top we crossed Pine, followed a serpentine dirt road to a cement staircase, climbed, took a hard right, more road, then another set of wooden stairs that shot straight up the escarpment.

By the time we arrived at the summit I was seriously thinking about defibrillation. While I paused to catch my breath Kit charged to the overlook. I waited for my heartbeat to descend from the troposphere, then I joined him at the balustrade.

“This is awesome,” said Kit, squinting down a pair of brass pointers lined up on the McTavish Reservoir.

He was right. The view from the top is pure spectacle, a theater-in-the-round of a city in progress. In the foreground rise the skyscrapers and flats and smokestacks and church spires of downtown, beyond that the docks of the port and the city’s main artery, the St. Lawrence River. In the far distance loom the peaks of St-Bruno and St-Hilaire, with the Eastern Townships at their feet.

Kit sighted down each indicator, and I pointed out landmarks I thought would interest him. Place Ville-Marie. The McGill football field. The Royal Victoria Hospital. The Montreal Neurological Institute and Hospital.

The complex reminded me of Carolyn Russell and our conversation concerning the shunt. Thinking of Savannah Osprey brought the familiar twinge of sadness.

“Come on, Kit. I’ll tell you what I’ve been up to.”

We strolled up broad stone steps, wending between bicycles lying on their sides, and settled on one of the wooden benches flanking the entrance to the chalet. Above us pigeons cooed softly in the heavy wooden beams.

“Where should I start?”

“At the beginning.”

“O.K., wise one.”

What was the beginning?

“Quebec Province has the dubious distinction of hosting the only active biker war in the world right now.”

“That Hells Angels thing you talked about at Isabelle’s dinner.”

“Exactly. These gangs are fighting over control of the drug trade.”

“What drugs?”

“Mostly cocaine, some pot and hash.”

A busload of Japanese tourists appeared from the parking lot, worked its way toward the railing, then began photographing itself in varying combinations.

“I became involved about two weeks ago. Two members of the Heathens, that’s a puppet club to the Rock Machine, were blown up while trying to bomb a Vipers clubhouse on the southwest side of the city.”

“Who were the bombed-out bombers?”

“Twin brothers, Le Clic and Le Clac Vaillancourt.”

“The Vipers are with the Hells Angels?”

“Yes. The sniper who took them out was arrested—”

“A Viper sniper. I like that.”

“The sniper investigation led to the recovery of two of the bodies we discussed at dinner.”

“The guys buried near the Vipers’ clubhouse?”

“Yes.”

“Where is this clubhouse?”

“St-Basile-le-Grand.” An odd look crossed his face, but he said nothing.

“The two skeletons were later identified as members of an OMC called the Tarantulas, defunct now, but active in the seventies and eighties.”

“What about the girl’s bones you found out there?”

“She has since been identified as Savannah Claire Osprey, from Shallotte, North Carolina. That’s why I went to Raleigh. Savannah was sixteen when she disappeared in 1984.”

“Who killed her?”

“I wish I knew.”

“How did she end up here?”

“Same answer. Let me backtrack a minute. Before the discoveries at St-Basile-le-Grand, there was another murder. The sergeant at arms for the Vipers, a gentleman named Richard ‘Spider’ Marcotte, was shot in a drive-by outside his home. It may have been a Heathens hit in retaliation for Clic and Clac.”

“That saved the taxpayers some money.”

“Yes, but remember there was a toll exacted on the public. A child got caught in the cross fire.”

“That’s right. She was nine years old.” His eyes were focused on my face. “She died, didn’t she?”

I nodded.

“Emily Anne Toussaint was killed the day you and Howard dropped off Bird.”

“Holy crap.”

“Since that time I have been pursuing forensic evidence pertaining to these biker crimes. So you can understand my lack of enthusiasm for your newly acquired friends.”

“And tattoo. You’ve seen some rough shit.”

“There’s more.”

I glanced at his face. Though shadowed by the eaves, his eyes were bright as a songbird’s.

“This past week another biker was killed. Yves ‘Cherokee’ Desjardins.”

“Which side?”

“He was a Predator. That’s the Angels.”

“So the Heathens were still evening the score for the twins?”

“Maybe. The problem is Cherokee was an older guy who hadn’t been active for a while. Also, it seems he was running his own coke concession.”

“So he might have been snuffed by his own side?”

“It’s possible. We don’t have all the evidence. We just don’t know. Right now our investigation has slowed.”

I told him about LaManche.

“Holy shit. Maybe they got to him, too.”

“Who?”

“The Angels. Maybe he was going to find something in that body they didn’t want found.”

“I don’t think so, Kit.”

“Maybe they slipped him something. You know, one of those poisons that leave no trace.”

“He was in the autopsy room. That’s a secure area.”

“There could be a mole at your lab. They do that, you know. Position their people on the inside.”

“Whoa.” I laughed. “Let’s not get carried away.”

He turned and looked past the Japanese tourists to the misty peaks in the far distance. Someone opened a door behind us and pigeons startled from the steps.

“Jesus, Aunt Tempe, I feel like a real lowlife. Your boss is sick, and you’re trying to juggle a zillion separate murders all at once. And what do I do? I show up, dump a dead fish on your counter, then run around town having fun.”

The Japanese were moving our way.

“And I was too distracted to follow what you were doing. Anyway, ready to hike?”

“I live to ramble.”

We circled the chalet and set off on one of the many dirt trails that honeycomb the mountain. We walked in silence for a while, watching squirrels scuttle among last year’s leaves, excited by the arrival of spring. The trees overhead were loud with chirps and trills and warbles and shrieks. At one point we stopped to listen to an old man perform a recorder adaptation of “Ode to Joy.” Wearing a long overcoat and ear-flapped beret, he played with all the concentration of a symphonic virtuoso.

As we strolled west, the dome of l’Oratoire St-Joseph appeared on the horizon. I told Kit the story of Frère André’s heart. Stolen from its altar crypt, the organ became the focus of a massive manhunt. Eventually it showed up at our lab, and was now ensconced in safer quarters deep within the church.