Monday Mourning (36 page)

Ryan was alone when I opened the door. The hall behind him was empty.

He’d hidden his teenybopper. Fine. Better.

“Yes?” Glacial.

Grinning, Ryan looked me up and down.

“Entertaining DiCaprio?”

I didn’t smile.

Ryan studied my face.

“It’s funny about eyebrows. You never really notice them until they go awry.”

Ryan reached out to touch my forehead. I pulled back.

“Or go away.”

“You’re here to critique my brows?”

“What brows?”

Not even the hint of a smile.

Ryan crossed his arms. “I’d like to talk.”

“It’s not a good time.”

“You look beautiful.”

I bit back a retort that included the word “bimbo.”

“Sultry.”

My AWOL brows crimped.

“Smoldering.”

The crimp dived into a full-blown frown.

“If I promise no more fire jokes, can I come back in ten? More than enough time to get yourself beautiful.”

I started to refuse.

“Please?” Lapis-lazuli sincerity.

My libido sat up. I sent it flying into tomorrow.

“Sure, Ryan. Why not?”

Coffee. Jeans and sweater. Teeth. Fresh bandages.

Hair? Makeup?

Screw it.

Fifteen minutes later the bell chirped again.

When I opened the door, she was with him.

I stiffened.

Ryan’s eyes locked onto mine. “I’d like you to meet Lily.”

“Ryan,” I said. “Don’t.”

“My daughter.”

My lips parted as my mind processed the meaning of those words.

“Lily, this is Tempe.”

Lily shifted her feet.

“Hi.” Mumbled.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Lily.”

Daughter? Ohmygod.

I looked a question at Ryan.

“Lily lives in Halifax.”

I turned back to Lily.

“Nova Scotia?” Moron! Of course, Nova Scotia.

“Yes.” Lily took in my frizzled hair and blisters, but said nothing.

“Lily’s been in Montreal since the third,” Ryan said.

The day I testified at the Pétit trial.

“Lily and I have been getting to know each other over the past few months.”

Lily shrugged one shoulder, adjusted the strap of her purse.

“I feel the women in my life should also get to know each other.”

The women in his life?

“I’m delighted, Lily.” Jesus! I sounded like a cliché thesaurus.

Lily’s eyes slid to Ryan. He nodded almost imperceptibly.

“Sorry about that phone call. I — I shouldn’t have said you were dumb.”

The woman at Ryan’s place last Thursday had been Lily.

“I understand.” I smiled. “Sharing your father must be very hard.”

Another shoulder shrug, then Lily turned to Ryan. “Can I go now?”

Ryan nodded. “Got your key?”

Lily patted her purse, turned, and walked down the hall.

“Come in.” I stepped back and opened the door wide. “Dad.”

Ryan followed me to the living room, shrugged off his jacket, and dropped onto the couch.

“This is awkward,” I said, curling into an armchair.

“Yes, it is,” Ryan said.

“I didn’t know you had a daughter.”

“Nor did I. Until August.”

The unscheduled trip from Charlotte to Halifax.

“The problem wasn’t your niece.”

“It started out with my niece. After the overdose, I flew to Nova Scotia to help my sister get Danielle into a drug rehab program. One of the nurse’s aides turned out to be a woman I’d known as an undergrad.”

“A student at St. Francis Xavier?”

Ryan shook his head no. “I was. She wasn’t. I was on a wild ride my first two years at St. F-X. Lutetia was a regular at some of my haunts, hung with a rowdy group of young ladies. Called themselves the Holy Sisters of Negotiable Love.”

I tucked my feet under my bum.

“You know the story. My wild ride ended with a severed artery, a bump in the hospital, and a fresh perspective on the college experience. Lutetia and I went our separate ways. I saw her once, maybe five years after graduation, when I returned to Nova Scotia to visit my folks. Lutetia and I ended up” — Ryan hesitated — “sharing one last religious experience. I returned to Montreal, Lutetia went home to the Bahamas, and we lost track of each other.”

“Lily is Lutetia’s daughter,” I guessed.

Nod.

“Lutetia never told you she was pregnant?”

“She was afraid somehow I’d force her to remain in Canada.”

“Did she marry?”

“In the Abacos. Marriage broke up when Lily was twelve. Lutetia moved them both to Halifax.”

Birdie wandered in and rubbed my leg. I reached down and absently scratched his head.

“Why tell you now?”

“Lily had started asking about her biological father. She’d also started pulling some of the same stunts as Danielle. When I showed up…” Ryan spread his hands.

“You weren’t expecting Lily in Montreal?”

“I opened my door and there she was. The little idiot had hitchhiked.”

Birdie nudged me again. I stroked him, feeling, what? Relieved that the prom queen wasn’t a love interest? Disappointed that Ryan hadn’t confided in me?

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Things have been pretty strained between us, Tempe.” Ryan grin. “Probably my fault. I’ve been under some pressure lately. Lily. The meth operation.”

Ryan patted his shirt pocket, remembered my no-smoking ban, dropped his hands to his lap.

“But mostly, I was holding off until I was sure.”

“You asked for proof of paternity?”

Ryan nodded.

“How did Lily respond to that?”

“The kid went ballistic, really started acting out.”

The relapse into smoking. The haggard look. Ryan had been under more stress lately than I had.

“I got the DNA report last week.”

I waited.

“Lily is my daughter.”

“That’s wonderful, Ryan.”

“It is. But the kid’s a pistol, and I’m clueless concerning fatherhood.”

“What have you worked out so far?”

“Lutetia’s largely gotten Lily’s head straight. Lily loves her mother and will continue to live with her. If she decides she wants another parent in her life, I’ll be there for her, whatever it takes.”

I crossed to the couch and sat beside Ryan. He looked at me, eyes boylike. I took his hand.

“You’ll be a wonderful father.”

“I’ll need a lot of help.”

“You’ve got it, cowboy.”

I put my face to Ryan’s, felt his rough stubble on my cheek.

Ryan held me a moment, then set me at arm’s length, and got up.

“Stay here.”

I waited, unsure what was happening. The front door opened, seconds passed. The door closed. I heard rattling. A tinkling bell.

Ryan reappeared wearing the Santa hat and carrying a cage the size of a gym. Inside, a cockatiel clung to an undulating swing.

Ryan placed the cage on my coffee table, dropped next to me on the couch, and wrapped an arm around my shoulders. The cockatiel regarded us as it swung back and forth in decreasing arcs.

“Merry Christmas,” Ryan said. “Charlie, meet Tempe.”

The swing settled. Charlie checked me out, first with his left eye, then with his right.

“I can’t have a bird. I’m away far too much.”

Charlie hopped from the swing to his seed dish.

Across the room, Birdie rose, tail puffed, eyes fixed on the cockatiel.

“Birdie, meet Charlie,” Ryan said to my cat.

Birdie oozed across the carpet, a miniature white leopard on a predawn stalk. Placing forepaws on the coffee table, Bird craned toward the cage, tail flicking only at its tip.

Charlie raised his crown, tipped his head at Birdie, then refocused on his seed.

“He’s beautiful, Ryan.” He really was. Soft yellow head, pearl gray body.

Jumping to the tabletop, Birdie placed his paws in a square, sat, and stared at the cockatiel.

“It’s a lovely idea, Ryan, but it won’t work.”

Bright orange cheek patches.

Birdie settled into his sphinx position, paws curled inward, eyes locked on the bird.

Soft white stripes on his wings.

Birdie began to purr. I looked at him, astounded.

“Bird likes him,” Ryan said.

“I can’t commute by air with a cat and a bird.”

“I have a plan.”

I looked at Ryan.

“Live with me.”

“What?”

“Move in with me.”

I was in shock. The idea of cohabitation had never crossed my mind.

Did I want to live with Ryan?

Yes. No. I had no idea.

I tried to think of a suitable reply. “Maybe” lacked a certain style, while “No” seemed rather final.

Ryan didn’t push.

“Plan B. Joint custody. When you’re down South, Charlie bunks with me.”

I looked at the cockatiel.

He really was beautiful.

And Bird liked him.

I stuck out a hand. “Agreed.”

Ryan and I shook.

“In the meantime, plan A remains on the table.”

Live with Ryan?

Maybe, I thought.

Just maybe.

That afternoon I decided to visit my office. I’d been there about an hour when my phone rang.

“Dr. Brennan?”

“Yes.”

“This is Pamela Lindahl. I’m the social services psychiatrist assigned to assure that Tawny McGee receives appropriate assessment and care. Will you be in your office another forty-five minutes?”

“Yes.”

“I’d like to come by for a brief visit. Would you ask security to pass me through?”

“Certainly.”

As soon as the call concluded I wished I hadn’t agreed. Though I recognized the importance of supplying all available information to the caregivers, I didn’t feel up to recalling or recounting the depravity, the evil of what I had seen. I thought about phoning Dr. Lindahl back and telling her not to come, then gave in to a sense of duty, contacted security, and began a mental checklist of what I could tell the doctor.

Forty minutes later there was a knock on my door.

“Entrez.”

A small, dark-haired girl wearing a trench coat and a brown beret stepped into the room, followed by an older, hatless woman in wool. A moment of confusion, then recognition.

“Hello, Tawny,” I said to the girl, coming around my desk and extending both hands.

Tawny shrank back slightly and did not raise her arms.

I clasped my hands in front of me and said, “I’m very glad to see you. I wanted to thank you for saving my life.”

At first, no response, then, “You saved my life.” More hesitation. Then, speaking slowly, “I asked for this visit because I wanted you to see me. I wanted you to see that I am a person, not a creature in a cage.”

This time when I stepped toward her Tawny held her ground. I enveloped her in a hug and pressed the side of my head to hers. Feelings for Tawny and Katy and young women everywhere, adored or abused, overwhelmed me and I began to weep. Tawny did not cry, but she did not pull away.

I released her and stepped back, taking hold of her hands.

“I never thought of you as other than a person, Tawny, and neither do the people who are helping you now. And I’m sure your family is very anxious to have you back with them.”

She looked at me, dropped her hands to her sides, and stepped back.

“Good-bye, Dr. Brennan.” Her face was without expression, but there was a depth to her eyes that differed from the blank stare of earlier days.

“Good-bye, Tawny. I am so very happy you came.”

Dr. Lindahl smiled in my direction, and the two women exited.

I fell back into my chair, exhausted but uplifted.

T
HE HOLIDAYS CAME AND WENT
. T
HE SUN ROSE AND SET ON A
winter of Mondays.

In one of the dozens of boxes taken from the de Sébastopol basement, investigators found a journal. The journal contained names. Angela Robinson, Kimberly Hamilton, Anique Pomerleau, Marie-Joëlle Bastien, Manon Violette, Tawny McGee.

LSJML-38427 was identified as Marie-Joëlle Bastien, a sixteen-year-old Acadian from Bouctouche, New Brunswick, who’d gone missing in the spring of 1994. Over the years her file had been misplaced, her name deleted from the MP lists. My age and height estimates suggested Marie-Joëlle died soon after her capture.

Dr. Energy’s girl was identified as Manon Violette, a fifteen-year-old Montrealer who’d disappeared in the fall of 1994, six months after Marie-Joëlle Bastien. Manon’s skeletal age and height suggested she’d survived in captivity for several years.

By March, the bones of Angie Robinson, Marie-Joëlle Bastien, and Manon Violette were returned to their families. Each was laid to rest in a quiet ceremony.

Kimberly Hamilton was never located.

Anne and Tom-Ted plunged full-tilt boogie into counseling. She took golf lessons. He bought gardening books. Together they planted a godzillion azaleas.

I had no further contact with Tawny McGee. She spent weeks in intensive in-patient therapy, eventually moved home to Maniwaki. It would be a long road back, but doctors were optimistic.

Anique Pomerleau’s photo went out across the continent. Dozens of tips were received by the CUM and SQ. Pomerleau was sighted in Sherbrooke. Albany. Tampa. Thunder Bay.

The hunt continues.

For Anique Pomerleau.

For Kimberly Hamilton.

For all the lost girls.

Thanks to Darden Hood, Director, Beta Analytic Inc., for advice on radiocarbon dating. W. Alan Gorman and James K. W. Lee, Department of Geological Sciences, Queens University, Kingston, Ontario, and Brian Beard, Department of Geology, University of Wisconsin, shared their knowledge of bedrock geology and strontium isotope analysis.

Michael Finnegan, Department of Anthropology, Kansas State University, provided details on aging bone with UV light. Robert B. J. Dorion, Laboratoire de Sciences Judiciaires et de Médecine Légale, supplied information on property research in Montreal. Sergeant Pierre Marineau, Special Constable, Securité Publique, guided me on a tour of the Montreal courthouse. Claude Pothel, Laboratoire de Sciences Judiciaires et de Médecine Légale, answered questions pertaining to pathology and autopsies. Michael Abel shared his knowledge of all things Jewish. Jim Junot double-checked countless details.