Bones to Ashes

“Let me share a story. Guy named Thibault sold Bastarache a car back in ninety-seven. Bastarache complained the crankshaft was bad. Guy blew him off. Three days later, a body turned up under the Little Tracadie River Bridge No. 15. Had a crankshaft protruding from his rib cage.”

“Was Bastarache charged?”

“There was nothing to link him and no one would roll.”

“Could be coincidence.”

“Could be I’ll get drafted to play fullback for the Alouettes. Look, what I’m saying is, Bastarache is nuts, he’s mean, and he runs a rough crew. That’s a bad combination.”

I couldn’t disagree with that.

But why would Obéline have married such a loser? And why had he chosen her? What had happened to the little girl I’d known on Pawleys Island?

Hippo’s eyes dropped. Scooping up the folded paper, he began rotating it from corner to corner, tapping the tabletop.

“I got another story.”

I started to interrupt.

“Concerns your friend.”

The change in Hippo’s voice chilled me.

“Plot’s not original. Fighting. Husband getting liberal with the fists. Anonymous calls to the cops. Wife refusing to press charges. Finally, him breaking her arm. She’s in a cast, he’s slipping it to a pole dancer.”

“Obéline?”

Hippo nodded. “Unclear how she got him out of the house. May have threatened to prosecute this time if he didn’t leave. Two weeks later there’s a fire.”

I swallowed.

“Third-degree burns over twenty percent of her body. Spent time in rehab. Came away pretty scarred.”

I pictured a peach-skinned toddler with chestnut curls laughing and chasing gulls in the Carolina surf.

On the medial surface of the mammalian brain, right beneath the cortex, there’s a nexus of neurons called the limbic system. This little hunk of gray matter cranks our emotions in and out of gear: wrath, fright, passion, love, hate, joy, sadness.

A limbic switch flipped, and white hotness seared my endocranium. I didn’t let my anger show. That’s not how I am. When that circuit trips, and true fury blasts the inside of my skull, I don’t scream or lash out. Au contraire. I go steely calm.

“Arson?” My voice was a monotone.

“Cops suspected the fire was deliberately set.”

“Bastarache?”

“Everyone thought the turd did it, but there was nothing to nail him and no one would talk. Guy’s goons have everyone scared shitless.”

I held out a palm.

Hippo kept the paper clamped in his hand. “I know you like to do things your own way, doc. But I want you to steer clear of this guy.”

I curled my fingers in a “give it to me” gesture.

Reluctantly, Hippo slid the folded sheet across the tabletop.

Flattening the page, I read the number and address.

The room receded. The humming fluorescents. The skeleton. Hippo’s luau shirt. I was on a porch on a Lowcountry summer night. A transistor radio was playing “Ode to Billie Joe.” Évangéline and I were lying with arms crooked behind our heads, knees up, singing along.

Was it really so simple? Dial these digits and Obéline would answer? Perhaps solve the mystery that had troubled me all these years? Perhaps lead me to Évangéline?

“You OK?”

I nodded, barely aware of Hippo’s question.

“Gotta boogie. Ryan’s waiting downstairs.”

I heard Hippo push to his feet, then the lab door open and close.

My eyes drifted to the bones.

Or would it go the other way? Would I provide answers to Obéline?

Seconds, perhaps epochs later, the door opened again. I looked up.

“Giving up Saturday morning cartoons?”

“Hey.”

“Hippo told me you were up here.”

Hippo must have shared more than the fact of my presence. Ryan’s eyes were crimped with concern.

“A hale fellow.” I managed a weak smile. “He tell you about Obéline Landry being married to this sleaze David Bastarache?”

Ryan nodded.

“He doesn’t want me to contact her.”

“But we both know you will.”

“Do you think Bastarache would shoot me just for phoning his estranged wife?”

“I don’t know. Just—”

Pointing a finger I finished Ryan’s sentence. “Be careful out there.” Hill Street Blues. The sergeant’s daily send-off was an ongoing joke between us.

Ryan hesitated, as though collecting his thoughts. Or choosing an opening.

“Listen, Tempe. There’s something I need to tell you.”

I waited, curious.

“I’ve made—”

Ryan’s cell warbled. Giving a “sorry” face, he turned a shoulder and clicked on.

“Ryan.”

I heard a series of “oui.”

“Lousy timing.” Ryan waggled the phone. “But we may be catching a break on the Quincy kid.”

“I understand.” I kept very still. “Would you like to meet later?”

Ryan’s answer was a long time coming. “Sure.”

“Curry?”

“Ben’s at seven?”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Troubled blue eyes scanned my face. As though memorizing detail.

Something sucked at my heart.

“Come here.” Ryan opened his arms. “Give me a hug.”

Surprised, I rose and pressed my cheek to Ryan’s chest. The embrace broke every rule I’d imposed about intimacy at work. I didn’t care. It had been too long. It was Saturday. The place was deserted.

Ryan’s arms enveloped me. His chin rested on my hair. I felt a flush climb my throat as warmth spread through me.