Bones to Ashes

“—Doc, you sick?” Hippo. Anxious.

I wagged my head.

“You want I should—”

“I’m OK,” I choked out.

“You fall, or what?”

“Pushed.”

“Someone shoved you?”

I nodded. Felt a tremor under my tongue. Swallowed.

“Where were you?”

“Cormier’s studio.”

“He still in there?”

“I don’t think so. I don’t know.”

“Did you get a look at him?”

I probed my addled brain. The man’s back had been to me. Then the attack had happened too quickly.

“No.”

“I didn’t see no one.” Hippo’s tone was hesitant. I knew he was torn between attending to me and dealing with my attacker.

Why had I been attacked? Was I recognized, targeted specifically? Or had I been incidental, an impediment blocking a getaway? Whose getaway?

I lifted both arms, indicating I wanted to get to my feet.

“Hold on.”

Hippo dialed his cell, described what had happened, answered questions with a few crisp oui. When he clicked off our eyes met. We both knew. A patrol unit would come and cruise the street, canvass neighbors. With no witnesses, the odds of catching the guy were a notch north of zero.

I flapped my hands.

“Moses.” Hippo arm-wrapped my waist and hoisted.

I rose, legs trembling.

“Gotta check upstairs,” I said.

“Maybe you should let a doctor—”

Grasping the rail, I climbed to Cormier’s studio. Hippo followed. Murky light oozed from a gap between the door and the jamb. Motioning me behind him, Hippo drew his weapon.

“Police!”

No response.

“Police!” Tension curdled Hippo’s speech. “On défonce.” We’re coming in.

More silence.

Raising a “stay here” palm, Hippo kicked out. The door slammed inward and ricocheted. Elbowing it back, he moved forward, weapon gripped two-handed at the side of his nose.

I heard footsteps as Hippo moved through the flat. A minute later, he called out.

“Clear.”

I entered.

“Here.” Hippo’s voice came from the bathroom in which I’d spotted the intruder.

I hurried down the hall and peered in. This time I took in details that had escaped my earlier quick glance.

The overhead pipes were concealed by a drop-ceiling arrangement of twelve-inch panels framed in thin metal strips. Several panels had been ripped free and tossed into the sink.

Hippo was standing on the commode, shining his flashlight into the newly created breach.

Anger overpowered the pain in my head. “How could someone just waltz in here?”

Hippo raised up onto his toes.

“The bastard knew exactly what he wanted. And exactly where to look,” I ranted on, despite the fact that Hippo wasn’t listening.

“Sonova—?”

Hippo handed me his light without looking down.

“What? Do you see something?”

Hippo reached forward into the gap. Sensitized to issues of balance and gravity, I positioned myself below him in case of a slip.

Hippo rolled back onto his heels. His hand dropped to me. I relieved it of one crumpled sheet.

A photo. I glanced at the subject.

My heart jacked into high.

28

I’ D BEEN EXPECTING PORN. SILICONE-BLOATED WOMEN TWISTING IN fake erotic joy. Or kneeling like cats with their bums in the air. I was ready for that.

Not for this.

The picture was a contact sheet. Sepia. Either old or made to look old. The paper was so creased and faded I couldn’t be sure.

The sheet contained twelve frames lined up in four sets of three. Each frame showed a girl. Young. Thin. Naked. Perhaps owing to misuse of the flash, perhaps to an intentional trick of exposure, the girl’s flesh glowed ghostly pale in the darkness around her.

In the first series of shots, the girl was seated, back rounded, shoulders turned slightly from the camera. Ropes bound her ankles and wrists.

In the next series, an additional rope had been added, coiling the girl’s neck, then looping to a hook on the wall above her head. Cracks spiderwebbed the plaster where the hook had been nailed.

The final two series showed the girl on the floor, first supine, then prone. Ropes came and went in varying patterns of torture. Hands bound behind her back. Wrists bound to her ankles. Wrists bound and hoisted to the overhead hook.

In shot after shot the girl averted her gaze. Embarrassed? Frightened? Following orders?

Suddenly, I was rocked by a blow harsher than the one on the staircase. The room receded. I heard the dull pounding of blood in my ears.

The cheeks were more hollowed, the eyes more recessed. But I knew that face. That wild jumble of curls.

I closed my eyes, wanting to disconnect from the girl avoiding the lens. To pretend that the horror I was seeing had not taken place.

“That’s it.” Hippo’s shoes hit the floor behind me. “Musta got missed when this mooncalf made his grab.”

Had she agreed to be exploited in this way? Had she been forced?

“You gotta sit down, doc.” Hippo was at my shoulder. “Bring some color to your cheeks.”

“I know her.” Barely audible.

I felt Hippo slip the sheet from my fingers.

“It’s my friend,” I whispered. “It’s Évangéline.”

“Yeah?” Dubious.

“She was fourteen when I last saw her on Pawleys Island. She’s older in these photos, but not by much.”