Bones to Ashes

“Look at me, ass wipe.” Bastarache leveled the Sig Sauer on Malo’s face. “You’ve brought a murder investigation down on me. I’ve had cops up my ass for days.”

Raising both palms, Malo reoriented toward Bastarache.

My mouth went dry with shock.

Though older, artificially tanned, and more fit, Malo bore a striking resemblance to Bastarache. A resemblance that could only be explained by genes.

Bastarache continued his harangue.

“You killed those girls. Admit you did it.”

“That’s—”

“No! More! Lies!” Bastarache’s face was raspberry.

“They were sluts. I caught one stealing from me. The other was a junkie.” Malo swallowed. “You’re my brother, Davey. Take this guy out.” Malo made a nervous gesture toward Ryan. “Take him out and we’re home free. We find another place—”

“You draw attention to me. To my business. To people I care about. You’ve lost every bit of your brain. Cops been tailing me since Quebec. Something happens to this one and they’ll know who to look for.”

“She’s fine.”

“Your deviant shit threatens everything. You polluted my father’s house. That’s why I drop-kicked you the first chance I had.”

Bastarache was moving the gun with sharp, jerky motions. “You’re just like your whore mother.”

“Lay your gun on the floor, Dave.” Ryan, the negotiator. “You don’t want to hurt anyone.”

Bastarache ignored him.

“You care about nothing but money and your own sick pecker. But now you threaten my house. People I care about. Because of you they’re gonna find her and lock her away.”

“You’re a head case,” Malo scoffed. “You live in the dark ages.”

“Head case?” The gun was trembling in his hand. “I’ll show you a head case. Your head all over that wall.”

A woman spoke from just below the window. Her voice sounded wheezy and winded.

“If you hurt him, it harms us.”

I strained to see the woman, but the chair back blocked her from view.

The sirens were now screaming down Rustique. Tires screeched, doors opened, feet pounded, radios sputtered. A man’s voice called out, another answered.

Bastarache’s eyes darted to the woman. In that instant, Ryan tossed the Winchester behind him and sprang.

The shotgun skidded across the floor and ricocheted off a baseboard. Malo spun and bolted from the room.

I turned and yelled, “Coming out the front!”

Three cops raced up the driveway. One shouted, “Arrêtez-vous! Freeze!”

Malo cut toward the garage. The cops overtook him, slammed his body to the brick, and cuffed his wrists.

Bounding into the house, I hooked a right through a set of double doors into the parlor. A cop followed close on my heels. I heard Ryan tell him to radio for an ambulance.

Bastarache was down on splayed knees, hands cuffed behind him. The woman crouched by his side. Her arm circled her waist. One hand lay on his shoulder. A hand that possessed only three knobby fingers.

“I’m such a fuckup,” Bastarache mumbled. “Such a fuckup.”

“Shhh,” the woman said. “I know you love me.”

A shaft of fast-dropping sun flamed the dark curls framing the woman’s head. Slowly, she raised her chin.

Agonizing realization curdled my innards.

The woman’s cheeks and forehead were lumpy and hard. Her upper lip stretched to a nose that was asymmetrically concave.

“Évangéline,” I said, overwhelmed with emotion.

The woman looked my way. Something flashed in her eyes.

“I’ve seen the Queen of England,” she rasped, chest heaving, tears snaking serpentine trails through her flesh.

Contents

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

41

A WEEK PASSED. SEVEN DAYS OF RECOVERY, CELEBRATION, PARTING, revelation, confession, and denial.

I slept for twelve hours following the incident at Malo’s house, awoke rejuvenated and harboring no grudge against my sister. Harry had survived her escapade in the park. One Jimmy Choo leopard thong sandal had not. Gull guano.

Harry explained that she’d driven to see Flan O’Connor in Toronto. She wanted to surprise me with a scoop on Obéline and the poetry. Her big discovery was that O’Connor House had only operated from 1998 until 2003. Ironically, the information turned out to be merely cumulative to what we already knew about time frames.

Harry flew home to file for divorce and sell her house in River Oaks. Having enjoyed downtown living, she’d decided to search for a condo that would allow her to live car-free. I suspected her plan was unworkable in a town like Houston. I kept it to myself.

The feast of Saint John the Baptist, la fête nationale du Québec, came and went. City crews swept up, the fleur-de-lis flags came down, and Montreal’s citizenry turned its attention to the annual rites of jazz.

Through conversations with Ryan and Hippo, I learned many things.