Monday Mourning

Ryan’s smile wavered, recovered. His fingertips brushed my cheek. Then he scooped the photos from the counter and handed me the envelope. For a long time his eyes held mine. Then, “I love you, you know.”

I looked at my shoes, emotions cannonballing in my chest.

I closed my eyes.

The anteroom door clicked, clicked again.

When I opened my eyes, Ryan was gone.

Nothing much happened for the next three days.

Then I caught my first break.

And my second.

And my third.

20

FOR BACK-TO-BACK DAYS NO PROVINCIAL DEAD REQUIRED A LOOK-SEE by the anthropologist. There were no boxcar decomps. No attic mummies. Not a single Popsicle body part.

Tuesday I tried calling a few more Ménards and Truongs, then caught up on case reports, e-mail, and correspondence. Anne slept until two, then listlessly watched soaps and reruns. She initiated very little conversation even though I’d taken the afternoon off from the lab to be with her. At dinner she drank three quarters of a bottle of Lindemans, professed great fatigue, then dragged off to bed at ten. How tired can one get being up only eight hours and doing nothing? I wondered.

Each December, artisans from across the province gather to sell their wares at the Salon des métiers d’art du Québec. On Wednesday I roused Anne at noon and suggested an arts and crafts Christmas-shopping blitz.

She declined.

I insisted.

Only a few million people were at place Bonaventure. I bought a ceramic bowl for Katy, a carved oak pipe stand for Pete, a lama wool scarf for Harry. Birdie and Boyd, Pete’s canine housemate in Charlotte, got spiffy suede collars. Apricot for the cat. Forest green for the chow.

A display featuring hand-painted silk jerked Ryan to mind. Necktie? No sale.

Anne dragged lethargically from booth to booth, showing the level of interest of a control group lab rat. I bought her fudge, tried on funny hats. Tried on the dog collar. She would attempt to show interest, then lapse into nonresponsiveness, almost as though I were not there. Nothing amused her. She made not a single purchase.

Anne’s depression had plunged to depths greater than the Marianas Trench.

All day, I gave her hugs and said soothing things. Otherwise, I had no idea what to do. She was not talkative, which for her is an unnatural state.

At dinner, Anne barely picked at her sushi, focused instead on more alcohol poisoning. Once home, she again pleaded weariness and withdrew to her room.

I’d never seen my friend so down, couldn’t judge the seriousness of her condition. I knew something was terribly wrong, but to what extent could I interfere? Maybe the mood slump would just play itself out.

I fell asleep troubled and dreamed of Anne on a dark, empty beach.

My Thursday morning e-mail contained the Carbon 14 results from Arthur Holliday.

I stared at the subject line, fingers frozen over the keyboard.

I’d been anxious for the report. Why the hesitation?

Easy one. I didn’t really want confirmation of yet more malignant brutality overtaking innocent young women.

I didn’t want to know that lives barely past childhood had again been taken by—what? Some freak with a head full of porn who can find sexual gratification only through physical submission? Some psycho-creep with a video camera who then needs to destroy the evidence? Or mutated macho-scum who view women as disposable items, to be discarded after perverse abuse? They were all out there.

I almost wanted Claudel to be right. I wanted the bones to belong to the past. To daughters laid to rest by grieving families in another era. But I knew better, and I knew I had to face the evidence if I was to help identify the victims.

Deep breath.

I hit the download command, then opened the Acrobat file.

The transmission consisted of five pages: a cover letter, the report of radiocarbon analyses, and three graphs calibrating the individual radiocarbon ages to calendar years.

I looked at the measured and conventional radiocarbon ages, then scrolled through the calibrations curves.

Images flooded my brain.

I printed the report, and headed for the lab.

LaManche was in his office. Since our last meeting either he or his secretary had added a ceramic Christmas tree to the chaos on his desk.

I tapped the door lightly with my knuckles.

LaManche looked up.

“Temperance. Please come in. You have heard the news?”

I gave him a puzzled look.

“The jury found Monsieur Pétit guilty on all counts.”

“When?”

“Yesterday.”

“That was fast.”

“When she called, the crown prosecutor said she was certain your testimony was instrumental.” LaManche looked at the papers in my hand. “But that is obviously not why you are here.”

“I have the Carbon 14 results.”

“That, too, was fast.” Surprised.

“This lab is very efficient.” I didn’t mention the additional fee.

LaManche rose and joined me at the small oval table beside his desk. I spread the printout and we both bent over it.