Monday Mourning

The silence of a walled tomb. An abandoned library in a Vatican basement. A black hole at the terminus of a spiral galaxy. A startled cockatiel.

Ryan dropped me at my car.

“You on for tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?”

“Rose Fisher?”

“What time?”

“I’ll phone after I’ve checked with Bastillo.”

By the time I drove from the lab to Centre-ville, it was seven thirty-five. Anne was dozing, floral glasses on her nose, a paperback on her chest. Birdie was beside her.

Anne had made pot roast. We chatted as she thickened gravy and I tossed a salad.

During dinner, Anne described her book, the subject of which was death. She was finding the author’s perspective enlightening. I found her choice of topic unsettling.

“Why the morbid interest in death?”

“You sound like Annie Hall.”

“You’re acting like Woody Allen.”

Anne thought a moment.

“To move forward it is often necessary to change.”

“Move toward what and change how?”

“In substance.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Cycles.”

As I pondered that enigmatic comment, the phone rang. It was Katy.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, sweetheart. Where are you?”

“Charlottesville, but I’m heading home tomorrow.”

“Exams went well?”

“Of course. I’m checking to make sure you’ll be in Charlotte on the twenty-second.”

The twenty-second?

“Hannah’s shower? You promised you’d help me?”

What demented moron would plan a wedding at Christmas?

“Of course I’ll be there.”

“I’m counting on your years and years of experience.”

“Cute.”

“I sent you a couple of e-mails. Ho! Ho! Ho! ’Tis the season, and all that. I especially crave that sweater from Anthropologie. And the tranquillity fountain would help me chill.”

“What do you need to chill about?”

“Help me study, I mean.”

“Um. Hm.”

“Love you, ma mère. Gotta go.” Katy’s voice sounded strung with mistletoe and holly.

“What are you so bubbly about?”

“’Tis the season.”

“Ho. Ho. Ho.”

“Hold on to that thought.”

When we’d disconnected I went looking for Anne. She’d already retired. No further explanation of fulfillment or substance. I had the sense she’d used the phone call as an escape opportunity.

I undressed, washed my face, brushed and flossed, all the time worrying over my promise to Katy. I’d been so wrapped up in Louise Parent and my pizza basement girls I’d virtually forgotten Christmas. And totally forgotten Hannah’s shower.

Could I resolve the case in a week, or would I be forced to put my lost girls on hold for the holidays?

Back in my room, I reached to set the alarm, stopped. Had Ryan given me a pickup time? I remembered asking, but couldn’t recall his reply.

Ten-thirty. He’d probably be at home.

I hit Ryan’s button on my speed dial. The phone was answered after two rings.

“Yes?” The voice was female.

Something hot-wired through my stomach and lungs.

“Andrew Ryan, please.”

“Who’s calling?” Young and female.

“Dr. Brennan.”

“You.” Young and female and edged like a saw. “Why don’t you leave him alone?”

“Excuse me?”

“Quit screwing with his head.”

“Is this Danielle?”

Long silence.

My mind raced. Was that the right name?

“Is this Detective Ryan’s niece?”

The woman snorted. “Niece? That’s what he told you? And you believed him? You’re dumber than I thought.”

The truth dropped into place like a guillotine blade.

“Just leave him alone.”

I was listening to a dial tone.

24

AFTER LYING AWAKE MOST OF THE NIGHT FEELING MORE despondent than Anne, I began to sleep in fitful intervals.

Toward morning, I dreamed Ryan and I were in a long, dark tunnel. As we spoke, Ryan receded farther and farther from me, until his body was a hazy silhouette at the tunnel’s mouth.

I tried to follow, but my legs were tar. I shouted again and again, but my mouth was mute.

Something skittered past me in the dark, dry and spidery like the wing of a bat.

I tried to raise my arm. It wouldn’t move.

The thing brushed my cheek.

I flailed at it.

And awoke to find Birdie licking my face.

The tunnel monsieur phoned as I was crunching cornflakes and toast. I’d resolved I would go to Candiac with him as planned. I wanted to talk with Rose Fisher. After that, it was sayonara. Too much heartache. Too many sleepless nights.

Too many prom queens.

I’d considered, but decided against a confrontation concerning the woman at Ryan’s home. I’d been betrayed once. I’d played out that drama. The teary accusations. The hostile denials. The heart-splintering admissions. I wouldn’t go there again.

Birdie supported my decision.

“Sleep well, sunshine?”

“Like igneous rock.”

“Bastillo is taking Fisher to visit her priest at ten. She suggested we swing by the house at eleven.” I heard what sounded like a match, then the exhalation of smoke. “Pick you up around ten-thirty?”

“I’ll be at home.”

Claudel phoned as I was blow-drying my hair.

As usual, there was no greeting, no formulaic query about my health or my day.

“Detective Charbonneau suggested I contact you, though I am uncertain why.” From most tongues, the French language glides like silk. From Claudel’s, it thuds like potatoes down a chute. “I have nothing to report.”

“Meaning?”