My abductor had returned to finish me off!
It had to be Raines
.
But no
.
Raines was a gorilla. The figure on the ladder had long spider legs
.
Spider
.
The spider on my face
.
Ducloss spider tooth
.
The itsy bitsy spider went up the waterspout
My lids felt heavy
.
I allowed them to drift down
.
Briel took the spider tooth from Bergerons tub and placed it with the Lac Saint-Jean child
.
Down came the rain and washed the spider out
Like Id soon be washed out
.
In a sewer
.
What do you explore?
Underground stuff
.
Drainsplorers
.
Joe
.
Joe had access to the tub
.
Not Briel
.
I had a key
.
Joe had a key
.
I was so tired. I wanted to drag myself back uphill to the tomb. To hide
.
Spine to the wall, I slid downward into the fetid water. Hugged my knees in an attempt to preserve heat
.
A million miles away I heard splashing. Shouting
.
No. Not distant
.
Here
.
Now
.
Dragging my lids apart, I muscled myself forward and peeked into the intersecting sewer
.
A two-headed monster-marionette stumbled and splashed in the pale circle of gray cast by the open manhole. Four legs struggled in the swirling black water, two glistening, two dark. Four arms flailed
.
As I watched, the marionette-monster exploded down the middle. Two puppets emerged. Both were tall and lanky. One wore a tassled hat. The other had hair that was spiked on top
.
Spike lurched left
.
Tassle lunged after and grapple-hooked Spike around the throat
.
Both puppets toppled backward but were not swept away. Their thrashing sent waves cascading outward into the darkness
.
Angry shouting bounced down the tube. I could not catch words
.
My vision was swimming
.
I blinked. Still the images seemed disjointed, like frames of film disconnected by edits
.
Spike staggered to his feet
.
Tassle clung to Spikes leg, was dragged
.
Spike turned and kicked out with one foot
.
Tassles head snapped back. He pinwheeled, then fell. Filthy brown water covered his face
.
Spike slogged toward the ladder
.
Tassle struggled to his feet, pistoned, caught Spike from behind and drove him face-first into the wall
.
Spikes hands flew up and his neck whiplashed
.
Tassle body-slammed Spike a second time, harder
.
Spikes head again smashed brick
.
Tassle stepped back
.
Spike slid downward into the watery scum
.
Here. Barely a whisper. Im here.
With that, I crawled to a hidden corner of my mind. To the reassuring cadence of blood pulsing in my inner ear
.
The sewer evaporated. The water. The cold. The rats
.
Moments, or hours, later I saw a flashlight bob toward me
.
Time passed. Or didnt
.
I became aware of a presence. Of my shoulders being raised. Deep rasping breaths. The smell of wet wool. Male sweat. Warmth
.
I forced my eyes open
.
A face floated inches from mine
.
Slowly, the features shaped up
.
Hold on, buttercup
.
42
STAGE TWO HYPOTHERMIA.
That was the diagnosis. When Ryan found me, my body temperature had dropped to 95 Fahrenheit.
For mammals, thats not good.
I have only dim memories of my last moments in the sewer. By then I was feeling warm and sleepy, ready for cocoa and cookies and bed.
I remember being jostled. Something padded under my back, probably a stretcher. Gray sky. Flashing red lights.
Then nothing.
I woke in a hospital room. It was dark. Then light. Then dark again. Nurses adjusted tubes, changed drip bags, checked my hands and feet, shined lights into my eyes.
Id suffered frostnip, not frostbite. The doctor had chuckled on explaining that. Id been far less amused. But relieved that Id keep all my digits.
I was also relieved that my treatment involved only heated blankets and hot drinks. No sloshing warm liquids through my bladder, stomach, and other hidden places. Lavage. Hed described that, too.
Hallelujah.
During lucid periods, I learned that cold hadnt been my only aggressor. Joe Bonnet had also contributed his share of hurt. In the course of abducting, transporting, and dumping me, hed concussed my brain, sprained one ankle, and converted one cheek to raw flank steak.
Yeah. Joe. The drainsplorer. Id gotten that right.
I let my gaze travel the room. IV drip. Cardiac monitor. Water pitcher. Wall-mounted TV. Visitor chair, one of those convertible plastic types originally designed to crack secret agents. A paperback novel lay on the arm rest.
I checked the title.
Playback
. Raymond Chandler was Ryans favorite author.
I smiled. It hurt like hell.
I recalled talking to Ryan during one waking phase. Grilling him would be more accurate. Id been abducted at 10 Tuesday night. It was now 10 a.m. Thursday. I did some calculation. Thirty-six hours had passed since Id charged from my condo. Twenty-eight since Ryan had sprung me from the sewer. More math. Id spent eight hours underground.
The flukey warm spell had been a mixed blessing. Milder temperatures had aided my survival. Theyd also spurred melting, sending gallons of runoff into the sewers.
As if cued by telepathy, Ryan appeared, bearing a bouquet of pointy orange things that looked like they fed on small lizards.
Seeing me awake, Ryan hurried to the bed.
Are those things dangerous? My voice sounded hoarse and croaky. Only if you threaten their young. Ryan set the flowers on the bed, took my hand.
Holding only. No caressing or massaging. He stroked a thumb lightly across my knuckles.
I floated a brow. I think. My questioning brow is on the right. That side of my face was toast.
Rubbing could dislodge ice crystals intent on bushwacking your heart.
I hate when that happens, I said.
Ryan dragged a chair to the bed. Sat. Reclaimed my hand.
OK, Galahad, I said. Dish.
Everything?
For now, just the highlights. My abductor was Joe Bonnet, right?
Ryan nodded. Long story short, your beloved assistant felt under-appreciated and overworked.
I rolled my eyes. That hurt, too.
Sensing disaffection, Briel schmoozed Joe up. Said he was a superstar. Offered a golden future with Body Find.
Joe stole Christelle Villejoins phalanges for her.
No, that was Briels handiwork. She overheard your conversation with the Villejoins doctor, figured the finger bones would be important because of the camptodactyly.
I thought back to that day. Briel pinched them while I was upstairs getting a Diet Coke.
She reasoned that since the phalanges would be discovered during her follow-up dig, no harm no foul.
How did she know Hubert would send her to Oka?
If not, she planned to find the phalanges in the lab. Either way, youd look bad.
Briel also swapped out the Lac Saint-Jean teeth?
Yep. Read Valentin Gouvrards antemorts, remembered Duclos mentioning a dental collection with brown baby teeth. Joe let her into the cabinet containing Bergerons tub, she found the stained deciduous molars, palmed and planted them with the remains. Who cares after all these years?
Decades-old bones, case going nowhere, whats the difference, right?
Exactly her thinking.
Thats what tipped me in the sewer that my attacker was Joe. I realized Briel had to have gotten access through him. Only Bergeron, Joe, and I had keys. That and the long spider legs.
Long spider legs?
Never mind.
Ryan let it go. Both with Oka and Lac Saint-Jean, Briel felt she could make herself dazzle while doing no harm.
Except to me.
Another plus.
Did Briel call Edward Allen Jurmain?
She had Raines do that. Wanted it to be a male voice in case anyone asked Edward Allen. He used a pay phone at the gare Centrale to avoid blowback on either of them.
Did she shoot the bullet into Marilyn Keisers corpse?
Briel insists that was all Joe. Says shed never do anything to compromise a police investigation. Claims she was horrified by Joes action. I suspect it was a joint effort. Joe wouldnt have known anything about that kind of bullet track. Briel remembers Richie Cunninghams case in Chicago
His name is Chris Corcoran.
sees another chance to shine. Three-month-old homicide, probably never be solved. If it is, so what if cause of deaths a little off. Im thinking she held the body while Joe fired the shot. She dissects out the bullet, announces the track,
voilŕ
, shes a hero.
A nurse entered the room, rubber sole squeaked to the bed. She took my pulse, then stuck a thermometer into my mouth, strapped my arm with a blood pressure collar, and pumped the little black ball.
Those flowers must go into a vase. Without looking at either Ryan or me.
Of course. Ryan offered his most engaging grin. Would you possibly happen to have an old one lying around?
We all waited out my thermal performance.
The nurse entered vitals into my chart, hurried off.
Dont cross that woman, Ryan said.
Not a chance, I said.
Did Briel write the
Go home damn American
note?
That was Joes little touch.
Nice. I suppose she leaked the Keiser ID to the press.
How better to score tube time.
What happened Tuesday night? Where was I?
Ryans brows definitely rose. You explained it to
me
, sweet pea. Dont you remember?
Sweet pea? That was a new one. Or was that a medical reference? I did have a catheter and tinkle bag.
I shook my head.
I found you in a sewer below Alexandre-de-Sčve. Youd crawled along a semi-abandoned collector to its junction with a main line. Youd broken out of an old tomb below Veterans Park. Searchers learned about that today.
Part of the Old Military Burying Ground, I said. But that cemetery was relocated long ago.
Right you are. Ryan assumed a professorial tone. At one time, acreage around what is now Veterans Park served as a final resting place for both the British military garrison, and for a fairly large number of civilians. Ryan broke character. Average joes and janes got planted there, too. Back to Herr Professor. From 1797 until the mid-nineteenth century, more than one thousand soldiers and their families were interred in
what became known as the Old Military Burying Ground. Over the years, neglect and vandalism took their toll, and the cemetery became an eyesore. In 1944, the British soldiers were disinterred and moved to the Field of Honour in Pointe-Claire.
But heres the catch. Simple Ryan-speak. There was never any systematic attempt to unearth Jane and Joe. The gravestones went away, but many ordinary citizens were left behind.
So were some soldiers, I thought, remembering my fellow tomb occupants.
Every now and then a stiff surfaces, much to the dismay of public utility and construction crews.
Ryan smiled, exceedingly pleased with himself.
How do you know all this? I asked.
We contacted an archaeologist at U of M and an historian at the McCord. The former agreed to go down with the SIJ team. The latter declined. The archaeologist thinks burials were probably unearthed when the sewer was constructed, sometime around the turn of the century. He hypothesizes that, unnerved, workers slapped up a quickie tomb, sealed the displaced corpses inside, and moved along. Being geographically apart, the makeshift crypt was missed when the cemetery was moved in the forties.
At first I thought Raines was my attacker, I said. Hed know about historic tombs and burial grounds. Then I zoned in on Joe. He stumbled on the tomb while drainsploring, right?
Right.
Joe planned to have me simply disappear. No body. No explanation. Just gone.
Yes. Ryans grip tightened and his thumb moved more rapidly across my knuckles. Stopped. We both waited out an arterial ice crystal assault. Nothing.
Was Joe acting for Briel?
Again, she says it was all Joe all the way. Denies knowledge of any plan to harm you.
Where is he, anyway?
Enjoying a cage and a bright orange jumpsuit. While I searched for you, my backup team fished him out of the sewer.
Did Joe give a reason for wanting to kill me?
