40

WHOEVER USED RUE BERGER HAD KILLED GABBY. THE GLOVES matched. The strong probability was that Tanguay was not that person. His teeth had not bitten the cheese. St. Jacques was not Tanguay.

?Who the hell are you?? I asked, my voice raspy in the silence of my empty home. Fears for Katy erupted full force. Why hadn?t she called?

I tried Ryan at home. No answer. I tried Bertrand. He?d gone. I tried the task force room. No one.

I went to the yard and peeked through the fence at the pizza parlor across the street. The alley was empty. The surveillance team had been pulled. I was on my own.

I ran through my options. What could I do? Not much. I couldn?t leave. I had to be here if Katy came back. When Katy came back.

I looked at the clock-7:10 P.M. The files. Back to the files. What else could I do from inside these walls? My refuge had become my prison.

I changed clothes and went to the kitchen. Though my head was swimming, I took no medication. My mind was dull enough without sedation. I?d blast the germs with vitamin C. I got a can of frozen orange juice from the freezer and dug for the opener. Damn. Where is it? Too impatient to look for long, I grabbed a steak knife and sawed the top of the cardboard can to remove the metal lid. Pitcher. Water. Stir. You can do it. Clean up the mess later.

Moments later I was settled on the couch, tightly quilted, tissues and juice within arm?s reach. I played with my eyebrow to hold my nerves together.

Damas. I descended into the file, revisiting names, places, and dates I?d visited before. The Monast #232;re St. Bernard. Nikos Damas. Father Poirier.

Bertrand had done a follow-up on Poirier. I reread it, my mind resisting concentration. The good father checked out. I reviewed the original interview, looking for other names to chase after, like clues in a road rally scavenger hunt. Next I?d rehash dates.

Who was the caretaker? Roy. Emile Roy. I dug for his statement.

It wasn?t there. I went through everything in the jacket. Nothing. Surely someone had talked to him. I couldn?t recall seeing the report. Why wasn?t it here?

I sat for a moment, the friction of my breath the only sound in my universe. The pre-idea sensation was back, like an aura presaging a migraine. The sense that I was missing something was stronger than ever, but the elusive fact would not come into focus.

I went back to Poirier?s statement. Roy tends the building and grounds. Fixes the furnace, shovels the snow.

Shovels snow? At age eighty? Why not? George Burns could do it. Past images drifted into my mind. I thought of the apparition I?d had, alone in the car, Grace Damas?s bones lying behind me in the rain-soaked woods.

I thought of my other dream that night. The rats. Pete. Isabelle Gagnon?s head. Her grave. The priest. What had he said? Only those who worked for the church could enter its gates.

Could that be it? Is that how he got onto the grounds of the monastery and Le Grand S #233;minaire? Is our killer someone who works for the church?

Roy!

Right, Brennan, an eighty-year-old serial killer.

Should I wait to hear from Ryan? Where the hell is he? I pulled out the phone book with trembling hands. If I can find the caretaker?s number, I?ll call.

There was one E. Roy listed in St. Lambert.

?Oui.? A gravelly voice.

Be careful. Take your time.

?Monsieur Emile Roy??

?Oui.?

I explained who I was and why I was calling. Yes, I had the right Emile Roy. I asked about his duties at the monastery. For a long time he said nothing. I could hear him wheezing, the breath drawing in and out like air through a blowhole. Finally:

?I don?t want to lose my job. I take good care of the place.?

?Yes. Do you do it by yourself??

I heard his breath catch, as though a pebble had clogged the blowhole.

?I just need a little help from time to time. It don?t cost them nothing more. I pay for it myself, out of my wages.? He was almost whining.

?Who helps you, Monsieur Roy??

?My nephew. He?s a good boy. Mostly he does the snow. I was going to tell Father, but . . .?

?What?s your nephew?s name?

?Leo. He?s not going to get in no trouble, is he? He?s a good boy.?

The receiver felt slick in my palm.

?Leo what??

?Fortier. Leo Fortier. He?s my sister?s grandson.?

His voice receded. I was pouring sweat. I said the necessary things and hung up, my mind flailing, my heart racing.

Calm down. It could be a coincidence. Being a caretaker and a part-time butcher?s helper doesn?t make one a killer. Think.

I looked at the clock and reached for the phone. Come on. Be there.

She picked up on the fourth ring.

?Lucie Dumont.?

Yes!

?Lucie, I can?t believe you?re still there.?

?I had some trouble with a program file. I was just leaving.?

?There?s something I need, Lucie. It?s extremely important. You may be the only one who can get it for me.?

?Yes??

?I want you to run a check on someone. Do whatever it is you do to pull up everything there is on this guy. Can you do that??

?It?s late and I wa-?

?This is critical, Lucie. My daughter may be in danger. I really need this!?

I made no attempt to hide the desperation in my voice.

?I can link through to the SQ files and see if he?s there. I have clearance. What do you want to know??

?Everything.?

?What can you give me??

?Just a name.?

?Anything else??

?No.?

?Who is it??

?Fortier. Leo Fortier.?

?I?ll call you back. Where are you??

I gave her the number and hung up.

I paced the apartment, crazy with fear for Katy. Was it Fortier? Had his psychotic rage fixed on me because I had thwarted him? Had he killed my friend to vent this rage? Did he plan the same for me? For my daughter? How did he know about my daughter? Had he stolen the photo of Katy and me from Gabby?

The cold, numbing fear went deep into my soul. I had the worst thoughts I?ve ever known. I pictured Gabby?s last moments, imagined what she must have felt. The phone exploded into my train of thought.

?Yes!?

?It?s Lucie Dumont.?

?Yes.? My heart was pounding so hard I thought she might hear it.

?Do you know how old your Leo Fortier is??

?Uh . . . thirty, forty.?

?I came up with two; one has a date of birth 2/9/62, so he?d be about thirty-two. The other was born 4/21/16, so he?d be, what . . . seventy-eight.?

?Thirty-two,? I said.

?That?s what I thought, so I ran him. He?s got a big jacket. Goes back to juvenile court. No felonies, but a string of misdemeanor problems and psychiatric referrals.?

?What kind of problems.?

?Caught for voyeurism at age thirteen.? I could hear her fingers clicking on the keyboard ?Vandalism. Truancy. There was an incident when he was fifteen. Kidnapped a girl and kept her for eighteen hours. No charges. You want it all??

?What about recent things??

Click. Clickety. Click. I could picture her leaning into the monitor, her pink lenses bouncing back the green glow.

?The most recent entry is 1988. Arrested for assault. Looks like a relative, victim has the same name. No jail time. Did six months in Pinel.?

?When did he get out??

?The exact date??

?Do you have it??

?Looks like November 12, 1988.?

Constance Pitre died in December of 1988. The room was hot. My body was slick with sweat.

?Does the file list the name of his attending psychiatrist at Pinel??

?There?s reference to a Dr. M. C. LaPerri #232;re. Doesn?t say who he is.?

?Is his number there??

She gave it to me.

?Where is Fortier now??

?The file ends in 1988. You want that address??

?Yes.?

I was on the verge of tears as I punched in a number and listened to a phone ring on the far northern end of the island of Montreal. Composer, they say in French. Composer le num #233;ro. Compose yourself, Brennan. I tried to think what to say.