“No one noticed that the house had gone permanently dark?”

“It’s set too far back. I checked last night. You can’t see spit through the trees.”

“No one recalls vehicles entering or leaving?”

“Nope.”

“No one ever visited? Went looking for a lost puppy? Took cookies to say welcome to the ’hood?”

“Vermonters tend to keep to themselves.”

“Did you ask in town?”

“Apparently, Pomerleau took her trade elsewhere. So far we’ve found no one who remembers a woman fitting her description. If she did hit a store now and then, folks probably figured she was a tourist up for fishing or kayaking. Paid no attention.”

That fit my theory that Pomerleau had shopped near Burlington. A bigger city where she could remain anonymous.

I heard a muted ping. Another. Knew my texts had landed on Rodas’s phone.

“Where’d she get wood?” I asked.

“We found a guy who says he took a truckload each March for a few years. He says a woman paid in cash.”

“When was the last delivery?”

“His record-keeping’s a bit glitchy. He thinks maybe 2009.”

“Show him the photos.”

“Will do. Andy?”

“I’m here.”

“Did you tell her about the newspapers and food expiration dates?”

“Yes.”

“Here’s what I’m thinking. Pomerleau makes her way from Montreal to Vermont in ’04. She moves in and lays low. The house is abandoned in 2009. You and Doc Karras think she could have been dead that long?”

I pictured the barrel. The body. The leaves preserved in pristine condition. “Five years is possible,” I said. Then, “Who owns the property?”

“There it gets interesting. The deed is still in the name Margaux Daudet Corneau.”

“Stephen Menard’s maternal grandmother.”

“I’m guessing since Corneau died in Canada, no one caught that the title never transferred after she passed away. The taxes, a staggering nine hundred dollars per year, were handled by auto payment from an account in Corneau’s name at Citizens Bank in Burlington.”

“When was the account opened?”

“I’ll know more once I get a warrant.”

“What about utilities?”

“The place has its own well, there’s no gas. Green Mountain Power was paid from the same account as the taxes. But the money finally ran out. Notices were sent—”

“But not received, since there was no mail delivery or phone.”

“The electricity was cut off in 2010.”

“The state took no action due to default on the taxes?”

“Notices were sent. No follow-through yet.”

I heard a click.

“Hold on. I’ve got another call coming in.”

The line went hollow. Then Rodas returned, tension in his voice up a notch. “Let me call you back.”

“You’re right,” Ryan said when we’d gone a few miles. “I’ve been acting like an ass.”

“You have,” I agreed.

“I hate that Pomerleau knew your whereabouts.” The lane markings sent double-yellow lines tracking up Ryan’s lenses. “That she wanted to know.”

“I don’t like it, either.”

“I’m glad the bitch is dead. Hope she rots in hell.”

“Someone killed her.”

“We’ll get him.”

“And in the meantime?”

“We’ll get him.” Ryan continued not looking at me.

“If I hadn’t granted that interview, Pomerleau never would have gone to Charlotte.”

“We don’t know that she did.”

“Her DNA was on Lizzie Nance’s body.”

“She’d have continued the carnage here in Vermont. Or someplace else.”

“Why Charlotte? Why my home turf?”

We both knew the answer to that.

We’d crossed into Quebec when Ryan’s phone buzzed again. As before, he put Rodas on speaker.

“One of my detectives found a mechanic who says he serviced a furnace at the Corneau place, once in ’04, again in ’07.”

“Did he recognize the images I sent?”

“Yes, ma’am. He says Pomerleau was alone the first time. The second visit, someone else was there.”

I shot Ryan a look; his jaw was set, but he didn’t return it.

“Can someone work with him to create a sketch?” I asked.

“Negative. He says the person was too far off, way back at one of the sheds and all bundled up for winter. All he’s sure of is that the guy was tall.”

“It’s something,” I said.

“It’s something,” Rodas agreed, then disconnected.

Ryan and I took some time digesting this latest piece of information. He spoke first. “By 2007 Pomerleau has hooked up with someone willing to share her psychosis. They kill Nellie Gower. A year and a half later, they travel to North Carolina, kill Lizzie Nance, then return to Vermont to tap their maples. The relationship tanks—”

“Or there’s an accident.” Caution, à la Karras.

“—he kills her, seals her body in a barrel, and splits for North Carolina.”

“It plays,” I said.

“Like a Sousa march.”

“What now?”

“We shut the fucker down.”

Ryan and I decided on a two-pronged approach. Neither clear on what those prongs would be.

He would stay in Montreal. This didn’t thrill him, given that Pomerleau or her housemate had posted my face on a wall. But after much discussion, he agreed that it made the most sense.

I took the early-morning flight to Charlotte. As we parted, I wondered when I’d see Ryan again. Given our past, and the fact that my presence now seemed painful to him, I suspected that, going forward, he might request cases that didn’t involve me.

Just past eleven, a taxi dropped me at the annex. I paid and dug out my keys. Found I didn’t need them. The back door was unlocked.

Momentary panic. Check it out? Call the cops?

Then, through the glass, I saw Mary Louise enter the kitchen, Birdie pressed to her chest.

Relief flooded through me. Followed by annoyance. “You should always lock the door.” Upon entering.

Mary Louise was wearing the same flapper hat. Below the scoopy bell brim, her face fell.

Cool move, Brennan. Your first words to the kid are a rebuke.

“I just mean it’s safer.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Birdie looked at me with round yellow eyes. Reproachful?

“Looks like you two have really hit it off.”

“He’s a great cat.”

Birdie made no attempt to push free and come to me, his normal response after I’ve been away.

“I was going to give him a treat.” Hesitant.

Birdie gave me a long judgmental stare. Daring me to interfere?

“He’ll like that,” I said, smiling broadly.

Mary Louise went to the pantry. I set my carry-on aside and placed my purse on the counter.

“Your mother called.” As Birdie ate Greenies from her palm. “I didn’t pick up. But I heard her leave a message. My grandma has an answering machine like that.”

Great. I was a fossil. I wondered how old she was. Twelve, maybe thirteen. “Any other calls?”

“The red light’s been flashing since Wednesday. So, yeah, I guess.”

“What do I owe you?”

She stroked Bird’s head. The drama queen arched his back and purred. “No charge. I really like this little guy.”

“That wasn’t our deal.” I dug out four tens and handed them to her.

“Wow.” Pocketing the bills. “My mom has allergies. I can’t have pets.”

“That’s too bad.”

Awkward pause.

“Can I come visit him? I mean, like, even if you’re home?”

“Birdie and I would both enjoy that.” I thanked her, then, through the window, watched her skip down the walk. Smiling, I hit play on my relic machine.

Mama, complaining about Dr. Finch.

Harry, recommending books about cancer.

Outside, Mary Louise did two cartwheels in the middle of the lawn.

The last message was Larabee, saying he had DNA results on the hair found in Shelly Leal’s throat. Odd. I checked my iPhone. He’d called there, too. I’d forgotten to turn it on after landing.

I phoned the MCME. Mrs. Flowers put me through after a few comments on container-grown lettuce.

“Larabee.”

“It’s Tempe.”

“How was Canada?”

“Cold. Ditto Vermont.” I briefed him on the interviews with Sabine Pomerleau, the Violettes, and the Kezerians. Then I dropped the bombshell about Anique Pomerleau.