Mama had never shown an interest in biking. I couldn’t fathom why this video appealed to her.
The group passed a post office/general store combo: a gray building with an old red auto seat on the porch and a red plastic kayak affixed to the top of the front overhang.
Another text box announced: Barnet, Vermont.
I read the words on the side of the kayak. Suddenly sat straight up.
Pulse humming, I watched the cyclists cross a narrow river on a green metal bridge. Another text box. Passumpsic River.
Two minutes of pedaling through mixed hardwood and pine, then a bit of crude editing caught the group on the shoulder, laughing and pointing to a plank nailed to a tree above their heads. On it were four faded blue letters. ORNE. It was the weathered sign from the Corneau house.
ORNE. They liked the Corneau sign because what was left matched their club’s acronym. Overland Riders of Northern Essex.
As the cause of their amusement registered, a car entered the frame from a driveway to the left of the sign. One silhouette at the wheel, no passenger.
The car lurched to a stop, and a door flew open. A figure shot out and strode toward the cyclists. The camera followed her, now handheld. I couldn’t see a face, but body language said the driver was angry.
Another text box materialized. Hostile Aboriginal!
The figure turned toward the camera. Shouted and waved both arms.
I went cold to the marrow.
CHAPTER 38
I REPLAYED THE scene again and again. Froze the image. Studied the features, the body shape, making sure. Hoping I was wrong.
I wasn’t.
No point showing the video to Slidell. The face would mean nothing to him.
Not so with Ryan.
Fingers shaking, I sent the link north, then hit callback for the last incoming number. Slidell picked up after two rings.
“Tawny McGee was at the Corneau farm.” Circling the room.
A moment of silence as Slidell ran the name through his mental Rolodex. “The kid Pomerleau had in her cellar?”
“Yes.” I told him about the video.
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“Jesus freakin’ Christ. How’d you stumble onto that?”
“I’ll tell you later.” After Mama explains it to me.
“How does McGee fit in?”
“How the hell would I know?”
“Think she’s the big dude the mechanic saw?”
“She’s tall.”
“Or maybe the big dude was Ajax and we got us a threesome?”
“Or maybe it was some other dude.” Churlish, but I didn’t like feeling confused. “The DNA on Leal’s jacket says our doer is male.”
“I need to talk to McGee.”
“You think?”
“Can you blow up that frame and print it?” Slidell asked.
“The face will be too blurry. But McGee’s mother has a snapshot that’s fairly recent. I’ll get that.”
“I’ll put out a BOLO. Have Rodas do the same in Vermont.”
“I have a feeling McGee’s living under a different name. Ryan dug pretty deep, looking for her.”
“How’d she get to Vermont?”
“I don’t know. Maybe lean on Luther Dew over at ICE?” I was using the acronym for Immigration and Customs Enforcement.
Slidell snort-laughed. “The mummified-mutt guy?”
I’d helped Dew on a smuggled antiquities case involving Peruvian dogs. Slidell never tired of the canine-corpse jokes. I ignored this one.
“The video shows McGee at the Corneau farm in 2008. I’m not sure when passports became mandatory for travel between the U.S. and Canada. Or what kind of records they kept back then.”
“I’ll give it a shot first thing in the morning.”
“Why wait?” My eyes bounced to the clock: 10:27.
“Good thinking. Calling now will make Dew want to knock himself out.”
Three beeps. Slidell was gone.
Crap!
Who to phone first? Mama or Ryan?
Mama decided it. I answered her ring and jumped in before she could speak. “How did you find that video?”
“Sweetheart, good manners dictate a greeting when answering a call.”
I drew a deep breath. “Hi, Mama. How are you?”
“I’m well, thank you.”
“How did you discover the YouTube video?”
“Is it the farm where that terrible woman was hiding?”
“It is. How did you find it?”
“Oh, my. Do you want the full journey?”
“Just the process.”
“It wasn’t complicated. But it did require hours and hours of watching tasteless drivel. Some unkind fool actually posted a clip of a reporter having a stroke on-air. And—”
“But how did you find it?”
“There is no need to be brusque, Tempe.” Disapproving sniff. “I Googled various combinations of key words, of course. Corneau. Vermont. Hardwick. St. Johnsbury. One link led to another and another. I plowed through endless news stories, viewed interminable images of maple trees and shopping malls and snow-covered campuses. Did you know the mascot for the University of Vermont is a catamount? That’s a—”
“Big cat. Go on.”
“Eventually, I landed on the second in a series of five YouTube videos documenting a college bicycle trip. St. Johnsbury appeared in the title.
“After watching that clip, which I must say was excruciatingly tedious, I moved on to the third. While I was observing the group posing on the shoulder of a road, my mind filled in the missing letters on the sign above their heads.”
“How did you know about the Corneau farm?”
“You spoke of it when you were here.” Surprised and mildly condescending. “The bridge. The Passumpsic River. The broken sign.”
I remembered Mama’s ceaseless questions, didn’t recall going into so much detail.
“Is it helpful?”
“More than you can imagine, Mama. You are a virtuoso of the virtual. But I have to hang up now.”
“Pour téléphoner, monsieur le détective?” Almost a purr.
“Oui.”
Ryan didn’t answer. Which wasn’t calming. I was amped. Wanted action. Answers. Resolution.
I tried reading. Couldn’t focus. Knowing Ryan would call when he’d viewed the video, I gathered Birdie and went up to bed.
Hours passed. I lay there feeling wired, helpless. Asking myself what I could do. Coming up blank.
Around two, I finally drifted off. More sleep would have helped.
The next day the world spiraled into madness.
Ryan called at seven A.M. I’d been up for almost an hour. Eaten breakfast, fed the cat, read a proposal for a student project. I told him everything.
“McGee was driving a 2001 Chevy Impala,” he said. “Tan. Not the F-150 parked in the shed.”
“Could you read the plate?”
“No. But it was green, probably Vermont.”
“Contact Rodas?”
“Already did. He’s requested an enhancement. If that works, he’ll run the registration through the DMV.”
“Get Tawny’s photo from Bernadette Kezerian. Scan it and email it to Rodas, Slidell, and me.”
“Done. I’ll also contact border control on this side, see if they have any record of McGee crossing into Vermont. Or back into Quebec.”
We’d barely disconnected when Slidell showed up at my door. I offered him coffee. He accepted. We settled at the kitchen table. I briefed him on my conversation with Ryan.
“Dew says no can do.”
“What do you mean, no can do?”
“As of January 23, 2007, you gotta have a passport to enter the U.S. from Canada.”
“That’s good. ICE keeps records—”
“You wanna let me finish?”
I settled back, having vowed to be more patient with Slidell.
“That’s for airports. The reg didn’t kick in for land and sea borders until June 1, 2009.”
“Not likely she’d have flown such a short distance.”
“No.”
“Crap.”
“Yeah. But I got this.” He pulled a printout from an inside jacket pocket and flipped it onto the table.
I unfolded and read it. A tox report. I looked up, stunned by the implications. “They found chloral hydrate in the coffee grounds?”