Bones to Ashes

“Once back in Montreal, I’ll ship the can and tissues and a skeletal sample to an independent lab. If they can extract DNA from the bone, and compare it to Obéline’s DNA, we’ll know if the skeleton is Évangéline.”

“Why send it out?”

“Our lab doesn’t do mitochondrial DNA.”

“And I’m sure that’s important.”

“With old bone, you’re much more likely to get mitochondrial than nuclear DNA. There are more copies in each cell.”

“It’s Évangéline,” Harry said.

“The chance is one in a billion.”

“Where do you get your odds?”

“OK. I made that up. But it’s highly improbable that Évangéline’s skeleton has just, out of the blue, landed in my lab.”

“Think what you want. That little voice in my heart is telling me it’s her.”

When Harry makes one of her extraordinary leaps of imagination, it’s pointless to argue. I started to do so anyway, stopped, remembering. Sometimes, illogically, my sister is right.

I looked at my watch. Eleven-ten. Our flight was leaving at six-something.

“Head toward Moncton?” I asked.

“How ’bout lunch?”

“We just ate five pounds of pancakes each.”

“I’m hungry.”

“I thought you were worried about your spreading derriere.”

“A girl gumshoe’s gotta keep up her strength.”

“You lifted two tissues and a soda can.”

“Mental exertion.”

“Fine. Then straight to the airport.”

Driving into town, my head reeled with images. Obéline’s dead eyes and disfigured face. Laurette on her deathbed. A blood-smeared wall and table. Bloody rags. Appalling visions of Évangéline’s last moments.

I was anxious to get to the lab to reassess the skeletal age of Hippo’s girl. To package and FedEx the DNA samples. I began formulating arguments to get my case bumped to the head of the line. I could think of only one that might work. Money.

Harry chose a brasserie on the Rue Principale. She liked the awning. The menu was uninspired. We both ordered burgers.

The conversation wavered between past and present. Obéline now. The four of us decades earlier on Pawleys Island. As we talked I saw flashes of Harry and myself, pillow fighting, cookie baking, school bus waiting, backpacks filled with our young lives and dreams.

Despite my sadness over Obéline, Ryan, and the dead and missing girls, I couldn’t help smiling. Harry’s enthusiasm for finding Évangéline surpassed even mine. Sitting in that booth, listening to her animated planning, I realized how very much I love my little sister. I was glad she had come.

Emerging from the restaurant, we saw two men lounging on the Escalade.

“Well, if it isn’t Cheech and Chong.”

“Sshh.”

“You gotta admit, those guys aren’t auditioning for the cover of GQ.”

Harry was right. The men were in total-body denim, boots, and black tees. Personal hygiene didn’t appear to be a priority. Though the day was overcast, both wore shades.

“Pretty buff, though.”

“Let me handle this.” I didn’t need Harry riling or seducing the indigenous folk.

“Bonjour.” I smiled and waggled the car keys.

Cheech and Chong remained butt-leaning on the Escalade.

“Sorry, but we need to motor.” Light, friendly.

“Nice wheels.”

“Thanks.” As I moved toward the driver’s side, Chong extended an arm, catching me at chest level.

“No fly zone, buddy.” Harry’s tone was a million light-years from friendly.

Stepping back, I frowned at Chong, then repeated what I’d said, this time in French. Still, the men didn’t budge.

“What the hell’s wrong with you boys?” Harry was glaring from Cheech to Chong, hands on her hips.

Chong smiled from behind his dark lenses. “Eh, mon chouchou. Big truck for little girls.” Chiac-accented English.

Neither Harry or I answered.

“You pals with Obéline Landry?”

“I don’t believe that’s any of your business.” Harry was in war mode.

“We were childhood friends,” I said, trying to defuse the situation.

“Shame what happened to her.” Chong’s shades were now pointing at me.

I didn’t reply.

“You two are going to hoist your bony arses from that vehicle right now so my sister and I can be on our way.”

I crimped my eyes in a “cool it” warning. Shooting a hip, Harry pursed her lips and folded her arms.

“Mrs. Landry in good health?”

“Yes.” Chilly.

“She claiming Bastarache is one sick bastard?”

I didn’t reply.

Cheech pushed from the hood. Chong followed.

“You ladies have a good trip back to Montreal.” Unlike his partner, Cheech was Anglophone.

Harry opened her mouth. I hushed her with a hand.

Stepping onto the curb, Cheech made a gun of his thumb and forefinger and aimed it in our direction. “And be careful with those fine wheels.”

Driving off, I glanced into the rearview mirror. The men were still standing on the sidewalk, watching our departure.

On the plane, Harry and I again discussed Obéline, and speculated about our encounter with Cheech and Chong.

“Testosterone weenies trying to impress.”

“I’m not so sure,” I said.

“Probably amuse themselves making fart noises under their armpits.”

I wasn’t convinced that it was that casual.