Bones to Ashes

On Robichaud’s return, diasone treatment was introduced at Tracadie. I could envision the joy, the hope. For the first time a cure was possible. The postwar years saw more pharmaceutical breakthroughs. Dapsone. Rifampicin. Clofazimine. Multidrug therapies.

The final tally shows 327 souls treated for leprosy in New Brunswick. In addition to Canadians, the sick included patients from Scandinavia, China, Russia, Jamaica, and elsewhere.

Besides the fifteen corpses left on Sheldrake Island, 195 were buried in Tracadie, 94 in the founders’ cemetery, 42 in the church cemetery, and 59 in the lepers’ cemetery beside the final lazaretto.

Hippo’s girl had come from Sheldrake Island. Thinking of her, I scanned the names of the dead. Some were pitifully young. Mary Savoy, seventeen. Marie Comeau, nineteen. Olivier Shearson, eighteen. Christopher Drysdale, fourteen. Romain Dorion, fifteen. I wondered, Did I have another young victim in my lab? A girl of sixteen who died an outcast?

My eyes drifted from my laptop to my cell. I willed it to ring. Call, Harry. Pick up a phone and dial. You must know that I’m worried. Even you can’t be that inconsiderate.

The thing remained obstinately mute.

Why?

I left my desk, stretched. The clock said two-twelve. I knew I should sleep. Instead, I returned to the computer, horrified yet fascinated by what I was learning.

The lazaretto’s last patients included two elderly women, Archange and Madame Perehudoff, and an ancient Chinese gentleman referred to as Hum. All three had grown old in the facility. All three had lost touch with their families.

Though cured with diasone, neither Madame Perehudoff nor Hum ever chose to leave. Both died in 1964. Ironically, Archange never contracted leprosy, though her parents and seven siblings had had the disease. Admitted as a teen, Archange endured to become the lazaretto’s final resident.

Down to one patient, the good sisters decided it was time to close shop. But Archange posed a problem. Having lived her whole life among lepers, she was unacceptable to any senior citizens’ residence in town.

I didn’t cry when I read that. But it was close.

After much searching, a place was found for Archange away from Tracadie. One hundred and sixteen years after opening, the lazaretto finally closed its doors.

The year was 1965.

I stared at the date, hearing yet another subliminal whisper.

As before, I struggled to bring the message to clarity. My exhausted brain refused to process fresh data.

A weight hit my lap. I jumped.

Birdie brrrp-ed and rubbed his head on my chin.

“Where’s Harry, Bird?”

The cat brrrp-ed again.

“You’re right.”

Gathering the feline, I crawled into bed.

Harry was sitting on a carved wooden bench outside Obéline’s gazebo, the totem pole casting zoomorphic shadows across her face. She was holding a scrapbook, insisting I look.

The page was black. I could see nothing.

Harry spoke words I couldn’t make out. I went to turn the page, but my arm jerked wildly. I tried over and over, with the same spastic result.

Frustrated, I stared at my hand. I was wearing gloves with the fingers cut off. Nothing protruded from the holes.

I tried to wiggle my missing fingers. My arm jerked again.

The sky darkened and a piercing cry split the air. I looked up at the totem pole. The eagle’s beak opened and the carved bird screeched again.

My lids dragged apart. Birdie was nudging my elbow. The phone was ringing.

Fumbling the handset to my ear, I clicked on.

“—lo.”

Ryan made none of his usual sleeping-princess jokes. “They’ve cracked the code.”

“What?” Still sluggish.

“Cormier’s thumb drive. We’re in. You available to scan faces?”

“Sure, but—”

“Need a ride?”

“I can drive.” I checked the clock: 8:13.

“Time to make yourself useful, princess.” The old Ryan.

“I’ve been up for hours.” I looked at Bird. The cat looked back. Disapproving?

“Right.”

“I was online until three-thirty.”

“Learn much?”

“Yes.”

“Surprised you could stay awake after such rigorous physical activity.”

“Cooking pasta?”

Pause.

“You OK with last night?” Ryan’s voice had gone serious.

“What happened last night?”

“Headquarters. ASAP.”

Dial tone.

Fifty minutes later I entered a conference room on the fourth floor of Wilfrid-Derome. The small space contained one battered government-issue table and six battered government-issue chairs. A wall-mounted chalkboard. Vertical-slat blinds on one dingy window.

The table held a cardboard box, a phone, a rubber snake, a laptop, and a seventeen-inch monitor. Solange Lesieur was connecting the latter two pieces of equipment.

Ryan arrived as Lesieur and I were speculating on the provenance of the serpent. Hippo was two steps behind. Bearing coffee.

Seeing me, Hippo frowned.

“Brennan’s good with faces,” Ryan explained.

“Better than she is with advice?”

Lesieur spoke before I could think of a clever rejoinder. “No coffee for me.”

“I brought extra,” Hippo said.

Lesieur shook her head. “I’m already stoked.”

“What’s Harpo doing here?” Sideswiping the reptile, Hippo placed his tray on the table.