Bones to Ashes

Rustique was one block long, with what looked like a small park at the far end. Six houses on the left. Six on the right. Set far back on deep, narrow lots, the frame structures all looked tired, in need of paint and probably plumbing and wiring.

A number of residents had taken a shot at lawn care and gardening. Some were enjoying more success than others. Outside one faded Victorian was a carved wooden plaque saying 4 Chez Lizot.

“It’s like Bastarache’s setup in Tracadie,” I said.

“How so?”

“Dead-end street. Back to the river.”

Ryan didn’t reply. He’d pulled binoculars from the glove compartment and was scanning up one side and down the other, assessing.

I looked past him again. Three cars were snugged to the curb, one near Cherrier, one at midblock, one farther down by the park.

The Lizot’s sign suggested even numbers were on the right. I counted from the corner.

“Number thirteen has to be that double lot last on the left.” I couldn’t actually see much. Malo’s property was surrounded by six-foot chain linking overgrown with vines. Through gaps in the foliage I could make out pine, cedar hedges, and one enormous dead elm.

“Love what he’s done with the landscaping.” My anxiety was fueling imbecilic jokes.

Ryan didn’t laugh. He was punching buttons on his phone.

“Can you read Malo’s sign?” I asked.

“Prenez garde au chien.”

Beware of the dog. No joke there.

“I need you to run three DBQ’s, type one.” Ryan was asking for a trace on auto licenses, speaking, I assumed, with the desk officer at SQ headquarters. He waited, then read the plate number off a beat-to-hell Mercury Grand Marquis parked just down from Cherrier.

“Murchison, Dewey. Trois Rustique. Oui.”

I eyeballed the brick-and-frame bungalow five up from Malo’s. It was obvious Old Dewey wasn’t sitting on a fat portfolio.

“Nine. Four. Seven. Alpha. Charlie. Zulu.” Ryan had moved on to the Porsche 911 halfway down the block.

After the heart-thumping drive, the warmth and stillness in the Impala were dulling. I listened to Ryan’s end of the conversation, suddenly aware of a stunning exhaustion.

“Vincent, Antoine.” Ryan repeated the name. “Any Vincents living on Rustique?” Ryan waited. “OK.”

My arms and legs were starting to feel like pig iron.

“Hang on.” Grabbing the binoculars, Ryan read off the license of the late-model Honda Accord at the far end of the block. After a pause he asked, “Which rental company?”

My exhaustion was gone like the flash of a shutter. Eyes squinting, I focused on the Accord.

“Got a number?” The voice speaking to Ryan said something. “Sure you’re not too busy?” Beat. “Appreciate it.”

Ryan closed but didn’t toss his cell.

“It’s Harry.” My voice was amped. “I know it is.”

“Let’s not jump to conclusions.”

“Right.”

I threw myself into the seat back and folded my arms. Unfolded them and started gnawing the cuticle.

“The Merc and the Porsche belong to locals,” Ryan said, never taking his eyes from number thirteen.

I didn’t bother to comment.

Seconds dragged by. Minutes. Eons.

The Impala seemed suddenly oppressive. I lowered my window. Sickly warm air floated in, bringing the smell of mud and mown grass. The cawing of gulls.

I jumped when Ryan’s cell warbled in his hand.

Ryan listened. Thanked the caller. Disconnected.

“Harry rented the Accord on Monday morning.”

My eyes flew down the block. The car was empty. The park was empty.

“I’ll call her.” I reached for my purse.

Ryan shot a restraining hand to my arm. “No.”

“Why not?”

Ryan just looked at me. Like mine, his eyes were full of fatigue.

My mind did a frightening connect. If Harry was on Malo’s property or in his house, a ringing phone might compromise her safety.

“Jesus, Ryan, you really think she’s gone inside?” Been taken inside? I couldn’t say it.

“I don’t know.”

I knew.

“We need to get her out.”

“Not yet.”

“What?” Sharp. “We just sit here?”

“For a while, yes. If I go in, I will do so with backup. Note the pointed use of the first-person singular.”

The sun was low, bouncing off windows and car hoods, bronzing the river, the park, and the street. Sliding on shades, Ryan draped both arms on the wheel and resumed staring down Rustique.

Planetary movement ground to a stop. Occasionally Ryan glanced at his watch. I checked mine. Each time less than a minute had passed.

I switched from working the cuticle to picking at threads in the armrest. Switched back. Despite the heat my fingers felt icy.

We’d been watching ten minutes when a Camaro came hard up Cherrier and turned onto Rustique, running so fast its tires squealed softly. The driver was a murky silhouette behind tinted glass.

A silhouette I recognized.

“It’s Bastarache!”

We watched Bastarache angle to the curb outside number thirteen, jump out, and throw open the Camaro’s trunk. Extracting a bolt cutter, he strode to the fence, positioned the blades, and snapped the handles. After boot-kicking the gate, he disappeared from sight.