Monday Mourning Part 44

"I just keep wondering about her last sensations."

To keep myself from imagining those of three dead girls. I didn't say that either.

"There's something I haven't told you yet."

I waited for Ryan to continue.

"Louise Parent left an estate worth almost a half million dollars. She was insured for another quarter million."

"The beneficiary?" I asked.

"Her sister. Rose Fisher."

Ryan dropped me off around nine-thirty. He didn't ask to come in. I didn't invite him.

The answering machine was dark and still.

Where the h.e.l.l was Anne?

Shower. Teeth. Face.

Into bed. Birdie hopped up and curled beside me.

I tried reading. Too agitated.

Closing my book, I turned off the light.

Subliminal gnawing.

I rolled from my right side to my left. To my right.

Birdie shifted to the corner of the bed.

I'd never wanted a drink so badly in my life. Could one tiny cabernet hurt?

You're an alkie. Alkies can't do booze.

I punched the pillow. Rolled to my back.

Giving up on sleep, I groped for the remote, clicked on the TV, and found a mindless sitcom.

What was it I was missing?

Anique Pomerleau disappeared from Mascouche in 1990. She was fifteen. Today she's alive and living in Montreal.

Two of the pizza bas.e.m.e.nt girls were around fifteen. The leather shroud girl was older.

Angie Robinson disappeared in 1985. She was almost fifteen. Unlike Pomerleau, she's never turned up.

The actors became shadowbox puppets. The dialogue and laugh track receded to background.

Angie Robinson broke her wrist. The leather shroud girl broke her wrist. But their ages don't match. Neither do their heights.

What was I missing?

Angie Robinson disappeared in north-central California. I couldn't remember the name of the place. Conners? Corners? Cornero?

Was that b.u.t.te County?

No. b.u.t.te County was Chico.

Menard spent at least a year in Chico. But which Menard? The real one?

Angie Robinson's father filed his MP report with the Tehama County Sheriff's Department.

Throwing back the covers, I got up, booted my computer, logged onto Yahoo!, and asked for a map of north-central California.

Tehama County lay directly northwest of b.u.t.te. I found Chico, and almost directly above it, the little village of Corning.

I zoomed in on the region.

Towns and secondary highways appeared. Hamilton City. Willows. Orland.

I clicked on an arrow, moved north.

Red Bluff.

The thought lurking in my subconscious lumbered toward focus, receded.

Red Bluff.

What?

Think, Brennan. Think.

The most minuscule atom of an idea sparked.

When had Red Bluff been in the news?

Ten years ago? Twenty?

Why?

Think!

I got up and killed the TV. Tossing the remote, I paced the room, desperate to get into the backcountry of my subconscious.

Silence filled the condo. Not the comforting, I'm-alone-enjoying-my-solitude kind. A pressing silence.

Back and forth. Back and forth.

Red Bluff. Red Bluff.

Finally, a neural pathway fired. I froze.

Dear G.o.d! Was that it?

I flew to the computer.

Who was that victim?

Using multiple search engines, most of which sent me through infuriating, labyrinthine back alley cyberloops, I finally found the name.

More searching.

Archives of the Red Bluff Daily News. Red Bluff Daily News.

Archives of the Chico Examiner. Chico Examiner.

The normal sounds of night receded to the edge of my hearing. Birdie slumbered on.

Hours later, I sat back, numb with the horror of what I was unraveling.

I understood what was going on.

30.

I LASTED UNTIL SEVEN A.M. BEFORE PHONING LASTED UNTIL SEVEN A.M. BEFORE PHONING R RYAN. HE ANSWERED quickly, sounding alert but tired. quickly, sounding alert but tired.

"Am I waking you?"

"I had to get up anyway to answer the phone."

"Old joke, Ryan."

"You sound wired. What's up?"

I laid out my theory and told him what I'd discovered in my cyber research.

"Holy s.h.i.t."

"We need to get into that house, Ryan."

"The pizza parlor bust isn't my case."

"The Louise Parent homicide is. Menard-whoever probably killed Parent to keep her from talking to me."

I heard a match, then slow exhalation.

"I want Claudel and Charbonneau to hear this. You going to be there awhile?"

"I'll wait."

Ryan called back at nine to tell me they'd rendezvous at my place at eleven.

"Claudel agreed?"

"Luc's a good cop."

"With all the charisma of the Night Stalker. I'll make coffee."

Knowing Claudel would be hard to convince, I spent the next hour online arming myself with as much information as possible.

Claudel arrived first, wearing his usual arrogant frown.

"Bonjour," I said, gesturing him to the sofa. I said, gesturing him to the sofa.

"Bonjour."

Claudel removed his overcoat. I took it.

Claudel tugged each Armani sleeve to cover each antiseptically white Burberry cuff, then sat and crossed his legs.

"Cafe?" I offered. I offered.

"No." Claudel made a show of checking his watch. "Merci." "Merci."

Ryan and Charbonneau showed up within minutes of each other, each in faded jeans and sweater. Ryan had hit a patisserie on his way.

I filled mugs of coffee for Ryan and Charbonneau, then the three of us helped ourselves to pastries. Throughout, Claudel maintained his this-better-be-good detachment.

Ryan kick-started the meeting.

"Tempe, tell these guys what you told me." He turned to Claudel. "Luc, I want you to hear her out."

I started churning out the words.

"On May 19, 1977, a twenty-year-old woman named Colleen Stan set out to hitchhike from Eugene, Oregon, to Westwood, California. After several rides she was picked up by Cameron Hooker and his wife, Jan. The Hookers drove Stan to the La.s.sen National Forest, handcuffed, blindfolded, bound, and gagged her, and took her to their home."