S WE SPED ACROSS ÎLE D’ORLÉANS I RECOUNTED MY CONVERSATIONS with Claudine and Obéline.

“Double-barreled ambush.” Ryan sounded impressed. “Your husband’s a smut bandit. Your sister did bondage.”

“Obéline claims David is innocent of all the things of which I suspect him, and, in fact, helped some of the girls. Remember our conversation with Kelly Sicard.”

“Where does she lay the blame?”

“On a former employee of her father-in-law.”

“Who?”

“She didn’t know, or wouldn’t reveal his name. Says David fired him in 1980. The fact is that someone murdered several girls and the only link we have is Bastarache. I can’t ignore that.”

Ryan veered onto an entrance ramp. There was a short descent, a deceleration, then the Impala lunged forward and we were on the twenty. I fell silent, allowing Ryan to focus on driving.

As we ate up asphalt, my thoughts meandered through the events of the past twenty-four hours. David Bastarache. Kelly Sicard. Claudine Cloquet. The sodden and bloated body that was Claire Brideau.

Harry. It was now Wednesday. I hadn’t seen her since Sunday night. Hadn’t heard from her since she called my mobile on Monday morning.

One image fragment bumper-rode the tail of another. Évangéline in ropes. A girl on a bench. Claudine, a walking tragedy. The mixed-race teenager dragged from Lac des Deux Montagnes.

Might Évangéline still be working in the porn industry? Might that be the secret Obéline was hiding?

Sound bytes replayed over and over. Sicard discussing the anonymous Pierre: I wore moccasins while a guy in a loincloth fucked me. Bastarache’s troubling comment: I was barely out of high school when this kid was playing Indian princess.

I felt another shoulder-tap from my id.

Bastarache knew the bench-girl video had some years on it. The filming had been done in his house. The guy had to be dirty. Or did he? How old had he been then? What was his role in the Bastarache family business?

The tapping continued, insistent.

The human brain is, well, mind-blowing. Chemicals. Electricity. Fluid. Cytoplasm. Wire it up right and the thing works. No one really knows how.

But the brain’s parts can be like governmental agencies, closing ranks to hoard their special knowledge. Cerebrum. Cerebellum. Frontal lobe. Motor cortex. Sometimes it takes a catalyst to get them to share.

My neurons had ingested, but not fully digested, a larder full of data in the last few days. Suddenly, something shifted. My lower brain contacted my upper. Why? Claudine Cloquet’s dream catcher.

“What if Obéline is telling the truth?” I asked, sitting up straight. “What if our perv is the guy who worked for Bastarache’s father?”

“Right.”

“When Harry and I were in Tracadie, Obéline mentioned a former employee of her father-in-law. Said her husband fired him and the parting wasn’t amicable.”

Ryan didn’t comment.

“This former employee designed the sweat house that was later converted to a gazebo. He was nuts into Native art. Carved benches. Totem poles.” I paused for effect. “Kelly Sicard said Pierre forced her to wear moccasins. What was Bastarache’s remark when you showed him the print of the girl on the bench?”

“The kid was playing Indian princess.” Ryan was with me.

“There was nothing in that picture to suggest a Native American theme. And the videos Sicard listed. Think about the titles.”

“Wamp Um. Wiki Up. Sonovabitch.”

“Claudine had a dream catcher. Said she got it from the man she lived with before Obéline. What if Cormier’s ‘agent’ friend, Pierre, is the same guy Bastarache fired? The same guy who had Claudine?”

Ryan’s knuckles tightened on the wheel. “So how does Bastarache fit in?”

“I’m not sure.” I started tossing things out without really thinking. “Bastarache is a kid. He sees skin flicks being made in his home. He resents it, vows to pull the plug the minute the old man kicks.”

Ryan rolled that around in his mind.

“What did Claudine call this creep?”

“She didn’t know his name. Or wouldn’t say it.” I told him about the word-rounding game. “Claudine perceives adjectives as either flat or crooked. Flat ones she adds an o to, crooked ones she doesn’t. It’s not logical, just some aspect of her unique cognitive mapping. She just said the guy was bad. Mal-o.”

Ryan’s eyes pinched in thought. Then he added another contender to my list of what-if’s.

“What if mal is a crooked adjective? One that can’t be rounded.”

“So you can’t add an o.”

“Exactly.”

I saw where Ryan was going. “What if it’s a name? Malo.” Neurons fired. “Pierre Malo.”

Ryan was already reaching for his cell. I listened as he asked someone to run a check.

We were moving west with a sea of cars. I watched their tailpipes. Sunlight on their trunks and roofs. Chewed a cuticle.

We were an hour out of Quebec City when Ryan’s mobile warbled.

“Ryan.”

Pause.

“Où?” Where?

Pause.

“Shit!”

There was a final, shorter pause, then Ryan snapped the lid and tossed the phone to the dash.

“What?” I asked.

“They lost Bastarache.”

“How?”

“Bastard pulled into a rest stop. Entered a restaurant. Never exited.”

“He abandoned the Mercedes?”

Ryan nodded. “He was either picked up or hitched a ride.”

I repeated Ryan’s sentiment. “Shit.”

Minutes later it was my phone.

I’d had virtually no sleep in the last forty-eight hours. I was running on doses of a cat nap and pure adrenaline. What happened next was my fault.

Checking the caller ID, I felt a rush of relief. Followed by annoyance.

Driven by the latter, I clicked on but said nothing.

“You there, big sister?”

“Yes.” Frosty.

“You’re peeved.” Harry, the master of understatement. “Now, I know what you’re going to say.”

“Where the hell have you been?”

“Yessiree. That’s it. I can explain.”

“You needn’t bother.”

“I wanted to surprise you.”

How often had I heard those words?

Ryan’s cell warbled again. I heard him answer.

“Who’s that?” Harry asked.

“What is it you want?”

“Before you go round the bend getting all pissy, let me tell you what I learned.”

“How about telling me where you’ve been?”

“Toronto. Talked with Flan O’Connor. Scored some interesting info.”

“Got something to write with?” Ryan asked, still holding the phone to his ear.

“Hold on,” I said to Harry.

“Where are you?” she asked as I laid the phone on the dash.

I dug paper and pen from my purse.

“Thirteen Rustique.”

I jotted the address Ryan was repeating.

As I finished, Harry’s voice buzzed from my cell. I ignored her.

“Pierrefonds to Cherrier. Left about a mile after Montée de l’Église.” Ryan looked a question at me. I read the directions aloud.

“Below the golf courses and nature preserve. Got it.” Ryan clicked off.

“Pierre Malo lives outside Montreal?” I asked, scribbling the last bit of information.

Ryan nodded.

“Holy hell, Ryan. That’s probably the house Kelly Sicard described.”

“Good possibility.”

“And remember how vehement Bastarache was when he told us to look in our own backyard?”

“I took it as his way of saying fuck off.”

“Obéline said Malo and her husband had some sort of working arrangement. Said they needed each other. Think Bastarache could be going to hook up with Malo?”

“He was pointed toward Montreal.”

I reread the directions.

“What nature preserve?”

“Bois-de-L’Île-Bizard.”

I felt the wings of my throat constrict.

“The boat ramp!”

“What?” Ryan switched lanes to pass a Mini Cooper.

“Suskind’s diatome analysis tied the Lac des Deux Montagnes body to the Bois-de-L’Île-Bizard boat ramp.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes!”

“That ramp’s practically in Malo’s backyard.” Ryan’s jaw muscles bunched, relaxed.

A terrible thought. “If Malo somehow got Phoebe Quincy through Cormier, the same way he got Kelly Sicard, he could be holding her at that house.”

A sharp whistle came from my cell.

I’d forgotten Harry was still on the line.

“Yo!”

I picked up my phone. “I’ve got to go.”

“You really figured out who snatched that little girl?” Harry sounded as excited as I felt.

“I can’t talk to you now.”

“Look, I know you’re mad. I was thoughtless. Let me do something to make amends.”

“I’m going to hang up now.”

“I want to help. Please. Wait. I know. I can go there and keep an eye on the place—”

“No!” It came out more of a shriek than I’d planned. Or not.

“I won’t do anything.”

“Absolutely not.”

Ryan was throwing me questioning glances.

“I’m not stupid, Tempe. I won’t go ringing this guy Malo’s bell. I’ll just keep him in my sights until you and Monsieur Marvelous land.”

“Harry, listen to me.” I forced calm into my voice. “Do not go anywhere near that house. This guy is deadly. He is no one to play around with.”

“I’ll make you proud, big sister.”

I was listening to dead air.

“Holy mother of God!” I hit Redial.

“What?” Ryan asked.

“Harry’s going to stake out Malo’s place.”

“Stop her.”

Harry’s phone rang and rang, then went to voice mail.

“She’s not picking up. God, Ryan. If we’re right about Malo, the guy’s a monster. He’ll kill Harry without breaking a sweat.”

“Call her again.”

I did. Voice mail.

“She’ll never find Malo’s place,” Ryan said.

“She has GPS on her phone.”

Ryan’s eyes met mine.

“Reach in back and hand me that LED.”

Unclasping my belt, I swiveled and lifted a portable strobe from the floor.

“Clip it onto your sun visor.”

I secured the light with its Velcro straps.

“Plug the cord into the lighter.”

I did.

Ryan flipped the high beams to alternating flash.

“Lower the visor and flick that switch.”

I did. The LED started pulsating red.

Ryan hit the siren and mashed pedal to metal.