HOEVER USED RUE BERGER HAD KILLED GABBY. THE GLOVES matched. The strong probability was that Tanguay was not that person. His teeth had not bitten the cheese. St. Jacques was not Tanguay.

“Who the hell are you?” I asked, my voice raspy in the silence of my empty home. Fears for Katy erupted full force. Why hadn’t she called?

I tried Ryan at home. No answer. I tried Bertrand. He’d gone. I tried the task force room. No one.

I went to the yard and peeked through the fence at the pizza parlor across the street. The alley was empty. The surveillance team had been pulled. I was on my own.

I ran through my options. What could I do? Not much. I couldn’t leave. I had to be here if Katy came back. When Katy came back.

I looked at the clock—7:10 P.M. The files. Back to the files. What else could I do from inside these walls? My refuge had become my prison.

I changed clothes and went to the kitchen. Though my head was swimming, I took no medication. My mind was dull enough without sedation. I’d blast the germs with vitamin C. I got a can of frozen orange juice from the freezer and dug for the opener. Damn. Where is it? Too impatient to look for long, I grabbed a steak knife and sawed the top of the cardboard can to remove the metal lid. Pitcher. Water. Stir. You can do it. Clean up the mess later.

Moments later I was settled on the couch, tightly quilted, tissues and juice within arm’s reach. I played with my eyebrow to hold my nerves together.

Damas. I descended into the file, revisiting names, places, and dates I’d visited before. The Monastère St. Bernard. Nikos Damas. Father Poirier.

Bertrand had done a follow-up on Poirier. I reread it, my mind resisting concentration. The good father checked out. I reviewed the original interview, looking for other names to chase after, like clues in a road rally scavenger hunt. Next I’d rehash dates.

Who was the caretaker? Roy. Emile Roy. I dug for his statement.

It wasn’t there. I went through everything in the jacket. Nothing. Surely someone had talked to him. I couldn’t recall seeing the report. Why wasn’t it here?

I sat for a moment, the friction of my breath the only sound in my universe. The pre-idea sensation was back, like an aura presaging a migraine. The sense that I was missing something was stronger than ever, but the elusive fact would not come into focus.

I went back to Poirier’s statement. Roy tends the building and grounds. Fixes the furnace, shovels the snow.

Shovels snow? At age eighty? Why not? George Burns could do it. Past images drifted into my mind. I thought of the apparition I’d had, alone in the car, Grace Damas’s bones lying behind me in the rain-soaked woods.

I thought of my other dream that night. The rats. Pete. Isabelle Gagnon’s head. Her grave. The priest. What had he said? Only those who worked for the church could enter its gates.

Could that be it? Is that how he got onto the grounds of the monastery and Le Grand Séminaire? Is our killer someone who works for the church?

Roy!

Right, Brennan, an eighty-year-old serial killer.

Should I wait to hear from Ryan? Where the hell is he? I pulled out the phone book with trembling hands. If I can find the caretaker’s number, I’ll call.

There was one E. Roy listed in St. Lambert.

“Oui.” A gravelly voice.

Be careful. Take your time.

“Monsieur Emile Roy?”

“Oui.”

I explained who I was and why I was calling. Yes, I had the right Emile Roy. I asked about his duties at the monastery. For a long time he said nothing. I could hear him wheezing, the breath drawing in and out like air through a blowhole. Finally:

“I don’t want to lose my job. I take good care of the place.”

“Yes. Do you do it by yourself?”

I heard his breath catch, as though a pebble had clogged the blowhole.

“I just need a little help from time to time. It don’t cost them nothing more. I pay for it myself, out of my wages.” He was almost whining.

“Who helps you, Monsieur Roy?”

“My nephew. He’s a good boy. Mostly he does the snow. I was going to tell Father, but...”

“What’s your nephew’s name?

“Leo. He’s not going to get in no trouble, is he? He’s a good boy.”

The receiver felt slick in my palm.

“Leo what?”

“Fortier. Leo Fortier. He’s my sister’s grandson.”

His voice receded. I was pouring sweat. I said the necessary things and hung up, my mind flailing, my heart racing.

Calm down. It could be a coincidence. Being a caretaker and a part-time butcher’s helper doesn’t make one a killer. Think.

I looked at the clock and reached for the phone. Come on. Be there.

She picked up on the fourth ring.

“Lucie Dumont.”

Yes!

“Lucie, I can’t believe you’re still there.”

“I had some trouble with a program file. I was just leaving.”

“There’s something I need, Lucie. It’s extremely important. You may be the only one who can get it for me.”

“Yes?”

“I want you to run a check on someone. Do whatever it is you do to pull up everything there is on this guy. Can you do that?”

“It’s late and I wa—”

“This is critical, Lucie. My daughter may be in danger. I really need this!”

I made no attempt to hide the desperation in my voice.

“I can link through to the SQ files and see if he’s there. I have clearance. What do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

“What can you give me?”

“Just a name.”

“Anything else?”

“No.”

“Who is it?”

“Fortier. Leo Fortier.”

“I’ll call you back. Where are you?”

I gave her the number and hung up.

I paced the apartment, crazy with fear for Katy. Was it Fortier? Had his psychotic rage fixed on me because I had thwarted him? Had he killed my friend to vent this rage? Did he plan the same for me? For my daughter? How did he know about my daughter? Had he stolen the photo of Katy and me from Gabby?

The cold, numbing fear went deep into my soul. I had the worst thoughts I’ve ever known. I pictured Gabby’s last moments, imagined what she must have felt. The phone exploded into my train of thought.

“Yes!”

“It’s Lucie Dumont.”

“Yes.” My heart was pounding so hard I thought she might hear it.

“Do you know how old your Leo Fortier is?”

“Uh... thirty, forty.”

“I came up with two; one has a date of birth 2/9/62, so he’d be about thirty-two. The other was born 4/21/16, so he’d be, what... seventy-eight.”

“Thirty-two,” I said.

“That’s what I thought, so I ran him. He’s got a big jacket. Goes back to juvenile court. No felonies, but a string of misdemeanor problems and psychiatric referrals.”

“What kind of problems.”

“Caught for voyeurism at age thirteen.” I could hear her fingers clicking on the keyboard “Vandalism. Truancy. There was an incident when he was fifteen. Kidnapped a girl and kept her for eighteen hours. No charges. You want it all?”

“What about recent things?”

Click. Clickety. Click. I could picture her leaning into the monitor, her pink lenses bouncing back the green glow.

“The most recent entry is 1988. Arrested for assault. Looks like a relative, victim has the same name. No jail time. Did six months in Pinel.”

“When did he get out?”

“The exact date?”

“Do you have it?”

“Looks like November 12, 1988.”

Constance Pitre died in December of 1988. The room was hot. My body was slick with sweat.

“Does the file list the name of his attending psychiatrist at Pinel?”

“There’s reference to a Dr. M. C. LaPerrière. Doesn’t say who he is.”

“Is his number there?”

She gave it to me.

“Where is Fortier now?”

“The file ends in 1988. You want that address?”

“Yes.”

I was on the verge of tears as I punched in a number and listened to a phone ring on the far northern end of the island of Montreal. Composer, they say in French. Composer le numéro. Compose yourself, Brennan. I tried to think what to say.

“L’hôpital Pinel. Puis-je vous aider?” A female voice.

“Dr. LaPerrière, s’il vous plaît.” Please let him still work there.

“Un instant, s’il vous plaît.”

Yes! He was still on staff. I was put on hold, then led through the same ritual by a second female voice.

“Qui est sur la ligne, s’il vous plaît?”

“Dr. Brennan.”

The sound of more empty air. Then.

“Dr. LaPerrière.” A female voice, this one sounding tired and impatient.

“I’m Dr. Temperance Brennan,” I said, fighting to keep the tremor from my voice, “forensic anthropologist at the Laboratoire de Médecine Légale, and I’m involved in the investigation of a series of murders which have taken place over the past several years in the Montreal area. We have reason to believe one of your former patients may be involved.”

“Yes.” Wary.

I explained about the task force, and asked what she could tell me about Leo Fortier.

“Dr.... Brennan, is it? Dr. Brennan, you know I can’t discuss a patient file on the basis of a phone call. Without court authorization, that would be a breach of confidentiality.”

Stay cool. You knew that would be the response.

“Of course. And that authorization will be forthcoming, but we are in an urgent situation, Doctor, and we cannot delay in speaking with you. And at this point that authorization really isn’t necessary. Women are dying, Dr. LaPerrière. They’re being brutally murdered and disfigured. The individual doing this is capable of extreme violence. He mutilates his victims. We think he’s someone with tremendous rage against women, and someone with enough intelligence to plan and carry out these killings. And we think he’ll strike again soon.” I swallowed, my mouth dry from fear. “Leo Fortier is a suspect, and we need to know whether, in your opinion, there is anything in Fortier’s history to suggest he could fit this profile? The paperwork for production of his records will catch up, but if you have a recollection of this patient, information you provide now may help us stop the killer before he strikes again.”

I had wrapped another quilt around myself, this one a blanket of icy calm. I could not let her hear the fear in my voice.

“I simply cannot...”

My blanket was slipping.

“I have a child, Dr. LaPerrière? Do you?”

“What?” Affront vied with the weariness.

“Chantale Trottier was sixteen years old. He beat her to death, then cut her up and left her in a dump.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Though I’d never met Marie Claude LaPerrière, her voice painted a vivid scene, a triptych done in metal gray, institutional green, and dirty brick.

I could picture her: middle-aged, disillusionment etched deeply in her face. She worked for a system in which she’d long ago lost faith, a system unable to understand, much less curb, the cruelty of a society gone mad on its fringes. The gang bang victims. The teenagers with vacant eyes and bleeding wrists. The babies, scalded and scarred by cigarette burns. The fetuses floating in bloody toilet bowls. The old, starved and tethered in their own excrement. The women with their battered faces and pleading eyes. Once, she’d believed she could make a difference. Experience had convinced her otherwise.

But she’d taken an oath. To what? For whom? The dilemma was now as familiar to her as her idealism had once been. I heard her take a deep breath.

“Leo Fortier was committed for a six-month period in 1988. During that time I was his attending psychiatrist.”

“Do you remember him?”

“Yes.”

I waited, heart pounding. I heard her click a lighter open and shut, then breathe deeply.

“Leo Fortier came to Pinel because he beat his grandmother with a lamp.” She spoke in short sentences, treading carefully. “The old woman needed over a hundred stitches. She refused to press charges against her grandson. When Fortier’s period of involuntary commitment ended, I recommended continued treatment. He refused.”

She paused to select just the right words.

“Leo Fortier watched his mother die while his grandmother stood by. Grandma then raised him, engendering in him an extremely negative self-image that resulted in an inability to form appropriate social relationships.

“Leo’s grandmother punished him excessively, but protected him from the consequences of his acts outside the home. By the time Leo was a teen, his activities suggest he was suffering severe cognitive distortion along with an overwhelming need to control. He’d developed an excessive sense of entitlement, and exhibited intense narcissistic rage when thwarted.

“Leo’s need to control, his repressed love and hatred toward his grandmother, and his increasing social isolation led him to spend more and more time in his own fantasy world. He had also developed all the classic defense mechanisms. Denial, repression, projection. Emotionally and socially, he was extremely immature.”

“Do you think he is capable of the behavior I have described?” I was surprised at how steady my voice sounded. Inside I was churning, terrified for my daughter.

“At the time I worked with Leo his fantasies were fixed and definitely negative. Many involved violent sexual behaviors.”

She paused and I heard another deep breath.

“In my opinion, Leo Fortier is a very dangerous man.”

“Do you know where he lives now?” This time my voice trembled.

“I have had no contact with him since his release.”

I was about to say good-bye when I thought of another question. “How did Leo’s mother die?”

“At the hands of an abortionist,” she answered.

When I hung up, my mind was racing. I had a name. Leo Fortier worked with Grace Damas, had access to church properties, and was extremely dangerous. Now what?

I heard a soft rumble and noticed that the room had turned purple. I opened the French doors and looked out. Heavy clouds had gathered over the city, casting the evening into premature darkness. The wind had shifted and the air was dense with the smell of rain. Already the cypress was whipping to and fro, and leaves were dancing along the ground.

One of my earliest cases unexpectedly came to mind. Nellie Adams, five years old, missing. I’d heard it on the news. There had been a violent thunderstorm the day she was reported missing. I’d thought of her that night from the safety of my bed. Was she out there, alone and terrified in that storm? Six weeks later I’d identified her from a skull and rib fragments.

Please, Katy! Please come back now!

Stop it! Call Ryan.

Lightning flickered on the wall. I latched the doors shut and walked over to a lamp. Nothing. The timer, Brennan. It’s set for eight. It’s still too early.

I slid my hand behind the couch and flicked the timer button. Nothing. I tried the wall switch. Nothing. I felt my way along the wall and rounded the corner into the kitchen. The lights would not respond. With growing alarm, I stumbled down the hall and into the bedroom. The clock was dark. No power. I stood for a moment, my mind grasping at explanations. Had there been a lightning strike? Had the wind felled branches onto a feeder line?

I realized the apartment was unnaturally quiet, and closed my eyes to listen. A mélange of sounds filled the vacuum left by stilled appliances. The storm outside. My own heartbeat. And then, something else. A faint click. A door closing? Birdie? Where was it? The other bedroom?

I crossed to the bedroom window. Lights glowed along the street and from the apartments on De Maisonneuve. I ran back down the hall to the courtyard doors. I could see the lights in my neighbors’ windows gleaming through the rain. It was just me! Only my power was off! Then I remembered: the safety alarm had not beeped when I opened the French doors. I had no security system!

I jumped for the telephone.

The line was dead.