"Right. Nasal spray.
The other remark was made in the ballistics section. He called their collection of firearms "sweet."
When Kit had gone I went back to the stowaway By four-thirty I'd finished my preliminary examination, concluding that the remains were those of a male in his late twenties. I'd dissected out the bones and sent them upstairs for boiling. Then I'd washed up, changed, and returned to my office.
I was reaching for my sweater when I noticed a color print centered squarely on my blotter
Oh, great, I thought. Here's something new. I haven't scoped a photo in at least two hours.
I reached for the picture, thinking that perhaps it belonged to Claudel.
It didn't.
Though the snapshot was old, and a network of cracks marred its surface, the color and focus were relatively good. It was a group shot, taken in a camping or picnic area. In the foreground a crowd of men and women milled around wooden tables jammed together to form a U. The earth was littered with empty cans and bottles, the tables heaped with backpacks, coolers, bundles, and paper bags. Loblolly pines rose in the background, truncated by the picture's upper border.
One large bag lay upright against a table leg, its print square to the camera lens. The logo caught my attention.
"-ggly Wiggly."
I flipped to the back of the print. Nothing.
I rehung the sweater, dug out a magnifying glass, and sat down to examine the image. Within seconds I found confirmation on a gorilbid oaf in denim vest and fingerless leather gloves. An arm wider than a state highway reached across his chest, displaying swastika, lightning bolts, and the poetic acronym "ET.W" While Kong's upper limb obliterated part of his T-shirt, the bottom words were fully legible.
"Myrtle Beach."
Barely breathing, I began a close inspection of the persons pictured. Slowly I worked the lens across the image, checking each face as it took form.
Within seconds I found her. Half hidden in a sea of caps and bushy heads, a frail figure leaned against a tree, little twig arms wrapped around her waist. Her head was tipped, and a ray of sunlight flashed off one of the huge lenses dwarfing her features.
Savannah Claire Osprey
While I couldn't read her expression I could sense the tension in her body From what, I wondered. Excitement? Fear? Selfconsciousness?
I moved on.
The man to Savannah's right looked like a character from The Life and Death of Cormac the Skald. He had shoulder-length hair and a beard that hung to mid-chest. Cormac was caught with chin raised, a can of Miller pressed to his lips.
The companion on her other side was very tall, with short hair and scraggly beard and mustache. His face was obscured in shadow, making his belly the most conspicuous trait. It had the tone of a used Ace bandage, hanging in fleshy rolls over a large, oval belt buckle. On it I could see letters. I raised and lowered the lens trying to make out the message, but too much was obscured by paunch.
Frustrated, I slid the lens up the torso and studied the face, hoping something would click. No go. I dropped back to the buckle and brought my face close to the glass.
A random synaptic firing, and there it was. Back to the face. Could it be?
No, This man was much larger.
But maybe. I couldn't tell. I'd gotten there too late. Too much damage.
Yet, there was a resemblance.
Had George Dorsey known something after all?
Heart pounding, I reached for the phone.
Chapter 29
When Claudel answered I identified myself and dived right in.
"There's something I didn't tell you. Spider Marcotte wasn't the only one Dorsey mentioned. He claimed to have information about Savannah Osprey."
"The young girl we found in St-Basile-le-Grand?" "Yes. I think he may have been telling the truth." "Dorsey's trademark."
I ignored the sarcasm.
"Did you leave a picture on my desk?"
"No."
"Someone did. It's an old snapshsot taken at a biker gathering."
"Probably a prayer meeting."
"It looks like a picnic or camp-out." "Uh-huh."
I took a deep breath to steady my voice. "Savannah Osprey is there."
"She is?" His tone told me he didn't believe it. "Absolutely."
"What does that have to do with Dor-" "The picture was taken in Myrtle Beach." "How do you know?"
"At least one of the believers is wearing a Myrtle Beach T-shirt."
"My son has a Kansas City Chiefs' shirt."
"I know honeysuckle and kudzu when I see it. And I recognized a Piggly Wiggly logo on one of the grocery bags."
"What's a Piggly Wiggly?"
"It's a chain of supermarkets, with several in the Myrtle Beach area.
"Why would anyone call a supermarket Piggl-" 'And one of the picnickers may be Cherokee Desjardins." There was a moment of dead air.
"What makes you think that?"
"He's wearing a belt buckle that says 'Cherokee."' "What does the man look like?"
"Something Jack Hanna would keep on a chain and pacify with small chunks of meat," I spat. His skepticism was irritating me.
"I mean does the man in the buckle resemble Cherokee Desjardins?"
"His features aren't clear. Besides, I never got a look at Desjardins when he was wearing a face."
There was another moment of silence, then the sound of an exhaled breath.
"I'll get photos of Desjardins and come by in the morning."
"We can try enhancing the image."
"Set it up. But it will have to be quick. We're expecting difficulties because of the Dorsey murder, and the whole squad is on alert."
I drove home plagued by feelings of self-doubt.
I'd been fooied by Dorsey, and my naiveté had gotten him killed. What if the man in the photo wasn't Cherokee? Claudel obviously had reservations. If I was wrong he'd be even more convinced I was an idiot.
As I had been with regard to his Carcajou partner I'd entirely misread Quickwater. Had I also misjudged Ryan? My nephew?
Where had the picture on my desk come from? Why no note, no phone call? It had to be one of the detectives or lab people. No one else would have an opportunity to leave it there.
I steered and shifted robotically, barely noticing the traffic around me.
Should I make a surprise call on Ryan? Would he answer the door? Probably not. Ryan had cut himself off because he preferred it that way. But how could it be true? I still couldn't believe the man was a criminal.
Was Kit involved with the Bandidos? With drugs? Was he in danger? What had Dorsey been trying to say to the paramedic?
Was it possible Katy was in danger from the biker gangs thousands of miles away on a ship? Her last letter had come from Penang.
Who was I kidding? Dorsey had been killed while under armed guard in a provincial prison. If/es motards wanted you to be in danger, you were there.
"Dammit!" I slapped the steering wheel with the heel of my hand.
Ryan and Katy were out of my reach, but I could do something about my nephew. I vowed to have it out with Kit before the sun set.
Or rose, I thought, turning onto the ramp that led under my building. I had no idea how late he'd get in, but resolved to wait up.
It wasn't necessary.
"Hey, Auntie T," he greeted me when I entered the condo, as did the aroma of cumin and turmeric.
"Something smells good," I said, dropping my briefcase in the entrance hall.
My nephew and cat were sprawled on the sofa, surrounded by remnants of that morning's Gazette. The Sony PlayStation had been reattached to the TV and wires squiggled across the floor.
"I stopped by La Maison du Can. Figured it was my turn to cook."
He'd removed his earphones and draped them around his neck. I could hear the tinny sounds of the Grateful Dead.
"Great. What did you get?"
"Uno momento."
He swung his feet to the floor and tossed the headset onto the couch. Bird bolted at the sudden proximity to Jerry Garcia. Kit retrieved a receipt from the kitchen and read off nine items.
"Are you expecting your state legislature?"