"Holy shit, Aunt Tempe. Who did you piss off?"
Chapter 15
The eyeball rested on the bottom of the jar, pupil up, tendrils of flesh floating in the cloudy liquid. The organ was blanched and partially collapsed, and one side appeared to have a jagged tear. Though lightly sealed, the container gave off a familiar scent. A folded paper was stuck to its bottom.
Kit reached over and pulled off the note.
"On te surveil1e." The French sounded odd with his Texas drawl. "What does that mean, Aunt Tempe?"
"We're watching you.
With shaky hands I returned the jar and note to the mailer and placed it on the floor of the backseat. The smell of formaldehyde seemed overwhelming. I knew the odor was in my mind, but that did little to allay my nausea. Fighting to bring my gag reflex back under control, I wiped damp palms on my pants and put the car in gear.
"Think it's a joke?" Kit asked as we turned onto boulevard hedes-Sceurs.
"I don't know" My voice sounded high-pitched.
Sensing my mood, he didn't press the point.
Once home, I wrapped the jar in a series of plastic sacks and sealed it in a Tupperware canister. Then I cleaned out the vegetable drawer and placed it in the refrigerator
Kit watched in silence, a puzzled expression on his face. "I'll take it to the lab on Monday," I explained. "It's a real eye, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"Think it's a joke?" He repeated his earlier question.
"Probably." I didn't believe that, but had no desire to alarm him. "I get the feeling I shouldn't ask, but, if it's a joke, why take it to the lab?"
"Maybe it will give the merry pranksters a little scare," I said, trying to sound casual, then I hugged him. "Now, I'm off to bed. Tomorrow we'll find something fun to do."
"That's cool. Mind if I listen to some music?"
"Be my guest."
When Kit's door closed I double-checked the locks on the doors and windows, and made sure the security system was functioning. I resisted the urge to check for lurkers in my closet or under the bed.
Kit's musical choice was Black Sabbath. He played it until two fifteen.
I lay in bed for a long time listening to the thud of heavy metal, wondering if it qualified as music, wondering how many calls I'd receive from the neighbors, and wondering who felt strongly enough about sending me a message to underscore it with a human eye.
Though I'd showered for twenty minutes, the smell of formaldehyde remained lodged in my brain. I fell asleep queasy, with goose bumps still prickling my flesh. I slept late the next morning. When I woke, still tired from having started awake repeatedly throughout the night, my thoughts turned at once to the thing in my produce crisper. Who? Why? Was it work-related? Was there a sicko in the neighborhood? Who was watching me?
I pushed the questions into the deep background, resolving to address them on Monday In the meantime, I would be extra-vigilant. I checked my Mace, then the direct-dial buttons on the phones and security box to make sure they were set to 911.
The sun shone brightly and the thermometer on my patio said five degrees Celsius. Forty Fahrenheit at 10A.M. It was going to be a Canadian scorcher.
Knowing the diurnal rhythm of teenagers I didn't expect to see Kit before noon, so I threw on my gear and hiked to the gym. I walked with more caution than usual, skin prickling with tension, eyes alert for anyone or anything suspicious.
After working out I picked up bagels and cream cheese, and a few goodies to go on top of the cream cheese. I also made an impulse buy at the flower cart. Birdie had largely abandoned me since Kit's arrival, so I'd lure back his affection with a catnip plant.
Neither the bagels nor the catnip were very effective. My nephew appeared around one-fifteen, the cat trailing languidly behind.
"Utter no sentence that includes the phrase 'early bird,' or 'dawn,"' said Kit.
"Bagel?"
"Acceptable."
"Cream cheese, smoked salmon, lemon, onions, capers?"
"Delete capers. Run program.
Birdie eyed the catnip but said nothing.
As Kit ate, I laid out the options.
"It's a gorgeous day out there. I suggest outdoor activities."
"Agreed."
"We can take in the Jardin Botanique, prowl around up on the mountain, or I can scare up some bicycles and we can hit the old port, or pedal the path along the Lachine Canal."
"Do they allow skates?"
"Skates?"
"Rollerblades. Can we rent some in-lines and do this bike path?"
"I think so." Oh boy.
"I'll bet you're a popper on Rollerblades. Harry's pretty good."
"Um. Huh. Why do you call your mom Harry?"
I'd always been curious. Since he first started speaking, Kit had referred to his mother by name.
"I don't know. She's not exactly Little House on the Prairie."
"But you've done it since you were two years old."
"She wasn't domestic back then. Don't change the subject. Are you up for in-line skating?"
"Sure."
"You're a can o' corn, Aunt Tempe. Let me grab a shower and we re on our way
It was close to a perfect day I started out rocky but quickly picked up the rhythm, and was soon gliding along as if born on skates. It brought back memories of roller-skating on city sidewalks as a little girl and the several times I had almost hit pedestrians or skated into the paths of cars. The sunshine brought out swarms of jocks, crowding the path with cyclists, skateboarders, and other in-line skaters. Though shaky on turns, I learned to maneuver well enough to avoid coilisions. The only skill I didn't master was that of the sudden stop. Drag brakes for skates had not been invented when I was a kid.
By the end of the afternoon I was sailing along smooth as Black Magic I in the America's Cup. Or shit through a mallard, as Kit put it. I did insist, however, on wearing enough padding to defend an NHL goal.
It was after five when we turned in the skates and pads and headed to Chez Singapore for an Asian dinner Then we rented The Pink Panther and A Shot in the Dark and laughed as Inspector Clouseau demonstrated how one could he both part of the solution and part of the problem. The movies were Kit's choice. He said the French immersion would acclimatize him to Montreal.
Not until I lay in my bed, tired and achy and full of popcorn, did I even remember the eye. I tossed and turned, trying not to picture the object in my refrigerator and the evil person who put it on my car.
Monday was still warm, but dark clouds had gathered over the city They hung lox~ trapping a loose fog close to the ground, and forcing drivers to use headlights.
Arriving at work, I took the jar to the biology section and made a request. I didn't explain the source of the specimen, and they didn't ask. We gave the sample an unregistered number, and the technician said she'd call with results.
I had a suspicion about the eye's origin, which I hoped was wrong. The implications were just too frightening. I held on to the note, pending the analysis.
The morning meeting was relatively brief. The owner of a Volvo dealership was found hanged in his garage, a suicide note pinned to his chest. A single-engine plane had gone down in St-Hubert. A woman had been pushed from the Vendome metro platform.
Nothing for me.
Back in my office, I logged on to my terminal. Using anthropologie, squelette, inconnue, fernelle, and partiel as my descriptors, I searched the database for cases consisting of unidentified partial female skeletons. The computer came up with twenty-six LML numbers spanning the past ten years.
Using that list, I asked for all cases lacking a skull. That worked for remains received since I'd been at the LML. Prior to that, complete bone inventories hadn't been done. Skeletal cases were simply designated partial or complete. I highlighted the cases recorded as partial.