"Can you bring that guy's face up?"
"The one on the bike?"
"Yeah."
"It will blur as I enlarge it."
"Try"
I did, then went through the same manipulations I'd performed with Claudel. As lines and shadows shifted, congealing pixels into recognizable features, then reordering them into meaningless patterns of color and shape, I gradually realized what my nephew had spotted.
In twenty minutes I'd done what I could do. During that time we had not spoken. I broke the silence.
"What made you recognize him?"
"I'm not sure. Maybe the jaw. Maybe the nose. It grabbed me as I was pointing out the snake's head. Before that I hadn't even noticed the rider"
We stared at the man on the marvelous hog. And he looked into space, intent on a happening Jong since past.
"Did he ever mention riding with the Angels?"
"He's not wearing colors."
"Did he, Kit?"
My nephew sighed.
"No."
"Does he hang with them now?"
"Oh, please. You've seen the guy."
Yes. I'd seen the guy On a country road in St-Basile-le-Grand. Across a dinner table. On the late-night news. And in my own home.
The man on the bike was Lyle Crease.
Chapter 34
Words and images flashed in my brain, Pascal's face in neon and shadow George Dorsey mumbling my name to a paramedic. A glossy eyeball.
"…are you going to do?" Kit asked.
"Call Lsabelle, then go to bed." I closed down the program and slid the CD into its holder.
"That's it?"
"That's it."
Sometimes when thoughts are ricocheting inside my head, the best strategy is to lay back and let them find their own patterns.
'Aren't you curious?"
"Very And I will find out if Crease has ties to the Hells Angels. But not tonight."
"I could ask around."
"That is precisely what you will not do," I snapped. "He could be a dangerous man with dangerous friends."
Kit's face froze. Then his eyes dropped and he turned away.
"Whatever" He shrugged.
I waited for the click of his bedroom door, then dialed Isabelle's number. She answered after four rings, sounding slightly out of breath.
"Mon Dieu, I was buried in the back of the closet. I've misplaced my Vuitton overnighter and can't imagine where it is. And, really, nothing else will do."
"Isabelle, I need some information."
My tone suggested I was not in the mood for a luggage discussion.
"0th?"
"I'd like to know about Lyle Crease."
"Ahhh, Tempe, you little pixie. I knew you would change your mind."
Like hell. "Tell me about hint"
"He's cute, eh?"
As a mealworm, I thought, but said nothing.
"And you know he is an investigative reporter with CTV Very glamorous."
"How long has he done that?"
"How long?"
"Yes. How long?"
"Mon Dieu, forever."
"How many years?"
"Well, I'm not sure. But he's been on the air as long as I can remember."
"What did he do before that?"
"Before that?"
"Yes. Before CTV" This was harder than questioning George Dorsey.
"Let me think." I heard a soft ticking, and pictured lacquered nails tapping the handset. "I know the answer to this, Tempe, because Véronique told me. Véronique hosts a talk show on RadioCanada now, interviews celebrities, but she started out doing the weather at CTV Do you know her?"
"No." My left eye was beginning to throb.
"She dated Lyle briefly"
"I'm sure I've seen her."
"I think she told me Lyle was hired away from an American newspaper No. Wait, this is coming back to me." Tick. Tick. Tick. "It was a paper somewhere out west. Alberta, I think. But originally he comes from the States. Or maybe he went to school down there."
"Do you know which state?"
"Somewhere in the South, I think. You should like that."
"When did he come to Canada?"
"Oh my goodness, I have no idea."
"Where does he live?"
"Off the island, I think. Or maybe downtown."
"Does he have family here?"
"Sorry."
"How well do you know LyJe Crease?"
"I am not his confidante, Tempe." Her tone was becoming defensive.
"But you tried to pair me up with him!" I tried to keep my voice neutral but the irritation curled around the edges.
"You needn't put it like that. The gentleman asked to meet you, and I saw no reason to refuse. It's not as though your love life has been bountiful this year"
"Hold it. Back up. It was Crease's idea that we meet?"
"Yes." Guarded.
"When was this?"
"I don't know, Tempe. I ran into him at L'Express, you know, that bistro on rue St-Denis th-"
"Yes."
"Lyle saw your picture in the paper and was absolutely smitten. Or so he said, though not in those exact words. Anyway, we were talking, and one thing led to another, and before I could help myself I'd invited him to dinner."
Tick. Tick.
"And really, he wasn't so bad. In fact, he was quite charming." "Urn." So was Ted Bundy.
For a few moments no one spoke.
"Are you angry with me, Tempe?"
"No, I'm not angry.
"I'll see what I can find out. I'll phone Véronique an- "No. Never mind. It's not important."
The last thing I needed was an aiert to Lyle Crease. "I was just curious. Have a good trip, Isabelle." "Merci. Where do you suppose that overnighter has gone?" "Try your storage locker" 'Bonne idee. Bonsoir, Tempe."
When we disconnected, I realized I hadn't asked where she was going.
An hour later the mental commingling began. As I lay in bed, trying to block out Kit's music, images, facts, and questions floated to the surface then sank into the deep, like tropical fish in a subliminal tank.
Image. Lyle Crease pouring wine.
Fact. Crease had finagled the introduction. He was at St-Basilele-Grand and knew about the skeletons, and had seen the article in the Gazette, before Isabelle's dinner party.
Questions. Why did he want to meet me? Was his request linked to the discovery of the burials? Was he simply looking for an inside scoop, or did he have other reasons for wanting information?
Image. A young Lyle Crease on a chopped hog.
Fact. Crease had ties to the Southern states.
Questions. What was Crease doing with the homeboys? Had he stolen the Silvestre funeral photo from me? If so, why? Could his past somehow endanger him now? Whom did he fear?
Image. A hyena redneck lumbering up my block.
Fact. Besides initial fear, the man had triggered something in my psyche.
Questions. Had Kit been lying when I asked about visitors? Why? Who was the goon in the baseball cap? Why did the man provoke such a strong reaction in me?
Image. LaManche on tubes and life support.
Fact. The pathologist was in his sixties and had never taken time for exercise or a proper diet.
Questions. Would he survive? Would he ever return to work?
Image. Ryan slouching on a barroom stool.
Fact. He was undercover, and hadn't gone over
Questions. Had his actions on my behalf jeopardized his cover? Was he in danger? Had I contributed to that?
These musings mingled with more mundane considerations. How to relocate Kit to Houston. Birdie's overdue vaccinations. The cavity. Hair growth.
But underlying all my thoughts was the nagging signal from my subconscious, unrelenting, yet out of reach. The redneck in the baseball cap. I tossed and turned, frustrated that my psyche was beaming a message I could not decipher.