"Did they ask you to arrange a meeting?"
"Yeah. They plan to take Crease out, and some Heathens, too.
"What does this have to do with my nephew?" My mouth was so dry I could hardly speak.
"Crease said not to try anything funny because he would have the kid with him."
I heard the rumble of a train far up the tunnel.
Again, the head shake. Her face looked hard in profile.
"This funeral's going to be one big snuff film, and your nephew could have a starring role."
I felt a change in air pressure as the train grew louder. Passengers on the far side moved toward the platform's edge.
Jocelyn's gaze froze on something across the tracks. The hooded eyes grew puzzled a moment, then widened in recognition. Her mouth opened.
"Lecom-!" she screamed, and her hand shot to the duffel's zipper.
The train thundered in.
Jocelyn's head flew backward, and a dark cumulus spread around it on the wall. I threw myself to the concrete, and covered my head with both hands.
Brakes shrilled, whooshed.
I tried to scramble behind the bench, under it, anywhere. It was bolted to the wall! There was nowhere to go!
Doors opened. Commuters both boarded and left the train.
On our side, screams. Faces turning. Bewilderment. Horror
The train barreled off.
Then the sounds changed. Panicked retreat. People running.
After a full minute with no more shots, I cautiously rose to my feet, bone and brain matter on my jacket. My stomach lurched and I tasted bile.
Voices. English. French. "Attention!"
"Sacrifice!"
"Call the police." "Elle est morte?"
"They're on the way "Mon Dieu."'
Confusion. A rush for the escalators.
Jocelyn's body twitched, and a thread of saliva trailed from the corner of her mouth. I could smell urine and feces, and see blood pooling on the bench and floor.
I had a vision of Cherokee. Others, fast, like flashbulbs. Gately Martineau. Savannah Osprey Emily Anne Toussaint.
I could not have stopped those deaths, nor had I done anything to bring them about. And I could do nothing for Jocelyn. But I would not allow my nephew to be the next casualty I would not permit that. Death dealt out by bikers would not happen. Not to Kit. Not to Harry. And not to me.
On rubbery legs I staggered to the escalators, rode to ground level, and was carried along by the crush of pedestrians distancing themselves from tragedy Already two cruisers blocked the entrance, doors open, lights flashing. Sirens foretold the arrival of others.
I should have stayed, given my story, and let the police handle the rest. I felt sick, and repulsed by the carnage we seemed powerless to stop. Fear for Kit twisted in my gut like a physical pain, overriding judgment and sense of duty
I broke from the crowd and ran.
Chapter 38
My hands still trembled as I let myself into my silent condo. I called out, not expecting an answer.
From my briefcase, I dug out the envelope Charbonneau had delivered from Roy. I scanned the protocol, checked my watch, and raced to the garage.
Though rush hour was tapering off, Centre-ville remained clogged. I crawled aiong, engine idling, heart racing, hands sweaty on the wheel, until I finally broke free, shot up the mountain, and pulled into a car park opposite Lac aux Castors.
The cemeteries sprawled along the uphill side of Chemin Remembrance, cities of the dead flowing toward the horizon. According to Roy's map, the Dorsey plot was just inside the perimeter fence, twenty yards from the south gate. The cortege would arrive from the east and enter the cemetery opposite where I sat.
I wiped my hands on my jeans and checked the time.
Soon.
Normally, early morning meant few people on the mountain, but today mourners lined the shoulder and stood along the drive leading through the gate. Others wandered among the trees and headstones inside the cemetery grounds. The ritual hypocrisy struck me as surreal. Heathens and Rock Machine, burying with great ceremony the comrade they themselves had killed.
Manned cruisers were parked on both sides of Remembrance, lights flashing, radios sputtering. I locked the car and ran across the road,slipping on new grass beginning to green the median. Hurrying along the shoulder, I inspected those milling about. Most were male, young, and white. I saw Charbonneau leaning on a squad car, but there was no sign of Crease or Kit.
A uniformed officer stopped me at the gate.
"Whoa, there. Slow down, madam. I'm sorry but there is a funeral expected shortly, and this entrance is closed. You'll have to move on.
He held out both arms, as if physical restraint might be necessary
"Dr. Temperance Brennan," I identified myself. "Carcajou."
His face crimped with suspicion. He was about to speak when a sharp whistle split the air, like someone calling a dog. We both turned.
Claudel stood on a knoll a short distance back from the Dorsey grave site. When he had our attention he gave a crisp come-on signal with one hand. The guard pointed to me, and Claudel nodded. With a disapproving look, he passed me through the gate.
The Mont-Royal cemeteries are strange and beautiful places, acres of elegant landscaping and ornate funerary architecture rising and falling across the curves of the mountain. Mont-Royal. The Jewish. Notre-Dame-des-Neiges.
The latter is for the Catholic dead. Some are buried with elaborate tombs and monuments, others with simple plaques and tenyear leases. Since the mid-nineteenth century over a million souls have been laid to rest within the cemetery's wrought-iron fence. The complex contains mausoleums, crematoria, columbaria, and interment sites for the more traditional.
There are sections for the Pohsh. The Vietnamese. The Greek. The French. The English. Visitors can obtain maps pinpointing the graves of Montreal's famous. The Dorsey family lay in the Iroie section, not far from Marie Travers, the thirties singer known as La Bolduc.
More relevant was the fact that today's burial would take place less than ten yards from Chemin Remembrance. Roy's advisers felt that if a hit was planned the cemetery was the most likely location. And the most difficult to secure.
I sprinted up the gravel path and scrambled uphill to join Claudel. His greeting was not warm.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?"
"Kit is with Crease and they're coming here," I panted.
"You just don't listen, do you, Ms. Brennan?" His eyes swept the crowd as he spoke. "There's already been one homicide today"
My mind flashed to the metro. Jocelyn, searching. Jocelyn, in agonal spasm.
"I was with her."
"What?" Claudel's eyes flew to my face, then dropped to the blood and brain matter on my jacket.
I told him.
"And you left the scene?"
"There was nothing I could do."
"I'm not going to point out the obvious."
"She was dead!" I snapped. Fear, anger, and guilt churned in my head, and his unfeeling attitude did nothing to calm me. A sob welled in my chest.
No. No tears!
At that moment his Carcajou partner appeared over the edge of the hillock. Quickwater approached Claudel, spoke in a low voice, and left without acknowledging my presence. In seconds he reappeared below, wove through a grouping of ornamental headstones, and positioned himself behind a pink granite obelisk.
"If I say dive, you take cover. No questions. No heroics. Do you understand?"
"Fine."
He did not resume our conversation.
That was fine, too. I recoiled from voicing my fear for Kit, afraid that shaping the threat into words might cause it to be realized. I would tell him later about Lecomte.
Five minutes passed. Ten. I scanned the bereaved. Business suits mixed with chains, swastikas, studs, and bandannas.
I heard the noise before I saw the procession. It started as a low rumble and grew to a roar as two police cruisers rounded the curve, then a hearse, limo, and a half-dozen cars. A phalanx of cycles followed, four abreast behind the cars, in twos and threes farther back. Soon the road was dense with bikes, and I could not see the end of the line.