"Let me help with that."
I handed him the glass, and he settled into his pillows, closing his lips around the straw
"How's the breathing?"
"O.K." He rested the glass on his chest.
The bullet intended for Crease had caught Kit at a high angle. It fractured two ribs, nicked a lung, and exited through muscle. A complete recovery was expected.
"Have they busted these sons of bitches yet?"
I turned to my sister. She sat in a corner chair, her long legs braided like a Chinese contortionist s.
"The getaway cycle got away. The guy who survived the Jeep crash has been charged with attempted murder, among other things. He's cooperating with the police."
"Tempe, if I get my
"Harm do you think you could ask the nurse for another vase?"
"I get it. Time for an auntie-nephie chat. I'll scoot for a nicotine hit." She gathered her purse, kissed her son on the top of the head, and stepped into the corridor, leaving behind a trail of Cristalle.
Perching on the side of the bed, I squeezed Kit's hand. It felt cool and pliant.
"Acey, peachy?"
"It's a drag, Aunt Tempe. Every five minutes some nurse sticks me with a needle or shoves a thermometer up my butt. And we're not talking 'Hot Lips' Houlihan here. These women feed on small furry things."
"Uh-huh."
"And they're saying I have to stay another two or three days." "The doctors want to be sure that lung won't collapse again." He hesitated, then, "What was the count?"
"In addition to you and Crease, two family members were wounded, and three Heathens and Rock Machine bikers were killed. Of the attackers, one got away, one was killed, two died in a crash, and one was captured. It was a bloodbath the likes of which has seldom been seen in Canada."
He dropped his eyes and picked at the blanket with his free hand.
"How's he doing.
"He'll make it. But he's about to be charged with the Cherokee Desiardins murder"
"I know Lyle didn't kill that guy. He couldn't." "He tried to sacrifice you to protect himself." Kit said nothing.
"And he was using you to get information.~~
"He may have done that, but he would never murder anyone.
I pictured the skull and crossbones, but said nothing to contradict him.
"Why did he bring you to that funeral?"
"He didn't want to, but I was crazy to see the bikes. I told him I'd go on my own if he didn't take me. Hell, except for going to that cycle shop, Lyle didn't even hang around with those guys. When we went there he tried to look cool, but I could tell nobody really knew him."
I remembered my conversation with Charbonneau, and our initial suspicion that Crease had been a double agent. In retrospect the idea seemed ludicrous. It was ironic, however, that my worry for Kit had been based on fear of his involvement with bikers. I should have worried about Lyle Crease.
Kit worked a thread loose with his finger
"Look, Aunt Tempe, I'm sorry for all the grief I've caused you."
He swallowed, doubled back on his finger with the thread.
"The Preacher and those other guys are losers who can't even get it together to buy their own wheels."
I'd already learned this from Claudel, but let him go on.
"I let you think they were big-ass bikers to make myself look cool. Instead I almost got you killed."
"Kit, who was the man outside my condo?"
"I really, honestly don't know He was probably some goof just passing by." A grin teased the corners of his mouth. "Maybe he was applying for a job at the place that cut your hair."
I gently punched his good shoulder. This time I believed him.
"Hey, careful with the rough stuff. I'm an invalid."
He took a sip of juice and handed me the glass.
"What about that eyeball?"
"The police think the Vipers put it on my car to discourage further interest in their history."
A pause. On-screen, a man mouthed the news while stock prices ticked by below
"I think I'm going to look into school when I get back home. Try a few courses. See how it goes."
"I think that's a wonderful idea, Kit."
"You must think I'm about as dumb as a largemouth bass."
"Maybe a perch."
"I hope you don't give up on me.
"Never"
Embarrassed, he changed the subject.
"How's your boss?"
"Much better. He's starting to give the nurses a hard time.
"I'm with him there. And Ryan?"
"Don't push it, fish brain."
"How long do you think he'll be moonin' around here, expecting flowers and caramel clusters?" Harry stood in the doorway, a smile on her lips, a vase in her hand. Both were the same geranium red.
Leaving the hospital, I drove home, had dinner with Birdie, and began a series of household tasks. A return to normalcy by immersion in the mundane. That was the plan and it was working.
Until the doorbell chirped.
Dumping an armload of dirty sweaters, I glanced at my watch. Eight-fifteen. Too early for Harry.
Curious, I went to check the security screen.
What the hell?
Sergeant-Detective Luc Claudel stood in my vestibule, hands clasped behind his back, weight shifting from the heels to the balls of his feet.
"So much for normalcy," I muttered as I buzzed him in.
"Bonsoir, Monsieur Claudel."
"Bonsoir. I apologize for disturbing you at your home, but there has been a development." His jaw tensed, as though what he had to say was pushing him to the limits of civility. "I thought that you should know"
Courtesy from Claudel? In English? What now?
Birdie did a figure eight around my ankles, but offered no conjecture.
I stepped back and gestured the detective inside. He entered and waited stiffly as I closed the door, then followed me to the living room sofa. Settling into the armchair opposite, I remembered my conversation with Ryan's partner, Jean Bertrand, and the thought of Ryan brought the usual stomach clutch.
God, please let him be safe!
I pushed the thought aside and waited for Claudel to speak.
He cleared his throat and looked away from me.
"You were right about George Dorsey. He did not kill Cherokee Desjardins."
There was a revelation.
"Nor did Lyle Crease."
I stared at him, too surprised to respond.
"Shortly before her death Jocelyn Dion mailed a letter to her mother giving information about a number of illegal biker activities. Among the subjects discussed were the shooting of Emily Anne Toussaint and Richard 'Spider' Marcotte, and the murder of Cherokee Desjardins."
"Why did she do that?"
"Her motives were complex. First and foremost, she feared for her own life and felt the letter might confer protection. In addition, she was angry over Dorsey's murder, which, by the way, was ordered by his own gang. Jocelyn Dion was living with George Dorsey at the time of his death."
I felt heat climb the sides of my neck, but did not let on what Jocelyn had said about Dorsey's death.
"Was Dorsey killed because he spoke with me?" Claudel ignored the question.
"Dion also felt remorse for certain of her own actions, including the killing of Cherokee Desjardins."
"What?" I blurted in astonishment.
"That is correct. Jocelyn Dion killed Desjardins."
"But Jocelyn told me she heard Crease bludgeon and shoot him." "It seems your clerk was somewhat economical with the truth." He tented his fingers under his chin.
"According to the young lady's letter, she'd gone to Deslardins for drugs when Crease showed up, wanting the infamous barroom photo. The men argued, Crease knocked Cherokee unconscious with a pipe, then began ransacking the apartment. Hearing noises in the bedroom, he panicked and fled.