"Yes, but-"

"Do you know a forensic linguist?"

"Yes, but-"

"Well enough to ask him to do a comparison?"

"I suppose."

Dropping both hands to the table, Harry leaned forward onto her forearms. "Evangeline and Obeline are both gone. That book is all we have left. Don't you want to know if Evangeline wrote it?"

"Of course I do, but-"

"And get Evangeline's name on record? Make her the published poet she always wanted to be?"

"But wait. This makes no sense. You're suggesting Evangeline wrote the poems and that Obeline had them printed by O'Connor House. But why would Obeline use the name Virginie LeBlanc? And why wouldn't she cite Evangeline as the author of the collection?"

"Maybe she had to hide the project from her creepozoic husband."

"Why?"

"h.e.l.l, Tempe, I don't know. Maybe he didn't want old dirt stirred up."

"Evangeline's murder?"

Harry nodded. "We know Bastarache used to beat the c.r.a.p out of Obeline. He probably scared her." Harry's voice went hushed. "Tempe, do you think he's now killed her?"

"I don't know."

"Do you think she's even dead? I mean, where's the body?"

Indeed, I thought. Where is the body?

The check arrived. I did the math and signed.

"There's a problem, Harry. If I still have any of Evangeline's poems, and that's a big 'if,' they'd be in Charlotte. I have nothing here in Montreal."

A smile crawled Harry's lips.

24.

W HEN HEN H HARRY PLAYS COY, THERE'S NO CRACKING HER. THOUGH I asked repeatedly, she'd tell me nothing. My sister loves being on the giving end of surprises. I knew I was in for one. I asked repeatedly, she'd tell me nothing. My sister loves being on the giving end of surprises. I knew I was in for one.

Twenty minutes later we were in my bedroom, the odd samplings of my past staring up at us. The arm-in-arm friends. The ticket. The napkin.

But Harry didn't linger on that page of the sc.r.a.pbook. On the next she'd pasted three items: a tiny Acadian flag, that being the French tricolor with one yellow star; a quill pen sticker; a cream-colored envelope with metallic lining and Evangeline Evangeline stenciled on the outside. stenciled on the outside.

Raising the flap, Harry extracted several pastel sheets and handed them to me.

The room fell away. I was twelve. Or eleven. Or nine. Standing by the mailbox. Oblivious to everything but the letter in my hand.

By reflex, I sniffed the stationery. Friendship Garden. Sweet Jesus, how could I remember the name of a childhood cologne?

"Where did you find these?"

"When I decided to put my house on the market, I started gophering through boxes. First thing I hit was our old Nancy Drew collection. Found them stuck in The Pa.s.sword to Larkspur Lane The Pa.s.sword to Larkspur Lane. That's what sparked the sc.r.a.pbook idea. I like the pink one. Read it."

I did.

And stared into the unfinished country of Evangeline's dream.

The poem was unt.i.tled.

Late in the morning I'm walking in sunshine, awake and aware like I have not been before. A warm glow envelops me and tells all around, "Now I am love!" I can laugh at the univers for he is all mine.

"Now listen to this."

Opening the purloined copy of Bones to Ashes, Bones to Ashes, Harry read, Harry read,

"Laughing, three maidens walk carelessly, making their way to the river.

Hiding behind a great hemlock, one smiles as others pa.s.s unknowing Then with a jump and a cry and a laugh and a hug the girls put their Surprise behind them. The party moves on through the forest primeval In a bright summer they think lasts forever. But not the one ailing.

She travels alone and glides through the shadows; others can not see her.

Her hair the amber of late autumn oak leaves, eyes the pale purple of dayclean.

Mouth a red cherry. Cheeks ruby roses. Young bones going to ashes."

Harry and I sat in silence, lost in memories of four little girls, smiling toward life and what it would bring.

Harry swallowed. "The two poems kinda ring the same, don't you think?"

I felt an ache so deep I couldn't imagine it ever ending. I couldn't answer.

Harry hugged me. I felt her chest heave, heard a tiny, hiccupping intake of air. Releasing me, she slipped from the room. I knew my sister was as devastated by Obeline's death as I.

I couldn't bear to read the other poems right then. I tried to sleep. Tried to put everything from my mind. I failed. The day kept replaying in flashpoint fragments. Cormier's thumb drive. Hippo's anger. Obeline's suicide. Evangeline's poetry. The skeleton. ile-aux-Becs-Scies.

Bec scie. Duck. Far away, in my head, a whisper. Faint, unintelligible.

Most distressing, try as I would, I could summon only a watercolor impression of Evangeline's face. A blurry countenance at the bottom of a lake.

Had my memory run out, used up by countless visits over the years? Or was it the opposite? In medicine we talk of atrophy, the shriveling of bone or tissue due to disuse. Had Evangeline's face evaporated because of neglect?

I sat up, intending to study the sc.r.a.pbook snapshot. While I reached for the lamp, a disturbing thought struck me.

Had recall of my friend grown dependent upon photographic feeding? Were my recollections of Evangeline being shaped by the vagaries of light and shadow at frozen moments in time?

Settling back, I cleared my mind, and dug deep.

Unruly dark curls. A tilt to the chin. A careless tossing of the head.

Again, the nagging pssst! pssst! from my unconscious... from my unconscious...

Honey skin. Ginger freckles sprinkling a sunburned nose.

A comment...

Luminous green eyes.

A link I was missing...

A slightly too-square jaw.

An idea. Bothering me...

Willowy limbs. A tender suggestion of b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

Something about a duck...

And then I fell asleep.

Eight A.M A.M. found me in my office at Wilfrid-Derome. It was to be a day of interruptions.

My phone was blinking like a railroad crossing signal. I reviewed the messages, but returned only one call. Frances Suskind, the marine biologist at McGill.

I'd completely forgotten about the diatom samples I'd taken from the teenaged girl found in Lac des Deux Montagnes. Ryan's DOA number three.

Suskind answered on the first ring.

"Dr. Brennan. I was about to phone you again. My students and I are very excited about our findings."

"You shared information with students?"

"Graduate level, of course. We found your challenge extraordinarily invigorating."

Challenge? Invigorating?

"Are you acquainted with the field of limnology?"

"Diatoms have their own ology?" Intended as a joke. Suskind didn't laugh.

"Diatoms are part of the cla.s.s Bacillariophyceae of the Chrysophyta phylum of microscopic unicellular plants. Did you know that the members of this group are so numerous they represent the single most abundant oxygen source in our atmosphere?"

"I didn't."

I began doodling.

"Let me explain our procedure. First, we collected twelve samples from each of seven sites along the river and around Lac des Deux Montagnes, which is actually part of the river, of course, including L'ile-Bizard, near the point where the body was recovered. Those samples acted as our controls in examining diatom a.s.semblages recovered from the victim. The ones we obtained from the specimens you provided. The bone plug and sock."

"Uh-huh." I drew a sh.e.l.l.

"At each site we collected from a variety of habitats. Riverbed. Riverbank. Lakesh.o.r.e."

I added spirals to the sh.e.l.l.

"Our control samples yielded ninety-eight different diatom species. The various a.s.semblages are similar and share many species."

I started a bird.

"The dominant ones include Navicula radiosa, Achnan Navicula radiosa, Achnan-"

There are over ten thousand diatom species. Suspecting Suskind was launching into a full roll call, I interrupted. "Perhaps we could let that go until I have your written report."

"Of course. Well, let me see. There are variations in the presence or absence of minor species, and changes in the proportions of the dominant species. That's to be expected given the complexity of the microhabitats."

I added tail feathers.

"Basically, the samples divide into three cl.u.s.ter zones. A midchannel habitat with a depth of over two meters, which experiences moderate water flow. A shallow water habitat of less than two meters, which experiences slow water flow. And a riverbank or lakesh.o.r.e habitat, above water level."

An eye. More plumage.