"Guilt by a.s.sociation." Ryan's terse answers were suggesting a marked disinterest in conversation.

Silence filled the small s.p.a.ce around us. To occupy my mind I replayed the interview with Bastarache. What was it he'd said that bothered me?

Then it clicked.

"Ryan, do you remember Bastarache's comment when you showed him the picture of the girl on the bench?"

"He said he was barely out of high school when that kid was playing Indian princess."

"What's wrong about that?"

"It shows Bastarache for the coldhearted b.a.s.t.a.r.d he is."

"I printed that frame off the video. Today. Modern printer, modern paper. There isn't a single thing in that shot to indicate time frame."

Ryan glanced at me. "So what made Bastarache think the thing was decades old?"

"He knows what's going on. He knows who that girl is."

I noticed Ryan's knuckles tighten on the wheel.

"If charges aren't filed, Bastarache walks tomorrow."

"It takes evidence to file charges."

I slumped into my seat back, frustrated, knowing Ryan was right. The investigation had produced very little linking Bastarache to any of the missing or dead girls. Sure, Kelly Sicard had danced for him. And Claire Brideau had visited his bar years earlier. But a crown prosecutor would demand physical or much stronger circ.u.mstantial evidence. Nevertheless, Ryan's seeming depression surprised me.

"You should feel good, Ryan. Sicard's alive and we found her."

"Yeah. She's a peach."

"You plan to call her parents?"

"Not now."

"I have a feeling Kelly will make contact herself."

"Karine."

"Kelly. Kitty. Karine. You think she told us everything she knows?"

Ryan made a noise I couldn't interpret in the dark.

"My take is she opened up when asked, but volunteered little."

Ryan said nothing.

"She made an interesting comment as you were paying the bill."

"Thanks for the cocoa?"

"She thinks Brideau was murdered."

"By?"

"She didn't say."

"My money's on Plucky Pierre."

"He threatened her. But Bastarache used to hit on her."

I looked at Ryan, a silhouette, then a face slowly illuminated by oncoming lights. The face was steel-jawed.

"You've cleared two cases, Ryan. Cases that were stone-pony cold. Anne Girardin and Kelly Sicard. If Sicard is right, the Riviere des Mille iles body will be ID'd as Claire Brideau. You're making progress."

"One alive, four dead, two still missing. Break out the sparklers."

A truck whooshed by. Trapped in its wash, the Impala rocked, settled.

Turning from Ryan, I pulled out my mobile and checked for messages.

Still nothing from Harry.

Rob Potter had called at 10:42. He'd a.n.a.lyzed the poetry and come to a conclusion. Though curious, I decided it was too late to phone him.

Leaning into the headrest, I closed my eyes. Thoughts ping-ponged in my brain as we barreled through the night.

Why didn't Harry phone? Sudden jolting images. The goon in Cormier's studio. The Death e-mail and the anonymous call. The pair snooping at my condo.

Cheech and Chong. Mulally and Babin.

What if Harry hadn't taken off on her own?

Don't go there, Brennan. Not yet. If Harry doesn't check in by tomorrow, ask Hippo or Ryan to get a bead on Mulally and Babin.

Was Obeline alive and in regular contact with Bastarache? Why? The man had broken her arm and set her on fire. If so, why the faked suicide?

What conclusion had Rob reached? Had all of the poetry been written by the same person? Was the author Evangeline? If so, had Obeline paid to have the collection published by O'Connor House? Why anonymously? Had Bastarache bullied her so relentlessly she'd felt the need for secrecy in all things?

Had Obeline actually witnessed Evangeline's murder? If so, who'd killed her? Bastarache was a young man at the time. Was he involved? How?

What had happened to Evangeline's body? Had she ended up in an unmarked grave like Hippo's girl, the skeleton from Sheldrake Island? Who was Hippo's girl? Would we ever know?

Had Bastarache killed Cormier? Had Pierre? Had one of them killed Claire Brideau? If so, why? Had one of them killed Claudine Cloquet? Phoebe Quincy? The girl who washed up on the Dorval sh.o.r.eline? The girl found floating in Lac des Deux Montagnes?

Had those girls been murdered? Were Cloquet and Quincy dead? If not, where were they?

Too many if's and why's.

And where the h.e.l.l was Harry?

Hippo was smoking a Player's on the sidewalk when we pulled up at Le Pa.s.sage Noir. Ryan b.u.mmed a match and lit up as I relayed our conversation with Kelly Sicard/Karine Pitre.

Hippo listened, chin rising and falling like a bobble-head doll.

"Went another round with the staff," Hippo said when I'd finished. "Cut 'em loose about an hour ago. Told 'em not to be planning any trips."

"Orsainville call?" Ryan asked.

Hippo nodded. "Bastarache's lawyer's been screaming b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l. Unless we find something that lets us charge this p.r.i.c.k, they kick him at dawn."

Ryan dropped and heel-crushed his cigarette. "Then let's find something." Yanking the door, he strode into the bar.

While Ryan and Hippo plowed through Bastarache's files, I went to the Impala, got my laptop, and booted. The dial-up connection was excruciatingly slow. Launching my browser, I crawled through "p.o.r.n producers," "p.o.r.n makers," "p.o.r.n companies," "s.e.x film industry," etc., etc.

I discovered the Religious Alliance Against p.o.r.nography. Read articles about city attorneys and federal prosecutors pursuing court cases. Saw virtual lap dances, overdone o.r.g.a.s.ms, and boatloads of silicone. Learned the names of producers, performers, Web sites, and production companies.

I found no one calling himself Pierre.

By four-thirty I felt like I needed a shower. And antibiotics.

Closing the PC, I moved to the lounger, thinking I'd rest my eyes for five minutes. Across the room, I could hear Ryan and Hippo banging drawers, shuffling receipts and invoices.

Then I was arguing with Harry. She was insisting I put on moccasins. I was objecting.

"We'll be Pocahantas," she said.

"Dressing up is for kids," I said.

"We have to do it before we get sick."

"No one's getting sick."

"I'll have to leave."

"You can stay as long as you want."

"That's what you always say. But I've got the book."

I noticed Harry was clutching her sc.r.a.pbook.

"You didn't see the part about Evangeline."

"I did," I said.

As I reached for the book, Harry swiveled. Over her shoulder I could see a child with long blond hair. Harry spoke to the child, but I couldn't make out her words.

Still holding the book, Harry walked toward the child. I tried to follow, but the moccasins kept sliding from my feet, tripping me.

Then I was peering into sunlight through an iron-barred window. All around me was darkness. Harry and the child were staring in at me. Only it wasn't a child. It was an old woman. Her cheeks were sunken, and her hair was a silver-white nimbus surrounding her head.

As I watched, rents appeared in the wrinkled skin around the woman's lips and under her eyes. Her nose opened into a ragged black hole.

A face began to materialize beneath the woman's face. Slowly, it took form. It was my mother's face. Her lips were trembling and tears glistened on her cheeks.

I reached out through the bars. My mother held up a hand. In it was a bunched wad of tissue.

"Come out of the hospital," my mother said.

"I don't know how," I said.

"You have to go to school."

"Bastarache didn't go to school," I said.

My mother tossed the tissue. It hit my shoulder. She threw another. And another.

I opened my eyes. Ryan was tapping my sleeve.

I went vertical so fast the recliner shot into full upright and locked.

"Bastarache will be out in an hour," Ryan said. "I'm going to tail him, see where he goes."

I looked at my watch. It was almost seven.

"You could stay here with Hippo. Or I could drop you at a motel, pick you-"

"Not a chance." I got to my feet. "Let's go."

As we drove, I dissected what I could recall of the dream. The content was standard fare, my brain doing a Fellini with recent events. I often wondered what critics might write of my nocturnal meanderings. Surreal imagery with no clear demarcation between fantasy and reality. Surreal imagery with no clear demarcation between fantasy and reality.

Tonight's offering was a typical retrospective from my subconscious. Harry and her sc.r.a.pbook. Kelly Sicard's reference to moccasins. Her wadded tissue. Bastarache. The window bar imagery was undoubtedly thrown in by my id to portray frustration.

But my mother's appearance puzzled me. And why the reference to a hospital? And sickness? And who was the old woman?

I watched other cars pa.s.s, wondering how so many could be on the road so early. Were the drivers going to jobs? Delivering kids to early morning swim practice? Returning home after a long night serving burgers and fries?

Ryan pulled into a lot outside the prison's main entrance, parked, and leaned sideways against the door. He clearly wanted quiet, so I dropped back into my thoughts.

Minutes dragged by. Ten. Fifteen.

We'd been there a half hour when a dream-inspired synapse fired.

Mother. Hospital. Illness. Nineteen sixty-five.