"Tabarnac!"

Ten football fields out, the Mercedes stopped, then abruptly reversed in a ragged U-turn.

Ryan sprinted into the hall, through the door, and down the drive. In seconds the Impala shot forward, back tires grinding up ground. I watched until it disappeared over the horizon.

"What is happening? Where has he gone?"

I swallowed and turned. Obeline was in the doorway.

"That girl's name isn't Cecile," I said. "It's Claudine. Claudine Cloquet."

She stared at me, fingers twisting her scarf as they had at the Tracadie gazebo.

"Your husband stole Claudine from her family. Probably forced her to get naked for his sordid little films. She was twelve, Obeline. Twelve years old."

"That's not how it was."

"I'm tired of hearing that," I snapped.

"Cecile is happy with us."

"Her name is Claudine."

"She's safe here."

"She was safe with her family."

"No. She wasn't."

"How could you know that?"

"Her father was a monster."

"Your husband is a monster."

"Please." Her voice was trembling. "Come in and sit down."

"So you can tell me that things aren't what they appear?" I was angry now, no longer trying to be nice.

"Claudine's father sold her into child p.o.r.nography for five thousand dollars."

That brought me up short.

"To whom?"

"An evil man."

"What's his name?"

"I don't know." Her eyes dropped, came back. I suspected she was lying.

"When did this take place?"

"Five years ago."

The year Claudine went missing from Saint-Lazare-Sud. Five years after Kelly Sicard. Five years before Phoebe Jane Quincy.

Kelly Sicard. A sudden thought.

"Was this man's name Pierre?"

"I never knew."

I turned and looked out the window. The road was empty. The spaniel was now peeing on a post by the T intersection.

Time dragged by. Behind me, I heard Obeline take a chair at the table. The m.u.f.fled voices of Homer and Marge Simpson floated from a TV somewhere deep in the house.

Finally, I turned back to her.

"How was your husband acquainted with this man who 'bought' Claudine?" I finger-hooked quotation marks around the word.

"He worked for David's father. A long time ago. Before we married."

"So strip joints weren't enough. Your husband partnered up with this sleaze to make kiddie p.o.r.n."

"No." Vehement. "David hates this man. Occasionally they"-she broke off, cautious about word choice-"need each other."

"So Mr. Evil just handed Claudine over to your husband. What? She get too old for his market?"

Again, Obeline's eyes dived, recovered. "David gave him money."

"Of course. David Bastarache, rescuer of maidens."

I wasn't buying this, but Kelly Sicard's story of liberation from Pierre nagged at me.

I looked at my watch. Ryan had been gone almost twenty minutes.

"Where does this man operate?"

"I don't know."

At that moment my cell chirped. It was Ryan. Bastarache had managed to get onto the twenty and was heading west. Ryan was following, discreetly, hoping Bastarache would further incriminate himself. He'd be a while.

Great. I was carless in Quaintsville for G.o.d knew how long.

Feeling trapped, I jammed my phone into my purse. Before the flap settled, it rang again. The area code was unexpected. New York. Then I remembered. Rob Potter.

Eyes steady on Obeline, I flicked on.

"Hey, Rob."

"Do you love rock and roll!"

"Sorry I couldn't return your call last night." I was far too tired and cranky to be witty.

"No problem. You got a few minutes? I have some thoughts you might find interesting."

"Hang on."

Pressing the phone to my chest, I spoke to Obeline. "I need to take this alone."

"Where has that detective gone?"

"To arrest your husband."

She cringed as though I'd threatened to strike her.

"And you're stuck with me."

She rose.

"Don't go hitting your speed dial," I added. "Warning David could end up making you a widow."

Rigor stiff, she walked from the room.

I dug a pen and notepad from my purse. Then I hooked on my earpiece, laid the cell on the table, and resumed my conversation with Rob, glad for a diversion to pa.s.s the time.

"Shoot," I said.

"Long or short version?"

"Tell me enough to make me understand."

"Got the poetry there in front of you?"

"No."

Hearing the clatter of cookware, I a.s.sumed Obeline had gone to a kitchen not far from where I sat.

"No big deal. I'll review it. Now K K is code for poems written by your gal pal back in the sixties, and is code for poems written by your gal pal back in the sixties, and Q Q refers to those contained in the refers to those contained in the Bones to Ashes Bones to Ashes collection." collection."

"Known versus questioned," I guessed.

"Yes. Fortunately for the a.n.a.lysis, as I'll explain, both the K K and and Q Q poetry is written in English. Since your friend was a native French speaker." poetry is written in English. Since your friend was a native French speaker."

I didn't interrupt.

"An interesting thing is that, even when people try to disguise their language, or mimic someone else's, a forensic linguist can often see below the surface to areas not under control of the speaker. For example, most people in the United States say they stand 'in line' at the post office. In New York, people say they stand 'on line.' American speakers, either from New York or elsewhere, don't seem to be aware of this. It's very distinctive, but beneath the level of most people's consciousness."

"So someone mimicking a New Yorker would have to know that. Or a New Yorker disguising his speech would have to be aware of that."

"Exactly. But typically folks are oblivious to these quirks. Grammatical differences can be even more subtle, to say nothing of p.r.o.nunciation."

"Rob, we're dealing with written poetry."

"Written poetry draws on all levels of language. Differences in p.r.o.nunciation might affect the rhyme scheme."

"Good point."

"Going back to words, and awareness, ever hear of the devil strip ransom note?"

"No."

"It was a case brought to my mentor, Roger Shuy. He looked at the thing, predicted the kidnapper was a well-educated man from Akron. Needless to say, the cops were skeptical. Write this down. It's short, and it'll help you understand what I did with your poems."

I scribbled what Rob dictated.

"Do you ever want to see your precious little girl again? Put $10,000 cash in a diaper bag. Put it in the green trash kan on the devil strip at corner 18th and Carlson. Don't bring anybody along. No kops! Come alone! I'll be watching you all the time. Anyone with you, deal is off and dautter is dead!"

"One of the first things linguists look for is the underlying language. Is the person a native English speaker? If not, there may be mistaken cognates, words that look like they should mean the same in both languages but don't. Like 'gift' in German means 'poison' in English."

"Embarazada in Spanish." I'd made that mistake once in Puerto Rico. Instead of saying I was embarra.s.sed, I'd said I was pregnant. in Spanish." I'd made that mistake once in Puerto Rico. Instead of saying I was embarra.s.sed, I'd said I was pregnant.

" Good one. Systematic misspellings can also show a foreign native language. Notice that in the note the writer misspelled 'kan' and 'kops' for 'can' and 'cops.' But not 'kash' for 'cash,' or 'korner' for 'corner.' So it probably wasn't that the writer was educated in a language where the Good one. Systematic misspellings can also show a foreign native language. Notice that in the note the writer misspelled 'kan' and 'kops' for 'can' and 'cops.' But not 'kash' for 'cash,' or 'korner' for 'corner.' So it probably wasn't that the writer was educated in a language where the k k sound was always spelled sound was always spelled k k and never and never c c. And over all, the note's pretty fluent."

"So the writer's an English speaker, not pregnant, who can't spell 'trash can.' How did Shuy know he was educated?"

"Keep looking at the spellings. He can't spell 'daughter' either, right?"

"Right. But he can spell 'precious.' And 'diaper.' And his punctuation is correct, not like someone's who can't spell 'cops.'"

"I knew you'd get this immediately. In essence, it's the same thing you do in your job. Look for patterns that fit and don't fit. So if the perp can spell, why doesn't he?"

"To throw the cops off. Maybe in his community he's known as well educated. So instead of hiding his education, his attempt at concealing it sends up a flare. But what about Akron? Why not Cleveland? Or Cincinnati?"

"Read the note again. What words stand out?"

"'Devil strip.'"

"What's your word for the gra.s.s strip between the sidewalk and the road?"

I thought about it. "No idea."

"Most people haven't a word for it. Or if they do, it's a local one. County strip. Median strip."

"Devil strip," I guessed.

"But only in Akron. Not even in Toledo or Columbus. But no one's aware. Who ever talks about devil strips? You still with me?"