Walking downhill through Place Jacques-Cartier, I pa.s.sed old stone buildings now housing souvenir shops, restaurants, and bars. Tourists and locals filled the outdoor terraces and wandered the square. A stilt-walking busker juggled b.a.l.l.s and told jokes. Another played spoons and sang.

Turning onto cobbled Rue Saint-Paul, I smelled fish and oil wafting off the river. Though I couldn't see it, I knew Ryan's home was on the far sh.o.r.e. My view? Habitat 67 resembles a huge cubist sculpture, like the cross on Mont Royal, better appreciated from afar than up close.

Ryan hadn't arrived when I entered the coffee shop. Choosing a rear table, I ordered a decaf cappuccino. Ryan joined me as the waitress delivered it. In moments she was back with his double espresso.

"You planning an all-nighter?" Nodding toward Ryan's high-test selection.

"I brought files home."

No invite there, cowgirl. I waited until Ryan was ready to begin.

"I'll take it chronologically. For the cold cases, there are three missing persons and two unidentified corpses. This week's Lac des Deux Montagnes floater raises the un-ID'd body count to three."

Ryan stirred sugar into his espresso.

"Nineteen ninety-seven. MP number one. Kelly Sicard, eighteen, lives with her parents in Rosemere. March twelfth, one-forty A.M A.M., she leaves a group of drinking buddies to catch a bus home. She never makes it."

"The buddies checked out?"

"And the family and the boyfriend."

Ryan sipped. His hand looked jarringly male holding the tiny white cup.

"Nineteen ninety-nine. DOA number one. The body of an adolescent female is snagged by a boat propeller in the Riviere des Mille iles. You worked the case with LaManche."

I remembered. "The corpse was putrefied. I estimated the girl was white, age fourteen or fifteen. We did a facial reconstruction, but she was never ID'd. The bones are in my storage room."

"That's the one."

Ryan knocked back the remainder of his espresso.

"Two thousand one. DOA number two. A teenaged girl is found in Dorval, on the sh.o.r.e below the Forest and Stream supper club. According to LaManche, the body's been in the river less than forty-eight hours. He does an autopsy, concludes the girl was dead when she hit the water, finds no evidence of shooting, stabbing, or bludgeoning. Pictures are circulated throughout the province. No takers."

I remembered that case, too. "The girl was eventually buried as a Jane Doe."

Ryan nodded, moved up in time.

"Two thousand two. MP number two. Claudine Cloquet pedals her Schwinn three-speed through a wooded area in Saint-Lazare-Sud. Claudine is twelve and mildly r.e.t.a.r.ded. The bike is found two days later. Claudine is not."

"An unlikely runaway."

"Father's sketchy, but alibis out. So does the rest of the family. Father's since died, mother's been hospitalized twice for depression.

"Two thousand four. MP number three. September first. Anne Girardin disappears from her Blainville home in the middle of the night." Ryan's jaw muscles bulged, relaxed. "Kid's ten years old."

"Pretty young to take off on her own."

"But not unheard of. And this was a streetwise ten-year-old. Again, the old man's a loser, but nothing's found to tie him to the disappearance. Ditto for the rest of the household. A canva.s.s of the neighborhood turns up zip."

We both fell silent, recalling the ma.s.sive search for Anne Girardin. Amber Alert. SQ. SPVM. Tracker dogs. Local volunteers. Personnel from NCECC, the National Child Exploitation Coordination Center. Nothing was found. Subsequent tips all proved bogus.

"And now I've got DOA number three, the Lac des Deux Montagnes floater."

"Six girls. Three recovered in or near water. Three missing and unlikely to be runaways," I summarized. "Any other links?"

Again, a tensing in Ryan's jaw. "We may have a fourth MP. Phoebe Jane Quincy, age thirteen. Lives in Westmount. Missing since leaving home for a dance lesson day before last."

Ryan took a photo from his pocket and placed it on the table. A girl mimicking Marilyn in The Seven Year Itch, The Seven Year Itch, dress ballooning around her. Backlighting outlined the thin figure through the diaphanous white fabric. dress ballooning around her. Backlighting outlined the thin figure through the diaphanous white fabric.

Thirteen?

"Who took this picture?"

"Parents have no idea. Found it hidden in the bottom of a dresser drawer. We're looking into it."

I stared at the photo. Though not overtly s.e.xual, the image was disturbing.

"Her friends say she wants to be a model," Ryan said.

She could be, I thought, studying the slender form, long hair, and luminous green eyes.

"A lot of little girls want to be models," I said.

"Did you?"

"No."

"Kelly Sicard also had runway dreams," Ryan said.

"Slim lead." I slid the photo back toward Ryan.

"Slim beats none," Ryan said.

We discussed the cases for a few more minutes. Mostly, I listened.

Ryan isn't rattled by violence or death. He sees both frequently, has learned to mask his emotions. But I know the man. Know that the abuse of those powerless to protect themselves affects him deeply. It affects me, too. I was keenly aware of my feelings at that moment, having spent the past hours with the bones of a child.

Though Ryan claimed only fatigue, I could see through to the sadness and frustration. Fair enough. Comes with the job. But did I sense something else? Was some further factor contributing to Ryan's agitation, robbing him of his usual lightheartedness, goading him to smoke? Was I being paranoid?

After a while, Ryan signaled for a check.

Returning to the lot, I started my Mazda and pointed the headlights for home. I needed to rest. To shower. To think.

Needed a drink I couldn't have.

Turning west onto Rene-Levesque, I lowered a window. The air was warm and moist and unnaturally heavy, the sky a black screen on which occasional flickers of lightning danced.

The night smelled of rain.

A storm would soon break.

9.

T HE NEXT DAY Pa.s.sED WITHOUT WORD FROM HE NEXT DAY Pa.s.sED WITHOUT WORD FROM H HIPPO OR R RYAN. Harry was another story. Little sister had made appointments to view a downtown Houston penthouse, a horse ranch in Harris County, and beachfront property at South Padre Island. I suggested she take time to ponder what she truly wanted post-Arnoldo, instead of impulsively chasing around southeast Texas hoping for inspiration. She suggested I lighten up. I'm paraphrasing.

I slogged through the mess in my office, then resumed teasing dirt from the Rimouski remains. I often give nicknames to my unknowns. Somehow, it personalizes them for me. Though he'd been only marginally involved in the case, I'd come to think of the skeleton as Hippo's girl.

The more detail I revealed about Hippo's girl, the more puzzling the picture became.

Around eleven, a skull came in from Iqaluit, a pinpoint on the Quebec map a zillion miles north on Frobisher Bay. I looked the place up. Though I wanted to stay with Hippo's girl, I stuck with my promise to LaManche, and started on the new arrival.

Leaving the lab around five, I delivered the Lac des Deux Montagnes bone plug and sock to the biologist at McGill, then stopped by Hurley's for my version of a pint: Diet c.o.ke on the rocks with a twist. It wasn't for the soft drink, of course, but for the contact with friends the pub would provide.

As I pa.s.sed through the game room, I glanced up at the wall-mounted TV. A cla.s.sic school portrait showed as a backdrop to a grimfaced anchorman. The young girl's eyes were green and mischievous, her hair center-parted and pulled into shoulder-length braids. Phoebe Quincy.

A small group of regulars was gathered around the downstairs bar: Gil, Chantal, Black Jim, and Bill Hurley himself. They greeted me, faces somber, then recommenced airing their views on the Quincy disappearance.

"Sweet mother o' Jesus, thirteen years old." Chantal shook her head and signaled for another pint. A Newfoundlander, she could outdrink the best of the best. And often did.

"Hope to G.o.d she's just gone walkabout." Black Jim's accent changed with his story of the moment. No one knew where Jim really originated. Every time someone asked, he produced a different tale. Tonight he was speaking Aussie.

"How long's she been gone?" Bill signaled the bartender and a Diet c.o.ke was set before me.

"Three days. Went to dance cla.s.s. Sufferin' Jesus." Chantal.

"You involved?" Bill asked me.

"No."

"Ryan?"

"Yes."

"Where is Ryan? You finally manage to lose that slug?"

I sipped my c.o.ke.

"It doesn't look good, does it?" Gil resembled an aging French version of the Fonz.

"She may turn up," I said.

"They think some b.u.g.g.e.r nipped her?" Black Jim.

"I don't know."

"Can you imagine what her poor parents are going through?" Gil.

"They catch the b.a.s.t.a.r.d, I'll volunteer to cut off his d.i.c.k, bye." Chantal.

I stared into my mug, rethinking my decision to delay going home. I'd wanted to shed the mantle of sorrow and death, arrive home diverted and refreshed, but it seemed there would be no relief tonight.

What had had happened to Phoebe? Was she out there on the streets, alone but stubbornly following her own play? Or was she being held in some dark place, helpless and terrified? Was she even alive? How were her parents surviving the endless hours of uncertainty? happened to Phoebe? Was she out there on the streets, alone but stubbornly following her own play? Or was she being held in some dark place, helpless and terrified? Was she even alive? How were her parents surviving the endless hours of uncertainty?

And what about the corpse from Lac des Deux Montagnes? Who was she? Had she been murdered?

And the other girl in my lab. Hippo's girl. When had she died? An irrational leap of thought. Could the skeleton be Evangeline Landry? Where was Evangeline?

I realized Bill was talking to me. "Sorry. What?"

"I asked where Ryan is."

Obviously, word hadn't reached the pub that Ryan and I had split. Or whatever it was we'd done.

"I don't know."

"You OK? You look beat."

"It's been a tough couple of days."

"f.u.c.kin' h.e.l.l," said Chantal.

I listened to the conversation a few minutes longer. Then I downed my c.o.ke and set out for home.

Friday morning brought no new anthropology cases. I was composing a report on the Iqaluit cranium when Ryan showed up in my lab.

"Nice do."

My left hand did an automatic hair-behind-the-ears tuck, then I realized Ryan's remark was directed at the skull. It was sun-baked white, its crown capped with dried green moss.

"It's been lying on the tundra a very long time."

Normally Ryan would have asked how long. He didn't. I waited for him to get to the point of his visit.

"Got a call from Hippo Gallant this morning. Guy named Joseph Beaumont is doing a nickel to dime at Bordeaux."

Bordeaux is the largest of Quebec's correctional facilities.

"Last night the CFCF six o'clock aired a story on Phoebe Quincy. Included footage on Kelly Sicard and Anne Girardin."