“WHAT NOW?”

We were in Hippo’s car, slipstreaming toward Le Passage Noir. It was past midnight; I was running on less than five hours sleep, but I was pumped.

“I track Claire Brideau,” Ryan said. “And a sleaze named Pierre.”

“Cormier pimped Sicard to Pierre for his smut films. Pierre turned her over to Bastarache to strip in his bar. That ought to be enough to charge Bastarache.”

“Sicard wasn’t a minor when she worked for Bastarache.”

“She went from Cormier to Bastarache via this Pierre. Phoebe Quincy phoned Cormier. He’s probably the one who took the Marilyn photo of her. That links Bastarache to Quincy, at least indirectly.”

“Guilt by association.” Ryan’s terse answers were suggesting a marked disinterest in conversation.

Silence filled the small space 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 bastard 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 circumstantial 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 Rivière des Mille Îles 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 analyzed 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 Obéline 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 Évangéline? If so, had Obéline 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 Obéline actually witnessed Évangéline’s murder? If so, who’d killed her? Bastarache was a young man at the time. Was he involved? How?

What had happened to Évangéline’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 shoreline? 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 hell was Harry?

Hippo was smoking a Player’s on the sidewalk when we pulled up at Le Passage Noir. Ryan bummed 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 bloody hell. Unless we find something that lets us charge this prick, 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 “porn producers,” “porn makers,” “porn companies,” “sex film industry,” etc., etc.

I discovered the Religious Alliance Against Pornography. Read articles about city attorneys and federal prosecutors pursuing court cases. Saw virtual lap dances, overdone orgasms, 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 scrapbook.

“You didn’t see the part about Évangéline.”

“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.

Tonight’s offering was a typical retrospective from my subconscious. Harry and her scrapbook. 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 pass, 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.

The whisper I’d heard upon reading about the Tracadie lazaretto geysered into my forebrain. Connected with other disparate images and recollections.

I sat bolt upright. Sweet mother of God. Could that really be it?

In my gut, I knew I’d stumbled on the answer. Thirty-five years and I finally understood.

Instead of triumph, I felt only sadness.

“I know why Évangéline and Obéline disappeared,” I said, excitement laying a buzz on my voice.

“Really?” Ryan sounded exhausted.

“Laurette Landry started bringing her daughters to Pawleys Island when she lost her hospital job and had to work double-time at a cannery and a motel. Évangéline and Obéline were yanked back to Tracadie when Laurette got sick.”

“You’ve always known that.”

“The girls started coming to the island in 1966, the first summer after the Tracadie lazaretto closed.”

“Could be there was another hospital in Tracadie.”

“I don’t think so. I’ll check old employment records, of course, but I’ll bet Laurette Landry worked at the lazaretto.”

Ryan glanced sideways at me, quickly back at the prison entrance.

“Évangéline told me her mother was a hospital employee for many years. If Laurette worked at the lazaretto, she’d have been in close contact with lepers. It’s a fact she became ill with something that required daily nursing by Évangéline.”

“Even if Laurette did contract leprosy, you’re talking the sixties. Treatment has been available since the forties.”

“Think of the stigma, Ryan. Whole families were shunned. People were forbidden to hire lepers or other members of their families if the person diagnosed was living at home. And it wasn’t just personal lives that were ruined. The presence of the lazaretto had a devastating impact on the Tracadie economy. For years, no product would include the town name in its labeling. Public association with Tracadie often meant a business was ruined.”

“That was decades ago.”

“As Hippo says, the Acadian memory goes long and deep. The Landrys weren’t educated people. Maybe they chose to hide her away. Maybe they distrusted government. Like Bastarache.”

Ryan made one of his noncommittal sounds.

“Maybe Laurette was frightened of being quarantined in some lazaretto. Maybe she was determined to die at home and begged her family to keep her condition secret.”

At that moment Ryan’s cell phone sounded.

“Ryan.”

My thoughts jumped from Laurette to Hippo’s girl. Had the two actually died of the same disease?

“Got him.”

Ryan’s voice snapped me back to the present. I followed his sight line to the prison entrance.

Bastarache was walking in our direction. Beside him was a dark-haired woman in a dumpy gray suit. The woman carried a briefcase and gestured with one hand as she spoke. I assumed I was looking at local counsel Isabelle Francoeur.

Crossing the lot, Francoeur and Bastarache climbed into a black Mercedes. Still talking, Francoeur shifted into gear and drove off.

Ryan waited until the Mercedes had merged into traffic, then followed.