Deja Dead Page 0,153

dry, and a languor was spreading through my body. Tranquillity? I hadn’t felt that in a long time.

“Katy is coming,” I said with a nervous laugh. “That’s why I . . . why I went out tonight.”

“Your daughter?”

I nodded.

“Bad timing.”

“I thought I might find something. I . . . never mind.”

For a few seconds neither of us spoke.

“I’m glad it’s over.” Ryan’s anger was gone. He rose to his feet. “Would you like me to stop by after I’ve talked to him? Could be late.”

Bad as I felt, there was no chance I’d sleep until I knew the outcome. Who was Tanguay? What would they find in his cabin? Had Gabby died there? Had Isabelle Gagnon? Grace Damas? Or had they been taken there, postmortem, merely to be butchered and packaged?

“Please.”

When he’d gone I realized I’d forgotten to tell him about the gloves. I tried Pete again. Though Tanguay was in custody, I was still uneasy. I didn’t want Katy anywhere near Montreal yet. Perhaps I’d go South.

This time I reached him. Katy had left several days earlier. She’d told her father I proposed the trip. True. And approved the plans. Not quite. He wasn’t sure of the itinerary. Typical. She was traveling with friends from the university, driving to D.C. to stay with one set of parents, then to New York to visit the other friend’s home. Then she planned to continue on to Montreal. Sounded okay to him. He was sure she’d call.

I started to tell him about Gabby and what had been going on in my life, but couldn’t. Not yet. No matter. It was over. As usual he had to rush off to prepare for an early morning deposition, regretted he couldn’t talk longer. What’s new?

I felt too ill and weary even to take a bath. For the next few hours I sat wrapped in a quilt, shivering and staring at the empty fireplace, wishing I had someone to feed me soup, stroke my forehead, and say I would be better soon. I dozed and woke, drifting in and out of dream fragments, while microscopic beings multiplied in my bloodstream.

Ryan buzzed at one-fifteen.

“Jesus, you look awful, Brennan.”

“Thanks.” I rewrapped my quilt. “I think I’m getting a cold.”

“Why don’t we do this tomorrow?”

“No way.”

He looked at me strangely then followed me in, threw his jacket on the couch, and sat.

“Name’s Jean Pierre Tanguay. Twenty-eight. Homeboy. Grew up in Shawinigan. Never married. No kids. He has one sister living in Arkansas. His mother died when he was nine. Lot of hostility there. Father was a plasterer, pretty much raised the two kids. The old man died in a car wreck when Tanguay was in college. Apparently it hit him pretty hard. He dropped out of school, stayed with the sister for a while, then wandered around down in the States. You ready for this? While he was in Dixie he got a call from God. Wanted to be a Jesuit or something, but flunked the interview. Apparently they didn’t think his personality was priestly enough. Anyway, he resurfaced in Quebec in ’88 and managed to get back into Bishops. Finished his degree about a year and a half later.”

“So he’s been in the area since ’88?”

“Yep.”

“That would put him back here about the time Pitre and Gautier were murdered.”

Ryan nodded. “And he’s been here ever since.”

I had to swallow before I spoke.

“What’s he say about the animals?”

“Claims he teaches biology. We’ve checked that out. Says he’s building a reference collection for his classes. Boils down the carcasses and mounts the skeletons.”

“That would explain the anatomy books.”

“Might.”

“Where does he get them?”

“Roadkills.”

“Oh, Christ, Bertrand was right.” I could picture him skulking around at night, scraping up corpses and dragging them home in plastic bags.

“He ever work in a butcher shop?”

“He didn’t say. Why?”

“What did Claudel find out from the people he works with?”

“Nothing we didn’t know. Keeps to himself, teaches his classes. Nobody really knows him all that well. And they’re not thrilled at a call late in the evening.”

“Sounds like Grammama’s profile.”

“The sister says he’s always been antisocial. Can’t remember him having friends. But she’s nine years older, doesn’t remember much about him as a kid. She did throw us one interesting tidbit.”

“Yes”

Ryan smiled. “Tanguay’s impotent.”

“The sister volunteered that?”

“She thought it might explain his antisocial tendencies. Sis thinks he’s harmless, just suffers from low self-esteem. She’s big into the self-help literature. Knows all the jargon.”

I didn’t reply. In my mind I was seeing lines from two autopsy reports.

“That makes