Deja Dead Page 0,69

I imagined? I could feel a growing tightness in my stomach.

Bertrand greeted us. As usual, he looked like a short, stocky version of a men’s fashion model. He’d chosen earth colors for the exhumation, ecologically correct tans and browns, no doubt made without chemical dyes.

Ryan and I acknowledged those we knew, then turned to the man in the shades. Bertrand introduced us.

“Andy. Doc. This is Father Poirier. He’s here representing the diocese.”

“Archdiocese.”

“Pardon me. Archdiocese. Since this is church property.” Bertrand jerked his thumb toward the fence behind him.

“Tempe Brennan,” I volunteered, offering my hand.

Father Poirier fixed his aviators on me and accepted it, wrapping my palm in a weak, spiritless grip. If people were graded on handshakes, he’d get a D-minus. His fingers felt cold and limp, like carrots kept too long in a cooler bin. When he released my hand, I resisted the urge to wipe it on my jeans.

He repeated the ritual with Ryan, whose face revealed nothing. Ryan’s early morning joviality had flown, replaced by stark seriousness. He’d gone into cop mode. Poirier looked as if he wanted to speak, but, seeing Ryan’s face, reconsidered and crimped his lips into a tight line. Somehow, with nothing said, he recognized that authority had shifted, that Ryan was now in charge.

“Has anyone been in there yet?” asked Ryan.

“No one. Cambronne got here about 5 A.M.,” said Bertrand, indicating the uniformed officer to his right. “No one’s gone in or out. Father tells us that only two people have access to the grounds, himself and a caretaker. The guy’s in his eighties, been working here since Mamie Eisenhower made bangs popular.” In French it came out Eesenhure, and sounded comical.

“The gate could not have been open,” said Poirier, turning his aviators back on me. “I check it every time I am here.”

“And when is that?” asked Ryan.

The shades released me and fastened on Ryan. They rested there a full three seconds before he responded.

“At least once a week. The Church feels a responsibility for all its properties. We do not simp—”

“What is this place?”

Again, the pause. “Le Monastère St. Bernard. Closed since 1983. The Church felt the numbers did not warrant its continued operation.”

I found it strange that he spoke of the Church as an animate being, an entity with feelings and will. His French was also odd, subtly different from the flat, twangy form I’d grown used to. He wasn’t Québecois, but I couldn’t place the accent. It wasn’t the precise but throaty sound of France, what North Americans call Parisian. I suspected he was Belgian or Swiss.

“What goes on here?” Ryan pursued.

Another pause, as if the sound waves had to travel a long distance to strike a receptor.

“Today, nothing.”

The priest stopped speaking and sighed. Perhaps he recalled happier times when the Church thrived and the monasteries bustled. Perhaps he was collecting his thoughts, wanting to be precise in his statements to the police. The aviator lenses hid his eyes. An odd candidate for a priest, with his pristine skin, leather jacket, and biker footwear.

“Now, I come to check the property,” he continued. “A caretaker keeps things in order.”

“Things?” Ryan was taking notes in a small spiral.

“The furnace, the pipes. Shoveling the snow. We live in a very cold place.” Poirier made a sweeping gesture with one thin arm, as if to take in the whole province. “The windows. Sometimes boys like to throw rocks.” He looked at me. “The doors and the gates. To make certain they remain locked.”

“When did you last check the padlocks?”

“Sunday at 6 P.M. They were all secure.”

His prompt answer struck me. He hadn’t stopped to think on this one. Maybe Bertrand had already posed the question, or maybe Poirier just anticipated it, but the speed of his response made it sound precooked.

“You noticed nothing out of the ordinary?”

“Rien.” Nothing.

“When does this caretaker—what’s his name?”

“Monsieur Roy.”

“When does he come?”

“He comes on Fridays, unless there is some special task for him.”

Ryan didn’t speak, but continued looking at him.

“Like clearing snow, or repairing a window.”

“Father Poirier, I believe Detective Bertrand has already questioned you about the possibility of burials on the grounds?”

Pause. “No. No. There are none.” He wagged his head from side to side and the sunglasses shifted on his nose. A bow popped off one ear and the frames came to rest at a twenty-degree angle. He looked like a tanker listing to port.

“This was a monastery, always a monastery. No one is buried here. But I have called our archivist and asked her