The North Face of the Heart - Dolores Redondo Page 0,173

have shown himself by now.”

“If he had a gun, that is,” Charbou replied.

They exchanged a complicit glance, went to the stairs, stepped over the corpse jammed against the landing rail, and rapidly ascended. They positioned themselves on either side of the door at the top. They extended their pistols as they peeked inside, took turns checking the interior, and then went in.

Bull came back immediately. “All clear. There’s a young man up there, dead, Dupree, and more girls.” He gestured toward the traiteur and the two shrimpers. “I think they should stay downstairs.”

In the attic room, they found five victims, all of them girls. Amaia estimated their ages at between twelve and sixteen. The floodwaters had gone down hours earlier, and though the residue reached almost up to the ceiling, everything was dry. Their clothing and hair had the shriveled appearance of something first soaked and then dried. The humid atmosphere of the swamp and the lower floor were completely gone, replaced by a parched, all-consuming heat. At the doorway and in the center of the room, the ceiling of the cramped loft was high enough for Bull or Charbou to stand upright. The walls sloped rapidly downward, following the slant of the roof, so the team was forced to bend over or go on all fours to investigate. There were no windows. The only furnishings were a dozen or so torn mattress sacks stuffed with Spanish moss, a good-sized table that had lost a leg and lay on its side, and a lit lantern hanging from a nail by the door. That was the only light source. They had to use their flashlights to examine the bodies.

Jason Bull leaned against one of the angled walls, looking like he was about to collapse.

“Are you okay?” Amaia murmured as she passed him.

Bull looked down. “No. How could I be? Five girls, for Christ’s sake.”

Dupree turned to him. “Six, including the girl on the stairs. He was taking her somewhere. It looks like they were cleaning up.” He pointed to the male corpse by the door. The man was slumped against the wall in a sitting position and appeared to have been killed not long before. “They must have argued. Probably because the girls were dead. I think this one was killed by the one downstairs.”

Charbou examined the corpses one by one. “Is there any way to find out if Jacob’s sisters are here? Do you see any way to identify them?”

Johnson grunted. “They’re somebody’s sisters and daughters. Isn’t that enough? They’ve been dead for a couple of days at least. No way to tell exactly. They probably died of dehydration in this heat. They didn’t get food or water,” he said, looking around. “The temperature has been unbearable since the hurricane. Heat accelerates decomposition, so it’ll be difficult to determine time of death.”

“Since Katrina,” Dupree said, leaning over a body. He studied Johnson. “Step aside.”

Johnson moved back, and Dupree pulled a body across the floor so that it lay face up. She must have been about thirteen. Dark skin, shoulder-length curly black hair. She wore a pink blouse with red stripes tight against her pubescent breasts. With the greatest of care, Dupree put one of his hands over the other, positioned them over the child’s diaphragm, and pressed as if starting CPR. The little girl’s mouth opened and emitted a sort of sigh. A white-and-pink froth covered her lips.

Bull and Charbou covered their mouths and noses, reacting to the odor.

“They drowned,” Dupree said. “Right here.”

Charbou placed a hand on Johnson’s shoulder. His voice was rough, especially compared with the intimacy of the gesture. “I didn’t mean these victims aren’t important. But we have no way of knowing how long they’ve been here. But we know Jacob’s sisters were carried off from NOLA on the night of the hurricane. We got this far trying to track them down, so I’d really like a clue, any clue at all, that suggests they’re still alive.”

Johnson rose. “You’re right. Jacob told me Diana was grounded because she’d dyed her hair at a friend’s house without getting their parents’ permission. She put red highlights in it. All these girls, including the one downstairs, have black hair.”

“Thanks,” Charbou responded.

Johnson made a gesture that seemed almost an apology for what he was about to say. “But we don’t know how many girls our whistler already removed.”

Amaia had gone to the far end of the attic space. She squatted where the slanted roof met the floor to survey the