The Extinction Club (42 page)

At the rectory all the lights were on, including the one in the attic, which I had instructed Céleste never to leave on. Its shutter rattled as tangled strings of cold black wind wound the house.

On the kitchen table was a note, whose handwriting I recognized. I had a dreadful feeling about it, and was almost afraid to read it. The letters went in and out of view, as if written in disappearing and reappearing ink. A ransom demand? Suicide note?

“Céleste!” I called. “I’m home!” No answer. With banging heart I stared at the note until the letters stopped squirming.
Lawyer Volpe called.

I ran up the stairs and down the hall to the attic door. Flung it open, took two steps up. “Céleste? You all right?” No answer. I ran back to her bedroom, whose door was open the merest chink. I pushed it all the way.

My heathen angel was spread-eagled on the bed, writing or drawing in her sketchbook. “Hello, Nile,” she said huskily, without looking up. “I must be going deaf. I didn’t hear you knock.”

“What are you doing?”

“Drawing,” she said, drawing. “But I refuse to say another word until you greet me decently.”

“I buzzed and buzzed. Why the
hell
didn’t you answer? Did it ever occur to you I might be
worried
? That I almost had a
stroke
when you didn’t answer? And I don’t mean that figuratively. I am borderlining as we speak.”

“Hey, chill. The machine’s busted.”

“How can it be busted? What’d you do to it?”

“Nothing.”

“And did we or did we not agree that whenever I was away you would stay
locked in the attic
? With only your
booklight on
? With the two
guns
by your side?”

“Don’t have kittens over it, okay? It’s cold in there.”

“But that’s what the space heater’s for.”

“It’s busted too. See for yourself. And I can’t find the guns.”

“You can’t
find the guns
? Can’t find the Taser, can’t find the Sig Sauer? What the
hell
did you do with them?”

“Nothing. You’re the one who took them downstairs, took them outside, remember? To practise?”

This was true. I’d left them in the kitchen, I think. “Why didn’t you
look
for them, for Christ’s sake?”

“Easy, guy. Mellow out. You have a rough day at the office?”

I wiped the sweat off my brow, rubbed the back of my neck. My head throbbed with what felt like a post-speed hangover and my eyes burned. A preview of hell can do that to you. “You could say that, yes.”

“You got that coffee-isn’t-working-yet look you get every morning. Lawyer Volpe called. I got to it on the hundredth ring.”

“What’d he want?”

“You.”

“You talk to him?”

“There was music in the background, like from the forties or something. So I could barely hear him. But I know one thing—he’s got good news for you.”

“Which is …?”

“Phone him and see.”

In the kitchen I searched everywhere for the two weapons. Closed my eyes, rubbed my eyes. To goad my memory I microwaved some laceratingly strong coffee and drank it down black. The grandmother’s bowl was abnormally deep and wide—I could have washed my hands in that basin. As the machine beeped three times on a refill, a knock came from the front door, three times in unison. I peered down the hallway with mad, caffeinated eyes. Through the narrow rectangle of glass, I saw the revolving red and blue lights of a police car.

Let’s see, to what do I owe this visit? Speeding, driving a stolen vehicle, assaulting two minors, impersonating an officer, or child abduction? Take your pick, officer, it’s your lucky day. Three more knocks, this time louder.

“Who’s that?” Céleste yelled from the top of the stairs. “The cops?”

“Get in the attic, I’ll deal with it.” Breaking with tradition, she didn’t argue. I heard her scurry away like a mouse, down the hall and up the attic stairs.

I walked slowly, leadenly, to the door, as though climbing the steps of a gallows. The floorboards emitted a sharp crack underfoot, like a trapdoor unlatching. My mind was sprinting, my vision speckled with black dots. They got my name from the bank. Or real estate office. Ran it through the computer, radioed the New Jersey State Police. Two more knocks.

«
Oui?
» I called approaching the entryway, and again after opening the door.

« Monsieur Nightingale? » said a policeman with the standard-issue moustache. His partner didn’t have one, being a policewoman.

I nodded dumbly.

« I’m Sergeant Larose and this is Sergeant Viau. Sorry to bother you at this time of night, but we’d, uh, like to ask you a few questions if you don’t mind. »

« Not at all, » I said with a stiff smile. « Come in, come in. » I could feel my legs softening, melting like cheap candlewax.

« Thanks, this’ll just take a few seconds. It relates to the … the unfortunate occurrence that … well, occurred the other night. Involving the snowmobiles? »

« Right. »

« We know who you are, » said the female, a half-smile hovering on her lips and one eye out of true. She stamped her boots on the mat. « Just so we’re on the same page. »

Was she about to cuff me, read me my Miranda Rights? Or do they do that in Canada? « I see. »

« We know you’re with the Department of the Interior, » said the male, closing the door behind him.

I nodded, exhaled through tight teeth. « I was trying to keep that quiet. Who blew my cover? »

« We, uh … came across one of your cards while investigating a complaint. »

« I’d appreciate it if you kept it— »

« Don’t worry about that, » said the female. « We understand you’re after Alcide Bazinet. Is that correct? »

« Well, yes, but it’s, you know, hush hush. How’d you manage— »

« We’re on your side, » said the male. « We want Bazinet out
of here, the sooner the better. The guy’s killed more animals than a hundred winters. Got a sheet it takes a day to read, more charges than a power plant. You and your partner want him for crimes in the U.S., I understand? Wildlife violations? »

My partner? Who’s my partner? My ghost neighbour? « That’s correct. He and his cousin. Up in … down in Vermont. »

« We thought it was New Hampshire. »

« Both. »

« Alcide makes his cousin look like an altar boy. Hope they both burn in the chair. You Yanks still got the chair, right? »

« Oh yeah. »

« Wish to hell we did. »

The policewoman smiled at me. « There’s another reason for our visit. I mean, besides wanting to assure you there will be no more … home invasions. There’s a young girl who’s gone missing. By the name of Céleste Jonquères. She ran away from a youth care centre in Ste-Madeleine a few weeks back, and we thought she might’ve come here. You haven’t seen a girl of fifteen, by any chance, black hair, green eyes, glasses, part Aboriginal? Tats on both shoulders, bit of a tomboy? »

« No, I … haven’t. But I’ll keep an eye out for her. »

« She’s a … well, practically a celebrity up here. A whiz kid, total brainiac. There was an article about in her in
L’Information du Nord
. »

« Why would she come here? » I asked.

« She used to live here, with her grandmother. Who died not too long ago, back in … when was it, René, October? »

René nodded.

Did Céleste kill her?
is the question I wanted to ask. « Really? In this house? How’d she die? »

« It was ruled suicide. It was assumed the girl assisted her. »

« And did she? »

« Hard to say. No charges laid, in any case. »

A faint squawking on the police-band radio made the officer nod goodnight. When she opened the door I was able to make out some of the words, something to do with a
10-23
and request for back-up. Then the crackle and whine of another car responding. At the same time the phone in the kitchen began to ring.

« Looks like another fender-bender, » said Larose, putting his gloves back on. « So I’ll be on my way. Let you answer your phone. »

« Before you go, » I said, « can I ask you a quick question? »

« Shoot. »

« Why’d you arrive with your flasher on? »

He winked at me. « You should know the answer to that one. »

I nodded woodenly, not knowing. But took a stab at it anyway. « You … wanted to make it look like you didn’t know who I was. Like I’m a suspect in the girl’s disappearance. »

« Bingo, » he said.

« Very clever, » I said. « And, uh, about my partner. Just so I know how you managed to … »

« We have our ways. We’re not as backward up here as you may think. We’re the ones who set her up, in fact. »

« Set her up? »

« At the clinic. »

I stared thoughtfully at the floor. The veterinary clinic? The vet was working undercover? Of course …

I watched the patrol car pull away as the phone continued to ring. In the kitchen I watched the rings fluttering upwards,
like moths, into air that was dark and spangled with dots like buffed chrome, like fireflies. I picked up.

“I’ve got good news and bad news,” said a faint voice into a crackly line that had been crystal clear until now.

“Just get to the punch line.”

“Your ex,” said Volpe, “has dropped all charges.”

I felt only mild relief, and no surprise. I was still thinking about the vet. “You told her I squandered away my inheritance?”

“You better not have, for the love of Christ. It took your old man a lifetime to double the fortune he inherited. With my advice, of course. Well, maybe not quite doubled, after the market crash and—”

“He told me he was leaving everything to charity.”

“He left half.”

“So why’d she drop the charges?”

“Brooklyn won’t cooperate, won’t testify.”

I paused to think about this. “What’s the bad news?”

“She’s run away. I got a call from her from … you ready for this? Atlantic City. From a motel and I’m sure you can guess which one. Where she’ll probably end up hooking to pay the bill. She wants your number, address. Wants to go and live with you in Canada.”

Was this my destiny? To raise two teenage girls? “That’s not bad news.”

“She’s on the warpath with her mother. Claims she took her cell away, erased all your messages. I think you should come back. You still have to face the other charges, remember. DUI, mischief. I’ll get you off with a thousand-buck fine. Licence suspended for a year. But you’ve got to come back, put in an appearance. I can’t do it alone, guy.”

I gazed up, out the window, at a purple-black sky sown
with uncountable stars and nearly full moon, then down at the tilting tombstone shadows. East to west is how they sleep you in your grave. “I’ll try.” I had a brewing suspicion that the Garden State had seen the last of the Nightingales, that the House of Nightingale would be winding down here in this northern graveyard.

“Soon, right?” said Volpe. “Like a plane out of Montreal first thing tomorrow?”

A lozenge of moonlight, almost peacock-blue, lay on the floor. “Give Brook what she asked for.”

“Roger. Oh, and Nile …”

“Yeah?”

“Try to avoid more felonies.”

I stared at the phone, my mind a blizzard, for what seemed like an hour but was probably a minute.
After killing the cousins you will carbonize the Cave, blow it sky-high
… When the phone’s black Bakelite began to melt and steam I snapped out of my trance. Took out the vet’s business card, punched in her cell number: “The customer you have dialled is currently unavailable. Please try again later.” No point calling the St-Hyacinthe number, because she’s not in St-Hyacinthe.

I walked to the foot of the stairs. “Céleste?”

“Yes?” She was sitting at the top of them.

“What are you doing there?”

“Nothing.”

“Did you go to the attic like I told you?”

“
As
I told you.”

“Just answer the question.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Where were you? What were you doing?”

“I was on the floor of my bedroom, listening through the vent. You did well.”

I sighed. It was no time for a lecture. “Do you have a phone book?”

“A what?”

“A phone book!”