Bones to Ashes Part 39

"Dinner?"

"I'll have to check with Harry."

"She's welcome to join us."

"Somehow, that invitation sounded deeply insincere."

"It was."

Whoa, something whispered from deep in my brain.

29.

R YAN WAS SITTING CROSS-LEGGED ON HIS YAN WAS SITTING CROSS-LEGGED ON HIS J JEEP WHEN I I TURNED TURNED onto my street. Sliding from the hood, he flicked a wave. I returned it. His image flashed in my rearview as I plunged into my underground garage. Faded jeans. Black polo. Shades. onto my street. Sliding from the hood, he flicked a wave. I returned it. His image flashed in my rearview as I plunged into my underground garage. Faded jeans. Black polo. Shades.

A decade down the road and the man still gave me that jolt. For once, Harry's appraisal was perfect. Ryan was hot-d.a.m.n good-looking.

All the way home I'd replayed our phone conversation. What was it Ryan had started to say? Tempe, I'm the happiest man on the planet. Tempe, I miss you. Tempe, I have heartburn from the sausage at lunch.

My neural factions squared off for their usual debate.

You were attacked. Ryan's looking for excuses to keep you in his sights.

You've been threatened before. Your safety is no longer Ryan's personal concern.

He wants to question Winston.

He could do that on his own.

He wants to know about Hippo's girl.

The Rimouski skeleton is not his case.

He's curious.

It's an excuse.

Those were his words.

His voice said otherwise.

After parking, I checked Winston's bas.e.m.e.nt workshop. He was there. I explained what Ryan wanted. He agreed. I could tell he was curious about my bruised cheek. He could tell from my demeanor it was a bad idea to ask.

Ryan was in the outer vestibule when Winston and I arrived on the first floor. I buzzed him into the lobby.

"Nice shoes," I said of Ryan's red high-top sneakers.

"Thanks." Ryan looked at Winston. "Undercover."

Winston nodded knowingly.

I rolled my eyes.

"Dr. Brennan explained why I'm here?" Ryan.

"Yes." Winston, solemn as a mortician.

Ryan produced the mug shots of Mulally and Babin.

Winston stared at the faces, brows furrowed, upper teeth clamping his lower lip. After a few moments, his head wagged slowly.

"I don't know. I just don't know."

"Take your time," Ryan said.

Winston refocused, then shrugged both shoulders.

"Sorry, man. It was so hectic that day. These dudes bothering Dr. Brennan?"

Ryan pocketed the pictures. "If you see them again, do let me know." Grave.

"Absolutely." Graver.

Ryan dug a card from his wallet and handed it to Winston. "I feel better knowing you're here."

The men locked gazes, acknowledging responsibility for the womenfolk.

I'd have done another eye roll, but it would have bothered my head.

Ryan held out a hand. Winston shook it then left, a soldier with a mission.

"Undercover?" I snorted. "With whom? The Disney police?"

"I like these shoes."

"Let's see what Harry's doing." I headed toward my corridor.

Whatever my sister was doing, it required her presence elsewhere. A fridge note explained that she'd left and would return later in the week.

"Maybe she got bored," Ryan suggested.

"Then why come back?"

"Maybe something came up that needed her attention at home."

"She'd need a pa.s.sport to go to Texas."

Ryan followed me to the guest room.

Clothes were everywhere. Scrambled in suitcases, heaped on the bed, draped on the chair back and over the open closet door. Relying on memory, I lifted sweaters from the desk and opened the top drawer.

Harry's pa.s.sport lay among my old bills and receipts.

"She's gone somewhere in Canada," I said. "Oh G.o.d. She's probably cooking up another of her surprises."

"Or maybe she figured the little side trip wasn't worth mentioning."

Worth mentioning. The phrase triggered a worrisome thought.

"Yesterday, I told Harry about the phone call, the e-mail, and the guy on the stairs. She was incensed. Immediately fingered the pair in Tracadie."

"Mulally and Babin."

"Harry didn't know their names. You don't suppose she's gone to Tracadie?"

"That would be nuts."

We looked at each other. We both knew Harry.

"Harry's not convinced Obeline killed herself." My brain was starting to spin possibilities. "Actually, though I've never said so, neither am I. Obeline seemed content when we visited her. Maybe Harry's suspicions drove her to do some snooping on her own."

"While there, ferret out Mulally and Babin. Ream them. Kill two birds with one stone."

Even Harry wouldn't do something that stupid. Or would she? I searched my mind for alternative explanations.

"Last night we also discussed Bones to Ashes Bones to Ashes."

Ryan gave me a questioning look.

I told him about the book Harry had filched from Obeline Bastarache's bedside table. And about Flan and Michael O'Connor's vanity press, O'Connor House.

"Harry thinks Evangeline wrote the poems. Maybe she's gone to Toronto to talk to Flan O'Connor."

Another thought.

"Harry found out that the print order for Bones to Ashes Bones to Ashes was placed by a woman named Virginie LeBlanc. LeBlanc used a post office box in Bathurst. Maybe Harry's gone to Bathurst." was placed by a woman named Virginie LeBlanc. LeBlanc used a post office box in Bathurst. Maybe Harry's gone to Bathurst."

"Not the easiest place to get to."

"Jesus, Ryan. What if she has has gone to Tracadie?" Even to myself I was starting to sound a bit loony. gone to Tracadie?" Even to myself I was starting to sound a bit loony.

"Call her."

"What if-"

Ryan placed a hand on my arm. "Call your sister's cell phone."

"Of course. I'm an idiot."

I picked up the portable, punched Harry's number, and listened to clicks as the call was routed. In my right ear, a phone rang. In my left, Buddy Holly and the Crickets chirped "That'll Be the Day."

Ryan and I both looked at the chair.

Grabbing Harry's new red leather jeans, I dug through the pockets. And almost flinched when my fingers touched metal.

"She changed pants and forgot," I said, extracting Harry's sparkly pink cell.

"She's fine, Tempe."

"The last time Harry did this she wasn't so fine." My voice cracked. "The last time she almost got herself killed."

"Harry's a big girl. She'll be OK." Ryan opened his arms. "Come here."

I didn't move.

Taking my hands, Ryan reeled me in. As though by reflex, my arms went around him.

Frightening images played in my head, memories of my sister's long-ago brush with crazies. An ice-pelted winds.h.i.+eld. The crack of bullets.

Ryan made comforting noises. Patted my back. My cheek nestled into his chest.

Harry drugged and helpless.

Ryan stroked my hair.

A puppet dance of bodies in a darkened house.

I closed my eyes. Tried to calm my overwrought nerves.

I don't know how long we stood there. How long it took for the pats to elongate into strokes. Grow more languid. Morph into caresses.

Other memories slowly took over. Ryan in a tiny Guatemalan posada posada. Ryan in my Charlotte bedroom. Ryan in the bedroom just beyond the wall.

I felt Ryan bury his nose in my hair. Inhale. Mumble words.

Slowly, imperceptibly, the moment redefined itself. Ryan's arms tightened. Mine responded. Unconsciously, our bodies molded to each other.

I felt Ryan's heat. The familiar curve of his chest. His hips.

I started to speak. To protest? Doubtful.

Ryan's hands slid to my throat. My face. He lifted my chin.