“No, I have no idea. I overheard that there had been some kind of fight. Apparently he picked a lot of fights, often with the wrong people.”
“Until one of these wrong people bashed his brains in?”
He grimaces with distaste. “If you want to put it like that. It’s not exactly a popular topic of conversation in my family, you know. And Tony in general. We kind of just don’t go there.”
“I understand. A stain on such an illustrious family name.”
“Do you have to be sarcastic about it?”
I pick up on the cool wave of hostility coming off him and know it’s time to change the subject. But what else could we talk about? Cath? How the crops are coming along?
Plus, it’s not even the only stain on the Bergmann name, or the first one. In my understanding, a wife ditching her husband and two kids to run off with another man was a big deal in rural Quebec in the 1960s.
Luc must pick up on what I’m thinking because he cringes. “Look, it’s not because my grandma left that Tony is like that. He was always a little off, if you ask Pierre. Long before the head injury and even before she left. He probably got it from her. At least it seems to have skipped the rest of us.”
“Sure did.”
“Then maybe you could ease up a bit?”
“Luc, I don’t care about Tony. I’m just trying to figure out if he could have anything to do with Michelle.”
“Ah, I see. You’re here in your capacity of armchair detective.”
“Hey. You’re the one who came to sit with me.” I’m trying to play it off as casual, but there’s a wariness about him now that doesn’t ease.
“So what do you think about the news?” he asks. “Do you really think the body isn’t Michelle? And if so, who is it?”
And where’s Michelle? I add in my head. “I’m afraid I can’t issue a statement at this time,” I deadpan, copying the SQ officer on the news. To my relief, it seems to ease the tension.
Luc chuckles. “You know what I think?” He looks relaxed as he polishes off the last of his beer. “I think the answer to this whole riddle is actually something simple. In-your-face. It always is, isn’t it?”
“Everybody else seems to disagree with you.” I indicate the packed diner with a sweeping look.
“Come on, Steph. You don’t really think there’s anything to all these crazy rumors, is there?”
“Huh?” I sit up straighter. Rumors?
But before I can ruin everything by jumping down his throat with questions, he adds: “Satanic Panic. Huge conspiracies. That’s got to be crazy talk, right?”
“Right,” I stammer.
“I mean, if any of it were true, someone would have spilled the beans by now.”
SEVENTEEN
1979
Tony Bergmann’s fetid breath washes over her. She can tell he’s been drinking by the distinctive undercurrent of booze sweat.
“It’s Laura,” he says, tilting his head.
Stars dance in front of her vision, and she struggles to catch her breath. Her ribs feel bruised.
“Laura O’Malley. What is little Laura doing here?”
In that moment, Laura truly doesn’t know. What the hell is she doing here? Why did she come here? The stupidity of her decision hits her, as always, too late.
Tony’s hands grip her forearms hard enough to bruise as he pins her down, pushing her into the wet, mossy earth. The cold of it travels right through her threadbare coat and numbs her skin.
“You shouldn’t come here, Laura,” Tony says. His tone is eerie in its calm. He bares his teeth in a rictus of a grin. “Didn’t anybody tell you? There are bad things in these woods.”
Laura finally manages to get some air into her lungs. At last, her voice cuts through. “Let go of me!” she shrieks.
“Just because she looks so small doesn’t mean she’s harmless,” Tony chuckles.
Laura feels confusion. What is he on about? Is he talking about her in the third person?
“It’s only animals so far, but if she were to run into a child alone in the woods, who’s to say what would happen? Don’t underestimate her.”
“What are you talking about?”
He makes a move to straddle her. Laura has the presence of mind to twist as hard as she can, and, in a stroke of sheer luck, she manages to free one arm. With all the strength she can muster, she claws at Tony’s eyes.
She mostly misses—mostly—but it makes him cry out. It’s enough to give her the momentum to break free. She kicks out at him with both feet and catches him in the chest. The impact sends him stumbling back, giving her time to roll over and get back on her feet.
The world reels in front of her eyes as blood rushes to her head. This is bad news—her balance feels precarious, the soft earth unsteady, dangerous, beneath her feet. But she has no time to dwell on it or to wait for everything to right itself. She breaks into a run, shaky at first, tilting precariously to one side, then she finally steadies her gait and takes off at full speed.
She can’t tell if he’s chasing her, but she doesn’t want to sacrifice even a millisecond to look over her shoulder and find out. She is running through the woods—running quasi-blindly, hoping she’s headed in the right direction, but even that isn’t important. She just needs to get away from him, as far as she can and as quickly as possible.
