“Should have figured. That’s all anyone talks about. But I hate to break the bad news—it’s the SQ that’s handling it. They’ve got the body, and we haven’t heard much about it since they took it away. It’s them you should be going to talk to.”
I’m not about to treat him to the sob story of my lost press badge. “I’m going to. I just thought I’d stop by here first.”
He shrugs. “I’m afraid I don’t have anything else for you. At least nothing my colleague didn’t tell you last time.”
Which was next to nothing, so…
“I really just wanted to see the old file. On Michelle’s disappearance. Your, uh, colleague said he didn’t know where it had ended up—”
“And I’m afraid he was right. Everything was digi—how do you say it? Digitalized? Digitized? Scanned into the computer, basically, about seven, eight years ago. But since there was a ton of paper, some of it faded to illegibility, a bunch of stuff got lost. If he didn’t find it in the computer, I don’t know what to tell you.”
“And what happened to the original files?”
“The original file dates back to my dad’s time. He would have been in charge in 1979. After all, he was the one on the scene when the Fortiers called. Most of the files were shredded, but some of them are probably still around. I could have a look in his archives. Only for you.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“I don’t guarantee anything, though.”
“I understand. How is Mr. Bergmann?” I ask out of politeness.
A grimace races across Frank’s face before fading just as quickly. “Not so good these days. His health—I’m going to spare you the details. He recently got a spot at a facility two towns over, after three years on the wait list. Imagine that! Health care in this province is a joke.”
I nod politely because health care in this province certainly is a joke.
“But it was worth the wait. The place is a good one, the same place where Marie Fortier ended up. Not one of those abattoirs you hear about on the news.” He shudders.
I didn’t catch even the tail end of Pierre Bergmann’s glory days. I only remember him as an old man, driving down Main Street in his meticulously restored 1960s Impala, the man and the car both a relic and a monument to Marly’s supposed heyday.
He pauses. “Look, Stephanie, I don’t know how long you’re planning to stay, but you better be patient. I have no idea when the SQ is going to get back to us with any information. Or at all.”
Good thing I’ve got nothing but time. Literally. “It can’t be that low on the priority list,” I say. “It’s a cold case of a missing nine-year-old after all.”
“From what I heard,” he says, “they haven’t even determined yet if it’s really Michelle.”
This takes me aback. “That’s nonsense. There’s—”
“—nobody else it could be,” he says with a shrug. “But that’s what we were told. No further action until the body is positively identified as Michelle Fortier. It’s been in that basement wall for almost forty years, there are no dental records to be found after this long, and DNA technologies were nonexistent back then. That’s why they’re having trouble.”
“But I researched it thoroughly,” I say. “Last time I was here. I scoured missing persons lists. It literally can’t be anyone else. The last person to go missing in Marly was ten years before—” I cut myself off and clear my throat. Good catch. He’s not the person I want to discuss that one with. It’s just a little bit tactless.
He mercifully lets it slide. “I’m just telling you what the SQ’s been saying.”
“Thank you,” I say, hoping my fair skin didn’t betray too much of my embarrassment. “I appreciate it.”
“I’ll walk you to your car. Hey, why don’t you say hi to Luc? I bet he’ll be happy to hear from you.”
I decide not to tell him we already said hi. “I will. If you learn anything, can you give me a call? I’ll leave you my number.”
“No need,” he says. “I can just call Laura.”
I say my goodbyes and head back out into the chilly, misty afternoon. I walk past the one parked police cruiser, the tents with their bored social workers, and all the way to the end of the lot where I left Laura’s car.
And immediately get the second unpleasant surprise of my visit.
The passenger-side window of the Honda is smashed. Glass litters the lot underneath it like bits of precious quartz. My breath catches, and I peer closer through the jagged bits of glass sticking out of the frame.
My backpack, and my laptop inside it, are gone.
FIVE
1979
When Laura got back home last night, it was late. So late that even her parents might object, so it was in her best interest that they didn’t notice. She had crept in through the back door like she did so often, shutting it gently behind her. Her head had spun a little—the bourbon she drank from the gullet of a metal flask was much stronger than the cheap beer her parents bought and chugged like water. But at least being drunk off her ass made it easier to fall asleep once she had collapsed onto her bed.
It hadn’t occurred to her to brush her teeth or wash her face or even get undressed. As long as her father found her here tomorrow morning—assuming either of her parents woke up before she did—no one would mind that she’d passed out on top of the covers without even taking her shoes off. It would be good enough for them. Which meant it was good enough for her.
As it happens, she wakes up alone in the house. She knows she’s alone the moment she sits up, her mouth dry and her head throbbing. The house has sunk into a sort of dusty stillness.
Laura rolls off her bed, shaking out her rumpled clothes. It’s Saturday, and she has nowhere she needs to be. She makes her way to the bathroom where she briefly glances at her puffy-faced reflection in the black-speckled mirror above the sink, and then runs the tap until the water is ice-cold. She leans in and gulps greedily until her teeth hurt and her lips are numb. She stands up straight, panting, water running down her chin.
Now that she feels a little better, she can go about her business. She reinspects her reflection with less bleary eyes, paying closer attention this time. She decides that the eye makeup caked around her eyes is actually just right and leaves it be.
Outside, the sun proves almost as hot as it is bright, and Laura’s hangover makes a brief but potent comeback. Cringing at the sour taste in her mouth, she decides to head down the road to the store where she can get a root beer from the machine.
The sun beats down on her matted black hair, making her break out in sticky booze sweat underneath her jacket, so the cool semidarkness of the general store is almost a relief. The bell dings above the door as it swings shut behind her. The girl behind the counter—an older girl from high school, one of them always works here on the weekends—looks up from the sandwich she’s sloppily devouring, and her gaze fixes on Laura with a little too much intent. The store reeks of canned tuna and mayonnaise, which somehow makes Laura simultaneously hungry and about to puke. She slinks past the counter and away into the store’s cluttered depths. The store is too small for all the goods they have to stock, so you practically have to turn sideways to fit through the aisles. Some food would be nice, Laura realizes. Something to settle her gurgling stomach.
As she scans the shelves, she hears steps at the front of the store. The chick must be spying on her. The other clerk must have told her that Laura O’Malley is trouble. But all that over a small bag of chips and some candy? Seems excessive. Ever the contrarian, Laura, who’s got about a dollar in small change jingling about in her jacket pockets, is tempted to shoplift the chips and candy and skip out without the soda.
