āShould have figured. Thatās all anyone talks about. But I hate to break the bad newsāitās the SQ thatās handling it. Theyāve got the body, and we havenāt heard much about it since they took it away. Itās them you should be going to talk to.ā
Iām not about to treat him to the sob story of my lost press badge. āIām going to. I just thought Iād stop by here first.ā
He shrugs. āIām afraid I donāt have anything else for you. At least nothing my colleague didnāt tell you last time.ā
Which was next to nothing, soā¦
āI really just wanted to see the old file. On Michelleās disappearance. Your, uh, colleague said he didnāt know where it had ended upāā
āAnd Iām afraid he was right. Everything was digiāhow 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 didnāt find it in the computer, I donāt know what to tell you.ā
āAnd what happened to the original files?ā
āThe original file dates back to my dadās 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.ā
āThank you,ā I say.
āI donāt guarantee anything, though.ā
āI understand. How is Mr. Bergmann?ā I ask out of politeness.
A grimace races across Frankās face before fading just as quickly. āNot so good these days. His healthāIām 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.ā
I nod politely because health care in this province certainly is a joke.
āBut 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.ā He shudders.
I didnāt catch even the tail end of Pierre Bergmannās 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 Marlyās supposed heyday.
He pauses. āLook, Stephanie, I donāt know how long youāre 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.ā
Good thing Iāve got nothing but time. Literally. āIt canāt be that low on the priority list,ā I say. āItās a cold case of a missing nine-year-old after all.ā
āFrom what I heard,ā he says, āthey havenāt even determined yet if itās really Michelle.ā
This takes me aback. āThatās nonsense. Thereāsāā
āānobody else it could be,ā he says with a shrug. āBut thatās what we were told. No further action until the body is positively identified as Michelle Fortier. Itās 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. Thatās why theyāre having trouble.ā
āBut I researched it thoroughly,ā I say. āLast time I was here. I scoured missing persons lists. It literally canāt be anyone else. The last person to go missing in Marly was ten years beforeāā I cut myself off and clear my throat. Good catch. Heās not the person I want to discuss that one with. Itās just a little bit tactless.
He mercifully lets it slide. āIām just telling you what the SQās been saying.ā
āThank you,ā I say, hoping my fair skin didnāt betray too much of my embarrassment. āI appreciate it.ā
āIāll walk you to your car. Hey, why donāt you say hi to Luc? I bet heāll be happy to hear from you.ā
I decide not to tell him we already said hi. āI will. If you learn anything, can you give me a call? Iāll leave you my number.ā
āNo need,ā he says. āI can just call Laura.ā
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 Lauraās 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 didnāt notice. She had crept in through the back door like she did so often, shutting it gently behind her. Her head had spun a littleāthe 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 hadnāt occurred to her to brush her teeth or wash her face or even get undressed. As long as her father found her here tomorrow morningāassuming either of her parents woke up before she didāno one would mind that sheād 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 sheās 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. Itās 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 Lauraās 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 counterāan older girl from high school, one of them always works here on the weekendsālooks up from the sandwich sheās 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 storeās 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 OāMalley is trouble. But all that over a small bag of chips and some candy? Seems excessive. Ever the contrarian, Laura, whoās 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.