Part 27 (2/2)
”McIntyre Medical. It's part of McGill.”
”Looks like the Capitol Records Building in L.A.”
”Hmm.”
Halfway up the stairs, the air grew thick with the sharp, musky smell of skunk.
”Une mouffette,” I explained. I explained.
”Sounds good in French, but it stinks like plain old Texas varmint,” said Kit, wrinkling his nose. ”How 'bout we pick up the pace.”
”Right.” I was already panting from the steep climb.
At the top we crossed Pine, followed a serpentine dirt road to a cement staircase, climbed, took a hard right, more road, then another set of wooden stairs that shot straight up the escarpment.
By the time we arrived at the summit I was seriously thinking about defibrillation. While I paused to catch my breath Kit charged to the overlook. I waited for my heartbeat to descend from the troposphere, then I joined him at the bal.u.s.trade.
”This is awesome,” said Kit, squinting down a pair of bra.s.s pointers lined up on the McTavish Reservoir.
He was right. The view from the top is pure spectacle, a theater-in-the-round of a city in progress. In the foreground rise the skysc.r.a.pers and flats and smokestacks and church spires of downtown, beyond that the docks of the port and the city's main artery, the St. Lawrence River. In the far distance loom the peaks of St-Bruno and St-Hilaire, with the Eastern Towns.h.i.+ps at their feet.
Kit sighted down each indicator, and I pointed out landmarks I thought would interest him. Place Ville-Marie. The McGill football field. The Royal Victoria Hospital. The Montreal Neurological Inst.i.tute and Hospital.
The complex reminded me of Carolyn Russell and our conversation concerning the shunt. Thinking of Savannah Osprey brought the familiar twinge of sadness.
”Come on, Kit. I'll tell you what I've been up to.”
We strolled up broad stone steps, wending between bicycles lying on their sides, and settled on one of the wooden benches flanking the entrance to the chalet. Above us pigeons cooed softly in the heavy wooden beams.
”Where should I start?”
”At the beginning.”
”O.K., wise one.”
What was the beginning?
”Quebec Province has the dubious distinction of hosting the only active biker war in the world right now.”
”That h.e.l.ls Angels thing you talked about at Isabelle's dinner.”
”Exactly. These gangs are fighting over control of the drug trade.”
”What drugs?”
”Mostly cocaine, some pot and hash.”
A busload of j.a.panese tourists appeared from the parking lot, worked its way toward the railing, then began photographing itself in varying combinations.
”I became involved about two weeks ago. Two members of the Heathens, that's a puppet club to the Rock Machine, were blown up while trying to bomb a Vipers clubhouse on the southwest side of the city.”
”Who were the bombed-out bombers?”
”Twin brothers, Le Clic and Le Clac Vaillancourt.”
”The Vipers are with the h.e.l.ls Angels?”
”Yes. The sniper who took them out was arrested-”
”A Viper sniper. I like that.”
”The sniper investigation led to the recovery of two of the bodies we discussed at dinner.”
”The guys buried near the Vipers' clubhouse?”
”Yes.”
”Where is this clubhouse?”
”St-Basile-le-Grand.” An odd look crossed his face, but he said nothing.
”The two skeletons were later identified as members of an OMC called the Tarantulas, defunct now, but active in the seventies and eighties.”
”What about the girl's bones you found out there?”
”She has since been identified as Savannah Claire Osprey, from Shallotte, North Carolina. That's why I went to Raleigh. Savannah was sixteen when she disappeared in 1984.”
”Who killed her?”
”I wish I knew.”
”How did she end up here?”
”Same answer. Let me backtrack a minute. Before the discoveries at St-Basile-le-Grand, there was another murder. The sergeant at arms for the Vipers, a gentleman named Richard 'Spider' Marcotte, was shot in a drive-by outside his home. It may have been a Heathens. .h.i.t in retaliation for Clic and Clac.”
”That saved the taxpayers some money.”
”Yes, but remember there was a toll exacted on the public. A child got caught in the cross fire.”
”That's right. She was nine years old.” His eyes were focused on my face. ”She died, didn't she?”
I nodded.
”Emily Anne Toussaint was killed the day you and Howard dropped off Bird.”
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