Rontenatanónhnha
by lamardeuse

Lyrics from "Corazon Espinado" by F. Olvera, as performed by Santana. Paroles de "Ne fais pas ça" par Paul Piché. No copyright infringement is intended.

Author's Note: They say write what you know, and when I'm attempting to write an X-File (gasp!) I need the support of the familiar. Montréal is all about enjoying life, which isn't really XF's credo, but who says you can't have a little fun now and then? This story will make more sense from a character standpoint if you check out my first story, Indian Summer.  There is a gang in Québec called the Rock Machine, but I didn't do any research on specific activities or membership.

Acknowledgments: Thanks to Kathy Reichs, one of my profs from the long-ago McGill days, who reminded me how great Montréal really is. Her most recent book, Deadly Décisions, is about the biker gangs, and if you haven't discovered her by now, you should. Unfortunately, she just doesn't get the lure of junk food for Quebeckers...but Monica does! More at the end – I don't want to give away the whole plot...

Warning: Some words in this story are in French. They might have accents and stuff. Don't panic; a prerequisite is not required. There will, however, be a test at the end.
 
 
  

 
 
 

"What the hell is this?"

"It's what you ordered, darlin'."

"Correction. It's what you ordered."

"Try it, you'll like it."

"I've heard that one before."

"Well, I'm not eating two of them, so dig in."

Special Agent John Doggett sat in the Dilallo Burger on the corner of Charlevoix and Notre-Dame Streets in Montreal and eyed his poutine italienne warily. Plastic fork poised for battle, he regarded the mix of fluorescent orange spaghetti sauce, French fries and slowly melting cheese curds as if at any moment it would surge from its Styrofoam container and attack.

"Look, it's safe." With a ladylike movement, I shoved a large mouthful into my open cakehole. I felt the ribbon of cheese I had failed to wrap entirely around my fork thwack against my chin. One loud suck and it disappeared between my lips.

Doggett raised an eyebrow.

Smiling genteelly, I wiped my chin clean of sauce. Then with exaggerated flourishes I took a fresh paper napkin, snapped it open like a maitre'd in a four-star establishment, and tucked it daintily into his shirt collar.

"Mustn't splatter," I explained.

"Jesus," Doggett muttered, but the corners of his mouth jerked convulsively as he suppressed a laugh. And I took a moment to sit and enjoy being back in this city.

Several years ago, I had spent a few months in Montreal as a liaison between the FBI and the local police on the illegal cross-border smuggling of Central American immigrants. My fluency in French and Spanish had made me a shoo-in for the post, and I had jumped at the chance for something different.

Little did I suspect that Montreal in February was about as damn different from New Orleans as Pluto is from Tahiti. The white carpet treatment – a full two feet of snow – I received upon arrival just about made me turn around at the airport and hop on the next flight south.

However, I soon discovered that Montrealers are as undaunted by the winter as they are by the impossibility of surviving as a French-speaking island in a sea of English. When the snow flies, they dive underground into a maze of tunnels, metro stations, shops, apartments and movie theatres. It's possible for someone to live downtown quite comfortably, see the latest flick, buy his bagels and lox, visit the family at Christmas, and never venture outdoors. Those that do brave the cold know how to dress for warmth and style, because in this town, the latter is a must.

It's in the summer that Montreal really comes alive, though, and I was lucky to stay long enough to see some of it. Festivals, music, fireworks, dance clubs, and outdoor cafés abound. People of every colour, language and persuasion sprout from the sidewalks as soon as the last dirty snowbank has melted. I felt like I'd found the sister to the Big Easy.

There is one important difference between this place and my home town: the language that is fighting for its life in Louisiana has a steady pulse here. However, just as in New Orleans, if you're looking to practice your Parisian phrasebook here you might as well go home. The French they speak here ain't the polished, rounded tones of the Left Bank, but more the nasal, clipped tones of a much older version of the tongue. The religious curse words alone took me three months to sort out.

I think this was the first thing that pissed Doggett off, oddly enough. When he found out we were headed here on a case, he did like every other good Marine would and picked up some ammunition on the local inhabitants. I think he takes great pride in being prepared for a situation, as if he feels that everything that ever went wrong in the world could have been prevented with a little judicious planning. I've long since given up on that approach to life, but even after a year on the X-Files Doggett still clings to this credo like a drowning man clutches at the tiny piece of driftwood he imagines to be a liferaft.

Luckily for Doggett, most of Montreal is inured to Anglophones, or English-speakers, either in the form of tourists or residents. If you make some sort of effort in French, the vast majority of people will stop you long before you finish a sentence just to keep from having their ears assaulted by your sad attempts. Thus had my partner managed to ask directions, rent a car, and register us at one of the swankier apartment-hotels downtown – God love the crappy Canadian dollar – without once having to finish more than two words in French. That was good, because Doggett's French sounds just about as good as my Farsi. And I don't speak Farsi.

"Armand, vieux, ch't'ay paw vu 'iyiar soyrr!" Behind me, two men greeted each other warmly, and Doggett made a face. He was clearly listening intently, and paying far too much attention to the unintelligible accents to realize that he had started eating his poutine.

I gestured at his lunch. "It helps." His eyes moved from the men to me as he chewed and, realizing his mouth was full, looked a question at me. "The more you eat, the more they start to make sense."

He swallowed. "Yeah? I think I'll figure out Cantonese sooner. I only took French one year in high school and then it was taught by some old nun who could barely speak it herself. This damn book isn't any good at all." He dug a paperback out of his pocket and dropped it on the table. One look at the Eiffel Tower on the cover and I sighed inwardly, though I couldn't resist having a little fun.

I picked it up and made my best boo-boo face. "Aww, and I bet you spent the whole weekend practicing your 'Commentallyvoo'. That would've been fun to watch."

Doggett growled, albeit good-naturedly, and stabbed at his lunch. "You're doin' the interpreting this trip."

"And when will we go someplace where you'll do the interpreting?"

"When there's an X-File in the Land of Broken English. Shut up and finish your slop."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

 

After a rather awkward initial period, Doggett's and my partnership had settled into a pattern I hadn't experienced before in my career. It wasn't that I'd never been paired with skeptics like him, but when that had happened in the past I'd opted for the minimum of emotional and professional investment. Simply stated, I kept quiet and kept my head down. The role I had assumed this time around more closely resembled the way I was with my brother or other close family members. Monica was always 'the funny one' as opposed to 'the pretty one', but in our often tension-filled household, the former quality was more appreciated anyway.

Our situation had been complicated by Doggett's love-hate relationship with his latent psychic abilities, abilities he had asked me to help him develop. He had never been a big believer in the paranormal, and so his training was fitful, slow and sometimes painful. In the process, I fell into my well-worn pattern of using humour to cajole, cheer and gently browbeat people into following the direction I thought was best for them. When that happened, as when I found myself whooping like a humpback for a scared and stressed Dana Scully, I sometimes looked a complete and total goofball, so I didn't employ it in professional situations. Until now. But for the moment, I wasn't interested in delving into the reasons why this time was different.

"This is the place."

I looked up to take in the building on Dorchester Street which housed the headquarters of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police in Montreal. Located in Westmount, a predominantly English-speaking neighbourhood adjacent to the downtown core, it dwarfed the late Victorian row houses which surrounded it . The RCMP was sharing jurisdiction with both the city cops and the provincial police in this rapidly growing situation, and as it had just crossed the border we would be representing the U.S. side at the briefing.

Inside we were directed to a gray room among hundreds of gray rooms, where representatives from the other forces greeted us. Many of the investigators present at the briefing were fresh from a multi-jurisdictional task force success, Operation Printemps 2001, which targeted suspected members of Outlaw Motorcycle Gangs across the province. The OMGs, or motards, as they were known in Quebec, were widely seen here as the scourge of society, and drastic measures were beginning to be taken. The murder of an innocent child and the shooting of a journalist were just two of the crimes which justified these measures in the minds of Quebeckers.

Since the majority of the people involved were French, that would be the language of the meeting, and I would translate quietly for Doggett as we went along. Introductions were made, and most of the men and women were quite handy in English as they greeted us warmly. I spoke briefly with one of my old acquaintances from the MUC city police, Mireille Lamontagne. She was a pretty red-haired woman who could party until dawn all weekend and show up for work Monday as if she had slept forty-eight hours straight. A spark of interest flared in her eyes when I introduced her to Doggett, and when her gaze returned to me there was a question in it. I shrugged slightly, the Gallic gesture meaning I-don't-give-a-flying-frig-if-you-do. She shrugged back and grinned, meaning all sorts of possibilities I didn't want to consider.

As we took our seats at the back of the room, Doggett whispered to me, "If everybody speaks English so well, how come we can't do this in English?"

"Because, Toto, we're not in Kansas anymore." I felt his blue eyes boring into the side of my skull as we sat.

The briefing filled us in on the details of a situation we'd studied in files sent to us. Over the past three months, four bodies, all homicides, had shown up in and around Montreal. The victims were male, members of a local biker gang known as the Rock Machine, which controlled large portions of the city's drug trade and prostitution racket. Certainly, it wasn't unusual for members of these groups to kill each other off, but there was usually a tennis match quality to it, where a corpse from one outfit would surface, followed by a serve from the opposing corner. The deceased were all from the same organization.

Two of the bodies were found when the spring thaw yielded them up, one washed up on the south shore of the St. Lawrence River which flows around the bottom of the island, and one in Châteauguay, southwest of the city on the same shore. Two others had been found dead in their respective homes, or should I say hovels, in the eastern neighbourhoods of Montreal proper. Now a fifth had been discovered last week in upper New York State, and it was that gentleman who had made the case an international police effort.

What had made this case an X-File, however, was the manner of the deaths. Each M.O. had been different and none fit the typical style of gangland hits. The first had been killed by a blow from a hatchet-like instrument to the skull. The second was found with massive amounts of an herbal-sourced alkaloid in his system, the third roasted alive when his bed was set on fire. When the fourth one showed up, things began to get really interesting. Réal Ducharme, a small-time operator affiliated with the Rock Machine, had died when his heart had been removed from his body. The wound was precise, surgical, and deliberate. The crime's only tie to the other murders was its complete departure from typical hits and the gang affiliation of its victim.

I leaned close to Doggett while I supplied the English version of the briefing for him. The subject matter hardly lent itself to romance; I was not exactly murmuring sweet nothings into the man's ear. Nevertheless, I felt an awareness of his proximity creep into my consciousness as I practiced my rusty translation skills. His profile was pure Irish – if someone had told me he was a member of the Kennedy horde, I would have believed it in a second. Eyes almond-shaped and eerily blue, mouth just too thin for his face, laugh lines completely outnumbered by worry lines, leprechaun ears jutting from his head. What the hell made the whole combination work was anyone's guess. Occasionally, he would nod at something I said, or frown slightly, or turn toward me, but did not look at me directly, and I enjoyed this chance to study the line of his nose or the curve of his eyebrow without having to explain myself. It was as though I were trying to find the explanation for these annoying feelings written somewhere on his features.

" – and then last week, the fifth victim was found in New York State."

Suppressing a sigh, I forced myself to return my full attention to the task at hand. I didn't know why this attraction to Doggett was becoming such a nuisance; after all, it wasn't like I made a habit of being desperate or pathetic. I had left a mutually satisfying, semi-serious relationship behind in New Orleans not all that long ago, and we had parted amicably. Very amicably. I was a healthy woman, with a normal libido, thank you very much, that didn't extend to my professional life. Not anymore. He wasn't even my type, inasmuch as I had one. What was going on? It was too early yet for menopause. Wasn't it? I made a mental note to ask Scully the next time I saw her.

"Would you care to fill us in on the situation, Agent Reyes?" Lieutenant Guy Lacasse of the RCMP asked me in French. Doggett looked at me questioningly as I opened the file before me.

"The New York murder," I supplied. To the group as a whole, I offered, "I apologize in advance for my poor French. It's been a while since I've practiced it last, and even longer since I've been in Montreal." I noticed a couple of surprised expressions; it didn't hurt to suck up a little. "On the twenty-first of June, Michael Roy Harris was found dead in a hotel room in Saratoga Springs. He was naked except for a leather loincloth, and had suffered multiple bruises and internal injuries from blunt trauma. Internal bleeding resulting from this trauma was later established as the cause of death. He was an accountant known to have ties to the Rock Machine. I believe your task force had him under investigation."

Lacasse nodded. "He was suspected in a money-laundering scheme. The Machine has been diversifying into lucrative but legitimate businesses lately, and we thought he was probably behind it. Mainly convenience stores" –  he used the Québecois term 'dépanneurs' –  "but we heard noises from some of our sources in the Laurentians they might be considering other ventures."

The Laurentians were a low, ancient mountain group which began north of Montreal, part of the huge geological formation known as the Canadian Shield. "What sort of ventures?" I asked.

"Ski hills."

I couldn't suppress a laugh. "I love it. Les motards, riding their Harleys down Mont Tremblant." A couple of the others chuckled, and I realized belatedly that Doggett was staring at me. I hastily turned to him and rendered the exchange for him in English, then started explaining geography, then gave up. "I'll tell you later," I whispered in his ear.

"What did the American coroner determine to be the source of these injuries?" queried one of the constables from the provincial police, the Sureté du Québec.

I shook my head. "The only thing they could establish was that the wounds were caused by several weapons, some with blunt tips, like clubs, others sharper, although they weren't used to pierce the flesh, merely to strike it side on. Splinters were found in some of the wounds. Others seem to have been the result of strikes by stone-tipped objects. "

"Defence wounds?" asked Lacasse.

"About two dozen, on the hands and forearms." I heard Doggett shift beside me, and I tried to will him some patience.

"Sounds like it was done by a gang, but it's not gang style," muttered the SQ officer. "Witnesses?"

"It happened in his apartment, which he had rented there while he was in town. It was a nice place, so the neighbours weren't afraid to talk. One said he had seen Harris go into his place about ten. The fellow downstairs heard a commotion about eleven-thirty and called the cops. Nobody on the floor saw or heard anyone visit Harris between those two times."

"They could've been waiting for him," offered a fresh-faced kid in an RCMP uniform.

"Yeah, but they wouldn't have waited an hour and a half to jump him or to finish the job," added the SQ officer. She ran a hand through her short dark hair in a move that reminded me of my partner. "It's another one that doesn't make any sense."

"And this is what you've let yourselves in for, Agents," Lacasse told us sweetly in English. "Welcome to the game. Any ideas what you'd like to do first?"

Doggett spoke up, clearly heartened by the sound of his mother tongue. "I'd like to follow up the East End murders, get more on those. They seem to bear the closest resemblance to the American case."

I nodded my agreement, then continued in French. "And I'd like to know more about the psychic who was called to the scene of those two crimes."

Lacasse shifted in his seat, as did a couple of the others. Finally he stated uncomfortably, "The psychic was a false lead. There was nothing conclusive."

"Oh." I didn't want to destroy my credibility with these people right out of the box by saying I knew this psychic personally and highly doubted she would come up dry. I could call her later.

"Detective Lamontagne was at the scene of the East End cases," continued Lacasse. "She can help you with those." Mireille looked like a cat who had discovered a whole cow with milking machine attached. I sighed inwardly. Le party commence.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

 
 

After a fruitless afternoon poring over crime scene photos and incredibly detailed reports in yet another gray room, where I got to enjoy the sight of Detective Lamontagne sticking her generous boobs in Doggett's face whenever she got the opportunity, I was ready to scream. All right, so I exaggerate about the boobs, both the size and the placement, but the amount of attention my partner was receiving was obvious even to him. The tips of his ears rapidly turned the colour of the detective's hair and stayed that way for three straight hours. I wasn't sure if he was flattered or just frightened, but he did seem relieved when we finally extricated ourselves from the building around seven. Of course, Mireille insisted on getting the specifics of our logement, and promised she'd be in touch later. I'm sure touching was the very least she had in mind.

Squinting in the evening sun, Doggett exhaled as we descended the steps. "That was a real bust." I bit down hard on my tongue to keep from laughing.

"Yeah," I agreed after a few moments, "but I might have a lead. I'm going to give her a ring when we get back to the hotel."

"What now?" he asked, digging out his sunglasses.

"We turn this corner to Sainte Catherine, then walk about five minutes to the best damn Chinese food in town. Come on."

"Seems like all I've done since I got here is eat," he grumbled.

"Now you're starting to understand what Montreal's all about."

"Getting fat?"

"Enjoying life. Food, music, parties, and sex." I waggled my eyebrows at him Groucho-style.

Doggett cast a look at the building behind us. "No kiddin'. I kind of picked up on that last one."

I tried for a lighthearted laugh, and hoped it came out sounding that way. "Mireille's harmless. Unless you don't want her to be."

"I don't mean to be rude," he began cautiously, "but what's with the hair? Is that some kind of genetic thing?"

"Only if you can bottle DNA. I call it French Canadian red; it's very popular in Quebec. Do you think it'd look good on me? I've been considering a change." I flipped my tresses, mallrat style, for emphasis.

"I'm hardly a fashion expert. But I wouldn't recommend it."

You're a fan of redheads, aren't you, John? I strained not to speak that catty question aloud. But he was right. The last thing I needed was an even more direct basis for an unfavourable comparison to Dana Scully. As sweet and genuine as the woman was, for some reason I felt gangly and awkward in her presence, like the winner of the science prize on the gymnasium stage with the prom queen. It wasn't a sensation I liked or was used to, at least not since I turned seventeen, but it was there nonetheless. And it was complicated by the fact that Doggett was – is – hopelessly besotted with her. If he ended up having a little fling with Mireille this trip, I was sure he'd be picturing Scully the whole time.

Stop it! my mind commanded. This was getting completely sophomoric. I needed some distance from him, from these foolish ramblings. I needed...egg rolls. "And here we are. The Hong Kong House."

"Sign's in English," Doggett noted.

"You've noticed an absence of it, haven't you?" I asked as I ushered him inside. "The province of Quebec has a funny little law that tells you what signs you're allowed to put up and how big the letters are allowed to be. Usually, English signage is prohibited on the outside of buildings."

A look of good ol' American outrage crossed his face. "You're kidding."

Smiling at the hostess, I followed her to the table. "Fascist, isn't it? That's what I thought initially. Civil liberties and all that. But they have a different sense of the common good here."

"And the common good is for nobody to learn English?" observed Doggett sarcastically as we seated ourselves.

"No, but the preservation of the French language is pretty high on everybody's list. It's part of a whole culture, a way of life, that's different from the rest of Canada. From the rest of the Western hemisphere. They feel a little outnumbered, outflanked, and they're trying to survive. You're a military man. You can appreciate that."

"Hell, one of 'em almost outflanked me this afternoon without too much trouble. I have a healthy respect for their survival skills, believe me." He opened up his menu and studied it. "What do you recommend?"

I grinned evilly. "Everything."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

 
 

My ninety-ninth lap in the hotel's rooftop pool was the one that worked off the last almond cookie. I could feel the calories burn away into the water as I touched the edge at the deep end. Thankfully, the pool hadn't been warmed to blood heat level, so I could get through a good workout without feeling I was sweating with every stroke. Too bad it was only about sixty feet long, or I would really have something to brag about.

I did a few minutes of stretching poolside while I admired the view of the city. This building was right in the core of the downtown: to the west lay the buildings of McGill University and the not-quite skyscrapers of the banks and major corporations, to the east the funky nightlife of the Quartier Latin and the Gay Village. The spotlight on top of Place Ville Marie swung inexorably in a circle, lighting up the night sky above me at regular intervals.

Doggett and I sat and talked over General Gao's Chicken, steamed dumplings and Hong Kong House special fried rice for more than two hours. I'd always seen the man as taciturn when it came to anything but work; he didn't fit the stereotype of the gregarious Southerner. Of course, it didn't help that there were huge, gaping holes in his life that were not open for discussion. The death of his son was still a fresh wound after more than five years. But then, at what magical point was one expected to 'get over' the death of a child? Ten years? Fifty? Luke, and the horror of his disappearance and murder, would always be a part of him, just as my role in the investigation of his case would always be an ingredient in our relationship, whatever that relationship might become.

Where had that errant thought come from? I suppose the date-like quality of the meal had suffused my brain with idiotic notions. Things were so much more relaxed here than in DC, and that informal attitude seeped into my pores, loosened my muscles and my inhibitions. Doggett's too, it seemed, for he actually did carry his share of the conversation this evening. We talked about Montreal, New York, places he had been, places I had been, music, politics, anything, nothing. I learned that his favourite place on Earth was a two hundred year old oak tree on his uncle's farm in Georgia. He learned that I hated the little bits of shallot that floated around in wonton soup. Knocking the water from my ears, I could still hear his laughter as I began to build a pile of them on the saucer under my teacup. Not the kind I was used to from acquaintances, which originated in their discomfort with my unabashed silliness, but a laugh of pure enjoyment.

"I like them on my rice, not in my soup," I explained primly. He only laughed harder.

I liked making him laugh that way. Liked it too much.

"Damn," I breathed, to the empty room.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

 
 

Since we didn't have any more leads, I decided to visit the psychic the police had consulted. I called her after my swim and we agreed to meet around two the following afternoon, when we could be fairly sure she was arisen from the dead, as it were. Loretta Caravaggio was a creature of the night.

Mireille called me in the morning to let me know that Papo Ross and his Orquesta Pambiche would be playing at the Salsathèque on Peel that evening. I remembered them from my last time here and agreed to meet her back at the hotel later. She exhorted me to buy myself a dress since she was sure I hadn't packed anything "trop sexy" in my suitcase. To Quebeckers, it seemed, the rest of North America was simply not sexy enough. When she asked me to invite Doggett too, I washed my hands of it by giving her his room number. I was fairly sure he wouldn't appreciate it, but I didn't want any part of her plans for romance. I was also fairly sure he'd turn her down, and I didn't want any part of that, either. Hell hath no fury, and other venerable quotes from dead poets who spent time in the doghouse.

I wasn't sure how I ended up standing outside his room, knocking on his door. I could have called. Calling would have been better. When he opened it, I noted he was dressed in his work clothes. "Just, ah, wondering what the plan was for today."

"I was going to head down to the RCMP again, look over the evidence some more." He didn't sound happy about it.

"Do you honestly think you'll find anything?"

He smiled grimly. "Not really."

"Listen, if you want I'll go along."

His eyes swept over me, taking in my shorts and sleeveless top. "Naw, it's OK. No sense in both of us goin'."

"All right, well, I'll meet you back here about 1:30? You want to talk to Isabella, right?"

"Sure."

I stood there for a couple of seconds, my legs refusing to move. Then, before my mind could debate the wisdom of the words, I blurted, "John, come with me."

He stared at me. "What?"

"Play hooky for once. You've sacrificed enough weekends and late nights for the Bureau to have earned a bit of payback." I seemed to remember wanting to take the morning to regroup after last night, to get a little distance. That was me, wasn't it? "Nobody was expecting you, right?"

"No." His noncommittal expression didn't crack, but his eyes betrayed him. They were the eyes of a little boy invited to do something naughty. God help me.

"Get changed. I'm taking you sightseeing."

Without a word, his hand went to loosen his tie, and he stepped aside to let me enter.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

 
 

"So this is where the Expos play."

The squashed-onion shape of the Stade Olympique loomed over the East End of Montreal like the mysterious construction of an ancient civilization. It had taken a bit of convincing to get Doggett, who had spent way too much time in New York, to take the metro, but once we descended to the University station he was pleasantly surprised by it. He sat watching me as I stood in the half-empty car, my hands letting go of the rail as the train started up.

"You're gonna fall."

I shook my head, closing my eyes and concentrating on the weight distribution in my feet – balls, heels, toes – as we accelerated. "Electric monorail. Smooth as a baby's bum."

"You don't mind that you're the only one on the train standin' up, do you?" My eyes snapped open at his odd question. There was no sarcasm in his tone, just curiosity.

I studied him. "I'll sit if you want."

His gaze pinned me. "No. I don't want."

I took a deep breath of fresh air and craned my neck at the stadium. Harsh sunlight burned away the images. "Yup. The '76 Olympics were played here. Twenty-five years later, the whole thing's falling apart. Chunks of concrete rain down occasionally" – a nervous look crossed Doggett's features –  "but there's nothing to worry about. No one's ever been squished."

"Yeah, well there's a first time for everything, right?" He turned slowly, taking in the terrain. "So where are we going?"

"And ruin the surprise? You're not gonna make me talk, copper."

He smiled at my foolishness. "You're the tour guide. Lead on."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

 
 

In its previous incarnation, the Biodôme was the Olympic Vélodrome, the building which had housed the bicycle racetrack. Today it was home to an unusual living museum which presented four different ecosystems to the public, up close and personal. My last time in Montreal, I had visited this place practically every other week.

"Hey!" Doggett ducked as a bird dove toward him.

"Don't worry. They're housetrained." I walked slowly along the path, enjoying the humidity of the tropical environment that surrounded us. Each system was separated from the other by airlocks; the only one that couldn't be experienced directly was the Polar environment, but it was my favourite nevertheless. I checked my watch. "Come on. It's almost feeding time."

The plate glass walls on either side of the wide hallway revealed dozens of penguins, big, proud Kings and the smaller Rockhoppers and Gentoos, engaged in your typical penguin activities. They swam, waddled, and barrelled down smooth ice slides to hit the water with a solid slap. Around us, other tourists were starting to gather.

We were rewarded by the appearance of a white-coated caretaker a couple of minutes later. She emerged from a hidden door with a stool and a large bucket brimming with fish. The crowd hushed as she took her place, and the penguins of both species began to form a perfect, polite line to her right. A few of the kids, and one or two adults, laughed as they wiggled their way up onto dry land to take their places. Now seated, the woman drew a decent-sized fish from the bucket and introduced it into the waiting beak of the first penguin, who gulped it down without fanfare and then went merrily on his way. Clambering clumsily up to the top of the slide, he belly-flopped onto it, letting gravity do the rest. The next candidate stepped up to the plate and stood patiently awaiting his fish, which turned out to be almost as big as he was. And feeding time had begun.

I must have stood transfixed for a good ten minutes before I turned to look at Doggett. The hallway was dark, the only illumination coming from the penguin habitat, so it took me several stunned seconds to realize he was on the verge of tears.

"John," I whispered. "Are you all right?"

He nodded, his eyes never leaving the scene behind the glass. "Yeah. Yeah, I think I am."

"Do you want to go?" I asked, fighting the urge to touch him.

"No. I'd like to see the rest of it."

"Sure. Sure."

And so we stood watching the penguins eat fish. Only when the caretaker had closed the door behind her did he move. We walked in silence until we got outside, and I followed him without question to a bench beside the walkway. He sat with his elbows propped on his knees, his head bowed as if he had just run a marathon.

"I, ah, I want to thank you for that," he finally murmured.

I fought back a startled laugh. "You're kidding."

"No. You see, I – " he started, then took a deep breath and began again. "Not a day goes by that I don't think about Luke."

Damn damn damn damn. How could I have been so insensitive? It had never even occurred to me. Of all the places to take him, a zoo – 

"Most of the memories, at least until recently, have been – pretty bad. Lately, though, I've been remembering him more like he was. Stuff'll come back to me – little things, like watching him comb his hair in the morning, or the way the catcher's mitt I bought him kept fallin' off his hand. And it's not easy, but it's easier. That's all I can say about it.

"Anyway, I was standing there just now, and I reached out for him. That's why I stopped goin' to places like this, places where people take their kids, because I'd reach out for him and all I'd get was a handful of air. Then I'd remember this was just one more thing he'd never get to see. But this time, when I reached out for him, and I don't know how else to explain it, it's like he was there. And I don't mean that in a religious sense. I mean that, it's as if the part of me that keeps Luke, that holds him *here*" – he tapped his chest – "was opening up, letting him out – to play." He turned to look at me. "Do you understand what I'm trying to say?"

"Yes," I told him, trying to keep my voice even, "yes, I do."

"And I want to thank you for that." His eyes assessed me. "You're the only person I know who would drag somebody halfway across a strange town to see a bunch of penguins eat fish."

I attempted a smile. "When you put it that way, it sounds a little crazy."

"I wouldn't say that," he murmured. "I wouldn't say that at all."

Suddenly uncomfortable under his scrutiny, I chirped, "Well, how about a visit to the Botanical Gardens? They're right next door. There's a beautiful Chinese section." I thought he could do with a little serenity about now.

"Nah. I'd like to try somethin' a little more – fun." He pointed to the inclined tower of the Stadium, where a funicular was slowly climbing the outside edge. "How about that?"

We exchanged a look, and for a moment it felt as though Doggett and I weren't the only ones there. "Yeah," I agreed. "That's a much better idea."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

 
 

Around noon we emerged from the Lionel-Groulx metro station near the Atwater Market, where I introduced Doggett to stalls and shops full of everything from fresh pasta to 8% craft beer to cuts of horse meat. He decided against the last two, so we agreed on the former. Alfredo or tomato sauce? How about pesto? It was all so hopelessly domestic, although I hadn't intended it that way when I first thought of the place.

"Look, we don't have to eat together all the time," I ventured in a moment of uncertainty as I watched him pick out red and yellow peppers. His long, blunt-fingered hands cradled them, turning them over gently as he judged them for ripeness and weight. Jesus. "If you have other plans – "

"We've got kitchens, might as well use 'em," he murmured, still focused on the peppers. "Unless you're trying to get out of cooking."

"Who said I was cooking?"

"You did."

"I don't recall this conversation."

He snuck a mischievous look at me. Blue eyes had always seemed cold to me, though for the moment I couldn't remember why. His gaze warmed me to my toes. "How 'bout if I buy the wine?" The Bureau expense account didn't cover booze.

"Think you can woo me with presents, huh?" I grinned. "You're right. I'll cook." There was a beat of profound silence when I realized exactly what I had just said. I wasn't sure if he noticed my discomfort, or if he was feeling any himself, because I swiftly looked away, my sappy smile still painted on my face. Pointing vaguely at the door to the main building, I told him, "I think I'll head back to that boulangerie. I wanted to pick up some bread for tomorrow."

"Sure. I'll be here." His tone was easy, light.

Once inside, I leaned against the doorjamb for a few moments, then forced my rubbery legs to carry me up the stairs.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

 
 

"Aiieee! My darling Monica!"

Isabella enfolded me in a death grip hug which I lamely tried to return. She hadn't changed much, though I noticed her jet black mane of wavy hair was now shot with silver. I estimated her age at about fifty to fifty-five, but she still had the strength of ten oxen and a figure women around the world would gladly kill for. Her wide, dark eyes, aquiline nose and prominent cheekbones spoke of her Italian heritage.

"It's so good to see you again!" I huffed as the air was crushed from my lungs. "How have you been?"

"Aging," Isabella laughed, releasing me, but not before bussing me on both cheeks in the Quebec fashion.

"If you call that aging, I'll take it." I stepped aside to make room for Doggett, who was standing patiently behind me on the landing of the triplex. There are several neighbourhoods in Montreal whose primary form of housing are two- and three-story flats with wrought iron balconies and staircases jutting from their front facades. I hated trying to crawl up and down them in the winter, but the residents navigate them year-round like mountain goats. "This is my partner, Agent John Doggett." He extended a hand and I got out of his way just in time as he was pulled forward for the traditional kissy-kissy. To his credit, he looked stunned for only a split second. Bienvenue au Québec.

"Come into my parlour, said the spider to the fly," Isabella invited, leading us into the front room of her flat, which boasted a high ceiling with an ornate plaster medallion in the centre and hardwood floors. The decor was more North African than New-Agey; Isabella was of the old school. The walls were a deep orange hue, the colour of desert sunsets.

"I like it," I commented. The room had once been much brighter, whites and sky blues.

"I took a side trip to Morocco the last time I went back to the motherland," she shrugged, flopping down on a massive pillow. "Next year, who knows? Everything changes."

Changes were most definitely the order of the day, I thought as I stole a glance at Doggett. He had settled himself on another cushion beside me, and I imagined I could feel the heat coming off him. Idly, I wondered if one of Isabella's more unorthodox friends could cook up some sort of potion for me.

"So, you are here about the cases with the motards?" she began, then abruptly switched gears. "Oh, forgive me, I did not offer you any refreshment, but there is nothing in the house. My sans-abri of a son stayed with me for a week, ate everything, and left a case of those hideous Boomerangs, but that is all."

"That's perfectly all right," I assured her, certain that Doggett wouldn't be keen on the combination of beer and lemonade. "The police told us – "

"I can imagine what they would have told you," she interrupted, waving a hand. "Or not told you. Which was it?"

"There was no copy of your report on file," Doggett rumbled.

Isabella laughed. "The Sureté's new image must not be tarnished." At our puzzled looks, she added, "A little history first. Do either of you remember the Oka crisis about ten years ago? The Mohawks of the Kahnawake and Kanesatake reserves were involved, but by the time it was over it had sparked a cross-country protest by the First Nations. Our humiliation made it onto CNN for some weeks."

Doggett nodded. "I think so. The military was called in to keep the peace and there were a couple of shootings."

Isabella sighed. "It was a terrible summer. It brought out the worst in us, in the Québecois. I remember the pictures of the people throwing rocks at the cars of the Mohawks as they drove by, their faces twisted in hatred, the sight of army trucks driving down the highways. The Sureté and the government botched the situation from beginning to end." She smiled bitterly. "And for what? Because we needed another golf course. Pitiful."

Shaking her head as if to clear the memories, she took a deep breath and continued. "At any rate, the Sureté became the laughingstock of the country for a while, and heads rolled, I'm sure. Now, any implication of Native peoples in a crime is handled very carefully. The pendulum has swung in the opposite direction, which in some respects is not a bad thing. They have been accused of many things they did not do. But this time it is different. If the police close their eyes, it will not do anyone any good, least of all the Mohawks."

"What did you see?" I whispered.

"Monica, you understand psychometry. Do you, Agent Doggett?"

Doggett cast me a wry glance. "I'm workin' on it. You can touch the possessions of victims and find out what they saw before they died. Sometimes you can even see the face of the killer."

"Good. Good. You see, the police have employed my services in the past, and they called upon me this time. At first it was the same as before; I touched clothing, keys, other objects frequently used. The images came to me freely. But then I sensed something outside the realm of my experience." Isabella made a nervous gesture with her hands, a movement that seemed out of character for the strong-willed woman. "There was another."

I blinked. "Another? Another presence?" Psychometry was fairly straightforward. The victim's personal effects acted as a camera lens, and the psychic was the film upon which the culprit was exposed. People who had that ability told me it was like being inside the skin of the victim. "So the murderer left objects behind at the scene?" Occasionally, if the criminal was careless and the police were very lucky, the psychic could use evidence discarded by the perp such as weapons or gloves. It was usually enough to crack a case, because such strong readings could be obtained.

But Isabella was shaking her head. "No. There was nothing left behind. No objects. Only the murderer." Beside me, Doggett drew in a breath. Isabella continued. "I felt the presence both times; it was fading, residual, but it was there, all around me. The same person, or more accurately, the same force." Her eyes lost their focus. "It calls itself Rontenatanónhnha."

"Meaning?" Doggett asked gently. He had dug a small notepad out of his jeans pocket and was scribbling the word phonetically.

"I don't know. I could only feel that its intention is to protect."

"A vigilante?" Doggett again.

"You could say that. It is reacting to evil. It exists to counteract that evil. When the evil is gone, it too will go."

"Can you describe what it looks like?" he prodded.

"The victims saw a warrior of the Five Nations, as they were before the white men. But it was only using this appearance as a mask, to heighten their fear."

"So what does it really look like?"

Isabella swung her gaze toward him and smiled. "It looks like the wind, Mister Doggett."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

 
 

The cork slid smoothly from the bottle and I gave it an experimental sniff. You can't go wrong with an Italian red. Picking up the rich crimson valpolicella, I carried it to the little dining area. As I set it gently on the table, I heard the phone receiver slam down in the other room. Poor John.

"Doesn't anybody work in this town?" he muttered as he emerged from the bedroom.

"Not in the middle of the jazz festival." I had flung open the windows to my suite to let the smell of cooking garlic drift out, and the sounds of the mainstage down on Jeanne-Mance drift in. "Close that door, will you? I don't want to asphyxiate myself tonight."

"Nobody knows where Lacasse is, or if they do they're not tellin'."

"If you don't relax," I threatened, poking the corkscrew at him for emphasis, "I'm sending you to one of those Oriental massage parlours."

That brought him up short for a couple of seconds, but he was too revved up to stop now. "Maybe tomorrow we could head down to that reserve ourselves – "

"Bad idea. Bad, bad idea. There will be no invasions of beach heads here, Marine."

"What's the big deal?"

"First of all, from what I understand, the cops on the reserves are completely separate from the SQ, the RCMP, and the MUC police. The reserves are a completely separate jurisdiction. They want to be treated like a completely separate, sovereign nation. Are you getting the point I'm trying to make that they are – "

" – Completely separate. I think I got that bit," he drawled. "So, we represent a completely separate nation; how come we can't talk to them as equals?"

"Because the last time I checked, Kahnawake was also still in Canada. If we go barging around without clearing said barging with the RCMP, we're likely to cause an international incident."

"Oh, hell." Doggett groaned, throwing up his hands. "I'll never figure this place out."

"Yes, you will." I picked up the tomato and cucumber salad from the counter and held it out to him. "Start forking out the salad, sit down, shut up, open your ears to the music, eat, drink, and admit that you do not control every single moment of your life, and you'll be amazed at how easy it becomes."

His gaze locked with mine. "In that exact order?" There was no humour in his tone, but I saw the spark in his eyes the moment it appeared.

I stared him down. "Yup."

There was a beat, then another. Without breaking eye contact, he reached out for the bowl and took it

from me. My arm dropped bonelessly to my side.

A wicked smile curled up one corner of his mouth. "Don't think I'm gonna need the Oriental ladies, though. That OK with you?"

My mouth went dry. "Sure," I croaked.

So much for control, I thought. Mine was shot, but his was still way too healthy.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

 
 

I knew it was a mistake to let him help me with the dishes.

Hey, don't get me wrong, I am the poster woman for equal rights, but it was the final domestic nail in my coffin. John Doggett covering my back with a Sig was just fine, but with a bright orange dish towel? I was fully and completely doomed.

We washed and dried in companionable silence, the only sounds the clink of china and the squeak of j-cloth against glass. Then he leaned forward to take a bowl from me, a bowl that still had a fair bit of soapy water in it, and suddenly, the world went dark.

"You did that on purpose!" I spluttered.

"Did not!"

"Did too!"

"Prove it!"

"Where's that polygraph?" I growled, flailing about with my arms. "I must have left it around here somewhere ...Of course, it would be easier to find if I didn't have DISH SOAP ALL OVER MY FACE!"

"Here, let me get that for you," Doggett offered, and I got a cotton towel stuck in my mug. I flashed back to the thousands of times Tony and I goofed off over dishes and other boring chores, making the house shake with the sounds of our foolishness. I reached up to grab the cloth, but instead my hand landed solidly on Doggett's, which was still holding the towel to my face.

Oh, that's right, I just remembered. This man was not my brother. Not even close. Blindly, I tried to find a corner of the towel, but only ended up trailing my fingers down the back of his hand. The last time we touched had been on our last case, in Virginia. Doggett finally began to use his latent psychic powers – with a lot of prodding from me – and I found touching his hand helped to amplify my own gifts. We hadn't practiced much since then, and certainly not by direct physical contact. Some of the sensations that contact had provoked were intense and unpleasant, and I wasn't anxious to repeat them right away.

This contact, however, was pretty pleasant, despite the fact that I was breathing in the smell of wet dish towel and my eyes were starting to smart from the sudsy water. A faint tingle shot up my arm and I felt my pulse rate jump alarmingly.

"Wait," I heard him say softly, "let me." The towel was abruptly withdrawn and after a moment I felt it return to dab gently at my tightly shut eyes. "That was a stupid thing to do. I'm sorry."

"It's all right," I managed hoarsely. His other hand had come up to cradle the back of my head, and the pads of his fingers were searing into the nape of my neck. "You were just having fun. Really, it's all right, I can – "

" – Your eyes are tearing up. Damn."

"John." I reached up to grasp his wrist firmly and strained to open my eyes. His image was watery, but he was there. He looked like a little kid who had been caught pulling the wings off flies, and I felt the pit of my stomach give way. "It's OK to be silly now and then," I murmured.

The silence seemed to stretch between us and expand to fill the room. Dimly, I noted that his gaze had dropped to my mouth, which was now inches from his own. I also noted that my thumb, without my conscious consent, was stroking the pulse point on his wrist.

"How silly?" he finally whispered. I felt his fingers slide slowly into my hair, graze my scalp.

And then, like a bad plot point in a goddamned romantic comedy, a loud knock sounded on the door. I jumped, feeling as though an entire bucket of ice-cold water had been dumped on my head this time.

"Monica! Depêche-toi, ma chère!"

Mireille. The Salsathèque. I had completely forgotten. Releasing his arm abruptly, I stepped away from him. "I, uh, we're going out dancing. I'd better get changed."

"I'll let her in and finish up here if you want to – " He gestured vaguely toward the bedroom.

"Thanks." I could only imagine what Mireille would make of my appearance: face flushed and shiny, eyes puffy and red. Grabbing the dress I had bought this morning from the closet, I practically dove into the bathroom. As I swiftly stripped and started the shower, I prayed he would be gone by the time I got out.

When I emerged, it was to find that my prayers had not been answered. In fact, it was as though God had heard me and was having his own little laugh at my expense.

"You're not – coming with us?" I stammered. That seemed the only conclusion to draw. In a pair of light cotton khaki slacks and a pure white shirt open slightly at the collar, he appeared ready for a night on the town. Dragging my gaze from him, I looked at Mireille, who was studying us both with undisguised amusement written all over her pretty features.

"You have little believe in my powers of persuasion," she mock-pouted ungrammatically. "Jean was very enthousiastique to go." Behind her, Doggett raised an eyebrow in a silent question. I looked away, trying not to think about the fact that his eyes seemed intent on devouring me alive.

"You look merveilleux. You follow my advice, yes?"

The dress I found at a little consignment shop on Saint Denis this afternoon was definitely retro chic, the fabric white with a bold dark burgundy floral motif, the bodice fitted, with spaghetti straps, the skirt flared and ending just above the knee. I had also bought a matching pair of low heels at one of the countless shoe shops that catered to the Montreal foot fetish. I nodded, my knees wobbly.

"I can go down to the garage and bring the car up if you want," Doggett offered.

Mireille giggled. "Quel Américain! We are walking tonight. It is a night to be seen." And with a wave of the hand, she swept us both out the door.

A few minutes later, as we strolled along Sainte Catherine street absorbing the sights and sounds of the night beginning, I decided I had to agree with Mireille. Like any big city in the summertime, Montreal was full of tourists in jeans and hideous shorts, but the sidewalks also brimmed with people dressed to the nines. They walked, talked, laughed, spilled from restaurants and shops open late. It was what I imagined New York to be every day of the year, though that was probably an illusion promoted by fashion magazines. I thought about asking John, but I felt odd about striking up a casual conversation with him.

"Is that a strip joint?"

His incredulous question pulled me from my reverie. I looked across the street. The flashing light bulbs of the Club Super-Sexe winked back at us in all their tacky splendour. "Uh-hunh," I confirmed.

"In the middle of downtown?"

"Why not?" I countered. Spending large portions of my life in New Orleans had given me a different perspective on puritanical hypocrisy in my own country. Moreover, I was still miffed at his decision to accompany us. I needed some distance from him to sort out my churning thoughts. "You were expecting it to be tucked away on a back street? This way, all the tourists and business travellers can find it easily. It's a public service." Beside me, Mireille laughed at my foolishness, and Doggett's.

He shrugged, an admission of defeat. "Vive la difference," he drawled. Mireille just about ruptured a major organ.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

 
 

The band was just starting to get into full swing when we arrived. Mireille and I headed for an empty table we spied over in one corner, while Doggett threaded through the growing crowd to the bar. As soon as he was out of earshot, which in the vibrating club was about a foot and a half, Mireille leaned in to me and hissed at me in French. "What's going on with you and that gorgeous thing?"

The idea of Doggett being described as a 'gorgeous thing' would have been funny an hour ago. Now it just made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end as I remembered his electric touch. "Nothing. He's all yours."

"Who said I wanted him?"

"It was pretty obvious yesterday," I heard myself snap. Wonderful. Now I was sophomoric and possessive.

But Mireille did not take offense. "Well, I am not dead, you know. I had a very nice conjoint, and then he wanted me to start cooking like his mother, and that was that. And now, my mourning period is over."

"How long were you in mourning?" I grinned. She shrugged, looked at her watch, and started counting. I burst out laughing.

"There, that is better." Then she sobered. "You see the way he looks at you tonight. He wants to – well, I do not have to paint you a picture. And you cannot tell me you were not looking at him the same way. Even if at the same time you do not want to look."

I shifted uncomfortably at her perceptiveness. "It's a little more complicated than that."

Mireille made a dismissive gesture with her hand. "You people complicate things too much." I wasn't sure if 'you people' meant Anglophones, or Americans, or both. "You think, and plan, and worry, until there is nothing left. Think about how you feel, and then stop thinking."

"Here you go, ladies." I jerked at the sound of Doggett's voice directly behind me. Panicking momentarily about how much he may have heard, I finally remembered he couldn't understand a word we had said. He deposited our drinks on the table and took a sip of his as he sat. "Nice place," he yelled, looking around. Closer to the stage, the dance floor was filling up.

"OK, Jean, they're playing our song," Mireille declared after a few minutes, setting her drink on the table. The band had struck up a rendition of Paul Piché's fast-paced "Ne fais pas ça" and the number of dancers on the floor was increasing considerably.

Doggett smiled politely. "I make it a habit never to refuse a lady, but if you don't mind I'll sit this one out. I'm pretty rusty and I'd like to observe for a while longer." Mireille nodded, cocking a glance in my direction. I raised my eyebrows slightly but made no other comment. Doggett and salsa clubs hardly went together in my mind, so I considered his plea to be more than accurate. 'Rusty' was probably the understatement of the century.

Mireille didn't have to bear her disappointment for long, though, because two young men with long, dark hair and broodingly Latin features were headed our way. I sighed when I realized the taller of them had his eye on me. Wavy hair barely contained in a ponytail, muscles barely contained in his shirt, artsy looking in an ubermensch kind of way, he was everything I always looked for in a man. And I was dreading his approach.

"You have been sitting too long," he observed imperiously. Portuguese accent, I noted; probably Brazilian.

"Have I? And what do you intend to do about it?" I shot back.

He inclined his head. "I intend to see if your feet are as fast as your mouth."

Cute. Cheesy, but cute. "Fine by me," I told him, moving to stand. Mireille was already plastered up against the other one, and I gave John a faint smile and a nod as I was led toward the dance floor. As the song grew louder, I let it wash over me, surround me. Mr. Brazil took me in his arms and I fought down a hysterical giggle at the wrongness of his touch. Concentrate, I admonished. Focus. Now. Breathe...

jamais de regrets
longtemps je savais
souffre ma peau
encore le souffle chaud
coule dans mon dos...

I wasn't sure how much time had passed, but the band was in the middle of another song: how many had gone by in the interval was anyone's guess. I took stock, and recognized the feel of my own body, the way it moved and stretched in time with the beat. I loved to dance like this, as though I were both intensely inside and yet also outside myself at the same time. The dual perspective was unsettling, sensual, and I could tell my dance partner was enjoying my transformation immensely. Vaguely, I noted he was also quite skilled, and on any other night of this life that would be enough. It had always been before. So why wasn't it also enough to dispel the image of a pale, intense gringo with two left feet? Shaking my head, I resumed my mantra: concentrate, concentrate.

The song ended, followed swiftly by a segue into a recent Santana tune, "Corazon Espinado". The perfect song to focus my thoughts, I silently exulted. Another man whining about women, the root of all evil. I'd give the little buggers evil, I promised, raising my arms to tempt the gods. I closed my eyes and turned in a slow circle, and Mr. Brazil's arms came up to bracket my waist. The feeling of rightness struck me like a blow from a lightning bolt, which was a pleasant surprise considering my earlier ambiguity. It just went to prove the power of positive thinking, I reflected. Opting to keep my eyes shut, I relied on my other senses. My hands lowered to begin a feather-light glide up his arms, starting at his wrists and ending at his shoulders. The electricity hummed in my veins, the blood pounded in my ears. He pulled me closer, gradually, until I couldn't remember a time when I was not breast to chest, hip to hip with him; I had always been twinned. We moved together to our own music, and I lowered my mouth to his neck and breathed the only word that fit.

"John." My eyes snapped open at the unexpected syllable. Frantically, I searched for a way to explain myself.

"Yeah?" The vibration from his Adam's apple tickled my lips.

I jerked my head up to confront blue eyes the colour of summer thunderstorms. My heart threatened to leap from my chest. "Oh, God," I whispered. The adrenaline swept through me like a wildfire and left me limp.

His arms relaxed their hold slightly, but his gaze froze me in place. "I think I remember now. How'm I doin'?"

"How did you – when – "

Doggett leaned close. "I cut in. You mind?" he rasped in my ear.

Shamelessly, I inhaled the clean scent of him. Irish Spring and bourbon whiskey. Whitebread bastard. I shook my head, my nose brushing his cheek in the process.

"All right, then," he murmured roughly. He took my hand and the next thing I knew I was spinning away from him, only to be returned to his arms a few heartbeats later.

Como duele, como duele el corazon
Cuando nostiene entregados..

You can say that again, I silently agreed. Sensing a descent into maudlin self-analysis approaching, I took a deep breath and swept away the detritus blocking my path. To hell with it all. Placing my hands against his chest, I pushed away from him, then stepped around him in time with the pounding beat, trailing one arm around his midsection as I went. The muscles in his stomach twitched under my fingers. Take that, clean Marine.

He rallied swiftly, pulling me against him as I came full circle and bending me backward. Once again, I was taken aback at his strength, for I was no featherweight and he was no Arnold, yet he held me effortlessly on one forearm. My right hand came up to curl around the back of his neck, bringing him down to my level. I tried to read his expression; half of his face was lit by the illumination from the stage, the other half dark and featureless. I couldn't be sure of what I saw before he drew me back up and twirled me again. The air kissed my thighs as the skirt rose with the motion. When I returned to him this time, my fingers instinctively dug into the sinews of his shoulders, my palms relished the feel of the cotton. A vivid image of my hands pushing the shirt off those same shoulders came to mind and I shook my head to clear it away.

The rest of the dance passed in a haze of sensation, until I realized, belatedly, that the song had ended. At the periphery of my awareness I heard clapping. When I could finally trust my voice, I stammered, "Where – where did you learn salsa dancing?"

"Pattie Wells' Dancetime Center in San Diego," he rattled off proudly. "When I was stationed at Pendleton. It was my first time away from home and the gunny told us it was the only way to make time with the senoritas." He laughed. "I never got to practice much – all the clubs that old married coot remembered had been turned into discos. But I guess it's like riding a bicycle, huh?" Looking around, he observed, "Music's stopped. They must be taking a break."

I noticed my hands were still poised on his chest, and his arm was still curved around the small of my back. Through the layers of bone and flesh I could feel his heart beating hard and steady. "I should – " I began, not honestly sure what I should or shouldn't do right at that moment.

"Monica," he rumbled, mercifully cutting me off, "I – " I followed his gaze to our table, where Mireille sat, smiling. She held up her glass to us in a toast. His eyes swung back to me. "Can you find us a place where we'll be able to hear each other?" And where we won't be turned into fodder for the notorious police gossip mill, I finished for him.

"What is there to talk about?" I heard myself saying, even though every nerve ending in my body screamed for the sound of his voice and for his touch.

I could read his expression then: frustration. Turning me slightly so that his back was now to Mireille, he covered the hand that lay over his heart with his own. I gasped at the contact. "Plenty," he grated. Indistinct flashes of emotion and thought flickered through me, as if he were trying to reach me, to use his burgeoning skills to make a connection. I told my hand to pull away but it wouldn't obey my commands. He leaned forward until his forehead touched mine, and I heard him draw in a shaky breath. "You've turned me inside out here. Help me."

Dios. Mustering the last of my strength, I told him, "I can't. I can't do that."

"Why not?"

"Because I did, once. It didn't work."

He drew back and his eyes sparked. "Not with me."

"No. Not with you. But I can't afford to lose myself like that again."

His hand curled around mine to hold it gently. "This is you, isn't it? Isn't that what you've been showing me for the – God, has it only been a couple of days? I never expected to be attracted to you – "

"Gee, thanks," I drawled, smiling despite myself. Little did he know the same words could have come out of my mouth.

He squeezed my hand and chuckled. "I'm out of practice, all right? Cut me some slack." Sobering, he murmured fervently, "What I mean is, I'm havin' fun. With you. Because of you. That doesn't sound like much, but you gotta understand  – I thought I'd forgotten how."

"John, you're right. We should talk. I want to explain why – " Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mireille approaching. At least she looked remorseful. I stepped away from him, feeling bereft as I lost contact.

"I am sorry, mes amis, but I had to tell you I must go."

"What's the matter?" I asked.

"The Lieutenant just called. There has been another murder."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

 
 

The latest victim proved to be quite different from the first five. François Trudel was found dead in his six-bedroom Outremont home that night when his wife got home from her bridge tournament. More precisely, she found his scalp in the library and the rest of him in the bedroom. Up until that point, he had been the successful manager of several branches of the Royal Bank in and around the island of Montreal.

"So what's the connection?" Doggett asked as the three of us hitched a ride to the scene in a borrowed patrol car.

"The Lieutenant did not say everything. Just that he was under investigation," Mireille answered.

When we arrived, the whole house was lit up like a Christmas tree, with several police cruisers filling the semi-circular driveway and yellow crime scene tape everywhere. "Very festive," I deadpanned.

We flashed our I.D.s – don't leave home without them – and climbed the wide stone steps to the house. Mireille and I attracted a couple of wolf whistles as we wended our way around numerous beat cops.

"Hé, ti-cu! Viens nous voir!"

"Mange la marde, le boeuf," Mireille returned smoothly, flipping her fellow officer the bird.

Doggett leaned in and whispered in my ear. "Did she just tell him to eat shit?"

I tried not to shiver at his proximity. "Yup."

"I might get the hang of this language after all," he muttered.

Lacasse was standing in the middle of the bedroom, overseeing the swarm of police photographers and evidence experts who were snapping and dusting every square inch. When he saw us, he raised an eyebrow. "Dress was casual, but I'm glad to see you took the time."

"What happened?" Mireille asked in French. Behind me, Doggett sighed.

"Let's make it easier for our friends, eh?" Lacasse offered magnanimously in English.

"Thank you," Doggett acknowledged warmly.

"No problem. Madame Trudel made the call about an hour ago, and preliminary findings suggest he wasn't dead much before that. She didn't hear or see anyone in or around the house."

"Entry points?" Doggett questioned.

"None. No windows broken, no latches unlocked. The front and side doors both have deadbolts; she says she unlocked the front one to get in."

"What makes you think there's a link to the motard murders?" I asked.

Lacasse sighed. "He was under investigation; not heavy surveillance, but we were keeping an eye on him. One of our undercover agents heard he was deep in debt – gambling – to the Rock Machine. The fact that he wasn't dead yet made us a little suspicious."

I nodded. "Did you have any idea what – services he might be performing for them?"

"No, but your boy Harris had been seen coming and going from Trudel's office a couple of times. What better way to launder money than through a bank manager?"

Doggett exhaled. "So, when are we meeting with the Kahnawake force?" Three pairs of eyes focused on him, and he met each of them in turn. "Well, it's pretty obvious there's some sort of connection."

Lacasse shook his head firmly. "There is no physical evidence linking these cases to the Mohawks or any other First Nations group."

"I'm not saying the perp is a Native," Doggett backtracked. "But they might be able to help – "

"It's not feasible right now," Lacasse interrupted. "Maybe if we get some hard evidence – "

"Lieutenant!" A male voice shouted from downstairs. "Lieutenant!" We all bolted for the door simultaneously, following the call to the library, where a young officer stood in the hall, looking pale and shaken.

He stammered in machine-gun French, "The scalp. It's gone. I was standing right here, then I felt a chill. I thought someone had gotten in, opened a window, so I went in to check but nothing had been touched. Then I looked down and it was gone."

"Calm down," Lacasse rumbled. "Maybe Evidence took it."

"No, sir. She had gone to get her equipment – there she is." I turned to see a dark-haired woman of about forty coming down the hall, a large case under one arm.

"Marie-Claire, did you get the scalp yet?" Lacasse called out.

The woman shook her head. "I was just coming for it. What's going on?"

I lost the thread of the exchange as I translated swiftly for Doggett. When I finished, the rest of them were still engaged in a discussion of what might have happened. He inclined his head toward the open doorway, and I nodded in agreement. Entering the oak-panelled library, I took note of the positions of furniture and other objects; nothing seemed obviously askew. The curtains, green tapestry with a classical hunting pattern, lay flat against the windows with no signs of any disturbance. I headed towards a spot on the carpet where chalk marked the outline of the vanished evidence. "Over here," I whispered. A strange humming sound tickled the edge of my consciousness as I drew closer.

Then several things seemed to happen at once. I turned to see Doggett walking toward me, then pivoted back to catch a glimpse of motion behind the curtains. The humming grew louder until it was almost painful. Then a half-naked figure emerged from the curtain. He had some sort of weapon – a hatchet, I thought –  in one hand, and a short pole in the other. Dimly, I realized the end of the pole was adorned with feathers and some sort of animal skin.

Oh, hell.

"Put down your weapon!" Doggett yelled from behind me. I dug in my purse for my Sig, finding it easily in the pocket where I kept it, but by the time I had it drawn, the man had also raised his hatchet. The light was dim, but I could see that the head was made of a grey stone. The hatchet flew through the air. I heard a gunshot reverberate in the room.

"Doggett!" I cried out.

In front of my eyes, the man vanished. I spun around to find Doggett face down on the floor. Diving for him, I frantically ran my hands over his shoulders, expecting to see a pool of blood stain the carpet under him any second. "Oh God, God..."

"I wondered what it would take for you to grope me," he growled, his voice muffled by the thick pile. Raising his head, he regarded me with his cool blue eyes. "I think he missed."

"He did." I looked up to find Lacasse and the others crowding the doorway. The Lieutenant pointed to the hatchet, which was now half-buried in the panelled wall just below the light switch. "You have your physical evidence, Agent Doggett. But you must try not to get yourself killed in Canada. I do not want to have to deal with the paperwork."

"Yes, sir," Doggett agreed heartily. "I'll try real hard not to inconvenience you."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

 
 

Lacasse was justified in his fear of the paperwork. The reams of the stuff that had to be filled out when an FBI agent discharged his service weapon in Canada were enough to keep us busy well into the night. Add to that the reports of what we'd thought we'd seen, and we didn't slouch back to the hotel until sometime after four a.m.

Completely exhausted, both physically and emotionally, I was asleep before I hit the bed, and slept like the dead for six straight hours. I was awakened by a soft knocking sound. As I scrambled to my feet, I realized I hadn't bothered to put anything on after I slipped out of my evening wear the night before. Rummaging in my suitcase, I threw on an oversized t-shirt and ran to answer the door.

Doggett stood on the other side, bearing gifts. My mouth instantly watered at the smell of fresh, strong coffee and indeterminate baked goods, which he held before him like a temple offering. "Sorry," he told me, taking in my disheveled appearance, "thought you'd be up."

"S'okay," I murmured back, realizing I had a nasty case of morning breath. "Give me a minute and I'm all yours." I bit down on my tongue at my flippant statement. Now, I reminded myself, I would have to start shaping my words to carry less meaning. Retreating to the bathroom again, I splashed water on my face and made myself marginally more presentable. Right now, with the scent of the coffee still in my nostrils, I didn't honestly care how I looked. And moreover, he needed a little dose of reality; we both did.

When I emerged, it was to find him already at home. He had poured the coffee into mugs and placed the croissants on plates, and found napkins somewhere in my kitchen. So much for reality; it was like the Donna Reed Show in here. "Where did you find all this?"

"I'm gettin' the hang of this town," he announced proudly. "I got on the subway and went to the place we visited yesterday – the Atwater Market? There was that bakery, and it was the only place I knew, so – "

"And the coffee?" I moved to sit, unable to contain my lust for the beverage any longer.

"I got it there, too."

"You brought coffee all the way from the Marché?" Somehow the image of Doggett sitting in the metro, bouncing along with a tray of styrofoam cups on his knee and a bag of croissants in his fist conjured itself in my mind. I felt a foreign object lodge itself in the recesses of my atrophied heart. The sensation was only partly unpleasant.

He smiled. "I can juggle three oranges, too."

I narrowed my eyes at him. "I'm going to shut up now and inhale caffeine. Ignore everything I have said up to this point."

We drank in silence for a couple of contented minutes. I stuffed my face with what I realized to my delight was almond croissant, and wondered at how he managed to find the hidden paths to me so easily. What was this connection between us, that was so immediate and so strong? I had been around dozens of fellow psychics, some of them I had known for years, and never experienced this level of affinity. Why now? And why with him?

You have to ask that? my inner voice sniggered at me. Look at him. He's scrumptious. He's wounded. What woman can resist that combination?

I can. I always did. I have to. I also have to stop having dialogues with myself. Now.

"Monica, I spent all night talkin' to myself."

I jumped at his softly spoken words. "And what did you say to yourself?" I countered gently.

He chuckled. "I know it's hard to believe, but I said lots of things." His eyes held mine and refused to give them up. "Mainly I talked about you."

I couldn't think of a witty rejoinder, so I drank coffee.

"I told myself to stop acting like a horny teenager."

I nearly spit a mouthful of hot liquid across the table. Breathing in, then out, I swallowed carefully. "You're being a little rough on yourself."

He shook his head. "I don't think so. I had no right to do some of the things I did yesterday. You were offering friendship, nothing more. It's been a long time – " He trailed off abruptly and his face closed up. "Anyway. It's not going to be a problem, I just wanted you t'know that."

"John," I told him, "I understand you're not the type of man to take advantage of a professional relationship. Know that I won't ever worry you're going to feel me up in the elevator or harass me in the office." I sighed. "And you weren't alone yesterday. I seem to remember participating in some of that." He made a move to speak, but I forestalled him. "Look, I agree that it shouldn't go anywhere. It's going to make things far too complicated, and I've had enough complications to want to avoid tangling myself in that barbed wire again."

He watched me. "You said something about that last night."

I nodded slowly. All right. "His name was Brad. He made me break my unwritten rule concerning Fibbies and personal relationships. It was never really a problem before him, considering most of my colleagues thought I was insane. Nearly all of my friends at work were gay. Don't ask me why." I humphed. "Brad was tall, blonde, ambitious to the exclusion of all else, everything I thought I didn't want, but in an astonishingly short period of time he had me convinced he was everything I'd ever wanted. I'm great at self-analysis, but I'm still not sure how it happened. One morning I looked in the mirror and I wondered who that stranger was." I sipped coffee. "It didn't end nicely."

"Sounds like an asshole," Doggett growled.

I smiled. "He was. Is. And I know you're not anything like him. I know that, in some part of my brain. But – "

"Yeah." The syllable held no judgments, just understanding and a good dose of regret. And I fell ever so slightly in love with him at that moment.

My smile, never all that strong to begin with, died. "Yeah," I echoed.

"I'll let you get ready. Meet you at the car in about half an hour?"

"Sure. I'll be there."

His eyes held mine for a moment as if to reassure me one more time, then he was gone. I sat for several more minutes, wishing I'd thanked him for breakfast. Wishing he was still there. Wishing a lot of things.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

 
 

"This is it."

The trip over the Mercier and out to Kahnawake had been uneventful, the silence only slightly strained. Doggett was not one to fill a car with meaningless chatter, and I was not in the mood for conversation. Besides, my mind was occupied with navigating the twisted spaghetti that was Montreal's highway system.

I turned the car into the parking lot of the reserve police station, the HQ of the Kahnawake Peacekeepers. Two well-appointed cruisers and a few civilian cars occupied the spots closest to the building, so I swung the Sebring over to the opposite end. As I turned off the ignition, the gravelly howl of Gerry Boulet warning against lost chances dissipated into the ether.

Doggett was out before I was, and as I shut the door, I looked up to see him staring at the police station. "You know any Mohawk?"

"Not a word. Why?"

"How would you pronounce that word up there?" he asked, pointing to a sign above the door.

I followed his finger, my lips forming the syllables. "Ron-ten-a-ta-nón-hnha." I breathed slowly, trying to calm my pulse as it leaped. "My God."

"Yup. Interesting, i'n't it? Let's not get into too many details inside until we know what the score is."

"Fine with me." We stepped up to the building together.

Inside, Lacasse introduced us to the Chief Peacekeeper, Jeremy Deer, and a couple of his officers. Mireille was the only other cop we recognized; of course, she looked utterly rested, her makeup perfect, her expression revealing no trace of fatigue. Knowing she hadn't left the station much earlier than we had this morning, I wanted to smash her. Introductions were made all around, and we were led to a small but well-appointed conference room.

Chief Deer didn't waste much time with preliminaries. "You are here because you believe the motard murders can be linked to Kahnawake. What evidence do you have?"

Lamontagne handed him a file, which Deer opened to reveal photos of the hatchet, as well as a written report. "As I mentioned on the phone, I was hoping you might know of a suspect who fit the description provided by Agents Reyes and Doggett. We have an artist's compilation."

Deer fingered through the photos to find the drawing. Even with our experience in observation, neither of us had been satisfied with the description we were able to piece together. Our separate sketches matched pretty closely, so the artist had combined the two with features we both agreed on.

"Doesn't ring any bells with me, but Sam's been with the force a lot longer." He passed the drawing to an older man beside him, who I remembered had been identified as the staff sergeant.

The sergeant studied it closely for a minute, then returned it to the pile. Looking us both over, he shook his head. "Looks a lot like Joe Crow," he murmured. A couple of the Mohawks cracked smiles.

"Yeah? He's got a record?" Doggett demanded.

"I don't know about a record," the sergeant said in that deliberate, enunciate-every-syllable Canadian accent. "But he's got a few videos, I bet. That's a real popular show."

A dim memory intruded at the back of my brain. Doggett narrowed his eyes. "What show?"

"Just our little code name for the generic Native everyone describes, Agent," Deer sighed. "You have to admit it's not a lot to go on. With the exception of the stylish hairdo, of course."

Doggett nodded curtly. "I know."

The Chief raised an eyebrow at that, but made no other comment. It occurred to me that Doggett had just earned some brownie points with the man for not making a set of lame excuses for our less than stellar effort. "He doesn't look like anyone we've dealt with lately, but then we haven't been dealing with any crazed killers. Just a few B&E's and a domestic assault or two."

"What about the hatchet?" I asked. "Is there any way to authenticate it?"

He shook his head. "I honestly can't answer that. We have a historian here on the reserve who might be able to, though. I'll get in touch with him and see if he'll agree to meet with you."

Doggett opened his mouth, then shut it. That's right, I thought at him. This is their territory.

"Look, leave this with me, and I'll call a general meeting of my staff tomorrow. But I have to tell you, Lieutenant," Deer continued, turning toward Lacasse, "this whole thing sounds more than a little far-fetched. Psychics and scalping – "

"Have you got a casino here?" Doggett asked out of the blue. Several pairs of eyes trained on him.

"Yes, we do," the sergeant answered. "Why do you ask?"

"Can you be sure there's no gang involvement in it?"

The Peacekeepers exchanged glances. "As sure as we can be," Deer answered carefully. "Investment is kept tightly controlled by Tewatohnhi'saktha  –  The Kahnawake Economic Development Commission. We don't allow much outside investment, and what we do allow is screened closely, from what I understand."

"Has there been a recent influx of investment into the reserve? Somebody from outside wanting to lay down money for some big project or other?"

Deer considered this. "Not that I've heard," he told us finally. "And I hear most of the gossip that way, since my aunt's on the Board."

"Would it be possible to meet with the executive of the Commission?" Lacasse asked, warming to Doggett's train of thought.

The Chief shrugged. "Might be. I'll check it out and get back to you, but we're having the Six Nations powwow here starting Tuesday. It's going to run until next weekend, so everyone's going to be pretty tied up."

Doggett shifted beside me. It was clear to both of us that whatever was going to come of this meeting wasn't going to happen quickly. I knew he wasn't the least bit happy with that, but he was diplomatic enough to avoid comment.

As we filed out of the building a few minutes later, Doggett looked back over his shoulder at the sign overhanging the door. He didn't mention it to Lacasse or Mireille, so I took my cue from him and kept mum. What would be the point of telling them about it? It might mean everything, or nothing. Implicating one's fellow cops was not done on a whim.

When we were safely ensconced in the car, I turned on the ignition and started the air conditioning to cool my overheated skin. "What's on your mind?" I asked him without preamble.

He kept his eyes fixed on the sign. "We're goin' to a powwow."

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

 

 
 

I spent Sunday catching up on sleep and Monday with Doggett shuttling between the RCMP headquarters, the latest crime scene and Trudel's downtown office looking for any leads or semblances of leads. We did come across one interesting tidbit when Trudel's secretary was questioned. She told Mireille in between fits of tears that our boy Michael Harris had met several times with Trudel, though she had no idea what they'd discussed. The meetings stood out in her mind because Trudel always seemed stressed and upset after Harris left, so she had a good memory for dates. The MUC police found nothing among Trudel's papers indicating the appointments had taken place.

Late Monday evening the three of us were recovering from the day in a bull session at a café on Boulevard Saint-Laurent. Mireille sipped her espresso and I wondered for about the thousandth time if the woman was some sort of vampire. She had the energy of the undead.

"I think she has a thing for him."

I nearly choked on my Italian soda at Mireille's bolt-from-the-blue comment. "Who?"

"The secretary. She seemed a little too broken up over the boss'