in an asylum, a look the older detective ignored. Instead he roamed around with his eyes fixed on the rafters. When he returned to where they stood, the agent noted, as if to mollify him, “Still no cats, huh?”
“This place must be infested with mice.”
“So, no sale?”
Cinq-Mars offered the visitor his most agreeable smile yet. He liked his little quip. “For the barn, maybe not. Although if I bought it, I’d move it, and that might shake the rodents out. But I’ll tell you what, Rand. Say why you asked me out here, and I’ll let you know whether or not you have a sale.”
A few feet away, Mathers positioned himself upon a bale of straw and stuck a stalk between his lips. He took it out when Cinq-Mars warned that it might be covered in mouse poop. For his part, Dreher relaxed against a sturdy post, his hands behind his back for support. Still smiling, Cinq-Mars faced the two men who were trying to conscript him and zipped his jacket higher. He was finding it not only cold in the barn but damp.
“ É mile,” explained Dreher, “it’s simple. We want to get this guy. Obviously, I have no jurisdiction in your country, so I need someone who can be on the ground locally. Someone I can trust, and someone who’s good, not a dumb-assed private eye who usually spends his days following housewives around. I need a pro who might actually get the job done. Your name came up. Since I’m from across the border, I need a Canadian. Obviously, the person has to speak French to work this territory. Given that you actually live out here, near the crime scene, well, that’s a bonus.”
“May I suggest the obvious?” Cinq-Mars inquired.
“The SQ?” The agent inhaled a deep breath and looked away to marshal his argument. “ É mile, as I said, it’s simple. I need someone who’s independent, who may be free to come to the U.S. to retrace a couple of our cases, pick up some of background that way. Imagine the bureaucracy if my man is in the SQ. He’d spend two months getting clearance to work with me. Plus, it’s not obvious why he’d bother, given that they’re investigating the crime anyway. They have their priorities, and who can blame them for that, with two of their own cops dead? Even if I got the SQ interested in the bigger picture here, they’d spend another month to propose a budget which would then sit on their agenda for two more months waiting to be approved. Then, if it is approved, who’s to say they’ll send me their brightest light? I’m just being pragmatic here, and I would say, realistic. It’s a question of efficiency, É mile, trust, and time.”
Cinq-Mars drew a circle in the dust with the toe of his boot, then carved a line through it and circled that. Dreher seemed to be following the hieroglyphic. “What you really want,” Cinq-Mars told him, “is a guy who’ll answer to you.”
Dreher thought through his objection. “Not answer to me, É mile, but keep me apprised, yes. This is important. We may, you see, have a break in the case here, after this episode.”
“How so?”
Responding to Cinq-Mars’s foot drawing, Dreher moved dirt around with the outside edge of a boot. Then stopped. “Every previous event, É mile, followed a natural disaster. A hurricane—Katrina, in New Orleans—a tornado in Alabama, a North Dakota flood. In California, a small earthquake, albeit with only mild property damage. In this instance, that’s what’s different. No disaster.”
“So in the aftermath of a natural disaster, your killer strikes. How’s that for a modus operandi, Bill?”
“Beats the hell out of me,” Mathers agreed. “Last week, my eldest boy came home from school with a new phrase. Pure weird . This is pure weird, É mile.”
“It’s all of that. Out here, Rand, we had a snowstorm. A big one.”
“Okay, but hardly a disaster. You always have snowstorms in winter. You guys can handle big snowstorms.”
“So,” Cinq-Mars postulated, “you believe an individual
“This place must be infested with mice.”
“So, no sale?”
Cinq-Mars offered the visitor his most agreeable smile yet. He liked his little quip. “For the barn, maybe not. Although if I bought it, I’d move it, and that might shake the rodents out. But I’ll tell you what, Rand. Say why you asked me out here, and I’ll let you know whether or not you have a sale.”
A few feet away, Mathers positioned himself upon a bale of straw and stuck a stalk between his lips. He took it out when Cinq-Mars warned that it might be covered in mouse poop. For his part, Dreher relaxed against a sturdy post, his hands behind his back for support. Still smiling, Cinq-Mars faced the two men who were trying to conscript him and zipped his jacket higher. He was finding it not only cold in the barn but damp.
“ É mile,” explained Dreher, “it’s simple. We want to get this guy. Obviously, I have no jurisdiction in your country, so I need someone who can be on the ground locally. Someone I can trust, and someone who’s good, not a dumb-assed private eye who usually spends his days following housewives around. I need a pro who might actually get the job done. Your name came up. Since I’m from across the border, I need a Canadian. Obviously, the person has to speak French to work this territory. Given that you actually live out here, near the crime scene, well, that’s a bonus.”
“May I suggest the obvious?” Cinq-Mars inquired.
“The SQ?” The agent inhaled a deep breath and looked away to marshal his argument. “ É mile, as I said, it’s simple. I need someone who’s independent, who may be free to come to the U.S. to retrace a couple of our cases, pick up some of background that way. Imagine the bureaucracy if my man is in the SQ. He’d spend two months getting clearance to work with me. Plus, it’s not obvious why he’d bother, given that they’re investigating the crime anyway. They have their priorities, and who can blame them for that, with two of their own cops dead? Even if I got the SQ interested in the bigger picture here, they’d spend another month to propose a budget which would then sit on their agenda for two more months waiting to be approved. Then, if it is approved, who’s to say they’ll send me their brightest light? I’m just being pragmatic here, and I would say, realistic. It’s a question of efficiency, É mile, trust, and time.”
Cinq-Mars drew a circle in the dust with the toe of his boot, then carved a line through it and circled that. Dreher seemed to be following the hieroglyphic. “What you really want,” Cinq-Mars told him, “is a guy who’ll answer to you.”
Dreher thought through his objection. “Not answer to me, É mile, but keep me apprised, yes. This is important. We may, you see, have a break in the case here, after this episode.”
“How so?”
Responding to Cinq-Mars’s foot drawing, Dreher moved dirt around with the outside edge of a boot. Then stopped. “Every previous event, É mile, followed a natural disaster. A hurricane—Katrina, in New Orleans—a tornado in Alabama, a North Dakota flood. In California, a small earthquake, albeit with only mild property damage. In this instance, that’s what’s different. No disaster.”
“So in the aftermath of a natural disaster, your killer strikes. How’s that for a modus operandi, Bill?”
“Beats the hell out of me,” Mathers agreed. “Last week, my eldest boy came home from school with a new phrase. Pure weird . This is pure weird, É mile.”
“It’s all of that. Out here, Rand, we had a snowstorm. A big one.”
“Okay, but hardly a disaster. You always have snowstorms in winter. You guys can handle big snowstorms.”
“So,” Cinq-Mars postulated, “you believe an individual
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