“I’m listening.”
“Menard’s mother was Genevieve Rose Corneau, an American. She and her husband, Simon Menard, owned a home near St. Johnsbury, Vermont. The deed was in Simon’s name. Stephen Menard lived there for a time before relocating to Montreal.”
“To set up his twisted little fantasyland.”
I figured Rodas had learned about Menard recently, either from Ryan or Honor Barrow, or perhaps on his own, when the DNA recovered from Nellie Gower’s body led to Anique Pomerleau.
“Right. This afternoon Ryan and I visited Sabine Pomerleau, Anique’s mother. She’s eighty-two and suffers from dementia. But she said one thing. Could be I’m reading too much into the ramblings of a senile old woman—”
“What did she say?”
“That Anique is avec les saints. Saint Jean. Then in English she said buried.”
Silence hummed as Rodas considered that.
“Ryan and I took it to mean she believes Anique is in the cimetière Saint-Jean-Baptiste, where Marie-Jo?lle Bastien is buried.”
“Another of Pomerleau’s victims.”
“Yes. But thinking back, it’s possible she also said Jean, in English. That we misunderstood her completely.”
Rodas got it immediately. “Saint John. Buried. St. Johnsbury. The home in St. Johnsbury, Vermont.”
“It’s a long shot, I know. But if there’s other family property there registered in the name Corneau—”
“I never would have made that connection.”
“Anique might have learned of the property from Menard. Perhaps they discussed it as a safe house. Or a meeting-up point.”
“Vermont is a bump down the road from Quebec.”
A ping dragged me up from a miles-deep sleep. Another followed. Groggy, I thought my house alarm was announcing a burglar or fire.
Then recognition. I reached for my iPhone.
The text was maddeningly short: You were right. En route now. Will call with updates. UR
I sat up, fully awake. What the hell? Had Rodas found a place deeded to the proper Corneaus? Was he on his way there? Where?
The room was dim. The bedside clock said 8:42. Christ. Had I really slept that late?
Jamming a pillow behind my back, I punched a speed-dial entry.
My call was answered quickly. “Ryan.”
I started to tell him about my theory. About Rodas.
“I know.”
“You know?”
“He phoned.”
“When?”
“An hour ago. Not bad, Brennan.”
I felt a rush of irritation. Said nothing.
“Where is he?”
“Driving to the location.”
“What location?”
“You nailed it. The Corneaus own ten acres with a house and outbuildings a bit south of St. Johnsbury. It’s about twenty miles from the farm where Menard holed up before moving to Montreal.”
“Rodas couldn’t have waited?”
“He thought it wise to have a look.”
“He has backup?”
“He’s been a cop for a very long time.” A note of condescension?
“Did he take a CSS team?” I knew that was stupid. Asked anyway.
“It’s a bit premature for that.”
“What’s his plan?”
“Observe. See if anyone’s living there.”
“He couldn’t determine that before heading out?” Sharp.
“Rodas has someone running a search. Tax records. Phone and utility bills. You know the drill.”
I did. “How long is the drive to St. Johnsbury for him?”
“He estimated forty minutes.”
I looked at the clock. It was now 8:57. “If it’s been an hour since you spoke, why hasn’t he called?”
“Probably nothing to report.”
“So what are we supposed to do?”
“Wait.”
“Fine. I’ll wait. While you and Rodas bust your asses protecting and serving.”
With that clever retort, I clicked off and tossed the phone.
I knew my peevishness was juvenile. I needed to vent, and Ryan had taken the hit. But Rodas had left me out of the loop. So had Ryan. Not even a text from him. I was furious.
Throwing back the covers, I shoved to my feet. Yanked on sweats. Stomped to the bathroom and brushed my teeth.