Déjà Dead by Kathy Reichs

or because they lacked the ability to get out. Today this nucleus of conservatives and losers is joined by an assortment of dropouts and predators, by a legion of the powerless, discarded by society, and by those who prey on them. Outsiders come to the Main in search of many things: wholesale bargains, cheap dinners, drugs, booze, and sex. They come to buy, to gawk, to laugh, but they don’t stay.
    Ste. Catherine forms the southern boundary of the Main. Here I turned right, and pulled to the curb where Gabby and I had sat almost three weeks before. It was earlier now, and the hookers were just beginning to divvy up their patches. The bikers hadn’t arrived.
    Gabby must have been watching. When I glanced in the rearview mirror, she was already halfway across the street, running, her briefcase clutched to her chest. Though her terror wasn’t enough to launch her into full flight, her fear was evident. She ran in the manner of adults long estranged from the unfettered gallop of childhood, her long legs slightly bent, her head lowered, her shoulder bag swinging in rhythm to her stilted stride.
    She circled the car, got in, and sat with eyes closed, chest heaving. She was obviously struggling for composure, clenching her hands tightly in an attempt to stop the trembling. I’d never seen her like this and it frightened me. Gabby had always had a flare for the dramatic as she threaded her way through perpetual crises, both real and imagined, but nothing had ever undone her to this extent before.
    For a few moments I said nothing. Though the night was warm, I felt a chill, and my breathing became thin and shallow. Outside on the street, horns blared and a hooker cajoled a passing car. Her voice rode the summer evening like a toy plane, rising and falling in loops and spirals.
    “Let’s go.”
    It was so quiet I almost missed it. Déjà vu.
    “Do you want to tell me what’s going on?” I asked.
    She raised a hand as if to ward off a scolding. It trembled, and she placed it flat against her chest. From across the car I could sense the fear. Her body was warm with the smell of sandalwood and perspiration.
    “I will. I will. Just give me a minute.”
    “Don’t jerk me around, Gabby,” I said, more harshly than I’d intended.
    “I’m sorry. Let’s just get the hell out of here,” she said, dropping her head into her hands.
    All right, we’d follow her script. She’d have to calm down and tell me in her own way. But tell me she would.
    “Home?” I asked.
    She nodded, never taking her face from her hands. I started the car and headed for Carré St. Louis. When I arrived at her building she still hadn’t spoken. Though her breathing had steadied, her hands still shook. They had resumed their clasping and unclasping, clutching each other, separating, then linking once again in an odd dance of panic. The choreography of terror.
    I put the car in park and killed the engine, dreading the encounter that was to come. I’d counseled Gabby through calamities of health, parental conflict, academics, faith, self-esteem, and love. I’d always found it draining. Invariably, the next time I’d see her, she’d be cheerful and unruffled, the catastrophe forgotten. It wasn’t that I was unsympathetic, but I’d been down this route with Gabby many times before. I remembered the pregnancy that wasn’t. The stolen wallet that turned up beneath the couch cushions. Nevertheless, the intensity of her reaction disturbed me. Much as I longed for solitude, she didn’t look as if she should be alone.
    “Would you like to stay with me tonight?”
    She didn’t answer. Across the square an old man arranged a bundle under his head and settled onto a bench for the night.
    The silence stretched for so long I thought she hadn’t heard. I turned, about to repeat the invitation, and found she was staring intently in my direction. The jittery movements of a moment ago had been replaced by absolute stillness. Her spine was rigid, and her upper