Bones to Ashes

Sunday morning, the long-promised rain finally arrived. I awoke to water streaking my bedroom windows, warping the courtyard and the city beyond. Wind tossed the branches of the tree outside, now and then mashed a leaf into the screening with a soft ticking sound.

While Harry slept, I set off for Cormier’s studio.

As I drove across town, my wipers slapped a rubbery beat on the windshield. My thoughts kept time to the rhythm of the blades. Cormier’s dead. Cormier’s dead. Cormier’s dead.

I didn’t yet know the reason for the photographer’s murder. Knew it wasn’t good news.

Sliding to the curb on Rachel, I raised the hood on my sweatshirt and sprinted. The building’s outer door was unlocked. The inner door was propped open with a rolled copy of Le Journal de Montréal. I assumed Hippo was already at work.

Brushing water from my hair, I crossed the dingy lobby. A sign hung on the door of Dr. Brigault’s dental office. Fermé. Closed.

I started climbing toward the second floor. The storm made the stairwell seem darker, more menacing than on my previous visit. The erratic wind filled it with a hollow, ululating whine.

As I continued upward, the narrow passage grew dimmer and dimmer. I stopped, allowed my brain to take this in. What little light was penetrating was doing so from below.

I looked up. One bare bulb jutted from high in the wall. It was dark. Making the turn, I leaned over the railing and checked the bulb on the second floor. It, too, was dark.

Had the storm knocked out the power?

At that moment, I sensed movement above.

“Hippo?”

Nothing.

“That you, Hippo?”

Again, no response.

Senses on high alert, I climbed to the second-floor landing. The door to Cormier’s flat was ajar. Relief. Of course. Hippo was in the rear, out of earshot of my voice.

Opening the door wide, I stepped into the flat. Shadows of wind-jostled things played on the walls. Branches. Phone lines. Against the backdrop of the storm, the air in the studio seemed eerie in its stillness. I started down the hallway.

At the kitchen, I felt the tiny hairs rise on my neck. The digits on the microwave were glowing green. The power was on. I wiped damp palms on my jeans. Why the dark corridor? Had someone unscrewed the bulbs?

Breathing carefully, I listened. Wind. Rain pounding the top of a window AC one floor up. My own pulse. Then another sound separated itself out. Rummaging. Impatient.

Moving as quietly as possible, I crept down the hall until I had a view through the open bathroom door. What I saw made me drop to a crouch, trembling fingers bracing on the wall.

A man stood with his back to me, feet spread. He was looking down, as though examining something in his hands. The man was not Hippo.

Every hair on my body joined those already upright on my neck.

Outside, the wind made a fierce lap of the building, rattling windows and sending a metal object winging the length of Rachel.

Inside, at my feet, a floorboard shrieked.

Cold adrenaline flooded my neurons. Without thinking, I half rose and scuttled backward. Too fast. My heel caught a torn edge of carpet. I went down with a thud.

From the bathroom I heard soles hitting linoleum. Footsteps.

My mind raced through options. Try to outrun him? Lock myself in a bedroom and phone for help?

Did those doors have locks?

Bypassing the higher centers, my legs decided. Get out!

I bolted down the hall. Across the studio. Out the door. For a brief moment I heard nothing. Then feet pounded behind me.

I was at the first riser of the staircase when a truck barreled into my back. I felt my hair twisted. My head jerked backward.

The dead lightbulb whipped past my eyes. I smelled wet nylon. Oily skin.

Muscular arms pinned my elbows to my body. I struggled. The grip crushed me tighter.

I kicked back, made contact with a shin. Flexed my knee to kick again.

One side of the vise loosened. A blow clipped me hard to the temple.

My vision splintered into shards of white light.

Grunting, my assailant lifted. My feet left the carpet. He spun me and shoved.

Arms windmilling, I tumbled backward, head bouncing, vertebrae scraping the edge of step after step. I came to rest on the first-floor landing, cheek flat to the carpet.

I lay there, head pounding, lungs burning. Then, through the din in my ears, I heard a muffled bang. In the lobby below? Inside my head?

Seconds or hours later, I felt more than heard another bang. Footsteps climbed toward me, hitched, accelerated.

Through a fog, a tinny voice spoke.

I pushed myself upright. Leaned my shoulders to the wall. Fought to inhale.

I felt pressure on the back of my neck. Lowered my head. Compliant. A rag doll. My whole being focused on one desperate thought.

Breathe!

The mosquito voice whined again, words lost to the roaring in my ears.

Breathe!

A shape crouched beside me. A hand patted my shoulder.

Breathe!

Slowly, the spasm eased its grip on my lungs. I drew air. The droning in my eardrums began to fade.