Monday Mourning

“There’s a setup in our conference room,” I said.

“Let’s do it.” Ryan scooped up the bill.

“Bring some sunshine into my day.” Charbonneau pushed back his chair.

My sandwich lay untouched on my plate.

It was worse than I could have imagined. Girls suspended by their arms. Bound wrist to ankle. Spread-eagle. Always hooded. Always passive.

Ryan, Charbonneau, and I watched in silence. Now and then Charbonneau would clear his throat, shift his feet, recross his arms. Now and then Ryan would reach for a smoke, remember, finger-drum the table.

Some footage was jerky, as though taken with a handheld. Some was steady, probably shot from a tripod or some other fixed position.

The tapes were numbered one through six. We’d gotten through most of the first when Claudel walked in.

Three heads swiveled.

“Tawny McGee.” Claudel looked like he’d sucked on a lime.

I hit PAUSE.

“‘D’?” I asked.

Curt nod. “Reported missing by the parents in ninety-nine.”

“Where?” Ryan asked.

“Maniwaki.”

Claudel slid a fax across the table. Charbonneau glanced at it, then handed it to Ryan, who handed it to me.

My scalp prickled.

I was looking at the face of a child. Round cheeks. Braids. Eyes that were eager, curious, always up to something.

Imp. My mother would have called this child an imp.

Like she called me.

Like I called Katy.

I scanned the descriptors.

Tawny McGee disappeared when she was twelve years old.

I swallowed.

“Are you sure this is ‘D’?”

Claudel slid another fax across the table. I picked it up. On it was the inquiry he’d circulated.

The face in the photo was an Auschwitz version of the one I’d just viewed. Older. Thinner. A hope-lost expression.

No. That was wrong. Tawny McGee’s face showed nothing at all.

“Have you gotten anything on the bastard that had her?” I asked, my voice taut with anger.

“I’m working on it.”

“Have you called the McGee family?”

“Maniwaki’s handling that.”

“Where the hell’s Stephen Menard?” My pitch was rising with each question. “Could Menard be in on this? Could Menard and this guy have been working a tag team? Did SIJ find other prints in that house?”

Claudel tipped back his head and slid a look down his nose.

Charbonneau got to his feet. “I’m on Menard.”

When they left I punched PLAY, biting a knuckle to maintain control.

We were twenty minutes into the second tape when the phone rang. The receptionist announced Dr. Feldman. I mouthed the name to Ryan as I waited for the connection.

“Dr. Brennan.”

“Penny Feldman at Montreal General.”

“How are they?”

“The kid’s awake and hysterical. Won’t let anyone touch her. Says someone’s going to kill her.”

“Anglophone or Francophone?”

“English. She keeps asking for the woman from the house.”

“Anique Pomerleau?”

“No. Pomerleau’s in the next bed. I think she means you. Sometimes she asks for the woman with the cop. Or the woman with the jacket. I hate to dope her up before a psychia—”

“I’m on my way.”

“I’ll hold off on sedation.”

“By the way, her name’s Tawny McGee. The parents have been notified.”

Ryan used the flashers and siren. We were at the hospital in twelve minutes.

Feldman was in the ER. Together we rode to the fourth floor. Before entering the room, I observed through the open door.

It was as though Menard’s victims had reversed roles.

Anique Pomerleau lay still in her bed.

Tawny McGee was upright, face flushed and wet. Her eyes darted. Her fingers opened and closed around the blanket clutched under her chin.

Ryan and Feldman waited in the hall while I entered the room.

“Bonjour, Anique.”

Pomerleau rolled her head. Her gaze was listless, her affect dead as petrified wood.

McGee’s head dropped. Her gown slipped, exposing one fleshless shoulder.

“It’s all right, Tawny. Things will be better now.”

I crossed toward her bed.

McGee threw back her head. Cartilage jutted like thorns from her impossibly white throat.

“You’re going to be fine.”

McGee’s mouth opened and a sob ripped free. The thorns bobbed erratically.

“I’m here.” I reached to adjust the fallen gown.

McGee’s head snapped down and her fingers tightened on the blanket. The nails were dirt-packed slivers.

“No one can hurt you now.”

The broken-doll face jerked toward Pomerleau.

Pomerleau was watching us with glassy disinterest.

McGee whipped back to me, threw off the blanket, and began tearing at the IV taped to her forearm.

“I have to go!”

“You’re safe here.” I laid my hand on hers.

McGee went rigid.

“The doctors will help you,” I soothed.

“No! No!”

“You and Anique are going to be fine.”

“Take me with you!”

“I can’t do that, Tawny.”

McGee yanked her hand free and clawed madly at the tape. Her breathing was ragged. Tears streamed down her face.

I grasped her wrists. She twisted and fought, desperation firing her with strength I would not have thought possible.

Feldman ran in, followed by a nurse.

McGee grabbed my arm.

“Take me with you!” Wild-eyed. “Please! Take me with you!”

Feldman nodded. The nurse administered an injection.

“Please! Please! Take me with you!”