Monday Mourning

“Piece of crap went dead when I tried phoning you this morning.” Anne patted her shoulder bag. “But I’ve got Mace.”

I gestured at my purse. “Dig mine out.”

As I turned onto de Sébastopol, Anne did as I asked.

I parked opposite the stable. Before cutting the headlights, I saw the mongrel uncurl and slink across the yard, eyes glinting, snout working the air.

Anne and I peered the length of the street. To our right, a lone bulb threw a cone of yellow on the stable doors. To our left, the rail yards yawned dark and empty.

“Stay in the car,” I whispered, depressing the handle on the driver’s side door.

“No way.”

“Yes.”

“No.”

“Yes,” I hissed.

I heard a swish as Anne’s arms locked across her chest. I turned sideways. Silhouetted in the stable light, I could see her upper teeth clamping her lower lip.

I took Anne’s hand, and forced a wasted smile.

“I need your help, Annie. But it has to be from a distance. These women have been isolated for years. The world terrifies them.” I squeezed gently, and softened my whisper. “They don’t know you.”

“They don’t know you,” she mumbled.

“They reached out to me.”

“What if this asshole Menard is in there?”

“There’s a phone in the house. If I don’t ring or signal within ten minutes, call Ryan. He’s on my speed dial.”

“If Ryan’s not available?”

“Call 911.”

When I alighted, the stable dog trotted to the fence. He followed as I picked my way along the street, rose up and snarled when he reached the end of his enclosure. For reasons of his own, he chose not to bark.

The night air smelled of horses and river and impending snow. Overhead a wire groaned, one bare branch tapped another.

At the turnoff I heard a metallic grinding and darted into the recessed entrance of the last row house. Frozen in the shadows, I strained to pick out the slightest human sound.

Nothing.

I crept from the alcove and peeked around the corner.

A brown bottle lay on the walk.

Budweiser, some irrational brain cell offered.

A gust nudged the bottle. It rolled, scraping gravel and ice.

Squaring my shoulders, I sidestepped the Bud and headed up the walk, careful not to stumble or twist an ankle. The trees and shrubs were like shape-changers, bobbing and morphing in the darkness around me.

I made the turn. The house loomed black and silent, not a pixel of light seeping from within.

I stepped to the stoop, twisted the bell, waited. I twisted again, body coiled for a backward sprint.

The chain and lock rattled. The door cracked. I moved forward, adrenaline-wired like a soldier in combat.

Death mask face. Wide, blinking eyes.

I felt myself breathe.

“It’s Dr. Brennan, Anique.”

Pomerleau’s gaze swept over my shoulder.

“I’m alone.”

Pomerleau stepped back and the door swung in. I entered. The air still stank of mothballs and must.

Pomerleau closed and locked the door. She was wearing black jeans and a dark blue sweatshirt.

“Is Tawny all right?” I asked.

Pomerleau rotated with zombie slowness. Behind her the door chain swayed like a pendulum.

“Is ‘D’ all right?” I corrected.

“She’s frightened.” Hoarse whisper.

“May I?” I undid my zipper.

Pomerleau circled me as I removed my parka. When she turned toward the hall, I hung the jacket on the knob and flipped the door latch to open.

Pomerleau led me to the parlor Catts had christened with his brains. I followed.

Catts’s couch was now draped and shoved against the secretary. A single brass lamp cast the room in pale amber.

Tawny McGee was in one of the armchairs, knees up, head down as when I’d seen her in the dungeon. She was covered by the same blanket she’d clutched that day.

“Tawny?”

She didn’t move.

“Tawny?”

The frail body contracted.

I took a step forward, alert for the slightest sign of a third presence. The house was eerily still.

“It’s Dr. Brennan, Tawny.”

McGee flinched, nudging the end table. The lamp crystals wobbled, and tiny yellow points danced on her hair.

Kneeling, I laid a hand on her foot. Her muscles tightened.

“You’re going to be all right.”

She didn’t move.

I reached for her hand. Through the wool, my fingers felt something hard and sinuous.

At that instant, rapid-fire pounding split the silence.

McGee recoiled.

Pomerleau went rigid.

The front door creaked, then a voice carried from the foyer.

“Hello?” Anne called out. “Bonjour?”

Pomerleau’s lips drew back. “You lied,” she hissed.

Before I could reply Anne appeared in the hall, cell phone in one hand, car keys in the other.

“What are you doing here?” I snapped to my feet.

“You got a call. I thought you’d want to know.” Anne looked from me to Pomerleau to the catatonic shape cowering under the blanket. “I thought you’d all want to know.”

“It could have waited,” I said, annoyed past politeness.

Knowing she’d make a mistake, Anne pushed on, eager to rectify. “Charbonneau left a message at CUM headquarters.” She held up the phone. “The switchboard phoned your cell.”

I noticed Pomerleau recede into the darkness at the end of the hall.

“Stephen Menard is dead,” Anne continued, her eyes tugging at mine for forgiveness. “He’s been dead for years. Catts killed him.”