by Kathy Reichs
Why didn’t Ryan call?
I’d squeezed every detail I could from the bones. I’d gone over and over the MP lists. What else could I do?
The videos.
Shoving back from my desk, I hurried across the hall and unlocked the conference room. The tapes lay where Ryan and I had left them the previous afternoon. I hit PLAY and watched scene after scene of hooded young women with goth-white bodies.
By repeatedly rewinding and replaying in slow motion, I was able to distinguish what I thought were three victims. One woman had larger breasts. One had a mole to the left of her navel. One appeared taller in relation to background objects.
The setting never varied, though props came and went. A whip. An electric prod. A glass vial. Occasionally Catts appeared on camera brutalizing or menacing one victim or another.
I was repulsed and sickened. These girls should have been worrying about algebra, falling in love, picking out china. Not hanging by their wrists in a stench-filled basement. This was Canada, not sixteenth-century Transylvania.
Rarely had I felt such overpowering anger.
Be objective, Brennan. Look for associations. Trends.
I began again with the tape marked “1.” As patterns emerged, I made a list.
The women appeared in sequence. The taller of the three could be seen only on the first half of the first tape. The larger-breasted woman showed up in later scenes on that tape, and continued into the tape marked “2.” By tape “3” the larger-breasted woman had been replaced by the woman with the mole.
No scene included audio.
Each scene started and ended abruptly.
Some scenes were smooth, recorded with the camera in a fixed position. Others were jerky, recorded with the camera moving.
Suddenly it hit me.
Was Catts ever in the frame when the footage was jumpy? If so, who was filming?
I’d been viewing tapes for almost three hours when I spotted the scene I was looking for.
The camera cut on and swept the room with a bobbing motion.
A girl lay stretched on Catts’s table, wrists and ankles bound by leather restraints. Behind her someone had placed a mirror, rectangular, approximately twelve by twenty-four inches.
Catts was in the frame, back to the lens.
My scalp tingled.
Rocketing to my feet, I hit REWIND, then PLAY.
As the lens crossed a point in its arc, I could see a murky figure reflected in the glass.
Menard?
Reversing again, I inched the tape forward in slo-mo, froze the frame.
My hopes plummeted.
“Shit!”
Though grainy and partially eclipsed, the mirror image of the face squinting into the viewfinder across the room was recognizable.
Anique Pomerleau.
“Very effective, you sick bastard.” My voice rang bitter in the empty room. “Force one prisoner to film while you torture another.”
I tried watching more footage, but couldn’t sit still. Like a toddler on a Twinkie high, I kept bounding up, checking my office phone, scanning the corridor.
After twenty minutes I returned to my office, nearly nauseous with anger and anxiety.
I began an article on the Stockholm syndrome, but unbidden images sucked my focus from the page.
Anique Pomerleau scurrying past Neal Catts’s parlor. Tawny McGee begging to be taken from the hospital. Colleen Stan cowering in a coffin under a bed.
I thought about them, sealed in claustrophobic blackness, petrified, naked, alone. Cameron Hooker had hung and stretched Colleen Stan, whipped her, shocked her with electric wires until her skin blistered. Neal Catts had controlled his victims in identical ways, using sensory deprivation, terror, and pain to break them.
I tried to imagine the ordeal these women had endured. Had they lain in the dark listening to the sound of their own breathing? To the hammering of their own hearts? Had they known day from night? Had they felt terror at each rattling of the lock? Had they abandoned hope? Had memories of their former lives slipped from them with time, like fog slowly evaporating into morning air?
Something hardened inside me. I forced myself to concentrate.
As with the tapes, I began taking notes while reading.
Bondage. Magnification of sexual tension by physical restriction of movement.
Sadomasochism. Generation of sexual excitement by giving and/or receiving pain. In the pathological extreme, kidnapping, imprisonment, imposition of involuntary servitude.
The Stockholm syndrome.
I began an outline of the process, adding points as I moved from article to article.
One. Abduction followed by isolation. Victim confined, stripped, humiliated, degraded.
Two. Use of physical and/or sexual abuse. Victim made to feel vulnerable.
Three. Removal of normal daylight patterns. Victim kept in continual darkness or light. Use of blindfolds, boxes, hoods.
Four. Destruction of privacy. Defecation, urination, menstruation controlled or observed by captor.
Five. Control and reduction of food and water. Development of dependency on the captor.
Ryan called at three. They’d searched every inch of the hospital. The women were not there.
I returned to my research.
Six. Imposition of unpredictable punishment. Victim denied explanation or rationale.
Seven. Requirement of permission. Victim must ask to eat, speak, stand, etc.
Eight. Lasting pattern of sexual and physical abuse. Victim becomes convinced of permanence of fate.
Nine. Continued isolation. Captor is victim’s sole source of contact, information.
Ryan phoned again at four.
“Mrs. McGee and Sandra are here.”
“You’ve spoken with them.”
“Yes.”
“How did they take it?”
“The mother was distraught. The daughter was furious.”
“Where are they now?”
“I’ve checked them into the Delta Hotel.”
“Did Tawny know anyone in Montreal?”
“According to Sandra, Tawny’s best friend in Maniwaki had cousins in one of the west island burbs. I’m running that down now.”
An idea.
“McGee and Pomerleau knew Catts was dead. Maybe that house was the one place they felt safe.”
“Great minds, Brennan. But no go. I’ve had it checked. The place was empty. I’ll call if anything breaks.”
I returned to the journals.
Ten. Threats of harm to family and relatives.
Eleven. Threats of transfer to more severe captor.
Twelve. Irrelevant leniency. Victim granted unexplained privileges, gifts, periods of freedom.
Thirteen. Unexpected appearances. Establishment of sense of captor’s omnipresence.
At six-thirty my cell phone rang.
The voice gave me that heart-plunge you feel diving on a roller coaster.
“‘D’ wants you.” Female. Strongly accented English.
“Anique?”
“She needs help.”
“I’m glad you called.” I kept my tone casual. “We’re very concerned about you.”
“‘D’ wouldn’t stay at that hospital.”
“Are you all right?”
“‘D’ may harm herself.”
“Where are you?”
“Home.”
Where was home for Pomerleau? Mascouche? Pointe-St-Charles?
“You’re safe?”
“‘D’ wants you.”
“Tell me where.” I grabbed a pen.
“De Sébastopol.”
“But we checked the house,” I blurted.
Dead silence.
Stupid! Stupid!
“We were worried about you,” I said.
“Come alone.”
“I’ll bring Detective Ryan.”
“No!”
“You can trust Ryan. He’s a kind man.”
“No men.” Ti
ght.
“I’m on my way.”
I started to punch in Ryan’s number, then stopped.
35
I DISCONNECTED AND STARED AT THE PHONE, MY mind racing through a million what-ifs.
What if I phoned Ryan? Claudel? Charbonneau? Feldman? I wanted support.
What if I raced to de Sébastopol? These women had to be retrieved.
Pomerleau had requested that I come alone. No men. From all I’d read, that made sense. She and McGee had suffered years of abuse at male hands.
Emotions battled inside me. Anger. Loathing. Compassion. Urgency.
All three detectives would be furious if I went on my own.
He could wait outside.
Again, I started to punch Ryan’s number. Again, I stopped.
What if Ryan insisted on escorting me inside?
McGee and Pomerleau obviously had a hidey-hole in that house. Ryan’s presence might drive them back underground. Might shatter their trust in me. Maybe they weren’t even there, but would provide further instructions only if I arrived alone. A police net around the whole neighborhood would be too obvious.
In my mind, I heard McGee’s terrified pleas, felt her grip on my arm, saw the desperate hope in her eyes.
Guilt and self-blame hopped into my thinking.
I’d been unable to calm McGee at the hospital. If anything, I’d increased her alarm.
What if Ryan’s presence panicked her again?
I lurched to my feet. Yanked my jacket from its peg.
This time I’d do as she asked. I owed it to her. To them.
A new thought stopped me cold.
What if McGee and Pomerleau weren’t alone? What if Menard was still working their heads? What if the call was a trap? Would he really dare to harm me? Why not? He was already looking at life in prison, and he was a malignant sociopath.
“Damn! Damn! Damn!”
Who to phone?
Ryan would go paternal. I couldn’t deal with that.
Claudel was out of the question.
Pulse racing, I tried Charbonneau, just so someone would know where I’d gone. A mechanical voice informed me that the subscriber I’d dialed was unavailable, and disconnected without inviting input.
I checked my watch.
Six forty-two. I dialed CUM headquarters and left a message for Charbonneau. He and Claudel were probably still in Vermont, but at least they would know where I’d gone.
Silence surrounded me.
More what-ifs.
What if McGee hurt herself?
What if Menard was maneuvering to add me to his fun house?
What if Menard planned to put a bullet through my brain?
I was scanning the face of each ugly scenario, when my cell erupted in my hand.
I jerked as though burned. The handset flew from my grasp, nicked the wall, and ricocheted under my desk. Dropping to all fours, I scrabbled across the tile, grabbed it, and clicked on.
Another shock.
Without preamble, Anne launched into a rambling apology.
Relief and resentment joined the Armageddon in my head.
I cut her off.
“Where are you?”
Anne misread the frantic timbre of my voice.
“I don’t blame you for feeling hostile, Tempe. My behavior was beyond selfish, but try to understan—”
Seconds were dissolving. Seconds during which Tawny McGee might be slashing her wrists.
“Where are you?” More forceful.
“I am so sorry, Tempe—”
“Where are you?”
“The Sisters of Providence.”
Anne’s voice was opening a small space in my brain. Clear thinking was slipping in.
“The convent at the corner of Ste-Catherine and Fullum?”
“Yes.”
Anne was just fifteen minutes away.
Anne was female.
I made a quick decision.
“I need your help.”
“Anything.”
“I’ll pick you up.”
“When?”
“Now.”
“I’ll be outside.”
I half walked, half ran to my car, heart beating at a marathon pace.
Was I making a mistake to include Anne? Was she already too emotionally drained? Was I putting her at risk?
I decided to tell all and let Anne decide.
A heavy night cold blanketed the city. The wind was moist, the clouds low and sluggish, as though uncertain whether to rain or snow.
Anne stood shivering outside the old motherhouse, luggage mounded at her feet.
Rush-hour stragglers still trudged the sidewalks and jammed the streets. As we drove, traffic and Christmas lights smearing the windshield, I briefed Anne on all that I’d learned in her absence. She listened without interruption, face taut, fingers playing the ends of her loosened scarf.
When I’d finished, a full minute passed. I was certain Anne would ask me to take her home.
“I’m a shoo-in for the world’s most worthless goat turd.”
“Don’t say that, Anne.”
“While I’m mooning about not heading up God’s arrangements committee, these kids have been living a nightmare.” She turned to me. “What kind of testosterone-crazed dickhead could find pleasure in hurting young girls?”
“Don’t feel pressured to go with me. I’ll understand if you want no part of this.”
“Not a chance, sweetie. I want at this dogball.”
“That’s exactly what you’re not going to do.” I sounded like Ryan. “Do you have your cell phone?”
“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, car
eful 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.