Monday Mourning

by Kathy Reichs

“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 made 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.”

  A sound rose from the huddled form behind me. Half moan, half whimper.

  “I’m sorry,” Anne mumbled. “I thought you’d want to know. I’ll go back to the car.” Anne hurried toward the foyer.

  I squatted and placed a hand on McGee’s foot.

  McGee’s back rose and rounded. The blanket slipped and her face came up like a pale winter moon.

  McGee’s lips were trembling.

  “You’re safe, Tawny. You and Anique are both safe.”

  McGee bucked a shoulder. The blanket opened at her lap.

  A rope coiled her wrists.

  The image didn’t compute. A rope. Why a rope? Was it tied?

  I heard the front door open.

  I looked up. McGee’s eyes were filled with horror. I tracked them.

  They were fixed on Pomerleau’s retreating back.

  My lungs stopped. My heart stopped. I felt the blood drain from my face.

  Terror in the hospital.

  A face behind a camcorder.

  Residue-free hands.

  Homolka, a willing participant in her husband’s depravity.

  I knew!

  I shot to my feet.

  Pomerleau was moving down the hall as though hot-wired. I heard a sickening crack, then a thud.

  I raced toward the foyer. The door was open.

  Anne lay facedown with her head on the jamb, legs splayed across the linoleum.

  I peered into the night. No sign of Pomerleau.

  “Annie!” I squatted and felt her throat for a pulse.

  Too late, I heard movement behind me. The door angled inward, jammed the heel of Anne’s boot.

  Before I could turn, light exploded in my head.

  I fell into blackness.

  36

  SECONDS LATER, OR SO IT SEEMED, I FELT MY BRAIN elbowing my skull, aggressively seeking more space. I opened my eyes and moved my head. Particles of shattered glass winged through my vision. I closed my eyes and tried to assess.

  My chest burned. I was lying on my left side and shoulder. I swallowed, tried to sit up. My arms and legs wouldn’t work. I realized they were under and behind me.

  Slowly, awareness crept in. I couldn’t feel my hands. My feet. I had to move.

  Tightening my abs, I again tried to rise to my knees.

  Nausea enveloped me. I vomited.

  Using my ankles and hips, I tried to push back from the mess. The effort made me retch again and again until my stomach offered nothing but bile.

  I lay a moment, breathing deeply, fumbling for explanations. Where was I? How long had I been there?

  Gingerly, I rolled my head. A stab of pain almost caused me to cry out.

  Think! one battered neuron screamed.

  I tried. My thoughts wouldn’t congeal into recognizable pictures.

  Focus on the moment!

  Smell!

  Mold. Ratty fabric. Wood. Something else. A chemical cleaner? Kerosene?

  Touch!

  Rough fibers scratching my cheek. Grit in my mouth. Dust in my nostrils. A carpet?

  Sound!

  Wind. A branch striking glass. The creaking and breathing of a house interior.

  My pulse hammering in my ears.

  Muffled footsteps. A hollow clunk.

  Distant. Someone moving. In another room?

  I opened my eyes again.

  I lay on a very dirty carpet. I could see a carved wooden leg, some cranberry upholstery, and the edge of a tattered blanket.

  Recognition! I was in Catts’s parlor. The lamp was now off.

  A door slammed, then silence.

  Armchair ahead. Another slamming sound at a greater distance behind me. My brain was assimilating information with the speed of continental drift.

  Had someone used a rear entrance? In the kitchen? Catts’s kitchen.

  I tried to call up the floor plan from my previous visits. It wasn’t there.

  I held my breath, listened. Not a sound in the house. The blood in my head hammered on. One heartbeat. A dozen. A thousand.

  The rear door slammed again. Hurried footsteps approached. I closed my eyes and lay still, every muscle on fire.

  I heard a grunt, then splashing.

  The smell jumped all my senses. My fingers clenched in their bindings.

  Gasoline!

  As my eyelids flew open, I was able to identify two shapes.

  Tawny McGee sat swaddled in the armchair.

  Anique Pomerleau was dousing the room with liquid from a large can.

  Fear short-circuited what little rational thought I’d mustered up. What to do? Talk to Pomerleau? Talk to McGee? Play dead?

  My lids clamped down. I listened to the liquid sound of a terrible death.

  Seconds later I heard another clunk, receding footsteps, then the slamming door.

  I opened my eyes. An empty coffee can lay by the baseboard.

  Had Pomerleau gone for more gasoline? Where? An outside shed? How long had her previous trip taken? One minute? Two?

  My mind zeroed in on one thought.

  Get out!

  Strobe images. Anne. Pomerleau. A rope circling Tawny McGee’s wrists.

  Was McGee tied up? Were her feet bound? I’d stroked one ankle, felt nothing. A shard of hope.

  “Tawny.”

  Silence.

  “Tawny.”

  Movement in the chair?

  I raised my head. The room was a shadowy pool, the furnishings jagged shapes in the darkness.

  “‘Q’ is going to burn the house. We have to get away.”

  An intake of breath?

  “I know what ‘Q’ did to you.”

  The back door slammed. Feet clumped toward us. I lowered my head.

  Through slitted eyes I watched Pomerleau enter with a new can and soak the secretary and couch. When the can emptied, she tossed it to the floor and disappeared for another.

  “No one knows we’re here, Tawny.”

  The silence made the room seem darker, more deadly.

  “No one will come for us. We must help ourselves.”

  No response.

  “If I slide closer, can you untie me?”

  Silence.

  “Are you able to walk?”

  It was like talking to the dead.

  Frantic, I struggled with my bindings, bucking and twisting until my skin felt raw. The knots held.

  The back door slammed again.

  I relaxed, closed my eyes.

  Pomerleau returned with more accelerant.

  Dear God. Where was Anne? She wasn’t in this room. Could I get Anne and McGee out? Would we die before emergency crews could respond?

  Should I talk to Pomerleau? Could I form an argument, craft a thought that might buy us some time?

  Did it matter? The house had been searched and found empty. I hadn’t told Ryan I was coming. Would Charbonneau get my message?

  Tears pushed hard. I ached to rip at my bindings, to spring free and grab Pomerleau, to shut down this impostor for a human being.

  I lay still and waited.

  The smell of g
as was strong now. I tasted bile, felt spasms under my tongue.

  Another can hit the floor. I watched Pomerleau’s feet round the corner.

  This time the rear door didn’t slam.

  I tracked the footsteps. Hallway. Back room.

  “Tawny, we have to move!” I hissed.

  It was hopeless. I was going to have to act on my own.

  Arching and contracting my back, I strained with every fiber to free my ankles from my wrists. The knots held. I wanted to cry from pain and frustration.

  Pomerleau’s footsteps echoed again in the hall, then receded into an adjacent room. Seconds later they were closing in on the parlor.

  I settled to the floor.

  Too late.

  The footsteps hitched, then sped toward the armchair. I heard a mewing, more kitten than human, then the footsteps veered toward me.

  “So, my little dormice are both awake.”

  It was pointless to remain passive. Summoning all my adrenaline-induced strength, I rolled onto my knees and looked up.

  Pomerleau was an ebony cutout in the murky gloom. A cutout holding a coffee can. The room reeked of gasoline.

  Fear rocketed from nerve ending to nerve ending.

  Empathize? Cajole? Accuse? Beg?

  “Where’s my friend?” Had Anne gotten away somehow?

  Hideous leer from Pomerleau. “She didn’t last. She fell through the looking glass.”

  Heartsick, I spat out, “Catts didn’t murder those girls. You did.”

  When Pomerleau stepped closer, a single arrow of gray illuminated her face. “Murder?” Dusky voice. “Where’s the fun in that?”

  “You tortured and starved them.”

  “They fell through my looking glass.”

  “Angie Robinson.”

  I felt more than saw Pomerleau tense.

  “Tell me why,” I pushed.

  “Truth or dare?” Lilting.

  “What did you do to my friend?”

  “Truth or dare?”

  Dear God! The woman was enjoying this!

  “You’ve brutalized Tawny.”

  “Another Alice in my Wonderland.” Reptilian smile.

  “You killed children.”

  “Some last. Some don’t.”

  “Give me their names.”

  “Why?”

  “Their families have a right to know.”

  “Their families can rot in hell, and you won’t be telling them. Fool! You won’t be telling anything to anyone.”

  “Your parents searched for you.” Pleading tone.

  “Not hard enough.” Bitter.

  “They miss you,” I lied. “They want you back.”

  “There’s no going back.”

  “There are people who will help you.”

  “The looking glass cracks.”

  Flashbulb image. My apartment. Shattered pictures, mirrors.

  “All the king’s horses and all the king’s men can’t put the damned back together again.” Singsong.

  “What happened to Angie Robinson?”

  “Just another lost girl.”

  “Lost? Or destroyed?”

  “Just so much shoveled dirt.”

  Keep her talking!

  “When did Angie die?”

  “Before my time.”

  “I know what happened, Anique. I understand. Catts hurt you, then made you hurt others.”

  “Who’s Catts?”

  “Menard. Catts killed Menard and took his name.”

  “Menard. Catts.” Air puffed from her lips. “Amateur hour.”

  “He was evil. He tortured you. He tortured Angie Robinson. You had to play along to please him.”

  “I didn’t play along.” A finger jabbed her sternum. “I ruled. I was queen.”

  “Q.” Queen of Hearts.

  “You did what was necessary to survive.”

  “You don’t get it. I’m the queen, not the rabbit.”

  Go with it.

  “I know. You’re the strong one, Anique. You shot Catts.”

  “He grew weak.”

  “You smothered Louise Parent.”

  “A mercy killing.”

  Her flippant indifference triggered a helpless, savage anger. Suddenly, I couldn’t control myself. Without thinking I abandoned my attempt at dialogue and bucked and twisted. Sweat dampened my face and rolled down my spine.

  “You callous bitch!”

  Pomerleau laughed and rhythmically rose to her toes and dropped to her heels like an excited child until I sat back, heaving and exhausted.

  “The police will find you,” I panted. “You won’t get away.”

  Pomerleau hooked one finger under a studded collar circling her neck. A venomous smile crawled the dead pale face.

  “Three bodies were pulled from the ashes,” she chanted. “But, praise the lord, one victim escaped the flames.”

  Upending the can, Pomerleau doused my clothes with gasoline.

  My stomach lurched. My heart flew to my throat.

  Calm! Stay calm!

  Tossing the can, Pomerleau strode from the parlor. I heard her cross the hall, then move through the kitchen, the back bedroom, and the room beside us, pausing briefly in each. My thoughts shifted to Anne. I’m so very sorry, Annie. So stupid and so sorry. I should never have involved you.

  An acrid smell began filling the air.

  Dear God!

  “Run, Tawny!” I screamed. “Get out!”

  I wrenched and writhed, chest burning, pain cartwheeling through my head.

  In minutes, Pomerleau was back, face etched with, what? Elation? Joy?

  “The neighbors will call 911,” I shrieked. “You won’t get far.”

  “You’ll be dead from the smoke.”

  Pomerleau struck a match, and watched the small flame sputter and blossom.

  “See you in Candyland.”

  Her wrist flicked.

  I heard a loud whup, felt heat behind me, then saw the room dance in flickering orange light.

  37

  THE FLASH OF FLAME WITHERED AFTER THE OPENING burst, but choking black smoke began filling the room.

  I couldn’t get to my feet. The ropes held me twisted backward, ankles bound to wrists. I rolled back up onto my knees.

  My eyes burned. My throat grew raw. Though heat was building, my body shook. This fire would not burn itself out. I had to get away or die.

  I tried to think but my mind was drifting, bringing up fearful images from other places, other days.

  Chalky white bones in a woodstove. A carbonized skeleton in a burned-out basement. Two blackened bodies in a charred Cessna.

  “Cut the crap, Brennan!” I shouted aloud. “Think!”

  I drew a series of shallow breaths, coughed, repeated the litany.

  “Think!” I yelled again.

  My stomach heaved. I swallowed, spoke loudly again, this time to Tawny.

  “Tawny! Can you hear me?”

  Fire sizzled and popped behind me. In Tawny’s direction, only thickening smoke.

  “Tawny!” I yelled again.

  Back on my side, flexing and extending my hips and knees, I slithered across the carpet, each thrust wrenching my shoulder and abrading my face.

  I was on my third push when a banshee shrieking rose from the armchair.

  I froze, every hair upright on my neck and arms.

  “Tawny!”

  The keening continued, one high-pitched note of panic.

  Mother of God! Was she burning?

  “Tawny, can you walk?” I shouted.

  The wailing faltered, gave way to coughing.

  “Steady, soldier,” I said more to myself than to Tawny. “I’m coming.”

  Three more thrusts and my body struck the chair. Gasoline and dust felt thick on my skin.

  “Cover your mouth,” I panted, as loudly as I could. “If you can, get down on the floor.”

  The coughing grew frenzied.

  Pushing up against the chair with my shoulder, I rolled
back onto my knees and tried to rock it again and again.

  “Tawny! Get down!” I screamed. “Now!”

  Behind us something whooshed. One wall erupted in flames that rushed the ceiling, washing the room in swimmy orange light.

  I felt movement, then Tawny thudded to her knees, drew in her limbs, and collapsed into a knot beside me.

  Nausea, pain, and fear were taking their toll. I could barely breathe, barely think. But my sluggish brain had computed what my eyes hadn’t seen.

  A rope trailed from a dog collar on Tawny’s neck. Her hands and feet were unbound!

  I swiveled to her.

  “Tawny,” I coughed. “You have to help. You can save us, Tawny. You can save us.”

  The human knot contracted.

  Think, Brennan, think! Had the spreading fire impelled her? Or had that one barked command worked better than kindness? Was she still programmed to respond to orders?

  Nothing to lose.

  “Tawny, untie me!” I shouted.

  The scrawny neck turtled up.

  “Now, Tawny, now!”

  Tawny’s face came round. When our eyes met, pity jumbled my resolve to be hard.

  “You’re going home, sweetheart. To Maniwaki. To your mother.”

  My chest burned. I coughed uncontrollably.

  “To Sandra,” I choked out.

  Something flickered in the hollowed-out eyes.

  “To Sandra,” I repeated.

  Tawny’s face slackened as a world she thought dead skittered through her mind. Her mouth opened, trembled, then morphed into an O.

  “Sandra,” I repeated.

  Without a word, Tawny spun and crawled beneath the smoke toward the rear of the building.

  I tried to grab her. The ropes stopped me cold.

  “Tawny!” My voice cracked. I coughed until my belly screamed and I tasted blood.

  When the spasm passed, I twisted and peered in the direction Tawny had gone.

  Nothing but thick black smoke.

  My heart shriveled. I’d been left alone to die.

  Dear God! Was I alone? Was Anne already dead?

  “Tawny!” I called out. “Please!”

  Nothing.

  As before, I writhed and thrashed. As before, I collapsed exhausted on the filthy rug, skin raw, lungs in agony.

  The room began to recede. I thought hypnotically: I’m going to die. I’m going to die. I’m going to die.

  Then I heard scraping and banging, like the hurried opening and slamming of drawers. Seconds later a dark form took shape in the smoke and scrabbled toward me.