Monday Mourning

”

“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!”"

"Gently prying McGee’s fingers, Feldman motioned me from the bed. I stepped back, trembling.

What could I do?

Feeling useless and ineffective, I pulled a card from my purse, jotted my cell number, and laid it on the bedside table.

Moments later I stood in the corridor, jaws and hands clenched, listening as McGee’s pleas yielded to the sedative.

Whenever I think back on that moment, I wish to God I’d done what Tawny was asking. I wish to God I’d listened and understood.

33

IT WAS ANOTHER RESTLESS NIGHT. I WOKE AGAIN AND AGAIN, each time tangled in the remains of some barely remembered dream.

When my clock radio kicked on, I groaned and squinted at the digits. Five-fifteen. Why had I set the alarm for five-fifteen?

I palmed the button.

Music continued.

Slowly, awareness.

I hadn’t set the alarm.

That wasn’t the alarm.

Throwing back the quilt, I bolted for my handbag.

Sunglasses. Wallet. Makeup. Checkbook. Calendar.

“Damn!”

Frustrated, I upended the purse and pulled my mobile from the heap.

The music stopped. The digital display told me I’d missed one call.

Who the hell would call at five in the morning?

Katy!

Heart racing, I hit LIST.

Anne’s cell phone number.

Ohmygod!

I hit OPTION, then CALL.

“We’re sorry. The party you are dialing cannot—”

It was the same message I’d been hearing since Friday.

I clicked off and returned to the log. Today’s date—5:14:44 A.M.

The call had been dialed from Anne’s cell. But Anne’s cell wasn’t on.