Monday Mourning (30 page)

The doctor wove toward us through the obstacle course of human misery. Scores of eyes followed her, some frightened, some angry, all nervous.

Again, her progress was blocked, this time by a burly man with a towel-wrapped hand. As before, the doctor took the time to reassure.

Ryan and I rose.

“I’m Dr. Feldman.” Feldman’s eyes were bloodshot. She looked exhausted. “I’m treating the two women brought in a short time ago.”

Ryan made introductions.

“The older—”

“Anique Pomerleau,” I cut in.

Feldman made a notation on the top chart.

“Ms. Pomerleau has minor bruising, but otherwise looks pretty good. Her lungs are clear. Her X-rays are normal. We’re waiting for results on bloodwork. Just to be sure, we’ll run her through the scanner when it’s free.”

“Is she talking?” I asked.

“No.” Clipped. I have a hundred others waiting to be seen.

“Any signs of sexual assault?” Ryan asked.

“No. But the kid’s a different story.”

“Kid?” I popped.

Feldman exchanged the bottom chart for Pomerleau’s. “Do you have a name?”

Ryan and I both shook our heads.

“I’d say the younger one’s fifteen, maybe sixteen, although she’s so emaciated I could be underestimating. Someone’s used this kid as a punching bag for a very long time.”

I felt white heat invading my brain.

Feldman flipped a page and read from her notes. “Old and new bruising. Poorly healed fractures of the left ulna and several ribs. Scarring around the anus and genitals. Burns on the breasts and limbs from some sort of—”

“Curling iron?” I kept my voice even, my face neutral.

“That would do it.” Fisher wrist-flipped the pages of the chart into place.

“Is she lucid?” I asked.

“She’s practically catatonic. Unresponsive. Stone-flat eyes. I’m no psychiatrist.” The harried face went from Ryan to me. “But this kid may never be lucid.”

“Where are they now?” Ryan asked.

“On their way upstairs.”

An orderly appeared at the sliding doors. Catching Feldman’s attention, he waggled a chart. She waved in his direction.

“When can we talk to them?” Ryan asked.

“I’m not sure.” The orderly threw up both hands. Feldman gave him a hold-on gesture. “What about security? Is some psycho papa or ex-hubby going to bluster in and try to reclaim his possessions?”

“The psycho in this case just blew his brains out.”

“Pity.”

We gave Feldman our cards. She pocketed them.

“I’ll call.” She held out the bag. “Here are their outfits.”

I could see metal studs poking through the plastic.

Ryan and I met Charbonneau at Schwartz’s deli on boulevard St-Laurent. Though I had no appetite, Ryan insisted food would sharpen our minds.

We placed three identical orders. Smoked meat sandwich, lean. Pickle. Fries. Cott’s cherry soda.

We updated one another as we ate.

“Doc LaManche lifted prints from the corpse that ain’t Menard. They’re a match for the ones from the letter opener. Luc’s ringing the land of fruits and nuts.”

“When did the latents go into the California system?” Ryan asked.

“Late Friday.” Charbonneau took a bite of his sandwich, knuckled mustard from a corner of his mouth. “If California’s a bust, Luc’ll shoot the prints through Canada and the rest of the States.”

Ryan told Charbonneau what Feldman had found.

“This guy was a frickin’ sadist.” Charbonneau picked up his pickle. “Shot pics of the good times to keep the tingle in his weenie.” Charbonneau finished the pickle, then tipped back his head and drained his soda. “The shots in his scrapbooks look like amateur mock-ups from the porn gallery. Sick bastard tried to re-create life from his art.”

“Did you find photos of ‘D’?” My voice didn’t sound like my own.

Tight nod. “One pretty good face shot. Luc’s circulating it in Canada and south of the border.”

“Where were the home videos?” Ryan asked.

“Mixed in with the porn tapes.”

“Got them with you?”

Charbonneau nodded.

“Your place or ours?”

“Our unit’s piece-of-crap VCR is busted again.” Charbonneau wadded his napkin and chucked it onto his plate.

“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!”

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.

I
T 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.

What did that mean?

Anne had dialed, then turned her phone off? Her battery went dead? She moved out of range?

Someone else had used Anne’s phone? Who? Why?

Again scrolling through
OPTIONS
, I chose
SEND MESSAGE
, typed in “Call me!” and hit
SEND
.

I punched another number. Tom answered after four rings, sounding groggy.

Anne was not there. He hadn’t heard a word, nor had any of the friends he’d contacted.

I threw the phone at my pillow. Normally, I leave the phone on my bedstand at night, but the stress of events had broken that routine. I’d left the damn thing in my purse. Make one small mistake and it nails you.

Sleep was out of the question. I showered, fed Birdie, and left for the lab.

Ryan entered my office at a little past eight.

“Claudel won the lottery.”

I looked up.

“The prints taken from the fake Stephen Menard belong to a loser named Neal Wesley Catts.”

“Who is he?”

“Street corner thug. Drifter. Did one bump for peddling weed. That’s how his prints got into the system. California’s faxing his sheet.”

“Claudel’s following up?”

“He intends to know every toilet this punk ever flushed.”

“Take a look at this.” I tapped my pencil on Claudel’s MP list.

Ryan circled to my side of the desk.

“I’ve marked the possibles.”

Ryan scanned the names I’d checked. It was the majority of the list.

“The nonwhites are out.”

“And those who were too old or too tall when they disappeared.”

Ryan looked at me.

“I know. Without lower limits on age and height, I can’t really limit the subset that much.” I flapped a hand at the skeletons in my lab. “These girls could have survived years in captivity.”

Like Angela Robinson, Anique Pomerleau, and Tawny McGee.

“I cut samples for DNA testing on Angie Robinson.”

“The one wrapped in leather?”

I nodded. “I’m sure it’s her.”

“I think you’re right.”

“The coroner’s office is contacting the Robinson family. We’ll need a maternal relative to run mitochondrial comparisons.”

I slumped back.

“Anne called this morning.”

“That’s great.” Ryan’s face broke into a huge smile.

“No. It’s not.”

When I told him what had happened the smile collapsed.

“I’ve called the taxi companies. They’re checking their records for a pickup at your place Friday. Would you like me to contact rental car agencies?”