Kathy Reichs - Monday Mourning

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.

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.

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.