Kathy Reichs - Monday Mourning

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.” Tight.

“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 less than five 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.