Kathy Reichs: Monday Mourning

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 gas 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.”