Kathy Reichs - Monday Mourning

“Lost? Or destroyed?”

“Just so much shoveled dirt.”

Keep her talking!

“When did Angie die?”

“Before my time.”

“I know what happened, Anique. I understand. Catts hurt you, then made you hurt others.”

“Who’s Catts?”

“Menard. Catts killed Menard and took his name.”

“Menard. Catts.” Air puffed from her lips. “Amateur hour.”

“He was evil. He tortured you. He tortured Angie Robinson. You had to play along to please him.”

“I didn’t play along.” A finger jabbed her sternum. “I ruled. I was queen.”

“Q.” Queen of Hearts.

“You did what was necessary to survive.”

“You don’t get it. I’m the queen, not the rabbit.”

Go with it.

“I know. You’re the strong one, Anique. You shot Catts.”

“He grew weak.”

“You smothered Louise Parent.”

“A mercy killing.”

Her flippant indifference triggered a helpless, savage anger. Suddenly, I couldn’t control myself. Without thinking I abandoned my attempt at dialogue and bucked and twisted. Sweat dampened my face and rolled down my spine.

“You callous bitch!”

Pomerleau laughed and rhythmically rose to her toes and dropped to her heels like an excited child until I sat back, heaving and exhausted.

“The police will find you,” I panted. “You won’t get away.”

Pomerleau hooked one finger under a studded collar circling her neck. A venomous smile crawled the dead pale face.

“Three bodies were pulled from the ashes,” she chanted. “But, praise the lord, one victim escaped the flames.”

Upending the can, Pomerleau doused my clothes with gasoline.

My stomach lurched. My heart flew to my throat.

Calm! Stay calm!

Tossing the can, Pomerleau strode from the parlor. I heard her cross the hall, then move through the kitchen, the back bedroom, and the room beside us, pausing briefly in each. My thoughts shifted to Anne. I’m so very sorry, Annie. So stupid and so sorry. I should never have involved you.

An acrid smell began filling the air.

Dear God!

“Run, Tawny!” I screamed. “Get out!”

I wrenched and writhed, chest burning, pain cartwheeling through my head.

In minutes, Pomerleau was back, face etched with, what? Elation? Joy?

“The neighbors will call 911,” I shrieked. “You won’t get far.”

“You’ll be dead from the smoke.”

Pomerleau struck a match, and watched the small flame sputter and blossom.

“See you in Candyland.”

Her wrist flicked.

I heard a loud whup, felt heat behind me, then saw the room dance in flickering orange light.

37

THE FLASH OF FLAME WITHERED AFTER THE OPENING BURST, BUT choking black smoke began filling the room.

I couldn’t get to my feet. The ropes held me twisted backward, ankles bound to wrists. I rolled back up onto my knees.

My eyes burned. My throat grew raw. Though heat was building, my body shook. This fire would not burn itself out. I had to get away or die.

I tried to think but my mind was drifting, bringing up fearful images from other places, other days.

Chalky white bones in a woodstove. A carbonized skeleton in a burned-out basement. Two blackened bodies in a charred Cessna.

“Cut the crap, Brennan!” I shouted aloud. “Think!”

I drew a series of shallow breaths, coughed, repeated the litany.

“Think!” I yelled again.

My stomach heaved. I swallowed, spoke loudly again, this time to Tawny.

“Tawny! Can you hear me?”

Fire sizzled and popped behind me. In Tawny’s direction, only thickening smoke.

“Tawny!” I yelled again.

Back on my side, flexing and extending my hips and knees, I slithered across the carpet, each thrust wrenching my shoulder and abrading my face.

I was on my third push when a banshee shrieking rose from the armchair.

I froze, every hair upright on my neck and arms.

“Tawny!”

The keening continued, one high-pitched note of panic.

Mother of God! Was she burning?

“Tawny, can you walk?” I shouted.

The wailing faltered, gave way to coughing.

“Steady, soldier,” I said more to myself than to Tawny. “I’m coming.”

Three more thrusts and my body struck the chair. Gasoline and dust felt thick on my skin.

“Cover your mouth,” I panted, as loudly as I could. “If you can, get down on the floor.”

The coughing grew frenzied.

Pushing up against the chair with my shoulder, I rolled back onto my knees and tried to rock it again and again.

“Tawny! Get down!” I screamed. “Now!”

Behind us something whooshed. One wall erupted in flames that rushed the ceiling, washing the room in swimmy orange light.

I felt movement, then Tawny thudded to her knees, drew in her limbs, and collapsed into a knot beside me.

Nausea, pain, and fear were taking their toll. I could barely breathe, barely think. But my sluggish brain had computed what my eyes hadn’t seen.

A rope trailed from a dog collar on Tawny’s neck. Her hands and feet were unbound!

I swiveled to her.

“Tawny,” I coughed. “You have to help. You can save us, Tawny. You can save us.”

The human knot contracted.

Think, Brennan, think! Had the spreading fire impelled her? Or had that one barked command worked better than kindness? Was she still programmed to respond to orders?

Nothing to lose.

“Tawny, untie me!” I shouted.

The scrawny neck turtled up.

“Now, Tawny, now!”

Tawny’s face came round. When our eyes met, pity jumbled my resolve to be hard.

“You’re going home, sweetheart. To Maniwaki. To your mother.”

My chest burned. I coughed uncontrollably.

“To Sandra,” I choked out.

Something flickered in the hollowed-out eyes.

“To Sandra,” I repeated.

Tawny’s face slackened as a world she thought dead skittered through her mind. Her mouth opened, trembled, then morphed into an O.

“Sandra,” I repeated.

Without a word, Tawny spun and crawled beneath the smoke toward the rear of the building.

I tried to grab her. The ropes stopped me cold.

“Tawny!” My voice cracked. I coughed until my belly screamed and I tasted blood.

When the spasm passed, I twisted and peered in the direction Tawny had gone.

Nothing but thick black smoke.

My heart shriveled. I’d been left alone to die.

Dear God! Was I alone? Was Anne already dead?

“Tawny!” I called out. “Please!”

Nothing.

As before, I writhed and thrashed. As before, I collapsed exhausted on the filthy rug, skin raw, lungs in agony.

The room began to recede. I thought hypnotically: I’m going to die. I’m going to die. I’m going to die.

Then I heard scraping and banging, like the hurried opening and slamming of drawers. Seconds later a dark form took shape in the smoke and scrabbled toward me.

Tawny’s skin gleamed like alabaster. One hand covered her mouth. The other clutched a long, flat object.

What?

She jerked convulsively. A blade flashed firelight.

A knife!

Tawny’s knuckles looked white and bloodless. For a moment she stared at her hand, as if trying to figure why the knife might be there.

Then she pounced and rolled me so my face mashed the carpet.

I felt breath on my neck, weight on my back.

My God, she’s going to stab me. “Q” still controls her.

I waited for the blade.

Instead I felt pressure at my wrists. Sawing.

Tawny was cutting my bindings!

Wrenching my head sideways, I gulped for air.

“Faster, Tawny. Hurry!”

I strained the ropes outward as Tawny slashed back and forth across them. Though my arms were numb, I sensed a loosening as fiber after fiber yielded.