Monday Mourning

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.

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.