Monday Mourning

”

“Yes,” I hissed.

I heard a swish as Anne’s arms locked across her chest. I turned sideways. Silhouetted in the stable light, I could see her upper teeth clamping her lower lip.

I took Anne’s hand, and forced a wasted smile.

“I need your help, Annie. But it has to be from a distance. These women have been isolated for years. The world terrifies them.” I squeezed gently, and softened my whisper. “They don’t know you.”

“They don’t know you,” she mumbled.

“They reached out to me.”

“What if this asshole Menard is in there?”

“There’s a phone in the house.

“If Ryan’s not available?”

“Call 911.”

When I alighted, the stable dog trotted to the fence. He followed as I picked my way along the street, rose up and snarled when he reached the end of his enclosure. For reasons of his own, he chose not to bark.

The night air smelled of horses and river and impending snow. Overhead a wire groaned, one bare branch tapped another.

At the turnoff I heard a metallic grinding and darted into the recessed entrance of the last row house. Frozen in the shadows, I strained to pick out the slightest human sound.

Nothing.

I crept from the alcove and peeked around the corner.

A brown bottle lay on the walk.

Budweiser, some irrational brain cell offered.

A gust nudged the bottle. It rolled, scraping gravel and ice.

Squaring my shoulders, I sidestepped the Bud and headed up the walk, careful not to stumble or twist an ankle.

I made the turn. The house loomed black and silent, not a pixel of light seeping from within.

I stepped to the stoop, twisted the bell, waited. I twisted again, body coiled for a backward sprint.

The chain and lock rattled. The door cracked. I moved forward, adrenaline-wired like a soldier in combat.

Death mask face. Wide, blinking eyes.

I felt myself breathe.

“It’s Dr. Brennan, Anique.”

Pomerleau’s gaze swept over my shoulder.

“I’m alone.”

Pomerleau stepped back and the door swung in. I entered. The air still stank of mothballs and must.

Pomerleau closed and locked the door. She was wearing black jeans and a dark blue sweatshirt.

“Is Tawny all right?” I asked.

Pomerleau rotated with zombie slowness. Behind her the door chain swayed like a pendulum.

“Is ‘D’ all right?” I corrected.

“She’s frightened.” Hoarse whisper.

“May I?” I undid my zipper.