Онлайн книга Monday Mourning

Tawny McGee disappeared when she was twelve years old.

I swallowed.

“Are you sure this is ‘D’?”

Claudel slid another fax across the table. I picked it up. On it was the inquiry he’d circulated.

The face in the photo was an Auschwitz version of the one I’d just viewed. Older. Thinner. A hope-lost expression.

No. That was wrong. Tawny McGee’s face showed nothing at all.

“Have you gotten anything on the bastard that had her?” I asked, my voice taut with anger.

“I’m working on it.”

“Have you called the McGee family?”

“Maniwaki’s handling that.

“Where the hell’s Stephen Menard?” My pitch was rising with each question. “Could Menard be in on this? Could Menard and this guy have been working a tag team? Did SIJ find other prints in that house?”

Claudel tipped back his head and slid a look down his nose.

Charbonneau got to his feet. “I’m on Menard.”

When they left I punched PLAY, biting a knuckle to maintain control.

We were twenty minutes into the second tape when the phone rang. The receptionist announced Dr.

“Dr. Brennan.”

“Penny Feldman at Montreal General.”

“How are they?”

“The kid’s awake and hysterical. Won’t let anyone touch her. Says someone’s going to kill her.”

“Anglophone or Francophone?”

“English. She keeps asking for the woman from the house.”

“Anique Pomerleau?”

“No. Pomerleau’s in the next bed. I think she means you. Sometimes she asks for the woman with the cop. Or the woman with the jacket.

“I’m on my way.”

“I’ll hold off on sedation.”

“By the way, her name’s Tawny McGee. The parents have been notified.”

Ryan used the flashers and siren. We were at the hospital in twelve minutes.

Feldman was in the ER. Together we rode to the fourth floor. Before entering the room, I observed through the open door.

It was as though Menard’s victims had reversed roles.

Anique Pomerleau lay still in her bed.

Tawny McGee was upright, face flushed and wet.

Ryan and Feldman waited in the hall while I entered the room.

“Bonjour, Anique.”

Pomerleau rolled her head. Her gaze was listless, her affect dead as petrified wood.

McGee’s head dropped. Her gown slipped, exposing one fleshless shoulder.

“It’s all right, Tawny. Things will be better now.”

I crossed toward her bed.

McGee threw back her head.