Ryan ran his fingertips vertically along the newly exposed plywood, just beyond the shelving.
“There’s a discontinuity.”
Claudel removed one glove, mimicked Ryan’s move, then nodded.
Ryan pointed to the door through which we’d entered.
“Check out the lights.”
We all turned. One switch plate looked shiny and new, the other dingy and cracked.
“The older one works the overhead.”
He left the rest unsaid.
Claudel yanked off his remaining glove. Wordlessly, he and Ryan began ripping polyurethane.
Charbonneau hurried to the outer basement. I heard clattering and scraping, then he was back with a rusted crowbar.
Within minutes Ryan and Claudel had bared a six-inch swath. In it I could see a crack and two hinges. Through the crack, not a sliver of light.
Gauging door width, they attacked the other side of the shelving where two polyurethane panels met. Their efforts revealed another hairline fissure between sheets of plywood.
“Let me at it.” Charbonneau moved forward.
Ryan and Claudel stepped aside.
Charbonneau inserted the tip of the crowbar into the gap and levered.
A section of wall and shelving jigged forward.
Charbonneau slid the tip of the crowbar farther and heaved.
Plywood, batting, and shelving popped free.
Charbonneau grabbed a shelf and yanked. The false wall swung wide, revealing an opening approximately five by two feet.
The overhead bulb illuminated the first eighteen inches of the cavity behind the wall. Beyond that, the chamber was pitch-black.
Dashing to the door, I flicked the shiny switch, and spun.
My teeth clamped my lower lip as my throat clenched.
32
THE ROOM HAD BEGUN LIFE AS A FRUIT CELLAR OR STORAGE BIN. It was approximately eight by ten, and, like Menard’s little fun house, entirely soundproofed. The interior smelled of mold and old earth overlain by chemicals and something organic.
The furnishings were grimly stark. A naked bulb on a frayed wire. A portable camp toilet. A crudely built wooden platform. Two tattered blankets.
On the platform sat a pair of women, heads down, backs rounded against the polyurethane paneling. Each wore a studded leather collar. Nothing else.
The women’s skin looked bitter white, the shadows defining their ribs and vertebrae dark and sinuous. A long braid snaked from the nape of each neck.
Charbonneau let forth a curse charged with the full lexicon of anger and abhorrence.
One face snapped up. Haggard. Eyes like those of some wild creature startled in the night.
Anique Pomerleau.
Her companion remained motionless, head down, bony arms clutching her bony knees.
Claudel spun and disappeared into the outer basement. I heard boots cross cement then thunder up stairs.
“It’s all right, Anique,” I said, as gently as I knew how.
Pomerleau’s eyes flinched. The other woman hugged her legs harder to her chest.
“We’re here to help you.”
Pomerleau’s gaze darted between Ryan and Charbonneau.
Motioning the men back, I stepped into the chamber.
“These men are detectives.”
Pomerleau watched me, eyes wide black pools.
“It’s over now, Anique. It’s all over.”
Moving slowly, I crossed to the platform and laid a hand on Pomerleau’s shoulder. She recoiled from my touch.
“He can’t hurt you anymore, Anique.”
