What if McGee and Pomerleau weren’t alone? What if Menard was still working their heads? What if the call was a trap? Would he really dare to harm me? Why not? He was already looking at life in prison, and he was a malignant sociopath.
“Damn! Damn! Damn!”
Who to phone?
Ryan would go paternal. I couldn’t deal with that.
Claudel was out of the question.
Pulse racing, I tried Charbonneau, just so someone would know where I’d gone. A mechanical voice informed me that the subscriber I’d dialed was unavailable, and disconnected without inviting input.
I checked my watch.
Six forty-two. I dialed CUM headquarters and left a message for Charbonneau. He and Claudel were probably still in Vermont, but at least they would know where I’d gone.
Silence surrounded me.
More what-ifs.
What if McGee hurt herself?
What if Menard was maneuvering to add me to his fun house?
What if Menard planned to put a bullet through my brain?
I was scanning the face of each ugly scenario, when my cell erupted in my hand.
I jerked as though burned. The handset flew from my grasp, nicked the wall, and ricocheted under my desk. Dropping to all fours, I scrabbled across the tile, grabbed it, and clicked on.
Another shock.
Without preamble, Anne launched into a rambling apology.
Relief and resentment joined the Armageddon in my head.
I cut her off.
“Where are you?”
Anne misread the frantic timbre of my voice.
“I don’t blame you for feeling hostile, Tempe. My behavior was beyond selfish, but try to understan—”
Seconds were dissolving. Seconds during which Tawny McGee might be slashing her wrists.
“Where are you?” More forceful.
“I am so sorry, Tempe—”
“Where
“The Sisters of Providence.”
Anne’s voice was opening a small space in my brain. Clear thinking was slipping in.
“The convent at the corner of Ste-Catherine and Fullum?”
“Yes.”
Anne was less than five minutes away.
Anne was female.
I made a quick decision.
“I need your help.”
“Anything.”
“I’ll pick you up.”
“When?”
“Now.”
“I’ll be outside.”
I half walked, half ran to my car, heart beating at a marathon pace.
Was I making a mistake to include Anne? Was she already too emotionally drained? Was I putting her at risk?
I decided to tell all and let Anne decide.
A heavy night cold blanketed the city. The wind was moist, the clouds low and sluggish, as though uncertain whether to rain or snow.
Anne stood shivering outside the old motherhouse, luggage mounded at her feet.
Rush-hour stragglers still trudged the sidewalks and jammed the streets. As we drove, traffic and Christmas lights smearing the windshield, I briefed Anne on all that I’d learned in her absence. She listened without interruption, face taut, fingers playing the ends of her loosened scarf.
