Monday Mourning

“Where winter is viewed as a passing unpleasantry.”

“No mittens. No shovels.”

“Did she actually do the ‘get thee to a nunnery’ bit?”

“Anne wanted solitude. Cheap. The convent offers clean rooms, decent meals, and all the solitude one could wish.”

Memory rewind.

Sleet on my back. Ice under my belly. Fire. Charbonneau barking orders. Claudel covering me with something warm and soft.

“Any word on Pomerleau?” I asked.

“She won’t get far.”

“She could be in Ontario by now, or over the border.”

“We found an old scooter in Catts’s shed. That was probably her main means of transportation.”

“How do you suppose she got McGee from General to the Point?”

“Taxi. Bus. Metro. Thumb.”

“Where’s McGee now?”

“Back at General.”

“What’s happening on de Sebastopol?”

“SIJ found a second false wall in the cellar.”

“Where Pomerleau hid McGee during the follow-up search.”

“Probably. Anne’s laptop and camera were stashed there.”

“Pomerleau trashed my condo.”

“Looks that way. Maybe Catts helped.”

“To scare me off the pizza basement case?”

“That would be my guess. She may have spotted the computer and camera while creeping your place, thought they were yours, and figured they held evidence pertaining to the skeletons. She’ll roll on the story when we net her.”

“How could she have known where I live?”

“Thanks to La Presse, it’s no secret what you look like or where you work. Pomerleau had the scooter. She could have waited outside Wilfrid-Derome, followed you to your building, and watched to see which lights went on.”

“I think Pomerleau has a mirror phobia.”

“The lady has issues more serious than glass.”

“Pretty cunning the way she misdirected us.”

“Buckle on a collar, strip, and play the victim.”

“I believed it, Ryan. When I saw her in that dungeon, I wanted to cry.”

“We all fell for it. Did you get the bouquet?”

I turned and looked at my dining room table. The “bouquet” was the size of Laramie, Wyoming.

“It’s beautiful. I’m having Hydro-Quebec run an extra water-line.”

I felt my reserves dwindling. Ryan heard the fatigue in my voice.

“Claudel and Charbonneau have a lot to tell you when you’re feeling up to it. For now, eat something, kill the phone, and hit the rack, hot stuff.”

I did. And slept until midafternoon.

Waking was like crossing an event horizon. I felt zestful. Invigorated. Charged with water-walking, omnipotent vitality.

Until I looked in the mirror.

My face was scraped and blotchy. My hair was singed. What remained of my brows and lashes were crinkly little sprigs.

Showering helped little, makeup even less.

I imagined Katy’s reaction on Friday. I pictured Claudel with his razor-sharp styling and advert-perfect creases.

“Bloody hell.”

Rebandaging my hands, I headed to CUM headquarters.

“Sergeant-detective Charbonneau ou Claudel, s’il vous plait,” I requested of the lobby receptionist.

“Busy night,” the receptionist said in English, poker-faced.