"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." Hoa.r.s.e whisper.

"May I?" I undid my zipper.

Pomerleau circled me as I removed my parka. When she turned toward the hall, I hung the jacket on the k.n.o.b and flipped the door latch to open.

Pomerleau led me to the parlor Catts had christened with his brains. I followed.

Catts's couch was now draped and shoved against the secretary. A single bra.s.s lamp cast the room in pale amber.

Tawny McGee was in one of the armchairs, knees up, head down as when I'd seen her in the dungeon. She was covered by the same blanket she'd clutched that day.

"Tawny?"

She didn't move.

"Tawny?"

The frail body contracted.

I took a step forward, alert for the slightest sign of a third presence. The house was eerily still.

"It's Dr. Brennan, Tawny."

McGee flinched, nudging the end table. The lamp crystals wobbled, and tiny yellow points danced on her hair.

Kneeling, I laid a hand on her foot. Her muscles tightened.

"You're going to be all right."

She didn't move.

I reached for her hand. Through the wool, my fingers felt something hard and sinuous.

At that instant, rapid-fire pounding split the silence.

McGee recoiled.

Pomerleau went rigid.

The front door creaked, then a voice carried from the foyer.

"h.e.l.lo?" Anne called out. "Bonjour?"

Pomerleau's lips drew back. "You lied," she hissed.

Before I could reply Anne appeared in the hall, cell phone in one hand, car keys in the other.

"What are you doing here?" I snapped to my feet.

"You got a call. I thought you'd want to know." Anne looked from me to Pomerleau to the catatonic shape cowering under the blanket. "I thought you'd all want to know."

"It could have waited," I said, annoyed past politeness.

Knowing she'd make a mistake, Anne pushed on, eager to rectify. "Charbonneau left a message at c.u.m headquarters." She held up the phone. "The switchboard phoned your cell."

I noticed Pomerleau recede into the darkness at the end of the hall.

"Stephen Menard is dead," Anne continued, her eyes tugging at mine for forgiveness. "He's been dead for years. Catts killed him."

A sound rose from the huddled form behind me. Half moan, half whimper.

"I'm sorry," Anne mumbled. "I thought you'd want to know. I'll go back to the car." Anne hurried toward the foyer.

I squatted and placed a hand on McGee's foot.

McGee's back rose and rounded. The blanket slipped and her face came up like a pale winter moon.

McGee's lips were trembling.

"You're safe, Tawny. You and Anique are both safe."

McGee bucked a shoulder. The blanket opened at her lap.

A rope coiled her wrists.

The image didn't compute. A rope. Why a rope? Was it tied?

I heard the front door open.

I looked up. McGee's eyes were filled with horror. I tracked them.

They were fixed on Pomerleau's retreating back.

My lungs stopped. My heart stopped. I felt the blood drain from my face.

Terror in the hospital.

A face behind a camcorder.

Residue-free hands.

h.o.m.olka, a willing partic.i.p.ant in her husband's depravity.

I knew!

I shot to my feet.

Pomerleau was moving down the hall as though hot-wired. I heard a sickening crack, then a thud.

I raced toward the foyer. The door was open.

Anne lay facedown with her head on the jamb, legs splayed across the linoleum.

I peered into the night. No sign of Pomerleau.

"Annie!" I squatted and felt her throat for a pulse.

Too late, I heard movement behind me. The door angled inward, jammed the heel of Anne's boot.

Before I could turn, light exploded in my head.

I fell into blackness.

36.

SECONDS LATER, OR SO IT SEEMED, I FELT MY BRAIN ELBOWING FELT MY BRAIN ELBOWING my skull, aggressively seeking more s.p.a.ce. I opened my eyes and moved my head. Particles of shattered gla.s.s winged through my vision. I closed my eyes and tried to a.s.sess. my skull, aggressively seeking more s.p.a.ce. I opened my eyes and moved my head. Particles of shattered gla.s.s winged through my vision. I closed my eyes and tried to a.s.sess.

My chest burned. I was lying on my left side and shoulder. I swallowed, tried to sit up. My arms and legs wouldn't work. I realized they were under and behind me.

Slowly, awareness crept in. I couldn't feel my hands. My feet. I had to move.

Tightening my abs, I again tried to rise to my knees.

Nausea enveloped me. I vomited.

Using my ankles and hips, I tried to push back from the mess. The effort made me retch again and again until my stomach offered nothing but bile.

I lay a moment, breathing deeply, fumbling for explanations. Where was I? How long had I been there?

Gingerly, I rolled my head. A stab of pain almost caused me to cry out.

Think! one battered neuron screamed. one battered neuron screamed.

I tried. My thoughts wouldn't congeal into recognizable pictures.

Focus on the moment!

Smell!

Mold. Ratty fabric. Wood. Something else. A chemical cleaner? Kerosene?

Touch!

Rough fibers scratching my cheek. Grit in my mouth. Dust in my nostrils. A carpet?

Sound!

Wind. A branch striking gla.s.s. The creaking and breathing of a house interior.

My pulse hammering in my ears.

m.u.f.fled footsteps. A hollow clunk.

Distant. Someone moving. In another room?

I opened my eyes again.

I lay on a very dirty carpet. I could see a carved wooden leg, some cranberry upholstery, and the edge of a tattered blanket.

Recognition! I was in Catts's parlor. The lamp was now off.

A door slammed, then silence.

Armchair ahead. Another slamming sound at a greater distance behind me. My brain was a.s.similating information with the speed of continental drift.

Had someone used a rear entrance? In the kitchen? Catts's kitchen.

I tried to call up the floor plan from my previous visits. It wasn't there.

I held my breath, listened. Not a sound in the house. The blood in my head hammered on. One heartbeat. A dozen. A thousand.

The rear door slammed again. Hurried footsteps approached. I closed my eyes and lay still, every muscle on fire.

I heard a grunt, then splashing.

The smell jumped all my senses. My fingers clenched in their bindings.

Gasoline!

As my eyelids flew open, I was able to identify two shapes.

Tawny McGee sat swaddled in the armchair.

Anique Pomerleau was dousing the room with liquid from a large can.

Fear short-circuited what little rational thought I'd mustered up. What to do? Talk to Pomerleau? Talk to McGee? Play dead?