Monday Mourning

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.”

“Je m’appelle ‘Q.’” Pomerleau’s voice was flat and lifeless.

Removing my parka, I draped Pomerleau’s shoulders. She made no attempt to hold the garment in place.

“I’m ‘Q.’ She’s ‘D.’” Accented English. Pomerleau was Francophone.

Ryan shrugged off his jacket and handed it to me.

I took a cautious step toward “D,” gently touched her hair.

The woman tucked tighter and curled her hands into fists.

Enveloping “D” in Ryan’s jacket, I squatted to her level.

“He’s dead,” I said in French. “He can never harm you again.”

The woman rolled her head from side to side, not wanting to see me, not wanting to hear me.

I didn’t press. There would be time to talk.

“I’ll stay with you.” My voice cracked. “I won’t leave.”

Stroking her foot, I rose and withdrew.

While Charbonneau remained in the antechamber, I retreated to the outer basement. Ryan followed.

The honest truth? I didn’t trust my own treacherous emotions. My mind was paralyzed by shock and by anguish for these women, my gut curdled by loathing for the monster who’d subjected them to this.

“You OK?” Ryan asked.