Monday Mourning

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 assimilating 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 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?

My lids clamped down. I listened to the liquid sound of a terrible death.

Seconds later I heard another clunk, receding footsteps, then the slamming door.

I opened my eyes. An empty coffee can lay by the baseboard.

Had Pomerleau gone for more gasoline? Where? An outside shed? How long had her previous trip taken? One minute? Two?

My mind zeroed in on one thought.

Get out!

Strobe images. Anne. Pomerleau. A rope circling Tawny McGee’s wrists.

Was McGee tied up? Were her feet bound? I’d stroked one ankle, felt nothing. A shard of hope.

“Tawny.”

Silence.

“Tawny.”

Movement in the chair?

I raised my head. The room was a shadowy pool, the furnishings jagged shapes in the darkness.

“‘Q’ is going to burn the house. We have to get away.”

An intake of breath?

“I know what ‘Q’ did to you.”

The back door slammed. Feet clumped toward us.

Through slitted eyes I watched Pomerleau enter with a new can and soak the secretary and couch. When the can emptied, she tossed it to the floor and disappeared for another.

“No one knows we’re here, Tawny.”"

"The silence made the room seem darker, more deadly.

“No one will come for us. We must help ourselves.”

No response.

“If I slide closer, can you untie me?”

Silence.

“Are you able to walk?”

It was like talking to the dead.