Monday Mourning Part 46

"And, if threatened, Menard might kill Pomerleau."

"Yes."

Claudel's eyes pinched. He looked at his partner, then rose.

"A judge should consider this probable cause."

"You'll get a warrant?"

"When his a.s.s. .h.i.ts the bench."

"I want to go with you to Pointe-St-Charles."

"Out of the question."

"Why?"

"If all this is true, Menard will be dangerous."

"I'm a big girl."

Claudel looked at me so long I thought he wasn't going to reply. Then he hitched a shoulder at Ryan.

"Ride shotgun for the cowboy. No one else will."

I was stunned. The humorously challenged had attempted a joke.

The rest of that Sunday was agony. Puttering through tasks, I felt sadness mixed with deep disappointment in myself. Why hadn't I realized earlier that the bones might have been those of girls held captive? Why hadn't I understood why my profiles failed to fit the descriptions on the MP lists? Again and again, I wondered: Would it have made a difference?

Disturbing images kept welling in my head. Anique Pomerleau, with her pale white face and long dark braid. Angie Robinson in a leather shroud in a cellar grave.

Riding with Ryan.

Anne. Where the h.e.l.l was Anne? Should I be doing more to find her? What?

I tried Christmas carols. They cheered me as effectively as a Salvation Army Santa.

I went to the gym, pounded out three miles with CDs of old favorites cranked in my earphones.

The Lovin' Spoonful. Donovan. The Mamas and the Papas. The Supremes.

Tossing and turning in bed that night, one refrain kept looping through my brain.

Monday, Monday...

Two Mondays back I'd excavated the bones of three young girls.

One Monday back I'd tweezed feathers from Louise Parent's mouth.

Tomorrow I might be exploring the house of horrors.

Can't trust that day...

I shuddered over what the next Monday would bring.

31.

CLAUDEL HAD A WARRANT BY NINE. RYAN WAS AT MY PLACE AT quarter past. quarter past.

When I got into his Jeep, Ryan handed me coffee. Caffeine was not what I needed. I was wired enough to recaulk the Pentagon.

Thanking him, I pulled off my mittens, wrapped my fingers around the Styrofoam, and worked on slowing my heartbeat even as I sipped.

Five minutes out, Ryan cracked his window and lit up a Player's. Normally he would have asked if I minded. Today, he didn't. I a.s.sumed he was feeling as jittery as I was.

The streets were clogged with the remnants of Monday morning rush hour. A decade and twenty minutes later we entered the Point.

Turning onto de Sebastopol, I could see two cruisers and an unmarked Impala positioned at intervals along the block. Exhaust floated from all three tailpipes.

Ryan slid behind the nearest cruiser. Killing the engine, he turned to me.

"If Menard so much as frowns in your direction, you're out of there. Do you understand?"

"We're going to search the place, not a.s.sault it."

"Things could turn ugly."

"There are seven cops here, Ryan. If Menard's uncooperative, cuff him."

"Any threatening move, you hit the deck."

I saluted smartly.

Ryan's voice hardened. "I'm serious, d.a.m.n it. If I say split, you're gone."

I rolled my eyes.

"That's it." Ryan's hand moved to restart the engine.

"All right," I said, pulling on my mittens. "I'll obey orders. Sir. Sir."

"No nonsense. This is dangerous work."

Ryan and I got out and quietly closed our doors.

Overnight the weather had changed. The air felt moist and icy, and heavy gray clouds hung low in the sky.

Seeing us, the stable dog started in. Otherwise, there wasn't a sign of life on de Sebastopol. No kids sticking pucks. No housewives hauling groceries. No pensioners gossiping on balconies or stoops.

Typical Montreal winter day. Stay indoors, stay in the metro, stay underground. Hunker in and remain sane until spring. The barking sounded all the louder in the overall stillness.

Ryan and I angled across the street. As we approached the Impala, the dynamic duo got out.

Claudel was wearing a tan cashmere overcoat. Charbonneau was in a big s.h.a.ggy jacket, the composition of which I couldn't have guessed.

We exchanged nods.

"What's the plan?" Ryan asked in English.

Claudel spread his feet. Charbonneau leaned his f.a.n.n.y on the Impala.

"One unit will stay here." Claudel jerked a thumb toward the cruiser at the far end of the block. "I'll send the other around to de la Congregation."

Charbonneau unzipped his parka, shoved his hands in his pockets, jiggled his change.

"Michel's going to take the back door."

A walkie-talkie screeched from Charbonneau's hip. Reaching back, he fiddled with a b.u.t.ton.

Claudel's eyes flicked to me, back to Ryan.

"Brennan knows what to do," Ryan said.

Claudel's lips thinned, but he said nothing.

"We'll show Menard the judge's Christmas greeting, order him to sit, then toss the place."

Charbonneau rested a hand on his gun b.u.t.t. "Wouldn't ruin my holiday if this pogue decided to pull a Schwarzenegger."

"All set?" Claudel slipped a two-way from his waistband, reb.u.t.toned his coat.

Nods around.

"Allons-y," Claudel said. Claudel said.

"Let's go," his partner echoed.

Pushing off the Impala, Charbonneau strode toward the far end of de Sebastopol. He spoke to the driver, then the cruiser disappeared around the corner. Charbonneau reversed direction and cut diagonally across the vacant lot.

Thirty seconds later, Charbonneau's voice came across Claudel's walkie-talkie. He was at Menard's back door.

Claudel waved a "come on" to the other team of uniforms.

As we picked our way up the icy walk, Claudel in the lead, Ryan and I following, the second cruiser slid to the curb behind us.

Stumbling along, I felt the same formless dread I'd felt on Friday. Heightened. My heart was now thumping like a conga drum.

At the turn, Claudel stopped and spoke into his walkie-talkie.

I stared at Menard's house, wondering what it had been like when the real Menard's grandparents, the Corneaus, owned it. The place was so dark, so menacing. It was hard to imagine chicken being fried, baseball being watched, or kittens chasing b.a.l.l.s in its gloomy interior.

Claudel's radio sputtered. Charbonneau was in position.

We stepped onto the stoop. Ryan twisted the bra.s.s k.n.o.b. The bell shrilled as it had on Friday.

A full minute pa.s.sed with no response.

Ryan twisted again.

I thought I heard movement inside. Ryan tensed, and one hand drifted toward his Glock.

Claudel unb.u.t.toned his coat.

Still no one appeared.

Ryan twisted the bell a third time.

Absolute stillness.

Ryan pounded on the door.

"Open up! Police!"

Ryan was raising his fist for another go when a m.u.f.fled shot spit through the silence. Blue-white light popped around the curtain edges in the window to my right.

Claudel and Ryan dropped to identical crouches, weapons drawn. Grabbing my wrist, Ryan pulled me to the ground.

Claudel screamed into his walkie-talkie.

"Michel! Es-tu la? Repet. Es-tu la?"

In a heartbeat Charbonneau's voice crackled back, "I'm here. Was that gunfire?"

"Inside the house."

"Who's shooting?"

"Can't tell. Any movement back there?"

"Nothing."

"Hold position. We're going in."