Monday Mourning читать онлайн

Seconds during which Tawny McGee might be slashing her wrists.

“Where are you?” More forceful.

“I am so sorry, Tempe—”

“Where are you?”

“The Sisters of Providence.”

Anne’s voice was opening a small space in my brain. Clear thinking was slipping in.

“The convent at the corner of Ste-Catherine and Fullum?”

“Yes.”

Anne was less than five minutes away.

Anne was female.

I made a quick decision.

“I need your help.”

“Anything.”

“I’ll pick you up.”

“When?”

“Now.”

“I’ll be outside.”

I half walked, half ran to my car, heart beating at a marathon pace.

Was I making a mistake to include Anne? Was she already too emotionally drained? Was I putting her at risk?

I decided to tell all and let Anne decide.

A heavy night cold blanketed the city. The wind was moist, the clouds low and sluggish, as though uncertain whether to rain or snow.

Anne stood shivering outside the old motherhouse, luggage mounded at her feet.

Rush-hour stragglers still trudged the sidewalks and jammed the streets. As we drove, traffic and Christmas lights smearing the windshield, I briefed Anne on all that I’d learned in her absence.

She listened without interruption, face taut, fingers playing the ends of her loosened scarf.

When I’d finished, a full minute passed. I was certain Anne would ask me to take her home.

“I’m a shoo-in for the world’s most worthless goat turd.”

“Don’t say that, Anne.”

“While I’m mooning about not heading up God’s arrangements committee, these kids have been living a nightmare.” She turned to me.

“What kind of testosterone-crazed dickhead could find pleasure in hurting young girls?”

“Don’t feel pressured to go with me. I’ll understand if you want no part of this.”

“Not a chance, sweetie. I want at this dogball.”

“That’s exactly what you’re not going to do.” I sounded like Ryan. “Do you have your cell phone?”"

"“Piece of crap went dead when I tried phoning you this morning.” Anne patted her shoulder bag. “But I’ve got Mace.”

I gestured at my purse. “Dig mine out.”

As I turned onto de Sébastopol, Anne did as I asked.

I parked opposite the stable. Before cutting the headlights, I saw the mongrel uncurl and slink across the yard, eyes glinting, snout working the air.

Anne and I peered the length of the street. To our right, a lone bulb threw a cone of yellow on the stable doors. To our left, the rail yards yawned dark and empty.

“Stay in the car,” I whispered, depressing the handle on the driver’s side door.

“No way.”

“Yes.”

“No.