center of the map.
I stared numbly at the X. Terrible images formed in my mind but I fought them off, denying the one acceptable conclusion. It was a bluff. It was like the skull in the garden. This maniac was toying with me. Seeing how frightened he could make me.
I don’t know how long I looked at Gabby’s face, remembering it in other places, other times. A happy face in a clown hat at Katy’s third birthday party. A face bathed in tears as she told me of her brother’s suicide.
The house was silent around me, the universe at a standstill. Then horrible certainty overtook me.
It wasn’t a bluff. Dear God, dear God, dear Gabby. I’m so very, terribly sorry.
Ryan picked up on the third ring.
“He’s got Gabby,” I whispered, knuckles white on the receiver, voice steady by sheer strength of will.
He wasn’t fooled.
“Who?” he asked, sensing the underlying terror and going straight to the crux.
“I don’t know.”
“Where are they?”
“I—I don’t know.”
I heard the sound of a hand passing over a face.
“What do you have?”
He heard me out without interrupting.
“Shit.”
Pause.
“Okay. I’ll take the map in so ident can pinpoint the location, then we’ll get a team out there.”
“I can take the map in,” I said.
“I think you should stay there. And I want a surveillance unit back on your building.”
“I’m not the one in danger,” I snapped. “This bastard’s got Gabby! He’s probably killed her already!”
My mask was crumbling. I fought to control the trembling in my hands.
“Brennan, I feel sick about your friend. I would help her in any way I could. Believe that. But you have to use your head. If this psychopath only got her purse but not her, she’s probably okay, wherever she is. If he has her and has shown us where to find her, he will have left her in whatever state he wants her found. We can’t change that. Meanwhile, someone put a note on your door, Brennan. The sonofabitch was in your building. He knows your car. If this guy is the killer, he won’t hesitate to add you to his list. Respect for life is not among his personality traits, and he seems to have focused on yours right now.”
He had a point.
“And I’ll get somebody on the guy you followed.”
I spoke slowly and softly. “I want ident to call me as soon as they pull up the location.”
“Bren—”
“Is that a problem?” Not so softly.
It was irrational and I knew it, but Ryan was sensitive to my growing hysteria, or was it rage? Maybe he just didn’t want to deal with me.
“No.”
Ryan got the envelope around midnight, and the ident unit called an hour later. They lifted one print from the card. Mine. The X marked an abandoned lot in St. Lambert. An hour later I got a second call from Ryan. A patrol unit had checked the lot and all surrounding buildings. Nothing. Ryan had arranged for recovery in the morning. Including dogs. We were going back to the south shore.
“What time tomorrow?” I said, my voice shaking, my grief for Gabby already too dreadful to bear.
“I’ll set it up for seven.”
“Six.”
“Six. Want a ride?”
“Thanks.”
He hesitated. “She may be fine.”
“Yeah.”
I went through the normal bedtime motions, though I knew I wouldn’t sleep. Teeth. Face. Hand lotion. Nightshirt. Then I wandered from room to room, trying not to think about the women on the bulletin boards. Murder scene photos. Autopsy descriptions. Gabby.
I adjusted a picture, repositioned a vase, picked fluff from the carpet. I felt cold, made myself a cup of tea, and turned down the air-conditioning. Minutes later, I shot it back up. Birdie withdrew to the bedroom, fed up with the pointless movement, but I couldn’t stop myself. The feeling of helplessness in the face of impending horror was unbearable.
Around two, I stretched out on the couch, closed my eyes, and tried to will myself to relax. Concentrate on night sounds. AC compressor. Ambulance. Trickle of taps on the floor above. Water flowing through a pipe. Wood creaking. Walls settling.
My mind drifted to a visual mode. Images floated past, spinning and tumbling like parts of a Hollywood dream sequence. I saw Chantale Trottier’s plaid jumper. Morisette-Champoux’s gutted belly. The putrefied head that was Isabelle Gagnon. A severed hand. A mangled breast cupped in bone-white lips. A lifeless monkey. A statue. A plunger. A knife.
I couldn’t help myself. I produced a cinema of death, tortured by the thought that Gabby had joined the cast. Darkness was fading into light when