I DISCONNECTED AND STARED AT THE PHONE, MY MIND RACING through a million what-ifs.

What if I phoned Ryan? Claudel? Charbonneau? Feldman? I wanted support.

What if I raced to de Sébastopol? These women had to be retrieved.

Pomerleau had requested that I come alone. No men. From all I’d read, that made sense. She and McGee had suffered years of abuse at male hands.

Emotions battled inside me. Anger. Loathing. Compassion. Urgency.

All three detectives would be furious if I went on my own.

He could wait outside.

Again, I started to punch Ryan’s number. Again, I stopped.

What if Ryan insisted on escorting me inside?

McGee and Pomerleau obviously had a hidey-hole in that house. Ryan’s presence might drive them back underground. Might shatter their trust in me. Maybe they weren’t even there, but would provide further instructions only if I arrived alone. A police net around the whole neighborhood would be too obvious.

In my mind, I heard McGee’s terrified pleas, felt her grip on my arm, saw the desperate hope in her eyes.

Guilt and self-blame hopped into my thinking.

I’d been unable to calm McGee at the hospital. If anything, I’d increased her alarm.

What if Ryan’s presence panicked her again?

I lurched to my feet. Yanked my jacket from its peg.

This time I’d do as she asked. I owed it to her. To them.

A new thought stopped me cold.

What if McGee and Pomerleau weren’t alone? What if Menard was still working their heads? What if the call was a trap? Would he really dare to harm me? Why not? He was already looking at life in prison, and he was a malignant sociopath.

“Damn! Damn! Damn!”

Who to phone?

Ryan would go paternal. I couldn’t deal with that.

Claudel was out of the question.

Pulse racing, I tried Charbonneau, just so someone would know where I’d gone. A mechanical voice informed me that the subscriber I’d dialed was unavailable, and disconnected without inviting input.

I checked my watch.

Six forty-two. I dialed CUM headquarters and left a message for Charbonneau. He and Claudel were probably still in Vermont, but at least they would know where I’d gone.

Silence surrounded me.

More what-ifs.

What if McGee hurt herself?

What if Menard was maneuvering to add me to his fun house?

What if Menard planned to put a bullet through my brain?

I was scanning the face of each ugly scenario, when my cell erupted in my hand.

I jerked as though burned. The handset flew from my grasp, nicked the wall, and ricocheted under my desk. Dropping to all fours, I scrabbled across the tile, grabbed it, and clicked on.

Another shock.

Without preamble, Anne launched into a rambling apology.

Relief and resentment joined the Armageddon in my head.

I cut her off.

“Where are you?”

Anne misread the frantic timbre of my voice.

“I don’t blame you for feeling hostile, Tempe. My behavior was beyond selfish, but try to understan—”

Seconds were dissolving. 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.”

“Yes,” I hissed.

I heard a swish as Anne’s arms locked across her chest. I turned sideways. Silhouetted in the stable light, I could see her upper teeth clamping her lower lip.

I took Anne’s hand, and forced a wasted smile.

“I need your help, Annie. But it has to be from a distance. These women have been isolated for years. The world terrifies them.” I squeezed gently, and softened my whisper. “They don’t know you.”

“They don’t know you,” she mumbled.

“They reached out to me.”

“What if this asshole Menard is in there?”

“There’s a phone in the house. If I don’t ring or signal within ten minutes, call Ryan. He’s on my speed dial.”

“If Ryan’s not available?”

“Call 911.”

When I alighted, the stable dog trotted to the fence. He followed as I picked my way along the street, rose up and snarled when he reached the end of his enclosure. For reasons of his own, he chose not to bark.

The night air smelled of horses and river and impending snow. Overhead a wire groaned, one bare branch tapped another.

At the turnoff I heard a metallic grinding and darted into the recessed entrance of the last row house. Frozen in the shadows, I strained to pick out the slightest human sound.

Nothing.

I crept from the alcove and peeked around the corner.

A brown bottle lay on the walk.

Budweiser, some irrational brain cell offered.

A gust nudged the bottle. It rolled, scraping gravel and ice.

Squaring my shoulders, I sidestepped the Bud and headed up the walk, careful not to stumble or twist an ankle. The trees and shrubs were like shape-changers, bobbing and morphing in the darkness around me.

I made the turn. The house loomed black and silent, not a pixel of light seeping from within.

I stepped to the stoop, twisted the bell, waited. I twisted again, body coiled for a backward sprint.

The chain and lock rattled. The door cracked. I moved forward, adrenaline-wired like a soldier in combat.

Death mask face. Wide, blinking eyes.

I felt myself breathe.

“It’s Dr. Brennan, Anique.”

Pomerleau’s gaze swept over my shoulder.

“I’m alone.”

Pomerleau stepped back and the door swung in. I entered. The air still stank of mothballs and must.

Pomerleau closed and locked the door. She was wearing black jeans and a dark blue sweatshirt.

“Is Tawny all right?” I asked.

Pomerleau rotated with zombie slowness. Behind her the door chain swayed like a pendulum.

“Is ‘D’ all right?” I corrected.

“She’s frightened.” Hoarse whisper.

“May I?” I undid my zipper.

Pomerleau circled me as I removed my parka. When she turned toward the hall, I hung the jacket on the knob and flipped the door latch to open.

Pomerleau led me to the parlor Catts had christened with his brains. I followed.

Catts’s couch was now draped and shoved against the secretary. A single brass lamp cast the room in pale amber.

Tawny McGee was in one of the armchairs, knees up, head down as when I’d seen her in the dungeon. She was covered by the same blanket she’d clutched that day.

“Tawny?”

She didn’t move.

“Tawny?”

The frail body contracted.

I took a step forward, alert for the slightest sign of a third presence. The house was eerily still.

“It’s Dr. Brennan, Tawny.”

McGee flinched, nudging the end table. The lamp crystals wobbled, and tiny yellow points danced on her hair.

Kneeling, I laid a hand on her foot. Her muscles tightened.

“You’re going to be all right.”

She didn’t move.

I reached for her hand. Through the wool, my fingers felt something hard and sinuous.

At that instant, rapid-fire pounding split the silence.

McGee recoiled.

Pomerleau went rigid.

The front door creaked, then a voice carried from the foyer.

“Hello?” Anne called out. “Bonjour?”

Pomerleau’s lips drew back. “You lied,” she hissed.

Before I could reply Anne appeared in the hall, cell phone in one hand, car keys in the other.

“What are you doing here?” I snapped to my feet.

“You got a call. I thought you’d want to know.” Anne looked from me to Pomerleau to the catatonic shape cowering under the blanket. “I thought you’d all want to know.”

“It could have waited,” I said, annoyed past politeness.

Knowing she’d make a mistake, Anne pushed on, eager to rectify. “Charbonneau left a message at CUM headquarters.” She held up the phone. “The switchboard phoned your cell.”

I noticed Pomerleau recede into the darkness at the end of the hall.

“Stephen Menard is dead,” Anne continued, her eyes tugging at mine for forgiveness. “He’s been dead for years. Catts killed him.”

A sound rose from the huddled form behind me. Half moan, half whimper.

“I’m sorry,” Anne mumbled. “I thought you’d want to know. I’ll go back to the car.” Anne hurried toward the foyer.

I squatted and placed a hand on McGee’s foot.

McGee’s back rose and rounded. The blanket slipped and her face came up like a pale winter moon.

McGee’s lips were trembling.

“You’re safe, Tawny. You and Anique are both safe.”

McGee bucked a shoulder. The blanket opened at her lap.

A rope coiled her wrists.

The image didn’t compute. A rope. Why a rope? Was it tied?

I heard the front door open.

I looked up. McGee’s eyes were filled with horror. I tracked them.

They were fixed on Pomerleau’s retreating back.

My lungs stopped. My heart stopped. I felt the blood drain from my face.

Terror in the hospital.

A face behind a camcorder.

Residue-free hands.

Homolka, a willing participant in her husband’s depravity.

I knew!

I shot to my feet.

Pomerleau was moving down the hall as though hot-wired. I heard a sickening crack, then a thud.

I raced toward the foyer. The door was open.

Anne lay facedown with her head on the jamb, legs splayed across the linoleum.

I peered into the night. No sign of Pomerleau.

“Annie!” I squatted and felt her throat for a pulse.

Too late, I heard movement behind me. The door angled inward, jammed the heel of Anne’s boot.

Before I could turn, light exploded in my head.

I fell into blackness.