Monday Mourning читать онлайн

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.

36

SECONDS LATER, OR SO IT SEEMED, I FELT MY BRAIN ELBOWING my skull, aggressively seeking more space.

I opened my eyes and moved my head. Particles of shattered glass winged through my vision. I closed my eyes and tried to assess.

My chest burned. I was lying on my left side and shoulder. I swallowed, tried to sit up. My arms and legs wouldn’t work. I realized they were under and behind me.

Slowly, awareness crept in. I couldn’t feel my hands. My feet. I had to move.

Tightening my abs, I again tried to rise to my knees.

Nausea enveloped me. I vomited.

Using my ankles and hips, I tried to push back from the mess. The effort made me retch again and again until my stomach offered nothing but bile.

I lay a moment, breathing deeply, fumbling for explanations. Where was I? How long had I been there?

Gingerly, I rolled my head. A stab of pain almost caused me to cry out.

Think! one battered neuron screamed.

I tried. My thoughts wouldn’t congeal into recognizable pictures.

Focus on the moment!

Smell!

Mold. Ratty fabric. Wood. Something else. A chemical cleaner? Kerosene?

Touch!

Rough fibers scratching my cheek. Grit in my mouth. Dust in my nostrils. A carpet?

Sound!

Wind. A branch striking glass. The creaking and breathing of a house interior.

My pulse hammering in my ears.

Muffled footsteps. A hollow clunk.

Distant. Someone moving. In another room?

I opened my eyes again.

I lay on a very dirty carpet.