Monday Mourning читать онлайн

“Now!”

Behind us something whooshed. One wall erupted in flames that rushed the ceiling, washing the room in swimmy orange light.

I felt movement, then Tawny thudded to her knees, drew in her limbs, and collapsed into a knot beside me.

Nausea, pain, and fear were taking their toll. I could barely breathe, barely think. But my sluggish brain had computed what my eyes hadn’t seen.

A rope trailed from a dog collar on Tawny’s neck. Her hands and feet were unbound!

I swiveled to her.

“Tawny,” I coughed. “You have to help.

You can save us, Tawny. You can save us.”

The human knot contracted.

Think, Brennan, think! Had the spreading fire impelled her? Or had that one barked command worked better than kindness? Was she still programmed to respond to orders?

Nothing to lose.

“Tawny, untie me!” I shouted.

The scrawny neck turtled up.

“Now, Tawny, now!”

Tawny’s face came round. When our eyes met, pity jumbled my resolve to be hard.

“You’re going home, sweetheart. To Maniwaki. To your mother.”

My chest burned.

I coughed uncontrollably.

“To Sandra,” I choked out.

Something flickered in the hollowed-out eyes.

“To Sandra,” I repeated.

Tawny’s face slackened as a world she thought dead skittered through her mind. Her mouth opened, trembled, then morphed into an O.

“Sandra,” I repeated.

Without a word, Tawny spun and crawled beneath the smoke toward the rear of the building.

I tried to grab her. The ropes stopped me cold.

“Tawny!” My voice cracked. I coughed until my belly screamed and I tasted blood.

When the spasm passed, I twisted and peered in the direction Tawny had gone.

Nothing but thick black smoke.

My heart shriveled. I’d been left alone to die.

Dear God! Was I alone? Was Anne already dead?

“Tawny!” I called out. “Please!”

Nothing.

As before, I writhed and thrashed. As before, I collapsed exhausted on the filthy rug, skin raw, lungs in agony.

The room began to recede. I thought hypnotically: I’m going to die. I’m going to die. I’m going to die.

Then I heard scraping and banging, like the hurried opening and slamming of drawers.

Seconds later a dark form took shape in the smoke and scrabbled toward me.

Tawny’s skin gleamed like alabaster. One hand covered her mouth. The other clutched a long, flat object.

What?

She jerked convulsively. A blade flashed firelight.

A knife!

Tawny’s knuckles looked white and bloodless. For a moment she stared at her hand, as if trying to figure why the knife might be there.