Déjà Dead (53 page)

I had wrapped another quilt around myself, this one a blanket of icy calm. I could not let her hear the fear in my voice.

“I simply cannot . . .”

My blanket was slipping.

“I have a child, Dr. LaPerrière? Do you?”

“What?” Affront vied with the weariness.

“Chantale Trottier was sixteen years old. He beat her to death, then cut her up and left her in a dump.”

“Jesus Christ.”

Though I’d never met Marie Claude LaPerrière, her voice painted a vivid scene, a triptych done in metal gray, institutional green, and dirty brick.

I could picture her: middle-aged, disillusionment etched deeply in her face. She worked for a system in which she’d long ago lost faith, a system unable to understand, much less curb, the cruelty of a society gone mad on its fringes. The gang bang victims. The teenagers with vacant eyes and bleeding wrists. The babies, scalded and scarred by cigarette burns. The fetuses floating in bloody toilet bowls. The old, starved and tethered in their own excrement. The women with their battered faces and pleading eyes. Once, she’d believed she could make a difference. Experience had convinced her otherwise.

But she’d taken an oath. To what? For whom? The dilemma was now as familiar to her as her idealism had once been. I heard her take a deep breath.

“Leo Fortier was committed for a six-month period in 1988. During that time I was his attending psychiatrist.”

“Do you remember him?”

“Yes.”

I waited, heart pounding. I heard her click a lighter open and shut, then breathe deeply.

“Leo Fortier came to Pinel because he beat his grandmother with a lamp.” She spoke in short sentences, treading carefully. “The old woman needed over a hundred stitches. She refused to press charges against her grandson. When Fortier’s period of involuntary commitment ended, I recommended continued treatment. He refused.”

She paused to select just the right words.

“Leo Fortier watched his mother die while his grandmother stood by. Grandma then raised him, engendering in him an extremely negative self-image that resulted in an inability to form appropriate social relationships.

“Leo’s grandmother punished him excessively, but protected him from the consequences of his acts outside the home. By the time Leo was a teen, his activities suggest he was suffering severe cognitive distortion along with an overwhelming need to control. He’d developed an excessive sense of entitlement, and exhibited intense narcissistic rage when thwarted.

“Leo’s need to control, his repressed love and hatred toward his grandmother, and his increasing social isolation led him to spend more and more time in his own fantasy world. He had also developed all the classic defense mechanisms. Denial, repression, projection. Emotionally and socially, he was extremely immature.”

“Do you think he is capable of the behavior I have described?” I was surprised at how steady my voice sounded. Inside I was churning, terrified for my daughter.

“At the time I worked with Leo his fantasies were fixed and definitely negative. Many involved violent sexual behaviors.”

She paused and I heard another deep breath.

“In my opinion, Leo Fortier is a very dangerous man.”

“Do you know where he lives now?” This time my voice trembled.

“I have had no contact with him since his release.”

I was about to say good-bye when I thought of another question. “How did Leo’s mother die?”

“At the hands of an abortionist,” she answered.

When I hung up, my mind was racing. I had a name. Leo Fortier worked with Grace Damas, had access to church properties, and was extremely dangerous. Now what?

I heard a soft rumble and noticed that the room had turned purple. I opened the French doors and looked out. Heavy clouds had gathered over the city, casting the evening into premature darkness. The wind had shifted and the air was dense with the smell of rain. Already the cypress was whipping to and fro, and leaves were dancing along the ground.

One of my earliest cases unexpectedly came to mind. Nellie Adams, five years old, missing. I’d heard it on the news. There had been a violent thunderstorm the day she was reported missing. I’d thought of her that night from the safety of my bed. Was she out there, alone and terrified in that storm? Six weeks later I’d identified her from a skull and rib fragments.

Please, Katy! Please come back now!

Stop it! Call Ryan.

Lightning flickered on the wall. I latched the doors shut and walked over to a lamp. Nothing. The timer, Brennan. It’s set for eight. It’s still too early.

I slid my hand behind the couch and flicked the timer button. Nothing. I tried the wall switch. Nothing. I felt my way along the wall and rounded the corner into the kitchen. The lights would not respond. With growing alarm, I stumbled down the hall and into the bedroom. The clock was dark. No power. I stood for a moment, my mind grasping at explanations. Had there been a lightning strike? Had the wind felled branches onto a feeder line?

I realized the apartment was unnaturally quiet, and closed my eyes to listen. A mélange of sounds filled the vacuum left by stilled appliances. The storm outside. My own heartbeat. And then, something else. A faint click. A door closing? Birdie? Where was it? The other bedroom?

I crossed to the bedroom window. Lights glowed along the street and from the apartments on De Maisonneuve. I ran back down the hall to the courtyard doors. I could see the lights in my neighbors’ windows gleaming through the rain. It was just me! Only my power was off! Then I remembered: the safety alarm had not beeped when I opened the French doors. I had no security system!

I jumped for the telephone.

The line was dead.

I
HUNG UP AND MY EYES SWEPT THROUGH THE DIMNESS AROUND ME
. No threatening form met them, but I could sense another presence. I trembled and then tensed, my thoughts running through my options like a deck of cards.

Stay calm, I told myself. Make a break for it through the French doors into the garden.

But the garden gate was locked and the key was in the kitchen. I pictured the fence. Could I scale it? If not, at least in the garden I’d be outside and someone might hear me scream.
Would
anyone hear? The storm was raging out there.

I strained to hear the slightest sound, my heart banging against my ribs like a moth against a screen. My mind flew in a thousand directions. I thought of Margaret Adkins, of Pitre and the others, of their slashed throats, their sightless, staring eyes.

Take action, Brennan. Make a move! Don’t wait to be his victim! My fear for Katy was making rational thought difficult. What if I get away and he waits for her? No, I told myself, he won’t wait for anything. He needs to be in control. He’ll disappear and plan for next time.

I swallowed and nearly screamed in pain, my throat parched from illness and fear. I decided to run, to throw open the French doors, and fling myself into the rain and freedom. My body rigid, every muscle and tendon taut, I sprang for the door. In five steps I rounded the couch and was there, one hand on the handle, the other turning the latch. The brass felt cold in my feverish fingers.

From nowhere a hand like a ham whipped across my face and jerked me back, pressing my skull against a body solid as concrete, crushing my lips and twisting my jaw out of alignment. The hard palm covered my mouth, and a familiar scent filled my nostrils. The hand felt unnaturally smooth and slippery. From the corner of my eye I saw a glint of metal, and felt something cold against my right temple. My fear was like white noise, overpowering my mind and obliterating everything beyond my body and his.

“Well, Dr. Brennan. I believe we have a date this evening.” Spoken in English, but with a French pronunciation. Soft and low, like a love song with the lyrics recited.

I struggled, my body twisting, my hands flailing. His grip was like a vise. Desperate, I lashed out and clawed the air.

“No, no. Don’t fight. You’re with me tonight. There’s no one else in the world but us.” I could feel his heat against my neck as he pressed me back against him. Like his hand, his body felt oddly smooth and compact. Panic overwhelmed me. I felt helpless.

I couldn’t think. I couldn’t speak. I didn’t know whether to beg, to fight, to reason with him. He held my head immobile, his hand mashing my lips against my teeth. I could taste blood in my mouth.

“Nothing to say? Well, we’ll talk later.” As he spoke he did something odd with his lips, wetting them then sucking them back against his teeth.

“I brought you something.” I felt his body twist, and the hand came off my mouth. “A present.”

A slithery metallic sound, then he pulled my head forward and slid something cold past my face and onto my neck. Before I could react, his arm jerked and I was yanked into a place far beyond thinking, a place of bursting light and choking and gagging. At this point I could do nothing but categorize my pain according to the moves he made.

He released, then pulled up hard on the chain once more, crushing my larynx and twisting my jaw and vertebrae. The pain was unendurable.

I clawed and gasped for air and he spun me, grabbed my hands, and circled my wrists with another chain. He pulled it tight with one sharptug, clipped it to the neck chain, then yanked and held both high above his head. Fire roared through my lungs and my brain begged for air. I fought to remain conscious, tears running down my face.

“Oh, did that hurt? I’m sorry.”

He lowered the chain and my tortured throat gasped for breath.

“You look like a big fish dangling there, sucking for air.”

I was facing him now, his eyes but inches from mine. Through my pain I registered little. His could have been anyone’s face, an animal’s face. The corners of his mouth quivered, as though teased by an inner joke. He circled my lips with the tip of a knife.

My mouth was so dry my tongue stuck to it when I tried to talk. I swallowed.

“I’d li—”

“Shut up! You shut your fucking mouth! I know what you’d like. I know what you think about me. I know what you all think about me. You think I’m some kind of genetic freak that ought to be exterminated. Well, I’m as good as anybody. And I’m in charge here.”

He gripped the knife so hard his hand trembled. It looked ghostly pale in the gloom of the hallway, the knuckles bulging white and round. Surgical gloves! That’s what I’d smelled. The blade bit into my cheek, and I could feel warmth trickle down my chin. I felt utterly without hope.

“Before I’m through you’ll be tearing your panties off, you’ll want me so bad. But that’s later,
Doctor
Brennan. For now, you speak when I tell you to.”

He was breathing hard, his nostrils white. His left hand toyed with the choke chain, wrapping and rewrapping the links around his palm.

“Now. Tell me.” Calm again. “What are you thinking?” His eyes looked cold and hard, like some Mesozoic mammal.

“You think I’m crazy?”

I held my tongue. Rain pounded the window behind him.

He pulled in the chain, drawing my face close to his. His breath brushed the sweat on my skin.

“Worried about your daughter?”

“What do you know about my daughter?” I choked.

“I know everything about you, Dr. Brennan.” His voice was low and syrupy again. It felt like something obscene crawling in my ear. I swallowed through my pain, needing to speak, not wanting to provoke him. His moods were swinging like a hammock in a hurricane.

“Do you know where she is?”

“I might.” He raised the chain again, this time slowly, forcing my chin into full extension, then he drew the knife across my throat in a slow backhand motion.

Lightning flashed and his hand jumped. “Tight enough?” he asked.

“Please—” I gagged.

He eased off on the chain, allowing me to drop my chin. I swallowed and took a deep breath. My throat was on fire and my neck was bruised and swollen. I raised my hands to rub it, and he jerked them down with the wrist chain. His mouth did another rodent twitch.

“Nothing to say?” He stared at me, his eyes black and all pupil. The lower lids quivered, like his lips.

Terrified, I wondered what the others had done. What Gabby had done.

He lifted the chain above my head and began to increase the tension, a child torturing a puppy. A homicidal child. I remembered Alsa. I remembered the marks in Gabby’s flesh. What had J.S. said? How could I use it?

“Please. I’d like to talk to you. Why don’t we go somewhere where we can have a drink and—?”

“Bitch!”

His arm snapped and the chain tightened savagely. Flames shot through my head and neck. I raised my hands in reflex, but they were cold and useless.

“The great
Doctor
Brennan doesn’t drink, does she? Everyone knows that.”

Through my tears I could see his lids jump wildly. He was reaching the edge. Oh, God! Help me!

“You’re like all the others. You think I’m a fool, don’t you?”

My brain was sending two messages: Get away! Find Katy!

He held me while the wind moaned and rain lashed the windows. Far away I heard a horn honk. The smell of his sweat mingled with my own. His eyes, glassy with madness, bore into my face. My heart was beating wildly.

Then something plupped in the silence of the bedroom, and his lids tightened momentarily as he paused. Birdie appeared in the doorway and emitted a noise between a squeak and a growl. Fortier’s eyes shifted to the white shadow and I took my chance.

I shot my leg out and brought it up between his legs, concentrating all my fear and hatred in the force of that blow. My shin slammed hard into his crotch. He screamed and doubled over. I jerked the chain ends from his hand, spun, and flung myself down the hall, terror and desperation propelling me forward. I felt as if I were moving in slow motion.

He recovered quickly, his scream of pain converted into a howl of anger.

“
Bitch!
”

I pitched down the narrow hall, nearly tripping over the dragging chain.

“
You’re dead, bitch!
”

I could hear him behind me, lurching through the dark, breathing like a desperate animal. “
You’re mine! You won’t get away!
”