* * *
He had been gone almost an hour when his assistant called on the intercom. “We’re going out to lunch. Would you like me to bring back something for you?”
“No, I’ll rustle up something in the kitchen.”
“Too bad Richard gave Violet the day off; she makes the most wonderful omelettes you’ve ever tasted. But he was supposed to be out of town today, and she had made plans to visit her son in Chicago. When all of this came up and he had to cancel, he insisted she go on.”
“I’ll find something,” Sweeney said. She had been feeding herself for most of her life.
She made toast and scrambled an egg, though the simple meal took much longer than usual to prepare in an unfamiliar kitchen. She had to search for everything, including the toaster and coffeemaker, which weren’t sitting out on the counter where all toasters and coffeemakers were supposed to sit.
Eventually she found all the necessities, and after the simple meal, found herself at loose ends. If she had been at home, she would have been working, but here she had nothing to do. She explored the house, poking her head into every door and ending up back in the bedroom. She felt much better than she had the day before, but she still hadn’t had nearly enough sleep and was considering a nap when her gaze fell on the wrapped canvas, sitting propped on the chair.
She was reluctant to unwrap it, after all that had happened. She didn’t want to gaze on that scene of violence again. But some nameless compulsion drove her, and she pulled the cheesecloth away.
Nothing had changed. The blank space still taunted her inability to finish the painting. She was never without a supply of charcoal pencils, so she dug one out of her purse and made a few preliminary lines on the canvas, trying to block in Kai’s head. Her fingers felt clumsy, and the lines looked all wrong. Kai’s hair had been thick and glossy, almost Asian in texture but with just a hint of wave. She tried to capture that look, but the lines that emerged were far too smooth and the style was all wrong—
She stepped back, staring at the painting. The charcoal lines looked rough in comparison with the precision of the oil paint, but the image was clear. The hair was smooth and pale, curving under into a chic bob. There was something familiar about it, something nagging at her, but she couldn’t place what it was.
Abruptly she stiffened, staring at the canvas. She whirled and went to the phone, punching in Richard’s cell phone number.
He answered immediately. There was a lot of noise in the background, and she wondered if she had caught him in the middle of his press statement. “It’s a woman,” she said shakily.
“What?” he demanded.
“It’s a woman. I’ve done the hair—just a rough sketch, but I can tell. And . . . I’ve seen this hairstyle before.”
“Goddamn it,” he swore. “I never thought—I have to tell Aquino; he’s only looked at the men on the surveillance tape. Keep the door locked and don’t let anyone in until I get home.”
“I won’t,” she started to say, but a hint of sound startled her, cut her off.
“Sweeney!”
“I think I heard something,” she said. “Something downstairs.”
“Are the doors locked?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Where are Tabitha and Martin?”
“Gone to lunch.”
“Son of a bitch.” The urgency in his voice sizzled through the telephone line. “Honey, lock the bedroom door. Shove furniture against it; anything to buy some time, do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t hang up the phone. Keep the line open. I’m on my way.”
She laid the receiver down and went to the door. She wasn’t certain she had heard anything, and she would feel like a fool if the house was empty or if the sound she thought she had heard was Tabitha or Martin returning from lunch. No one was in sight; the hallway was empty, and from where she stood she could tell no one was on the stairs.
She tiptoed to the railing to look down into the foyer. Nothing.
Then she heard a faint rasping sound, coming from downstairs, perhaps in the kitchen.
She pictured the knife in the gloved hand, in the figure standing over Candra, and she knew beyond a doubt what that sound was: one of the big knives being drawn from the butcher block in the kitchen.
A blond head came into view below.
It was Margo McMillan.
Sweeney jerked back, shock numbing her to her toes. She stumbled toward the bedroom door, not caring how much noise she made, and slammed the door shut. The lock turned easily. She dragged a chair over and wedged it under the door handle, but it seemed shaky and she wasn’t certain it would hold against any force. How much force could Margo exert? She was thin, but perhaps she was stronger than she looked, and interior doors weren’t equipped to withstand the kind of force exterior doors were.
“Damn damn damn,” she breathed, and ran to the phone. “Richard!”
“I’m here.” He sounded breathless, and a siren almost drowned him out. He was in a squad car, she thought, she hoped.
“It’s Margo.” Her teeth suddenly chattered as a chill swept her. “M-Margo McMillan. She’s here.”
“She’s inside the house?” he asked sharply.
“Yes. She has one of the kitchen knives. The door is locked, but—”
“If necessary, go into the bathroom and lock that door, too. Get some towels and wrap them around your arms. Use anything you can to hinder her. Throw towels on her, and try to get them around the knife so she can’t use it. Spray deodorant in her face. There are weapons in the bathroom, baby; all you have to do is use them.”
“I understand,” she said, whispering, unable to speak louder, though he probably couldn’t hear her over the siren.
The door handle rattled. She jumped and put down the phone to go stand by the bathroom door.
Something scratched the lock. Margo was picking the lock.
The bathroom lock wouldn’t be any more substantial than the bedroom lock. Sweeney ran into the bathroom and grabbed an armful of towels, as well as the can of spray deodorant. Doing as Richard had said, she wrapped a thick towel around each arm. She knew why. She was supposed to use her wrapped arms to deflect the knife. She remembered the wounds on Candra’s arms.
The door opened, shoving the chair aside. Margo didn’t say anything, just entered the room in a rush, the knife gleaming in her hand.
Sweeney grabbed a thick towel and lunged at the woman, throwing all her weight at her in an effort to knock her off balance. Margo screamed as the towel entangled her arm, but she struck anyway, and the knife bit through the thick fabric. Sweeney felt the kiss of it burn on her left triceps.
She didn’t know how to fight. She had never fought anyone in her life. But she twisted, getting inside the arc of the knife, and hammered her fist into Margo’s nose. Blood spurted, and she saw the look of shock in Margo’s infuriated eyes, as if she couldn’t believe anyone would dare strike her. The whole thing struck Sweeney as so ridiculous that she hit her again, and again, digging her feet against the thick carpet and pushing, using all her strength and weight to push Margo backwards.
“Bitch!” Margo shrieked, trying to wrench the knife free.
Sweeney saw the stair railing behind Margo and pushed harder, pushing, driving for the edge. The knife bit through the towel wrapped around her left arm, and the searing pain ignited a firestorm of rage. She heard herself screaming, over and over, and she pushed harder. A startled look crossed Margo’s bloody face, just for a second; then the resistance of her body fell out from under Sweeney and she tumbled over the railing to land on the slate tiles below.
Panting, Sweeney dropped to her hands and knees next to the railing, heart hammering, and for a moment she thought she would faint. Blood streamed in rivulets down her left arm, soaking the towel. She would need stitches, she thought, absurdly irritated by the thought. She had never had stitches before. It would probably hurt. Her lower lip trembled at the thought.
/> That small tremble made her realize she was close to hysteria. She took several deep breaths, trying to focus, though it was incredibly difficult to think. The deep breaths helped, and she sat on the floor. She couldn’t bring herself to look over the railing; Margo had landed with a sickening, squashy sort of thud. Slate tiles weren’t forgiving of bones and flesh.
Richard. His name spread through her brain, the thought of him galvanizing her into action, pouring energy back into her legs. She scrambled to her feet and ran—stumbled, actually—into the bedroom to snatch up the receiver.
She fumbled with it, banging it against her cheekbone. “Damn it,” she mumbled, and even though she didn’t have it pressed to her ear yet, she heard Richard’s roar.
“Sweeney!”
“I’m okay,” she said hastily. “Well, almost. Margo fell over the stair railing. I haven’t looked yet.”
“Don’t,” he said, sounding strangled. “My God—” He broke off, and even over the sound of the siren coming through his cell phone, she heard his labored breathing. “We’ll be there in about five minutes. Other patrol cars are on their way. Are you hurt?”
“A little. A couple of cuts on my arm, nothing serious.” I don’t think. She hadn’t looked at the cut on her triceps or the one on her forearm, where the knife had sliced through the towel. She didn’t intend to unwrap that towel, either; she didn’t want to see the damage. She knew it hurt, and that was enough. “I’m going to hang up now, okay? I think I need to vomit.” She didn’t wait for an answer, just hung up, and then put her head between her knees, taking deep breaths and fighting the nausea that threatened to overwhelm her.
The sound was so low she wasn’t certain she heard it. Her head came up, blood leaping through her veins as she prepared to fight again, but no one was there. She blinked, bewildered, then heard it again: a low moan, from downstairs.
Gingerly Sweeney crept out of the bedroom to the stairs and looked over the railing. Margo lay on her stomach, her left leg bent at an impossible angle under her torso, jagged edges of bone showing white through the torn flesh. Her arms . . . oh, God, she must have tried to brace herself. Margo moved feebly, trying to roll over, and another of those low moans echoed through the house.
Her legs trembling, Sweeney went down the stairs. No matter what, she couldn’t leave Margo in that condition without trying to offer aid, though she had no idea what she could do for injuries so severe.
She knelt beside Margo, and to her shock the woman focused dazed eyes on her. “I fell,” Margo whispered.
“Don’t talk. People are coming—”
“I want to . . . tell you. So someone knows.” She coughed, and blood dribbled from her mouth onto the floor. “Candra . . . Candra was blackmailing . . . Carson. I.. . I had to stop her. Kai had a ... key.. . to her apartment. I . . . rented an apartment in the . . . building, and waited for her.” She winced and coughed again. “Couldn’t . . . find the . . . tape, or pictures. I wore Carson’s clothes ... so if anything surfaced, he . . . would be blamed. Her blood ... on his shoes. Then you . . . painting—”
Sweeney understood. “Kai saw the painting and told you.”
“He was . . . so beautiful,” Margo whispered, her gaze losing its focus and growing more distant. “I . . . loved him. Silly. Old enough ... to be his mother. Because of Carson . . . he’s dead. Tell them . . . Tell them about Carson. Find . . . the pictures.” Her lips twitched in a ghastly, bitter smile. “Nail.. . his ass.”
“You can tell them yourself,” Sweeney said urgently, but Margo’s eyes were already fixed, her expression fading, and her last breath sighed out of her lungs, never to be replaced.
A distant siren got louder and louder as it neared. Numbly Sweeney got to her feet and went to open the door as two patrol cars squealed to a stop in front of the house.
* * *
She was sitting on the bottom step of the stairs when Richard and Detectives Aquino and Ritenour burst in a few moments later. Richard’s face was paper white, his skin drawn brutally tight across his cheekbones. His gaze went straight to her. He didn’t even glance at Margo. With a rigidly controlled stride, he crossed to the stairs and, without a word, bent and lifted her into his arms, holding her to his chest.
“I’m taking her to a hospital,” he said hoarsely. His entire big body was trembling.
Aquino said, “The medics will be here in just a minute—”
Richard ignored him and carried Sweeney outside. She blinked like a mole at the bright sunshine. Evidently Edward had followed hard in the wake of the detectives’ car, because the Mercedes was parked right behind it. He got into the backseat with Sweeney, holding her on his lap, and barked instructions at Edward.
Her voice shaking, Sweeney began telling him what Margo had said, just before she died. He stopped her with two fingers laid across her mouth. “I don’t care,” he said fiercely. “Just—just shut up and let me hold you. God, I was so scared—” His voice broke and he buried his face in her hair.
He stayed with her the entire time her arm was being stitched. The cut in her forearm was the worst, requiring twenty-six stitches, but neither cut was deep enough to have damaged nerves or tendons. “Because of the towels,” she told him, her eyes wide and her lips trembling now that shock had set in. “If you hadn’t told me about the towels—”
“I’ll give you a prescription for pain medication,” the doctor said, easing off her stool. She smiled at Sweeney. “Go to your regular doctor in a week to get the stitches removed.” Then she went on to her next casualty, and Richard scooped Sweeney onto his lap again.
“I love you,” he said, his voice still shaken. “I was so afraid I was going to lose you. Will you marry me?”
That question rattled her almost as much as Margo’s attack. “M-marry?” she stuttered.
“Marry.” He framed her face with his hands, searching her features with dark eyes stark and naked, letting her see every emotion. “I know you’re wary; I understand that. But I would never try to get in the way of your painting; you’re too talented for anyone to try to stifle. I’ve made some tentative plans to liquidate and get out of the market, buy a ranch somewhere, but if you—”
“Where?” she asked, interrupting.
“I haven’t really looked yet; either the South or Southwest. As I was saying, if you prefer living in the city, I’ll forget about the ranch and—”
“As long as it’s somewhere warmer I don’t care,” she interrupted again. “Though a palm tree or two would be nice.”
He went still, looking down at her. She looked back at him, then said, “Tick-tick-tick.”
“What’s that?”
“That’s my biological clock. I think it’s about to alarm.”
His face changed, filling with such heat and passion for a moment she thought she might be ravished right there in the hospital. “Are you certain?” he asked, and he sounded shaken all over again.
“I’m terrified,” she admitted, her own voice shaking now that she had time to think about what she had just said. “I mean, I might be as lousy a mother as my mother was. But I want—” She swallowed. “I want you, and I want your children.”
He laughed softly. “Then, sweetie, we’re all yours.”
EPILOGUE
A Year Later
Richard looked up from the book he was reading. “What time of day were you born?” he asked curiously.
Surprised, she gave him a questioning glance. “What are you reading?” she asked suspiciously.
“Just answer the question.”
“I don’t know exactly. I think I remember Mom saying I was born a little after sundown, whatever time sundown was. Why?”
He smiled and held up the book. She read the title: Ghosts and Other Spirits. “So?”
He looked down at the page and softly quoted, “And there are those who are born on the twilight of certain days who shall be blessed with magic, and have the ability to see spirits.”
Brian Velenchenko
r /> LINDA HOWARD is an award-winning author whose New York Times bestsellers include Open Season, All the Queen’s Men, Mr. Perfect, Kill and Tell, and Son of the Morning. She lives in Alabama with her husband and two golden retrievers.
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Linda Howard, Now You See Her
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