Eight Days to Live

  “I have to do it,” MacDuff repeated. “You’re the one Jane’s always tried to care for. You persuade her.”

  “But you wouldn’t like it,” Jock said. “You always have to run things. It’s your nature. It would bother you.” He smiled slyly. “I wouldn’t want to bother the Laird. It’s not my place.”

  “You bastard,” MacDuff said. “It wasn’t your place to pull us all into this mire, either.”

  “No, it was my duty.” Jock’s smile faded. “I think a lot about duty these days. It gives me a kind of structure to hold on to. I have a duty to you, a duty to my friends, and a duty to my country.”

  And Jock needs structure after all he went through, MacDuff thought. “Duty is a hell of a reason to hit one of Venable’s targets for him.”

  “It’s as good a reason as any.” He looked back at the door. “It was all about Jane. Try to take her home with you.”

  “And if I don’t, you’ll be hovering over her and doing God knows what.”

  “Yes,” Jock said. “And so will you. Neither of us wants to see Jane nailed to a door like that poor woman.”

  MacDuff was silent a moment. “This Jack Millet who’s head of the Sang Noir. You said that you only knew what Venable had told you about him. But you were with the group long enough to take a measure of the man. What was your impression?”

  “Ugly,” Jock said. “He’s smart. Or maybe cunning is the word. He’s definitely into power. He handpicked the men in the group, and he keeps them under his thumb. They’re afraid to step out of line.” He nodded. “And dirty. You can’t imagine how dirty. Or maybe you can after what I told you about that kid in the brothel. And a little crazy. You can tell, he burns with it. We have to keep that filth from touching Jane.” He turned away. “Now I’m going outside and take a stroll around and make sure that the area is secure.”

  “It’s not necessary. The police will probably still be outside.”

  “I know. But I can’t trust them.” He got on the elevator. “Duty . . .”

  Even MacDuff couldn’t understand why he was being so over-careful, Jock thought, as the elevator doors closed. The Laird knew him better than anyone in the world, but he hadn’t been in that room years ago when Jane had risked her life to pull him out of almost catatonic darkness into the light. Thomas Reilly had kidnapped and brainwashed him to become the assassin he could use to do his killings. When he had broken free, the posthypnotic suicide suggestion had kicked in and almost destroyed him. He had disobeyed and, therefore, had to put an end to himself. Jane had not been able to fight the suggestion with sympathy and understanding, so she had circled and gone at it with an aggression that could have been fatal.

  At that moment, he’d been swirling down, locked in silence, trying to fight against that bastard Reilly’s mental conditioning, but he’d probably never been more volatile or lethal. Before Jane had left the room that night his hands had tightened on her throat, and he’d come close to choking her before he’d realized what he was doing. She’d had to cover her neck for days to hide the bruises so that no one could see what he’d done to her.

  Later, when he’d fought back to normalcy, he’d realized that Jane might have been his savior, but she was no saint. She was honest and passionately caring, but she was mule-stubborn. She was smart, but she didn’t suffer fools gladly. Because of her street upbringing, she was cynical and had trouble trusting in any relationship.

  But none of that mattered.

  She was his friend.

  And no one was ever going to hurt her.

  “COME HOME,” EVE URGED JANE. “Get on the next plane. I’ll meet you at the airport.”

  “I’m leaving here, but I’m going back to New York.” Jane paused. “It will be okay, Eve. Stop worrying.”

  “I will worry. So will Joe. Come home so that we can take care of you,” Eve said. “This is incredibly ugly. We’ll get through it together.”

  “I’ll keep in touch.”

  “That’s not good enough.” Eve didn’t speak for a minute. “I’m feeling helpless. I don’t like to feel helpless. If you don’t come to us, I’m going to come to you.”

  “No,” Jane said sharply. All she needed was to have Eve involved in this nightmare. “I’ll work it out.”

  Eve hesitated. “You say MacDuff is there?”

  “And Jock. Venable is giving me protection. I don’t need you, Eve.”

  “You mean you don’t want me involved. I believe I’ve said that to you on occasion. It didn’t do me any good, did it?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “At least, you’re safe while MacDuff and Jock are with you. We’ll talk tomorrow.” She was silent a moment. “I’m sorry about your friend, Celine. You told me you liked her very much.”

  “I did,” Jane said. “You would have liked her, too, Eve.”

  “Does she have a family?”

  “Only a sister, Yvette, who lives in Lyon. I had to call her a few hours ago and tell her about Celine. She was almost hysterical. She’s coming to Paris tomorrow morning. I have to stay until tomorrow night and see if I can help her deal with things at the gallery. There are all those paintings of mine that Celine sold tonight. At least, I know where she keeps the records. She has a part-time assistant, Marie, who may be able to help Yvette with the rest of the final details.”

  Final. When several hours before Celine had all her life before her and had thought death was somewhere far in the distant future.

  That realization had returned and was hitting hard. She had to get off the phone before she broke down. “I’m going to bed now, Eve. I’ll be fine. I’ll let you know if there are any problems.”

  “We’ll talk tomorrow,” Eve repeated. “Good night, Jane.”

  That last sentence had sounded very firm and held all the determination she was familiar with in Eve, Jane thought as she hung up. She had known that would be Eve’s reaction. Their relationship had been more as best friends than mother and daughter all these years, but Eve could display a tigerish maternal protectiveness when the people she cared about were threatened.

  Jane had tried to downplay that threat, but how could she do that when Celine’s ugly death loomed over her like a poised guillotine?

  She would have to think of something to keep Eve away from her. That guillotine must never threaten Eve. But right now, her mind wasn’t functioning very well. She turned toward the bathroom. Take a shower. Get to bed and try to sleep. Heaven knows, she was exhausted. Maybe when she woke, everything would become clear to her.

  Or at least a little less clouded.

  SHE MIGHT BE EXHAUSTED but there was no way that she was going to sleep, Jane realized.

  She had been lying here in this bed for fifteen minutes, and neither her muscles nor her mind would release their tension.

  The darkness is overpowering, Jane thought, as she stared up at the ceiling. This guest room had seemed friendly, soothing, all the other nights she had spent in Celine’s apartment.

  Or maybe it was the memory of what had happened downstairs that was overpowering. She couldn’t get away from the picture of Celine on that door.

  Hideous.

  She closed her eyes and tried to block it out, once more remember Celine as she had been earlier in the evening. So full of vitality. So full of joy.

  The tears were suddenly running down her cheeks. She had felt numb before, unable to comprehend anything beyond the horror. But now the horror was fading, and the sheer tragedy of that vibrant woman whose life had been taken was with her.

  Damn that bastard.

  And if MacDuff and Jock were right, then Celine had died because she had been connected to Jane. Why? It didn’t make any more sense to her now than it had when MacDuff had first told her.

  She huddled down in the bed and closed her eyes as sobs shook her body. Celine . . .

  What was she doing? she thought with sudden self-disgust. Next she’d be covering her head with the covers. She had lost a friend, but Celine had lost her life. She wiped her eyes
and struggled to sit up in bed. Okay, stop whimpering and start thinking. Figure it out. She wasn’t going to be sleeping anyway.

  First step.

  Find out why she had been targeted.

  Blasphemer. Very flimsy. But, if it had meaning at all, what sacrilege had she supposedly committed?

  She shook her head in frustration. Who knew what small infraction might be interpreted as sacrilege to a fanatic?

  All right, then go to step two.

  The newspaper story that Venable had gotten from his informant and the identical copies that Jock had said other members of the Sang Noir been given. Since Jane had no previous contact with the group, was there something in the article that might have triggered that crazy act? What had she said to the reporter? Was there some quote from her that had started the nightmare? She couldn’t even remember any of the questions the journalist had asked her. She was never very patient with interviews. She knew that publicity was necessary, but she always thought that her work should speak for itself. There was no telling if that impatience might have translated into a less-than-diplomatic answer.

  She turned on the light and threw the covers aside. There was no use wondering when she had the article itself. She had tossed the newspaper on the chest by the door when she had come into the bedroom.

  Her own photo smiled up at her from the page. She actually looked friendly and approachable. She vaguely remembered Celine’s joking with the photographer and making faces at Jane.

  Celine, again.

  She drew a shaky breath and started scanning the text. Nothing controversial, actually pretty boring. How long had she been painting? She had a mixture of portraits and landscapes in the show. Which did she prefer doing? Why had she painted MacDuff’s Run? Did she have an intimate relationship with the earl? That one had almost made her lose her temper. She was always getting that question, and she’d almost stopped putting the painting on exhibit to avoid it. But Celine had begged her to bring the painting to Paris because the speculation alone would help the show. Good business, she had said. It had been Celine’s wheedling that had made MacDuff’s Run a part of the twenty paintings in the gallery downstairs.

  No, there was nothing that she could see in the article itself that would offend anyone. She glanced at the photos of the paintings that marched vertically down the page. That was the only part of the article she’d been happy with. All in color, all a decent-enough size to show detail. Storm Morning. A landscape she’d done in southern France. MacDuff’s Run.

  Silhouette at the Lake. A shadow picture of Eve framed against a blazing sunset on the lake. Child at the Circus. A little boy with cotton candy and huge dark eyes wide with wonder. Guilt, the portrait that Celine had tried to persuade her to—

  Guilt.

  She stiffened. She was looking for unusual, and the offer tonight had definitely been out of the ordinary. Even Celine had thought that the amount of money the computer executive had offered was mind-blowing.

  What had he seen in the painting that had made him so determined to have it?

  She grabbed her robe and headed for the door. She turned on the gallery lights as she got out of the elevator. The first thing that jumped out at her was the oak door, now taken from its hinges and propped against the wall. They’d had to take the door down to remove Celine, and the opening was now only veiled in plastic. The police forensic team had taken the actual cross on which Celine had been nailed with them and said they’d pick up the heavy door on the next trip to check it for any additional evidence.

  She found herself looking to see if she could see traces of blood on the wood.

  She quickly averted her eyes and moved past the velvet ropes toward the painting.

  Guilt.

  Burning dark eyes, a bearded face twisted with torment. A painting of which she was very proud, but perhaps not one for which an art collector might pay an exorbitant sum.

  “What are you doing down here?”

  She turned to see MacDuff coming toward her. “I could ask the same of you. Where did you come from?”

  “I was outside with Jock. I saw the lights go on.” He glanced beyond her at the painting. “It’s very good. Powerful.” He smiled. “But I prefer the one of MacDuff’s Run. You’re sure you won’t sell it to me?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.” She took a step closer to the painting. “Now that you’re here, you might as well help me. That frame is heavy. Will you take the painting down for me?”

  “It would be my pleasure.” He lifted the painting off the wall. “May I ask why?”

  “I want to look at the frame and see if it’s been tampered with. Set it against the wall.” She knelt to examine it. “Someone offered Celine much too much money for Guilt this evening. Some computer billionaire. She said he was very persistent. I’m wondering why.”

  “Tastes in art can become obsessive. Maybe he thought it was worth it to him.”

  “Or maybe someone managed to insert something into the frame that he wanted to retrieve. It seems more likely.”

  MacDuff knelt beside her. “Where was the painting framed?”

  “New York. I chose the frame.” She was running her hand over the decorative scrollwork. “But that doesn’t mean that after I got here it might not have been tampered with. You look at the other side.”

  “I’m flattered you trust me.”

  She didn’t answer. Everything seemed okay, but what did she know? Maybe she’d get lucky. She went carefully over the other sides of the frame.

  “Nothing,” MacDuff said.

  She sat back on her heels. “Call Venable. We need an expert to go over the painting and frame. In this world of microdots and all that other technical crap, nothing is what it seems.”

  “You’re thinking that the attack had something to do with this painting?”

  “How do I know? I’m grabbing at straws. There are holes in every theory I come up with. They had the keys to the gallery. Why not just come in and steal the painting if they wanted it? Or maybe those scumbags were going to take the painting after they killed me. All I know is that they had no reason to murder me so I have to search for some other cause. This is the only common thread I can find. The painting was in the article. And even Celine didn’t think that the offer for the painting was reasonable.” She determinedly blinked back sudden tears. “She didn’t care. She was just happy. Will you call Venable or shall I?”

  “I’ll do it.” He reached for his phone. “And while I’m at it, I should probably probe a little into the man who offered for the painting. What was his name?”

  “Donald Sarnoff. San Francisco.”

  “Right.” He glanced down at her feet as he dialed the number. “You’re barefoot. Go get on some slippers.” Before she could tell him to mind his own business, he turned away and was talking on the phone to Venable.

  Later.

  She dropped down on the granite bench a few feet away. The stone was cold against her bare thighs. She was suddenly cold all over. The lights seemed glaringly bright, and the face of the man in the portrait of Guilt appeared threatening.

  Crazy. She had painted that face. She had not used a model, and the creation had been born entirely from her imagination.

  No, not entirely imagination.

  There had been the dreams.

  Dreams that had come every night. Dreams that would not go away until she had finished the painting.

  She didn’t want to think about the dreams.

  But she had never felt any sense of threat before. It had to be the stress of this terrible night that was playing tricks on her.

  MacDuff turned away from the phone. “Venable will have an expert here within the hour.”

  “I won’t let him take the painting. He’ll have to do the work here at the gallery.”

  “I didn’t think you’d let it out of your sight. That’s what I told Venable. Didn’t you hear me?”

  She shook her head.

  He studied her. “No, I believe you’re holding
on by a hair at the moment.” He took off his tweed jacket as he crossed the short distance separating them. “You’re shaking. Why couldn’t you just go to sleep and face all this tomorrow?” He knelt beside her and put the jacket around her shoulders. “Would it have been too much to ask? You’re a great deal of trouble to me, Jane MacGuire.”

  The jacket was warm from his body, smelled faintly of spice and the outdoors and felt deliciously comforting. And, in spite of his words, his tone was also oddly comforting. Yet comfort wasn’t a word that she had ever thought of in connection with MacDuff. Forceful, domineering, charismatic, sometimes even amusing, were all apt descriptions. Never comforting.

  No, that wasn’t right; years ago, she had watched him comforting Jock during one of the bad times for the boy. But then Jock was one of his people and therefore an exception to every rule. For anyone else, there could be a price to pay for any softness MacDuff showed them. “I couldn’t sleep. How could I? I started to go over in my mind all the possible reasons why I should have a gigantic target painted on my back.”

  “And you came up with that less-than-cheerful painting.”

  She nodded. “Guilt. It was in the newspaper story. Someone wanted it very badly at the show. Maybe it’s not really me. Perhaps those crazies think I have something that belongs to them.” She shook her head. “But I could very well be wrong. I know it’s pretty flimsy but it was the only thing I could think of.”

  “It’s not all that flimsy. I’d say it was very canny reasoning.”

  “Guessing.”

  He smiled. “Then we’ll just have to see if it pays off.” He sat down beside her, put his arm around her shoulders, and pulled her close. He felt her stiffen and gave her a little shake. “You’re cold, and it makes me very frustrated not to be able to help you in some way. Could you not give in and forget your independence to make me feel better? Cousin to cousin?”

  “I’m not your—” She stopped. She didn’t want to be independent right now. Independent meant alone, and she didn’t want to be alone. MacDuff’s arm around her shoulders felt strong and good. Let him call her cousin, sister, Great-aunt Fiona, or anything else he wanted. It didn’t matter.