CHAPTER EIGHT

1

Catherine clambered to her feet as the patrol car pulled to the curb in front of her house. In a minute, Robbie Landers helped her stand steady while her partner rushed to Steve Crown. Although Robbie breathed hard, her voice remained calm. “Who was that man?”

“Nicolai Arcos. He’s an artist. I’ve never met him before. He was high on drugs and alcohol and—” Catherine moved closer to Steve. “Oh, Steve, I’m so sorry!” she called to him, and then turned to Robbie. “You should be chasing Arcos!”

Robbie held Catherine’s arm firmly. “The woman who called nine-one-one got the license number of the other car. My partner Jeff alerted all patrol cars in this area to be on the lookout for the vehicle when we lost sight of it. He also called the paramedics.”

“I’m okay, but I’m worried about Steve,” Catherine said. “Steve Crown. He was looking out his front window when Arcos grabbed me in the yard.”

“This man didn’t come to your door and then grab you?”

“No, I was outside headed for my car and talking to Marissa on my cell phone. The wind caught my umbrella, and between trying to hold on to it and the phone I didn’t see him pull up. He just seemed to appear.”

Steve’s wife was already running across the street toward her husband, who was trying to stand in spite of the deputy’s efforts to hold him still. Mrs. Crown commanded, “Steve, lie still this instant,” and he immediately subsided. She turned on Catherine. “Who was that man?”

“Someone I’ve never seen before.” Catherine felt ridiculously guilty, as if the attack by Arcos were her fault. “The police will get him.”

“They’d better,” Mrs. Crown answered grimly.

“Or else she will, and then God help him,” Robbie muttered close to Catherine’s ear, managing to make her smile. Robbie was right—the big-boned, taut-muscled Mrs. Crown looked like she could take down a grizzly bear. Gently Robbie began leading Catherine toward the house. “Let’s get you inside out of this rain.”

Twenty minutes later, paramedics had pronounced Catherine’s neck bruised, but they’d detected no sign of serious trauma. Still, they advised that she go to the hospital for X-rays. She promised she would, although she had no intention of leaving her house unless her pain worsened.

Steve Crown was a different matter. He had at least one broken rib and a second that was either badly cracked or broken. The paramedics loaded him into the ambulance, his wife barking orders nonstop, and sped off to the hospital.

Robbie and her partner, Jeff Beal, took Catherine into the house, where she gave them a full report about the incident and the little she knew of Nicolai Arcos. They were leaving when James arrived, surprised to see them and nearly speechless when they told him what had happened. After Robbie and Jeff left, James took Catherine in his arms. “When I think of what that maniac could have done to you…” He trailed off, tightening his hold on her. “You weren’t going to let him in the house, were you? Because I’ve told you about him. He’s crazy.”

“Do you think I’m crazy? Of course I wasn’t going to let him in the house.”

“Then how—”

“He caught me on my way to my car. I was coming to check on you because you never called me after you got back from the morgue,” Catherine interrupted sharply.

James’s embrace loosened. “Oh. I’m sorry.” She stared at him. “I called the Moreaus again.”

“You called them before you called me.”

“When I got back, I was furious. All I thought of was that they still didn’t know Renée is dead. I acted on impulse.”

“Okay. Did you reach them this time?”

“Yeah. I spoke to her mother, but I don’t want to talk about that conversation right now. She wouldn’t let me talk to Reneé’s father, Gaston.”

“Did she say she’d tell him?”

“She said she wouldn’t, that she doesn’t believe me.”

“Do you think she does?”

“I’m not sure, but I think so.”

“But she still won’t let you talk to Gaston.” James shook his head. “She won’t let you tell the man who sexually abused his daughter for years that she’s dead.”

James’s face paled and his mouth opened slightly. “Sexually abused?”

“Oh, come on, James. Did you think I didn’t guess? I am a psychologist, you know. What man travels for years all over Europe with his little girl? You told me he did. She only came back to New Orleans when she was sixteen. No doubt she was too old to interest him then. And even if I hadn’t known about all the years she spent with Daddy, I would have been almost positive of abuse by her behavior—the hypersexuality, alcoholism, lack of friendships, inability to trust, mood swings, I could go on and on.”

She stopped, seeing James’s eyes almost burning holes through her. “Don’t look at me that way. You said she had a rough past. That was putting it mildly. I’m right about him, aren’t I? If I’m wrong, you don’t want me to keep thinking something so awful about the man.”

“Yes, dammit, you’re right!” James’s voice lowered. “She never admitted it until we’d been married over a year. I’ve never seen Gaston since then. I should have done something.”

“To Gaston? What could you do? The damage was done. As for Renée, you stayed with her so long because you thought you could help her with your love and your kindness. That’s certainly nothing to be ashamed of, James. I also know you didn’t tell me about the abuse because you were protecting her privacy, even after everything she’d done to you.” Catherine paused. “Sometimes I hate her and I feel like shaking you for not realizing Renée needed professional help and divorcing her before she nearly ruined your life. Other times, I feel sorry for her and your attempt to help her only makes me love you more.”

“She always promised to change.”

“I’m sure she did and I can’t tell you whether or not she really meant those promises to change. If she did, she needed a psychiatrist.” Catherine paused. “Enough talk about Renée. Why didn’t you call me as soon as you finished at the morgue?”

“I told you, when I got home I called the Moreau home.”

“You could have called me first. A five-minute call to let me know it was over and you were all right emotionally would have put my mind at rest. Instead, I imagined all kinds of awful things.”

James said a bit impatiently, “Catherine, I tried to call you right after I spoke to Renée’s mother, but I couldn’t get an answer on your cell or home phone. That’s why I came here. If I’d been sooner—”

“You should have called me as soon as you got home from the morgue,” Catherine bridled. “If you had, I wouldn’t have been certain something had happened to you, I wouldn’t have been outside in the rain, and I wouldn’t have been a prime target for Arcos. Why didn’t you call?”

James stood and walked slowly to the fireplace, propping his arm on the mantle. He gave her a long look. “Catherine, this afternoon two people called me and one client informed me of your noon-hour activity. If you want to sneak into the Nordine Gallery to see Mardi Gras Lady, you shouldn’t wear a red raincoat and carry a big red umbrella.”

Catherine flushed. “Oh! So you didn’t call because you were mad at me.”

“I wasn’t mad.”

“Yes, you were. And for your information, I wasn’t sneaking.”

“Were you going to tell me you’d been to the gallery?”

“Of course.” James continued to stare at her until her gaze dropped. “I don’t know. I hope I would have even though you wouldn’t have been happy about it.”

“I wouldn’t have been and you know why.”

“Because Arcos had an affair with Renée.”

“Because you were supposed to be careful, not parade into the Nordine Gallery in a red coat for all the world to see!”

“I didn’t parade and I hardly think a couple of people in Aurora Falls constitutes all the world!” Catherine took a deep breath. “Okay, I wasn’t careful. I realize that now. I’m just not used to being careful around here. But what’s the rest of the reason you got mad about me going to the gallery?”

James looked away for a moment, almost childishly, as if he were going to refuse to talk. Then he started speaking fast and loud. “Because Arcos had the gall to paint her portrait and put it out for public consumption with his intriguing, totally unbelievable denials that the picture was of Renée. Then that slimy Ken Nordine, another one of her lovers, hung it in his art gallery! Made it the showpiece of the exhibition, for God’s sake! I didn’t want to go there and I didn’t want you to go there, either.”

Catherine said nothing in her defense. She waited until James’s expression visibly calmed.

“I have no right to dictate your actions, though. I’m not your master, your boss, your dictator. I never told you not to go because what Arcos and Nordine had done humiliated me; you should have told me to go to hell and that you’d do what you pleased.” He paused. “I know you’d never do that, though. Instead, you constantly tiptoe around my feelings. It makes me feel like you think I’m some emotionally unstable patient you might send over the edge, and yes, it annoys the hell out of me. I was embarrassed and irritated this afternoon because you’d gone to the gallery without telling me you were going and because I was certain you wouldn’t have told me you did go.” He sighed. “Why would you do that, Catherine?”

“Because I don’t want to hurt you. Renée showed you no respect. Worse. I’ve tried very hard to do just the opposite.” To her surprise, tears rose in her eyes. “Maybe I’m just as bad for you as she was if I’m stirring up gossip and people are actually calling you at your office to report on me. I’m sorry.”

James looked at her solemnly. Then the right side of his mouth twitched. Finally, he burst into loud laughter, bending slightly at the waist. Surprised, Lindsay, who’d been watching quietly from a corner, burst into a volley of barks before snatching up her stuffed tiger for protection.

“What’s wrong?” Catherine shouted above the din, indignant at his laughter. “What’s so damned funny, James?”

“You,” James managed before striding toward her, grabbing her hands, and pulling her up from where she sat on the couch. He hugged her so tightly she could hardly breathe. “Darling girl, don’t you think there’s a happy medium between treating me the way Renée did and treating me like I either am too fragile to hear the truth or will get furious with you when I do? I’m not fragile and I know I can be stubborn and overbearing at times, but I’m not an ogre!”

“I don’t think you’re an ogre.” Between her desire to cry some more and the pressure of James’s hug, Catherine had trouble squeezing out words. “But maybe I see something you don’t. James, Renée’s behavior didn’t just anger you—it traumatized you.”

James stopped hugging her and took a step back, keeping his hands on her shoulders. “I’m not traumatized. I never was.”

“Yes, James, you were. You’re just beginning to recover. Trust me—I’ve spent years learning to recognize the signs. I may go overboard trying to protect your feelings, but you’ve been hurt more severely than even you realize.”

Finally, he said carefully, “All right, Renée did hurt me badly. I think saying it traumatized me is going too far, but if that’s the word you want to use, then go ahead. However, Catherine, keep in mind that she left me years ago.”

“Yes. She just disappeared one day and a lot of people, including the police, suspected you of murdering her. Now she’s back. Dead. Murdered. And you’re the prime suspect—again. So don’t insult my intelligence by trying to convince me you’re just fine in spite of everything that’s happened the last few years, especially the last three days. I can’t let myself love a man who thinks I’m weak and stupid!”

James looked at her disbelievingly at first, then with a flash of fear in his eyes. “Catherine, you can’t believe I think you’re either weak or stupid. My God! Are you telling me you don’t love me, you won’t love me, if I refuse to wear my heart on my sleeve, to let everyone, especially you, know how I feel—”

Abruptly the front door opened and Marissa rushed in, full of apologies and questions because she’d heard at the newspaper office about the 911 call. Catherine saw James swallow hard a couple of times and then rapidly compose his expression. Before Marissa had shaken the rain off her coat and hung it up, Eric Montgomery arrived, also because of the emergency call. Marissa spent the next ten minutes checking Catherine’s neck where Arcos’s hands had squeezed; scolding her for not going to the hospital; getting everyone seated; fixing refreshments; and settling Lindsay.

When she finally sat down, Eric leaned forward, looked at Catherine, and said in a low but authoritative voice, “I hate to make you go over this now, but I’d like to hear from you about the incident.”

James had sat down beside Catherine on the couch and he took one of her still-trembling hands, holding it tightly as she gave Eric a concise account of Arcos’s approach to her and his subsequent attack. “I smelled alcohol on his breath and I’m sure he’d taken some drug—I could tell by the dilated pupils in his eyes. He was polite at first, and then he got more aggressive and grabbed me. He clutched my neck—not hard, more as if he were trying to scare me rather than strangle me. He was babbling—not making a lot of sense—when Steve Crown came. I didn’t see exactly what Steve did, but it broke the hold Arcos had on my neck.”

Everyone in the room went motionless. Even Lindsay grew stock-still, focusing on Catherine.

“What was Arcos babbling?” Eric asked gently.

Here it was—the one question she’d dreaded, the one question she’d hoped Eric wouldn’t ask. Eric never avoided details, though. She should have known she couldn’t slide anything about her encounter with Arcos past him.

For once, Catherine wished James weren’t with her. Earlier he’d been offended, saying she always tiptoed around his feelings, but when it came to all he’d been through with Renée—including her murder—Catherine knew for now she had to be extra-careful when it came to protecting his emotions. She couldn’t bear doing or saying anything that might cause him further pain.

But Eric’s gaze bore into hers. He wanted to know what Arcos had said and for some reason seemed determined to hear it in James’s presence. Catherine knew stalling would be useless. She might as well tell Eric the truth and be done with it, no matter what the outcome.

Catherine took a sip of Coke to ease the roughness in her throat. “Earlier in the day, I had a cancellation of my one o’clock appointment, which gave me a two-hour lunch break,” she began slowly. “I used the extra time to visit the Nordine Gallery.”

Catherine glanced at Marissa to see her eyes widen and could tell she wanted to demand why Catherine had gone alone, without her sister’s company. Fortunately, Marissa firmly closed her mouth without saying a word. “When Arcos got here, he said he just wanted to talk to me about my visit to the gallery. Then he began to seem somehow … menacing. I told him to leave me alone. He asked what I’d do if he didn’t—hit him? Or was I capable of violence? Was I capable of murder if someone stood in the way of what I want?”

“Murder!” Marissa burst out. “You? That is the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard. How dare he—”

“Go on, Catherine,” Eric interrupted, earning him a glare from Marissa.

“He started asking me about what I thought of the portrait of his lady. I’m sure he meant Mardi Gras Lady. Then he rattled on about how she was his no matter what she let them think or made them think—”

“Made who think?”

“I don’t know, Eric. He just said she was his, it couldn’t be any other way, and even though she didn’t always understand that, he did. Then he said I was stupid for thinking she wanted him—it was obvious he meant someone besides himself—and that she’d never really wanted him, this other man.” James’s grip on Catherine’s hand tightened. “He said I’d killed Renée and gone to the gallery earlier today to look at the portrait of the woman I’d destroyed. And then … well, he was just babbling.”

Eric gave her a look that made her feel like a bug pinned on a wall and wriggling but unable to free itself. “What did he say, Catherine?”

“He said I couldn’t escape him or her.” Eric kept staring at her and Catherine knew he wasn’t going to let her off easily. She might as well give up, she thought as she drew a deep breath and added reluctantly, “He said Renée would follow me to the grave.”

2

Nicolai Arcos slowly turned his car into the morgue parking lot, turned off his headlights, and pulled parallel to the brick building where the shadows hovered deepest. For the last four hours, after escaping from the Gray home, he’d cruised backstreets and alleys, navigating by using only his parking lights and sometimes only the glow of the moon. He hadn’t returned home—the small warehouse with plenty of room for his art supplies, canvases, frames, and finished paintings.

Heady with the success of his showings at the Nordine Gallery, he’d holed up in his warehouse to celebrate with vodka, some drugs of choice, and a CD marathon. He didn’t even own a radio or television and never saw the news. Not until this afternoon—Monday—had Ken Nordine called and told him about the dead woman found on the Eastman property and that everyone thought she was Renée. Ken had also given Nicolai a detailed account of James Eastman’s girlfriend, Dr. Catherine Gray, her visit to the gallery, and her agitated reaction to Mardi Gras Lady.

As soon as Ken left, Nicolai had sent three shots of vodka into his slightly clearing mind and thought. Within what seemed moments, he decided exactly what had happened. Renée had been at the cottage and waiting for him—her pishiskurja, the Romanian word for “darling” she’d called him in intimate moments. Renée who had cared enough about him to learn the word without a hint from him. He shook his head, clearing it as the vodka hit his empty stomach with a dizzying slap. He must concentrate, he told himself.

Ken said maybe she had returned to Aurora Falls because she’d heard about his exhibition. She’d come back because she wanted to see the exhibit. Nicolai knew immediately she had come back to see him. After all, Ken had claimed reluctantly, although without malice, she’d cared about Nicolai more than she’d cared about him. After all, Nicolai told himself, he was the artist, the genius, the one with the tender soul. He had been her true love. Still, Nicolai had been stunned that a man with Ken Nordine’s ego could admit such truth.

Ken had also suggested that Renée had been killed somewhere else and her body dumped in the cistern of the Eastman cottage just to throw suspicion on James. Nicolai knew Ken was wrong, though. He pictured the scene. Renée had sent him a message on one of the technological gadgets she’d given him telling him she’d returned and would be waiting at the cottage. For some reason—probably because he was not good with the gadgets that he didn’t trust—he had not received her message. Someone else had, though. and while she’d waited innocently, eagerly, for Nicolai, the person who had intercepted her message had murdered her at the cottage. The cottage—old, shabby, but theirs because the Eastmans had cast it off; because it sat isolated in the winter and early spring when their affair had reached its zenith.

Before she began to pull away from him.

Nicolai was certain the fear had caused her desertion of him years ago. He knew Renée had panicked at the overwhelming love she felt for him. She hadn’t understood this—she didn’t understand so many things about herself—but he knew. He was an artist, which meant he had the sensitivity to understand so much other people did not. A lawyer like James Eastman? He could never come close to comprehending the complexity that was Renée. A businessman like Ken Nordine, with whom she’d had a short fling? She’d only done it to hurt Nicolai, to turn him against her, to drive him away. The performance had not worked. He’d seen right through her and he’d kept on loving her, maybe more than ever for going to such lengths to escape their love. Yes, even throughout the years, during the many times his thoughts had been fogged with drugs, he had always been certain of this one truth.

For the last couple of years, Nicolai’s drug of choice tended to be the mind-expanding Ecstasy. Today, though, he had fallen back on his old favorite—cocaine—and he now snorted some of what he’d brought with him. As it tingled through him, he threw back his head and laughed, tossing the hair he kept long because it complemented his image. Renée had loved to run her hands through it—her exquisite, gentle hands never marred by her wedding and engagement rings. During their times together, she’d only worn the narrow platinum band he had given her. Earlier, he’d realized she must have been wearing it the night she was murdered.

Over the last few hours, while he’d hidden from the police, he’d become obsessed with that ring. Where was it now? Nicolai knew they stripped corpses. He shuddered at the thought of Renée as a corpse lying naked in a cold metal drawer. Trapped. Alone.

He lowered his head, snorting his last, small line of cocaine and wishing he’d brought more with him earlier today. The small amount had to be enough, though. It had to give him the strength to get him through what he knew he must do: free Renée.

Power surged through Nicolai. He could do this. He could take her away from James, from her family—from the people who hated her. He would take her physical remains someplace safe, someplace sacred, and keep her hidden until their souls met on a different plane.

Nicolai peered around the parking lot again and then stepped from his car. The rain had stopped, but the night felt heavy. He was already sweating from the cocaine, so he shrugged out of his coat and tossed it on the seat. Then he took a deep breath, trying to slow his rapid heart rate and cool his overheated body.

The air smelled dank. He held his breath, uncertain, repulsed. The smell couldn’t be leaking from the morgue, he told himself. Calming down, he closed his eyes and smiled. He did not smell decomposing bodies. He was merely letting his imagination take control. Sometimes having an imagination as powerful as his was not a blessing. The combination of vodka and cocaine wasn’t helping to keep it in check, either.

Nicolai crept to the back door of the morgue. He was sure the hospital didn’t pay for a security guard. They probably didn’t even have a security system. All he would have to contend with would be some weak, substandard creep. Who else would work in a morgue? Nicolai knew he would have no trouble overpowering such a pathetic being. Then he would find her.…

He shook his head to clear it. The quick movement made him feel slightly nauseated, but he held still and took deep breaths. He still crouched by his car with the door he’d left open only a crack so the interior lights wouldn’t glow. Swiftly he opened the door, grabbed his lock-picking kit, and gently pushed the door to its former position. The police might still be looking for him, even here. Completely shutting the door would make unnecessary noise.

Nicolai crept to the back door of the morgue. For a moment, he hesitated again, wondering if he was doing the right thing or if grief and drugs were controlling his actions. What would his grandparents think of this? They were distant memories but still lingered in his mind. Would his grandfather have let someone take away the remains of the one true love of his life if he hadn’t been lost at sea before she died?

No. His grandfather would never have let such a travesty happen. He’d been a strong man, a man of principle and of passion, and he would have done anything to protect his mate for life, Nicolai’s kind and devoted grandmother, Iona. Yes, Nicolai reasoned in his churning thoughts. Taking Renée to safety was the only right and just thing to do.

His mind settling, Nicolai stooped down and looked closely at the doorknob. He let out a snort of derision when he didn’t see a dead-bolt lock—only the relatively simple doorknob lock. No one had wasted any money on this building, he thought, almost laughing until he abruptly wondered if administrators had spent much money on modernizing, or even maintaining, the inside.

The inside, where bodies lay.

Nicolai no longer felt like speculating or wasting time on scorn and ridicule. He merely wanted to rescue Renée and never see this awful place again.

He opened his lock-pick set, pulled a small penlight from his pocket, and shined its narrow beam on the utensils. He picked one and withdrew it from the kit, quickly inserting it into the cylinder running through the center of the doorknob. Abruptly he stopped as fear passed through him like a cold wind. Shocked, he froze into immobility, unable to move anything except his eyes. He saw no one.

Still, he knew he was not alone.

Someone had come into the parking lot. They could not have driven—he would have heard a car. They had walked, cautiously, stealthily—

From behind him came a smooth voice. “Good evening.”

Nicolai, agile even in a drugged state, had shot halfway to his feet before the muscles of his back cramped violently, sending shock waves of pain through his midsection. In a moment, another flare of excruciating pain sent him facedown to the ground.

A foot rolled him onto his back. Nicolai, fully conscious, squinted upward. His vision wasn’t as keen as usual, but he saw expressionless eyes and a gun pointed steadily at his face. He muttered a pitiful “no” before the bullet hit.

And for Nicolai Arcos, the world ended.