June 13. 5:15 p.m.
August Museum of Modern Art
SHELBY GIBSON FOLLOWED Floyd Panderson as he led her into the Suffolk Gallery of the August Museum of Modern Art. The fifteen-by-nine meter exhibition hall held artwork borrowed from other museums for this special exhibit. Paintings adorned the alabaster walls, crowned by Edward Shamblet’s Memories of the Gods. The centerpiece of the exhibit measured an impressive one hundred forty by ninety-two inches. Various gods and demi-gods fell from Mount Olympus, chased from their home by demons and monsters.
Normally, she loved visiting art galleries and museums. Bad luck had been plaguing her all day, though, starting with a dead car battery, following her onto the Tube, where her briefcase had been stolen, to the blisters developing on the balls of her feet from walking too far and too long in her strappy high-heeled sandals.
Pedestals supporting sculptures in various shapes and sizes dotted the room. Both visitors and artists with sketch pads perched on leather-topped benches placed at convenient intervals down the center. Others wandered from painting to painting, reading the plaques on the wall near each one. This close to closing time, a docent moved from person to person, letting them know they had a mere fifteen minutes left to gather their things and leave. The artists began to pack up their sketching materials.
Floyd steered her toward the left wall, to a twenty-four-by-thirty-six-inch painting. As the curator, closing times were meaningless to him. The docent nodded respectfully to him as he herded the last few visitors back out into the lobby.
Floyd brushed a hand over his neat hair, then smoothed it down his tie before continuing his lecture. “In the early twentieth century, Fauvism gave way to the cubism of Picasso, Georges Braque, Juan Gris, and others. They all came at it from different directions, of course. This painting is Still Life with Acorns and Apples.”
The small, square brushstrokes and bold colors reminded her more of Cézanne’s later works than anything by Juan Gris, but she kept her peace and let him talk.
“I have a particular fondness for the cubists. In fact, I have something in the works to possibly acquire a Picasso.”
Shelby’s brows shot up. “Really? That would be a major coup for such a small museum. It could triple your annual visitorship.”
“I know.” Floyd sounded smug as he slid an arm around her shoulders. “Do you know what my favorite Picasso quote is? ‘It is your work in life that is the ultimate seduction.’ The passion in these paintings, and your love of art, makes me realize life is too short not to go after what I want.”
She knew what he wanted. He’d made no secret of his desire. She tilted her head away and stepped free as he nuzzled her ear. He reluctantly let his arm slide away as she approached the painting for a closer look. They’d only been dating a few weeks, and despite his efforts to talk her into a more intimate relationship, she just wasn’t ready to take that step. They had so much in common. A love of art. Similar tastes in literature and music. Floyd—attentive, sophisticated, and urbane—had a handsome face and trim body that should have appealed to her. Why was she hesitating?
“My favorite painting from the early modern period is The Kiss by Gustav Klimt. I have a reproduction in my office downstairs. Would you like to see it?” Somehow, Floyd had moved closer again.
“I thought your office was in the lobby? Who painted this still life?” she asked, to distract him. She bent forward to read the plaque.
But Floyd had straightened with a frown, turning back toward the entrance to the gallery.
“What is it?”
“Shh! Do you hear that?”
Shelby caught the shouting a moment later.
“Blast it! Some patrons are beastly. It’s probably someone whining we’re closing. I’ll get it sorted in short order.” Floyd strode to the gallery’s exit, Shelby following close behind. As he stepped into the lobby, he stopped so abruptly that she ran into him.
The ripping sound of automatic gunfire, ear-splitting in the confines of the lobby, had her ducking and throwing her hands over her head, heart slamming into her throat. Adrenaline spiked through her system as she heard screaming and more angry shouting. Floyd cringed, backing up so rapidly he collided with her as he whirled again. Before she could formulate a sentence, he shoved past her and ran.
Finally, hands clapped over her mouth in horror, she saw what was happening.
Five men, dressed in a motley assortment of military clothing, shouted and pointed wicked-looking assault rifles as they shoved and chivvied the remaining visitors into a cluster. No, wait. There were four men and one woman, who dropped the horizontal metal bar across the front door with an intimidating clang. Chunks of plaster and cork chips rained down from the acoustic tiles, now full of bullet holes.
The first police car screeched into the car park, blue and red lights flashing. The small hatchback with its trademark yellow stripe and blue checkers drove almost onto the front steps before slamming to a stop. Two more followed; not the standard police vehicles, but the far more intimidating armed response vehicles.
One of the gunmen caught sight of Shelby and leveled his weapon at her, shouting something she couldn’t hear through the roaring in her ears. He stamped toward her, lifting the muzzle of the rifle and firing several rounds into the air. She shrank back, hands slamming over her ears. He reached her and grabbed her arm, yanking her around. As he made to shove her toward the frightened group, he jerked her to a stop instead.
“Oy!” he shouted. “Bring ’em in here. No windows. Police snipers can’t get to us.”
The other gunmen herded the hostages in her direction. Several were crying or clinging to one another. A woman, nearly hysterical, tripped and fell to her hands and knees. One of the gunmen stopped to help her back up. His back was to Shelby, but something familiar about the shape of his head and the breadth of his shoulders started a tingling in the back of her head. Then he turned, and she stopped breathing.
Trevor.
He looked feral in his two-day growth of beard and long hair, well-worn black cargo pants and black T-shirt. Despite that, she recognized him immediately. The cotton molded to his torso. His shoulders were wider than she remembered, his biceps thicker, his chest deeper. And the rifle balanced across his shoulders enormous.
Their eyes met across the room, and they both froze.