скачать книгу бесплатно
Seeing the sights—at his urging—while he did his buying and collecting. He had spoiled her, yes. But he’d also taught her to be courteous and caring. He’d never walked away from anyone who needed help, whether it was a confused tourist seeking directions or a homeless veteran or down-and-outer needing food and shelter—or a ride to detox.
“I will go see the bust, okay? I’ll do what I can for Mrs. Simon.”
Billie nodded. “That’s what your dad would want.”
“I’m trying to keep his legacy alive,” she told the pair. “Now, if you’ll excuse me...I was working. I’ll go at five. I’ll meet that obnoxious man and buy the stupid bust and hopefully make everyone happy, all right?”
Neither spoke or moved.
With a slight sound of impatience, she passed them by, thinking she’d return to her studio.
But she didn’t want to go there. She didn’t want to see the painting she’d almost finished, the character study that suddenly looked just like a real person.
Mrs. Simon.
Instead, she headed downstairs to the rooms that had been the most precious to her father. There were glass cases here and there—and boxes everywhere. A full suit of armor stood in one corner while in another an upright Victorian coffin held pride of place. It had never been used for a body but had been a display piece for a funeral home that had once been in business on Canal Street. A mannequin enjoyed eternal sleep behind the small window above the face, a style that was popular at the time. The wall displayed the death mask of an ancient Egyptian queen. One corner of the room held a horrifically screaming gorilla from a movie that was never completed and probably with good cause; the sign on the creature said From The Gorilla That Ate Manhattan.
She paused, glancing around. Other people, she thought, might find the basement creepy. She’d spent so much time working with her father that she’d learned to appreciate the delicate artistry put into so many of the items. The carving on the coffin, for instance, was the result of painstaking craft and labor.
Light filtered in from the old glass panes just above ground level but it wasn’t enough for her that afternoon. Danni turned on the low-watt bulbs that helped protect the old pieces of art and artistry and sighed wistfully. Some people might suggest that her father haunted the rooms where his collections were kept.
She wished he did.
“Oh, Dad, if only you were here now!” she said softly.
The book.
He’d been so frantic that she “turn to the book.”
It was a very old volume and it sat on a desk, encased in protective glass. Danni could remember it being there forever, she just hadn’t thought much about it among the other curios so dear to her father. She walked over to the desk, sat in the swivel chair and looked down at the old tome before opening the glass cover and lifting it out. She’d never held it before, and the book was heavy, the parchment rich and the pages gold-trimmed. It was American, something that always gave her father great pride, and had been printed in 1699.
Carefully she turned pages, wondering what he’d wanted her to read in this book—or why he’d believed it would answer all questions, solve all dilemmas.
She was startled when a piece of folded paper slipped out.
She recognized her father’s writing—her name in cursive on the outside.
With trembling fingers, she unfolded the paper.
Danni, dearest daughter, my sorrow is great as I write this. My burden is hard to bear, and yet it will be yours, too. Read with the light on the desk. And remember, the book is only for those who have the heart and the will to understand and to care, and though I have tried to give you the life of a normal young woman, the day will come when you must understand. Of course, I will tell you, talk to you, about all this, but I am writing in case my time comes before I know. Life is fleeting for us all and none can predict the day that we’ll be called to a greater reward. My dearest Danni, I believe that love transcends time, and so I am with you, even if I have failed you.
Tears stung her eyes. “You never failed me, Dad. Ever. I loved you so much,” she said aloud.
No, he had never failed her. She didn’t know that much about his past—only that he had immigrated from Edinburgh when he’d been a young man, that he’d studied ancient history there and spent many years working on archaeological digs. He’d batted around the world until he was in his forties, met her mother—an anthropologist half his age—married her and moved to her home, New Orleans. After her mom died of an aneurysm when Danni was four, he’d done everything for her, acting as both father and mother. Even as an older man, he’d been gorgeous. But he’d never remarried.
A bittersweet smile curved her lips. “I wish you’d make a little more sense, Dad, but...no, you never failed me. You were the best ever!”
Danni began to flip through the pages. The Book of Truth offered medieval cures for whatever might ail you. One chapter listed herbs and their mixtures for maladies ranging from snakebite to the plague. Another gave instructions for cupping and bleeding.
She went back to the beginning. The print thoughout was large—perhaps to help the elderly and those with poor eyesight. The letters were exquisite, more like calligraphy than print.
She found a publication page. The book had been published in Boston. Maybe accepting herbs as natural medicinal components was something the author had done boldly and angrily, since it was printed only a few years after the calamity of the Salem witch trials.
She quickly discovered that she was right. The author, Millicent Smith, had written an introduction, dedicating the book to the women who had died in innocence, victims of jealousy or greed or even mass hysteria. “True evil rests deeply and does not enter into the clean souls of those who will not be corrupted by demons.” Danni admired the author and printer for their courage, and wondered how many copies of The Book of Truth had been created. Were they kept secret during those perilous times, circulating underground? How had her father come across this one?
“Turn to the book,” he’d told her.
She shook her head. She didn’t believe she’d have to protect anyone from being hanged, pressed or burned to death for being a witch. Maybe he was warning her to guard against prejudice of any kind, because there was nothing so dangerous.
Maybe it was his way of saying that there were people out there who needed to be saved.
“I called the police, Dad,” she murmured. “I tried to get help for Mrs. Simon.” She sighed. “Okay, I’ll meet your bulwark of a private eye and buy the damned statue!”
She set the book back in its case, but as she did, she noticed another piece of paper between the next pages.
The light. Make sure you use the light!
That had been written hastily.
Use the light.
Well, she couldn’t read without light, could she? Besides, there were plenty of lights down here.
Determined, feeling guilty although she couldn’t understand why, Danni looked at her watch. She’d been down here longer than she’d realized.
If she was going to meet Quinn, she had to get moving.
But she hesitated, drumming her fingers on the glass, frowning. Michael Quinn. She vaguely remembered the name and wondered why. She knew she hadn’t met him through her father. It was a good old Irish name and there were plenty of those in the city.
And then she remembered. Years ago, the name had been revered. There’d been a Michael Quinn who had hit the sports pages of the Times Picayune again and again. He’d lifted his public school from obscurity to stardom playing football. He was offered scholarships to half the colleges in the country. He’d been a local hero, soaring to football glory while maintaining academic achievement and capturing the hearts of adolescent females through the city, the parish and beyond. She was only twelve at the time, so she couldn’t really remember the details, but...
But nothing. He’d disappeared. There’d been brief articles about him—about his behavior, attending parties known for excessive drug and alcohol use. Then everything had stopped. She hadn’t heard anything about him ripping up the college scoreboards or joining the pros. He’d just disappeared.
Might have been a different Michael Quinn.
* * *
Gladys heard the voice again as she drove down the street. He was there, beside her, whispering in her ear.
“Do it. Gun it!” he ordered her.
She had ignored him as she’d driven through the French Quarter; you could barely move through the Quarter at times, much less gun a car. People walked into the street heedlessly—especially those who’d gotten an early start on Bourbon Street.
But now, she could see a group of schoolchildren. A crossing guard stood in the street with a large red stop sign, warning drivers that it was a school zone and elementary kids were making their way across the road.
“Gun it. End it for the little bastards—stop the pain for them now. Half of them live in crack houses, you know that. End their pain and yours. Gun it!”
She turned to look at him. He was beautiful. His face was so handsomely structured, with dark hair curling over his brow. His mouth was full and sensual. He moved, and yet he still looked as if he were cast out of marble. It was so strange; the statue in her house was a bust, showing only the head, shoulders and neck of the man, but he seemed to be sitting by her side in full body. He acted natural and at ease. He’d been carved during the time of the Renaissance, but he spoke English and knew modern idioms. He seemed to know modern mores and customs, too.
He was beautiful, yes...
And so malicious. Evil to the core. His smile was one of pure cruelty.
“You have to do it, Gladys. Think of the world, always the same. Kill or be killed. You can end their misery and your own. Or if you survive, you’ll walk away because of your fragile mental state, the depths of your grief. It’s kill or be killed, Gladys. That’s the way of the world.”
She saw the man in her mind, of course, but he seemed so...real. She’d seen him the night her husband had died, seen him standing over the body. And she’d known that Hank Simon was killed by the marble bust he’d been so ecstatic to acquire, the piece that had lain half-buried by the grave of a pirate-turned-entrepreneur in St. Louis Cemetery #1. A former pirate, yes, but a man who’d dedicated himself to good works in the latter part of his life. God knew where the bust had been before that.
He’d stood over Hank where he lay on the floor of their grand Garden District home; he’d stood over him, smiling, while Hank lay broken and bleeding. It looked as if he’d fallen or jumped over the balcony railing, but he hadn’t. She’d known it when she saw the man. He had disappeared into thin air and she hadn’t seen him again—until he’d appeared at the foot of her bed that morning, telling her she had to do as he instructed, or she’d wind up like Hank.
It was astonishing that her heart hadn’t given out then.
No, it was tragic that her heart hadn’t given out. Because now he was with her, urging her to kill....
She wasn’t a killer. She wasn’t going to mow down schoolchildren with her Lincoln.
And yet...
She felt her foot almost itching to touch the pedal. She felt something inside her suddenly longing to do as he said—hit the gas. Hit it hard. Hit all the children she could. And, definitely, hit the plump crossing guard with her sign and her whistle....
Her foot inched down on the gas with a malevolence that seemed to fill her heart with bloodred fury.
Chapter Two
QUINN HAD THOUGHT he’d be able to keep up with Gladys.
Chasing her on foot hadn’t been difficult, but following her once he’d gotten back to his car had proven to be a challenge. Parking in the Quarter was a nightmare, so naturally he’d been two blocks down. Still, Gladys Simon wasn’t exactly a speed demon, so he should’ve managed to catch up with her.
But it was the French Quarter. He should have known but never suspected that a parade would close off Bourbon precisely when he needed to cross it.
Gladys had beaten the parade.
He chafed, waiting. There was no turning; there was no backing up.
Assuming that she’d be headed home, he figured he’d start uptown as soon as he could. He tried to assure himself that Danni Cafferty had called the police and that they’d come by—or social services would—to see to her welfare.
But he couldn’t be sure.
He knew he had to reach Gladys himself. If Danni wasn’t going to take the statue, he had to do it. But he didn’t know whether he dared wait long enough to catch up with Gladys, since she seemed to be at the end of her rope. If Danni had just agreed immediately to come and get the damn thing, he wouldn’t have been so worried.
When he’d tried to call Gladys, she’d refused to talk to him. When he’d tried to see her at home, he’d been put off by a protective housekeeper. He hadn’t known that Hank Simon had the statue in time to try and see the man. In fact, he wouldn’t even have learned about its existence—other than through vague references in art-history books—if it wasn’t for the sniveling Vic Brown, incarcerated now with no bail while he awaited trial.
Vic had sold the bust to Hank Simon. Then, of course, Quinn had found out that Hank had died, which meant his wife now had it.
Vic had shot down three of his associates in the Chartres Street gang before being winged by the police himself. According to Vic, the bust had made him do it.
The newspaper had alerted him to the criminal’s planned defense. Visiting him in his cell had told Quinn that Vic seriously thought the bust had ordered him to shoot his friends—it was them or his own life. A self-defense plea might actually work for the poor bastard; Vic’s attorney, Anthony Everst, was trying to get Vic into a hospital unit. Not a bad call, since the dope dealer and petty crook was ranting in his cell about being damned now that he was no longer possessed.
Despite maneuvering more quickly than the law allowed when he finally cleared the Quarter, Quinn didn’t catch up with Gladys on the road. But when he arrived, he saw that her car was in the driveway.
Apparently Gladys had gotten home without incident.
He left his car and hurried up the walkway to the porch of the beautiful old Victorian house where the Simons—pillars of society, philanthropists in the extreme—had lived. The house, he knew, had been in the Simon family since it was built just prior to the War Between the States. It spoke of old money and genteel living, slow breezes and gracious hospitality.
He banged on the door and pressed the buzzer urgently.
It was opened by the battle-ax of a housekeeper.
“You again,” she said. Her name was Bertie. He knew that from trying to go through her to speak with Gladys before. He’d begun this quest as soon as he’d learned the bust had wound up at the Simon home.
“Bertie, it’s imperative that I talk to Mrs. Simon. I think I can help her. You must know that her mind is unbalanced by grief. I can help her. I swear to you, I can.”
“She’s in mourning,” Bertie said. “And she doesn’t need any ambulance chasers trying to get her to sue on her husband’s behalf or any such thing.” Bertie wagged a finger at him. “I know who you are, Michael Quinn. And I don’t care if you were a cop or if you’ve become a big hero—I heard enough ’bout you and your exploits when you were a boy. No pretty-boy white trash really changes his colors, and that’s the truth of it.”
“Bertie, this has nothing to do with me and everything to do with your employer,” Quinn said, tempted to grab the housekeeper by the shoulders and push her out of his way. “She’s nearly unhinged. She needs help.”
“Not from the likes of you. You get out of here, Mr. Quinn,” Bertie said.
It really was a matter of life and death; still, he didn’t want to force the woman to move if he didn’t have to. One thing he’d say for Bertie—she knew his old reputation and could clearly see his size, but her loyalty to Gladys kept her from giving an inch.
“How about you just ask her if she’ll see me? Tell her it’s about the bust.”
Bertie stiffened. She looked at him and either decided that Gladys was in such bad shape that even he might help or that he might be ready to physically set her aside.
“Fine, you can come in,” she snapped.
She opened the door, and he entered the foyer with its elegant stained glass. He saw the central stairway leading up to the rooms above and balcony from which Hank Simon had thrown himself to his death. Bertie wouldn’t glance in that direction. She stared straight at him and indicated the room to his right. “Go on into the parlor and stay there!” she said firmly.
He nodded and walked in. She followed him, closing the heavy double doors as if that would assure he didn’t wander around the house.
Quinn waited. Handsome portraits of the Civil War–era owners flanked the mantel. The furniture in the room was an eye-pleasing collection of different decades and styles. The chairs were richly upholstered and the room’s central piece—a grand piano—was polished to a magnificent shine.
He sat restlessly in one of the wingback chairs. Bertie was taking way too long.
He stood and walked around the room, feeling a sense of dread, of impending doom. He was ready to break through the doors and burst up the stairs when Bertie reappeared, a look of total consternation on her face.
“You’ll have to come back.”
“That’s what Gladys said?” Quinn demanded.
Bertie hesitated. “I can’t find Mrs. Simon,” she said.
“What do you mean, you can’t find her?”
Bertie crossed her arms over her ample chest. “I mean, she isn’t here. I can’t find her. So you’ll have to come back.”
He shook his head. “Her car is in the drive. She was in the Quarter less than an hour ago and now she’s here—at least her car is. I was right on her heels. She hasn’t gone back out, so she’s here somewhere.”
“Well, she’s not!”
