Art's Blood (45 page)

Then a sudden crash, a loud clang of metal, and a shrill cry of pain and distress replaced the taunts and laughter.

Panting with exhaustion, Elizabeth all but tripped over the fallen Kyra and the welded assortment of objects that had stopped her flight by the door of a sculptor’s studio. With almost the last bit of her strength, Elizabeth leaned down, grabbed Kyra’s arm and yanked her to her feet, at the same time shoving the barrel of the pistol against her head.

“Stay with me, Kyra. Let’s get this all sorted out.”
And for god’s sake don’t try to call my bluff. I don’t see myself shooting you if you make a break for it.

“Over here!” What was intended for a shout emerged as a croak, but she had been heard. Running footsteps neared and she grasped Kyra’s arm even tighter.

“Elizabeth?” The welcome sound of Phillip Hawkins’s voice flooded her with sweet relief.

“We’re over here!” Her voice was under control now. Kyra was trembling under her grip and beginning to cry.

Phillip, followed by two men, one in police uniform, both with unholstered weapons, came running down the hall. At the sight of Elizabeth, the gun, and Kyra, he stopped short.

“Sweet holy Jesus, Elizabeth, what in God’s name has happened here?” Without waiting for an answer, he nodded toward Kyra. “That’s her, Hank. Peterson’s daughter. That’s the one you want.”

Kyra took a step toward the three men, her pale face tragic. “Phillip, has he gotten to you as well?” Her voice was an imploring whisper. “Please listen to me. I can explain it all.”

Another step. “Phillip, it’s my father. He tried to kill Elizabeth; he’s somewhere in here, waiting. Reba hid me in the elevator to keep me safe from him.” She stood there, shivering and pathetic, holding out her bloody hands to Phillip.

“I thought you would help me, Phillip. I thought—”

Phillip nodded to his companions, who took hold of the pleading young woman. “I don’t think so, Kyra. They’ve got some strong evidence against you, beginning with the tea you were giving your grandmother before her death. The hawthorn was a deadly combination with the digoxin Mrs. Gordon was already taking.”

“That’s not true. The tea was supposed to be
good
for GeeGee— it was what she needed. I gave GeeGee the tea to help her feel better. Don’t you believe me?”

Her eyes locked with Phillip’s. His gaze was steady on her horrified face. “Kyra, it was probably the tea that killed your great-grandmother.”

Her face froze in a tortured mask and she slumped between the two men who held her arms. Her head fell back and her mouth stretched open in a howl of anguish.
“Noooh!
Not GeeGee!”

In an instant the seemingly frail young woman had twisted free of the men on either side of her and darted once again down the dark hallway. Again her wailing voice trailed behind her, echoing and reverberating in the black silence. Hawkins’s two companions, after a moment of shocked paralysis, ran after her, bobbing flashlights illuminating the empty corridor.

Elizabeth looked at the gun in her hand, released the clip, pulled the slide back to eject the bullet from the chamber, and ruefully handed weapon, clip, and bullet to Phillip. “Take this away from me— I doubt I’m up to actually shooting anyone with it.”

“She’s not going anywhere,” Phillip assured Elizabeth, restoring the lone bullet to the clip, which he then slid back into place before shoving the .45 into his waistband. “They have men at all the exits. And we found Ben; there’s an officer with him.” He wrapped his arms around Elizabeth. “Thank God you’re okay. I was afraid….”

Bliss. Total and perfect bliss. She relaxed into his embrace and closed her eyes. “You came. I left a message….”

The arms tightened. “I didn’t get any message. I met Hank and we went for a beer after my class and that was when he got a call. Peterson had called the station saying that his daughter was here and had flipped out. He said there was a fire in a locked room and he was afraid it would spread. Then he said that there were other people here that she might be trying to harm and he mentioned the name Goodweather.”

His hand caressed her face. “Hank knew that I had a…a friend by that name, so he told me I could come along. Not that he could have stopped me. But, Sherlock, you want to tell me what you’re doing here and what’s been going on?”

Quickly, she sketched out the highlights of the past few hours while he listened without comment, his arms still around her. She had come almost to the end of the narrative when a thought assailed her. “Phillip, there were
two
white SUVs in the parking lot: one was Marvin Peterson’s, but the other one, it could have been Lily Gordon’s driver but what about Aidan? I like him— and I’m really sorry for him but I see now that he’s a deeply angry young man— I don’t know, it’s possible he…Anyway, it must have been one of them whose feet I sprayed— Kyra’s sandals were clean. I haven’t seen—”

An unearthly piercing howl of pain and lamentation echoed through the hallway. Elizabeth and Phillip broke from their embrace and sprinted down the corridor in the direction of the tormented sound. Somewhere a siren was wailing. As they ran, Phillip’s flashlight picked up a steady progression of the fluorescent green prints, leading them on.

At the end of the hall a yellow rectangle of light slanted across the floor. The door to the kitchen was open. Phillip put out his arm, signaling Elizabeth to stop. He drew the gun from his waistband, pulled back the slide, and motioned her to stay where she was. Wordlessly she followed him into the light.

Hoarse, racking sobs led them to the small bathroom partitioned off in a corner of the kitchen. In a grotesque parody of the
Pietà,
Marvin Peterson was sitting on the floor of the shower, cradling Aidan’s limp, naked body. The young man’s blond hair was wet with blood, and lank strands fell over Peterson’s supporting arm. The walls and floor of the shower showed trails of blood, imperfectly washed away.

Peterson looked up at them, his face wet with tears. “He’s gone. It was like the others— a bullet to the back of the head.” He leaned down to touch his lips to the pale brow. His words were muffled against the pallid flesh. “Gone. And I never had the chance to tell him. My attorney finally called last night and gave me the information I’d asked for. Lily had warned me, but I didn’t listen. I thought Kyra’d be happy to know she had a brother. I didn’t understand that it was all about the money. My fault, my fault from the beginning.”

He stroked the still, bare arm, where a pale welted area showed the remnants of an old burn scar. His voice was choked and full of pain. “I didn’t realize till too late. Oh, Aidan! My son, Aidan!”

E
LIZABETH AND
P
HILLIP BACKED OUT OF THE LITTLE
room, leaving Marvin Peterson alone with his long-abandoned son. Alone and lavishing on the unseeing, unhearing corpse all the love, all the emotion the boy had yearned for for so long. Elizabeth choked back a sob as she remembered Aidan’s bitter pronouncement: “God has a warped sense of humor.”

“What now, Phillip?” she asked, her voice dull and hopeless. “They’ve got to catch Kyra. She must be completely insane.” She dragged a filthy hand across her eyes. “I need to get Ben and get out of here.”

“Here, hold the light while I let Hank know about this.” Phillip handed his flashlight to Elizabeth and pulled out his cell phone.

Unable to bear an official recital of the tragedy that was still playing out just beyond the open door, she moved away. The flashlight in her hand played over the fluorescent footmarks that could be seen entering the room. Entering from the right, the way she and Phillip had come…and leaving to the left.

She stood, contemplating the paint smears, trying to force her brain to come to bear on this new conundrum. Phillip finished his call and moved to her side. “They haven’t found her yet but it’s just a matter of time. They’re working their way through the place. And Hank says they got Ben on his feet and out to a patrol car— he’ll be okay there.”

“Oh, thank God! If Kyra’s still loose, even without the gun she’s probably dangerous. But Phillip, did
you
look at Peterson’s shoes? And Aidan’s? I didn’t…I was too…I don’t think I can go back in there—”

“We don’t need to— I took a good look. No green paint on either of them.”

“But Kyra wasn’t marked either.” She waved the flashlight, indicating the dim marks stretching down the hallway. “So, who—?”

Phillip pulled the gun from his waistband and quickly chambered a bullet. “Let me have the light— you stay put.”

The stupor that had enveloped her since the discovery of Aidan’s body was suddenly swept away. “Not bloody likely! I’m coming with you.”

They advanced quickly down the long corridor. As they went, the smudges of fluorescent paint diminished and their pace was reduced to a painstaking crawl while Elizabeth swept the flashlight’s beam in careful arcs across the dark floor. The smudges were far apart, as if the wearer of the marked shoes had been running. And with each step, less paint was deposited to mark the way.

The traces of green had faded entirely by the time they reached the open door at the far end of the corridor. Voices could be heard within the lighted room and, in silent accord, Phillip and Elizabeth stopped. She switched off the light and they stood motionless, listening.

“Now, Miss Kyra, you got to listen to Reba.” The housekeeper’s voice was low and crooning, like a mother speaking to a naughty but beloved child. “You do like I say and hit’ll all come out just fine. You know I won’t let nothin’ happen to my little girl—”

The flat mountain accents were interrupted by Kyra’s breathless sobs. “But he said that it was the
tea
that killed her. You told me it was what she needed. Reba, I loved GeeGee and now they think I killed her.”

“Hawthorn’s good fer ailments of the heart. Come here, Miss Kyra. Don’t you know your Reba’s lookin’ out fer you?”

Kyra’s sobbing died away and there was a momentary silence. Phillip looked at Elizabeth, raised his eyebrows, and nodded toward the open door. She held up a restraining finger.

“Then it was a mistake? Reba, I know you loved GeeGee too. You wouldn’t—”

“Miss Kyra honey, you got to understand what I’m sayin’. Miss Lily, she’d found out you weren’t no blood of hern. She aimed to do you out of what you had comin’ to you. I heard when she called that lawyer to come to the house and I listened when she was a-talkin’ to him. Oh, she was goin’ to leave you somethin’. She was takin’ care of ever last one of her debts— even those two old fools she keeps in that fancy old folks’ home. But you weren’t goin’ to come in fer but a small part— not like the will she done before— the one where you heired hit all. So I made sure, afore that lawyer could write that new, thievin’ will and bring hit back for her to sign—”

Elizabeth leaned closer to the door to catch the horrified whisper of Kyra’s reply.

“But Reba, I thought you loved GeeGee!”

“Miss Kyra, I ain’t never loved no one but you. You been mine from the first day I looked into your eyes. I breathed in your cryin’ breath and blew it back into you and I been watchin’ out for you all this time. Watchin’ you grow and turn into a beauty like I once was. Watchin’ you play the men fer the fools they are. Makin’ sure you git what’s comin’ to you; makin’ sure no one’s put afore you. And by God, they’ll not take you from me!”

There was a long silence. Elizabeth and Phillip stood motionless.

“I…don’t understand….” The three words fell into the hush, like pebbles tossed into a still, deep pool. Elizabeth edged still closer to the door frame. She could see to one side a stack of canvases leaning against a wall and against them, an ancient mirror, streaked with age and dust, its length traversed by a diagonal crack. Partially reflected in the bleary depths were Kyra and Reba.

Reba’s angular frame held the much smaller Kyra in a close embrace. Both women’s faces were flushed and wet with sweat and tears. Kyra’s eyes were closed but Reba’s gaze was all for her nursling. A rough hand stroked the fine blonde ringlets and a sweet smile softened the housekeeper’s usually grim and uncompromising visage.

“I don’t understand.” Again Kyra protested but she did not move, held there in Reba’s arms.

“Kyra honey, you and me’s different; their rules ain’t fer us. Like I done told you from the beginnin’: I’m the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter. Learnt powers from my mamaw. But I never did tell you how back home they all called me a witchy-woman and was scared of me. Run me off after my husband died. No-account feller, he thought I didn’t know he was layin’ up with one of my sisters. But I fixed him good, just like I fixed ’em two fellers of yourn.”

In the mirror, Elizabeth could see Kyra struggle and try to pull away from the older woman but Reba held her close, ignoring her protestations.

“Miss Kyra, you know they weren’t no good fer you. Women like us is better without no men bossin’ us. Hit don’t matter to me, you playin’ around with ’em like you done, even you makin’ them dirty movies. Hit just made me laugh. That’s about all they’s good fer. But ’em two was standin’ in yore way. And I got rid of ’em, the way I always got rid of everwhat was like to hinder you.”

With a little cry, Kyra pulled free of Reba’s arms but the mountain woman caught her wrist and held her there.

Kyra fixed Reba with an imploring stare, her pretty face distorted with emotion. “You killed
Boz?
But you said it was my
father;
and you said I had to make it look like he’d sent someone to hurt me so Phillip would work harder to arrest him. I did it
all
like you told me, cut my hair—”

“And then at last you come home, like I had wanted you to. You were the stubborn one all right. I thought when I burned down that house of yourn, that’d fetch you home. But you had to go and stay with that Goodweather woman. And then what do you do but take up with that boy of hern. Kyra honey, you got to learn you don’t need them men. Reba’s all you need.”