Dangerous Melody (11 page)

Eugene shifted, eyes rolling in thought. “I don’t know.”

Seven seconds left. “You don’t want to hurt anyone,” Tate said. “I can tell.”

Time stood still as the match burned a hole in the gloom.

Five seconds. “I don’t want to hurt anyone,” Eugene repeated. “But I’ve got to get away.”

The last seconds ticked away.

Eugene touched
the match to the fuse.

“Eugene, no!” Tate yelled, leaping forward. Eugene scrambled backward as the fuse caught, tossing the dynamite behind him as he ran. Tate reversed course.

“Run!” he shouted, urging Stephanie and Luca in front of him, toward the entrance, knowing in his heart it was too late.

A deafening boom shook the tunnel, and chunks of debris began to rain down upon them.

TWELVE

S
tephanie lost her footing, sprawling stomach first as bricks smashed into the floor around her. A solid weight pressed down on her, and she realized Tate had covered her back with his torso in an effort to shield her. The world spun around her in a dark maelstrom of noise and choking dust. She felt the secondary impact as heavy rock fell on top of Tate. Sharp bits cut into
her cheeks as he pressed her to the cold floor.

The rumbling grew in intensity, and Stephanie feared the tunnel was collapsing around them. They would be buried under tons of concrete, beneath an empty stone house. No one would find them until it was too late. She fought to breathe against the dust and panic.

“Hold on,” Tate said into her ear, as if he could read the terrifying thoughts
racing through her mind. His hands wrapped around her arms, squeezing some courage back into her.

There was one last groan of protesting wood before the vibrations tapered off, the sound softening and dying away. Debris still poured from above, but it had lessened to a trickle. Tate eased off her. An unsteady light emanated from a burning hunk of wood above them, glowing strangely through
the thick curtain of drifting dust. “Tell me you’re okay,” he said, mouth pressed to her ear. There was such longing in his voice, such tenderness, that her eyes filled with tears. He helped her roll over, and she looked into his dust-streaked face in the flickering light.

“I think so,” she whispered, putting her hand to his cheek. He clasped it there for a moment and closed his eyes, breathing
hard. It was the same sweet connection they used to share, and it cut to her very core.

“That’s my girl,” he said.

She could only manage a smile before fear clawed her gut.

“Luca,” she cried, trying to scramble to her feet. Tate gripped her arm.

“Move slow. This place is unstable now.”

She got to her feet and picked her way through the clots of broken rock. The light was
not sufficient to illuminate the dark crevices. She could see no sign of her brother. “Luca?” she called again, her voice shrill. Victor lay broken in a hospital bed, her father was lost and now Luca. It was too much. She would not allow it.

Give me the strength, God.

Filled with energy born of fear and faith, she began pushing rocks out of the way, calling her brother’s name every few
moments. Her back and legs ached with myriad bruises and cuts. With every second that passed, her anxiety edged up a notch until she found herself holding her breath, fingers clenched into rigid fists. “Say something, Luca!” she screamed.

“Here,” Tate called from a few feet away. “He’s under here.”

She waded through the rubble as fast as she could manage. Luca was lying face up under
a fallen beam. Tate grunted as he struggled to lift the wood. “Too heavy. Need some leverage.”

They looked around for something to use, and Stephanie came up with a long piece of wood, probably knocked loose in the explosion. She shoved it at Tate. He wedged one end under the wood and balanced it over a chunk of cement. “When I lift, slide him out, feet first.”

Stephanie nodded, heart
pounding.

With an effort that made sweat pour down his face, Tate threw all his weight on the end of the wood.

“It’s not moving,” Stephanie cried.

Tate did not answer, instead redoubling his efforts, pushing so hard the veins bulged in his neck. Shifting rubble proved that the beam was moving, inch by precious inch, until there was enough clearance for her to haul out Luca from
under the beam by gripping him around the ankles.

When he slid clear, she knelt next to him, her cheek to his mouth, checking, praying for a puff of air on her face.

Luca grunted, and Stephanie nearly squealed with joy. “He’s alive.” He mumbled something else, and she put her head closer to his lips.

“Your hair is in my mouth,” Luca said.

She laughed and brushed the debris
off his face as best she could. “Are you hurt?”

He shifted as if he was going to sit up, but she held him down. “Not until you answer me.”

He exhaled, eyes closed for a moment. “As far as I can tell, I’m okay. I can feel all my limbs and move all my fingers and toes. I might have a concussion....”

“Sounds like a clean bill of health to me,” Tate offered.

“Right,” Luca said.
“Can I sit up now?”

She held his shoulder and helped him ease into a sitting position. Dirt fell from his hair and shoulders. He blinked several times.

“Yeah, everything seems to be working, but my ankle hurts.” His eyes scanned the ruined tunnel before they came to rest on Tate. “Thanks for digging me out.”

Tate nodded but didn’t answer.

Stephanie ran her fingers along his
ankle. “Nothing feels out of place, but you might have a fracture.”

He eased the ankle back and forth, grimacing. “Just a sprain.”

“Uh-huh,” she said. “Let’s get you out of here, and we can take a look when the light’s better.”

Luca cast a chagrined glance down the tunnel. “Eugene’s long gone, I suppose.”

“Yeah,” Tate agreed. “But we’ll catch up with him.” He offered a hand
to Luca, and he and Stephanie helped him to his feet.

Luca tried to walk and nearly fell. “I guess I really did mess up my ankle,” he grumbled. “Need some ice and it will be fine.”

They didn’t reply, making their way out. Stephanie exited first, Luca following, awkwardly hopping, using Tate’s shoulder for support as he hefted himself along.

When they arrived back in the kitchen,
Tate steered Luca to a chair while Stephanie retrieved some ice from the cooler and wrapped it in a towel, applying it to Luca’s ankle after they removed his boot.

“It’s very swollen,” she said. “We’d better get you to a clinic.”

“It’s only a sprain. It will be fine in the morning.”

“Did anyone ever tell you you’re stubborn?” Stephanie asked.

“Family trait,” Tate murmured,
earning a glare from Stephanie.

Luca shook his head. “I didn’t think Eugene would resort to dynamite to get rid of us. He seemed harmless enough, but I guess I was wrong about that.”

Stephanie wet another towel and used it to dab at a cut on Luca’s face before she turned to examine Tate.

He waved her off. “I think Eugene is scared. Maybe he had a run-in with Ricardo. For whatever
reason, he’s decided that violin belongs to him.”

Stephanie pulled the Polaroid photo from her back pocket and held it to the light from the kitchen window. She shook her head. “I’ve been focusing on the wrong thing.”

“What?” Luca said, wiping grit from his shoulders.

“I’ve been trying to read the label to authenticate the Guarneri, but there’s another way.” She held the photo up
for them both, pointing to the scroll. “The Quinto has a scar on the scroll from the building collapse, remember?” She peered closely. “It’s not definite, but see that mark there? It could be the same scar.”

Tate looked at her. “So Bittman is right. The Guarneri really did escape the fire all those years ago.”

Stephanie bit her lip. “And it seems that Eugene might be the one who stole
it.”

“And set the fire to cover his tracks?”

“Bittman said it was another man who set the fire.”

Tate sighed. “Ricardo. He’s the only other person involved in this besides Maria.”

Stephanie nodded, feeling the prickle of fear along her spine. “Ricardo won’t stop until he murders Eugene and gets the violin that he tried to steal all those years ago. He killed Devlin because
he didn’t want Devlin to lead us to Eugene.”

Tate sighed. “That leaves us caught between crazy Eugene and a murderer with nothing to lose.”

“And don’t forget Joshua Bittman,” Luca said, voice grim, “a certifiable psychopath.”

* * *

Tate and Stephanie herded Luca to the car in spite of his efforts to shoo them away, and Stephanie got behind the wheel. It was late afternoon;
the sun, low on the horizon, cast long shadows across the road. No one said it aloud, but Tate found himself wondering how they would track Eugene now, with Luca barely able to walk.

You’re not doing much better yourself.
The pain in his leg was excruciating, aggravated by the extreme effort of hoisting the beam off Luca. He popped two aspirin, knowing it would do nothing more than dull the
pain. He thought about the pills in his backpack and how easy it would be to fall back into the numbing narcotic haze. Then, as he had thousands of times in the past year, he made the decision to stay clean and sober. Something tugged at his mind. He thought of the moment the rumbling in the tunnel had stopped, and Stephanie lay still in his arms.

Something called out in his soul that moment,
something deeper than his rational thought or his conscious mind. It was the same quiet sense of God stirring, urging him to stay sober every day—the same feeling he got when he sent up a plea for Stephanie’s protection today. He was indeed the worst kind of sinner. An addict, a neglectful brother, a man who abandoned Stephanie Gage. Yet in that moment, he found himself again casting his deepest
desire up to God for something other than his sobriety.

His every thought for the past year, his every anguished prayer had been dedicated to staying clean. Now his heart seemed to have expanded, allowing him to pray for something beyond himself. The prayer had been answered, and Stephanie was safe. He wasn’t sure which was the greater blessing, that she’d been spared injury in a collapse
that might have killed them all, or he’d once again surrendered his desires to God—desires that went beyond keeping the pills in the bottle.

He pushed these thoughts back down into the dark recesses of his heart, and bent his thoughts to the task ahead. Maria was still out there somewhere. In trouble up to her neck, no doubt. There had been no messages from her and no leads from Gilly after
he had pried into her computer files. What did she think she was accomplishing by trying to take Bittman’s violin?

He guided the truck along for another half hour, looking for any signs indicating the direction Eugene had taken. A dirt path, so faint he might have missed it altogether, caught his attention. He tapped the horn to signal a stop and got out, willing his leg not to buckle.

Stephanie joined him, and Luca hobbled up.

Tate pointed to the path. “Could lead to the tunnel exit,” he mused.

Luca frowned. “Then again, it could be a hunting trail. Doesn’t look like anyone’s used it in a while.”

Tate shook his head. “I’ll check it out. Be right back.”

“I’ll go, too,” Stephanie said. “Luca, why don’t you call home and check on Victor?”

She didn’t
wait for his answer before plunging down the path, which sloped sharply away from the road. The day was hot and the cloud cover pressed warmth down upon them as they pushed past a screen of mesquite shrubs. The wind, which continued to blow, brought no hint of cooling to the sultry air.

Stephanie stopped, listening.

He gave her a questioning look.

“Just wanted to make sure my brother
isn’t trying to follow. He hates being left out of the action.”

Tate hid his smile and pressed on, the uneven ground agony on his leg. Teeth gritted, he continued along, the journey passing in a haze of pain. After another thirty minutes he stopped, under the pretense of checking for broken twigs or marks on the ground. He felt her fingers on his wrist.

“It’s your leg, isn’t it?”

He shrugged. “I’m okay.”

“No, you’re not. You’re in serious pain. I can tell.”

He soaked in her eyes, luminous and gentle. “You get used to it. Doc says this is probably as good as it gets. I can handle it.”

She stared, his own face mirrored in her gaze. “How do you handle it? By...” She looked away.

Shame and anger boiled up inside him. “By abusing drugs?”

She shook her
head. “That’s not what I was going to say.”

He put a hand on her cheek and forced her to look at him. “Steph, you never lied to me. Don’t start now. You think I’m still using, don’t you?”

She gripped his hand and then pulled it away. “I don’t want to think so.”

“I’m not.”

He saw the doubt in her eyes, and his heart broke all over again. The worst thing, even worse than losing
her love, was losing her respect. He did not trust himself to speak so he moved ahead, deeper into the tangle of undergrowth. The path was overgrown, and he was beginning to think it was nothing more than an abandoned hunting trail. Then it dumped into a small clearing, crowded by bristlecone pine trees.

A rocky outcropping rose some twenty feet, with boulders piled along the bottom. They
moved closer, and Tate was able to discern an opening between the boulders.

Bingo. The exit to Eugene’s tunnel.

“At least we know where he came out,” Stephanie said. “But how is that going to help us?”

Tate examined the ground carefully, noting a faint set of imprints pressed into the dust. “He’s got a motorbike.” The tracks led through the grove of trees. They followed on foot
to a well-packed path that paralleled the road—wide enough for a vehicle, as least as far as they could see before it twisted away through the trees.

Stephanie wiped her forehead. “We’d better go back and get the cars. We’ll never catch up on foot.”

“We’re going to have to wait until morning.”

“No,” she said firmly. “There’s another few hours of sunlight. We can make headway, sleep
in the cars if it gets too dark.”

He stood as straight as he could manage. “It’s another half hour back to the car, and we’re all tired and banged up.”

“Then I’ll go by myself,” Stephanie snapped, eyes flaring, “if you’re not in a big hurry to find them.”

He tamped down his own surge of anger. “I’m in just as much a hurry to find my sister as you are to get your father back, but
one thing I’ve had hammered into my own thick head these past four years is patience.”

She studied his face, and he could see the anger simmer down in hers. A slight smile quirked her lips. “I never would have thought of you as the patient type.”

“People can change.”
I’ve changed.
He wanted desperately to say the words aloud, but they refused to cross his lips. Her gaze held his for
a long moment before she turned and headed back up the path with no further comment.