The Other Crowd (11 page)

The room at the end of the second-floor hallway was so humid Garin felt as if he’d entered a tropical rain forest. Black shades were drawn and the air smelled like lilacs and menthol. The weight of the scent clogged at the back of his throat.

He winced at the underlying smell of sickness. If the old man had told him Mrs. Banyon was sick, he might have walked away.

No, he would not have.

“She’s just woken from a rest,” the butler explained. “She’s quite sound of mind, yet age tends to work havoc on her frail bones.”

“So she’s not sick?” Garin asked quietly.

“Oh, yes, two feet in the grave and clinging to life with but a fingerhold, to be sure.”

Garin took that comment as rather odd, and a bit too gleeful. Perhaps the butler was aware of a sizable inheritance attributed to him in her will. The old lady had better kick soon, then, because the butler had to be pushing ninety if he were a day.

“You may be seated beside the bed,” the butler instructed. “Madam, this is Mr. Braden, as I’ve explained. I’ll leave the door open and stand outside in the hallway.”

A withered hand waved the butler away.

Garin pulled the hard-backed chair around so he could sit facing the woman lying in the bed. Describing her as frail was putting her condition lightly. She looked a ghost of a ghost. Long silver hair streamed across the white satin pillowcase. One would guess her a child swallowed up by the lace-trimmed bedsheets. But when she smiled at him, Garin felt her joy touch his heart and warm it ever so slightly.

“Such a treat,” she said in a little girl’s voice to match her appearance. “Are you an angel come to take me away?”

“Sorry, Mrs. Banyon, but I am the farthest thing from an angel.”

“That makes things so much more interesting, doesn’t it?”

Garin chuckled. He liked her too much already.

He wasn’t averse to the elderly. Hell, he’d had a few lovers he still visited on occasion. Lovers he’d taken during the forties and fifties who were now treading their graves. It was a sentimental quirk he’d kill for if anyone found out. Roux would never stop heckling him for it, surely.

“My name is Ruth,” she said. “You’ve come about my painting?”

She referred to it possessively already. And Garin sensed flirtation might not prove effective, in this situation.

He followed Ruth’s gaze down the bed and to the wall facing it. There it hung. Remarkable evidence that detailed a devastating moment from history. It had been a long time since he’d seen the work.

Garin stood and approached the painting. He almost touched it, but did not. That Fouquet had sketched this scene at the moment of its occurrence, and then retained such a vivid memory of it to paint decades later, did not cease to stun him.

He bowed his head, and clasped his elbows, suddenly feeling exposed. Like he didn’t want the world, or even one sweet old lady, to discover his truths. There were so many truths that he flaunted, and yet twice as many that he guarded carefully.

“I was late to the auction yesterday,” he said, pacing the room. Aware the butler stood outside the open door, he continued. “I had wanted to acquire the Fouquet. It’s very…” Blatant? Shocking? Truthful? “…speculative. It is a reclusive piece, though. It’s never been a part of Fouquet’s known works.”

“Which makes it all the more valuable. I’ve wanted it for years,” Ruth said in yearning tones. “You should know, I’ve got a connection to it.”

Hell. That would make obtaining it more difficult. He still had gloves and lock-pick tools at his penthouse. Overpowering Jeeves outside would be like pushing over a kid.

“A connection?” he said. “Tell me about it.”

He sat again and leaned an elbow onto the bed. It felt right to clasp her hand, and he almost dropped it for her skin was cold and the bones felt as thin as bird’s limbs. He imagined she might have once been a dancer, petite and airy, dazzling audiences with her grace and pale beauty.

“I’ve always had an interest in the saint,” she said. “Ever since I first wrote a report on her in high school. She was so determined, unwilling to accept defeat. I modeled my life after her. Striding forward with grace and determination.”

“Remarkable.” He wondered how long she had left for this world. And would he have to wait it out until that fingerhold the butler had so gleefully mentioned finally let go? He didn’t have time or the inclination to sit about.

“I’ve got a connection, as well,” he offered. “I don’t wish to be rude, Ruth, but I wonder how much longer you’ll have to enjoy it?”

“Days, surely,” she said.

It was said the dying knew within six months of their demise that death was imminent. That they began to put their lives in order before they even realized for what reason. And often, when they were but days from their final breath, they could choose to simply go, or to hang on as loved ones selfishly begged them to remain.

Of all the deathbeds Garin had sat beside, he had never asked a dying person to stay merely for his own gratification. It was not his right to bind them to this mortal coil.

Ruth’s eyes were still bright. The light had not yet gone out. “What is your connection?” she asked softly.

“My great-great-great—” he wasn’t quite sure how many greats to use “—many more countless greats,-grandfather actually posed in that painting.”

“Ah? But how is that possible?”

He slipped his hand from hers and walked over to the painting. It was a risk, but he guessed her eyesight wouldn’t be sharp. Standing beside the Fouquet he waited as she looked at both him and it.

“I see,” she said softly. “It is true. And you wish to deny a dying woman a few final days of happiness by taking away the one thing that means the most to her?”

“How can it have acquired so much meaning to you in so little time?” He grasped the bedpost and scanned the bedroom. So many trinkets, and baubles and silver mirrors. A girlie-girl even so old. “As I told your butler, I can offer you twice what was paid for it.”

“I’ve no need for money now, Mr. Braden. What do you think I will do with a million dollars if I have but two days?”

She had him there. Although…

“Charity. You seem like a generous woman, Ruth. An endowment to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in your name, perhaps?”

She closed her eyes, tapping her fingers upon her chest. Garin couldn’t know what she was thinking. Had he lost her by being too forward?

He could take out the butler with a chop to his throat, and snatch the painting. The old woman might have a heart attack before he even made it out the front door.

Ruth’s eyes opened wide. “Any charity?”

“Just name the organization, and it will be done.”

She smiled, and it was wicked. “Come closer, Mr. Braden. There may be something you can do for me, after all.”

Annja set up her laptop under the canopy next to the dig. Nearby Wesley was explaining to one of the young women about the intricacies of dry stone walling. She’d uncovered a skull and was so excited she’d tripped over the ropes and had crushed the east wall of the feature.

Annja could only smirk. Digs were still wrought with excitement and eagerness, but she’d lost the clumsy stumbling bit years ago.

Actually, since she’d taken the sword in hand, her physicality had improved markedly. Graceful was not a word she’d have ever labeled herself a few years ago; now she embodied it, and wasn’t ashamed to think so.

Swinging the sword had given her some nice moves and she knew her body had lengthened and her muscles had streamlined as if she’d been doing some serious Pilates. There wasn’t an ounce of excess fat on her frame, despite her indulgent meals with Bart at her favorite local restaurant, Tito’s. Roux had ensured she learned the various martial arts, and she loved to box in the gym with a trainer.

She liked feeling powerful. So few women really embraced their power, be it physical or emotional. They accepted lower pay in equal position to men merely to have the opportunity to climb the cooperate ladder. They demurred to their professional colleagues. They held back tears and assumed caretaker positions when no others would step forward to the task.

And they rarely stood up for the innocents—save for on paper and in court—by swinging a battle sword in the faces of evil. Someone needed to do that, because the world was stepping up and shoving those evil faces out in mockery.

She did have a right to wield the sword. No dream was going to make her think otherwise.

Thanks to a satellite card she could grab an internet connection even in the middle of rural Ireland. Eric had uploaded the segments he’d filmed of the landscape and scenery for her to proof. She’d check those later.

Now she searched
Frank Neville
to see what she could find. Three search results produced websites, but she suspected Neville’s Nutritious Nuts was probably not the organization funding this dig. Nor did twelve-year-old Frank and his collection of vacuum cleaners hit the target.

The other Frank was mentioned in a federal case concerning drug trafficking. That could be her man, but it appeared as though that Frank was sitting in San Quentin at the moment, and he had to be eighty.

Typing in
Michael Slater
brought up another scatter of sites and unlikely professions.

“Can you look up a map for me, Annja?”

Wesley appeared by her side. Annja noticed the woman he’d been teaching now carefully brushed at the skull, and no longer leaned on the stone wall for support. Good for Wesley for not admonishing her too hard, and allowing her to continue with her find. Hands-on was the only way she would ever learn.

“Let me guess,” she said. “Ireland, nineteenth century?”

“I’m interested in the survey of land during the potato famine. NewWorld is being slower than molasses to answer my requests. Actually, I think I’m on my own.”

“No problem. I’ve got satellite.” She typed in a search. “You get lab results back on the soil sample?”

“Later today. I’m driving to Cork. You want to come along?”

“I might, thank you. I stopped at the hospital yesterday but they are only allowing relatives.”

“Maybe I can get you in to see her.”

“How is that possible if they’re only allowing relatives? You and Beth were close?”

“Like I said—”

She wasn’t going to fish around and risk him holding back information again, not in a situation like this. “Before you answer that, a man I met in one of Ballybeag’s pubs told me—and supposedly it’s a well-known rumor—that you and Beth had a thing.”

Wesley bowed his head and raked his fingers through his hair. He cast her a you-caught-me smirk. “It was a one-night thing, Annja. I didn’t think my sex life was important to your investigation.”

“It’s not, but did you and Beth have an argument? Did she have any reason to wander off?”

“Because of me? Hell, no.”

“So why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because that’s exactly what I thought people would think, that I did something to put her in danger. Slater said as much.”

“Slater?”

“He threatened me to keep quiet about it all or he’d tell everyone I hit Beth.”

“That’s why you two were fighting when I arrived.”

“Yes. I was protecting Beth’s reputation more than mine. She’s just a kid, Annja. Well, you know, she’s legal, but only twenty. I was glad Slater got rid of the BBC because the last thing Beth needs now is lights and cameras and nosy reporters. You aren’t going to film Beth in the hospital?”

“I…” It seemed necessary for the story, but also intrusive, as he implied. “I’m not sure. I’d never force her to do an interview unless she was of sound mind and knew exactly what she was agreeing to. I have compassion, Wesley. I would never harass someone just for a sensational story.” She tapped a few keys and brought up a site of historical maps.

“Did I see you and Slater chatting earlier?” he asked.

Chatting? With a gun pressed to her temple. That was a good one.

“He’s not exactly the chatty sort. More of a what-the-hell-are-you-doing-in-my-air kind of guy, you know?”

“Yeah, he’s an arsehole.”

She couldn’t have put it better herself.

“My goal is to keep the terms between us good,” Wesley said. “He does have the gun.”

“And, obviously, the upper hand. Is he trying to push you off the dig completely?”

Wesley leaned in to command the keyboard and scrolled through the list of maps the geological site brought up. “I don’t intimidate easily, Annja. And I will not be chased away with my tail between my legs. I’m here on behalf of NewWorld, no matter who supposedly runs the dig now. And until NewWorld tells me to back off, I’m staying. But I feel as though they’ve abandoned me.”

“The company hasn’t been in contact with you? To give directions as to whether to stay or pack up?”

“Nope.”

She glanced over to the opposing camp. Slater’s stick-straight profile was nowhere in sight, but the camp had erected a canvas tarp with rope run through grommets along the east side of the dig that basically served as a wall to keep the other camp from seeing what was going on.

“I’m not sure why you’re so curious about that British arsehole, but I like it,” Wesley said. “Feisty women turn me on.”

What to say to that? She wasn’t the classiest chick when it came to flirting with the opposite sex. In fact, she tended to slip into goof mode too often when the need to be something more than a television host or archaeologist arose. Fortunately, no one was aware of her flirtations at Daniel’s stones the other night.

Wesley tapped the screen. “Here’s what I need. A land survey dated 1851. I have a printer in the back of the Jeep. Can we make a connection?”

“Connection?” Annja dropped her lower jaw. The man’s eyes were so blue. Blue set against suntanned flesh and underlined by a movie star’s smile. “Uh…”

His smile tilted and his eyes narrowed. “Earth to Annja.” A snap of his fingers startled her out of her silly stare. “Where were you right now?”

She most definitely was not going to tell him that she’d taken a dive into his baby blues. “Uh…the printer. Just wondering if—yes, we can make that connection. Let’s go see what we need to do.”

He chuckled as she grabbed the laptop and marched toward the Jeep.

A moment later, Wesley strode alongside her. “You want to see Slater at his finest?”

“What does that mean?”

“It’s Saturday night. You can find him, myself and a few others from the dig in Cork at the Bones Club. It’s bare-fists night.”

“Bare fists? A fight club?” She studied Wesley’s face. “You’ve still got a cut lip from the other day.”

“Yeah, but I think that was from Collins. Slater’s a gut puncher. If you lose against him you’ll be walking bent over for days and won’t be able to keep food down. I ate groats for four days in a row after my first match against him a few weeks back.”

“So let me get this straight. You all are enemies, mastering your individual digs and spearing each other with the evil eye during the week. Then on the weekend…?”

“The gloves come off.” He smacked a fist into his palm. “It’s good-natured, though. We shake beforehand and after. A man shouldn’t enter the fight with anger, only the need to test his own skills.”

“After the fight I witnessed upon arriving I have to wonder if you and Slater
can
go at it good-naturedly.”

“Well, then, you’ll have to stop in for a look. You come along, I’ll buy you a pint afterward.”

Annja thought about it. A night at a bloody fistfight wasn’t going to further her research for the show, or the personal desire to find those missing people. Yet after her encounter with Slater and his gun, she did want a closer look at the man, to see what made him tick. She wanted to see him with his neatly laced boots and militant posture loosened.

“Deal. I think I’ll pass on the ride to Cork, though. I’m going to head into town early. I’ll meet you there?”

“Sure. Here’s the address.” He explained how to find the clubhouse, which was more of a gym than a fancy club. “Ten of the clock. Tell the bruiser at the door you’re with me.”