Twice Dead (57 page)

He didn't answer because he saw that the bus was slowing for the next stop. He said, low, “Sorry, no time for the money.”

He was going to kill her. The knife was coming right at her chest. She tightened, felt the stitches straining, but it didn't matter.

“You fool,” she said, and drove her elbow right into his Adam's apple, then right under his chin, knocking his head back, cutting off his breath. Still he held the knife, not four inches from her chest.

She turned, then did a right forearm hammer, thumb down smashing the inside of his right forearm.

She grabbed his wrist with her left hand and did a right back forearm hammer to his throat. He grabbed his throat, gagging and wheezing for breath, and she slammed her fist into his chest, right over his heart. She grabbed his wrist and felt the knife slide out of his fingers, heard it thunk hard on the floor of the bus and slide beneath the seat in front of them.

The guy was in big trouble, couldn't breathe, and she said, “Don't you ever come near me again, you bastard.” And she smashed the flat of her palm against his ear.

He yelled, but it only came out as a gurgle since he still couldn't draw a decent breath.

Only fifteen seconds had passed.

The bus stopped right in front of The Mermaid's Tail. The driver waved to her in the rearview mirror, still listening to his music, still chair-dancing. She didn't know what to do. Call the cops? Then it was taken out of her hands. The young man lurched up, knowing he was in deep trouble, scooped up his knife, waved it toward the bus driver, who was now staring back at the two of them wide-eyed, no longer dancing. He waved the knife at her once, then ran to the front of the bus, jumped to the ground, and was running fast down the street, turning quickly into an alley.

The bus driver yelled.

“It's okay,” Lily said, gathering her bags together. “He was a mugger. I'm all right.”

“We need to get the cops.”

The last thing Lily wanted was to have to deal with the cops. The guy was gone. She felt suddenly very weak; her heart was pounding hard and loud. But her shoulders were straight. She was taller than she'd been just five minutes before. It hadn't been much more than five minutes when she'd first gotten onto that empty bus, and then the young guy had come on and sat down beside her.

It didn't matter that she felt like all her stitches were pulling, that her ribs ached and there were jabs of pain. She'd done it. She'd saved herself. She'd flattened the guy with the knife. She hadn't forgotten all the moves her brother had taught her after she'd finally told him about Jack and what he'd done.

Dillon had said, squeezing her so hard she thought her ribs would cave in, “Lily, I'm not about to let you ever be helpless again. No more victim, ever.” And he'd taught her how to fight, with two-year-old Beth shrieking and clapping as she looked on, swinging her teddy bear by its leg.

But he hadn't been able to teach her for real—how to handle the bubbling fear that pulsed through her body when that knife was a finger-length away. But she'd dealt with the fear, the brain-numbing shutdown. She'd done it.

She walked, straight and tall, her stitches pulling a bit now, into The Mermaid's Tail.

“Hello,” she called out, smiling at Mrs. Blade, who was working a crossword puzzle behind the counter.

“You look like you won the lottery, Mrs. Frasier. Hey, do you know a five-letter word for a monster assassin?”

“Hmmm. It could be me, you know, but Lily is only four letters. Sorry, Mrs. Blade.” Lily laughed and hauled her packages up the stairs.

“I've got it,” Mrs. Blade called out. “The monster assassin is a ‘slayer.' You know,
Buffy the Vampire Slayer
.”

“That's six letters, Mrs. Blade.”

“Well, drat.”

Upstairs in her room, Lily arranged the small Victorian table at just the right angle to the bright sun. She carefully unwrapped all her supplies and arranged them. She knew she was on an adrenaline high, but it didn't matter. She felt wonderful. Then she stopped cold.

Her Sarah Elliott paintings. She had to go right now to the Eureka Art Museum and make sure the paintings, all eight of them, were still there. How could she have thought only of drawing Remus?

No, she was being ridiculous. She could simply call Mr. Monk, ask him about her paintings. But what if he wasn't trustworthy—no one else had proved the least trustworthy to date—he could lie to her.

Tennyson or his father could have stolen them last night after they'd left the house. Mr. Monk could have helped them.

No, someone would have notified her if the paintings were gone. Or maybe they would call Elcott Frasier or Tennyson. They were her paintings, but she was sick, wasn't she? Another suicide attempt. Incapable of dealing with something so stressful.

She was out the door again in three minutes.

NINE

The Eureka Art Museum took up an entire block on West Clayton Street. It was a splendid old Victorian mansion surrounded by scores of ancient, fat oak trees madly dropping their fall leaves in the chilly morning breeze. What with all the budget cuts, the leaves rested undisturbed, a thick red, yellow, and gold blanket spread all around the museum and sidewalks.

Lily paid the taxi driver five dollars including a good tip because the guy had frayed cuffs on his shirt, hoping she had enough cash left for admission. The old gentleman at the entrance told her they didn't charge anything, but any contributions would be gracefully accepted. “Not gratefully?”

“Maybe both,” he said and gave her a big grin. All she had to give him in return was a grin to match and a request he tell Mr. Monk that Mrs. Frasier was here.

She'd seen the paintings here only once, during a brief visit, before the special room was built, right after she'd married Tennyson. She'd met Mr. Monk, the curator, who had gorgeous black eyes and looked intense and hungry, and two young staffers, both with PhDs, who'd just shrugged and said there were no jobs in any of the prestigious museums, so what could you do but move to Eureka? At least, they said, big smiles on their faces, the Sarah Elliott paintings gave the place class and respectability.

It wasn't a large museum, but nonetheless, they had fashioned an entirely separate room for Sarah Elliott's eight paintings, and they'd done it well. White walls, perfect lighting, highly polished oak floor, cushion-covered benches in the center of the room to sit on and appreciate.

Lily stood there for a very long time in the middle of the room, turning slowly to look at each painting. She'd been overwhelmed when her grandmother's executor had sent them to her where she was waiting for them in the office of the director of the Art Institute of Chicago. Finally, she'd actually touched each one, held each one in her hands. Every one of them was special to her, each a painting she'd mentioned to her grandmother that she loved especially, and her grandmother hadn't forgotten. Her favorite, she discovered, was still
The Swan Song
—a soft, pale wash of colors, lightly veiling an old man lying in the middle of a very neat bed, his hands folded over his chest. He had little hair left on his head and little flesh as well, stretched so taut you could see the blood vessels beneath it. The look on his face was beatific. He was smiling and singing to a young girl, slight, ethereal, who stood beside the bed, her head cocked to one side. Lily felt gooseflesh rise on her arms. She felt tears start to her eyes.

She loved this painting. She knew it belonged in a museum, but she also knew that it was hers—hers—and she decided in that moment that she wanted to see it every day of her life, to be reminded of the endless pulse of life with its sorrowful endings, its joyous beginnings, the joining of the two. This one would stay with her, if she could make that happen. The value of each of the paintings still overwhelmed her.

She wiped her eyes.

“Is it you, Mrs. Frasier? Oh my, we heard that you had been in an accident, that you were in serious condition in the hospital. You're all right? So soon? You look a bit pale. Would you like to sit down? May I get you a glass of water?”

She turned slowly to see Mr. Monk standing in the doorway of the small Sarah Elliott room, with its elegant painted sign over the oak door. He looked so intense, like a taut bowstring, he seemed ready to hum with it. He was dressed in a lovely charcoal gray wool suit, a white shirt, and a dark blue tie.

“Mr. Monk, it's good to see you again.” She grinned at him, her tears dried now, and said, “Actually, the rumors of my condition were exaggerated. I'm fine; you don't have to do a thing for me.”

“Ah, I'm delighted to hear it. You're here. Is Dr. Frasier here as well? Is there some problem?”

Lily said, “No, Mr. Monk, there's no problem. The past months have been difficult, but everything is all right now. Oh, yes, which of these paintings is your favorite?”

“
The Decision,
” Mr. Monk said without hesitation.

“I like that one very much as well,” Lily said. “But don't you find it the least bit depressing?”

“Depressing? Certainly not. I don't get depressed, Mrs. Frasier.”

Lily said, “I remember I told my grandmother I loved that one when I'd just lost a lot of money on a point spread between the Giants and Dallas. I was sixteen at the time, and I do remember that I was despondent. She laughed and loaned me ten dollars. I've never forgotten that. Oh, yes, I paid her back the next week when a whole bunch of fools bet New Or-leans would beat San Francisco by twelve.”

“Are you talking about some sort of sporting events, Mrs. Frasier?”

“Well, yes. Football, actually.” She smiled at him. “I am here to tell you I will be leaving the area, Mr. Monk, moving back to Washington, D.C. I will be taking the Sarah Elliott paintings with me.”

He looked at her like she was mad. He fanned his hands in front of him, as if to ward her off. “But surely, Mrs. Frasier, you're pleased with their display, how we're taking such good care of them; and the restoration work is minor and nothing to concern you—”

She lightly laid her fingers on his forearm. “No, Mr. Monk, it looks to me like you've done a splendid job. But I'm moving, and the paintings go where I go.”

“But Washington, D.C., doesn't need any more beautiful art! They have so many beautiful things that they're sinking in it, beautiful things that are stuck in basements, never seen. They don't need any more!”

“I'm very sorry, Mr. Monk.”

Those gorgeous dark eyes of his glittered. “Very well, Mrs. Frasier, but it's obvious to me that you haven't discussed this with Dr. Frasier. I'm sorry but I cannot release any of the paintings to you. He is their administrator.”

“What does that mean? You know very well the paintings are mine.”

“Well, yes, but it's Dr. Frasier who's made all the decisions, who's directed every detail. Also, Mrs. Frasier, it's common knowledge here that you haven't been well—”

“Lily, what are you doing out of bed? Why are you here?”

Dillon and Sherlock stood behind Mr. Monk, and neither of them looked very pleased.

She smiled, saying only, “I'm here to tell Mr. Monk that the paintings go where I go, and in this case, it's all the way to Washington, D.C. Unfortunately, he says that everyone knows I'm crazy and that Dr. Frasier is the one who controls everything to do with the paintings—and so Mr. Monk won't release them to me.”

“Now, Mrs. Frasier, I didn't quite mean that.”

Savich lightly tapped him on the shoulder, and when Mr. Monk turned, in utter confusion, he said, “The paintings can't be released to my sister? Would you care to explain that to us, Mr. Monk? I'm Dillon Savich, Mrs. Frasier's brother, and this is my wife. Now, what is all this about?”

Mr. Monk looked desperate. He took a step back. “You don't understand. Mrs. Frasier isn't mentally competent, that's what I was told, and thus the paintings are all controlled by Dr. Frasier. Appropriate, naturally, since he is her husband. When we heard she'd been in an accident, an accident that she herself caused, there were some who thought she was dying and thus Dr. Frasier would inherit the paintings and then they would never leave the museum.”

“I'm not dead, Mr. Monk.”

“I can see that you're not, Mrs. Frasier, but the fact is that you aren't as well as you should be to have charge of such expensive and unique paintings.”

Savich said, “I assure you that Mrs. Frasier is mentally competent and is legally entitled to do whatever she wishes to with the paintings. Unless you have some court order to the contrary?”

Mr. Monk looked momentarily flummoxed, then, “A court order! Yes, that's it, a court order is what's required.”

“Why?” said Savich.

“Well, a court could decide whether she's capable of making decisions of this magnitude.”

Sherlock patted his shoulder. “Hmm, nice suit. I'm sorry, Mr. Monk, as this seems to be quite upsetting to you, but she is under no such obligation to you. I suppose you could try to get her declared incompetent, but you would lose, and I'm sure it would create quite a stir in the local papers.”

“Oh, no, I wouldn't do that. What I mean is that I suppose then that everything is all right, but you understand, I have to call Dr. Frasier. He has been dealing with everything. I haven't spoken to Mrs. Frasier even once over all the months the paintings have been here.”

Savich pulled out his wallet, showed Mr. Monk his ID, and said, “Why don't we go to your office and make that phone call?”