Avenging Angels (16 page)

“They’re back at the office,” Bree improvised. “Ron’s working late tonight, and he feels more comfortable with them around.” Actually, she wasn’t sure what had happened to Miles and Belli. When she’d left Tully’s house, they weren’t at their accustomed spot under her office window. Sasha didn’t seem to know where they were, either.

Antonia dumped the chicken and rice from the fridge into the dog food bowl, mixed the whole of it up with a spoon, and then sat down on the floor next to Sasha as he ate his dinner. “Tell me exactly what Anthony said,” she ordered. “From the top.”

“At the moment, he doesn’t have a spot in mind for you. He does need an assistant stage manager.”

“What plays are they staging this season?”

“I have no idea.”

“If
he
has no idea, then how come he knows he doesn’t have a role for me?”

“If,” Bree said, a dangerous note in her voice, “you don’t shut up about this right now, you are going to be really, really sorry. I said I had no idea about the plays and I don’t. The ball’s in your court. Call him up. Again. Ask to see him. Again. And tell him you’re willing to handle the tech part. Or don’t. I don’t care.”

The silence in the kitchen stretched on a bit. Antonia got to her feet and then sat across the table from Bree. “Sorry,” she said.

“It’s okay.”

“It’s just so frustrating! No one will give me a chance!”

Bree sighed. “Now I’m the one that’s sorry. You’ve chosen a tough life for yourself, sister. I’m helping the best I can.”

“And I’m being an ungrateful witch, as usual.” Antonia stared into space for a moment then sighed from the bottom of her heart. “Thank you for talking to him, though. It’s better than nothing.”

“It’s way better than nothing,” Bree said stoutly. “It’s a definite maybe.”

Antonia grinned. “True. And a bird in the hand, blah, blah, blah. I’ll call him. So Tully’s hired you to look into her husband’s murder?”

“Yep.”

“Do you think he was murdered? It’s going to be like those other two cases, where the dead guys turned out to be victims after all?”

“I think so,” Bree said cautiously.

“And you saw Dr. Lowry this morning.”

“I did.” Bree sat up. The morning seemed very far away. Then, with some indignation, she said, “And what’s with getting me an appointment with the county coroner, anyway?”

“She’s the county coroner?”

“One of the assistants,” Bree amended. “Part-time. She said she likes that a lot better than live patients.”

“She did not.” Antonia started to giggle.

“She did so.”

“I wonder where Aunt Cissy dug her up.” Antonia’s giggles turned into whoops of laughter. “Get it?”

“I get it,” Bree said. Her little sister could always cheer her up. When she wasn’t driving her absolutely crazy. “As for Cissy? Who knows? But I’m fine. Better than fine. Apparently I’m in better shape than I’ve ever been.” Bree flexed her biceps. “Superb reaction times, extra-low blood pressure, which is good. An athlete, that’s me.”

“No kidding?” Antonia put her hand out and squeezed Bree’s wrist. “I’m glad, sister. I guess I got the wind up over nothing.”

“And,” Bree said, rather smugly, “I’ve got a date.”

“Get out! With who?” Antonia’s eyes sparkled. “Tony Haddad?”

“Uh-oh,” Bree said. “I guess I’ve got two dates. Hunter asked me to a basketball game and Tony asked me out for a glass of wine. I’d better cancel Tony.”

“Wrong! You start sleeping with Tony, it’ll help get me a part.”

“I’m not going to start sleeping with anybody, just yet,” Bree said. “And anyhow, the way this case is shaping up, I’m not going to have time to breathe, much less cavort.”

“Oh, well, work,” Antonia said dismissively. “By the way, there were a couple of messages for you. Ron said he checked into the leasing arrangements for Uncle Franklin’s office, and they look good. Two thousand a month, furnished, and you can move in right away. And how come your cell phone was off? Petru wanted to know that, not me.”

“Two thousand a month,” Bree said. “Ouch.” She hoped Tully’s retainer check was good. “And my cell battery’s dead. I think it’s time to get a new cell phone.”

Antonia, her mouth full of the remaining chicken and rice, wandered out of the kitchen and back again. “Are you going to have two offices? Don’t you have a lease with what’s-her-name—Mrs. Mather?”

“Uncle Franklin’s office is more convenient for clients,” Bree said evasively.

“I’ll say. Nobody I know seems to be able to find Angelus Street.” The carton was empty of chicken and rice. Antonia dumped it in the sink and started on a banana from the bowl of fruit on the counter.

As things were right now, no clients walked into the office on Angelus Street, which was fine with Bree, since the only clients who could were dead. A fact, Petru had once said, that was all part of the routine at Beaufort & Company. The suspects in Russell O’Rourke’s murder were all alive, well, and kicking, though, and Tully was going to send them to see Bree, one by one. So she needed the second office for her live clients.

Bree looked at the kitchen clock. Nine o’clock. She’d left Tully’s, gone for a workout at the gym, and then eaten a salad at B. Matthew’s across the street. It’d be hours before she was sleepy enough to go to bed.

“I think I’m going to take a look at the place now. Want to come along?”

“To look at office space?” Antonia made a face. “Yuck. I’m going to memorize lines. Don’t be too late, okay? When you come back I want you to run them with me. You said the final scene from
The Winter’s Tale
? That’s what everyone has to prepare?”

“I spoke to the stage manager before I left Tully’s house. That what she said.”

“Phooey. I suppose I should prepare both Paulina and Hermione.”

“I suppose.”

“You haven’t got a clue about either part, do you?”

“Nope,” Bree said cheerfully. “But you’ll be brilliant as either one. Or as tech director. Come on, Sash. Let’s take a walk.” Bree slung her raincoat over her arm, grabbed her purse, and let Sasha precede her out the kitchen door. The huge old brick building was four city blocks away on Bay, and it was a fine November night. Sasha kept the panhandlers that had plagued Savannah in recent years from begging for handouts, so Bree didn’t have to make sure she had dollar bills at hand. She snapped the lead on her dog, in case any city patrolmen decided to enforce the leash law, and walked out into the night.

The air was pleasantly cool and the sidewalks were filled with other people: office workers headed for home after restaurant dinner, students from the nearby Savannah College of Arts and Design, city dwellers out with their dogs for an evening’s walk.

Uncle Franklin’s former office stood at Bay and Drayton, close to Johnson Square. The main entrance faced Drayton and the Bank of America on the opposite side of the street. From her vantage point on the sidewalk, Bree could see that a dozen or so windows were lit up. People were working late.

It’d been a warehouse for the Cotton Exchange in 1820, and the brick walls had weathered the nearly two hundred years since then pretty well. The recent renovation had been thorough: many of the rotten floor joists had been replaced, the brick had been sandblasted and then pointed, and the terrazzo tile floors in the foyer sanded down and refinished. Bree buzzed the security guard seated at the kiosk just inside the double glass doors and he let her in with an amiable smile.

“I’m not a tenant,” she said, “not yet. I’m here to see 616. Someone from my office was in earlier today to take a look. Ronald Parchese?”

The guard flipped open the registry, and Bree placed her finger on Ron’s signature. “There he is.”

“Building manager’s gone home,” the guard said. “And I’m supposed to sit here all the while. You mind going up on your own?” He smiled over the edge of the counter at Sasha. “No one going to bother you with that fine fellow along, anyways.”

“It’ll be no trouble at all, thank you.” Bree took the ornate brass key—the Historical Society must have insisted that the owners keep the old-fashioned Yale locks—and headed over to the elevators. A directory hung between the two elevators, and she scanned the addresses to get a better idea of her neighbors. An architect or two. A couple of physicians. A few county offices. And lawyers, lots of lawyers, including a small office division of Stubblefield, Marwick. Bree made a sound like “Bleaagh.”

“You okay over there?” The guard called out.

“Just saw a familiar name on the board. Payton McAllister?”

“Oh,” said the guard discouragingly. “Him. Yeah. He’s here two days a week from his big fancy offices over on Abercorn and Park. You know him?”

Wish I didn’t,
Bree thought.
And it sounds like you don’t like him much, either.
The guard was clearly a man of taste and discretion if he didn’t like Payton McAllister. She’d gotten over being dumped by the good-looking weasel with the ethics of Joseph Goebbels. “I know him just to say good-bye to,” Bree said cheerily. “Ah-ha! Here’s my elevator car. Thank you!”

The elevator doors slid open with a whoosh. Bree peered in cautiously. It would be just her luck that Payton the Rat would be working late and decide to leave just as she was headed up to her new offices.

“Not here,” Bree said. “Good.” She looked down at Sasha and indicated the empty car with a sweep of her hand. “After you.”

The sixth floor was dark, except for the night-lights placed at intervals along the hallway. Number 616 was halfway down. Bree had been in the office many times when her great-uncle Franklin was alive, and only once since his death. She’d been on the trail of a murderer then, too. The place smelled of fresh Sheetrock, new paint, and floor polish. Bree was wearing a pair of Borgs, and the faint sounds of her footsteps were swallowed up by the dense silence. The office doors were all alike: mahogany with a pebbled glass upper half. The names of the firms were painted in black Gothic-style lettering on the glass: J. P. WRIGHT, COURT STENOGRAPHER; ALLAN QUANTICO, INC.

The upper half of the door to 616 was blank.

Bree inserted the key into the lock. Suddenly Sasha growled, low in his throat. He nudged himself between Bree and the door.

She stepped back. “What is it, Sash?”

“Something bad?” Bree ventured. She’d never been a fan of those Gothic novels where the clueless heroine clatters down to the basement dressed in a nightgown and without a cell phone.

Bree waited a long moment. She looked up and down the hallway. It was still deserted. But nothing lurked in the shadows. And outside on the street were cheerful night sounds: people talking, the sound of cars moving along Bay Street, a siren or two in the distance. She realized she didn’t have her cell phone because the battery was dead. On the other hand, she was dressed in sweats and her Borgs, and she could run like hell if she needed to.

“Okay?” she said to her dog.

Bree pushed the door open and stepped inside.

She was in absolute darkness.

And wherever she was, it was huge. Miles and miles of nothing. Space soared above her. She could sense nothing but vast emptiness on either side. The ground was damp and gave slightly beneath her feet. Then, a faint white smudge at the farthest edge of the horizon.

And it was moving toward her.

Sasha panted into the eerie silence. He was confused. Uncertain. Bree cast a look over her shoulder.

There was blackness behind her, too.

The white mass slowed, whirling like a top, and then floated in midair. Bree couldn’t say for certain how far it was from her, but the shape was close enough for her to make sense of it.

“Franklin?” Bree said. Her voice dropped into the stillness like a stone. She was aware of stretching out her hand, aware of taking a step forward.

The voice was no more than a whisper. But she was sure it was his. Wasn’t it?

To her left, something immense slid forward then stopped. Waited. The dark and quiet pressed down, pulling all the air from her lungs.

She heard the sound of wings. A slow, ominous flapping.

Something circled overhead. Then plunged at her. She ducked and fell back.

Bree groped in the dark for Sasha’s head, needing the reassurance.

A second voice, heavy as iron, cold as the grave, and huge, tremendous with power. And nothing human about it. The handful of white mist shrank to nothing. Then a pustulant yellow-green river of light formed at Bree’s feet and curled upward, looking for her. The air was rank with the smell of corpses. There was a snarl (not Sasha!), a monstrous roar, and hell broke loose around her. Something slashed at her arm—and Bree leaped back . . .

And fell, spiraling down, down, down while the blackness and the roaring and the stench filled her head and she stopped thinking altogether.