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Authors: Iris Johansen

Tags: #Fiction, #Thrillers, #Suspense, #Crime

Eight Days to Live (3 page)

BOOK: Eight Days to Live
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Jane was smiling as she got on the elevator. Celine might not be in before dawn, but she’d be up and working in her gallery by nine. As for Jane, she’d be packing and perhaps spending a few hours walking around Paris before she met Celine for dinner. She loved
this city though she never felt totally at home here. It was too sparkling and effervescent. She had been much more at home in Scotland at MacDuff’s Run though the castle’s grandeur should have intimidated her. Particularly since her time there had been filled with the overwhelming threat engendered by that bastard, Reilly, and his hunt for MacDuff’s lost treasure.

Why had she suddenly thought of MacDuff’s Run? Why not the lake cottage back in Atlanta?

It must have been Celine talking about the painting and her lust for MacDuff. He had obviously impressed her. Why not? MacDuff was an impressive man, and the force of his personality was pure magnetism. She wasn’t sure that Celine had believed her when she’d told her that she hadn’t gone to bed with MacDuff. Their relationship had consisted of part ally, part adversary in the past few years. Whenever they were together, he ignited a response in her that always put her on the defensive. She didn’t need MacDuff in her life.

The elevator opened, and she stepped out into Celine’s apartment. All blues and creams and Louis XV furniture and gorgeous bronze mirrors. Restful, but exquisite. All Celine. Not at all Jane. She’d be glad to get back to the U.S. and the simplicity and comfort of her own apartment.

Day after tomorrow. She’d already made her flight reservations.

For now, shower, crawl into the bed that looked like Marie Antoinette had probably slept in it.

In a few minutes Celine would probably be at a club, flitting from table to table like the butterfly to which Jane had mentally compared her.

Jane didn’t envy her at all.

JANE’S CELL PHONE
was ringing.

She reached out sleepily for the phone on the nightstand.

“Whore.”

She was jerked wide-awake at the hoarse male voice.

“Bitch.”

“Who is this?”

“Blasphemer.”

An obscene caller. She was about to hang up when something occurred to her. “How did you get my cell number, you creep?”

“Liar.”

“I’m going to hang up. And then I’m going to call the police and see if they can trace you.”

“They won’t be able to do it. I have all the angels of paradise on my side.”

“I don’t believe angels would have anything to do with a slime-ball like you. You’d better check your information.”

“You sit there spitting foulness at me in your little cocoon above the gallery of sin, Jane MacGuire. You think you’re safe.”

A chill went through her. Gallery. This was no random obscene call. He was speaking in English. He knew where she was. Who she was. “I am safe.”

“Not from me. Not from us.”

“Who are you?”

“I’ve left a calling card at the front door. Come and get it.”

“No way.”

“Never mind. I see a taxi coming down the street. It may be the whore who runs this gallery. I’ll give my card to her.”

He hung up.

Celine.

She jumped out of bed and ran to the window overlooking the street. There was a taxi drawing to the curb across the street.

Damn. Damn. Damn.

She’d be stupid if she went down and opened that door.

But if she didn’t, then that bastard who had called her might attack Celine when she finished paying the driver and came into the vestibule of the gallery.

She dialed Celine’s number.

No answer.

Dammit, she wished she had a gun. But it was just too difficult traveling with even licensed firearms through airport security. So compromise. Call the police and tell them she suspected an intruder, then go downstairs and talk to that son of a bitch through the door and try to distract him.

She ran to the kitchen, grabbed a butcher knife, and ran toward the elevator. What the hell was the French version of 911?

THE GALLERY WAS DARK
. Celine must have turned out the lights when she had put on the alarm before she left.

Jane froze for a second as she stepped out of the elevator.

The carved oak door of the front entrance was directly across the room from where she was standing.

She could see the headlights of the taxi through the plate-glass window to the right of the door.

Stay where you are, Celine. Don’t get out of the taxi.

She ran across the room.

Distract him. Quick.

When she was close enough to be heard, she stopped, and called, “I’m here. Are you out there, scum?”

Nothing.

“You’re brave on the telephone. Talk to me, bastard.”

Silence.

Had he gone away, or was he waiting for Celine to come toward the door?

And then the front door began to slowly open.

She froze.

But it couldn’t be opening. The door was locked, and the alarm would have gone off.

She took a step back, her grasp tightening on the butcher knife.

Someone was there
.

A dark form was silhouetted against the dim glow of the streetlight.

Her heart was pounding. Where the hell were the police?

“Blasphemer.” He stepped forward. “He told me to wait for you. I’m trying to wait, but it’s an agony. Come to me.” He had something in his hand, something dark and pointed. “Surely the angels will forgive me.”

“I’ve called the police. They’ll be here any minute.” Dear God, he was big. But she had the knife, knew karate, and if that wasn’t a gun in his hand, she might be able to—”

He sprang toward her.

She sidestepped, then sprang forward, and the edge of her hand came down on the side of his neck. It was only a glancing blow, but he staggered and almost fell. She ran past him and out into the street.

The taxi. Warn Celine.

“Celine! Stay where you are. Don’t come—”

A hand grasped her shoulder, spun her around. “Bitch.” That bastard had followed her from the gallery. He was raising his hand with the odd-shaped weapon. Her foot lashed out and connected between his legs.

He screamed but didn’t release her.

She’d have to use the knife.

He suddenly arched violently backward and cried out.

What was hap—?

Then she saw the gleam of metal as a dagger exited his chest.

Someone was behind him. In the darkness, she could only make out a man, tall, lean, powerful.

“Jane.”

He knew her name, but so had the bastard on the phone. Her hand tightened on the butcher knife. She stiffened, waiting.

The man who had attacked her was falling to the street.

“Don’t make me take the knife away from you, Jane. You’d fight, and I might hurt you.”

She knew that voice and that faint Scottish accent. Relief poured through her as her gaze flew to his face. “Jock?” She stared at him in bewilderment as she lowered the knife. “What are you doing here?”

“At the moment, cleaning up Venable’s mistakes.” Jock Gavin was bending over the man lying before them, going through his pockets. “And trying to get a step ahead of the police I hear a few blocks away. You called them?”

“Yes.” She could hear the sirens, too, now. Relief was surging through her. The police were coming. Jock was here, everything would be all right. She could trust Jock. At times she felt as if they had been closer than brother and sister.

He flipped open the man’s wallet. “Henri Folard.”

She was suddenly jarred out of her shock. “Oh God, you killed him, Jock.”

“Yes.”

“You’ll get in trouble. I could only report an obscene caller. I don’t even know if we can even prove he was trying to attack me. I know you were only trying to help me, but you have to get out of here.”

“No. Tell them I was up there in the suite already, and I came down to protect you until the police got here.”

“But we can’t prove he was any threat to me. It was only an obscene—”

“We can prove it, Jane,” Jock said gently. “Look at the door.”

“Door? What are you talking about?” Jock’s hands were on her shoulders, gently turning her to face the gallery, to face the huge oak door that had slowly swung open to reveal the man who had attacked her. “What has—”

She lifted her head and looked at the door, which had swung back closed from the weight of the burden it carried. The burden that was now illuminated by the streetlight.


No!
Oh, God in heaven, no!”

Celine Denarve, still dressed in her flamboyant red cloak, stared back at Jane, her face frozen and contorted with pain and horror. She had been nailed to a cross that had been fixed to the oak door by a huge crucifix nail. There were nails in her palms and feet.

There was another nail piercing her chest.

Jane screamed.

TWO


EASY.” JOCK TURNED JANE
around, and his hand pressed her head to his shoulder. “You were going to see her anyway, and I wanted you to get it over with before the police got here. Now don’t look at her again.”

“He . . . killed . . . her.” She still couldn’t understand it. “But she was in the taxi. I ran down from the apartment to distract him. He wouldn’t have had time to—” She buried her head in Jock’s shoulder. “She was in the taxi.”

“No. It was a trick to get you down here. There were two of them. Someone else was driving the taxi. I saw him pulling away after I killed Folard.”

She couldn’t comprehend it. “It was a trick?”

“What he did to her had to take a while. He had to have her keys and the alarm code. He probably grabbed her earlier in the evening. If he hadn’t been able to lure you down, he would have run the risk of going upstairs after you.”

She had a memory of Celine going out the door with her red silk cape flying behind her. “He was waiting for her, stalking her?”

“Yes, it’s likely. You were the big game, but they wanted you to
see what they had done to her before they took you. I’d bet he’d been given his orders not to kill you tonight. But when you fought him, you were just an irresistible temptation.” He tilted his head, listening. “I think that’s the police just down the block. They should be here any minute.”

“Venable,” she said suddenly. “You mentioned Venable. He’s CIA.” She’d dealt with Venable and the CIA years ago when she’d been trying to keep him from taking Jock into custody after he’d been hospitalized. The experience had not given her any overwhelming sense of trust in the agency. But his appearance in her life at this time and place made everything even more bizarre. “What’s he got to do with this?”

“I’m working for him right now.”

“The CIA? You? Why would you be—”

“Later.”

Yes, later. She couldn’t think through this veil of horror surrounding her anyway.

Celine was dead. Celine had been butchered.

She dazedly tried to fight her way through the fog. “Why did this happen? I don’t understand any of this, Jock.”

“I know you don’t. It’s going to be okay, Jane.” He turned her to face the police car that was pulling up to the curb across the street. “I’ll give Venable a call and see if he can pull strings to make it any easier for you. But it should be pretty clear to the local gendarmes that this was self-defense. Folard even has the spike he was thinking of using on you in his hand.”

She had noticed something dark and pointed, but in the dimness she hadn’t recognized it as a spike. She felt sick as she remembered the spike in Celine’s chest. Was Foulard going to drive the one clutched in his hand into Jane’s heart? “She was such a good person. I liked her, Jock. We were friends.”

He nodded. “I know it’s difficult for you. I’ll try to get you through this as quickly as possible.”

Get her through it? He was worried about Jane. What about Celine, who had been full of joy and life only hours before?

Don’t look at her. Think of her as she’d been before she’d walked out of the gallery, laughing, joking.

Not the brilliant, helpless butterfly pinned to that door.

DAMMIT
to hell.

Millet’s hands tightened on the steering wheel of the taxi as fury tore through him. He should have grabbed the bitch himself instead of relying on Folard. He hadn’t thought there would be a problem, and it was smart to let his men have a small part in this taking.

But Folard had failed. He had let her triumph. He had let Jock Gavin triumph. That son of a bitch had appeared out of nowhere.

Jock Gavin. Millet had last seen him yesterday in Rome, but here he was in Paris, interfering, putting himself between Millet and Jane MacGuire. He should have known better than to think that Gavin could be trusted when he’d accepted him into the Sang Noir. Betrayal.

He drew a deep breath and tried to control himself. It would still go well. He would continue with the grand plan and find a way to take Jane MacGuire as soon as possible. She was not only his revenge, she was to be his salvation.

But his stomach was clenching at the thought of the delay. Celine Denarve’s agony had only whetted his appetite.

He wanted Jane MacGuire.

He needed her
now
.

BOOK: Eight Days to Live
9.82Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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