Eight Days to Live (6 page)

“Or wickedness, profanity . . .” MacDuff said. “But it does sound a bit odd.”

She was remembering something else. “And when he attacked me, he said something about the angels of paradise having to forgive him for his impatience.”

“If he was on the side of the angels, it must be one hell of a weird heaven,” MacDuff said dryly.

“But it sounds as if he believed he was doing something he thought was right.” She reached up and ran her fingers through her hair. “I don’t know why I’m trying to take his motives apart. He had to be crazy to have done that horrible thing to Celine. What difference does it make if he thought all the angels in heaven would cheer if he crucified me as he did Celine?”

“It might make a difference. It’s certainly unusual.”

“But knowing it’s unusual and being able to decipher it are two separate things. Which leaves me as much in the dark as when I started.” She got to her feet. “I can’t think right now. I’m going to take a shower and call Eve, then go to bed.”

“Call Eve?” MacDuff said. “You’re going to tell her? It will only make her concerned. I’ve arranged to keep your name out of the media.”

“Joe’s a cop. We can’t be sure he wouldn’t stumble on it somehow. I can’t take a chance they’ll find out and be worried.” But she’d probably try to downplay the threat to herself. Though how to do that was a mystery. Eve was too sharp and would see through her. “And that police inspector said it would be okay if I left here tomorrow. I’m going to be on a plane by tomorrow night.”

“You’re going back to Atlanta?” MacDuff asked. “To visit your Eve and Joe?”

The lake cottage. Joe. Eve. It all beckoned with irresistible allure. “Yes, for a little while.”

“Do you think that’s wise?”

“Why not?”

He didn’t answer.

Celine pinned to the door, her face contorted with pain
.

Her hands closed into fists. “Damn you. No, it’s not wise. It’s not safe for me to be around anyone until I find out what’s going on. I’ll go to my apartment in New York instead.”

“You could come home with me,” MacDuff said. “You like it at the Run.”

She shook her head.

“Why not?” Jock asked. “MacDuff will take care of you. I’ll be there, too, if you’ll have me. I haven’t been home in a long time.”

“I don’t want MacDuff to take—” She broke off. Jock would never really understand. He was accustomed to the Laird caring for him, his family, and half the county. He had changed, become much more independent, but old ways died hard. “I’m going back to the U.S.” She started for the bedroom. “And, please, stay away from Venable, Jock. Don’t let him talk you into doing anything like this again.”

He didn’t answer, and she glanced back over her shoulder.

He smiled, that beautiful, gentle smile that had first drawn her
to him when he was a boy scarcely out of his teens. “Things aren’t good for you, Jane. I have to make them better.”

She shook her head helplessly. In his way, he was an implacable force on the same scale as MacDuff. “Good night.”

She closed the bedroom door firmly behind her.

“
YOU HAVE TO MAKE SURE
that she goes to the Run,” Jock said, as the door closed behind Jane. “We can protect her there.”

“
I
have to do it,” MacDuff repeated. “You’re the one Jane’s always tried to care for. You persuade her.”

“But you wouldn’t like it,” Jock said. “You always have to run things. It’s your nature. It would bother you.” He smiled slyly. “I wouldn’t want to bother the Laird. It’s not my place.”

“You bastard,” MacDuff said. “It wasn’t your place to pull us all into this mire, either.”

“No, it was my duty.” Jock’s smile faded. “I think a lot about duty these days. It gives me a kind of structure to hold on to. I have a duty to you, a duty to my friends, and a duty to my country.”

And Jock needs structure after all he went through, MacDuff thought. “Duty is a hell of a reason to hit one of Venable’s targets for him.”

“It’s as good a reason as any.” He looked back at the door. “It was all about Jane. Try to take her home with you.”

“And if I don’t, you’ll be hovering over her and doing God knows what.”

“Yes,” Jock said. “And so will you. Neither of us wants to see Jane nailed to a door like that poor woman.”

MacDuff was silent a moment. “This Jack Millet who’s head of the Sang Noir. You said that you only knew what Venable had told you about him. But you were with the group long enough to take a measure of the man. What was your impression?”

“Ugly,” Jock said. “He’s smart. Or maybe cunning is the word. He’s definitely into power. He handpicked the men in the group, and he keeps them under his thumb. They’re afraid to step out of line.” He nodded. “And dirty. You can’t imagine how dirty. Or maybe you can after what I told you about that kid in the brothel. And a little crazy. You can tell, he burns with it. We have to keep that filth from touching Jane.” He turned away. “Now I’m going outside and take a stroll around and make sure that the area is secure.”

“It’s not necessary. The police will probably still be outside.”

“I know. But I can’t trust them.” He got on the elevator. “Duty . . .”

Even MacDuff couldn’t understand why he was being so over-careful, Jock thought, as the elevator doors closed. The Laird knew him better than anyone in the world, but he hadn’t been in that room years ago when Jane had risked her life to pull him out of almost catatonic darkness into the light. Thomas Reilly had kidnapped and brainwashed him to become the assassin he could use to do his killings. When he had broken free, the posthypnotic suicide suggestion had kicked in and almost destroyed him. He had disobeyed and, therefore, had to put an end to himself. Jane had not been able to fight the suggestion with sympathy and understanding, so she had circled and gone at it with an aggression that could have been fatal.

At that moment, he’d been swirling down, locked in silence,
trying to fight against that bastard Reilly’s mental conditioning, but he’d probably never been more volatile or lethal. Before Jane had left the room that night his hands had tightened on her throat, and he’d come close to choking her before he’d realized what he was doing. She’d had to cover her neck for days to hide the bruises so that no one could see what he’d done to her.

Later, when he’d fought back to normalcy, he’d realized that Jane might have been his savior, but she was no saint. She was honest and passionately caring, but she was mule-stubborn. She was smart, but she didn’t suffer fools gladly. Because of her street upbringing, she was cynical and had trouble trusting in any relationship.

But none of that mattered.

She was his friend.

And no one was ever going to hurt her.

“COME HOME,” EVE URGED JANE.
“Get on the next plane. I’ll meet you at the airport.”

“I’m leaving here, but I’m going back to New York.” Jane paused. “It will be okay, Eve. Stop worrying.”

“I will worry. So will Joe. Come home so that we can take care of you,” Eve said. “This is incredibly ugly. We’ll get through it together.”

“I’ll keep in touch.”

“That’s not good enough.” Eve didn’t speak for a minute. “I’m feeling helpless. I don’t like to feel helpless. If you don’t come to us, I’m going to come to you.”

“No,” Jane said sharply. All she needed was to have Eve involved in this nightmare. “I’ll work it out.”

Eve hesitated. “You say MacDuff is there?”

“And Jock. Venable is giving me protection. I don’t need you, Eve.”

“You mean you don’t want me involved. I believe I’ve said that to you on occasion. It didn’t do me any good, did it?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “At least, you’re safe while MacDuff and Jock are with you. We’ll talk tomorrow.” She was silent a moment. “I’m sorry about your friend, Celine. You told me you liked her very much.”

“I did,” Jane said. “You would have liked her, too, Eve.”

“Does she have a family?”

“Only a sister, Yvette, who lives in Lyon. I had to call her a few hours ago and tell her about Celine. She was almost hysterical. She’s coming to Paris tomorrow morning. I have to stay until tomorrow night and see if I can help her deal with things at the gallery. There are all those paintings of mine that Celine sold tonight. At least, I know where she keeps the records. She has a part-time assistant, Marie, who may be able to help Yvette with the rest of the final details.”

Final. When several hours before Celine had all her life before her and had thought death was somewhere far in the distant future.

That realization had returned and was hitting hard. She had to get off the phone before she broke down. “I’m going to bed now, Eve. I’ll be fine. I’ll let you know if there are any problems.”

“We’ll talk tomorrow,” Eve repeated. “Good night, Jane.”

That last sentence had sounded very firm and held all the determination she was familiar with in Eve, Jane thought as she hung up. She had known that would be Eve’s reaction. Their relationship had been more as best friends than mother and daughter all these years, but Eve could display a tigerish maternal protectiveness when the people she cared about were threatened.

Jane had tried to downplay that threat, but how could she do that when Celine’s ugly death loomed over her like a poised guillotine?

She would have to think of something to keep Eve away from her. That guillotine must never threaten Eve. But right now, her mind wasn’t functioning very well. She turned toward the bathroom. Take a shower. Get to bed and try to sleep. Heaven knows, she was exhausted. Maybe when she woke, everything would become clear to her.

Or at least a little less clouded.

SHE MIGHT BE EXHAUSTED
but there was no way that she was going to sleep, Jane realized.

She had been lying here in this bed for fifteen minutes, and neither her muscles nor her mind would release their tension.

The darkness is overpowering, Jane thought, as she stared up at the ceiling. This guest room had seemed friendly, soothing, all the other nights she had spent in Celine’s apartment.

Or maybe it was the memory of what had happened downstairs that was overpowering. She couldn’t get away from the picture of Celine on that door.

Hideous.

She closed her eyes and tried to block it out, once more remember Celine as she had been earlier in the evening. So full of vitality. So full of joy.

The tears were suddenly running down her cheeks. She had felt numb before, unable to comprehend anything beyond the horror. But now the horror was fading, and the sheer tragedy of that vibrant woman whose life had been taken was with her.

Damn that bastard.

And if MacDuff and Jock were right, then Celine had died because she had been connected to Jane. Why? It didn’t make any more sense to her now than it had when MacDuff had first told her.

She huddled down in the bed and closed her eyes as sobs shook her body. Celine . . .

What was she doing? she thought with sudden self-disgust. Next she’d be covering her head with the covers. She had lost a friend, but Celine had lost her life. She wiped her eyes and struggled to sit up in bed. Okay, stop whimpering and start thinking. Figure it out. She wasn’t going to be sleeping anyway.

First step.

Find out why she had been targeted.

Blasphemer. Very flimsy. But, if it had meaning at all, what sacrilege had she supposedly committed?

She shook her head in frustration. Who knew what small infraction might be interpreted as sacrilege to a fanatic?

All right, then go to step two.

The newspaper story that Venable had gotten from his informant and the identical copies that Jock had said other members of the Sang Noir been given. Since Jane had no previous contact with the group, was there something in the article that might have triggered that crazy act? What had she said to the reporter? Was there some quote from her that had started the nightmare? She couldn’t even remember any of the questions the journalist had asked her. She was never very patient with interviews. She knew that publicity was necessary, but she always thought that her work should speak for itself. There was no telling if that impatience might have translated into a less-than-diplomatic answer.

She turned on the light and threw the covers aside. There was
no use wondering when she had the article itself. She had tossed the newspaper on the chest by the door when she had come into the bedroom.

Her own photo smiled up at her from the page. She actually looked friendly and approachable. She vaguely remembered Celine’s joking with the photographer and making faces at Jane.

Celine, again.

She drew a shaky breath and started scanning the text. Nothing controversial, actually pretty boring. How long had she been painting? She had a mixture of portraits and landscapes in the show. Which did she prefer doing? Why had she painted MacDuff’s Run? Did she have an intimate relationship with the earl? That one had almost made her lose her temper. She was always getting that question, and she’d almost stopped putting the painting on exhibit to avoid it. But Celine had begged her to bring the painting to Paris because the speculation alone would help the show. Good business, she had said. It had been Celine’s wheedling that had made MacDuff’s Run a part of the twenty paintings in the gallery downstairs.

No, there was nothing that she could see in the article itself that would offend anyone. She glanced at the photos of the paintings that marched vertically down the page. That was the only part of the article she’d been happy with. All in color, all a decent-enough size to show detail.
Storm Morning
. A landscape she’d done in southern France.
MacDuff’s Run
.

Silhouette at the Lake
. A shadow picture of Eve framed against a blazing sunset on the lake.
Child at the Circus
. A little boy with cotton candy and huge dark eyes wide with wonder.
Guilt
, the portrait that Celine had tried to persuade her to—

Guilt
.

She stiffened. She was looking for unusual, and the offer tonight
had definitely been out of the ordinary. Even Celine had thought that the amount of money the computer executive had offered was mind-blowing.