Читать книгу Let the Dead Sleep - Heather Graham, Heather Graham - Страница 7

Chapter One

IT WAS SPRING in New Orleans, a beautiful April day, and Angus Cafferty had been dead for three months the afternoon Michael Quinn followed the widow, Gladys Simon, to The Cheshire Cat, an antiques and curio store on Royal Street.

The house itself, now a shop, was one of the few buildings that had survived the Great New Orleans Fire of 1788 that had destroyed 856 buildings—followed by the fire of 1794 that destroyed another 212. It was one of the only structures from the mid-1700s that remained on Royal Street. It had a two-storied facade, with an inner courtyard and balconies surrounding the building streetside. He knew the layout of the old building; the original parlor, study and dining rooms were set up as the shop’s display area, while the old pantry was Danielle Cafferty’s studio. The basement was not really a basement at all. This was New Orleans, and even on high ground, the basement was just the lowest level of the house. Six steps led up from the street, and courtyard entries led to the porches and the house. The shop’s basement was filled with treasures Angus had collected and kept away from the view of others. Upstairs, above the store, were the office and a small apartment used by the Cafferty family. Billie McDougall slept in the attic, ever watchful, while a second street entry, which had once been a carriage house, was now a two-car garage.

Following Gladys Simon was easy; Quinn was directly behind her and she was oblivious. He felt like a stalker, having to trail her like this, but when he’d discovered that morning that she had the bust, he’d tried to see her. According to her housekeeper, she refused to see anyone. No amount of cajoling had gotten him in.

He’d waited outside her house, but she’d run to her car, turning away when he’d begun to speak to her. All he could do was follow—and pray that she was going to the curio shop.

She approached the shop and so did Quinn, practically on her heels. As they entered, he saw Billie reading a book behind the counter and Jane Pearl, the clerk and bookkeeper, walking up the stairs, presumably going to her office. She paused, however, when she heard the door open.

Gladys Simon was unaware of her surroundings. She headed straight to the old mahogany bar that had been refashioned into a sales counter. Quinn stepped in right after her and feigned great interest in a grandfather clock that was situated just inside the front door.

Billie might have been perfectly cast as Riff Raff in a Rocky Horror remake or as an aging Ichabod Crane. He was as skinny as his mentor and employer had been robust. Billie had steel-gray eyes and a shock of neck-length white hair and was dressed in jeans and a Grateful Dead T-shirt. He must have been a startling and imposing figure to a Versace-clad and perfectly manicured matron like Gladys Simon.

But Gladys didn’t seem to notice anything about Billie at all. She rushed over to him.

“You buy antiquities, unusual items, don’t you? You have to buy the bust from me—you must buy it from me. No, no, you don’t need to buy it. You can have it. Please, come to my house and take the bust away. It belongs in a place like this!”

Billie glanced briefly at Quinn, a frown furrowing his wrinkled brow. “I’d love to help you, ma’am. I’m not the owner, but—”

“Oh, dear! That’s right!” she said with a gasp. “But...the owner died, didn’t he? Oh, please tell me the new owner is available...please! I must... I can’t live with that thing anymore....”

“Now, try to calm down, Mrs....?”

“Simon. Gladys Simon. It was my husband’s. He’s dead now. He’s dead because of that...thing!”

“Please calm down, Mrs. Simon,” he said again. “The object is a bust?”

“Yes, very old—and exquisite, really.”

“You want to give me an old and exquisite piece?” Billie’s voice was incredulous.

“Are you deaf, sir?” she shrieked. “Yes—I must be rid of it!”

By then, the woman’s frantic tone had drawn the new owner from her studio in the back of the store.

Quinn had watched her on the day of Angus Cafferty’s funeral. He had chosen not to approach her then; he had kept his distance when Cafferty was laid to rest in the Scottish vault at the old cemetery—the “City of the Dead,” where he had long stated he would go when the time came. There’d been a piper at the grave site, but Cafferty was accompanied by the traditional New Orleans jazz band and a crowd of friends to his final resting place. He’d been loved by many in the city. Of course, a tourist or two—or ten or twenty—fascinated by the ritual, had joined in, as well. The vaults in the cemetery didn’t allow for the immediate grouping around the grave that was customary at in-ground burials, so he’d been able to hover on the edges of the crowd, paying his own respects from afar.

There was no doubt that the man’s daughter had been devastated. And there was no doubt that she was old Angus’s daughter—she had his startling dark blue eyes and sculpted features, finer and slimmer, but still a face that spoke of her parentage. Her hair was a rich auburn, brushing her shoulders, a color that might well have been Angus’s once—when he’d had pigment in his hair. Despite her grief, she hadn’t seemed fragile or broken, which gave him hope. Though she was slim, she was a good five-nine and might just possess some of the old man’s inner strength.

As she walked to the front of the shop, she was frowning slightly, obviously perplexed by the commotion. She wore jeans and a short-sleeved tailored shirt and somehow appeared casual and yet naturally elegant. She moved with an innate grace.

Gladys heard her coming and turned to her. “You—you’re the owner?”

“Yes, I’m Danni Cafferty. May I help you?”

“Oh, yes, you certainly may. I know your father was intrigued by historic objects. I never met him but I read that his shop acquired the most unusual and...historic objects,” she repeated. “You must come and take the bust.”

“Mrs. Simon, we don’t just take anything.”

“It’s priceless! You must take it.”

“Mrs. Simon, I didn’t say we wouldn’t buy it. It’s that we don’t take things.” Danni looked at the woman, assessing her with a smile. “I can’t believe this is such an emergency that—”

“The bust killed my husband!” Gladys Simon broke in.

Danni raised perfectly arched brows. “Do you mean that...that it was used to strike him? If that’s the case, the bust might well be evidence—”

“No!” Mrs. Simon cried. “You are not your father!”

Danni seemed to freeze, calling on reserves of hard-fought control and dignity. “No, Mrs. Simon, I am not my father. But if you wish to bring this bust in—”

“No! I won’t touch it. You must come and get it.”

Danni mulled that over for a minute, as if she was still fighting for control. Quinn noted that Gladys Simon’s shrill voice had alerted Jane, and the bookkeeper was coming hesitantly down the stairs, one of Angus Cafferty’s ebony nineteenth-century gentleman’s canes in her hands. A good match for Billie—although the two weren’t romantically linked—Jane was slim and straight with iron-gray hair knotted at her nape and gold-rimmed spectacles. She’d been with Angus for the past two years or so, and though she hadn’t been a confidant in the way Billie had, she was fiercely loyal to the Cafferty family.

Jane was ready for whatever danger threatened, but seeing Gladys, her slim frame and near-hysteria, she held her place on the stairs, watching Danni to see if she was needed.

“Mrs. Simon, I’m sorry,” Danni said. “You’re suffering from terrible grief, and I have a lot of empathy for you. But we’re not equipped to handle the psychological stages of that pain. We’re a curio and collectibles shop and—”

“Yes! You must take the bust.”

Danni glanced at Billie, who was following the conversation with unabashed interest.

“Mrs. Simon,” she said gently. “Is there someone we can call? A close friend, a relative? Perhaps a minister or a priest?”

“I need you to take the statue!” Mrs. Simon said. Then she raged at Danni. “Oh, you stupid, stupid girl!”

Danni stiffened at the insult but, to her credit, took a deep breath and refused to reply, shaking her head with sorrow instead. “Let us help you. Let us get you someone who can help you.”

Gladys whirled around, starting for the door.

“Mrs. Simon, if it’s so awful, why didn’t you just get rid of it?” Danni demanded.

Gladys stopped abruptly. She slowly turned around and walked toward her. “Don’t you think I tried? I threw it in the trash, and it was back in the study the next day. I dropped it in a Dumpster on Bourbon Street, and it was back the next day. I buried it—and it was back!”

She was delusional—or so she obviously appeared to Danielle Cafferty.

“Mrs. Simon, really, you need to calm down,” Danni said. “We’ll go over and see the statue. Give me an address and we’ll come this evening. We close at seven.”

A sigh of sheer relief escaped Gladys and she dug into her handbag for a card, which she handed to Danni. “Thank you...thank you. You’ve saved my life!”

“It’s just a bust...a statue...whatever, Mrs. Simon. Please relax. Everything will be fine.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Gladys breathed.

And then she was gone.

Danni picked up the store’s old-fashioned phone. She started dialing as Jane came the rest of the way down the stairs.

“You all right, Danni?” Jane didn’t hide her concern.

“Of course. But I’m worried about that poor woman.”

“Who are you calling?” Billie asked.

“The police,” Danni said. “Someone needs to help that woman—perhaps see that she’s committed. She’s—”

It was time for Quinn to make his move and he did so swiftly, setting his thumb down on the disconnect button before she could dial three digits.

Danni stared at him in total indignation. “What the hell? Who are you—what do you think you’re doing?”

“Don’t call the police just yet. Listen to me. The woman really needs your help. Ask Billie,” Quinn said. “I can try to follow her and get the damned thing, but I’ve already tried to see her and talk to her. She knows about your father and the shop, so you’re the one she needs to trust. You need to go and get the statue. But you don’t have to deal with this alone. I’ll be there.”

Taken aback, she was still angry, but he saw sudden recognition in her smoldering gaze, along with shock and resentment.

Maybe he wasn’t handling this well.

“You...you were at my father’s funeral,” she said.

He nodded. “I was his friend. He was a good man. The best. And you’re doing him a real disservice if you don’t continue his work.”

“His work? His work was this shop and I’m keeping it open. Listen, I’m calling the police. That woman needs professional help—and I don’t believe you’re any more equipped to deal with her than I am,” she said.

“Billie?” Quinn turned to Angus’s long-time assistant.

Billie cleared his throat, looking at Danni. “Um, yeah, I don’t know how to explain it all, but your father would’ve gone out there and seen the statue.”

“Who is he?” she asked Billie, inclining her head toward Quinn.

“He is standing right here. I’m Quinn. Michael Quinn, private investigator.”

“And you’re investigating crazy ladies with statues?” she asked sarcastically.

“You should go see the bust, Danni,” Billie said.

“What’s the matter with both of you? If I don’t call the police, I’ll live with a guilty conscience forever. She’s deranged! She could be a danger to herself and others.”

Quinn stepped back. “By all means, then. Call the police. And maybe they can help her for a few hours—a few days. The danger will continue. I guarantee it.”

“Really? And you’re so sure of this...how?”

“Because I worked with your father on occasion.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t know you,” she told him.

“Um, I do,” Billie said. “I know him.”

“I’ve seen him with your father, too,” Jane murmured. “But I don’t think you should trust him.”

“She should trust him. Yes, she should!” Billie argued. “No offense, Jane, but you were never part of Angus’s real world. You’ve barely been around two years and you’re his bookkeeper, nothing more.”

“Well, I never!” Jane said.

“Jane is a wonderful employee and you will not stand here in my store and insult her!” Danni said indignantly.

“Angus trusted me implicitly,” Jane declared.

“Perhaps,” Quinn said with a shrug. “But that’s not important right now.”

Danni looked at him warily. “You should state your business, your relationship with my father and then leave the store.”

“I helped him. He helped me. I guess Angus wanted to protect you, his little princess,” Quinn said. “Well, it’s a shame and it’s sad and it’s probably too late.” He felt his anger growing, and he wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t really her fault if her father had chosen not to share the depths of his life with her.

But she should have figured out that he wasn’t just a shopkeeper or a collector! How naive could she have been? On the other hand, maybe she hadn’t been that naive. Maybe she’d just been gone too much.

“Like I said, I don’t know you, and I was very close to my father!” she began. “Mrs. Simon is suffering and needs help but understand this—I am not trained or equipped to deal with mental illness, and I rather think you might have some problems in that area yourself—rather than being a person who’s capable of dealing with it!”

“Call the police, then. Like I said, maybe they can at least buy her a few hours.” Although Quinn ignored her insult, he felt his fingers knotting into fists. He had to get out of the shop. There was no chance he’d offer unprovoked violence to anyone but he didn’t want to break anything there. He studied her for a moment and added, “If you come up with some sense, meet me at the Simon house at five. At five—I don’t care if you’ve closed or not. Billie handles the shop, anyway. He doesn’t need you here.”

With that, Quinn turned.

As the door closed behind him, he found himself shaking with emotion.

And some of it was anger.

Some of it was fear. Not for himself. He’d long since learned that fear, in itself, wasn’t a bad thing. But a man’s reaction to fear could be very bad indeed.

He was afraid for the future. He hadn’t realized how much he’d depended on Angus Cafferty.

* * *

Danni watched the stranger leave, puzzled and trembling inwardly with outrage, indignation, a painful sense of loss. And dread...

She’d been working until she’d heard Gladys Simon’s strident voice. Working idly on the finishing touches to a painting. She assumed she’d been inspired by a face she’d seen on the streets of New Orleans. Dignified, aging, attractive, intriguing. But her painting was almost an exact image of the woman who’d come into the shop.

It doesn’t mean anything, she assured herself. It was just a resemblance. There were many such women in the South. Old-school, well-groomed and usually ruled by impeccable manners and propriety.

But...

She turned her thoughts to the man who’d been in the shop—as if he’d followed Gladys in, as if he’d known why she was coming. Yes, she’d seen him at the funeral. He’d interested her. He hadn’t exactly been hiding, but he’d kept his distance from the family and other mourners. It would be difficult, she imagined, for a man like that to really blend into a crowd. He had to be six foot four, and he seemed to be solidly built but not too heavily muscled. He had neatly cropped sandy hair and hazel eyes that seemed to marble to a piercing shade of gold.

“Who is he?” she asked Billie.

And if he knew my father so well, she wondered silently, feeling a familiar sense of loss and pain, why did my father never tell me about him?

I was so blithely unaware! Completely focused on art...

Billie looked uncomfortable. “He told you. His name is Michael Quinn. He’s a P.I. Used to be a cop with the NOPD, but he left the force to work for himself.”

“So what?” she demanded. “He worked with my dad to track down stolen objects or something like that?” she asked.

“Something like that,” Billie said, his gaze sliding from hers.

“Hmmph! He’s rude,” Jane said, resting the cane she’d brought down on the bar counter. “Obnoxious. Like a crazy man. You should stay away from him!”

“No, you should listen to him,” Billie insisted.

Jane shook her head. “Report him to the police!”

“Ah, Jane. You’ll argue with anything I suggest,” Billie said, aggravated.

“Well, rude isn’t really the problem at the moment.” Danni sighed, looking at the two of them. They could bicker like a married couple; Billie didn’t really trust Jane, she thought. But both of them were excellent at their jobs, excellent at helping her run the business. She lowered her head. Most of the time, they were amusing when they were together.

“Billie, sorry. I can’t just take the word of some guy who thinks he knew my father better than I did. I am going to call the police. I’m worried about that woman.”

“Are you going to go and see about the bust?” Billie asked.

“Maybe,” she replied. “But...I need to report this. If something happened to her—if she was so upset she walked into traffic—I’d never be able to live with myself.”

Billie and Jane both stared at her. She called the operator rather than the emergency number and was put through to the right department. Billie and Jane watched as she gave the woman’s name and reported her strange behavior in the shop and then answered a zillion questions. Had the woman been armed? No. Had she threatened anyone? No. Had she mentioned suicide? No. But she had talked about a killer statue and sounded as if she needed some serious intervention.

In the end, a public safety officer promised that Mrs. Simon’s state of mind would be investigated, and she hung up, feeling frustrated.

Jane and Billie were still staring at her.

“What?” she asked.

“Your dad would’ve found out about the bust. He wouldn’t have ignored that poor lady,” Billie said.

“You haven’t been on any buying trips since he died,” Jane added. “No, I wasn’t your father’s right hand—like Billie—but I knew him well and loved him. Maybe...” She looked pained as she spoke again. “Maybe you should listen to Billie.”

“Will wonders never cease!” Billie muttered.

Danni lifted her hands in a gesture that said nothing at all. It was still hard; she didn’t spend her days crying or moping, but she felt as if there was a huge hole in her life. Angus had expected her to be strong and independent. She’d gone away to school and gotten her own apartment and led a life separate from his.

But he’d always been there. Once she was back in New Orleans, she’d seen him almost every day. She’d traveled with him extensively through the years.

Seeing the sights—at his urging—while he did his buying and collecting. He had spoiled her, yes. But he’d also taught her to be courteous and caring. He’d never walked away from anyone who needed help, whether it was a confused tourist seeking directions or a homeless veteran or down-and-outer needing food and shelter—or a ride to detox.

“I will go see the bust, okay? I’ll do what I can for Mrs. Simon.”

Billie nodded. “That’s what your dad would want.”

“I’m trying to keep his legacy alive,” she told the pair. “Now, if you’ll excuse me...I was working. I’ll go at five. I’ll meet that obnoxious man and buy the stupid bust and hopefully make everyone happy, all right?”

Neither spoke or moved.

With a slight sound of impatience, she passed them by, thinking she’d return to her studio.

But she didn’t want to go there. She didn’t want to see the painting she’d almost finished, the character study that suddenly looked just like a real person.

Mrs. Simon.

Instead, she headed downstairs to the rooms that had been the most precious to her father. There were glass cases here and there—and boxes everywhere. A full suit of armor stood in one corner while in another an upright Victorian coffin held pride of place. It had never been used for a body but had been a display piece for a funeral home that had once been in business on Canal Street. A mannequin enjoyed eternal sleep behind the small window above the face, a style that was popular at the time. The wall displayed the death mask of an ancient Egyptian queen. One corner of the room held a horrifically screaming gorilla from a movie that was never completed and probably with good cause; the sign on the creature said From The Gorilla That Ate Manhattan.

She paused, glancing around. Other people, she thought, might find the basement creepy. She’d spent so much time working with her father that she’d learned to appreciate the delicate artistry put into so many of the items. The carving on the coffin, for instance, was the result of painstaking craft and labor.

Light filtered in from the old glass panes just above ground level but it wasn’t enough for her that afternoon. Danni turned on the low-watt bulbs that helped protect the old pieces of art and artistry and sighed wistfully. Some people might suggest that her father haunted the rooms where his collections were kept.

She wished he did.

“Oh, Dad, if only you were here now!” she said softly.

The book.

He’d been so frantic that she “turn to the book.”

It was a very old volume and it sat on a desk, encased in protective glass. Danni could remember it being there forever, she just hadn’t thought much about it among the other curios so dear to her father. She walked over to the desk, sat in the swivel chair and looked down at the old tome before opening the glass cover and lifting it out. She’d never held it before, and the book was heavy, the parchment rich and the pages gold-trimmed. It was American, something that always gave her father great pride, and had been printed in 1699.

Carefully she turned pages, wondering what he’d wanted her to read in this book—or why he’d believed it would answer all questions, solve all dilemmas.

She was startled when a piece of folded paper slipped out.

She recognized her father’s writing—her name in cursive on the outside.

With trembling fingers, she unfolded the paper.

Danni, dearest daughter, my sorrow is great as I write this. My burden is hard to bear, and yet it will be yours, too. Read with the light on the desk. And remember, the book is only for those who have the heart and the will to understand and to care, and though I have tried to give you the life of a normal young woman, the day will come when you must understand. Of course, I will tell you, talk to you, about all this, but I am writing in case my time comes before I know. Life is fleeting for us all and none can predict the day that we’ll be called to a greater reward. My dearest Danni, I believe that love transcends time, and so I am with you, even if I have failed you.

Tears stung her eyes. “You never failed me, Dad. Ever. I loved you so much,” she said aloud.

No, he had never failed her. She didn’t know that much about his past—only that he had immigrated from Edinburgh when he’d been a young man, that he’d studied ancient history there and spent many years working on archaeological digs. He’d batted around the world until he was in his forties, met her mother—an anthropologist half his age—married her and moved to her home, New Orleans. After her mom died of an aneurysm when Danni was four, he’d done everything for her, acting as both father and mother. Even as an older man, he’d been gorgeous. But he’d never remarried.

A bittersweet smile curved her lips. “I wish you’d make a little more sense, Dad, but...no, you never failed me. You were the best ever!”

Danni began to flip through the pages. The Book of Truth offered medieval cures for whatever might ail you. One chapter listed herbs and their mixtures for maladies ranging from snakebite to the plague. Another gave instructions for cupping and bleeding.

She went back to the beginning. The print thoughout was large—perhaps to help the elderly and those with poor eyesight. The letters were exquisite, more like calligraphy than print.

She found a publication page. The book had been published in Boston. Maybe accepting herbs as natural medicinal components was something the author had done boldly and angrily, since it was printed only a few years after the calamity of the Salem witch trials.

She quickly discovered that she was right. The author, Millicent Smith, had written an introduction, dedicating the book to the women who had died in innocence, victims of jealousy or greed or even mass hysteria. “True evil rests deeply and does not enter into the clean souls of those who will not be corrupted by demons.” Danni admired the author and printer for their courage, and wondered how many copies of The Book of Truth had been created. Were they kept secret during those perilous times, circulating underground? How had her father come across this one?

“Turn to the book,” he’d told her.

She shook her head. She didn’t believe she’d have to protect anyone from being hanged, pressed or burned to death for being a witch. Maybe he was warning her to guard against prejudice of any kind, because there was nothing so dangerous.

Maybe it was his way of saying that there were people out there who needed to be saved.

“I called the police, Dad,” she murmured. “I tried to get help for Mrs. Simon.” She sighed. “Okay, I’ll meet your bulwark of a private eye and buy the damned statue!”

She set the book back in its case, but as she did, she noticed another piece of paper between the next pages.

The light. Make sure you use the light!

That had been written hastily.

Use the light.

Well, she couldn’t read without light, could she? Besides, there were plenty of lights down here.

Determined, feeling guilty although she couldn’t understand why, Danni looked at her watch. She’d been down here longer than she’d realized.

If she was going to meet Quinn, she had to get moving.

But she hesitated, drumming her fingers on the glass, frowning. Michael Quinn. She vaguely remembered the name and wondered why. She knew she hadn’t met him through her father. It was a good old Irish name and there were plenty of those in the city.

And then she remembered. Years ago, the name had been revered. There’d been a Michael Quinn who had hit the sports pages of the Times Picayune again and again. He’d lifted his public school from obscurity to stardom playing football. He was offered scholarships to half the colleges in the country. He’d been a local hero, soaring to football glory while maintaining academic achievement and capturing the hearts of adolescent females through the city, the parish and beyond. She was only twelve at the time, so she couldn’t really remember the details, but...

But nothing. He’d disappeared. There’d been brief articles about him—about his behavior, attending parties known for excessive drug and alcohol use. Then everything had stopped. She hadn’t heard anything about him ripping up the college scoreboards or joining the pros. He’d just disappeared.

Might have been a different Michael Quinn.

* * *

Gladys heard the voice again as she drove down the street. He was there, beside her, whispering in her ear.

“Do it. Gun it!” he ordered her.

She had ignored him as she’d driven through the French Quarter; you could barely move through the Quarter at times, much less gun a car. People walked into the street heedlessly—especially those who’d gotten an early start on Bourbon Street.

But now, she could see a group of schoolchildren. A crossing guard stood in the street with a large red stop sign, warning drivers that it was a school zone and elementary kids were making their way across the road.

“Gun it. End it for the little bastards—stop the pain for them now. Half of them live in crack houses, you know that. End their pain and yours. Gun it!”

She turned to look at him. He was beautiful. His face was so handsomely structured, with dark hair curling over his brow. His mouth was full and sensual. He moved, and yet he still looked as if he were cast out of marble. It was so strange; the statue in her house was a bust, showing only the head, shoulders and neck of the man, but he seemed to be sitting by her side in full body. He acted natural and at ease. He’d been carved during the time of the Renaissance, but he spoke English and knew modern idioms. He seemed to know modern mores and customs, too.

He was beautiful, yes...

And so malicious. Evil to the core. His smile was one of pure cruelty.

“You have to do it, Gladys. Think of the world, always the same. Kill or be killed. You can end their misery and your own. Or if you survive, you’ll walk away because of your fragile mental state, the depths of your grief. It’s kill or be killed, Gladys. That’s the way of the world.”

She saw the man in her mind, of course, but he seemed so...real. She’d seen him the night her husband had died, seen him standing over the body. And she’d known that Hank Simon was killed by the marble bust he’d been so ecstatic to acquire, the piece that had lain half-buried by the grave of a pirate-turned-entrepreneur in St. Louis Cemetery #1. A former pirate, yes, but a man who’d dedicated himself to good works in the latter part of his life. God knew where the bust had been before that.

He’d stood over Hank where he lay on the floor of their grand Garden District home; he’d stood over him, smiling, while Hank lay broken and bleeding. It looked as if he’d fallen or jumped over the balcony railing, but he hadn’t. She’d known it when she saw the man. He had disappeared into thin air and she hadn’t seen him again—until he’d appeared at the foot of her bed that morning, telling her she had to do as he instructed, or she’d wind up like Hank.

It was astonishing that her heart hadn’t given out then.

No, it was tragic that her heart hadn’t given out. Because now he was with her, urging her to kill....

She wasn’t a killer. She wasn’t going to mow down schoolchildren with her Lincoln.

And yet...

She felt her foot almost itching to touch the pedal. She felt something inside her suddenly longing to do as he said—hit the gas. Hit it hard. Hit all the children she could. And, definitely, hit the plump crossing guard with her sign and her whistle....

Her foot inched down on the gas with a malevolence that seemed to fill her heart with bloodred fury.