Читать книгу Waking the Dead - Heather Graham, Heather Graham - Страница 11

Chapter Four

FINALLY, THEIR GUESTS were gone for the night, each one in a pensive and expectant mood, dreading what the future would hold.

Danni went up to her room first. Quinn—being Quinn—had taken Wolf and gone through the house, assuring himself that the place was securely locked. Since Royal Street was just a block from Bourbon, the faint sounds of music and laughter continued.

The murders had been on the news all day. But visitors to the city—revelers on the streets—probably believed they were a strictly local phenomenon. Still, most people would be more careful that night; when they met in the city’s bars or clubs they’d talk about what had happened not far from the French Quarter.

But while they’d react with horror and sympathy, they would tell themselves that it didn’t affect them.

Danni usually turned on the television in the evenings. That night, she didn’t. She already knew what she’d see on the news.

Quinn came upstairs, quietly opening the door, and just as quietly closing it behind him.

“You asleep?” he asked her.

“Seriously?” she replied.

“I’d rather hoped not,” he said.

“Wolf’s been relegated to the hall?”

“He doesn’t seem to mind. He lets me be the alpha dog.”

“And I thought I was the alpha dog,” Danni said.

He stood in the doorway. “I was thinking—” he began.

“No thinking tonight!” It had been too long. She rose naked from the bed and walked over to him, met his hungry, urgent kiss with her own as she tugged at his shirt.

He kissed her while removing his jacket, shoulder holster and gun, allowing her to play with the buttons on his shirt.

Then he grew impatient and unfastened them himself.

Danni wondered how she’d ever had the strength to let him go. In his arms she immediately felt the inferno between them. His clothing was strewn about the floor and since she hadn’t bothered with any...

They fell together on her bed. He laughed, rising above her, and then his lips found hers again and they kissed, tongues delving, lips locking and breaking apart so they could gasp for breath, then joining again. She grasped his shoulders, the muscles moving sleekly beneath her touch. He was back; he was with her. It was real, the sheets beneath her were real, the moonlight filtering through the drapes was real. And the force of his body against hers was both solid and dreamlike. For long seconds she was content to feel his flesh, to stroke his shoulders and down his back. But she felt his kiss moving against her, felt his lips on her throat, teasing her collarbones. His hands curved around and caressed her breasts and then his tongue and lips bathed her where his hands had been. She thought she might crawl out of her skin, she was so desperate to be part of him.

He was a tender lover, a careful lover, always wanting to arouse as he was aroused. But she felt the hardness of his erection so swiftly that night, felt him slide into her, and she wanted him so badly, she shared his impatience, entwining her limbs around his, moving with him, arching closer. She felt the frantic rhythm of her heart and his. The music from Bourbon Street seemed to fade away, and even the moon seemed to pale. All that remained was the feel of each other, their desperate, urgent need to be together again.

She rose toward him, the urgency so sweet it was nearly painful, and yet she wanted the moment to go on and on. She saw his eyes, the passion in them, and the wonder he seemed to feel when he was with her, and it was an even greater seduction. She curved her arms around him, and felt the euphoria sweep through her as they shuddered, almost violently, both rocked by their climax.

He half fell and half eased himself to her side. For a minute he was silent. “Whose idea was it that we were better off moving slowly?” he finally asked.

She smiled and turned into him. “Yours.”

“No, I think it was yours.”

He held her, drawing her to him, and kissed her lovingly. “We won’t always need to be apart. When I’m in the city, it just makes sense for me to stay here.”

“We...” Danni faltered. For her, he was perfect. She’d met him not long after her father died. She’d been at a loss, confused, disbelieving—and Quinn had barreled into her life.

“We what?” he asked her.

She ran her fingers through the lock of hair that fell over his forehead. “You know, I didn’t even like you when we met.”

“And I wasn’t that fond of you, either. Except that I thought you were the sexiest woman I’d ever seen.”

“And now?”

“What do you think?”

“I’ve always thought that actions speak more loudly than words,” she said primly.

He grinned. And she smiled as he swept her into his arms. Their world might be going to hell again. But he was with her that night.

She wanted to cling to every moment until morning came.

* * *

Quinn could only explain the fact that he hadn’t awakened when she left the bed by reminding himself that he hadn’t really slept in almost forty-eight hours. He’d barely been back at his house before Larue had called that morning.

He woke now because Wolf was nudging his hand and whining. And if Wolf was in the room, the door was open. But the dog wasn’t injured and he wasn’t barking; there was no intruder in the house.

He jumped up, grabbing a robe. Then he grabbed a second robe. This had happened before. If the dog wanted him awake but nothing had disturbed the house, Danni was in her studio.

He hurried down the stairs and stopped in the doorway, watching her. He worried when he saw her like this but he was also afraid to startle her. She seemed frenzied and intent, yet she wasn’t actually awake.

She sat before the canvas on its easel, her posture completely straight. She made a picture of absolute beauty with her hair flowing down her naked back. Her palette of colors lay next to the canvas where she worked, and she painted as if she were an automaton.

He walked over to stand beside her.

Something inside him seemed to tighten.

She’d copied the Hubert painting he’d seen in the gallery that morning except...

There was nothing deceptive about its beauty. The colors drew the eye and compelled the viewer to look more closely. What he saw revealed the emotions hidden in the original work. Her version of the painting made immediately explicit what Hubert’s had veiled.

Everyone in this painting had apparently been startled and had turned as if to face a camera. The beautiful woman on the settee or love seat had her dagger out and seemed to be snarling at the man. He’d aimed his gun and moved into position to shoot the woman, an expression of hatred on what you could see of his face. The suits of armor has stepped forward, both holding swords. The chess pieces were running in terror while the children who’d been playing the game were trying to smash them with a large chalice and a medieval shield. Over the fireplace, the man in the portrait was directing the action with a cruel zeal written into his features. The child playing with the guillotine was slicing off the head of another doll—but the doll seemed to be alive and screaming.

That damned giclée. She was creating her own image of the giclée in the shop. Had the horror of it gotten to her?

He knew that wasn’t true. Danni was strong; she’d been born with her father’s strength. He knew her, and he’d known Angus, so he was sure of that.

Danni’s hand paused in midair. He caught her wrist gently and took the paintbrush from her fingers, setting it on the palette. He placed her robe around her shoulders and knelt beside her, shaking her lightly as he said her name. “Danni. Danni, wake up.”

She blinked several times and then stared at him with wide eyes. She shivered, and he gathered the robe more tightly around her. Her eyes quickly scanned the studio and then met his again.

“I—I was sleepwalking?”

“Sleep painting,” he told her.

She didn’t want to look at her creation. He didn’t want to let her, but he knew he had to.

She slowly turned and studied the painting. He saw the horror dawn in her expression.

“It’s just a painting,” she whispered. Anger hardened her voice when she spoke again. “No, not even a painting. A copy of a painting, a giclée.”

“We’ll have to find the real one,” he said.

He had a feeling he knew where the real one was—somewhere in New Orleans.

She shook her head. “Find it? You don’t understand. It’s a museum piece.” She hesitated. “It was just sold. Niles heard a rumor that it’s been bought by someone here in the city. But even if we find it...we’d need millions to get it!”

He stood and pulled her to her feet, holding her close. “It’s coming here?” That rumor confirmed—or at least reinforced—what he already suspected.

“Nothing definite so far,” she said.

“We’ll get it,” he vowed. “Whatever it takes.”

She drew away. “How? First, we’d have to identify the new owner—a multimillionaire or billionaire, for sure—and convince him that he’s spent a fortune on a killer painting? And you suppose he’ll hand it right over?”

He tried to ease her shaking, tried to speak calmly. “We’ll have to break in and steal it, then.”

“Break in and steal it?” she asked. “You think it is here!”

“In the morning,” he said. “Come on. We’re going back to bed.”

“I can’t go to bed.”

“Yes, you can.”

“But...”

“I’m here, Danni. I’m here. And I’ll hold you until you fall asleep, I swear it.”

The slightest smile appeared on her lips; she’d needed his strength. Now, she was drawing on her own reserves. “And then you’ll let go of me?” she asked. “When I’m asleep?”

“No. Well, not until morning when we wake up and want to get out of bed.”

“I guess we should get more sleep,” she murmured. He could tell that she didn’t want to look back at her own work again, but she couldn’t help herself. “I don’t remember everything I probably learned about Hubert in my art history classes. Tomorrow, I’m going to find out whatever I can about the man.” She turned back to Quinn. “Like a lot of artists, he supposedly used people around him to create his characters. I remember that much—and I want to know who they all are. I also want to know why. Why there’d be so much evil on every face.”

“You might learn something from talking to Dr. Hubert. He admits that he’s a descendant, but he doesn’t seem very keen on the fact.”

“I will talk to him,” Danni said.

He cupped her chin in his hands. “Tomorrow,” he told her softly.

He heard Wolf whine. The dog had been standing silently in the doorway, waiting for them.

“Oh, Wolf!” Danni hurried forward, kneeling to take the dog’s massive head between her hands and plant a kiss on his nose. “Good boy. Good Wolf. Thank you for watching over me.”

Wolf wagged his tail and Quinn thought the dog had been one of his best rescues ever. Unconditional love. And protection. Wolf would die for either of them.

“All right, let’s get some sleep,” he said. “I have a feeling tomorrow will be a long day.”

Danni rose, and they started to walk out of the room.

Something brought him back. The canvas, of course, wasn’t dry. Despite that, he covered it with one of her artist’s sheets.

He didn’t want anyone looking at the damned thing. Hell, Billie was old. He could see those faces and have a heart attack!

* * *

Quinn knew the desk sergeant on duty when he walked into the station. The officer nodded in acknowledgment. “Larue said to send you right in when I saw you,” he said.

“Thanks.” Quinn could see Jake Larue through the glass panes of his office. Larue was studying a file; he looked worn and haggard. Quinn assumed he hadn’t slept much, either.

He tapped on the door and walked in.

“Quinn. Great. I was hoping you’d be early,” Larue said. “I have the list from James Garcia’s courier company. He was a trusted employee for sure. He was carrying a package filled with gold and gems that had been valued, signed sports memorabilia for a charity auction and—”

“A painting that recently sold in the millions,” Quinn finished for him.

Larue frowned at Quinn when he sat down in front of him. “Yes. The painting is called—”

“Ghosts in the Mind,” Quinn said. “It’s by an artist named Hubert—who, incidentally, was a distant ancestor of our favorite M.E., Dr. Ron Hubert. Hubert the artist was found dead at an old castle in Geneva, still staring at the painting. It was his last work.”

Larue picked up the file. “Okay, but here’s what you may not know yet. The painting was purchased by a Mrs. Hattie Lamont, who lives in one of the grand old mansions on Esplanade. She’s a widow and her husband was a computer genius who built and sold half a dozen companies. Since she’s been in NOLA, she’s joined every social club and charity foundation in the city, or so it appears. The painting was due to her by ten this morning.”

“And it was missing from the evidence lockup after the ‘fog’?” Quinn asked, already knowing the answer.

Larue nodded vigorously. “And here’s the really curious thing about the three packages that went missing. Our crime scene people swear that we brought all three of them to the evidence room. But they were delivered to their recipients early this morning.”

“And we have no idea how? I’m assuming the recipient has to sign for a package of that value!” Quinn said.

“In theory. I’ve already sent sketch artists to all three houses to get them to describe the delivery person,” Larue told him. “However, that person didn’t exactly make himself known.”

“What about the delivery vehicle? Wouldn’t the company know if one had been taken? And what about Garcia’s truck?”

“Garcia’s truck is still at the police impound. Judging by what I’ve gotten back from my officers in the field, no one saw a delivery truck or remembers seeing one anywhere near them.” Larue glanced at his notes again. “But as Tobias Granville—owner of the assessed jewels—said, he was looking at his package and not down the street. He should have signed for the package. He says he didn’t, that it was just at his door and he didn’t even glance up once he had it in his hands.”

Quinn shook his head. “So, a family was brutally murdered. Evidence came into lockup, evidence disappeared from lockup and then it was all delivered where it belonged.”

Larue leaned back. “We’ve retrieved the packaging from Mr. Granville’s delivery and from the charity people. Again, the box just showed up at their office door. And of course, the packaging is compromised now. People ripped it up. But we’ll try to examine the pieces that have blood spatter.”

“No one noticed blood spatter?” Quinn asked dryly.

“There wasn’t a lot. Hey, if you’re waiting for a fortune in jewelry, are you really going to worry about wrapping paper? Spots of dried blood on brown paper could be anything,” Larue pointed out. “Flaw in the paper itself, a drop of coffee, smeared ink. Who knows?”

“What about Mrs. Lamont’s package?”

“Well, this is interesting. Her butler—yeah, she has a butler—says he did sign for it.”

“And the wrapping paper?”

“She wouldn’t give it to us,” Larue said sheepishly. “We’re still working on that.”

Quinn sighed. “Well, let’s take a look at that fog or whatever it is—and anything else the cameras caught.”

Larue got to his feet. “I can show you what we’ve got.”

* * *

Henry Sebastian Hubert.

The man had been getting attention recently, and he’d certainly received some during his lifetime, especially because of his connection with Byron, Shelley and their circle. But, alas, like so many writers and artists, he wouldn’t actually achieve fame until he died—in front of his last painting, considered his finest, most emotional, most intricate and most disturbing work of art. Ghosts in the Mind. Even so, his fame was erratic at best, and he’d never been more than a minor, if talented, painter. Danni sat at the desk in her studio, flipping through art books, Wolf curled at her feet.

When she’d gone through her books, she turned to her computer, keying in book sites to see if anyone had ever done a biography of the man. She found a few slim volumes, as well as several books that included a chapter on Hubert and his work, and ordered them for overnight delivery.

Frustrated, she scratched Wolf’s head. “Wolf, I have to leave without you, I’m afraid. I’m going to take a trip to the library. But you’ll be fine. Billie and Bo Ray are both here, working at the store.”

She stood and started out of her studio, then paused.

She didn’t want to look at the painting she’d done the night before. And yet she felt she needed to.

Walking over to her easel, she lifted the sheet from the canvas. The paint had been wet when Quinn covered it, but he’d been careful. There was a little smudging, but nothing that diminished the pure evil that seemed to exist in every stroke.

The faces showed humanity at its absolute worst. They bore hatred, bitterness, maliciousness, cruelty...evil. The darkest part of the human soul. These characters were ready to dole out agony without even blinking. This rendition had none of the subtlety or perspective of the Hubert painting, but at a distance, the colors blended together in a way that was striking. She imagined that if it hung in a gallery, people who saw it would be compelled to come closer....

And once they did, they’d be repelled. She studied each face. She’d have to see the Hubert again, but as she examined her own version of it, a sick feeling seemed to lodge in her stomach and stretch out to her limbs.

Had these characters been taken from life? Were they real people?

Wolf didn’t like the painting, either; he whined softly at her side.

She could no longer look at her own work and quickly recovered the canvas.

She turned and left the studio.

* * *

The evidence lockup was in a police station; someone should’ve seen something. There should have been at least one security camera that picked up what the others didn’t. But the fog was there. In every single image. The best techs on the force had searched through them all and found nothing but gray.

“It’s like trying to see through an extremely overcast day,” Larue commented. “Even where there was no fog, that’s what the security cameras recorded. Damnedest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“You got the packaging back on two of the deliveries—but not the objects?” Quinn demanded

“I can’t tell you how hard it would be to insist that people return priceless objects that belong to them,” Larue said.

“But we could ask.”

Larue scowled at him. “Okay, the charity auction—which supports housing in areas that still look like trash bins because of the storms—takes place this afternoon. The man with the jewelry isn’t about to let his diamonds and gold go again. And as far as that painting goes...well, Mrs. Lamont threatened to bring in the mayor, the governor and the president of the U.S.” He shook his head. “She wouldn’t even let us have the damn wrapping—said she didn’t have time to ‘properly devote’ to the painting, and until she did, she wasn’t unwrapping it.”

“I’ll go see her,” Quinn said.

“And do what?”

“I’ll talk to her. Meanwhile, you need to get some kind of court order to get that painting back.”

“A judge already slapped my wrist and explained civil rights and property law to me.”

“It’s evidence!”

“I’m doing everything in my power,” Larue insisted.

“Fine. Then I might as well give it a shot. Can’t hurt.”

Larue apparently agreed. “Hey, I have a suggestion,” he said.

“Yeah?”

“Take Danni. That way, maybe Mrs. Lamont will at least let you see the painting.”

Quinn nodded. It wasn’t a bad idea. Danni had a name as a local artist. Once upon a time—before her father’s death—art had been what she wanted in life. And she was good.

Notwithstanding her strange nocturnal frenzies at the canvas.

* * *

At the library, Danni leafed through book after book. She’d tried working online, but when it came to art, the best resources—in her opinion, anyway—could be found in a museum or at a library. Some books simply weren’t available online or for digital readers; this was especially true of expensive reference books that featured color reproductions.

Much of what she read she was already familiar with. Henry Sebastian Hubert had been born in 1790, making him twenty-six when he had rented a castle, the House of Guillaume, at Lake Geneva in the summer of 1816.

And he’d been twenty-six when he died. Like Shelley, he’d had a wife, a woman named Eloisa, who’d been left behind in England with their toddler son when Hubert had basically deserted her to spend his time on the shores of Lake Geneva. Maybe, had he lived, he would’ve gone back to her. But that was just Danni’s musing. She did love happy endings.

Hubert had not had a happy ending.

He’d created his first well-known work when he was in his late teens. It had been titled Graveyard at Night. It was a sad and oddly arresting piece, showing the facade of a medieval church surrounded by jagged, lichen-covered stones. His next work, more sophisticated, had been called Hanging Tree. There was no body hanging from the tree in the painting; the tree itself was the focus, skeletal and bony, seeming to move with the breeze, surrounded by shadow and ghostly images of those who’d met their deaths at the end of that one massive branch. In this painting, he’d begun his work with perspective. Of course, Danni was only looking at the reproductions in the book, but even then, she could see that, at first glance, there was nothing but the tree in the shadows and swirling dust. When she angled the page slightly, the shadows became ghosts.

Hubert had started young and by twenty-six he was well on his way. And then he’d painted Ghosts in the Mind.

When he was discovered dead, his wife had been informed, and the authorities had begun to prepare the body for transport to England.

Eloisa hadn’t wanted him back, so he’d been interred in the old crypt at the castle. His belongings were packed up and shipped back to her, and according to reputable sources, she hadn’t touched any of the paintings he’d done in Switzerland. Apparently, many people had tried to buy them from her—especially Ghosts in the Mind, since that painting had been done at the castle while Lord Byron, Shelley and Mary were an influence on his work. But she hadn’t unpacked a single crate.

At her death, her son had ordered that his father’s belongings be sold. That was in 1888. Henry Hubert’s widow had survived until the ripe old age of ninety-three, living happily off her inheritance and the proceeds from his previous artwork. She’d been quite the socialite.

The painting was purchased by a gallery in London. She’d promised the owner that, upon her death, he could buy the piece from her son.

Closing up one night, the owner was murdered. The gallery caught fire. Little attention was paid to the event, since it occurred on the same night as Jack the Ripper’s infamous murder of Mary Kelly in Whitechapel.

The painting was found in a thieves’ den where the thieves had fought over their ill-gotten gains and taken swords, pistols and knives to one another.

Danni sat back, catching her breath with a chilling sense of déjà vu.

Death followed the damned thing everywhere. Garcia’s house had been the scene of a massacre, too. She was more and more convinced that the painting had been in one of the courier packages waiting at his house. Nothing else made sense.

She looked up, gazing around the library. A woman was reading to a group of toddlers in the children’s section; a number of students were busy at computers. The library was sunny, bright, filled with activity. The world seemed good.

She looked back at the book, determined to pursue the course of the painting’s history.

It was locked away again as another twenty years went by, with police trying to sort through ownership. The gallery owner who’d been killed had died with neither wife nor child, so returning it properly became difficult.

Then, as she continued to study the painting’s provenance, she learned that an art historian, president of a small but prestigious museum in London, had acquired it at an art auction. Ghosts in the Mind was given a place of honor at his gallery in Surrey. There it was viewed by the public for several years, studied by art students. The place closed before dusk daily—and remained under guard. In January of 1915, the Germans attacked London with their first Zeppelin raids. Five people took shelter in the gallery that night.