Acquainted With the Night (9781101546000) (24 page)

“Were they in an accident?”

“A fire.” She exhaled a little harder than she'd intended. She didn't want to talk about her family. Not yet. He lifted her chin, and she studied his eyes, concentrating on those endearing tree-bark flecks in his left iris. She didn't want to think about herself. She wanted to know more about him. Did one of his parents have chestnut eyes? Or a grandmother? Maybe the dominant brown genes had been repressed by generations of blue-eyed Barretts, only to surface in Jude. She didn't know anything about genetics, but those dark bits seemed strong and defiant, representing something more powerful than color.

He stared down at her hands. “You're shaking.”

She knitted her fingers together. Her throat ached, as if she'd swallowed pointy rocks. Could she tell him the rest of it? His lab had been burned, too. Was there a connection? No, that was Dame Doom talking, not her. Besides, fire hadn't been involved in Phoebe's murder, or her uncle's. The events seemed random, without a connecting thread.

“My parents didn't die because someone forgot to turn off the coffeepot or because of faulty wiring.” She swallowed around the stones, her throat clicking. “They were murdered.”

The color washed out of his cheeks. “God, Caro. I'm so sorry. I'm a bloody idiot. I've dredged up horrific memories.”

“No, I need to remember my family.” She swallowed again. “I've suppressed everything, even the happy moments. My mother was beautiful. Long, dark blond hair and silver-blue eyes. Tiny, delicate ankles, almost like stems on wineglasses.”

“Like yours.” Jude smiled.

“No, I'm more like my father. He had lots and lots of blond hair. Curly like mine. Well, it was.”

Her hands shook harder as she pictured the long gravel driveway and the white house hidden behind the hackberry trees. Jude clasped his hands around hers. The firm pressure had a soothing effect, and her tremors stopped.

“When the fire started, I was upstairs,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I heard yelling in the front yard. My father was arguing with six men. He turned back to the house and yelled, ‘Vivienne! Run!'”

“Vivienne was your mother?” Jude prompted.

She nodded. “I don't know where she was. Probably reading in the sunroom. She always had a book in her hand. Daddy called and called, but she didn't come. One of the men had a bottle with a rag hanging out. He touched a cigarette lighter to it and flames shot up. He hurled the bottle through the living room window. I ran downstairs, trying not to breathe the smoke.”

Caro broke off, struggling to hold back the tears, but they spilled down her cheeks. “I found my mother in the dining room. She was stuffing things into my backpack. She clamped a tiny padlock on the zippers, shoved the pack into my arms, and sent me out the back door. She told me to hide behind the waterfall. There was a cave, and I used to play there. I started to follow her up the stairs, but she steered me out the back door. She promised she would find me. She said, ‘No matter what you hear, do not come out till morning.' I took off running. But halfway to the cave, I stopped.”

The backs of her eyes burned, and more tears broke loose, splashing against Jude's hands. The stone in her throat felt like a boulder, and it was growing, but she forced herself to continue.

“I knew my mother would be angry, but I ran back to the house. The men dragged my father up the front porch. He was limp. I could see through the living room window. Our sofa blazed. The fire jumped to the curtains.”

Her chin wavered, and she broke off. Jude lifted one hand and wiped her cheek. Each tender stroke made her feel calmer. She swallowed around the boulder, then drew in a shuddering breath. “I waited in the bushes for the men to return. When they didn't, I ran into the house. I couldn't see anything except for a red stain on the floor. I thought wine had spilled. The living room had been ransacked. I heard my mother screaming in her bedroom. I tried to open the door, but the knob burned my hand.”

She spread her fingers. A tear fell off her chin and hit her palm, skidding over an almond-shaped scar.

“A man came out of Mother's room. I ran outside and cut down the hill to the waterfall. I crawled behind it, into the cave. I'd breathed in a lot of smoke and couldn't quit coughing. Then I saw lights moving behind the falls. They were looking for me. I pressed my hand over my mouth, trying to muffle my cough. The lights moved back and forth, then cut to the woods. I waited till morning. I crawled out of the cave and ran to the house. It was gone. Nothing but smoke and blackened wood. I tried to open the backpack, but I couldn't undo the lock. My burns were smarting, so I ran to the highway. An elderly couple picked me up. I ended up in a Knoxville hospital. Then my uncle showed up and whisked me and the backpack to England. While I slept, he picked the lock and found the icon.”

She unzipped her bag, pulled out the relic, and peeled off the plastic covering.

“It looks ancient. Like something in a museum.” Jude's brows tightened. “How did your parents come to own something this valuable?”

“I don't know.”

“What if they were murdered for it?”

A chill spiked up her backbone. Her heart thrashed in her chest, like a hooked fish. “But they kept it in an unlocked dining room cabinet. Thieves could have broken in while we slept. They didn't need to murder my parents.”

“I didn't mean to frighten you.” Jude picked up the icon and traced his finger over the metal brackets. “What are these?”

“I don't know. I've always wondered.”

He turned the icon over. The back was unpainted, except for black symbols and a drawing: the handle of a sword plunged downward through a large
X
. It ended in a diamond with a cross embedded in the center.

“What do these mean?” he asked.

“A blessing of some sort. The symbols were supposed to protect our family. But they didn't.”

The bus stopped at the corner of Monastiriou Street. They got off and walked to the hotel. She flopped onto the bed. The boulder in her throat was gone, but she felt shaky. Jude sat down beside her and pulled her into his lap, stroking her hair.

“Jude, I have a bad feeling. Maybe we should forget the clues. We could go to South America or New Zealand. Someplace far, far away.”

“But we're so close to Meteora.”

“The Bulgarian authorities think I murdered Teo. My picture is all over Greece. It's too dangerous. We need to leave the continent. What about New Zealand?”

“I'm not afraid,” he said.

“I am.” She burst into tears.

“Don't cry, lass. I'll spend my last breath protecting you.” He pushed a handkerchief into her hands, then he rested his chin on top of her head. She leaned against the rough nap of his sweater, wiping her eyes and breathing in the smell of Acqua di Parma. She would probably lose this man, but she would never return this handkerchief. Not even if he begged.

 

The new moon scraped up the backside of the sky as Georgi drove through Momchilgrad. Streetlights shone down on the empty sidewalk. This town was his favorite hunting preserve, but from the look of the town, someone was poaching.

He saw a sign for Kudret's Photography Studio and turned into the parking lot. The car dipped to one side as Georgi climbed out and brushed lint from his new suit. He'd taken it from Ilya Velikov's closet.

Georgi looked at the studio and spat.
A Turk.
He hated all things Ottoman, but he especially loathed Bulgarian Turks. The air was thick with smells. Petrol fumes. The bite of paprika and cumin. The ripe, pungent smell coming from the Dacia's trunk.

Between these odors, he detected the Clifford girl. It was faint, not enough to track her, but enough to make his pulse race. He took a breath. The aroma welled up, clean yet sticky, reminiscent of soap and sugar, with musky, chemical undertones.

Georgi walked toward the studio, scanning the parking lot. He ignored the CLOSED sign and rapped hard on the glass. “Mr. Kudret? Are you there?” he asked in Bulgarian. “Open up, please. It is an emergency.”

Inside the dark building, a light snapped on, and a yellow rectangle spilled into the hall. A rotund man appeared, wearing slippers and a robe. He fumbled with eyeglasses, pushing them over his stubby nose. Halfway to the door, his eyes rounded and he stopped behind a desk.

“We are closed,” Mr. Kudret called.

Georgi shook the doorknob. His nostrils flared as he breathed in the Ottoman stench. It smelled of oppression, pain, death.

“I am not a customer.” Georgi held his badge against the glass. “Open the door, old man.”

“Come back in the morning,” Mr. Kudret said. “When it's daylight.”

“You will open
now
.” Georgi rattled the door, and a string of brass bells tinkled. “I know the girl was here.”

“Who?”

Georgi pulled the wrinkled fax from his pocket and held it up against the glass. “Her.”

“Leave or I shall call the real police,” Mr. Kudret called.

Georgi kicked the door. Tiny, circular cracks spread across the glass; the panel bowed inward and fell. Inside the store a burglar alarm bleated. Georgi reached through the opening, unlatched the knob, and stepped inside. Oh, yes, he would take his time with this one.

Mr. Kudret pulled out a gun, drew a bead, and fired. A bullet sliced into Georgi's left shoulder. Mr. Kudret took aim and fired two times in quick succession. One bullet hit Georgi's leg, and the other whizzed by his ear.

“You cannot stop me,” Georgi cried. He lunged across the room, then doubled over, clutching his shoulder. These weren't normal bullets. He was on fire. Then, a chill spread through his limbs. He ran back to his car. The little Turk hurried after him and fired again. A bullet dinged against the Dacia's fender as Georgi drove off.

He steered the car up a hill and parked in front of the Hotel Konak. Here, the Clifford girl's smell was strong. He hobbled into the lobby, blood dripping down to the carpet, and banged on the desk until he roused a clerk. A pale woman appeared, blinking at his stained suit. Her lips drew into a tight bow, and she slid a plastic key card across the counter.

Georgi grabbed her wrist and pulled her over the desk. Bite marks ran up and down her neck. He searched for a clean patch of skin and sank his teeth into her breast. Her heartbeat bloomed in his mouth, but she didn't struggle. He drank greedily, sucking her flesh between his teeth. She didn't have more than a few pints. Someone had gotten there first.

He dragged her body behind the desk. On his way to the elevator, he ducked into the dining room and grabbed a steak knife. He ran to his room and bolted the door. The wounds throbbed. His flesh would dissolve if he didn't remove the Turkish bullets.

He leaned close to the bathroom mirror and pulled down his lower eyelid. The membranes were pale. He had lost blood, and the woman had not satisfied his thirst. He peeled off his jacket. Using the tip of the steak knife, he picked at the wounds. He dropped a bullet into the sink, and it rolled around the white porcelain.

Silver.

He couldn't reach the bullet in his shoulder. It would have to wait. But he had time, all the time in the world. When Teo had removed bullets, he would distract Georgi with stories of the Turks. Sometimes people asked how long they had been partners. “Since the seventies,” Georgi would say, omitting the century.

His mouth felt dry; if he didn't feed again, and soon, he would lose strength. He scrubbed the dried blood off his jacket, then put it on and dashed out of the room. At the end of the hall he heard a
ding
, and a stout blond woman stepped out of the elevator, pushing a stroller. The wheel snagged in the gap, and Georgi hurried over to help. He lifted the stroller and gently set it on the ground. Inside, a plump baby slept, oblivious to the commotion.

“Thank you,” the woman said.

“Don't mention it,” he said.

 

The train whistle blew as they pulled into Kalambaka, rumbling past the yellow station. Caro stepped onto the platform and tipped back her head, gazing up at the giant stone pillars. The monasteries were up there, perched on the flattened tops, their red tile roofs glinting in the sun.

Jude grabbed her hand, and they wandered down the main street, past an outdoor café. Blue tablecloths stirred in the cool air. Caro stopped in front of a window where a man was building a display with olive oil jars, baskets heaped with brown eggs, and glass domes filled with cheese.

When she glanced up, a policeman rounded the corner. Jude hooked his arm around her neck and steered her into a souvenir shop. They stopped by a shelf that was filled with mugs and jigsaw puzzles. Perspiration broke out on her upper lip while she pretended to study the mugs. The policeman stopped outside the shop and peered through the glass; he waved to a dark-haired clerk.

Caro let out a huge sigh. She followed Jude to the desk, where he bought postcards, hats, sunglasses, and a field guide to Meteora. They stepped outside. Jude slipped a hat on her head, then bent down until he was eye level with her. He pressed his palm against her forehead. “You're not feverish anymore.”

She smiled, then reached up to straighten his hat. “Did anyone ever tell you that you have a rugged chin?”

“I can't say they have.” He laughed and ran his hand over his jaw.

“And I love this teeny knob.” She touched the bridge of his nose.

“The Barretts have straight noses.” He grinned. “Rugby gave me the bump.”