Sacrifice (19 page)

“
That is precisely why I wanted to talk to you. In case something happens to me, you need to protect Dad and yourself.”

“
I know what to do. Billy can be a real pain in the ass sometimes, but he is my brother. I’ll make sure nothing happens to him.” My uncle examined my face for a few uncomfortable seconds. “What’s up with you, kid? You talk like this is a life or death situation, but you look almost like you are…”

“
Are what?”

“
Lit up like a Christmas tree,” he replied. “For a woman that has more problems on her plate than solutions, you sure seem happy about something.”

“
Maybe Dallas and I are working things out,” I offered as I stared across the slowly filling dining room.

“
No, that’s not it.” Uncle Lance shrugged. “But I’m guessing you’ll tell me one day. And we need to get together and go over the stuff I’ve collected for you.” He lowered his voice. “I’ve got the first list of the admitted gunshot victims from a few of the Tangipahoa Parish hospitals. We need to review it as soon as possible if we are going to find any leads on David.”

I shook my head having completely forgotten about the research Uncle Lance was doing into finding David. “Ah, I’m not sure when we can get together. Why don’t you leave the list at Val’s and I will call you if I find anything. I need a little time to work some things out.”

“
Work some things out?” Uncle Lance laughed as he reached for the breadbasket and grabbed a roll. “Christ, Nicci, that doesn’t sound good. Whatever you’re up to kid, I just hope you know what you are doing,” he stated as he put his roll down on his bread plate.

“
Don’t worry, Uncle Lance. I’ve got everything under control.”

Uncle Lance frowned as he picked up his Bloody Mary. “That’s what worries me. Just when you think you’ve got a handle on things, life will find some way to screw it all up.”

***

Later that afternoon, I was sitting at the desk in Val’s cypress paneled study staring at the blank screen on my lap top computer. I had retreated to the cozy room to try and work on some story ideas for my next novel. But as I sat there, wracking my brains for creative inspiration, all I could think about was David. I had hoped writing would help to distract me, but all that kept rolling around in my head was his three-day ultimatum. Frustrated, I closed my laptop and got up from my chair. I went over to the window that overlooked the courtyard and stared out at the greenery. My mind raced with thoughts of David. I felt my eyes well up as I pictured him lying in a hospital bed, having one painful surgery after another. I imagined all of his fear and frustration, and I had not been there to help ease any of it.

I marched out the study and headed down the hall. When I walked into Val’s kitchen, I found Dallas pounding away at a lump of dough on the black granite counter top.

“
What are you doing?” I asked as I walked over to the counter.

“
Baking bread,” he declared. He slammed his fist into the dough.

I noted how his hands continued to squeeze, punch, and jab at the dough. “I think I need to get out for a while. Walk around and get some air. I can’t think,” I said and turned away from him.

“
Be back in time to get ready for your date tonight with Caston,” Dallas instructed behind me.

I made my way to the kitchen door. “I’m just going out for a walk.”

“
And make sure you aren’t followed to David’s,” Dallas advised. “Remember what I taught you.”

I spun around and glared at him.

He shook his head and looked back down at his dough. “It’s written all over your face, Nicci. You want to see him just as much as he wants to see you.”

An uneasy moment passed between us, but he never glanced up from his bread.

“
I was thinking about all of his surgeries and his long recovery. I feel like I should at least check on him,” I tried to explain.

“
Nice try, Nicci, but don’t add insult to injury by lying to me.” He lifted his head and scowled at me. “Go on. I’m a big boy. I can take it.”

He started pounding his fists into the dough again, filling the kitchen with the sounds of his violent assault. I wanted to reach out to him and explain that this was just something I needed to do, but I knew he wouldn’t believe me. He had always been a suspicious person. When we first met, I thought it was because of the nature of his secretive job, but as time went on, I learned it was really just his way. With the return of David, I felt what little trust he had placed in me had been completely shattered. Even if I had agreed to marry him and walk away from David forever, those frigid blue eyes would always question my sincerity. I had never before realized how quickly doubt could erode a bond between a couple. Once the second-guessing had begun, there would be little or no chance of a reprieve. And two people, once passionate about each other, would soon become nothing more than uncomfortable acquaintances.

“
I won’t be long,” I stated as I turned away from him.

I didn’t bother to wait for any reply and quickly darted out the kitchen, leaving him to resolve his emotional conflicts on his own.

Chapter
Thirteen

I stood in front of the French Quarter address David had given me and checked up and down the street to see if I had been followed. I had taken an unusual path from Val’s place on Royal Street, making sure I had doubled back and made unwanted turns to lose anyone who may have been shadowing me.

“
I’m not cut out for this spy crap,” I mumbled as I pulled the gate key out of my pants pocket.

I stepped inside a dark alleyway that led to a wide courtyard. As I entered the courtyard, I heard a man’s voice call to me from the side of the main house.

“
Jenny?”

I turned to see a thick man, of medium height, with gray hair, and a gray beard. His warm brown eyes were all over me. He took a step toward me and it was then I noticed his limp.

“
Actually my name is Nicci, Nicci Beauvoir,” I clarified as I walked up to him.

“
I’m George Elliot,” he said. “I’m not sure if you remember me, but we met a few years ago at my gallery on Magazine Street. David was having his first showing there. You came after the show looking for him and I directed you to the alley behind the gallery.”

Three years ago I had gone to a gallery to see one of David’s Jennys exhibited. I remembered how George had led me to a despondent David, hiding in a back alley, drunk and angry about his lackluster debut as an artist.

“
I remember you, George,” I affirmed.

He nodded across the courtyard. “He’s in the carriage house.”

“
Do you live here?” I inquired, waving to the Creole cottage surrounding the courtyard.

He glanced back to the house. “Yes, I own the place. I live in the front house. I’ve given David the carriage house to use for as long he needs it.”

“
So you’re the one who has been helping him,” I reasoned, comprehending the depth of George’s involvement.

George shook his head. “I’ve only given him a place to stay and shoulder to lean on,” he insisted.

“
And the paintings?”

George just smiled. “Greg Caston has been bullying artists and collectors into working exclusively with him for years. I don’t think there’s an art dealer in the city who wouldn’t like seeing him go down. Me included.”

I was about to walk away when George stopped me with a touch of his hand.

“
He’s been as angry as a bear ever since yesterday,” George told me. “There was a good bit of shouting coming from the carriage house when Dallas was here. So be ready.”

I sighed. “I got the impression from Dallas that it was a stressful meeting.”

“
I was just on my way to my gallery. I’m glad you’re here to deal with him. I wasn’t sure if I should leave him alone.”

I nodded. “I’ll keep an eye on him, George.”

George gave me one last smile and then headed down the alley toward the street.

I took in the small courtyard surrounding me. It was not as lavishly landscaped as Val’s and there were only a few potted green plants scattered about the area. The garden walls had been covered over in plaster and painted to match the gray cement floor.

The carriage house was located in the rear of the courtyard and was covered in a drab, gray painted plaster. The windows and French doors on the façade of the house appeared to be recent additions. Even the decorated red terracotta roof tiles, prized on many French Quarter homes, had been replaced with bland looking flat, black shingles.

Unable to find a doorbell, I wrapped lightly on the front door of the carriage house. Seconds ticked by, but no sound of movement came from within. I knocked again, louder than before, but still there was no answer. I tried the doorknob and found the door was unlocked. I pushed the door open and stepped inside.

To my disappointment, the interior of the home had been gutted and renovated to match the dull looking exterior. Off to the side of the entrance there was a small dining room, and beyond that a microscopic kitchen. On the far wall of the living room an old red-bricked fireplace rose from the floor to the ceiling. Next to the fireplace, a black iron spiral staircase ascended to a second floor.

I listened for the sound of movement in the house and was relieved to hear footsteps bounding back and forth on the floor above.

“
David?” I called out.

But there was no response.

I slowly made my way up the spiral staircase and called out once more for him. And again there was no reply. As I came out on the second floor, my eyes grew in size as I took in the accommodations.

The second floor was an expansive studio bedroom with four wide ceiling lights that allowed the full strength of the noonday sun to pervade the room. The original red brick walls and dull wooden floors had been left as they had probably appeared in the days when carriages and horses had occupied the cottage’s first floor. Off to the side was a simple twin sized sleigh bed. A lamp, along with a small stack of books, lay on the floor next to the bed. Sitting atop the pile of books was a .357 Magnum.

Next to the bed, leaning against the wall, were paintings of Jenny. There were five in all, and each showcased a different aspect of Jenny’s personality. Either she was laughing against the background of a casual living room, or looking serious as she stood admiring a scenic landscape. But there was something different about these paintings as opposed to his works from before the shooting. As I examined the portraits, I noticed the signature on the bottom right hand corner of the canvas. I was surprised to find he was not signing his name to the works but someone else’s.

In the corner of the room, a flash of movement diverted my attention to a man, sitting with his back to me, on a stool before an easel. He was naked above the waist and was dressed only in a paint-splattered pair of blue jeans.

As I moved closer, I could see the dark splashes of gray and blue with hints of gold on the canvas before him. In the portrait, Jenny was wearing a long, black gown and walking down a dimly lit French Quarter street. I watched as the man’s head bobbed and weaved before me. His hands were slender and his fingers long. I saw those hands flash across my memory as they darted about another portrait canvas from the past, splashing color here or delicately brushing in a painstaking detail there.

My heart reveled in that moment. Of all the memories I had cherished of David, none had been more precious to me than of the times I had watched him painting. There was something awe inspiring about witnessing a gifted artist fastidiously transferring their vision to physical form. It was as if the divine forces above were confirming their existence to the mortal world by igniting an unwavering passion inside a single restless soul.

As I slowly approached, I listened as his brush scraped against the canvas.

“
David,” I softly said.

He spun around on his stool and saw me standing behind him. At first I saw anger in his eyes, an emotion I had rarely seen from him in the past, but soon the anger faded. He quickly cast his eyes down to the dull oak floors.

“
I, ah, didn’t hear you,” he mumbled. “I must have been so into my painting that I…”

“
They’re beautiful,” I said as I motioned around the room to the paintings. “But why didn’t you sign your name at the bottom of them?”

He ran his paint-spattered hand through his hair. “I did sign my name. The new name that Simon got me. Dan Goldvarg.”

“
Dan Goldvarg?” I stopped for a moment and was haunted by an unclear memory. “Why do I know that name? It seems so familiar to me.”

David just smiled. He turned and picked up a rag on the easel behind him. “I wasn’t sure you would come,” he admitted as he began wiping his hands with the rag.

I looked at his half-naked body before me. He had lost some of the sleek muscle in his chest and his arms were not as thick as I remembered. I noted a scar on the side of his left lower chest where they had removed part of his rib to reconstruct his jaw and cheekbone.

“
I wanted to check on you. Dallas told me of all your surgeries and your injuries.” I paused as I raised my eyes to his face. “Why didn’t you want to tell me about any of it?”

He threw the rag to the floor and got up from his stool. “I told him not to say anything to you about all of that. I didn’t think you needed to hear it. I didn’t want you thinking…that I’m any less than the man you remembered,” he curtly added and quickly stepped away from me.