The Sketcher's Mark (Lara McBride Thrillers Book 1) (12 page)

Chapter Twenty

Three Days Later

Lara McBride woke up in the hospital room, felt the tube in her mouth like it was trying to choke her.  She pulled it out of her throat and dropped it on the bed cover and thought she was already dead.  If she was, then purgatory was a sterile, off white room with two large windows and the smell of detergent thick in the air.  The steady beep of the heart monitor was the only sound she heard.  She felt groggy, her throat was sore and her eyes were heavy from the morphine drip inserted in her left wrist. Her body was not responding as it should have been.  It seemed disconnected from her brain and for a moment she thought she had somehow lost her limbs, until she saw the bed sheet move as she drew her left leg to the side.  She raised her arms and felt the tubes in her veins.  They dropped out of sight, below the bed and snaked back in to various machines holding drip packs intravenously feeding her drugs and saline.  Then she remembered the dream, the reality it was based on, the man with the scars and his wicked sharp knife and she wondered how badly he had hurt her.  Too many questions, not enough answers. That needed to change- stat.

There was a call button beside the bed.  She pushed it repeatedly and tried to calm her mind as her brain started to power on and the thoughts flooded in.  She felt sick, her stomach squeezing, knotting, about to shoot out whatever was in it.  She dry heaved as she lay prone and almost lost consciousness, but she fought through the desire to slip back in to sleep and focused on a black spot on the ceiling to keep her awake.  The door opened and two nurses hurried in.  They spoke in French and she had no idea what they were saying.

“Water…” she croaked, her voice low, raspy and unrecognizable to her.  A Nurse was changing the IV pack beside her, the other was speaking in to a radio, calling for the Doctor. 

“Water…” she repeated, anger growing inside her.  Her stomach stopped squeezing.  She motioned to her mouth, hoping they would understand the pantomime.  One of them left, returned a minute later with a glass of water.  Lara took it and drank half.  Then her stomach decided it wasn’t ready for such things and sent it straight back up.  She leaned over the side of the bed and let the water explode out of her mouth and spatter on the floor.  She wiped her mouth, heard the Nurses fussing, waited for her stomach to stop cramping, then laid back on the bed.

The Doctor walked in and took charge, giving the nurses orders in French.  He spoke fast and with authority.  He stood above Lara, looking down with an easy smile that made her instantly know what he was doing.

“Bonjour, Madame,” he said.

“Hello,” her voice was pathetic.  She hated that and felt ashamed of herself for sounding so weak in his presence.

“Please try to relax.  My name is Renee.  You are in the Hospital of Mary Our Savior in Paris.  Can you tell me your name?”

“Lara.  McBride.”

“Good. You were attacked we think in what was a robbery but I am sure you can tell us more.”

“How… how bad is it?”

“You’re awake now.  We didn’t think you would come back to us.”

“Perm…” she swallowed.  “Permanent damage?”

“No.  You were lucky.  The angels were watching you.”

Chapter Twenty One

Guillotine was eating breakfast in the kitchen of the farmhouse, looking over the new posters for his exhibition when he saw the news report on the TV he had mounted on the wall. Lara McBride had awoken from her coma, they said.  Lara.  He put his fork down and turned up the volume. This could go either way- the news stations could make this a big deal and within the hour his face could be up there next to hers if she remembered him well enough and then everything would be over.  Or they would like the story for a short time and then move on like the jackals they were. He felt his right eye tremble in his skull, a dull pain throbbing from behind it.

As the reporter continued, revealing little more information other than that the woman had come out of her coma, he felt his eye tremble faster and then he fell to his knees as a bright light burst across his vision, blinding him.  Searing pain sliced across his head and he fell backwards on to the cold stone floor.  He began to convulse, his bladder emptied and he thrashed uncontrollably, desperately trying to breathe like a fish pulled from the ocean. Then he heard that voice, clear and deafening in his ear;

“..dirty pig”

His Aunts were in the room, not far from him.  He couldn’t see them, couldn’t see anything but the bright white burning light.  Then it began to clear like fast retreating fog, retuning his vision to normal. His Aunts, Madeline and Marie, whom he had watched die many years ago, stood with their heads down, faces obscured by the lace of their funeral hats.  They watched him from the doorway, stood defiantly in the morning sun like an obscenity to God.  Through the veils, he could see their eyes, those same cold, cruel little marbles that had gleamed at him as a child.  The voices were sharp enough to cut him through time.

“ Worthless child… Let him live with the pigs…”

Guillotine listened helplessly, still unable to move, as he heard the dead women rage against him with renewed hate and disgust.  Their voices boomed in the small stone room, making his head throb with each word, threatening to break the china plates displayed on the wall.  They spoke over each other like birds pecking at carrion, feeding on him, on his fear of them. He knew they couldn’t be here, had known it for the last few months that he had been seeing them.  But, somehow, here they were and he could not dispute the fact they had found him, beyond death and here they were in the daylight.

He curled in to a fetal position. He repeated in his head, they’re dead they’re dead they’re dead.  The Masterpiece would show the world what he was capable of, how far he had come, what he was able to accomplish.  He wasn’t a child anymore, hidden in the barn, written off and forgotten, left to die and disappointed them even in that.  Now he was a grown man with resources and talent and ambition and he would make everyone see that he was powerful and his voice would roar through time and echo through the world.  He opened his eyes and they were gone. 

He lay there a few minutes while his heart calmed down and his ears focused back on the television.  The reporter was finishing up, stood outside the hospital.

He would let Fate decide what to do with Lara McBride.  He had one more Angel to find, a far greater and more important task than going after the American detective.  One more Angel and the Masterpiece would be complete.  Perhaps then, he would finally be free of his Aunts and his work would banish them to whatever hell he had dispatched them to many years ago.

Chapter Twenty Two

Lara’s head hurt from all the questions.  Derek Shaye was here, a US Marine escorting him and his boss, the Ambassador, who introduced himself as Robert Calthrop, with a handshake and a game show host’s smile.  He had silver streaked hair, a fair build, deep tan and the perfect teeth of a movie star.  Lara disliked him immediately.

“Detective McBride, if there is anything we can do to help you transition back to California, you just let us know,” Calthrop said.  Shaye shifted uneasily on his feet behind him.

“I need to find my sister,” Lara said, looking right at Shaye.  He never returned her gaze.

“Yes, I understand the Paris Police were assisting you.  They’re very good.  I have liaised with the State Department and they assure me from the very highest levels that they are doing everything in their considerable power to help.”

“Bullshit,” Lara said.  Calthrop looked disappointed at her use of language.  “I asked for help when I got here.  Nobody listened.  Janelle is still missing.”

She could see the gears turning in Calthrop’s head, working the percentage in whether a manhunt could turn out well with the embassy’s involvement.  He was in it for the publicity and promotion.  She hated him.

“Did you get a good look at this man?  If you did, I’ll arrange to have one of the Police artists come over and do a sketch. Would you like me to do that for you?”

“I can do that myself.  You’re still not helping.”

Calthrop didn’t know what to say, which, for a diplomat, was a bad spot to be in.

“I’ll do whatever I can, Detective, but we feel it may be best if you returned to the States as soon as you can be discharged.”

“Really?  Why?”

“It would be better for the local Police to handle things.  This is their town, after all.  You wouldn’t want a Paris Detective carrying out a private investigation in Los Angeles.  Imagine the difficulties they would face with the language alone. Just like in your case. They will do a fine job and I will liaise with them daily and contact you with updates.”

Shaye smiled nervously and nodded at her.  Lara looked at Calthrop, the pompous ass.

“That’s very generous of you,” she said politely and watched them leave.

The Doctor entered with a smile.  He was carrying a clipboard and a plastic cup with two small pills.

“Bonjour,” he said as he walked to her.

“Bonjour, Monsieur Doctor,” she smiled back.  She liked him, one of the few people she had met since she arrived in Paris who did his job properly.  He handed her the pills and took the glass of water from the bedside table and held it out for her.  She took the glass from him and swallowed half of it, but left the pills in her hand.  He raised an eyebrow, ready to object, but had spent enough time with her now to see there was no point arguing with this patient. 

“Inspector Brouchard will be here soon.  I hope you can find the one who did this to you.”

“It’s all politics now.  Gonna be a lot harder for me.  An American cop in Paris.  If word gets out why I’m here that could cause a media frenzy. They want me out and gone as fast as possible just to make sure I don’t embarrass them.”

“It sounds very complicated.  What do you intend to do?”

“Find him and get my sister home.  The plan hasn’t changed, there’s just more players now.”

“I wish you would let me help you with the pain.”

“Your pills make me sleepy, Doc. That’s why I don’t want any more.”

“But you can’t leave like this.  You need at least another day of rest and observation in case of concussion.”

“Gotcha.  I’m leaving today, soon as the circus downstairs leaves town.”

“I thought as much,” he said and smiled, then left her alone.  Once he was gone, Lara pulled herself off the bed, holding on to the IV pack connected to her arm.  She felt unsure on her feet, as though she were at sea, everything off balance.  Her thighs fluttered and she buckled to her knees.

“Shit.  Shit.  Shit.  Come on, you can do this.  Come on!”

Slowly, painfully, she got back on her feet, then spent the next hour walking back and forth from the bed to the window, seeing Paris and the river that had spat her back out in to the world in the near distance.  She had all the motivation she needed. 

She was going back out there. 

PART TWO

Paris Fashion Week

Chapter Twenty Three

Night had fallen on Paris and the Fashionistas were already three drinks in at the Pret-A-Porter fashion show in the Salles de Louvre.  The shopping area, now home to such modern marvels as Starbucks and an Apple Store, had become a popular and high end venue during Fashion Week to exhibit new collections.  The choice of venue had caused some controversy among the city’s elite and intelligentsia at first, but then, so had the arrival of American cafes; it was a stone and marble monument to classic art, not to modern consumerism.  Some thought it was tasteless to hold catwalk shows there in the huge convention rooms, pulsing dance music throbbing off the same walls that were home to some of the most renowned art works of the last century. But, there was an argument that fashion was an art in itself and had every right to be there.  The revelers enjoying the open bar didn’t seem to mind.

Beth Hollaway was in from New York for Paris Fashion Week and it was going to make or break her advancement to the next step in the firm and she knew it.  The pressure was fine, she was used to that, having spent the last five years working her way up through various boiler room offices and fly-by-night apparel companies, but now she had her chance to swim in the big leagues and show everyone she had what it took to be a sharp eyed buyer.

An arresting five seven in flats, athletic from spending far too much time in the gym and not enough time dating, she looked every inch the industry player as she watched the show from near the back of the sloping audience area.  The catwalk took the centre of the room, the big names in the business sat on chairs up front surrounded by celebrities while peons like her were thrown together, fighting for standing room only views of the show.

She nursed a glass of champagne and tried to control her nerves.  She knew it was important to take a moment to be proud of all the nights she had spent at college studying and learning everything she could about the business because here she was, in Paris, at Fashion Week and she had a mission.  Her assignment was to find that one new designer, the one that had unmistakable talent and bring it to the US.  Or, more simply, her job was to make her boss, Dane Osprey back in New York, very rich and very happy by bagging the diamond in the rough of the new designers. She had to spot the true haute couture genius- one that would sell in department stores and make the company of Osprey and Singer an industry titan.  That was all on her right now.  Dane would have come but he was busy with a messy divorce from his third wife and was out in the Hamptons with one of his mistresses.