To the Grave (15 page)

Audrey was a seriously damaged person, James thought grudgingly. In so many ways she needed as much sympathy as her daughter.

But he couldn't feel sympathy for Audrey Moreau, he realized. All he could feel for her was contempt.

2

“I can drive to James's by myself!” Catherine nearly shouted into her cell phone as she descended the front steps of the Gray home and headed for her car, tightening her clasp on her umbrella. The wind had picked up force as if it were trying to carry her voice away. “I don't need a bodyguard, much less my little sister.”

“It's nearly dark and starting to rain again and there's a murderer on the loose. Why can't you just wait for James to call you? He will any minute.”

“It's after seven, Marissa. He should have called half an hour ago. How much time can you spend in a morgue identifying a body?”

“You said his home phone line is busy,” Marissa reminded her, sounding frustrated. “He hasn't called you because he's talking to someone else.”

“Then why doesn't he answer his cell phone?”

“It's turned off?”

“Nice try.” Catherine dropped her car keys and stooped, fumbling in the wet grass to retrieve them. “I should have been the first person he called when he got home from the morgue. I wanted to go with him, but he wouldn't let me. He said it would be too upsetting for me. Patrice was going with him, though. I guess he thinks I have about as much strength as a crystal figurine.”

“Oh, he does not. It wouldn't be as upsetting for Patrice because she didn't find the body and the body didn't happen to be that of her boyfriend's ex-wife. You're making a mountain out of a molehill.”

“I'm not. I just believe James taking Patrice instead of taking me with him for support is an indication of something wrong in our relationship. Anyway, I can't reach Patrice, either, which just makes me worry even more. Something else—something bad—has happened.”

“Catherine, will you please go back inside and have a glass of wine and settle down? Nothing has happened.”

“You don't know that,” Catherine said, picking up her keys from the rain-slicked grass. “Stop talking to me like I'm a child!”

“I will when you stop acting like one!” Almost immediately Marissa followed up with, “I'm sorry. It drives me crazy that you're so rational about everyone except James. I have to remember that you're in love with him, though. He's not just
anyone
to you.” Marissa sighed. “I'm going to try one more time. I'll leave work right now—not in half an hour like I said earlier—and I'll be home in twenty minutes. If you haven't heard from him by then, we'll go together to his place.”

“You said you have to finish your story before you leave. You do what you have to do and I'll do what I have to do.” As Catherine neared her car sitting in the driveway, another gust of wind pulled her umbrella sideways, blocking her view of the street, and she staggered, trying to keep a firm grip on the wet handle. “I'll call you when I know anything. Bye.”

Catherine knew her sister felt only love and concern for her, but Marissa simply didn't understand the situation. When James had told Catherine on the phone this afternoon that he'd decided to go to the morgue, she'd immediately volunteered to go with him. He'd said no. He'd tried to soften his flat refusal by saying putting her through such an unsavory task was unnecessary, he didn't want her to get upset, on and on. Besides, Patrice would be with him. Catherine didn't need to worry.

Catherine realized James was trying to protect her feelings, but she also knew he needed help getting through this nightmare. He was just so stubbornly independent and so unwilling to show her his vulnerability. She had to make him let her in, she'd thought after their unhappy phone call. She had to be more forceful, just as she knew Patrice must have been to make him let her go with him. Catherine had to make him see that she wasn't a little girl in need of shielding. She loved him, he loved her, and they needed to lean on each other in times of trouble. That's what she'd planned to tell him when he called her after the identification at the morgue.

Except that he'd never called.

Now, when she should have heard from him nearly two hours ago, Catherine had decided to take action. Maybe he'd been upset, gone back to his father's law office to work, and not bothered to call her, except that such self-involvement was totally unlike James. Maybe he'd gone somewhere for a drink with Patrice, except that once again he wouldn't have left Catherine waiting for a phone call. If for some reason he couldn't phone, Patrice would have called her. At least, she thought Patrice would have called her.…

Abruptly the growing wind turned her umbrella sideways, blocking her view of the street. More darkness and rain accompanied the wind. Catherine felt like running back to the warmth and comfort of the house, but she knew she couldn't find real comfort until she found James. No doubt, most people would think her concern ridiculous—after all, he was a man in his early thirties, smart, strong, capable. Today, though, he'd had to look again at the murdered body of his ex-wife, Renée—

“Miss Gray? Miss Catherine Gray?”

Catherine righted her umbrella and saw a large form hurrying toward her from the street before a swath of her hair blew across her eyes. She grabbed at it, missed, and jerked when she felt someone else's fingertips brush against her forehead, moving the hair, while another hand closed over her shoulder. Startled, she dropped her cell phone.

“Don't be afraid.” Blinking away rainwater from her eyes, she could blurrily see a tall man standing uncomfortably close to her. “I was on my way to your door when the wind blew up. You were struggling with your umbrella and didn't see me. We almost collided!” He smiled and made a movement that resembled a slight bow. “I am Nicolai Arcos. I apologize for frightening you.”

He extended a hand to shake. Catherine blinked twice, clearing her vision, and looked up at a man who was at least six foot four with heavy black hair falling almost to his shoulders, deep-set dark brown eyes, a long, narrow nose, extremely high cheekbones, and sensual lips above a square chin. He was handsome in an unusual way, almost slightly unreal, like a character in a movie. And his name. Nicolai Arcos? Also slightly unreal. Yet familiar. He also smelled strongly of liquor and he was standing too close to her.

Catherine took a quick, firm step away from him. He'd done nothing except invade her personal space, but she sensed menace. She moved backward but decided she would not act afraid. She might not be armed, but many people lived on this street, people who looked out their windows, people who could hear a scream. “What do you want?” she asked with semi-calm.

“Only to talk.”

“I don't have time to talk. I'm going somewhere.” She took a step to the right, planning to walk past him to her car, but he moved, too, blocking her. Then he stood still, grinning at her. “I don't have time to talk to you, Mr. Arcos. I'm in a hurry.” He continued to grin. “Get out of my way, Mr. Arcos.”

He held up his large hands in a gesture of surrender. “You are offended because I touched you. Once again, I am
so
sorry. I should not have touched you, but you would have been more frightened if you'd simply run into a big, hulking man like me. Still, I mean you no harm. I only came here to talk to you.” He nodded vaguely toward a black car sitting at the curb. “See? That is my automobile. I pulled up just before you came out of the house. You are too intelligent to think I would park my car in front of your home if I meant to come in and hurt you.”

Catherine glanced at the cell phone lying on the wet autumn grass. She knew the connection between her and Marissa had been broken when she'd dropped the phone, jarring the battery, and she wouldn't take her eyes off this man long enough to reach down for it, even if Marissa called her back.

He wore a long, black raincoat, and an extremely large tiger's-eye ring glittered on the middle finger of his left hand. Squinting through the rain, she saw dark troughs beneath his eyes along with deep lines etched into his forehead and around his mouth. His skin was almost frighteningly pale. The man looked exhausted and sick. She could also tell he was drunk.

“Mr. Arcos, I told you that I have somewhere to go now,” she said stiffly.

Their gazes locked. He looked sincere yet amused. In his near-black eyes, though, Catherine detected an impishness that had nothing to do with the glitter of alcohol. Also, his Eastern European accent seemed practiced and exaggerated. He was trying to act charmingly innocent, even slightly buffoonish, because he'd had too much to drink, but his act wasn't convincing. He was neither innocent nor a buffoon, and Catherine's scrutiny of his eyes revealed dilated pupils. He'd had more than alcohol. He'd taken a drug or maybe more than one. The man was operating on alcohol mixed with God-knew-what chemicals. She wouldn't underestimate him.

“I heard you visited the Nordine Gallery to see my paintings today. Ken Nordine described your strange reaction to
Lady.
” Nicolai raised an already-arched eyebrow. “May we not go into your home and talk about it?” He looked up at the lowering slate sky. “We can't keep standing here in this weather.”

Catherine fought an urge to turn and run for her front door, but she knew he'd just follow her, and he was so big and strong. For a moment she panicked. Then she glanced across the street and saw alert, athletic Steve Crown's face watching them intently from behind his front window. Steve and his wife maintained a deep concern for the safety of this street where they raised their three young children. Both kept close eyes on the activities. Catherine knew Steve already saw that she needed help. No doubt, his wife stood right behind him, calling 911, while Steve was pulling away from the window. Their presence gave Catherine courage.

“No matter how bad the weather gets, I'm not taking you into my house,” she said. “You need to leave.”

Arcos raised his shoulders. “Would you like to go someplace quiet to talk? A bar? Or perhaps my place. It isn't far from here. You could look at more of my work while we have a drink, get warm, talk … art.”

“Get away from me.” Catherine made her voice cold and hard. “The police are coming.”

“The police?” He looked around and then laughed. “I don't see the police. I think you're drunk. Or delusional. Isn't that one of the words you doctors of the mind use? ‘Delusional'?”

Catherine thought of running toward her house, but she stood firm. “Don't play this stupid game with me. If you stop right now, nothing will happen to you. If you don't—”

“What will you do, Miss Gray? Hit me? Or do you have something worse in mind? Are you capable of violence?” He leaned closer to her. “Are you capable of killing if someone stands in the way of what you want? I think you are. I think you already
have.
”

Deep inside her, nearly overwhelming alarm rose in Catherine. The fixed smile had vanished from Nicolai's face, leaving it sharp edged and menacing. Even his lips drew back from the teeth in the near-feral position of a snarl. He was a big man charged on alcohol and drugs and he was someone to be feared—

Suddenly Nicolai's large hands closed over Catherine's shoulders and jerked her toward him. He held her so close they almost touched and she could feel his hot, sweet-sour alcohol breath on her face as he spoke just above an agonized whisper.

“What did you think when you looked at the portrait of my lady? She was
my
lady, you know. No matter what anyone else thought. No matter what she
let
them think or
made
them think or what she
did,
she was mine. I could have it no other way because it couldn't be any other way. She didn't always understand how it had to be, but I understood.” He nodded slowly, absently. “Yes, I understood.”

Catherine kicked with all her might, but he stood just an inch too far away for her boot to connect with his leg.

He glared at her. “She didn't want
him,
you stupid woman. She never really wanted him, even in the beginning. She made a mistake, that's all. And now—” A deep, strangling sound came from his throat before he jerked Catherine closer and said viciously, “But she will always be mine. Death cannot separate us. We were for each other. We were
of
each other. Renée and Nicolai—one person. Always. No matter how things looked. Didn't you understand? Didn't
he
understand? Is that why you killed her and then went to the gallery to get another look at what you destroyed?”

Steve Crown had appeared behind Arcos. Bent at the waist, Crown charged the artist. Crown's shoulder drove into Arcos's midsection, breaking his hold on Catherine and knocking him flat on the slick ground. Catherine barely had time to move before Arcos's right leg rose and snapped out at his attacker. Crown's left leg buckled and he fell to his knees, groaning. With almost unbelievable speed, Arcos jumped up and stalked toward Crown. Catherine screamed as Arcos kicked Crown in the ribs. He fell flat and rolled onto his back. Before he could cross his arms across his rib section, though, Arcos kicked Crown again, this time even harder.

As Steve Crown moaned and rolled into a fetal position, Catherine burst into an instinctive run for her house. She'd only managed a few steps before she slid. Arcos caught her before she fell flat. He jerked her to a standing position and then closed his hands around her throat.

“No, you will not escape me,” Nicolai Arcos hissed into her ear. “And you will not escape her.
Renée
will follow you to the grave.”

Arcos tightened his grip on Catherine's neck. He held her at arm's length. Again she kicked wildly, but she couldn't make contact with his legs. She flailed her arms uselessly. She couldn't scream—she had no air as Arcos's hands tightened. In the background, she heard Steve Crown moaning, moaning.…