Guarding His Midnight Witness

by Anna J. Stewart

  “The plans you’ve made are perfect,” Greta went on, having learned from Lyndon’s notes that effusive compliments to the event planner were the key to a smooth event. She’d even been able to stay focused. For the most part. It had been nice to have a distraction from Jack’s recommended therapy session. “I love the lighting and the flow of the room. It’s a good open space.”

  Collette bowed her head almost in reverence as her arms tightened around the tablet computer she clutched to her chest. “We are truly honored you chose the Camellia for your debut showing, Ms. Renault.”

  “Greta, please,” Greta repeated for what felt like the fifth time. She could hear the murmurings of visitors echoing down the long, wood-floor hallways as they meandered in and around the open exhibitions.

  “I appreciated the invitation,” Greta said. “The lighting in this part of the pavilion will show off my pieces perfectly.” As would the polished dark wood floor and pristine white walls. “Which reminds me, when would you like to pick the pieces up?”

  “Next Thursday, I believe.” Collette directed piercing brown eyes to her screen. “Yes. That will give us enough time to experiment with the arrangement and have you return to see if there are any changes you’d like to make.”

  “I’m sure everything you decide on will be fine.” In the past three hours, Greta had garnered a new level of respect for Lyndon and the work he’d done on her behalf all these years. Her cheeks ached from smiling so much, and her feet were about ready to abandon her body and race toward anything resembling a hot bath. What had she been thinking by wearing heels? Especially knowing she was going to be on her feet so long. “I have ten works set aside already. I should have another two finished by pickup day.” At least she hoped to.

  “Excellent.” Collette made a note on her pad as they headed toward one of the staircases. “Our invitations went out just a few days ago, and already the response has been quite encouraging, especially from the press. I would be quite surprised if we didn’t have a full house for the event.”

  “Great.” Another smile, and Greta swore she pinched a nerve in her face. “Thank you for meeting with me. I’m sure your time is very limited. Would it be all right if I continued to look around?”

  “Take as much time as you’d like.” Again, Collette bowed her head in a way that reminded Greta of one of those stiff, animatronic robots. “I hope you’ll convey my good thoughts to Mr. Thornwald. You said he still hoped to make the showing?”

  “He said he plans to, yes.” Greta caught the flash of movement on the other side of one of the partitions. Jack, perhaps, here to pick her up? Or a glitch in a light. Anticipation knotted in her stomach as she finally let herself think about having dinner with him this evening. Mistake or not, she was looking forward to an evening out with Jack McTavish. “I’m going to finish looking at the Dalí exhibit. I didn’t quite make it through the entire thing.”

  “Of course.” Collette nodded. “I have a conference call scheduled in just a few moments. Can you find your way back to the main house?”

  “Yes, thank you.” It took all her patience not to roll her eyes, but then maybe Collette had had issues with other artists’ sense of direction? They parted ways, and Greta went to the elevator, making mental notes about the information she needed to pass along to Lyndon. Humming, she found herself thinking of the upcoming evening with Jack.

  A date. When was the last time she’d gone on an actual date? Five, maybe six years ago? When she’d been living in Phoenix? Or was it Provo? She couldn’t recall. Probably because no man had ever made smoke come out of her ears like Jack did when she’d kissed him.

  She heard footsteps behind her, glanced over her shoulder as whoever it was moved out of sight. Odd. She was sure Collette had said no one else was in this section of the pavilion this afternoon.

  “Hello?” She leaned back, scanned the hallway behind her, the closest display room. No one there. The overhead lights flickered, the sound of buzzing and popping fluorescents making her cringe. For a long moment, the gallery sat in darkness, bathed only in shadows from the low-hanging sun outside streaming through the sparkling-clean windows. “Collette? Is that you?”

  Footsteps drew closer. Sounded heavier.

  “Is someone there?”

  No answer.

  Greta frowned and clutched her purse between her breasts, tapped her foot as she waited for the elevator to arrive. She hit the button again and tried to ignore the chills racing up and down her arms.

  “Ridiculous.” She slipped trembling fingers around her throat. “You’re being ridiculous.” She’d done too much today, overloaded her normally confined senses. Had been thrown off-kilter by the very idea of regression therapy. If there was one place she was never going to go back to, it was the past. For a moment, all she wanted was to be back home, lost in her canvas worlds that were utterly and completely in her control.

  As a sense of calm began to descend, the overhead lights flickered again. A loud bang exploded behind her just as the elevator doors slid open. She darted inside, punched the lobby button and willed it to move.

  A man moved into view, caught between the light and darkness, as the doors began to slide shut. Greta, unable to breathe as her heart seemed stuck between hammering and stopping all together. She thrust her hand out to block the opening. She knew that man.

  Big. Hefty. Paunchy. Bald with beady, dark eyes and thick-framed glasses.

  Bile rose in her throat. Her mind raced to process what she was seeing. Who she was seeing. But it couldn’t be. That man was dead. Doyle Fremont killed him....

  She couldn’t move. Her feet felt heavy, weighted to the ground as the man turned, just a bit. Just enough for her to see the distinctive wine stain birthmark covering part of his face and neck.

  The elevator doors slid closed.

  “No! No, wait!” She pounded her hands against the metal. She looked to the panel of buttons, uncertain which would reopen the doors. The gears above her head ground and rumbled as the car descended. She darted into the corner of the car, arms twisted tight around her waist. It wasn’t possible. The man was dead. She’d seen him die. Seen him...

  What was he doing here? Why here? Why now? Unless...

  “Hurry up, hurry up.” She had to get out, had to see if she was right. Greta bit her lip, diving for the doors as the elevator stopped.

  The seconds ticked in slow motion before the doors slid open once more. A shadow passed in front of her. She jumped back, covered her mouth with both hands to catch the scream.

  The man turned, the relaxed, welcoming expression on his face fading in an instant. “Greta? What’s wrong?”

  “Jack.” Her entire body went limp, relieved once she caught sight of him standing in the lobby. “Did you see him? Did he pass by here?” She scrambled out of the elevator, shoving him aside as she hurried across the ground level toward the stairs. She flew up to the landing, looking for any sign of him, but other than Jack who had followed her, and Collette lost somewhere in the maze of offices upstairs, she saw strangers. The lights were steady. Everything was...normal. She began to tremble. “Did you see him?” she whispered.

  “See who?”

  Jack walked up beside her, rested a hand on her arm and looked at her with that familiar, gut-twisting, forced-patient expression she’d seen far too often in her life.

  “I’m not imagining this.” The last word ended on a sob, a sob she’d give anything to control.

  “Greta, talk to me.” Jack’s voice sounded firmer now, as if talking to an errant child. “What’s going on?”

  “I saw him. Here. He was following me.”

  “Who? Doyle Fremont?”

  She didn’t want to say. She couldn’t say. Because saying would only mean...

  Greta shoved past him and raced back down the stairs, shoved through the front doors onto the street. She looked one w
ay, then the other, scanning the faces of the passersby. She had to be sure, had to know if what she’d seen was real or if...

  Was it finally happening? Was she beginning to lose her mind?

  “Greta, who did you see?” Jack spoke from behind her in that calm, almost condescending way Officer Bowman had used on her the other night. “Greta—”

  “Don’t! I saw him. He was here.” Her mind raced. Her ankles wobbled in the ridiculous shoes Yvette had convinced her to wear. Swearing, she reached down and slipped them off, leaving them on the sidewalk as she sped down the street toward the historic section of the building. He couldn’t have gotten very far. He could even be back inside. Maybe he’d gone up instead of down. Maybe...he had to be here somewhere. She spun in circles. She wasn’t going mad. She had seen him. He’d seen her. And there...she froze. Her breath went cold in her chest. She stared across the street to beneath the blinking pedestrian-crossing light.

  “Greta.” Jack’s hands reached out for her.

  She tore herself away. Falling, flailing. Horns blared. Tires screeched. She hit the pavement. Hard. Pain blazed up her arm and across her cheek as the world went into slow motion.

  Voices exploded around her, concerned, frantic voices, demanding ones. Angry ones. She felt herself being pulled up, first into a sitting position where she found Jack bending over her, hands pressed on either side of her face as he said her name over and over. “Greta. Come on, Greta. Talk to me. You all right?”

  “Yes,” she finally managed to say and grabbed hold of his wrists. She blinked up at him, touched by the fear and concern she saw in his eyes even as the expression pushed her further inside herself. “I’m okay. Let me up.”

  A few more voices echoed around her before Jack hauled her up and led her out of the street and over to where she’d dropped her shoes. He scooped them up, and they claimed a small bench in front of the museum.

  “Is everything all right?”

  Greta nearly groaned. Collette. The last thing she needed was the gallery’s curator to see her have one of her meltdowns, let alone the worst she’d had in years.

  “I heard the commotion from my office,” Collette said. “I have a first aid kit inside. Should I go get it?”

  “No.” Greta bit her lip as she felt the panic start to build again. Not now. Not here. Not in front of...them. “No, thank you. I’m fine.”

  “Maybe I should call the police?” Collette offered.

  “No need. I’m with the department.” Jack pulled out his badge to show her. “I’ve already spoken with the driver. No harm done on either side. Just an accident.”

  An accident. Greta looked back to the crosswalk, but the only people there now were ones who had been drawn to the excitement. The man was gone. As if he’d never been there at all. “I’m sorry.” Greta pressed a hand against her still-racing heart. “I’m sorry. I thought I saw...”

  She caught the look in Jack’s eye before he dropped a hand on her uninjured shoulder and squeezed. She needed to stop talking. She squeezed her eyes shut, tried to remember, tried to focus beyond the fear. She’d seen him. She knew she had. And yet...

  “I thought I saw an old friend of the family. I’ve forgotten his name. Tall, heavy. Has a birthmark on the side of his face? I don’t suppose you’ve seen him?”

  “I’m sorry, no,” Collette said.

  Greta just nodded. Of course she hadn’t.

  “Greta, you are certain you are all right?” Collette asked and, for the first time in their acquaintance, looked genuinely emotional. “I can call for an ambulance.”

  “I’m fine, really. Low blood sugar. We’re going to dinner, right, Jack?”

  “We’ll play that by ear,” Jack said in a tone she suspected went along with his profession. “Let’s get you to the car and talk about it.”

  “Okay.” She let him pull her to her feet. Her head throbbed, a dull ache pounding against her temple. “Oh, wait. Collette?”

  “Yes.”

  “Something I forgot to ask you earlier.” Greta cleared her throat. “I know the gallery has a number of sponsors. Is Doyle Fremont one of them?”

  Jack’s eyes sharpened, and she saw his jaw pulse.

  “Mr. Fremont?” Collette’s eyes went wide. “Yes, of course. He’s one of our biggest contributors this year.”

  “So, he’ll be at the showing,” Jack clarified.

  “We received his acceptance just yesterday,” Collette offered. “Would you like me to provide a list of all those we invited? That would include all our donors, both past and present. I can email them to you right away.”

  “Yes, thank you.” Greta said and winced as her arm began to pound in time to her head.

  “You wouldn’t happen to know the last time Mr. Fremont was at the gallery, would you?” Jack jumped on her train of thought.

  “I believe Mr. Fremont was in just last week to inquire about a possible showing for a friend of his from Los Angeles. He’s quite a patron of the arts, as I’m sure you know. His collection is impressively extensive.”

  “Yes, so I hear,” Greta managed. “Thanks.”

  “Are you certain I can’t call for the paramedics?” Collette offered. “You look a bit battered and bruised.”

  “I’ll be fine, thank you.”

  “I’ll make sure she sees someone,” Jack promised. “I appreciate your help. I’m parked about a block away,” Jack murmured as he wrapped his arm around her waist and escorted her away. “Can you make it?”

  “Yes. Jack?” She stopped at the corner, the warm concrete of the sidewalk warming her bare feet. “Jack, I know what you’re thinking.”

  “I don’t think you do. Come on, the light’s changed.”

  She walked beside him, trying to process what had happened. It all seemed so silly, so ridiculous. Maybe she was imagining things. Overwrought. Overexerted. Over stimulated. But she knew... Angry tears burned the back of her throat, blurred her vision. What was going on?

  “Okay, here we are. In you go.” Jack opened the door to his black SUV, helped her inside, but before he closed the door, she held out a hand, gripped his arm. “What?”

  “I’m not crazy, Jack.” In that moment, she wanted—no, she needed him to believe her. More than she needed to take her next breath.

  “Who did you see, Greta?”

  She fisted her hand in his jacket until her fingers went numb. He covered her hand with his. She lifted her gaze, almost afraid of what she’d see on his face when she looked at him. If she told him...would he believe her? Or would he turn his back and walk away? The choice paralyzed her vocal chords. Even if she wanted to tell him—and she did—she couldn’t. She needed him. Until she knew for certain, she needed him to believe in her.

  Even if she didn’t believe in herself.

  “It’s okay, Greta.” He lifted his hand, stroked the backs of his fingers against her cheek and leaned in. He kissed her. A breath of a kiss. Soft. Gentle. Compassionate. And full of a promise she had no business trusting. “We’ll talk about it after I get you home.”

  * * *

  “Thanks for coming.” Jack stepped back to let Ashley into Greta’s loft. He motioned to where Greta was pacing back and forth in front of her windows, stopping occasionally to look down at Doyle’s office as she chewed on her thumbnail and muttered to herself. “I’m honestly at a loss. You okay? You look frazzled.”

  “I bet I do. Traffic was horrible and then just outside I nearly got sideswiped by a van speeding out of here like an emergency-room intern given a surprise holiday.” Ashley squeezed his arm as she passed. She set her bag down, slipped out of her jacket and handed it to him. “Tell me what happened?”

  “From what I saw?” Jack purposely kept his voice low. No matter what he’d said to Greta on the drive home, she hadn’t responded, just kept swiping at the tears that trickled down her cheeks. He’d a
lmost gone against her wishes and driven to the emergency room. It was a miracle she wasn’t bleeding where she’d knocked her head on the cement when she’d toppled off the curb. “If I had to describe it, it looked like some kind of panic attack. She practically threw herself into the street. Car just missed her. She fell. I lost my hold on her.” A sensation he wasn’t going to soon forget. “It’s her left side, her shoulder mainly. And her head. I’m worried she might have a concussion.”

  “Okay.” Ashley kicked off her shoes and patted his arm. “Hover if you must, but I want to hear from her from here on.”

  Jack nodded and closed the door. “Understood.” One thing he knew was not to get between his sister and a patient. “Greta?” Should he feel this relieved that she turned when he called her name? “This is the doctor I told you about. Ashley Rus—”

  “McTavish,” Ashley cut him off as she took a seat on the sofa near Greta.

  “Right.” He should have realized she’d have taken her maiden name back. “Dr. Ashley McTavish.”

  “McTavish.” Greta blinked as if caught in a fog. The concern Jack thought he’d left back at the gallery returned. “Oh, so you two are—?”

  “Siblings,” Ashley said smoothly. “I used to beat him up regularly when we were growing up.”

  “Oh.” A flicker of a smile curved Greta’s lips. “Oh, that’s nice to hear.”

  “It’s also a bald-faced lie.” Jack stuck his tongue in his cheek at the evil grin his sister shot him. “The beating-up part, at least.”

  “Greta, have you taken anything since you’ve been home? Painkillers? Antidepressants? Any prescriptions?”

  “I don’t like pills.” Greta pressed two fingers into her temple and rubbed, but at least she’d stopped pacing. Instead, she stood barefoot in her living room, the curtains an oddly drab and gothic backdrop.

  “That doesn’t answer my question. Have you taken anything?” Ashley sat back on the sofa as if they were having a normal conversation. Cerberus leaped down from his bookcase perch to push his head against Ashley’s arm. “Hey, there. I’ve heard about you.” She reached over and scratched the cat between his ears. “You freak my brother out, you know that? Which means I’m inclined to like you already.” Ashley whipped her hair behind her shoulder. “Now you have two watchdogs.” Cerberus made a kind of growling sound, earning smiles from Greta and Ashley. “No offense. Greta, would you mind if I gave you a quick exam? Just to make sure you haven’t broken anything?”